Chapter Seven, Divine Diplomacy

Bloomsvere 2nd CE, Faloncrest Forest

With thundering hooves, they charged through the night as storm of wind & war’s fury. Far through the hinterlands beyond the Helwreath hills Mordaunt led the reins of their dark company. His riders costumed in blood-soaked furs of the land’s feral things, bone, fang & antler fashioned to monstrous helms. In stench stained of sulfur and wet graves. His face & neck lathered in filth and ghastly paste. His helmet propped with tusks of a dire boar cut for sport, protruding about his peripheral. The mask beneath of hell itself to those struck by it. Drawing himself into stupor of bloodshed; praying retribution for his agony. He became that which he disguised himself as: a wraith of war and unearthly agent of wrath.

Beneath the moonlight they split the expanse of the woods around Faloncrest township. Coming forth as Malderath’s angels, announcing their arrival to the humble parish by blaring of warn horns. Slaughter ensued; reaping the lives of a dozen village guards with first charge. The warning bell rang fast but by then a blazing inferno erupted of the town center. Inns & sovereign buildings burnt, those within screaming panic. His riders, his Drakes, wrangled the people as human cattle. Herded sheepishly into a circle around the fiery green. “People of Vizzari: we are the Winged Drakes of Drakkon! We are the essence of holy might and of mercy! Open thy hearts to Him, obey our Word & be spared! Deliver unto us the craven inquisitors & fled knights hiding here, and any who blaspheme the true Lord! Lay low thine arms, cast to the pyre thine earthly treasures that thy bloated rulers hoard!”

The denizens of Faloncrest fell to abjection at these apparitions of horror on earth. The few stubborn fenders who sought to use their axes & hammers, not surrender them, were swiftly slain without contest. But from where the bell tolling tower, where a sanctum, a chapel of the Serpent stood tall, outpoured a small number of heavily armored knights led by a burly man with braided beard & dreaded locks dangling near to his waist. They emerged of their altar to charge the ring. Their master pointing broadsword at the pacing horsemen. “Come Drakes ov Death! Be thee foul spirits of decay or mere men I shall send thee to the nether! I excise thee of this, the ancestral ground of my House! Come, master of pretenders, prove thy blackened sorcery against steel!”

Mordaunt heard this call and didn’t hesitant to answer with vehement fever. Sliding from his steed he addresses this accuser with his blade drawn to meet his. Snarling, distorted tone flailed over his adversary and his captive audience of townsfolk. Their blades clash, dancing steps of martial elegance. Staving off the other’s sword. The onlooking riders and knights encircled their duel yet held back in trepidation and tension of chivalry’s cindering twine. Braided broadsword feigned a stumble only to riposte, nearly cleaving Mordaunt’s shoulder, were it not for hardened tusk catching the brunt.

Meteoric fight reached sudden conclusion. Mordaunt thrust the uncracked tusk into the neck. Impales through thin cover to rend jerky motions. The vigor of the loyal Serpents gushed out of their herald. Spouting guts on maimed square, pierced where mail and leather abandon.

Mordaunt announced, as master over their fate what would become them. “Crucify the unrepentant! Sever the hands of those who held arms against the mercy of the Living Lord but treat their families kindly! Save any sons, who must be slain. Go forth into shriveled shrine and give them the wealth stolen by their priests! Bring the rats to the ring of fire! This is the hour of Justice, know me as its supreme Champion! I am the Herald of the Aeon of Drakkon and evoke His Flame! A rising star which shall see all the Dread Serpent’s scales peeled to brittle bone!”

Any doubt hid from him during this task. He knew his code was just, compact. That his acts would be ordained by Drakkon and destiny. But while he was not appalled those new arrivals now riding upon the scene were visibly disgusted. These horsemen breached the forest wall, riding to the shambled structure with the white, unbloodied Drakoni banner. Mordaunt recognized the irritatingly familiar faces of Heron and that wannabe martyr of a bard, Baron. Taking quite the notice of their scowling expressions at his work he removed his barbaric cowl and greeted the two. “Hail, fellows! Why wear such long faces? Are you not pleased to see me or is there some more dour purpose for this intrusion?”

