The Blind Valiant

YEARS AND YEARS OF DAWN.

Anduin didn’t think he’d ever seen so many expensively dressed people in one place before.

“It’s like walking into a Narnetian royal ball.”

“You have never been to a royal ball. Nobody would want you eating their perfectly coiffed guests.” Nadezdha replied with a roll of her eyes.

 But he was right either way. Everywhere he turned, there were beautiful people, the kind of Noirish-beautiful, Nadezdha was used to seeing but not him. People who had access to elite grooming salons and expensive tailors, stylists and the disposition to pick diets that flourished their physique.

They were clad in silk, tulle and sheer belle gowns, gold seamed doublets and jewel studded cravats, all matched to extravagant costumes and masks.

Apparently Anduin’s diluvian knight costume had been a good choice in this ostentatious crowd even if the golden painted glyphs on his helmet made Nadezdha sneeze every five minutes- he had taken it off.

 But she was even more uncomfortable without the helmet that concealed the stranger’s face he was wearing. Anduin’s metamorphic sorcery to craft a different face at will, always seemed unsettle her greatly.

 Over the years she had seen him transform into dozens of people- children, females, one time he had even made a hauntingly passable statue.

 It was still his aiyar -revealing itself in only the color of his eyes- but only wearing the skin of whichever disguise helped him survive. It wasn’t an ability that was common amongst the Fells, and it was only powerful in deception.

 Tonight the face he wore was that of a Burnish noble. They were dancing to a century old waltz, a fleeting song under the breathtaking crystal chandelier that adorned the arched ceilings of the Reliquary’s great hall.

It had been a stroke of luck that Manfri Mortimer, the most famous of the Echelon Madrigals had opened the doors to the Alrudha gala to anyone with the desire to attend.

 The hall was packed with not just nobles but also the commonfolk in their mediocre but impressive outfits; drinking, eating and dancing to their heart's content.

To which Anduin had realized had been perfect timing for the mission which had been given to him and Nadezdha tonight.

The decorous commoners provided the cover they needed to infiltrate the home of one of the most ruthless Noirish on the continent. Anduin remembered Nadezdha’s initial gasp of shock and awe when they had walked into the Reliquary halls.

It had been like stepping back in time to the Diluvian Era. The golden age of Evvoia; lush with beauty, decadent in Fell culture.

 Our culture. An open hallway vaulted with painted pillars that accommodated a gallery fountain at it every turn.

 The entire building was designed in the likened design of the ziggurat; stepped into seven levels with grand arches either cusped like a round keyhole or shaped like a clover leaf.

 But occasionally Anduin could see the Diluvian influences from cultures much older than the Echelon occupation; geometric patterns and Chthonic motifs inlaid in mosaic tilling and porphyry walls, praising the long since desecrated Infernals.

So much history and memories. So much taken from us. Anduin thought with a rising temper.

Instinctively his narrowing gaze went to the gathered nobles and Echelon compatriots of the Mortimers.

 Anduin would’ve been satisfied with just lingering in the crowds of masked faces, thinking of all the ways to exact quick revenge on these sybarites till their moment came.

 But Nadezdha pulled him onto the lacquered floors to join the dance. “If we don’t, we’ll only bring attention to ourselves.” she argued as she spun and let him catch her by the waist.

She’d made a good point seeing as they'd already dressed almost too affluently and unnoticeable.

We’ve already been noticed, Anduin thought.

It was true. Though no trouble had been made over their presence, some of both commoners and nobles in the crowd were still casting them sideways glances.

There were quite a diaspora of costumes that honored this night of the Marrąkan culture. Their costumes had been decisively selected and additional charms had been cast to hide their Fell natures from any probing spells put in place.

But he imagined that perhaps the Mortimer household had earlier dispelled those safeguards since their guests were not entirely Noirish.

  Nadezdha took Anduin’s hand once the song ended and they moved to the outside of the crowd, toward the end of the hall, where the shadows were deeper.

“We should quit this subtlety nonsense and get on with what we were sent to do,” she murmured, taking Anduin’s other hand so that they faced each other.

