Fate’s Pawn

Lucas did not look well. He was pale, his face drawn with pain, and his eyes sunken. Guilt settled over Raziel like a smothering blanket. He felt his eyes wander in the direction of the black spot, but he closed them. Whatever influence the black sludge had had over him aside, he knew he’d made the decisions that led to Lucas’s condition. Raziel refused to escape into blaming anything but his own choices until he had a solid reason to know he hadn’t been the ultimate cause. It was a torment like taking a hot coal in his bare hand, but he held on to it. He had never realized before that moment just how much he valued his own will, the ability to make his fate.

“Dad, what are we doing up here? I want to go to sleep.”

“Soon enough, boy. Soon enough,” Alban said, lowering his hand. Lucas’s chair came down with it.

They didn’t have to wait long. Maybe a minute later a person in a set of ragged clothes hopped up to land on the edge of the roof. His movements were light and airy, as though he’d only jumped up two steps on a stairway rather than up to the top of a building. He wore a hood and a mask. It was the person they’d seen in the forest, Raziel was sure of it. Or at least someone the same size wearing the same mask and clothes.

“Who is this?” Mask asked Alban, nodding his head at Lucas. His voice (if he was a he, it was difficult to tell) was a harsh, raspy whisper.

“My son.”

Raziel thought he heard defiance in Alban’s voice. That struck him as weird somehow, perhaps simply because of the size difference between Mask and Alban. If Mask was human, he probably wasn’t more than fourteen or fifteen years old. It was possible that he was a tall halfling or a gnome, but the proportions seemed wrong for that to Raziel. Maybe he was a very small golem. His motions carried a hint of their smooth precision.

“Why did you bring him?” Mask asked, beginning to circle Lucas. Mask’s movements were graceful, confident like a cat stalking prey.

“Dad? Is he—”

“Quiet, boy. You’ll speak when spoken to,” Alban commanded angrily before answering Mask. “He is here because I wished it. He has performed a few small tasks for you at my request before, but today he has done more. I believe he has earned a reward.”

Mask stopped circling and turned to Alban. Raziel wouldn’t have been surprised if one of the blood red eyebrow marks of his mask had been cocked.

“Is that so?” he said, turning back to Lucas. He put his hands on the armrests of the wheelchair and leaned in close even as Lucas leaned away. “And just what has this little mouse done to deserve my attention?”

“Lucas made it possible for me to capture a useful pawn,” Alban said. “A boy that has some knowledge of the fort, but there’s something more important than that in his head.”

“Oh? And just what is in this boy’s head?” Mask said, though it hadn’t turned away from Lucas.

“His father was Azariel Re’del. The boy had a book full of notes from his search for the flying cities. Unfortunately, the book may have been lost at the fort. But I should be able to obtain his memories of it with little trouble.”

“Is that all?” Mask said, sounding disappointed.

Alban faltered at that, confusion clear on his face. He smoothed it quickly away. “Yes, and having him in my care will keep Duriel at bay should our plans be discovered. The boy is his grandson. Duriel will not act against us while we have him.”

“You’re sure? He does not have a reputation for… emotional attachments.”

“He’s grown soft in his old age.”

Mask made a noncommittal noise.

“So, what reward would you recommend for this one?” Mask asked, finally turning back to Alban.

“The same reward I was given for services rendered. Power. Real power.”

Mask put a hand up to the red line that served as his mouth, as though Alban had said something funny. The look on Alban’s face said that he was not so amused. Lucas only looked sick.

“So, you would have your son be your equal? How admirable.”

Alban’s eyes narrowed. “I would have a tool worth using. Regardless of the favorable outcome, he allowed himself to be nearly killed by an idiot child. After all, a tool that breaks after one job is worthless.”

Raziel felt sick. He’d never bothered to try to know much about Lucas. He’d just seen how Lucas behaved and chose to stop him. But now Raziel couldn’t easily see the way Lucas treated others as something he merely chose to do. It seemed to Raziel an echo of the way Alban treated his son. What was worse was the look on Lucas’ face. It was a look of acceptance, the way a dog looked when told to come close so its master could beat it.

