The Greater Good

“I had thought those charges had been repealed.” Gestarin continued.

“They have been, your majesty.” Vixin said, nodding once. “But only in the legal form. According to my people, I am a murderer of the worst kind. A few still even expect me to be Harvested at a moment’s notice.”

“My lord, I have absolute trust in Vixin.” Highlord Igith, the man who had spoken for Vixin, interrupted. “He has saved my life on countless occasions, has worked far harder than any other lord in this room, and has the charisma to lead the people without being feared.” Igith rocked back and forth on his heels. “I did not appoint a village idiot to this position; I appointed a genius.”

“Do not fear, Highlord, for I was not condemning the man.” Gestarin said as he held up his hand to forestall any other argument. “I was merely attempting to understand who he was, nothing more.” Highlord Yrit coughed.

“My lord, there is still the matter of the Barabak wall.” He said slowly, the honey beginning to drip from his words once again.

“Is there?” Gestarin said with fake wistfulness. “I had forgotten. Leave your proposal with me, Highlord, and I shall give it my due consideration.” Yrit began to splutter, but a thousand objections were blocked by Gestarin seizing the proposal scroll.

“Now, gentlemen,” Gestarin said, rising from his seat. “I think that we should adjourn for the day. The arrival of our newest member seems to have shaken you, and I would not wish for you to work whilst you are unwell.” A cacophony of sighs arose from the sixteen assembled men, but they all rose from their seats and began to amble out the door. “One moment, Viceroy.” Gestarin called after Vixin, who stopped and turned around with consternation on his face. “I wish to speak with you.” Vixin nodded, striding over to Gestarin as the last of the men exited the Great Hall.

“Yes, my lord?” Vixin implored, clasping his hands behind his back.

“Enough with the charade, Viceroy.” Gestarin said offhandedly, skimming the proposal from Highlord Yrit. “No man could possibly be as garish as you. Though, I might add, few are as bold.” Vixin’s eyes widened, but he sighed with something akin to relief as he tore off his headdress and robe to reveal a white lace shirt with dark blue doublet and blood-red trousers. He quickly pulled a pair of black leather boots and black stockings out of the folds of the robe and slipped them on.

“How did you know?” Vixin replied, fanning himself. The air had been quite warm where he had sat next to the hearth.

“Come now, Viceroy.” Gestarin scoffed. “I am familiar with Quasexan fashion, but even that costume is only used in Glausianian caricatures. You were a walking stereotype. I’m surprised all of the other lords missed it.”

“That was something of the point, your majesty.” Vixin admitted, and they both laughed before falling silent for a moment.

“What did you wish of me, your majesty?” Vixin asked, looking intently at the king. Gestarin sighed and strode over to the window, opening the curtain to reveal the city. The hill on which the palace sat overlooking the city allowed for a generous view of the different districts. The domed Merchant’s Guild dominated this particular angle of the city, though the Chapel was a large part of the skyline as well. Nestled between these two sat the barracks, a squat, rectangular building some four stories high that housed the entirety of the city guard.

“What do you see, Viceroy?” Gestarin asked quietly, gesturing to the city below. “What do you see when you look out this window?”

Vixin hesitated, but walked over to follow Gestarin at the window. He stared out at the city. Tonight was one of the warmer nights, though a fierce breeze kept the leather coats on the people’s backs. Many still held the chill of the yearly blizzards in their bones, and no amount of sunshine during the day could make them walk about with only a tunic and doublet.

“I see a marvelous city, your majesty.” Vixin responded slowly, not taking his eyes off of the gray buildings.

“But?” Gestarin probed, gesturing for the Viceroy to continue. Vixin hesitated for a moment.

“But,” He continued, still keeping his eyes fixed on the scene in the window. “I see a city plagued by false words and silken daggers. The leaders who mean well in this city are too unimportant to do much good, and the ones who do have the power spend it fawning over their betters like dogs do over their master.”

“Go on.” Gestarin said.

“This city needs someone who can fight for the common man, your majesty.” Vixin pronounced, almost as a surgeon does when he diagnoses a particularly dangerous affliction. “The lords and leaders spend their days plotting on how to raise themselves from their lowly station while the people suffer from their incompetency. Half of the city guard spends its days patrolling the mansions of the elite, while serf and Var alike are knifed in the streets for a few pennies. Merchants extort their customers for every coin they have, growing fat off of the backs of the oppressed. I fear, your majesty, that the serfs may soon rise up.”