He looked more ruffled than he had before, his ink dark eyes were brimming with tumultuous emotions. She couldn’t blame him for being incensed, he had been since they'd seen the crucifixions so flamboyantly displayed at Cihure Square.

 Anduin nodded curtly. “Take care not to trip any wards when there are dozens of powerful Noirish in the building.”

“That’s why the Monger left us both specific jobs to do. Do yours and you don’t have to worry about mine.” She retorted and gathered the calla folds of her rosy pink gown and disappeared through the crowds.

 Anduin caught a brief sight of her costume at the verandah above the hall before she was gone again; disappearing in the upper floors of the Reliquary.

He dropped his helmet at a table and went to the orchestra at the end of the hall.

 With a few placating words he was given an instrument and he sat down, securing the stem of the instrument at his shoulder before he struck the strings with the bow.

The music flowed in a lovely cadence that instantly plunged the entire hall of preening nobles and commoners into a silence that was deafening.

Don’t draw attention, my ass. Making him to play was worse than doing just that.

This was the worst of his gifts, he hated using it just as much as he hated remembering who had taught the instruments to him and what her fate had been.

 But in this manner he could make these cruel oppressors of his people, see what evil they had wrought on the true owners of this continent.

He could make them feel his people’s terror and despair through his music. His music rose and rose into a crescendo, echoing by the magnifying acoustics of the hall.

He didn’t look up to the faces of his audience but shut his eyes to revel in his own artistry as little as he could. Anduin felt the seams of his music stitching and ensnaring everyone who listened.

Then all of a sudden another instrument joined him, a pianoforte. Anduin’s eyes snapped open and found the man sitting where the organ stood.

 He wore a midnight blue costume with winged appendages stitched at the back and down his arms, with a mask of a bird; species native to the east of the Spr’r.

 And he had the coloring for that region too, but no merchant or indigene of Spr’r would know what a pianoforte was, much more play it in errorless order to Anduin’s tunes.

 The man turned and met Anduin’s eyes through a horned mask of painted glass.

 Tangled chestnut colored hair and eyes like burned chartreuse. The owl mask hooked on elegant dark cheekbones, above curt mouth, and thick lashes. Even the curve of his throat was perfect.

Anduin glanced away, ignoring the salivation at the back of his throat and focused on the music that swelled and raptured through the minds of the people.

Even though now with the man’s added music, the spell was dulled.

It’s enough to give Nadezdha the distraction she needs. But he reckoned he had given her enough time already and prolonging the enchantment would only drain him.

When he brought the music to an end, the hall exploded into an applause, tears and cheers. Anduin rose from the chair and bowed, cutting a quick glance at the pianoforte player.

 He smiled courteously at him but turned to walk away, the wings at his robes ruffled in the slight air that it looked like he was about to take flight.

Without a second thought, Anduin followed. The orchestra had picked up at their entertainment, probably striving to impress as hard as the previous duo.

Anduin trudged through the crowds of impressed guests, he came around the corner and blinked blankly when he didn’t see the midnight owl costume.

He turned around in a quick search around the less crowded riadh but then from the periphery of his sight, he caught fluttering dark purple cloth.

Anduin saw him standing in the open balcony, overlooking the entire city.

It was breathtaking view from up here. It’s easy to deafen yourself to the cries of the victims from your ambition and cruelty.

“You play the cello well.” His voice was thick with the same highborn articulation Anduin had been hearing from irritating nobles all night.

Closer now, he ran a more scrutinized glimpse at this man. He looked younger than he had summed, and from his height and posture he guessed he had seen twenty-two solstices.

“As you play the pianoforte, though I’d have liked to have perform alone.”

He received a narrowing look from those peculiar eyes. Anduin held onto the alabaster balustrade of the balcony when he stopped.

 “I apologize but I couldn’t help myself, that song was...”

“A tedious requiem?” His tone had reduced to a somber note.

“Beautiful and oddly familiar. It struck something in me and all I could think about was to go there and join you.” He laughed dryly, shaking his head. “Like that isn’t the most absurd thing you've ever heard.”

But Anduin shook his head, perplexed that that wasn't what he thought.

