This was an attempt at writing something with a Conan the Barbarian feel. I was focused on writing characters that felt distinct from each other. This came, of course, at the cost of the rest of my writing. I always feel like I should go back and visit Aethelwulf and Sisyphus again.
The gate opened as the rider approached. Teams of collared slaves strained against the ropes operating the gate. As soon as the rider passed, they let the stone counterweights bring the gate back closed.
The rider dismounted and led his horse to the stable. The obese stable master did not move to meet him.
“We don’t need no tribesmen here,” the stable master said, never moving from his stool in the shade.
The rider produced a parchment from his saddlebag. Unfurling it, the rider revealed the parchment to be a commission by the High-Mage, the High-Mage’s seal in red wax.
The stable master stood up grumbling and snatched the parchment from the rider’s hand.
“I recognize the seal,” he said, “What does the writ say?”
“The owner is the inviolate guest of the High-Mage and is to be afforded all possible hospitality accordingly,” the rider replied. He lied. It was a simple contract for the procurement of certain rare items. As the rider had learned, however, the written word was rarely questioned by the illiterate.
The stable master squinted at the parchment. “Inviolate… hospitality?”
The rider sighed. “Take care of my horse on pain of death.”
That the stable master understood. He hurriedly gathered the horse’s reins and started dragging the animal towards an empty stall.
The rider seized his writ back and picked up his saddlebags, draping them across his shoulders. He shook his head. He would never understand city dwellers. Packed in a ring of earthen walls, men and women quickly turned to avarice, jealousy, and duplicity. The rider preferred the ways of his youth. Living on the plains and in the hills, man struggled against nature. Struggles between individuals were petty in comparison with the fight for survival. Conflicts between men were quick, brutal, and face to face. Not like in the city.
As the rider walked the city’s central avenue, he begrudgingly admitted the city possessed certain advantages. The city walls protected the inhabitants from the predations of their fellow man, and from the depredations of more sinister menaces. Secure food supplies allowed residents to attend to other pursuits, leading to the production of all manner of luxuries and useful goods. And without the cities, it is doubtful the written word would exist.
Rare as it was for a city dweller to be able to read, it was even rarer for tribesman. The rider counted himself lucky to be part of the latter group. Life on the steppe and in the hills made him strong as steel, and learning to read opened the possibilities of the city to him. Those attributes in combination allowed him to complete his current contract.
The whole city of Rath was built upon a central hill, the palace adorning the crest. From that vantage, the royal family could survey the floodplain for miles around. As the rider climbed the hill towards the palace gates, his surroundings improved. Small hovels, street vendor stalls, and overcrowded apartments were first replaced by single family dwellings, respectable workshops, and proper retailers, then by regal estates, lavish temples, and purveyors of luxury. Everyone attempted to recreate the royal lifestyle as closely as their means allowed.
The higher the rider climbed into the city, the more obvious his presence became. Migrants, travelers, and mongrels populated the lowest level of the city. The bronzed skin of the rider blended with the burnt skin of those who worked the fields. Along the middle portion of the hill, the rider’s muscled physique matched those of workmen from the various smithies, carpentries, and workshops. At the highest level of the city, however, no such comparisons could be made. The residents of the miniature palaces were uniformly pale, accustomed to life indoors. Despite access to all the fashion a metropolis could provide, the women only managed to create marginal differences from one another, caving to the pressure to conform. The men who owned the mansions were either scrawny or fat, their prestige based upon how sedentary their lifestyle was.
The rider sneered as he watched a palanquin carry an official to his post. If that was the best life a city could offer, he wanted no part in it. The rider knew the truth of life beyond the walls. Out in the wilderness, beyond where even the tribes dared, the only possessions that mattered were your body and wits. A man needed to walk for days, carry a load, forage for food, and fight for his life. Few believed they possessed the mettle to enter the ruins of the old world in search for forgotten knowledge and ancient secrets. Fewer were right.
At the end of the avenue, guards flanked a small gate into the palace. Equipped in boiled leather armor, shields and spears in hand, clubs at their sides, these men were not for show. Provocateurs and enemy agents constantly probed the palace for weakness, and the king knew that cities were always a breath away from devastation in this harsh world. Should a spy steal military plans, or a priest of the Apocalypse Cult set a fire, or an anarchist murder the king, centuries of labor could be extinguished in days. As such, the men who stood watch over the palace gates were not quasi-military functionaries like the city guard. These men were warriors. The rider respected them.
As the rider approached, the lead guard, demarcated by the horse hair crest on his helmet, raised a hand. The rider offered his contract to the guard, who scanned it and noted the seal. The guard handed the contract back and stepped aside. The rider entered the palace. If only all of civilization operated with so little overwrought ritual, the rider thought.
Inside the palace, servants, slaves, and officials shuffled back and forth in pursuit of innumerable vital functions. Taxes needed counting. Dinner needed cooking. Chamber pots needed emptying. The rider knew his destination, and deftly avoided most of the traffic on his way. When he finally reached the High-Mage’s chambers, he felt the tension of the last several weeks pass. The rider had taken contracts from the High-Mage before, but nothing so challenging as this one.
“Aethelwulf,” the High-Mage said in his high pitched whine, “I had nearly given up hope that you survived.”
“You sent me on a journey of three hundred miles round trip,” the rider said without a smile, “Not to mention the difficulty of the task itself.”
The High-Mage raised his hand in surrender. “Very well,” he said, “You made marvelous time. But let us cut straight to business. Were you able to procure the artifact?”