Heron got down from his horse and stood to face Mordaunt at eyelevel. Baron crutched on his saddle, to the mockery of Mordaunt. “Why, good bard, it looks as though thou art aching still! Tis a shame thou must stress thyself, so scarred by bludgeoned tumble. Ye rode hard to be by my side when I hath no requirement of assistance in my task…this purging of our lands to be.”

“Look at thyself!” Baron spat at Mordaunt, cursing him. He did not swing from his horse to confront him, given the truth of that dull ache, but the energy combined of he and Heron built bulwark against Mordaunt. Conveyed they would suffer no shit nor diminishment from him. “What made you do this? You hath turned triumph into butchery with savage indifference!”

Mordaunt merely scoffed. “I need not pay much mind to the semantic musings of a minstrel when it comes to the ways of war. One battle nearly broke you. I must mine more!”

“Thou art cloaked in those same sadistic tactics as the Bear! Or of Vizzari and their venom! We only just slew a malicious tyrant and ‘freed’ a few holds. We cannot become twisted by the shadows & serpents we struggle against! This is awful and surely not commanded by our good Lord directly. Look at the sheer terror this torture hast wrought on the people here – what few innocents and youths still live!” Heron swore.

“Ah, thou hast not the stomach to steel what is necessary for greater Light to be reaped from ruin. I do not blame thee, Baron, for thou hast but the mind of a minstrel and strategy of war is not something to be easily understood, especially by one called to hooting his songs in taverns as a bird but singing of the hunts conducting by true hawks of war.” Mordaunt stared Heron down, testing his opposition. “Yet you should know! How fear is a feral blade!”

The Boar-Drake sheathed his sword but persisted in spiteful undertone. Tossing his cracked tusked helm aside he presented a frigid smirk. “Whereas I am well versed in the knowledgeable, intuitive art of it and need no admonishment from the sidelines. Look how many bear-cloaks fly with me as Drakes! Let them view us as barbarians. It’ll put a worthy fear into them! How else will their courts be brought low by the hammer of Justice if not clanging fear?”

Heron spat, nearly landing on Mordaunt’s boots. “I will not abide the ghost of Kassan to haunt our ranks, o ‘master’ of war. We must not taint the Light of our cause and the world we are fighting to make by smearing towns with the blood of innocent peoples!”

Mordaunt chuckled coldly, frost falling from his breath. “Hark, cub: ‘Tis might that is honored by the judges of fate above and by our mortal courts. The terror thou condemn so sharply in thy whining is the very weapon of greater warfare. When wielded with artful finesse it strikes our foe to cripple them with doubts before our blades even reach their flesh.”

His accuser turned, showing his back to Mordaunt as he strode back to his steed, clenching fists to constrain himself. Once on his horse Heron leaned near to Baron who was still eyeing the strange Champion, warpaint dripping from his face. “Good friend, this man is as a dead wall, complete with thorny vines around. Tis not worth argument lest we risk trespassing past our welcome. His paunch protrudes, glutted on bestial bruises. All we might do to prevent this butchery is to speak further with Drakkon, for Mordaunt must answer to him.”

“I hath said all I can to him already. There is no translating this to our Lord’s ears either. No manner that he might understand without setting his eyes on it, and even then, I am not sure if he would believe it unjustified. Nay that is no way to halt this madness and tame the wolf unleashed in Mordaunt.” Baron intoned between quiet huffs. “If we ride out ahead of his force and reach the next town in their warpath, we may convince its people to embrace our cause – and the Lord’s Light of Life – that, surrendering, no harm will come nor gruesome displays of twisted ‘justice’. Tis no simple feat but worth that risk and more if innocent lives can be spared. We are at war with Vizzari and its militant agents but not so its peoples who were never given a choice of living under the Serpent.”

“We may not have that choice, nor will they. We have not the rations nor stamina to hasten past this hateful hail.” Heron cast grim words across the frost, waning to a harsh Spring. “Yet it may avail us to ask insight from the High Mother. She might better guide our Lord’s arrow into the heart of our foe. That the crimson courts o tumble with haste before their castes below are all encased in flame."