Mask whirled suddenly on Lucas. The boy shrank back, but Mask held onto the arms of the chair and there was nowhere to hide.

“And what would you have? What do you think you’ve earned?” Mask asked, something gleeful in his voice.

“D-Dad?” Lucas asked, his voice quavering in a way that Raziel couldn’t reconcile with the confidence Lucas had almost always projected.

“Tell him. Tell him what really matters in this world, son,” Alban said, putting a subtle emphasis on the last word.

“What he said. I want what he said.”

Mask only cocked his head. When Lucas didn’t get it, Mask raised his hand to his ear as though he hadn’t heard what Lucas said. Lucas trembled a bit and licked his dry lips.

“Power. I want power,” he said at last.

Mask nodded and stood straight. He held up his right hand, thumb to middle finger. He stopped there just long enough that Raziel saw Lucas begin to reconsider. But with one last look at his father, his eyes went dead and he said nothing.

“As you wish,” Mask said and snapped his fingers.

The sound was like a bone breaking. Six objects appeared in the air in a circle around Lucas. There was a mask, not like the one Mask wore, but a simple oval of something oily black. Beside the mask dangled chains of hard, cold iron that clinked together. Next was a goblet overflowing with something red that was not wine. A cape fluttered in the light breeze, a mottled grey thing, threadbare and moth-eaten. Perhaps strangest of all was the eye that hung in the air, staring at and through Lucas, too wide, bloodshot, with some crusty pale yellow substance in the corners of its lid. Lastly there was a coin, one side covered in something black, sticky and vile, the other side silvery white with what might have been a face embossed on it, ruined by pock marks and scratches.

“Choose,” Mask said and, with a lazy flick of the wrist, set the objects to spinning in a listless orbit around Lucas.

Something in Raziel was screaming for him to interrupt them, that whatever was happening was deeply wrong. Kusa was watching with wide eyes, though whether in horror or fascination, Raziel couldn’t tell.

“This one,” Lucas said reaching out for the cup. His hand was unsteady as he took it and some of the sticky red slopped out, though the cup seemed no less full for the loss. At the same time, the other objects began to drift apart like smoke.

“Very well. Drink.”

Lucas was hesitant as he brought the cup towards his mouth. He even turned away at first as though the smell was unpleasant. He was breathing fast, hard, but a look to his father steadied him, though there was no approval on Alban’s face that Raziel could see, only impatience.

Lucas put his lips to the cup and gagged at the first sip. Alban gave a derisive snort. A new ferocity came into Lucas’ eyes at the sound and he drank again, the cup clinking against his teeth. He poured more and more into his mouth, unable to contain it all, until it ran down his cheeks and stained his shirt and his pants.

Long after it should have been, the cup was finally empty, and Lucas threw it scornfully to the ground where it broke. Beside Raziel, Kusa made a small furtive noise. Tears were coming down its face.

“This has been your first step, Lucas,” Mask said. “Well done. Now leave us.”

“What?” Lucas said, his voice rough.

“Leave. Now.” Alban’s voice was commanding, absolute.

Lucas came to his feet in defiance. He didn’t even seem to notice that he no longer needed the chair. He opened his mouth to say something, showing red stained teeth, but a chain shot out from Alban’s sleeve. It wrapped around Lucas’s throat and choked away whatever words he’d been about to spit at his father.

Lucas tried to pull back against the chain, but it wound slowly around his neck and dragged him to his knees. He struggled to stay upright but the chain was stronger than him and he fell down to all fours. He made no noise, and, even though he was clearly unable to breathe, the look on his face was one of pure rage.

Alban knelt in front of his son and simply looked at what he had done. He waited. And waited.