“It is something I wouldn’t have expected an Echelon noble to say, yes.” Their eyes met and a brief moment of silence before they turned back to the city’s view.

“I’ve always had mixed feelings about this city. My childhood here was the best any child could ask for but I’ve always felt a darkness lingering in the air.”

 “You don’t think maybe it has something to do with the true owners of the city being treated like gutter rats? Or that things like this-” he waved to the flamboyant party behind him. “only end up throwing spite and anger into their hearts.”

 “I see you are of a delicate opinion about people like me.” He glanced at Anduin who shrugged.

 “Only on the grounds that are truths. You saw what decorations were left out in Cihure Square and yet the common folk have been so disenchanted to accept such things.”

 “I saw them and I did not have a taste for it. But they were guilty of sedition and conspiracy against the Echelon.”

 “No.” Anduin stated fiercely, his eyes narrowing to glimmers of azure. “The only guilt they will be judged for, in the afterlife, is that of protecting their rights and families at all costs.”

 “How did we get from talking about music to this? Politics always leaves such distaste on everything.” Kyrillos heaven a sigh.

“Perhaps you don’t have a taste for it because you know there is something wrong with your political system.”

“Maybe.” He sighed out and leaned over, his elbows resting on the railings of the balcony.

But then a young woman in a costume of grey plumage similar to the man walked up to them. “Kyrillos, we are needed. The Madrigal is about to make his announcement.”

Anduin watched the man called Kyrillos screw his brows in an annoyed expression but still straightened up to go with the woman. But then he stopped and glanced back at Anduin.

 “It was... informative talking to you. Perhaps we can talk again about the distaste of politics.” And the woman tucked her arm through his and marched them off except Anduin trailed them as they advanced the dancefloor.

 “Yes perhaps.” He whispered to himself before he followed in that direction.

But he saw that the two of them meandered through the crowds to go for the grand spiral staircase where the members of the Mortimer family posed.

 Anduin blinked hard as Kyrillos and the woman didn’t hesitate as they climbed the steps and joined Lord Manfri Mortimer, his infamous sister Severa and their children. He frowned as realization hit him.

 Mortimer.

They were notorious for their singular brutality against his kind. A family of butchers who advanced their family’s wealth and prestige on the corpses of their enemies, friends and allies.

 Anduin remembered the Monger, leader of the Kinship revolution saying that Manfri had no disappointed his ancestors in taking on that despicable genocidal mania.

 And he was one of them.

Why that irrevocably stung him deep and hard, Anduin could not surmise.

 So he stood there, amidst crowds of nobility and common folk and listened to Manfri Mortimer speak with a raised glass of wine.

 “For centuries, Marrąk has been a seneschal of culture, innovation and progress blazing like a beacon for the other cities of the Expanse to take example and see the benevolence of the Echelon in protecting and advancing those whose loyalty are assured. And though we have had conflicts here and there, we are bound stronger by the binds of faithfulness and loyalty we make when faced with a common threat as we are now.”

 “I, as your Madrigal make this solemn oath to protect both your lives and interests against infidels who seek to destroy that beacon. But tonight, we celebrate that loyalty on this day of Black Suns just as I and my family celebrate my engagement to the lovely Princess Louscha of Halgiers.”

 And the Madrigal gestured with an offered hand and a charming smile for a young beautiful woman in a snow swan costume and a glittering crystal mask on her face that reached up to form a crown on her powdered hair.

 Anduin arched a brow and thought what a few of the guests were thinking. Isn’t she a little too young for him?

And it seemed that when Anduin glanced at the faces of the Mortimer family, that Kyrillos’ face had changed to one that looked constipated as he tried to catch the princess’ gaze but failed.

 Hmm what have we here?

With his hand on his young bride, Lord Manfri raised his glass and toasted exorbitantly. “Venys iostr kampe vystr.” Our future is born of light and shadow.

In a flourish but accent lacking native Marrąkan tongue. It was an old Marrąkan saying that had no business spilling from the mouth of an oppressor like Manfri Mortimer.

 And yet the nobles, gentry and lesser folk raised their glasses and regaled the same call before dispersing to the dancefloor.

