Gundrea, Pt 2

Red Flag

“No, no, a thousand times no. Please leave me alone, madam. I have no time for charlatans, and I will not endorse you with my hard earned gold.” Darken swatted at the traveller. She redoubled her efforts.
“Just a moment, sir, but a moment!” insisted the woman, and she put a hand on his shoulder. Darken turned.

***

The fortress of the Warlord sat upon the edge of a valley. The Illustrani Valley was one of the last few beautiful places left in the world. It was preserved by the Warlord. A sublime irony. The fortress was a dark blemish atop the cliffs at the western tip of the land, an unsightly morsel of food at the corner of a lip. It had its own grandeur, with soaring black vaults and titanic walls, but it could be nothing other than repulsive to the coming assailant, for all that it represented. In the magical spectra it was an even more imposing sight. It blazed like a beacon, not even attempting to conceal the massive power impregnated in its walls. Lines of force blazed a mile into the sky, and fountained down in a radius three miles wide. Nobody had breached that lattice of energy and lasted more than a scant minute.

The assailant was still alive when he reached the fortress rooftops. He bent the properties of his cloak to twist the light around him, hiding him from view. Where he was forced to cross the infinitely sensitive trip-lines of invisible power, they passed through him unbroken. The stone twisted at his fingertips to form handholds. Three times he'd upset the delicate spider's web that encased the fortress, and had weaved it anew in the split second before it collapsed. He was already exhausted as he dropped invisibly and noiselessly onto the balcony he'd been aiming for. After seven years, he had arrived.

The tyrant's footfalls were soft as he walked out into the night air, in spite of the monstrous suit he wore. Armoured plates enclosed his whole body in a midnight-blue steel. There was no weakness, no flaw. Filigree lines of precious metals and finely cut grooves traced miniature leylines about the figure's anatomy, converging on brilliant gemstones set into the suit at points of harmony. It was one enormous focus, the sheer force of it made the intruder's body fizz as it approached him. It was as if the Warlord were enclosed in plates of pure, beaten power. His true form was impenetrable within; only the helmet belied some sense of the bearer. It was smooth and contoured, tapered slightly, unlike a warrior's helmet, but more subtly reminiscent - a parody - of the hoods of the long forgotten Order. It was formed of a single, unbroken piece of metal, but as the intruder watched, seams of light began to glow on its surface. The planes split and furled back, the fragments sliding and shrinking into one another. In a minor display of incredible trans-spatial power, the helmet was completely subsumed into the armour. The Warlord gave his visitor a languorous gaze.
“Hel,” said Darken.
“Darken,” said Hel.
“Tell me, did you harm my guards?”
“You'll find you have a few more statues in your courtyard.”
“Ah, then I must thank you. Art is so much more precious a commodity than manpower.”
They stared at each other quietly for a moment.
“You're a bastard,” said Hel.
“Undoubtedly. And in at least three senses of the word,” replied Darken.
“It only has two senses,” Hel leered disdainfully.
“Shows what you know,” said Darken, and turned to cross to the far railing of the bannister. He was goading Hel, the man knew. Turning his back on him to show how unafraid he was. It hadn't worked. Hel knew exactly how Darken felt.
“I found Tatula,” said Hel, and his impassive tone was fleetingly punctured by a sharpness. Darken spun, and his eyes flared, but he seemed unable to reply. “She wouldn't tell me what happened,” Hel continued. “What was it? Couldn't have her always saving your life because it was bad for your ego, so you got rid of her?”
“Do not presume to guess anything about my reasons,” murmured Darken, in an enforced monotone. Then he shook his head, and the shadow vanished from his face to hide behind his eyes. He made a show of magnanimity. “But where are my civilities? I must invite you in, offer you a drink. Yes?”
“I'm afraid you can't trap and poison me that bluntly,” smirked Hel.
“You wound me,” said Darken.
“No,” said Hel. “I assure you you'll know when I'm wounding you.”
Darken laughed grandly, patronising Hel's response. Then he gave a toothy grin. “And I assure you, dear Hel, that you will know when I have trapped and poisoned you.” His eyes were deathly cold.
Hel smirked. “Lord of Tyrants.”
“Tyrantlord,” said Darken. “It's punchier.” He gave a genuine smile this time, as if he honestly found the situation humorous. The expression caught Hel off guard, and stoked his rage inside him.
“Damnit, Darken! I walked through Bethalas! I saw the bodies! The wreckage! The twisted ruin where a country used to be!”
“My, you have been a busy traveller.”
“Yes, I have! And you couldn't catch me!”
“I hardly needed to,” shrugged Darken, and nodded at Hel's presence on the balcony of his fortress. Hel sneered.
“Nice, Darken. But I know you're scared. I know you're wondering how much I've learned. I know you're wondering if I have the power to kill you.”
“And do you?”
“I don't know,” Hel admitted blithely. “Do you?”
“I wouldn't venture to guess,” said Darken. “Certainly you have grown and changed since I last knew you, on those heady days so very, very, long ago. Perhaps you have surpassed me. You have been most diligent, and I have grown indolent in my old age... Why, perhaps it will be no contest at all.”
Hel raised an eyebrow.
“Oh come on, was that a bluff? You've hardly grown stagnant yourself,” said the mage, making an expansive gesture at Darken's seat of power. “Unless... That suit's not compensating for something, is it?”
Darken narrowed his eyes. He raised a hand and veins of fire ran along the fine filigree of the armour's plates.
“I assure you, my potence is not in question,” he said.
As if to make his point, Darken jabbed at the centre of the room, and a bright nova of light momentarily dazzled. Then, to his surprise, it turned into a burst of fog, which uncoiled, slow to dissipate in the still air.
“Impressive,” said Darken. “You're doing that, what, with just your mind now?”
“Only small spells.”
“And that's a small spell, is it? Well, well.”
The pair lingered quietly for a second. Hel's face set into the snarl he'd borne since he embarked on this mission earlier that night, Darken's face unreadable.
After a while Darken sighed.
“This is tiresome. Just leave. I will assure you get to the walls unmolested. My slaughter is not on your conscience.”
“You're a monster, Darken.”
“And you're a fool.”
“Yes.”
“It was ever thus.”
“No. Once-”
“Yes!” Darken snapped. “You're just trying to excuse yourself your previous association with me.”
Hel glared. His jaw twitched. For a moment it looked as though he were subvocalising a spell, then it became apparent he was simply lost for a response.
“Admit it!” demanded the warmonger. “Would you have taken on this foolhardy trial if you weren't hoping somehow to assuage the guilt of having once sought to share in my endeavours? Can you claim that in good faith?”
Hel's body gave no tell. He lowered his eyes and a calm blanketed his rage.
“Enough talk now.”
“Yes,” nodded Darken, looking down thoughtfully. “All that can be said has been said.” He looked up. “If you're ready-” Hel had disappeared. The balcony collapsed.