Aethelwulf noted the glint of greed in the High-Mage’s eye, bordering on animal hunger. Though he didn’t share it himself, he could understand the lust for pieces of the old world. Aethelwulf grunted in assent and reached into the saddlebag resting on his chest. He pulled out a small, greasy animal skin and handed it to the High-Mage. The High-Mage set it on the table. He held his breath as he unfolded the package. Inside the pelt was the relic. A metal object, formed of two prongs approximately two hand widths long. Where they met, arcane mechanical contrivances protruded from the larger shaft. Both shafts were hollow, though the smaller had a metal insert to cover the hole.
“Do you know what this is?” the High-Mage exclaimed. Aethelwulf knew he expected no answer. “A representation of the might of our ancestors,” the mage continued, “A weapon from the wars that ended their world!”
Aethelwulf looked at the artifact again. The secret of forging steel from stone was lost, but plenty of blades were made from reclaimed metals. The artifact would not be of much use in a melee, and it did not look like it could be conveniently thrown. Still, it fit naturally in the hand, a finger resting on its mechanism.
“You look skeptical,” the High-Mage said, “It is poor etiquette to question one’s betters, but I am feeling generous today. A demonstration is in order. Elias! Elias, bring in the reagent!”
The High-Mage’s disciple entered the room carrying an inlaid oak wood box. He set it on the table and started backing out of the room.
“Stay Elias!” the High-Mage said, “I shall need you in a moment.”
The High-Mage carefully lifted the lid of the box, revealing a row of small metal pieces inside. Smaller than a thumb, each item was identical to its brethren. The High-Mage carefully selected one. Murmuring a low chant, he took the artifact in his hands. A small catch released the plug from the bottom. He inserted one of the small metal reagents into the plug and replaced the plug in the artifact. The High-Mage continued to murmur as he gripped the top piece of the artifact and pulled it back. The artifact made a satisfying click, and the top piece slid back into place.
“Behold the power of the Ancients!” the High-Mage cried. He pointed the artifact at Elias and worked the mechanism. A flash of light accompanied the sound of a thunderclap and smell of chemical smoke. Elias lie dead on the floor, blood and brains oozing from a wound on his head.
Guards rushed into the room. They looked at the High-Mage, the dead boy, and the stranger in tribesman clothes, unsure of what to do.
“Seize him!” the High-Mage cried, “He brought this artifact of death here to murder the king! Thank Apsu I was here to stop him!”
Two guards grabbed Aethelwulf’s arms, and another brought the butt of his club down on Aethelwulf’s skull.
#
Aethelwulf came to. He opened his eyes, but he couldn’t see anything. Had the strike rendered him blind? He blinked several times to no avail. Rubbing his eyes caused colored spots when he closed his eyes. So his eyes were functional; perhaps there was nothing to see?
Where sight failed him, perhaps another sense would provide. Aethelwulf listened. It was deathly quiet. Water dripped in the middle distance. Footsteps fell farther away. Nearby, ropes creaked under strain.
He could not have been unconscious for long. The blow that fell him was more luck than strength. So, he remained in the city. But if he was, the sounds of a thriving urban center should be evident. You could only shield yourself from that much noise underground.
Aethelwulf sat up. He felt the rope around his wrists. There was but one place he could be: the infamous dungeons of Rath. Locals claimed Rath’s hill was artificial, a pile of building placed upon building resulting in the topography of today. Legend also claimed the royal family maintained the subterranean passages, where they stored treasure, held secret meetings, and hid away prisoners. Aethelwulf did not hold rumors and hearsay in high regard, but this room disquieted him.
The rope around his wrists was solid. Several tugs demonstrated that the wall mount was similarly sturdy.
A chuckle cut through the silence.
“Seems poor Sisyphus finally has company,” a smooth voice said, “Pray tell, stranger, who is it that now finds themselves companion to the famed Shadow of Rath?”
“Famed?” Aethelwulf said, “I’ve never heard of you.”
“By your accent, you are a foreigner,” Sisyphus said, “From one of the hill tribes, if I were to hazard a guess. It matters not. You are not from here, so you could not know the terror my name strikes into our wealthy overlords. Neither lock nor guard can stand between me and their hoarded riches!”
“Neither lock nor guard, eh? Then how did you end up here?”
Sisyphus hesitated. “I liberate capital and distribute it amongst those in need. One of my beneficiaries must have ratted me out for the bounty. I can hardly blame them. A kingly bounty it was. But I digress. Who, my cynical friend, are you?”
Aethelwulf leaned his head against the stone wall. “I am Aethelwulf of the Cerdic Tribe, Destroyer of Vortigern’s Horde and Bear of the Ten Thousand Lakes.”
“And how, mighty warrior, did you end up in your present predicament?”
“I was betrayed by the High-Mage. I completed his contract, but instead of receiving payment, He framed me for murder and locked me away here.”
Sisyphus did not reply. The silence stretched, but for how long, Aethelwulf could not tell. The darkness swallowed any measure of time, but Aethelwulf could not sit idle. Again he strained at his bonds. The fiber would not budge.
“Oh Sir Destroyer of Bears,” Sisyphus said, “If you wish to leave so badly, you need only ask.”
Aethelwulf detested relying on others, especially on shady characters with fanciful language. Still, if the fool had a means of escape…
“I’m listening,” Aethelwulf said, “And I am the Destroyer and the Bear. Separate titles.”
“My apologies,” the thief replied, “You see, this is not my first journey into the dark heart of Rath. One such as myself learns the hidden pathways that weave through these walls.”
“Then why are you still here?”