Fall of House Abraxas

Bloomsvere 9th, 1329 CE, the Abraxas Estate,

A foul Spring beset the lands of Abraxas. A tide bringing airs to mimic those of cruelest Yule. A curse upon their horizon, a pocket of wintry storm to cage them. When farms turn to fallows & all gather about log-fire to hold out against abrupt front. An ashen change frosted the Estate gate and all the mounds abounding Dul’Garon. From miser to serf, all felt it. Here, fear rooted & only harsh white weeds grew of courtly garden, but they nor the servants who kept to them bothered not their Lord. Who withdrew with evenfall to his corner, reading reports that confirm this curse upon his seat. Words to the withering of his House, his ailing majesty.

A cloaked figure slithered through dusk-shade, stalking the Estate corridors. Passing over the walls, as nothing more than phantom of night mind’s conjuring. Beneath dark, feathered cowl protruded a long, beaked mask fashioned as bird of prey. A doctor of plague personified, herb & crushed leaf filling the beak tip. Black-red robes hid any trace of skin or status save for the majestic dangling amulet about his neck. The sigil of the Druids. Talisman to outshine other insignias in reverence. To gaze at the ghost enough to mark it possessed people to mystery & even fear. Mopping through the massive fortress, tired sentries & restless helots bowed at his passing, ogling with awe. It seemed a miracle, amidst the tilling of misery, that a member of the enigmatic Druidic order should answer their Lord’s distress. Come to heal him of that dire affliction which left the proud Cassius confined to chamber.

His host’s chamber yawned, awaiting entrance of that guest floating about as a ghost. Just before the entrance to the Magister’s study this nocturnal visitor spotted a pair of women, wraithlike in blank expression, strumming away at their harpsicord and lute. They played on, apathetic to his coming and his passing. Their strings plucked the shade of summer, a melody with warmth which was mournful to behold in grip of cold. Whether enthralled by a world of their own, summoned up by luting muse, or ensnared by haunted stare he knew not.

As he approached his destination the two crimson-clad guards covering the door lowered helms in deference. They saluted the Druid. Allowed this devout doctor past the threshold into their lord’s quarters. “You are dismissed.” Groaned the withered man past the door, sitting at a desk littered with expensive artifacts and equally ostentatious wines. Magister Abraxas was a gaunt & decrepit linen of once radiant poise. His long lion’s mane painted by time’s artisanship a sickly white. His affluently tailored robe hung far from his chest, indicating difficulty breathing. Exerting himself by barking the guards vexed his lungs with scraping coughs.

When the fit finished, he deigned to speak. “Welcome, Druid. I am Lord Cassius Abraxas, Magister of Finance – of Coin & the Flowing Gold etc. etc. - & acting Consul of Vizarri. I welcome you to my manor. Let us cut to the bone though shall we… that is what you doctors do, is it not, at least on occasion? I am told you possess a cure for me, doctor?”

A muffled voice filtered through the masked man’s beaked front. “It is an honor to bask in the presence of so noble a Lord. I believe the understanding my order holds and the abundance of reagents I brought should present possible recovery. But first might I ask what specifically ails you, Magister? Your emissaries did not unearth much insight in the matter.”

“Take off that bloody mask!” Cassius snapped; bitterness matched by the prolonged pangs. “I do not have the plague! Where is thy faith in thy blessings, beaked sod? My affliction is of mortal nature but not contagious, I assure thee… Come see with thine eyes this hollow curse! I thought thee adept in knowledge of disease & panacea.”

“If you insist…” The man grumbled, reluctantly unveiling his true countenance. The mask slipped from his face glaring artful gray at the old man. “Greetings, father.”

“Aris!” Cassius nearly retched from this horrid realization. Perturbed by this unfavorable reunion, he yet contorted his posture to seem less sickly. Twisting his stature to be as intimidating as perpetual wheezing allowed. “Why by the Hels art thou here, lost little boy?! Damnable bastard. To disappear for decades and return posing as a mystic?”

