2026
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Ever since receiving the news, Evander Penrose had made sure to wear more sophisticated armour, that is, something with a bit of deflection magic sown into as a means to throw off any ill intent.
Which in this case had been an arrow.
Whilst the well-enough-aimed projectile failed to penetrate his leather and silk armour, and flesh, the well-aimed thwak held force enough to stagger him on the icy rock. Thus, Evander fell back, down the slope.
And even though he was bruised but unharmed – from the arrow that is, as the fall had racked his back like a drunken, lead-footed, all manticore, tap-dancing troop – it wasn’t lost on Evander that he’d still been taken by surprise, and it could have been a far worse shot, in a manner of speaking.
Word had come from Colonel Vastwood, via Esther Jabrion, that the Maytoni Inquisition’s patients had snapped with tremendously unpredictable consequences. The very inner-security force of Maytoni, Evander’s far off home, had actually, amateurishly, and very illegally, put together a deniable, dirty, death squad to assassinate his fine self.
Every name of every inquisition member within this mob became quickly known to the Summiteers via their own intelligence agents, though it was the non-inquisition members present which disturbed Evander, and his compatriots.
Thus, Evander decided to play dead for the moment – though given he was on the wrong side of thirty-five now and had just been trashed by a rocky slope, it felt the preferred tactic regardless.
The silhouetted figure peered, cautiously though confidently over the edge of the hillside. From Evander’s left hand sprung a throwing knife, like a cobra flaring its fangs. Dull light from the moons above caught the stripped-down blade, subdued as if the notion of oncoming violence disturbed the brilliance of Anordiathe’s celestial bodies.
And this attacker was slow. Not a surprise to Evander. His attacker had at least thirty years on him, and experience or not, age dulled all things.
An abrupt crack of aguish escaped the man, and he drew back from the edge of the bank. Without hesitation, Evander acted, up in defiance of the stabbing twinges in his back – pain was progress after all, and frankly he was a masochist.
Snatching his curved bow, Sand-Shade, up from the frost coated ground, Evander was up the bank faster than he had body-bordered down it. Reaching the top, hazy in the indigo night, his attacker managed the icy rocks well enough, but clutched at his bow arm, the thrown dagger having cut through a tendon in his shoulder, disabling his ability to use his own bow.
To steel control of the ambush, Evander drew on the fleeing figure with Sand-Shade – named for the fleeting majesty of the kangaroos found back home – both eyes finding a fine point of focus even within the blur of shadows. His finger and thumb opened once the draw came back to his ear, and the arrow pounced with the elegance, and ferocity of a griffin.
But Evander wasn’t sure he wanted to kill his prey, however, and thus his hunting bird cracked off the man’s left cheek as if a redwood had just backhanded him. There was some strength still present in the figure as he managed to stay upright, stumbling over the jagged rocks.
Evander then realised he had to slow down, lest he caught up
to his prey too soon. Let them tire themselves out.
And it was a lovely night, a silken indigo sheet with silvery
reliefs of cloud, and the three gemstone moons stark against it all.
So, he walked after his quarry, bow over a shoulder and took in the refreshingly chill air, savouring it, whilst frost tickled his stubble and cheeks.
It was momentary however, as his attacker just had to ruin the serene atmosphere by shrieking like a startled frog when he lost his footing to the ice and went thick skull over unsteady feet down another ridge.
Evander sighed and rolled his eyes. “Don’t be dead,” he said
to himself.
Once he reached the edge of the ridge, Evander hesitated,
not making the same mistake as his attacker.
“Evey!” A voice spluttered, cut through with the stifling
aguish that came from broken ribs. A gargle of pain followed.
“Mansel,” Evander replied, almost gentile in tone.
“Evey…” Whatever was coming was cut short by bloody hacking.
“You well, Mansel? It’s been a while.”
It was clear that the former, and now very, very, disgraced, Summiteer Mansel Trachis was no longer in a position to deliver any manner of insult, so Evander stepped over the ridge, and gingerly made his way down over the icy rocks.
This descent was considerably steeper, brutal shards of rock
and ice cutting out of the landscape like defensive spike upon a great fortress.
“Did you plan all this?” Mansel churned out through heavy breathing, unable to raise his head as Evander carefully stepped his way down the slope.
Evander said nothing, only sheathed his bow by his waist, and knelt by his old friend and mentor, upon where he had finished tumbling, prostrate on his back, head propped against a rock. Frankly for all the vivid, screaming thoughts that had been berating his mind of how things would go when Mansel caught up to him, in the here and now, Evander didn’t feel much, if anything.