Raziel found himself unconsciously holding his own breath until his chest hurt, and still Alban said nothing and did not release his son. Finally Lucas’ struggles ceased, though Raziel could still see the hate in his eyes.

“You will obey me,” Alban said simply.

Lucas stared into his father’s eyes and gave a slow nod. The chain loosened, but Lucas had to unwind it himself. Alban made no move to help him. When it was off, Lucas gasped raggedly for air. He did not look at Alban. He only stood and took the heavy wheelchair in one hand and walked deliberately to the door.

Mask said nothing throughout the exchange. He had hopped up onto the ledge and stood rocking on his heels, staring up at a moon. It was in a late or early phase, Raziel didn’t know which, but only a sliver of the green forest moon showed its face. Once Lucas slammed shut the door behind him, Mask turned to Alban.

“You’re a rotten father,” he said with a hint of laughter.

Alban stiffened. “He’s a rotten son. Too much of his mother in him. A person can only do so much with bad material.”

Mask did laugh at that. He spun on a heel and dropped to the ground.

“So, what exactly was it that he did for you? You seem to have left out some details.”

“Why should I reveal any more to you than I already have?”

Mask leaned casually against the low wall and turned to Alban. The mask showed no new expression of course, but Raziel felt menace pouring from Mask nonetheless. The hair on Raziel’s arms and the back of his neck was standing on end, and he wasn’t even the one Mask was looking at. It was nothing like the angry threats that Alban had displayed. That was bluster backed by pride. This was calculated, disdainful. It reminded Raziel of the way a cat that has recently eaten might regard an irritatingly loud bird.

“Are you under the impression that I need you, Alban?”

Alban went rigid. He spoke eventually, clearly trying to show the same relaxed manner as Mask, but the pause had been too long, his voice too unsteady. “Initially I had intended to infiltrate Duriel’s grandson’s mind when the incident with the eggbeast provided an excuse. As I said, he will be useful insurance against his grandfather. That was when I discovered his knowledge of Azariel’s book. I was going to plant a suggestion that he tell me what was in the book and let his mind rationalize it however he would. That did not work.”

“Oh?” Mask asked, interest piqued.

“He’s too hard-headed for something that subtle to take. You run into that in people sometimes. With Dietrich looking over my shoulder, I can’t be forceful enough to drag the information out of him. So I had Lucas pick a fight with the little idiot. I told Lucas to really push him, get him to use magic against him if he could. I didn’t realize that the boy had enough power in him to hurt Lucas so badly. Still, the boy is now under my sole discretion. I have a new crafting in place on his mind that should make him much more... pliable in due time.”

Raziel quivered. Anger began to rise in his chest, partly at the way he’d been manipulated but mostly at himself for so easily going along with it.

“Hmm. Well, I hope that wasn’t all you brought me here for. There is quite a lot that needs my attention in the forest, if you recall.”

“Indeed not. I’ve discovered something interesting in the boy’s memories of Azariel’s book,” Alban said.

“Oh?”

“Yes. You know that the one you seek is imprisoned beneath the tower?”

“I did know that.”

“And you know that the place is home to a powerful guardian spirit?” Alban said, his confidence growing despite Mask’s disdain.

“Of course. Is this really all you’ve brought me here for?”

“And you know the source of the prison’s power? What is giving it the energy to hold a Stormlord?” Alban said, complete confidence in his voice.

Mask fell utterly still. Alban sensed he’d touched a nerve and a grin spread across his face like a knife wound.

“That I do not know,” Mask said begrudgingly.

“A dragon’s egg.”

Raziel knew the page that Alban was talking about. He could see it in his memory even then. The picture of an egg on a pedestal. Azariel had noted that he had failed to capture the exact look of the egg however. He specified that the shell had a cloudlike pattern on it. Raziel remembered the page because of his lifelong fascination with dragons. And Alban had ripped that out of his head and was giving it to a monster.

“Not just any dragon’s egg, either,” Alban continued.