“What, no warm welcome home? No ‘dear son how my heart was wary from your absence?’” Aris seated himself in the chair before the desk. “Do not doubt my faith nor my place in this world, Cassius. You cast me out into the pit. But I chose to rise above and pave my own way. My will is my own. It brought me to the Astral House of Druids and to the rings orbiting the demigod, Drakkon. Regardless of the past you must address me with the proper respect which I am to be anointed with. Especially if you wish my assistance…” Disdain & scorn snared their stares. “I am your last sliver of salvation. I am to be the one to choose now your fate, in torment of death or sign of mercy. Whether that mercy is deserved is not yet for me to know-”

Cassius threw his head back in laughter, his thin white hair veiling waned eyes. “Forgive me if my knowledge of your devious ways prevents me from believing you come with such a lofty cure. Not so now that I see thee. You come to taunt a dying man? Come here on the eve of woe! When wings already beat us down with tales of defeatism & death! Come ye here for some petty vengeance? Ha! I will speak as I like, blithering boy!”

“Pitiful wretch that should ne’er been ripped from the womb. Wanton worm should’ve been plucked to be dried, hanging as blighted heap! ‘Tis thou who hath disgraced our prestige and nearly brought our ancient House to ruin. And for what? To play a physic of the forest and clothe in leaf? I would prefer the reaper’s scythe to any ‘healing hand’ this liar’s might offer.”

After this tirade, another seizure struck the curmudgeon’s dimming lungs. Cassius reached feebly for the goblet atop his desk only for his son to lean over, take it and let it slip from his grip. The glass shattered and its foul swell washed over the old man’s robe. “You know why I killed him, Cassius… You know what Mithran did… Knew full well what wretchedness festered in our brother’s bullish brain. That makes you as much at fault as that spawn of your vain seed which I will never again call ‘brother’.”

“Ingrate! Thou shed the blood of thy beloved kin and brought a curse upon our estate. Then make such vacuous claims! I regret only not buckling down in my punishment of thee and thy murderous antics and matching thy sin properly with a rope around thy neck… It was mercy to send thee into exile. The rest of the court thirsted for thy throat, and I saved thy pathetic life! Yet now thou hast come to spit upon my face and shit in my personal domain?!” Cassius’ veiny hand ruptured rage and flung one of the cups on his desk, sending it crashing near the fireplace. “Quickly: wherefore?!”

“Mithran plotted against us both, father. Your favored heir fletched conspiracies to upset our House. Coveted your throne and my bride-never to be. His ambition threatened to bury us. I saved us then as I can still save us, save you, this evenfall.”

“’saved us’?” Snake vitriol spat back at this excuse & its loathed messenger. “You formed a gang of rabble to contest your brother’s posse – this part of his popularity your envious eye cast as sinister! Your affiliates struck first! Over some girl, barely a dame? Because your brother proved the better lover? Did so without decency, with witless brutes cornering Mithran’s party in wide view of the streets! To think I could forget such a ‘savior’ who still scourges our name!”

Aris shined devilish smirk under dark visage. His father’s rage and tis backlash felt as flint to ignite such vengeful excitement in his blood. The prodigal son retreated, offered his progenitor another goblet, then coolly toked thick herb, alit by candlelight, to blow mocking cloud across Cassius. “We all make mistakes, father. The wisdom of life is in knowing those mistakes have consequences. How to amend or press them. When you strike out in anger against the world, rightful wrath flails back. When you bury the innocent, the seeds of sacrifice sprout to impale with their branches, grown full as seasons turn. When you forsook me, you pushed me toward what I am. Helped me ascend & return, not as a disparaged son begging forgiveness but as an equal. An equal willing to offer a deal.”

“Speak swiftly and fastidiously, lest I lose both patience & temper, child.” Cassius snorted, suppressed a painful sneeze. “But do not compare us again, o slave of spiritualism! I am Lord!”

“Good to see not all your intellect fled from that aged brain, Lord. On with it then! I come offering a proposition of mutual gain. I understand how pivotal this conflict with the Drakoni invaders is. Already they pierce the heart of our lands and defile the sanctuary of Serpent and the houses of its serpent. Yes ‘our land’ for I am still a child of Vizzarion.” Aris snuffed his pipe and held in the last puff within to kindle his lungs with calming coals. “Truly though the man, this ‘Living Lord’, is practically indomitable on the field of war on which he builds his throne. I confess to have with me no miraculous cure for this condition. It corrupts your body too well already. But I can offer you something more than prolonging life of pain. I offer the chance of glory in death. Opportunity to live beyond the grave & yet still rule from it.”