“Those contemptible guards believed that they have outsmarted me! Ha! They realized conventional methods would never hold me, so they resorted to bending an iron rod around my wrists. The way I see it, a mighty warrior such as yourself will find no difficulty liberating me from my current situation, and in return I shall free you from your bonds and lead you out of the maze.”
“What guarantee do I have that you will hold up your end of the bargain?”
Sisyphus laughed. “Perhaps you have spent time in the city after all. You have no guarantee, for I have none to give. However, you do have the power of your own logic and senses. For the first, what should I gain by betraying you? If I leave you here, I make an enemy, but if I bring you with me, a powerful friend. For the second, listen to your gut. What does it say?”
Aethelwulf grunted. “Fine. Move this way. I’m already at the end of my tether.”
Sisyphus slid through the dark, coming within Aethelwulf’s reach. Aethelwulf probed the darkness for his companion’s hands, and found the twisted iron bar, no thicker than a man’s finger. He grabbed the ends of the twisted metal and peeled it back. The ends moved no more than an inch before Aethelwulf felt Sisyphus’s hands slither out.
“Now, for my end of the bargain,” Sisyphus said, his deft fingers undoing Aethelwulf’s bonds. “My friend, let us away from here.”
#
Aethelwulf dropped into a chair. Their journey to freedom had taken hours. They had probed through the shadowed corridors, crept past guard posts, broke into an abandoned cistern now polluted with a stable’s generous droppings, and waded through the fouled water until they found a weak portion of wall. Then Sisyphus sat back as Aethelwulf broke through, using nothing more than strength, iron will, and a big rock. The wall gave way to another system of corridors shrouded in darkness.
Despite their caution and Sisyphus assurances, several wrong turns cost the pair more time. Eventually, they found their way into an abandoned basement. They took another hour to slink down the hill towards the seedier parts of town. They found a tavern and settled in for a meal.
The cheap beer soothed Aethelwulf’s dried throat, if not his throbbing head. Sisyphus did not seem discomforted by their journey. The moment they came through the door, Sisyphus fought his way into the loudest conversation. It finally provided Aethelwulf a chance to observe his new companion.
Men like Sisyphus could only survive in the city. He was too lean to be a warrior or a farmer, too talkative and impatient to be a hunter, too unaware to travel alone. But in the city, Sisyphus was an apex predator. His bombastic wardrobe attracted the eye, and his wild mannerisms complimented his captivating oratory. Originally an intruder in the conversation, Sisyphus now held the rest of the table spellbound by some grandiose story.
Aethelwulf emptied another beer. Perhaps he sold Sisyphus short. His story had taken an unexpected turn, and now he stalked around the table as he continued the tale. While he walked, Sisyphus relieved no fewer than three listeners of their coin purses. None were any the wiser.
It took dexterous hands to do that work smoothly. Distracting the audience with a story was inspired. And audacious. Sisyphus nearly dared his audience to catch him in the act, but not one listener noticed anything amiss. He might be a thief, yet Aethelwulf couldn’t help but like the man.
The whole table broke into raucous laughter. The punchline evidently satisfied. Sisyphus took the opportunity to extricate himself and dropped into the chair next to Aethelwulf. Sisyphus raised a hand.
“Service here,” he called out, freshly stolen silver between his fingers, “Another round for me and my friend.”
Aethelwulf grunted a thanks. Sisyphus emptied his tankard.
“Aethelwulf, my friend,” Sisyphus began, “What is your intention?”
“My intention?”
“Yes, your intention. As I see it, you have two options. You could flee from the city and be banished from the metropolis forever. Or, you could make your stand. The High-Mage is a representation of all that is foul in this city. Destiny calls for you to become the champion of righteousness. To become a symbol of virtue. To battle against the tyranny of the High-Mage and expose his insidious conspiracy.”
Aethelwulf burst into laughter. He tried to speak but he couldn’t control his amusement. After several false starts, he managed to get some words out.
“Battle against the High-Mage as a symbol of righteousness? I am a mercenary betrayed. My first and only goal is to preserve my own skin. I care not for this city nor its inhabitants. If they chose to wallow in its iniquities and partake in its petty squabbles, I leave them to it.”
Sisyphus did not relent. “Should high ideals not be to your liking, perhaps something more personal will suffice. You speak of being a mercenary and of your contempt for the city. Should you not crave revenge against this ‘civilized’ man who thought he could cheat you? Deny you pay and ruin your name? I should think a man in your position needs to maintain his reputation, in order to deter future employers from reneging on their agreements.”
“Revenge is an attractive notion for an angry man,” Aethelwulf nodded gently, “But anger blinds a man to reality. As soon as the guards know of our escape, they will hunt me. If I manage to evade their search and reach the High-Mage, it would be an uneven fight against the High-Mage’s unknown powers. Supposing I manage to win, I will certainly be unable to escape.
“Revenge is best when it can be survived,” Aethelwulf continued, “I was raised a hunter. I am a patient man. Sometime later, opportunity will reveal itself and then I can extract my price from the High-Mage.”
Sisyphus sat quiet for a moment, but just one. “You are no mere barbarian, my friend, but a shrewd businessman. Certainly becoming a symbol benefits you none and revenge pays no dividends, but consider this. The High-Mage is the most tenacious opponent of the King. If you were to expose his treachery, the rewards would be immense. Wealth, titles, power, position. They are all within your grasp.”
Aethelwulf turned his chair towards Sisyphus and stared into his eyes. “What’s your angle?”
Sisyphus feigned shock. He was not convincing. “I am but a concerned inhabitant of Rath. Nay, a concerned member of humanity! I cannot abide injustice, and I see your true worth, buried as it is beneath a surly manner.”
Aethelwulf maintained his stare.
