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Prologue: Part 4


The Loquacious Lord Grimm

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This is the Prologue.

It tells of what came before.

 


4


Decadent robes hiked up to his waist, a wrinkled man wearing more jewelry than clothing ascends the stairs at as fast a clip as he can muster. Those among the living he passes salute or bow to him, but he pays them no mind: he is too focused on blocking out the nauseating squish that accompanies his every step. Every few meters, he is forced to move around the form of a fallen soldier, and in most cases, there is no way to avoid the blood and... other fluids that have since caked into the plush carpet once the unfortunates were left to bleed out. Healers and battemages tend to the casualties fortunate to survive the slaughter, but the rest...

Gods, so much blood.

 

At least, he comforts himself, most of these poor souls are important enough to warrant resurrection. They are, after all, the best that the Empire has.

He rounds the corridor of the ninth level much more easily than the floors previous, given that there are no bodies, only to stop short at the macabre display left upon the final flight of stairs. The scene from hell itself, with still-burning tapestries, half-mutilated bodies draped at unnatural angles, and entrails strewn across the path forces his supper to unceremoniously evacuate his stomach. He quite fortunately manages to catch the holy sign and other baubles around his neck before it happens. The two guards at the top of the steps continue staring forward as if nothing has occurred.

 

Catching his breath, he gingerly steps around his sick, still careful to keep his robes of office far from the floor, and picks his way up through the obscene scene around him. If the guardsmen recognize him, which they should, given the significance of his position, they do not show it. They do not move at all as he passes through the flame-pocked doorway into the throne room itself.

 

"Howar," the familiar baritone rumbles behind him. He turns to find Garzahd propped against the front wall of the room, peering into open space. "Thank you for coming."

 

"I came as quickly as I could," he responds, turning back to search through the room. Even though the throne room is equipped with massive braziers to light up night audiences, only a few torches are in use, making it difficult to see. "The Emperor's body, where is it?"

 

"Gone," The answer comes from a silhouetted figure in the back of the throne room that Howar does not recognize. "Dusted. We will have to wait until morning to be sure, but it's doubtful that there is enough left."

 

"I don't understand," Howar says, returning to Garzahd. "I presumed that you had called me here to resurrect him. Why else call for the High Priest?."

 

"You are here because I require your political prowess," Garzahd says, eyes still fixed on some unidentifiable point of the floor in front of him.

 

"Political prowess? In such an emergency? Garzahd!" The wizard's eyes snap up to regard Howar. "Do we know who did this?"

 

Garzahd's response is wordless: he merely regards the darkness to his right, and conjures a magical light to illuminate the large serpentine rune burned into the marble floor.

Howar instinctively clutches his holy symbol and backs away, his throat too hoarse from the sick to properly shriek in terror.

The figure behind the throne supplies the words for Howar's thoughts:

 

"A single silent symbol tells a story that would fill volumes, doesn't it? Erika Redmark literally signed the assassination. It would make for excellent poetry, if it did not so clearly violate our laws of censure. And that's not even the best part."

 

Howar cannot be sure if the words are bitter irony or outright praise, but they clearly show a measure of respect for the outcast worm... "I'm sorry," he forces out before trying to clear his throat. "Just who are you?"

 

"Ah, manners," Garzahd says. "I assumed you knew General Limoncelli."

 

"Only by reputation, of course," Howar says, trying to view into Limoncelli's tall outline.

 

"Charmed," Limoncelli does not move.

 

A moment of tense silence passes before Howar asks, "How did she do it... I thought... the curse?"

 

Garzahd shakes his head. "The death curse that I placed on her only triggers in response to sunlight. We thought it would be the most... appropriate measure of punishment."

 

"Given the timing, that alone would have worked, had she not acted by proxy," Limoncelli explains. "Instead, she managed to teleport a small group of fighters past all of our defenses... and teleport them back out."

 

"I still don't understand," Howar says. He has finally found a portion of carpet that does not squish with his every movement. "The spells? The antimagic field? The teleportation measures? We were prepared for this."

 

"We were only prepared for what we knew they had," Garzahd corrects him. "Erika clearly tapped into something even more powerful than she. There is no other explanation."

 

"What, artifacts? A demonic alliance?" Howar asks.

 

"It's possible," Garzahd responds. His moving hands betray that he is thinking through the rites that might allow such a thing. "Quite possible. Our last reports from Below suggested that an army of demons had escaped imprisonment. Erika was part of the group that sealed them; she may well have let them loose, for a price."

 

"Anything to get what she wanted; yes, that was Erika." Howar shudders at the thought. "She was a menace."

 

"Is," Garzahd corrects him again.

 

"Is a menace," Howar amends. "Well, we can't simply banish her again, now can we? She's already there, and besides...[censored]!" He is shocked that the thought has only just now come. "An heir! He's dead, and no heir!"

 

"Hence, why you were summoned," Garzahd states, returning his gaze to the floor near Howar's feet. "Limoncelli and I have been talking. You see, there are... oh, we're not entirely sure, at least a dozen illegitimate claimants to the throne in Solaria alone. A few of them even live here in the Spire. But we're going to need your help determining the best one to continue the royal line."

 

"The Council of Governors will never stand to have a bastard on the throne," Howar says, trying to figure out just what Garzahd is looking at.

 

"They will if you validate the union." Garzahd looks up to meet Howar in the eyes. "It'll be two or three days before the Council is fully assembled. We have until then to provide them with the heir. I'm thinking one of the younger ones, and I, of course, will be happy to serve as temporary Regent."

 

"I will help preserve the line," Howar agrees. "That is my duty. But why do you assume that I'll be your patsy?"

 

"Because of the single most important detail in the room." Garzahd smiles a twisted, mocking smile. "Obviously, you missed it; otherwise, you wouldn't be standing on it."

 

Limoncelli's deep, resonating, ironic chuckle sounds behind Howar as the High Priest looks down and promptly stumbles back.

 

Written in blood and ash, ground into the carpet by Howar's feet, are two words:

 

"WE REMEMBER"

 

Howar whispers the words, trying to understand.

 

"It's not just Erika," the general says, behind him. "It's all of them. And now that they've found a way into the one place designed to keep them out, it's only a matter of time before they come out somewhere else. And kill again. Why stop with kings when you can directly address the men who threw you in the pit? The Judge who passed your sentence? The... priest who used his influence to make you disappear?"

 

"Gods," Howar swears, his hands again reaching for his holy symbol. "What will you do?"

 

"We will do what we have to do," Limoncelli says. "When a dog repeatedly turns on its master, there is only one course of action.

 

 

 

 

"It must be put down."

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