Gestarin put his hand on Vixin’s shoulder. “That is why I have called you here.”

* * *

Efstany and his companions stood on a grassy rise overlooking the village of Carnidoni, while the lanterns in the streets slowly winked out as the night wore on. the citizens were completely oblivious to the evil that walked both in and outside their streets.

Efstany held in his hands two crimson blades, long and thin with a bulging tip. This strange enhancement gave the swords the resemblance of the wings of a bird. For that reasons, they were christened Falconeyes, and they gave him the eyesight of the greatest of the raptors.

“He has begun the process.” Efstany reported, using his enhanced vision to observe Radiran’s endeavors. “We must embark within the next few minutes.”

“Why not now?” One of his companions asked, putting his hand on one of his spikes. The protuberance began to inch out of his skin at the slightest touch. “Blood is blood. It has been many turnings since my last Harvest, and I, for one, would like to saturate my tongue with theirs.” He pointed at the town. “Figuratively, of course. To do otherwise would be to become what we condemn.”

“Aia has forbidden it,” Efstany said simply, not taking his eyes off of the barn. “We cannot condemn a man to eternal torment until he has actually committed the crime. To do otherwise would be an abuse of Aia’s power.” The Flen scowled, but he took his hand off of the spike and let it sink back down into his flesh.

They waited in the night, watching Radiran slowly move toward the climax of his act.

* * *

Radiran began to chant in the Harvester Tongue, strange syllables obtained in dark corners flowing out of his mouth with nary an effort. Miriin struggled against her bonds, desperate to escape the fate that was left to her. The ropes did not yield an inch. Radiran’s intonations grew louder, and he set the helve of bone against the cut on Miriin’s chest, right above her heart.

Immediately, an intense blast of pain coursed through Miriin’s veins as the blood in her body rushed toward the site of contact. Her arms and legs began to grow paler and numb as the nectar of life seeped out of her body. Radiran, ever chanting, began to draw the hilt away from her body, and the blood followed it. It swirled out of the incision in three viscous streams that revolved around each other and converged at the center of the hilt, where they began to solidify. Slowly, as Radiran excised the blood out of his victim, the crimson liquid elongated and formed the blade of a sword.

Radiran stepped back as the corpse of Miriin slumped over in the chair, lifeless. Her skin, her eyes, and even her hair had been bleached of all pigment and were now as white as the bone that Radiran held in his hand. Even the gouge in her chest was clean now; no blood ran from it. The flesh was white all the way through.

As Radiran held the sword up the lantern light, the blood-filled cube he had placed in the hilt flashed with a bright radiance, and he shielded his eyes with a grunt. Almost instantaneously, though, it went out, and Radiran unveiled his face. The blood in the cube had been bleached of all color resembling milk. Aether. It was what remained after the Void had been absorbed by the process.

Radiran gasped as sensory input flooded into his brain, massive amounts of information coming in from every sense. He could feel each mote of dust in the air tickling his skin, and he resisted the urge to shake it all off. The smell of the manure and the blood intensified to such a degree that it was like a jelly in the air, and, with his enhanced smell, he tasted every molecule. He desperately tried to spit out the horrid, disgusting flavor, but to no avail. Through his enhanced ears, the lowing of his animals became a cacophony of pain, and he clamped his palms over his ears in a desperate effort to preserve his hearing.

Calm yourself, Radiran Yrinsson, he thought to himself, taking deep gulps of breath, despite the awful taste on his tongue. He said it would be difficult at first, but you would learn to control it. So, control it!

Radiran forced himself to uncover his ears, but he did it in such haste that, forgetting he held a sword, he nearly sliced off his own ear. Radiran shook his head and stared at the blade he held in his hands for the first time.

It was a deep, rich red- the blood had solidified completely. Radiran ran his finger lightly over the blade, his enhanced sense of touch requiring much less contact to provide the same amount of information. The blade was as hard as the most exceptional steel, and it was still warm from the process of creation.

Radiran studied the sword itself, and, even after having seen Eliran’s Sickle before, marveled at the shape. It was exactly as long as his outstretched arm, measured from the shoulder to the end of his longest finger. About a hand’s length away from the hilt, the blade began to curve outward drastically before returning about two feet away. After working as a farmer for many years, Radiran realized why it had been called Eliran’s Sickle. The shape was almost identical to the tools he used at harvest time.