“Speak plainly and lose the riddles!” Cassius swiped at his red handkerchief and purged his throat of some blighted phlegm built up there. “What can you offer me if not some salve to calm the curse?”

“With so much potential reputation & glory to be won for any who brings down this Drakkon. I can help you raise your name higher than heaven in the eyes of our history by bringing the ‘demigod’ child in the flesh. I have not forgotten the calendar of my birth and know the annual sacrifice is imminent. If I use my untouchable status as a druid to infiltrate the Drakkoni camp I can deliver you him, alive or dead, to elevate you above all others. Think of how the court sees you now with your damnable condition, hoarding up in lonely mountain as hermit among Lords. How they would see you triumph as the hero that saved our nation from this deified warlord. That revelry for he who sends lesser lords to the Hels drives court-climbers to catatonic panic.”

“What hook do you line here? What, in return for such a task?” Cassius sneered suspicion. “Thou art not as distant Mithran. I know thee not to be a man possessed of nobility and greater vision of service to the Abraxas name & Vizzari. Ye do not act for such chivalry but only to pluck & gnaw at thy father’s bones as a vulture. So, what is this thread thou wish to tear from this, mine corpse? You wish to buy a home in this House through flesh of another ‘lord’?”

“How apt. All I ask is that you repeal the mandate of my exile and reinstate me into our House as heir and blood of nobility. I hath not come to bring torment to you but to reclaim something that is mine to have. For this I will raise our name & grant herbs to lift your agony. In this I grant you one last kindness unlike any other, should you grant me my place among the Vizzar once more. What say you, Lord Magister? Father?”

“I say there is already a successor named.” Cassius began coldly, following several hoarser spasms. “The friend you forsook for a life in the forest and odd-smelling robes is to be heir. Argus is sworn by my Will as the next in line for the Magistrate, our recommendation hath already been heard by the council. Besides why reward the one stole away our diamond boy?”

“Ah, Argus.” Aris scratched at the thin beard forming along his lower chin. “The so called ‘Prince’ is he not? A mere commoner, once a former stable boy, is to be named next in line, made Consul and nobility (with all our inheritance) over your own begotten son? What of our brother Albrecht? Wherefore is he not here? How ostentatious to trample tradition so! For all you chastise my brashness, this surely shakes up those of pure blood among the Serpent’s counc-”

Cassius scoffed. Took a swig straight from the audacious bottle. It did little for his health but gave much vigor to his scourge. “Thou speak of making thine own way and rising through willpower only to mock when another does so within the lawful realm? Hypocrisy reeks of thee, poisoned seed! Let it not be forgot that Argus once saved Mithran’s life when but a boy. A life thou then extinguished out of jealousy & fear. Acting the worm, wriggling in envy of the snake who shares its soil. He was as brother to our son and is thus as a son to us. I will not step down from this acclamation to serve cynical ploy.”

Aris slowly paced circles about the room. “Do you not think the high court will shudder a scourge of whispers of mockery & spite should you appoint a commoner to the pedestal of power over true, royal, lines which outlast the oldest of tribes? Do you not see that you would be ending the Abraxas line of your own accord to name this man heir? There is no ‘prince’ of Vizzari.”

“I will not allow thy evil to haunt the mantle of this House! I will hear no more of this egoistic prattling from a fratricide! If there is no other business, useful to me, then begone from my House! Walk back to thy wretched shade and no longer stain the steps of our manor with thy shameful shadow. Lest I make thee answer for crimes that should hath been paid long ago!”

To the peripheral of the study Aris’ eye caught a masterfully made, runic inscribed blade leaning against the back wall. He suavely swung about towards this sword, sealed away in ceremonial sheathe bearing Abraxas sigil. “Will you not grant me hospitality as is custom? Allow yourself a night’s rest to reconsider my offer? Surely you are aware of the Druid’s curse which rains down on those who give offense to a wanderer of Hidden Path?”