Sisyphus fidgeted and continued, “And, if in your quest to right wrongs and engender the good will of the King you were to create a disturbance of epic proportions, a man in my line of work might benefit from the confusion.”
Aethelwulf chuckled and shook his head. “Honesty at last. Not that it matters. As soon as the sun sets, I am going over the wall and away from Rath.”
#
Aethelwulf drifted through the shadows. The streets were deserted. Property owners barred doors and windows against unwanted visitors. Few lights marked which residents were still up at this hour. Even the animals were unusually still on this humid summer night. A battalion of city guards formed Aethelwulf’s only company on the deserted streets. Well, the guards and Sisyphus.
Aethelwulf lurked in the darkness, but Sisyphus strode confidently down the middle of the road. The ostentatious fabrics he wore magnified the little light that reached the street. Far from behaving like an escaped criminal, Sisyphus moved with the easy assurance of a noble lord.
Sisyphus apparently didn’t understand the concept of stealth. As he marched down the street, he attempted to persuade Aethelwulf to stay. Loudly. Aethelwulf remained silent. Hopefully any guards would assume Sisyphus was either crazy or drunk. The second assumption wouldn’t be far from the truth.
Aethelwulf’s luck was holding out. Though the guards were out in force, he hadn’t come within three blocks of a patrol. Several hundred feet more, and he would reach the city wall. Made of brick and in serious need of restoration, the wall presented little challenge for an experience climber like Aethelwulf. On the other side of the wall, he would find a horse and ride to freedom.
Aethelwulf snapped back to the present. Something was wrong. Sisyphus was quiet.
Sisyphus pointed to the next intersection, one block away from the wall. He raised a finger to his lips. “Guards.”
Aethelwulf backed away. Taking another route would delay his escape, but he wasn’t willing to risk his freedom.
A yelp of pain came from the intersection, followed by a chorus of harsh laughter. Aethelwulf crept back towards the corner.
Three city guards, outfitted in leather and brandishing clubs, had cornered a single hide-wearing man. He was on the ground, both hands on his stomach.
“Let’s try this again,” the first guard said, “You will come with us. All non-residents are to be gathered, by order of the High-Mage.”
The man on the ground spit blood. “I am a freeman of the Badland Tribes. I have a permit to enter the city…”
He was interrupted by a fist to the head. The second guard rubbed his knuckles. “When will these barbarians learn,” he said, “We don’t care. You’re coming with us, conscious or not. Behave, and you’ll end up on the auction block. Don’t behave, and we’ll have to get creative.”
“I have rights!” the man protested, “I am an envoy from Rath’s northern vassals…”
A fist struck the other side of his face. “The High-Mage is setting things right,” the third guard said, “You people don’t understand. The city is everything. You piles of fetid human refuse run around in animal pelts and use sticks to play in the dirt. In the city, men commune with the gods and unlock the secrets of the universe. It’s time for lesser men to learn their place and listen politely to their betters.”
The man hadn’t given up. “The King will hear of this! He won’t stand for this!”
The guards shared another chorus of harsh laughter. “That won’t be a problem for much longer,” the first said. He nodded to the third guard. “Knock him out.”
The third guard raised his club for a swift overhead strike. The blow never came. Aethelwulf wrapped his hand around the tip of the club and struck the guard’s head, launching the guard forward into a face down sprawl.
Aethelwulf adjusted his grip on the club and turned to the two standing guards. The first attempted a mad rush at Aethelwulf, club readied for a powerful forehand strike. Aethelwulf contemptuously swatted the strike down and returned a backhand strike at the guard’s jaw. It connected with a sickening crunch, and the guard collapsed to the ground.
The second guard took a more cautious approach. He countered the Aethelwulf’s probing strikes and offered nothing in return. Aethelwulf struck at the head with a quick horizontal blow. Again the guard blocked, but Aethelwulf closed the distance. He grabbed the guard’s club, wrenched it free, and finished the guard with a powerful blow to the head.
The third guard found his feet, but he froze when he saw his compatriots dead on the ground. His eyes widened and fixed upon the bloody head of Aethelwulf’s club. He begged for mercy. Aethelwulf gave none.
Aethelwulf helped the tribesman to his feet. “Are you alright?”
The man nodded, “I’d thank you stranger, but I fear you’ve only brought more trouble for us.”
Aethelwulf shook his head. “Their conspiracy ends now. Hide yourself away. Things may get worse before they get better.” Aethelwulf turned and walked back into the city.
Sisyphus, conspicuously absent for the entire confrontation, materialized back at Aethelwulf’s side.
“So, you have no use for ideals, revenge, wealth, or power,” Sisyphus began, “But you will commit yourself to protect a stranger?”
“I can’t stand by and watch injustice,” Aethelwulf mumbled, “It’s not idealism. I was raised to do what I believe is right.”
Sisyphus let that sink in. “Still sounds like idealism to me. Well, I wish you the best of luck.” He gave a deep bow and began to stride off into the night.
“Not so fast,” Aethelwulf said as his hand clamped on Sisyphus’s collar. “If you want me to cause this disturbance, you are going to help.”
Sisyphus began to protest, but quickly relented when he looked into Aethelwulf’s eyes. “Alright,” he sighed, “Where do we begin?”
#
“You’re absolutely sure?” Aethelwulf whispered. The side alley was quiet.
Sisyphus straightened. “Completely,” he responded, less quietly, “You said ‘Sisyphus, please take me to an arsenal of magic items so I can fight the Arch-Mage.’ I oblige, and you complain about the difficulty of the venture. I’ll remind you, my friend, that this was your idea.”