“This isn’t like the inquisition,” was all he could think to say. “Too dirty… Well, a different type of dirty play. I guess blackmail, threats, and whatnot won’t work with me.”
Evander Penrose had prevented total war with Maytoni’s closest neighbour, Xellcarr – it had come at the cost of his own freedoms within Maytoni, as he could not escape the suspicion that he had assassinated the Maytoni royalist general, and blobfish-faced, Dedrick who had conspired to insure total war during the disaster that was The War of the Feathers.
And Evander also couldn’t escape the suspicion of
assassinating Dedrick, because he had in fact assassinated Dedrick.
With a chunk of masonry.
To the face.
Many times.
Until there was nothing left.
In his defence, however, it’d been a disparagingly brutal
three days, and Evander was in a very bad mood by that stage.
“I thought having one of our own in Military Command would have benefited us, protected Maytoni better,” Evander continued, still feeling oddly numb.
“We’re trained to be discerning, more aware than other
military elements…”
“Shut the Chasm up,” Evander said, surprised at how calmly he said it. He looked into the indigo sky, thoughtful. “So, you decided that the royalist argument, elitism and exploitation of the poor was the way forward. Hand the same authority given to the Pastorals out to the untrustworthy – authority that comes only from the Gods. That’s not discernment, Mansel. It’s a lack of understanding. Stupidity. Case and point, you betrayed your kindred, throwing everything you achieved in becoming a Summiteer upon a pyre to a false belief, siding with a perverse enemy, and attempting to murder one of your own.”
Thankfully Mansel said nothing, only hacked blood.
He’d live, Evander noted.
“If you were discerning, you’d know how royalism is heretical to Maytoni… To Chasm with it, if you held a mote of self-awareness, you’d know this.” His tone was flat, without emotion. Evander could hardly muster anything, sorrow or hate.
“You’re going to kill me, then? You’ve always been a petty twat.” What was supposed to be a barb failed to touch Evander, never mind penetrate a nerve, he was so numb.
“No. I don’t care. I really don’t.” He rose, a sigh
liberating his lungs of stale air.
“I can survive this. I’ve come back from worse you know.”
“I know, I was there for some of those moments.”
“So, what? You’re just going to keep looking over your
shoulder?”
Upon the wind came a sound, something to nap a spark of
wonder in Evander.
“I don’t think that’s going to be the case, Mansel. I mean, you’re never getting back up that ridge, and the only other way out is…” Evander nodded into the murk of night.
Eyes bright with aguish, mouth bloody, Mansel just about managed to roll his head back, coughing and wincing as he did so, to meet a pair of feline eyes that could have penetrated the deepest abyss.
“I was coming through here because I was hoping to see tatzelwurm. Cats and dragons, two of my favourite things, woven elegantly together by the Gods. I’m always blessed by such sights: arch-griffins flew over our halls the evening before our exams started; ravens honked and hooted for me at the Smeltland Championships when I thought I was shooting poorly; and here, in what should have been a deeply bitter moment, a tatzelwurm.” He couldn’t help but beam at the sight.
And it was reverentially stunning. Green eyes of a depth to challenge the deepest sea, a sandy grey crown like diamond sands complemented by predatory patterns of ebon black, and a snowy white face. As for the body, it was six yards in length, draconic and serpentine in form, with a fluid like liquid copper scaled skin coated in a purple hue.
It yowled lowly, a warble that could have shaken the foundations of the rocks around them. Though this was not at Evander, but at the sight and the smell of the blood upon Mansel, from his open wounds, and what had been choaked out through his mouth.
“This one reminds me of Hallion, one of the many stray cats that lived in the University grounds. He passed away shortly before I graduated. And so pained were we all, that the graduation ceremony was postponed until Hallion was given a burial, and period of mourning.”
The quick, orderly patter of Hallion’s white paws came into Evander’s mind as he recalled the cat coming over to greet him, and anyone else who ever made their way through his garden. Evander’s heart swelled, and he felt good.
“Evey…” Mansel choaked, unsure what to say. “I’m a Summiteer! I was with you during the Bandit Uprising; I rode with you against vast numbers when that witch Slavka abandoned us! We fought Jermishian mages together!”
Now Evander felt irritation at this weak old man, this failure, and traitor, as tried to steal his attention away from such enduring memories, and from the Tatzelwurm before them.
“You’re no longer a Summiteer, and you’re no longer my kindred.” Evander turned to leave. Best to get out of the way. Though before leaving, he looked back and added, “And to you, it’s Evander.”
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