Cassius slams fist down upon the table. But with brittle bones the sound rings less impactful or impressive than intended. His fingers crack, yet no wood splints, further infuriating reviled renouncement of his prodigal son. Long winds of loathing capsize his lung. “I will not allow thee to sleep in my manor, to stain the grounds of my home. Serpent, strangle thee! This no longer holds a place for thee. I do not fear some fabled curse when I am already at death’s door. I made most of my post, perched over abyss as I am, at least I still have honour!”

Adrenaline jolts Aris valves. This chance, long seeking, coils his hands, wraps them about the hilt of family sword. “Are you revoking the Seal of Hospitality and spitting on the name of the Order? Are you certain you wish to set yourself as an obstacle in my way?”

“Dare not touch that sword, our gem!” His father growls denial. Thrusts bottle at his hated kin. But bout of turbulence in breath has him miss his mark drastically. Glass & liquid velvet crash into bookcase. Tongue agog he rattles curse. “Do not deign to threaten me with mystic malarkey as if anyone gives a pile of stinking horseshit about the Dread-damned ‘druids’ and their malaise of the mind. Not here in MY House! To bring your stink into where MY word hails as the Magistrate’s! The very law laid out upon the grand tablet! Thou art nothing and hold no right to step on any stone consecrated by my Vizzari! Weak threats shall not be tolerated, no matter what robes thou wear, or talismans furl about thy neck to hide from the truth of soul’s skeletal shape!”

Aris withdraws the sword from gaudy pouch. Points it at his father’s bony apple. “Perhaps a little bloodletting will alleviate your symptoms then, you poor creature.” With glee he sticks the ancestral edge through Cassius’ throat. Juts through the ends of his esophagus. This sword, the old man’s pride possession - well whetted and cared for - slices skin as bird’s wings cut sky. In last futile effort Cassius clamors for the chamber bell to call the guards but tumbles low into death throes. Final agony gurgles through his cords.

When his bubbling gasps ceased there soon came the creaking of the door opening. In stepped Argus, dressed in his knightly regalia. Surrounded by three lackeys, garbed in the uniform of the House guard, with crimson scarfs concealing countenance.

Stepping through the threshold, they show no signs of alarm at the drained corpse of their Lord Magister. Argus passed over Cassius’ body, as debris of forest trail felled by windstorm, and clasped his palm onto Aris’ shoulder. The ordained heir offered contented smile & odd hug. “Well done, my friend. You have done a great service not just to me but to all Vizzari. As a magister your father was cruel and callow at once, I need not remind you. Thank you, brother!”

Their embrace unwrapped & Aris met his ally’s eye with stern flair. “Cassius was a villain, nothing more. Ne’er did he hold court in my heart as a ‘father’, nor ‘lord’. He went beyond the bounds of Magistrate office and dishonored my Order. You have sworn witness to the crazed assault against a Druid, let alone his blood son! & to raise a hand against kin is truly the worst sin in eyes of his crimson peers. Our efforts will be affirmed soon. I trust you will honour our pact, good cousin & kindred spirit, and grant me my request?”

“Ah yes. Yes – of course,” Argus blubbered. “I gladly will it. Given that, because of you, I stand to inherit what is mine as Consul. This night you win back your House, Aris. Arise as Head of Abraxas and let all under your Sign belong again to you. Just as you belong to Vizzarion once more.” The self-made (through much patronage) man shuffled about the desk as his partner produced an official draft of the Mandate: Mere parchment allowing Aris to reclaim his Lordship. Though this crown of ancestral House was but paper-thin.

Snatching quill, he inscribes signature onto the scroll. Then before reaching for the athame at the edge of the desk. Aris & Argus made careful, unison incisions into their palms with the lean blade. Then stamp the seal of the parchment with their blood, consummating this pact.

“We fly upon historic gale today! Great players upon the stage of beloved realm! You who are as a brother to me, let us share in rite of Ascension! I am now the first Druid to be crowned Lord. With this standing I stand for my House and our subjects. And you, a groom of steeds now mounts the Consulship to ride out. As Vizzarion himself we shall conquer, together!” Exclaimed the patricide. Offering toast, he grabbed the richest brandy, in all its exuberant display of branding and cost, for the two to share hefty swigs.