“I just wanted to make sure this is the right estate.”
“It’s the right estate,” Sisyphus said, “The home of Atum, Master of the Fields. The man is a compulsive collector of all things ancient and mystical. If anyone possesses artifacts equal to those of the Arch-Mage, it’s him. I should know. I’ve spent three weeks casing this miniature fortress.”
Fortress was an accurate description. Like many of the estates high on the hill, it was a multi building affair ringed by a nine-foot wall. At this late hour, every entrance was barred shut. Beyond the wall, guards patrolled paths, courtyards, and small gardens. According to Sisyphus’s intelligence, most of the valuables were kept in the main home, which was well lit.
“How do you propose we get in?” Sisyphus asked.
“Jump and pull ourselves over the wall.”
Sisyphus raised a brow. “I have no intention of breaking my ankle tonight. I tell you what. You get in with your hyper-masculine ridiculousness. I’ll meet you in there.”
Aethelwulf shrugged as Sisyphus marched towards the main road. He turned back to the wall. He was a tall man and powerfully built. Grabbing the top of the wall wouldn’t be a challenge. There was no way to be sure, however, what was on the other side. Aethelwulf leaped over.
He landed softly on a manicured lawn. Guards milled about, out of sight but within earshot. They were at ease, chatting idly. No footsteps sounded. No shadows changed lurked around the corner. Aethelwulf stole to the house.
Like everything in Rath, it was a mud brick construction. A wrap-around balcony on the second floor provided an entrance. Cultured ivy provided a climbable surface. Aethelwulf worried the rustling of the leaves would betray him to the guards, but no one noticed.
As Aethelwulf reach the top of the balcony, the front gate opened and three men walked through. Two were estate guards, and the third was a dirty, bloody Sisyphus.
“What is that fool up to now,” Aethelwulf mumbled.
Sisyphus stumbled as he approached the house. One of the guards supported him under his shoulder. Not a prisoner then.
A house guard came out to investigate the ruckus. “What’s going on here?” he said, “You know we don’t open the gate after sundown.”
The guard supporting Sisyphus knuckled a salute with his free hand. “This man was attacked on the street, sir. We thought it best to bring him in, lest some ne’er-do-well finished him off.”
The house guard scowled. Before he could speak, Sisyphus intervened. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said, “I didn’t know about your curfew. I called out for help, and your men here responded with great valor and selflessness. Still, I do not wish to be a burden. I believe I can make it back home.” He stepped away from the guard and stumbled back towards the gate.
“Wait,” the house guard said, “I suppose my men did right. Master Atum has always been known for his hospitality. We can set you up in one of the ground floor rooms for tonight. I’ll send for a physician in the morning.”
“Thank you,” Sisyphus said with a clumsy half-bow, “I am forever in your debt. I promise to be no trouble, on my honor.”
The guard stepped aside and led Sisyphus into the house. Aethelwulf shook his head. How that thief managed one fool’s plan to the next was beyond comprehension. Aethelwulf crept towards an open balcony door.
The second floor was deserted. He entered an opulently appointed dressing room. Next came an enormous bedroom. Several servant’s quarters. A storage room full of linens. Finally, Aethelwulf found a resplendently decorated study filled with arcane artifacts. The artifacts made the room feel like a tiny museum.
Aethelwulf began to peruse the various items fixed upon the wall. They obviously possessed great power, but Aethelwulf had absolutely no idea what any of them did. Maybe Sisyphus was having better results.
Aethelwulf was approaching the central stair when the front door opened. The two guards who escorted Sisyphus came in, followed by four castle guards and their two charges, a well-dressed man and a robed figure. The well-dressed man, likely Master Atum, was engaged in deep conversation with the robed figure, who was none other than the High-Mage.
“As I’ve told you before,” Atum said, “I agree with your plan in principle, but I need to be sure of your abilities. We both know how difficult it can be to gain consistent results from these forgotten technologies.”
The High-Mage nodded. “That is why I agreed to provide a demonstration. I believe that you will be more than impressed. Did you receive my instructions about the presentation field?”
“Yes,” Atum answered, “It’s all prepared in the courtyard. Shall we?”
Atum and the Arch-Mage walked outside. Aethelwulf returned to the balcony to observe. Clay pots were arranged in the courtyard. Atum and the Arch-Mage stood in the center of the yard. The High-Mage’s hands disappeared into his robes and came out with the artifact Aethelwulf discovered.
The artifact had already been primed with the reagents. The High-Mage pointed the device at one pot after another. Each time, the artifact produced a flash of fire and crack of thunder, shattering each pot in turn. Aethelwulf dropped from the balcony, timing his landing with one of the High-Mage’s shots.
After the last shot was fired, the high-Mage passed the device to Atum. “Remarkable,” Atum said, “Such a marvelous piece. I’ve read descriptions of such weapons, but I could never have imagined… But you said it would be a two part demonstration?”
The High-Mage nodded, “Before I begin the second demonstration, allow me to reveal something I’ve discovered in my research.” He pulled a small box from a hidden pocket, filled with more of the reagents. “These are the secret to operating the device. The sources use conflicting terminology, but these are called bullets, rounds, cartridges, or ammunition. They are useless without the artifact, and vice versa.
“I have discovered a further secret to the ammunition. I command the bullets to kill or become harmless. I already showed their destructive power, but now I will show my mastery over the ammunition.”
The Arch-Mage deftly loaded the weapon and passed it to Atum. “Take a few steps back, point the weapon at me, and pull the trigger.”
Atum hesitated, but did as instructed. Again, it belched fire and cracked thunder, but the Arch-Mage stood unharmed.