“Lord Mortimer, we need to decide who will go to the Burnish with the peace treaty proposal...” some nobles converged to the stairs to congratulate their Madrigal on his engagement. Others brought up politics.

“We don’t need a peace treaty proposal, we have them on the run.” Genoa interjected, an amusing smirk tilted upward as she raised the glass of wine to her lips.

“So they will give in to us.” The young man with piercings counting over his face glanced at her tightly.

A string of emeralds pierced from his left nostril to his earlobe. “One battle doesn’t assure victory.” Lord Manfri answered.

“I have held my party together as we the wealthy trademasters have essentially paid for this entire skirmish...”

Lord Manfri cut a look at him. “And I’m grateful as well.”

“Yet the Echelon enrich themselves off the spoils and we are left with nothing.”

“And yet I do not see your fat tweedy dead when I look out onto the battlefield.”

The flamboyant trademaster glowered at the speaker, a pink faced stout man with a bulbous nose. But he spoke instead to Lord Manfri, “We are out of money is my point, my Lord.”

Louscha sighed, “The Burnish are chastened, but not defeated, Lord Vidal. We must crush them, let them sue for peace with begging hearts and broken hopes.”

The other lords gathered in the great hall had turned to hear the conversation and were nodding in agreement.

“Your betrothed is charming, Lord Mortimer.” Vidal commented but curtailed her before walking away. “But I don’t agree, I would like to bring it up before an assembly.”

“By the Lemegeton, the effrontery.”

“Since we legislated their involvement in Echelon policies, they seem to have gotten louder mouths.” Lord Manfri chortled.

“Father don’t you think that perhaps Vidal is right?” the nobles around the Madrigal turned to see Kyrillos but he had eyes for only his father.

“Kyrillos, this isn’t a matter of who’s right...”

“Shouldn’t it be?” But before he could receive anything of a response from his father. There was an earsplitting shriek tearing through the air. Dozens of faces paled and clapped their hands on their ears. Some understanding and others pale with the fright of it.

 “What in all the hells?”

“The wards! Manfri, it’s been tripped. They are here.” Kyrillos looked ahead and saw Ruscha marshalling her Echelon guards. The shattering sound of the trespassed wards had broken through the merriment.

 But then the floor to ceiling windows burst inward, and the hall was suddenly flooded with undead, with decaying flesh sloughing off their hardened bones.

They were lunging at the guests who scattered in cacophonous crowds of despair and panic.

As Kyrillos stared, more and more lichts began flooding in from the other doors as well, herding more guests in front of them, like dogs herding sheep into a pen and then they attacked.

 The chaos that ensued was instant and bloody.

The very minute the high profile guests of the gala realized they were trapped in the ballroom with a horde of ravenous undead hungering for their flesh, decorum was a thing of the past.

 Screams and cries from scattering guests rented the air, the heavy stench of blood filled the room.

 Everyone stampeded toward the only narrow exit, crushing each other in the hysteria. It was only a minute before half the guests realized they were Echelon warriors who wielded both iron and magic just as expertly.

 So when Kyrillos knocked down and impaled a licht with the end of a candelabra, he looked up with black blood streaking down his face to find Potentates casting defensive spells against the onslaught of undead.

Someone was calling his name from the panicked crowd, but Kyrillos crawled to reach for the sheathed rapier from the corpse of a nobleman.

 He started to stagger to his feet when something struck him hard in the back, and he fell forward, sprawling on the cluttered floor.

He flipped over onto his back, fast, looked up- and hissed out a curse. Looming over him was a heavyweight undead man; he looked to have lived his life brawling in stage wrestling and probably died on losing.

 His upper body corded with muscles almost as thick as a tree trunk, grayish decomposing in tatters, but he hulked over Kyrillos with a deadliness that sent his heart racing.

Kyrillos fumbled with the sheath of the weapon he had taken from the corpse. It was a good thing lichts were slow. But it seemed his hands hadn’t caught up with the emergency thoughts from his brain.

 Before the licht’s head drove down toward him, a shining blur slashed across it, almost blinding him. An iron battle axe, its shimmering blade edge slicing the undead’s head cleanly off.