Radiran jumped as he heard the stall door open, and a gasp of pure shock sounded behind him. He spun around, clumsily keeping his arm and his blade stiffly outstretched.

The blade passed through his wife’s neck like a hot knife through butter, lopping off her head without a single sound. Radiran gaped as his wife’s body fell to the floor, the head rolling until it hit his foot.

* * *

“It is done.” Efstany said, rising from his crouching position and resting his Falconeyes against the side of his body. “We leave now.”

His companions nodded, each reaching for the spike on their left shoulder, while Efstany gripped the Falconeyes in each hand and pressed them together until they formed a single blade. When the blades merged, Efstany plunged them into the wrist of his right hand. The moment the crimson blade pierced the skin, the sword melted, reverting back into the blood from whence it came. The sword then snapped toward his skin in a quick motion as the blood was sucked into his veins. The hilt followed the blood, sinking into his skin until only the spike remained outside of his body.

Efstany grunted from the slight irritation of the process, but he wasted no time. He immediately reached for the spike on his left shoulder, the bone hilt rising out of his skin the moment his finger made contact with it. With a sharp tug, the hilt came free and blood swirled out of the wound, coalescing against the hilt to form a new blade. The wound closed as the last amount of blood needed left his body.

Efstany looked around at his companions, each holding the same blade as he. The swords were the length of their bearer’s arm, long and thick. At the end, the sword, Fishmonger, bent backward in a monstrous hook, serrated edges glinting in the moonlight. Efstany often wondered whether the person who named the Blades realized his play on the word “warmonger”, or if he just used the first word he could think of that had something to do with fish. Regardless, the swords were ideal for the deed they were about to carry out. Fishmongers were exceptional hunting blades.

Efstany and his companions looked at each other for a moment, then they nodded.

“From the Void, Harvest has come.” They said softly, all at once. They crossed their blades for a moment, then dipped them at their sides.

With grim faces, they began to descend to the doomed village.

* * *

“No.” He whispered. Radiran gasped for air, holding his blade down at his side. He could not breathe, could not think. He stared down at his wife’s body next to the body of Miriin.

So much death. A thought came, sounding forth through the deep haze of misery in his head. So much death.

Tears began to well up in Radiran’s eyes as he stared at the fallen body of his beloved wife, the blood on his sword camouflaged by its unnatural hue. He had not wanted this. This was not what he intended. Curse Finaril and his lies! He had said that no one but Miriin would be hurt!

“Radiran Yrinsson,” A deep voice said from behind Radiran, coming from the stall door. “You have betrayed the grace of Aia.” Radiran turned around slowly, tensing his already taut muscles even further. Standing in the doorway to the stall was a man in scant black clothing, holding a hooked red blade in his right hand.

“No!” Radiran shouted hysterically. “This is not supposed to be! A Harvester himself sanctioned my actions!” Radiran seethed through clenched teeth. He would not give up the only things he had left: this life and this sword. He would not give it up, not even to a Flen. The Void would not claim him.

“Your actions spit in the face of Aia, mocking everything he holds dear.” The Flen continued in response to Radiran’s outburst, his words dull and monotonous. “None but Aia’s chosen may uphold his justice. A common serf cannot take the power of God into his own hands.” With those words he took a step forward.

Radiran screamed, tears running down his face, and leapt toward the Flen. His sword flashed in the light of the lantern as it whipped toward Radiran’s enemy. Astoundingly, the Flen parried with a flash of his own sword, his expression unchanging. As the swords collided, a dull thump echoed in their ears, the strange qualities of the Bloodblades creating the sound of a beating heart instead of ringing steel.

Radiran’s eyes widened as he jumped back, as wary as a cornered cat. He realized that all his skill from his warrior days would be needed in this fight. He lifted his sword and fell into the Way of the Rabbit, his legs apart and knees bent with his sword held diagonally in both hands.

“Foolish human.” The Flen said, a tinge of content evident in his normally monotone voice. He stood up straight, falling out of his own stance and holding his sword down at his side. “I thought that one who had served on the Barabak Wall would have been more attentive.” Radiran looked at him questioningly, digging   his toe into the ground and preparing to leap again.