“Remarkable,” Atum said, “Truly, I am awed. You have my support.”
The Arch-Mage smiled. “I knew you were a man of vision. Let us sit and discuss tomorrow’s action.”
The Arch-Mage and Atum returned to the house. Aethelwulf approached the box of ammunition. These reagents were different than the ones used to kill Elias. Those were flat on one end and pointed on the other. These had the same flat end, but the point was replaced by a divot. Did the pointed end contained the killing power?
Unwilling to linger in the estate but determined to make this venture useful, Aethelwulf grabbed a handful of the dented ammunition and climbed back over the outer wall to the alley. He landed softly in the darkness and sensed a figure deeper in the shadows. Aethelwulf rushed the stranger to the wall and found himself face to face with Sisyphus.
“And what have I done to deserve this?” Sisyphus said in a hoarse whisper, Aethelwulf’s forearm still pressing against his throat.
Aethelwulf released Sisyphus. “How did you get out here?”
Sisyphus pointed down the alley. “Side door. House guards generally aren’t concerned about people leaving.”
Aethelwulf grunted. “Learn anything useful?”
“Quite,” Sisyphus said, expression brightening, “First, that Atum is a man of taste. The tapestries and carpets were exquisite, and their colors really brought the room together. Second, Atum’s cook, a Gulvan slave, is a maestro of the culinary arts. And third, Master Atum needs to store his valuables more securely.”
“Did you manage to get anything?”
“I certainly did. Four pouches of copper coins, three of silver, and one of gold. Several exquisite pieces of jewelry. And a silken scarf.”
Aethelwulf raised a brow. “You couldn’t have been in there for more than ten minutes.”
Sisyphus beamed. “I was but a poor night’s work for the Shadow of Rath!”
“And yet you failed to obtain one piece of relevant information or useful artifact.”
Sisyphus wagged his finger. “Let not doubt beset you my friend.” His hand disappeared into a hidden pocket and returned with a bundle of papers. “Behold, I have also obtained several pieces of correspondence between the Arch-Mage and Master Atum. If you ask nicely, I may even read them to you.”
Aethelwulf snatched the papers out of Sisyphus’s hands. “I can read, you fool.”
“Well color me surprised. You are truly a wonder. Not many city dwellers ever learn the orthographic arts, much less a tribesman raised hundreds of miles from civilization. Why, if you had told me that—.”
“Be quite for a minute,” Aethelwulf interrupted, “This is worse than I thought. We need to move.”
#
The Temple of Enlil was an enormous three tiered pyramid that towered over its neighbors. Under normal circumstances, the stairs would be covered with religious functionaries, local petitioners, and pilgrims for far off lands. Today, the temple was covered with the white cotton uniforms of the temple guard, the dark hardboiled leather of the royal guard, and the lightly dyed leather of the High-Mage’s personal guard.
Enlil, the patron deity of Rath, was a needy god. Beyond demands of fealty, devotion, and a certain moral character, Enlil required daily sustenance, weekly displays of subservience by the populace, and monthly rituals from the leaders of Rath. The monthly rituals were taking place today, necessitating the presence of the High-Mage and King and, consequently, the small army.
“Magnificent, isn’t it,” Sisyphus said, “Such a construction is a demonstration of the power of the state, the power of the church, and the potential of humanity.”
Aethelwulf scoffed. “It is a symbol of temporal power,” he said, “Your god Enlil is nothing but a mish mash of ideas contorted into a form deemed most useful by the priesthood.”
“You would speak such of the Lord of Cities, Masonry, Lawyers, the Left-Handed, Potatoes, Belt Buckles… Okay, I see your point. But what would you have us do instead? The religion of barbarians?”
Aethelwulf shook his head. “We don’t have time for this. The High-Mage’s plot is moving swiftly. We only have one shot.”
Sisyphus thought a moment. “I have a question.”
Aethelwulf sighed. “I just said we don’t have time.”
“But it’s important.”
“Fine. It better be relevant.”
“It is!” Sisyphus began, “You see, I understand the plan, but… it involves sneaking, distractions, misdirection… it just doesn’t seem like something that a… tribesman would do.”
“What do you want me to do? March up there and strangle the High-Mage with my bare hands?”
“That would do.”
Aethelwulf shook his head. “I hate duplicity, but there is nothing duplicitous about this. We are hunting. A hunter stalks his prey, baits his traps, and ensnares his prey. But the prey knows where he and the hunter stand.”
“I think I get it,” Sisyphus said, “I will complete my task, fear not. So long as you provide the distraction.”
“Good. You’ll need these.” Aethelwulf handed Sisyphus the dented bullets from Atum’s estate. “Let’s move.”
#
Entering the temple was not difficult. Though the normal throngs of worshipers were driven off by the presence of soldiers, it was not stopped entirely. Aethelwulf hid under his hood as he passed each cluster of guards and rushed to the upper temple.
The upper temple was quieter. A few high ranking priests shuffled along in white robes, carried stacks of tablets and scrolls, or lost themselves in conversation with their peers. Aethelwulf could not hope to be inconspicuous amongst the meek members of the clergy. He dropped his hood and strode down the hall with confidence.
Priests moved out of Aethelwulf’s path, no one willing to stop the enormous man moving with such purpose. Then again, perhaps they thought he had official business there? After all, why else would a tribesman be marching through a temple dedicated to civilization?
The problem, as Aethelwulf discovered, was he had no idea where he was going. Aethelwulf intercepted the nearest priest.
“You there,” he said, mustering a passably imperious tone, “Where will Enlil’s ritual take place? I have materials to deliver to the High-Mage.”