 The head crumpled, spraying dead black blood; Kyrillos rolled to one side, but some of the foul substance splattered onto his torso. Both halves of the licht struck the floor, motionless. He moved to get to his feet, also pulling the rapier free from the sheath.

A hand was suddenly thrust into his field of vision- an offer to pull him to his feet.

Sharur, he thought, but as he looked up, he realized he was staring at the pale face of Melek.

“Come on,” his mouth moved soundlessly in the deafening mayhem about him, his hand still out.

“There are more of them.” Kyrillos remarked, and grabbed his uncle’s hand to let him be lifted to his feet. He was splattered with undead blood too, leaving unsightly black stains on his once pristine hair and face.

As Kyrillos stared about the c*****e in the great hall, two lichts he realized belatedly, reared up behind him, their neck flattening out like a cobra’s.

Without thinking, he grabbed Melek’s shoulder and shoved him out of the way, hard; he staggered back as both undead struck, and Kyrillos rose to meet it with the rapier.

 He turned his body aside as he drove the blade home, avoiding the creatures’ rotting teeth and strong limbs; their groans turned to a gurgle as the blade sank in and he dragged it down, gutting one creature open the way someone might gut a fish.

He threw a kick to the right, shoving the other back while he pulled out his weapon and whirled to decapitate the second licht.

Kyrillos took that pause to search the bedlam for the rest of his family members.

 Genoa was burning a few to ashes as well as shielding the exit with her sorcery so that the guests could flee safely, Sharur was fending off two away from Louscha with a broad sword.

 Shards of glass, chunks of concrete and wood littered the floor amongst the bodies. Kyrillos swung his arm back and threw the rapier, with perfect form and aim which had been taught to him.

It soared through the air and struck one of the undead through the head, sending it jittering and squeaking away from his cousin.

 Sharur, boasting a scar on his forehead, whirled around and, seeing him, winked before reaching up to scissor off the head of the remaining licht.

Its body collapsed so did its partner in death, splattered in black blood, his grinning cousin was like a garish monochrome. A familiar surge of scintillating frenzy took Kyrillos over- a sense of electric elation.

 Both his father and every Potentate who had tried teaching him the sorceries of the Lemegeton since he was a child, had spoken to him of the high of manipulating manæ.

 He was the son of a powerful Madrigal and yet he had been unable to weave a single enchantment. Kyrillos used to wallowed in that shame and inefficiency of the gifts which his family had that he lacked.

That much changed as soon as Marcian Demezieres placed his first sword in his hand.

 Now where his cousins reveled in their manipulations of manæ, he felt invulnerable with a blade in his hand.

His veins humming, strength uncoiling from the base of his spine and spreading to every extremity so he could utilize them for killing. Everything seemed to have slowed down around him.

 The nape of Kyrillos’ neck prickled with the cold touch of dread. Three staggering grey skinned undead lumbered towards him.

He heard a whirring noise and turned in time to see his rapier flying back to him and Kyrillos caught it out of midair.

A licht’s trail of rotted blood separated him from his enemies as the lichts swept back the unlucky victim, it had devoured the head off.

Lifting and drawing the weapon, one was close enough and loosed itself in the direction Kyrillos’ stance. Arms flailing and teeth gnashing for his throat. He bent low to avoid its arms and kicked it powerfully in the chest.

 As if this attempt were nothing more than a preliminary gesture that custom dictated they observe before proceeding with their actual confrontation.

While it did, Kyrillos rose to his feet and took a shoulder-wide stance, his hands tight on the rapier.

They lunged toward each other. The first licht attempted to cleave Kyrillos from collarbone to hip, but he twisted and stepped past the blow. Jamming the end of the blade upward, he drove its metal from throat to skull, cleaving it apart.

 The second shuddered to the ground after he slashed and its head loped down. But then he felt the chill at the back of his neck and turned sharply, raising his weapon to block the attack from a curved dagger.

 Kyrillos gasped out slightly as he met the eyes of his attacker- azure blue like seaglass. His cheeks still had flecks of gold dusts from a medieval helmet he had removed since.

 The cello player was scowling hatefully at him, bearing down against the standoff. “You... you’re the one who unleashed this?”