“Aye! I shall gladly lift a happy glass to our great fortune!” The pair exchanged cheers before the fledgling Consul shifted his attention back to his masked accomplices. “Let this ailing anchor fall,” pointing at the gruesome shell of Cassius, “no longer dragging you from riches & desires. Dispose of this corpse as one deposed by medical mishap. All splendor of our glory shall be as yours. And you, man: deliver this Mandate to the courts to make it proper…”

“Let it be known that our late master died of bloodletting, an extensive attempt regarding his sickly state. But that his passing legacy is the repeal on exile of his prodigal boy. There is no need for dallying trial with our word, this statement prepared. When you return and our venture is manifest, your holdings will be restored. All which Cassius robbed you of will be rightfully returned and reparations made. I am grateful for you, great men, and offer my oath!”

Gracefully the three bowed and went about their tasks in pallid silence. Following their departure Aris confidently swept up the rest of the bottle, shared the elysian elixir. With a charming grin he asked: “Shall we have a walk through the courtyard and gardens to feel the breath fill our lungs and share free discourse. Once more I cheer thee but must ask us to depart these chambers. The air in here is so dead and stifled.”

The duo left the sullen chamber, treading with matching pace into the brisk curtain of the night. They let the nocturnal breeze caress them walking the splendidly woven but wilting garden displays. After minute of contemplation Argus addressed his companion with somber tone. “I am sorry, Aris, that I once doubted you so. It pains me that at one point I let what we have together wilt away under false shine of your father’s lies. I blamed you for Mithran’s death for too long, but know that I was merely a fool, admittedly. Ashamed that I fell under your father’s spell of rhetoric. When you reached out to me so did those tides of guilt. I could not forswear him when he brought me up from lowly stables to a commander of men and protector of the land. Yet I see how the graved yawned long for their pair. Forgive me for casting enmity against you when I didst believe that you were the one who-”

“All is forgiven, as a true brother,” Aris responded warmly, “beyond blood. More than Albrecht or Mithran. My heart always held a true friend of you in spirit. I do not blame thee, comrade. We are now entering the zones above all our dreams could ever raise! The past is as dead as Cassius’ cold slab! Let it be buried away with his damnable casket. Together we pave profound path, above all that which chains us to guilt.” The druid withdrew his wooden pipe after passing the fine brandy to Argus. After a few puffs & steps his tone grew darker.

“But know you, Argus, that ‘twas our other ignoble brother that killed Mithran, not I. Drowned him out of envy. In the bathhouse he fled to when waylaid member of my entourage begat knavish brawl in public. Though our brother had his flaws and my loathing I did not intend his death. Hence why Albrecht fled, avoiding punishment. The weakest of the Brothers Abraxas undid us; undid himself to winding wilderness. Yet Cassius turned the blame upon me, he whom he feared as a rival simply for my reforms and the passion I could inspire of them. He feared a son who pushed our realm too far by another’s vision. This was a bloody task, yes, but a just one. Let not their ghosts haunt us, we who have no shame! This eve we weave the wreath whole!”

“It warms me through this evening chill to hear your forgiveness. To hold our hands upon lordly laurel, restored.” Argus gulped much of their communal draught and the effects washed over his liver & filter. “I am at loss for words to tell how much you mean to me, in this our purest friendship! This more than buries the axe and bonds us as equals!”

“Yes, good prince! I hear the love sung from thy lips and know it as my own, in shared melody!” Aris sung cheerily. Inwardly he turned the cycle of his sphere to deeper machinations. His brain, forging so fast as to invent an engine of itself.

Their steps halted beneath a massive tree. Bountiful limbs outstretched the walls of the mazelike courtyard. Upon branches budded flowers of blooming bio-luminance, petals leaping like autumn leaves, only glowing, littering their footsteps with white sparks. Wispy pods showered Aris with luminesce. Feeling a deep, natural synchronicity seep into his skin with their rain. Here stood the living embodiment of House Abraxas’ grandeur and a symbol wonder of all the Vizzar, the Halcion Tree. This prouder cousin of the luminous Andrasil family. The tree’s second head, towering from the trunk, bore the first emblem of its dual fruit this Spring. A glaring crimson frond, a fiery flora; halo over roots & white dandruff of Helfyre wreath.