Raziel felt a hand on his shoulder shaking him. He looked and saw Kusa with a panicked look on its face. “Kusa!” it whispered urgently but Raziel shook it off, trying to hear what Alban was saying, each word feeding the anger that was building in Raziel.

“It’s his—” Alban started to say, but Mask held up a hand to stop him.

“Do you feel that?” he asked, and Raziel suddenly realized what Kusa was trying to warn him of. In his anger at Alban talking about his father’s book, Raziel had instinctively gathered his magic.

“Someone is here.”

Raziel shot a look to Kusa. It was looking frantically around and running its hands through its grassy hair.

“There,” Mask said.

Kusa finally locked eyes with Raziel. Raziel saw it come to a decision. He tried to reach out and grab its arm, to stop it, but it was too late. Kusa slipped through his grip like a wriggling fish.

Kusa stepped out of the circle that veiled their presence, and Raziel saw its face set. Gone was uncertainty, but it was not replaced by anger or outrage. Instead, there was steady resolve there.

“The spirit? What is it doing—” Mask began to say but cut himself off as Kusa charged forward.

The spirit moved like nothing Raziel had ever seen. Faster than a diving bird, more graceful than a cat, it ran at them. Both parted instantly, trying to force Kusa to go between them. Kusa moved as if it had known they were going to do exactly that, pivoting to rush Alban.

Alban’s arms came up and chains shot forth like striking snakes. Kusa jumped and the chains struck the ground behind it. It landed with both feet planted on Alban’s chest. Kusa sprang off, and Alban fell backward, tumbling with a shout over the edge of the roof.

Mask charged for the spot where Kusa was going to land, raising a fist. Kusa saw him. One of its hands intercepted the blow to knock it aside at the same time the other struck. Kusa’s hands passed through Mask’s limbs as though they were smoke.

Kusa stopped, confused as Mask evaporated. It looked around wildly. Raziel saw what was coming too late to shout a warning.

A chain stuck to the top of the wall Alban had gone over moments before. The wizard surged up and into the air lifted by the chain like an iron tentacle. More chains blasted from his sleeves. The sound alerted Kusa, and the little spirit sprang away.

Alban fell to the roof and dozens more chains surged out seeking Kusa.The spirit was able to dodge almost all of them, but they filled the air. One slipped around its leg and jerked the limb out from under it.

“Ha!” Alban shouted in triumph. All the other chains melted away but the one wrapping around Kusa’s leg grew tighter, wrapping further up its leg while it struggled.

Raziel closed his eyes and breathed in, filling his lungs. As he did, he filled himself with all the magic he could muster, from his rage at his manipulation and from the passionless cold night air around him, and poured it all into the roiling sea within him that was his very being. His eyes snapped open, and in his hand he held a shining blue ball of violently vibrating energy.

He meant to throw it at Alban’s head the instant it was formed. But the image of Lucas on the ground, coughing blood sprang into his mind. He heard his grandfather’s warning about how magic shaped a man.

He had far more power in his hand than he’d hit Lucas with.

He made a decision.

He let go of his anger, the ball ceased pulsating as the light became calm and steady. Then he threw the spell.

Alban never saw it coming. It crashed into his head and exploded with a sound like a firecracker. Alban fell with a cry, and his chain around Kusa’s leg went loose.

“Kusa! Run!” Raziel screamed at the spirit. Kusa’s eyes filled with realization at what Raziel was doing. He saw pain there. Raziel gave Kusa a smile.

“Go. I’ll be fine.”

Kusa ran, disappearing over the ledge. Raziel, still smiling, ran for the door, knowing he’d never make it out of the building, sure he’d feel chains wrap around him as he went.

Instead a pair of guards burst through the door.

“Take him! He’s corrupted! Trying to escape!” Alban slurred from the ground.

Raziel backed away from the guards. They were faster than he was and before long they had him. But as they dragged him back into the building, Raziel locked eyes with the still-dazed Alban one last time and gave him the fiercest, most triumphant smile he could.