The small priest refused to look Aethelwulf in the eye. “The ritual chamber is down the hall,” he stammered as he pointed at a door, “But the artifacts are being staged through that doorway.”
Aethelwulf gave him a hearty slap on the shoulder. “Thank you, my man,” he said. Aethelwulf started walking to the staging area, paused, and called back, “I believe you have business elsewhere, if you take my meaning.”
Surprised comprehension spread across the priest’s face, and he scurried off to points unknown. Aethelwulf chuckled softly. Maybe his warning would mean one less person in harm’s way, should events take a messy turn.
Aethelwulf walked to the staging area. If getting to the artifact was this easy, Sisyphus’s role would be superfluous. He opened the door and stepped inside.
The artifact Aethelwulf retrieved sat on a table in the center of the room. The central insert was separate from the artifact, already primed with reagents. Unfortunately, four of the High-Mage’s personal guard watched over it.
One of the guards spotted Aethelwulf and shouted. Aethelwulf burst back into the hallway and ran. The guards followed close behind, plowing through any priests unfortunate enough to be caught in their path. Aethelwulf didn’t need to confront the guards or overcome them by force. As long as he kept them away from the artifact, the plan would work. Well, surviving would be a plus.
Aethelwulf followed the hall around a bend and faced a dead end.
The guards slowed when they saw their prey cornered, drawing short bronze daggers.
Quick stabs and short slashes drove Aethelwulf further and further down the hall as he slipped and weaved away from the attacks. It was an untenable position, and Aethelwulf knew it. He switched from evasions to deflections, his hand deftly guiding the guards’ attacks away from his body.
The hallway’s width allowed two guards to attack at a time. Aethelwulf was thankful. As it was, attacks from two knives pushed Aethelwulf to his limits. His reflexes and speed outmatched the guards’, but a single mistake guaranteed injury, and then the guards would have the upper hand. Aethelwulf needed to take the offensive.
The guard on the right provided an opportunity. An overexcited stab at Aethewulf’s stomach left the guard unbalanced, and Aethelwulf’s deflection sent the tip of the blade into the wall. Aethelwulf grabbed the guard’s neck and smashed his head into the wall. There was a wet crunch as the guard’s face met the dried mud surface. The guard went limp, leaving the wall dented and bloody.
The left hand guard attempted to take advantage of Aethelwulf’s momentarily shifted focus and threw a backhand slash at Aethelwulf’s neck. Aethelwulf guided the strike down with the back of his left hand. He maintained pressure, his hand following the guard’s wrist as it twisted behind the guard’s back. Aethelwulf’s free hand slammed on the guard’s elbow, forcing the guard to the ground in a painful wrist-lock.
Aethelwulf stripped the knife from the immobilized hand and struck reverse grip at the guard’s neck. The guard collapsed, emitting a horrendous gurgling noise. The counter-offensive swung the battle towards Aethelwulf’s favor, but he wasn’t safe yet.
The two remaining guards were unsure of their prospects. Unarmed, the barbarian struck down two of their compatriots. Now, he had a knife of his own.
One of the guards found the courage to attack, it lacked spirit. Attempting slow stab to Aethelwulf’s face, the guard’s arm was extended for one second too long. Aethelwulf hooked the guard’s wrist with the blade of his reverse-gripped knife and struck the forearm with his free hand. The opposing forces multiplied the attack’s destructive power, nearly severing the guard’s hand entirely.
Aethelwulf flipped his knife and struck cleanly into the guard’s ribs. One opponent remained.
The final guard started backing away from Aethelwulf. Aethelwulf followed, maintaining the distance between them. The guard attempted to run. Aethelwulf flung his knife the moment eye contact was broken. The blade flew true and buried itself in the guard’s neck. His eyes went wide as he dropped to the floor, his final breath faltering into a rattling rasp.
Aethelwulf slowed his breathing and listened. No one sounded the alarm, and no footsteps rushed down the hall. No reinforcements were coming.
Somewhere outside, a priest blew on a trumpet. The single note signaled the beginning of the ceremony. Aethelwulf ran down the hall towards the ritual chamber. Whether he survived the next five minutes depended entirely on Sisyphus.
#
Aethelwulf slipped into the ritual chamber and hid behind a support column.
A large circular space, the chamber was empty but for on a simple altar in the middle of the room. Four people were in the chamber: the King, the High-Mage, the High-Priest of Enlil, and the priest performing the ceremony.
“Tamas, good to see you,” the King said to the High-Priest, meeting him in a warm embrace, “It has been too long.” He turned to the High-Mage. “Ralyon,” he said curtly, his jaw tensed.
“My lord,” the High-Mage replied, “I have not seen you since our disagreement about taxes on the countryside. Perhaps…”
“I am not reopening the issue,” the King interrupted, “Priest, let’s get this over with.”
The priest arranged the men in a loose circle and spoke in a clear voice.
“Mighty Enlil, Protector of Rath and Judge of Mankind, has charged his priesthood with ensuring the righteousness of Rath’s leaders. We are the instrument of his justice, and his justice is swift.” The priest moved to a small box on the table. He lifted the lid and pulled out the artifact. “With this device, Enlil makes his divine will known. Through this ancient weapon of holy violence, Enlil shows his power to save and condemn men according to their conduct.”
The priest pointed the artifact at the High-Priest and rested his finger on the trigger. “My Lord Priest,” he said, “Enlil stands in judgment.” The gun flashed and loosed a bark of thunder. The High-Priest stood unharmed. “Enlil finds you worthy.”