***

Darken's gaze ran wearily along his outstretched arm to his fingertips. A spark leapt from them, and the remains were erased by the conflagration. He didn't want to look at them. Turning his back on the fast-dying pyre, he left the ruined balcony and went inside. Quietly, he made his way across the huge empty room, and fell into the only seat. He sat, on his throne, amid the cool and the gloom and the stilled banners of a hundred conquered kings, and awaited the inevitable.

***

After a moment Darken sat back and looked the wandering woman squarely in the eye.
“And if I ask you if that's all true, you'll tell me that the future is always changing. Nothing is set in stone. Right?”
“I see you have some foresight yourself, sir.”
Darken smiled strangely, and then he stood. Half turned to leave he turned back and, after a moment's thought, he flicked the woman a coin.

Hel and Tatula were sitting on the wall that curved around the edge of the old barn when Darken descended the hill. Hel had acquired a wooden bat from somewhere. Or if he'd had a few hours to work his magic on it, perhaps it had been a branch that afternoon.
“Darken!” Hel called brightly. “Come and join us! I'm teaching Tatula rackette! I think she's understanding, but she's only said nine words.”
“He is stating many rules. All of them useless,” said Tatula, momentarily turning a dull gaze on Darken, before returning to staring at a shrub blankly. Hel gave a 'She's-Being-Tatula' shrug. Darken scratched his head.
“Ah, as much as I'd, eh, enjoy your company, I'm afraid I'm rather... busy at the moment.”
“Busy?” asked Hel. “You just got back.”
“Yes. Well,” said Darken, and wandered off. Hel turned to Tatula and gave her a 'He's-Being-Darken' shrug.
“I don't know. Some days I think I should just kill you both and bury you in a shallow grave. It'd save me a world of headaches.”
Tatula nodded absently. “That would be prudent,” she said.

In his room, Darken cast a brief glance over his shoulder, then rippled his fingers. An elegant mahogany box appeared on his bedroll. Darken sat. He traced the magical lock on the box of treasures and prizes with his fingertips. He lifted the lid. Within, various trinkets, jewels and trophies sat in disregard. Gently, he pushed them aside with two fingers, until he uncovered a scrap of crimson cloth. He pulled it out. The cloth unfurled and hung limply before him. Taken from the tent of a minor prince who had made a mistake in crossing Darken. He'd dealt with him, and claimed a few things. Darken stared at the white pattern for a moment, then he took the banner outside and burned it.