Argus broke silence as they basked in the beauty on offer by the Halcion Tree. “Was there more to your presence among the upstart chiefs than spying under guise of druidic sign of protection? Do not think that I distrust you. But there must be some truth to these strange, hushed, whispers and I wish to know your purpose & place in it.”

“Yes, let me confide this in you.” Aris took the bottle of brandy back and doused his gullet with its essence. Then lifted his tongue and let soak an effervescent flake from the tree. Tasting its sedative. “I infiltrated this cult, the uprising plaguing the Magistrate with grief for years and now launches invasion. Weaved my way into their council that the High Mother lends me her ear. Through her I may seduce his ‘eminent’ sway. For the throne of heavenly reign is not ours to share while he aims ram of newborn religion of war.”

The veil of smoke from breath & pipe granted visions of ephemeral wings about his shoulders, agenda & face illumed by Halcion glow. “A real threat is posed by their intrusion. Drakkon, although a young man garbed in false divinity, is a more than competent strategist & fearsome warrior. Reaching to the level of genius in the art of battle. Hence the shameful defeat of Malvayn Ba’aal only months ago. Their swift decimation of our battalions proves this. If they keep the pace of this momentum, they will storm Crestfall before the year’s end. But I may yet steer their course and keep the capitol for ourselves.”

Argus slavered at the steep aim of his brother-conspirator. “We must hold it, aye. Keep it for our dream, to shape with love. That love for a seed of future which may sculpt mountains and shake foundations that our legacy lives through the prosperity of all Vizzari! Yet we do not yet own Crestfall. Janus Fel & foul factions swamp the capitol, mire it against us.”

“Ah, we must only assert our legitimacy. Many will support us the moment they see official seal. This eve we’re earned the treasury levied for the Magister of Finance, enough to sway most Dread sentries. For those that do not, well, let us drive the Drakoni against them, bleed both their force. They who already divide their forces against each other’s Houses & squabble to preserve what prestige they hold must be culled. They hold no place in our dream: a land where love rules supreme and all have fair shot. Trust me when I say as well that the waning strength of aged empire cannot stand against the gales blowing our way, the winds which carry the tempest of a new faith. Whose gospel is a martialing of blades against the dying Serpent.”

“How might we stave off the storm from ourselves? Is it as simple as letting this cult assail the serpent’s and uniting what is left of our might to restore our state after? I see your meaning; how we can capture the faith of our people in us and arrest those at the head of the opposing crests which could yet crush our vision for the realm. Yet these heads are both titans! You attest that I, who must yet rally force to legitimize, can fell Janus Fel?” Asked Argus.

“It may yet be done, for Fel already has a rogue legion to contend. Many a renegade veteran turns brigand, plays at being brigades of barbarian in the east, spreading rumor that the Drakoni already push so deep. I trust your steel of purpose & command of rhetoric to beat his. To win more hearts than his gilt tithes. The rest of his flock will soon split betwixt us, guided by our rising star and wealth of its rays. As for Drakkon, I shall lead him ambush, web his mother’s advice into a snare. Just as I am assured of ability to ensnare this usurper with a few cloaked promises you shall succeed and be both Consul & Emissary of fury & faith. If you trust in me?”

Aris traded pipe, drink & handshake with Argus. The thief of consulship savored the blend of brandy & dream-smog. Then nodded enthused concession, drooling with a thirst for the prestige this promise. “Simply give me the word on when & where to move and my battalions shall be there to clip the wings of this revolution. That we may fly on our own! Know ye that our bond is as deep as the roots of the Halcion Tree and bright as its branches! I will honor you as you do me… a new dawn shall be forged for our Vizzari and its great souls - like us.” Bloodied palms met again, conjuring contract.

They dreamt about their business. The hidden sights & ambitions they would accomplish gleamed in their inner eyes. Both men could feel the shift in the air, a curse lifted by great momentum. Yet uncertainty rippled in the winds, unease in their stomachs. Not from guilt but nauseating doubt staining Dream. But that glimmer of vision possessed such promise that they swallowed any dread. Their hearts fastened to their oaths; swore on that pact to seize the future.