Next was the King. “My Liege,” the priest said, “Enlil stands in judgement.” The priest aimed the artifact and pulled the trigger. Again the gun flashed and thundered. The King was unharmed. “Enlil finds you worthy.”
The Arch-Mage lost his usual smug composure. His mouth dropped and his lips formed soundless words. He shifted backwards from the circle, eyes darting side to side, attempting to understand his plan’s failure.
The ritual was supposed to kill the King. Six non-lethal reagents were loaded in the artifact, plus a single lethal reagent meant for the King. His death, though planned by the High-Mage, would be understood as the divine retribution of Enlil. Belief in the god’s displeasure would both absolve the High-Mage of regicide and implicitly condone the regime change.
But the ritual had not killed the King. The High-Mage came to the inevitable conclusion. The reagents were placed in the wrong order. The next pull of the trigger would be lethal, and artifact would be aimed at him.
Aethelwulf stepped from behind the pillar. The plan had worked so far, but it was time for the last gamble. If Sisyphus had done his part incorrectly…
The priest was the first to spot Aethelwulf.
“You there,” he said, “Tribesman. This is a holy ceremony of Enlil. You have no place here.”
The High-Mage faced Aethelwulf, his eyes wide with comprehension.
“This is Elias’s murderer!” he shouted, “Someone, arrest this man at once!”
“Peace,” Aethelwulf said. His voice was calm and steady, but it carried well in the chamber. “I stand falsely accused. I wish to submit myself to Enlil’s judgment to prove my innocence.”
“This is highly irregular,” the High-Priest said, “But Enlil does see the heart of all men.”
The High-Mage’s expression softened as he thought. “Let the barbarian be judged by Enlil,” he said, “Who better to root out the murderous impulses of the uncivilized?”
The King raised a brow but said nothing. He nodded.
Aethelwulf walked to the central podium and stood ready for the priest’s ‘judgment.’
“Tribesman,” the priest said, “Enlil stands in judgement of all that you have done. Should you be spared his wrath, your every action until this moment will be deemed just. Should Enlil deem you unworthy, the penalty is death.” He aimed the artifact and pulled the trigger. Aethelwulf refrained from wincing. The reagent was again of the non-lethal variety.
“Enlil finds you worthy.”
The High-Mage was beyond disbelief. He understood how thoroughly he misread the situation. Aethelwulf was now legally cleared of all charges, pure in the holy eyes of Enlil. The barbarian knew, the High-Mage realized, Aethelwulf knew the ritual would not hurt him. That meant Aethelwulf knew the difference between the reagents, that he rearranged the ammunition.
“High-Mage,” the priest said, “Enlil stands in judgment.”
Before the High-Mage could protest or stall, the priest pulled the trigger. This time, it was lethal. The bullet tore through the High-Mage’s robes and pierced his chest. “Not possible,” the High-Mage whispered as he collapsed to the ground, “Just a barbarian…”
“Enlil finds you wanting,” the priest said.
Silence filled the room as all four living men watched the Arch-Mage’s final breaths. When the light left the dead man’s eyes, the King spoke.
“So he was going to do it today.”
“What?” Aethelwulf said with all the decorum of a barbarian.
The King shrugged. “His big plan to kill me. I knew it was coming, but I didn’t think he would make his move at the ceremony.”
“You knew he was a vile, traitorous, no-good dog, but you didn’t do anything?”
“I planned to arrest him tomorrow,” the King said with shrug, “I didn’t realize his plans had progressed farther than mine.”
The priest and High-Priest were shocked by their King’s casual admissions.
“My Lord,” the High-Priest said, “Perhaps you should not talk about these matters in front of an outsider. Or at least not speak so familiarly.”
The King waved them off. “The ‘outsider’ saved my life by out-plotting a particularly intractable foe. Treating him with the respect is but the first of the rewards I have planned for him.”
Aethelwulf was unsure of what to say. He hadn’t planned for this part. “Um, thank you,” he said.
“Your Majesty,” he added.
#
Aethelwulf secured his saddlebags. It took three days to track his horse down. Upon Aethelwulf’s pronouncement as a murderer by the High-Mage, the stable master sold the horse to local merchant. Over the course of two days, the horse changed hands half of a dozen times, though thankfully it remained in the city.
“Leaving without a proper farewell?” a voice called out.
Sisyphus stepped out from a side alley, dressed in a new suit of outlandish clothing.
“I knew you’d save me the trouble of finding you,” Aethelwulf replied, offering his hand.
A smile grew across Sisyphus’s face. He took Aethelwulf’s hand in a double hand grip. “To think you are abandoning your status as the King’s favored. I truly cannot fathom it.”
“It’s like I told you that night in the tavern,” Aethelwulf said, “I have no interest in being a symbol. If I stay, then I become a representation of the King’s power. A reminder of the fate of the last rebellious underling. And I become a symbol of his outreach to those outside of the cities.”
“Those are lucrative opportunities.”
Aethelwulf shook his head. “They are a death sentence. I would become a sacrificial lamb, the first killed off in the next political struggle. Even if I survived, to be bound to the will of another… I couldn’t live that way.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever understand you.”
Aethelwulf grinned. “Nor would I expect you to.” He got up on his horse. “I nearly forgot to ask. Did I provide an adequate distraction?”
Sisyphus beamed. “During the King’s purge of the High-Mage’s supporters and the subsequent celebrations in your honor, I burglarized twelve estates, cleared out four warehouses, and had a brief dalliance with a highborn woman.”
Aethelwulf spurred his horse towards the gate. “Stay out of trouble.”
“I would command you similarly,” Sisyphus called back, “But we both know there’s no fun living like that.”