An icy bolt of pain ripped through his chest and coursed through his entire body, agony exploding in every vein. He fell to his knees.

“The blood has been paid.” Another bland voice said behind him, and Radiran used the last vestiges of strength to turn his head and look. Behind him stood yet another Flen, his Bloodblade buried up to the hilt in Radiran’s body. Radiran’s head fell back forward, and he could see a foot or so of crimson blade jutting out of his chest. Fear gripped his heart as he saw the hooked point and recognized the Fishmonger by its trademark shape.

“Aia’s justice will be served.” The Flen in front of him said, sheathing his own Blade in the flesh of his upper arm.

The Flen behind Radiran made a grunting sound, and Radiran could feel his preparations to rip out the Blade. He looked down at his hands. He observed the blood on them.

Forgive me.

It was the last thing that went through his mind before pain tore his body apart and darkness took over.

Welcome, Radiran Yrinsson. A deep, booming voice called out from the darkness. Welcome to the Void.

* * *

“Your majesty?” Vixin asked, confused.

“Vixin, you are the breath of fresh air that this council needs.” Gestarin said praisingly, shaking Vixin’s shoulder in the process. “It is of no consequence that I had Igith appoint you as Viceroy.”

“You had Igith appoint me?” Vixin said, shocked.

“Indeed.” Gestarin said with a smile. “I merely acted as though I was unaware of who you were to make sure the other lords did not blame me for bringing in an ‘uncultured Quasexan murderer’.”

“I see.” Vixin said. “They certainly seek to undermine you at every turn. But did your majesty make that epithet up himself, or did he hear it from one of his court jesters?”

“I daresay you have heard it before, Viceroy.” Gestarin said with a wave of his hand. “It was Highlord Yrit that coined that particular phrase.” Gestarin strode over to the table and picked up the Highlord’s proposal. “Which reminds me.” He threw it into the hearth, the fire crackling as the paper disturbed the embers. “How clumsy of me.” Vixin grinned.

“I see that your majesty does not think highly of the Harvester Lords.” Vixin noted with a chuckle.

“On the contrary, I rather see them as puppies, although, I must admit, they are slightly cleaner than the animals.” Gestarin replied.

“Only some of them.” Vixin added, and the two began to laugh heartily.

“Viceroy, you are unique in the fact that you have not spent a single minute trying to win my favor.” Gestarin pointed out as the chuckling subsided. “I scarcely know whether to investigate as to whether you are a criminal or hold a feast in your honor.”

“Well, as I am already a fugitive, I would prefer the feast.” Vixin replied, sitting down in his chair once more. Gestarin stayed standing, hands clasped behind his back as he lost himself in his thoughts. After a moment of silence, he spoke once again.

“Viceroy, let me be clear.” He said gravely, walking over to the table and sitting down across from Vixin. “In times as these, I need men I can trust. And I believe I can trust you.”

“Some would like to disagree with that decision.” Vixin replied with a sigh while rubbing his eyes. Gestarin was startled at the show of fatigue; Vixin’s show of invincibility and confidence had fooled even him.

“Regardless, I am going to have faith in you.” Gestarin said, leaning forward and folding his fingers together. “I would like you to be the Royal Inquisitor.” Gestarin said bluntly, and Vixin’s eyes widened slightly. Such a position was rarely bequeathed to a Viceroy, and appointing a novice was unheard of.

“Your majesty, I…” Vixin began, but Gestarin held up his hand.

“You cannot refuse, so I do not require your affirmative answer.” He said. “What I want you to do is to gather information for me. A Bloodwielder has been in my personal chambers recently. And I’m sure you know the problems with a conniving weasel like that being anywhere near my daughters.”

“I will look into it at once.” Vixin said, nodding furiously. Beneath his rough exterior he appeared to still be an enthusiastic youth; after all, he was far younger than any other member on the Council.

“Good.” Gestarin said tersely. “Now, I-”

“My lord!” A voice shouted breathlessly from the doorway to the Great Hall. Footsteps quickly followed as a muscular man sprinted across the marble floor to the Council table.

“What is it?” Gestarin said calmly. The messenger bent over, heaving lungfuls of air. His face was red from strain, and he had obviously run a great distance.

“My lord,” He spluttered between breaths. “It is the Jods. They’re coming.”

Gestarin ran for the door, ignoring how very unregal he looked.