 He shrugged, “Does it matter? We came to get what is ours and which your wretched family stole.”

 Kyrillos shoved him away, swiping and turning to meet his every strike with a counter of his own. “We haven’t stolen anything.”

 The cello player laughed coldly, “How about our land, hundreds of years of our freedom...”

Kyrillos noticed how expertly this strange man held his weapon and struck with calculated moves, seeking a blind spot.

The cello player slashed the dagger toward him again, but Kyrillos had already leaped- straight up into the air. The lowest streamer string was about twenty feet high; he caught at it, swinging himself up and over and lightening his weight to balance himself steadily.

 Kneeling on the shimmering string, he saw his opponent, on the ground, spin around and look up.

Kyrillos flung the sword and heard him shout. Breathless, he straightened up. And the attacker was suddenly on the branch beside him.

 His gilded face was flushed angrily, his arm streaming blood. He had dropped the dagger to the ground, evidently making them even since Kyrillos was without a weapon too.

 But he wasn’t done. He flung himself at Kyrillos, catching him around the waist, knocking him off the streamers and back to the mess of corpses and disarray.

They fell twenty feet through the air clutched together, tearing at each other—and hit the ground hard, hard enough that Kyrillos saw stars behind his eyes.

 He grabbed for his injured arm and dug his fingers in; the cello player yelled and backhanded Kyrillos across the face.

 His mouth filled with salty blood; he gagged on it as Kyrillos saw the flash of magic as the man recalled the dagger to his grip.

He kicked at his face, taking the opportunity to grab for the nearest thing he could from the ground. A guard’s spear; ornamental but still useful.

“Kyrillos!” He heard Louscha scream out his name and started to rush for him but the purple eyed Fell threw out a hand, expelling a force that knocked her away.

 Kyrillos narrowed and lunged at him, but as he tried to slip the edge of the metal blade of the spear through his chest his mind ripped. He staggered from that momentary lash of pain and memory- the image he saw blurred into something that wasn't the chaotic hall of the Reliquary.

 The face of a boy calcified to stone... “I’ll find you...”

 His attack would’ve killed the player instantly had it not faltered in that split second. Instead the man pushed the bladed staff aside and brought his hand up, with the dagger in it, and sank the blade into Kyrillos’ chest.

 Kyrillos gasped and staggered forward, the spear falling out of his hand. He turned slowly and looked at the not so distant faces of his family; someone screamed, another gasped in horror.

Kyrillos’ face was blank, the hostility gone from it, life draining as much as the blood seeping from the wound. He opened his mouth, as if he meant to say something to them all- to his killer, but his knees were already buckling.

 He crashed to the ground, gurgling and trembling. It was like he was burning and cooling at the same time, flashes of light and darkness swarmed.

 The last he saw before his eyelids shut close was his killer disintegrating into shadows and vanishing from the great hall of the Reliquary.

A shockwave of power hit the entire building, the floor quaked under his feet and he looked up to see the brutal scowl on his father's face with his hands outstretched.

 The barrage of undead still lingering on the grounds and in the hall erupted into columns of soot and flying embers.

 Louscha came to him, getting his upper body upon her thighs, his cousins surrounded his cold body.

 “He’s...” the words were choked from the princess’ throat, tears streaming down her eyes and falling on his cheeks.

But Lord Manfri said in an strong unfazed voice, waving forward some battle worn guards. “Take him to my riadh.”

 “There’s no sorcery that can help him. Kyrillos is dead.” Melek quipped softly, his bloodied hand clenched the sword in his hand.

 “You can’t be sure.” Genoa answered, eyes darkening with unquestionable dread.

“I felt his death. The dagger went straight to his heart.” Was his grim response before he looked at his older half brother. “I’m taking a few Potentates after the bastard that did this; scour the city.”

 Lord Manfri nodded, “Sharur, Genoa, you will go and help him. I want the culprits back here by dawn; dead or alive.”

 They gave a bow and retreated from the hall even when their hearts were heavy from their dead cousin. Severa stepped up to her brother and spoke once she was sure no one was left in the hall. “You’ll need the sybilline.”

“Yes we both know what I need, so go bring them. I must go prepare.”