Chapter 1
Part I: The Sharpshooter
Kerrigan watches the dark water churn below.
The view from the back parlor of his estate is hardly impressive to most. His home rests on the edge of a high cliff. A river rushes past its base. A foreboding forest sits on the other side. Thick mist hangs along the line of trees.
Many of his landed peers sneer at his estate. They find it gloomy and dank. Kerrigan has learned to embrace the character of his territory. He has come to enjoy the way it puts his social circle on edge. Especially at night.
So when it was time to arrange his conspiratorial enclave, he was sure to schedule it in the late hours.
He turns away from the large picture window. Decorative candelabras line the walls of the expansive hall. The long table in the center is adorned with a dark red runner. The chairs along its sides have tall backs resembling thrones. Fitting, as the elder, bearded men seated upon them view themselves as kings.
“Shall we get down to business, Kerrigan?” one of them says.
“Of course, gentlemen.” He approaches the head of the table and pushes his chair aside. He prefers to stand while speaking. “Thank you all for coming. I’ve asked you here to address our nation’s most recent expansion.”
“What about it?” a man with thick white mutton chops asks.
“The towns now under the banner of our beloved Gavindor present us with new markets for our businesses, but also new competition. Each time the government acquires new territory we face the prospect of losing customers.”
“But we can gain them as well.”
“Perhaps, but we should expand our businesses when we are ready to do so. When it makes financial sense. The way things are now, the Prime Minister gets to decide when we expand. We are expanding out of necessity. Expanding by government decree.”
One of the men lowers a pipe. “No one is making us expand into these new territories.”
“Aren’t they? Has anyone here not done so?”
The men look at each other, but say nothing.
“If I am the only one finding himself stretched by the need to constantly compete in new markets, then I will sit down and we can go our separate ways.”
“No,” one of the table’s younger men answers. “You are certainly not the only one having issues. When we annexed Fisher’s Wharf the filthy sea dogs I used to pay a pittance immediately started demanding more. They were now proud captains, after all, sailing under the flag of Gavindor.”
The men around the table began to share their own stories of financial woe, talking over each other in an indecipherable mess of murmurs.
“Gentlemen! Gentlemen!” Kerrigan gets control of the room once again. “This is exactly why I asked you here. If we pool our resources and our influence, we can force a change. We can convince Parliament to abandon this foolish policy of ceaseless expansion.”
After a few nods and agreements around the table, a man in wire glasses stands. He clutches his lapels and looks around the table. “I think I smell a hint of politics, Kerrigan.”
The host smirks and lowers his head, shaking. He knew this was coming.
“Is this truly about money and business,” the bespectacled man asks, “or is there a more ambitious play at hand here? I dare say Mr. Kerrigan is beginning to build a political coalition. Perhaps to one day end up in Parliament himself. Maybe even Prime Minister.”
Kerrigan lifts his head as the table murmurs and looks in his direction. “Well, Prime Minister Kerrigan does have a ring to it, but I’m afraid you’re mistaken, sir. Though I suppose it would be a lie to say this has nothing to do with politics.”
The bespectacled man narrows his eyes, but returns to his seat.
“Gavindor’s expansion must stop. It creates instability, both economically and socially. It stretches out our military forces and engenders hard feelings throughout the continent which can endanger business relationships. It is a policy with no benefit apart from more land, the value of which is debatable.”
The younger man speaks again. “I must admit, Kerrigan, I am not convinced that the government can be persuaded off this course.”
A few around the table agree with him.
Kerrigan nods. “Yes. I share your skepticism.”
“Then what are we doing here?” the bespectacled man asks.
He pauses. This is the moment of truth. Kerrigan places his hands on the table. “There are other ways to put a stop to this.”
The men glance around at each other. The tone of their host’s voice makes a few of them shift uncomfortably.
“If it were to become more costly to continue to expand, then Parliament could face pressure from the people to put a stop to the Prime Minister’s hunger for land.”
“Costly…how?”
“Most of the new territories have been purchased, but the government comes with money in one hand and a loaded gun in the other. Without the backing of an overwhelming military force, many of these purchases would have been rejected. If these small nations and townships were more organized and better armed, the expansion would have to slow.”
The room is dead silent. The men stare at Kerrigan in disbelief. They’re not sure if they heard what they think they heard.
“That’s…” The mutton-chopped man hesitates before continuing. “That’s…treason you’re talking about, Kerrigan.”
“Is it? We wouldn’t be arming our nation’s enemies. Just some random territories across the continent. If the government makes enemies of them later, then that is their decision.”
“But you would be giving arms with the direct understanding that they would use them against Gavindor, or at least threaten to.”
“Gentlemen,” Kerrigan stands upright, straightening his tie. “Expansion is a disastrous policy and a threat to the stability of this nation. Every single one of us must do our part to stem this tide and bring sanity back to this country.”
His voice grows more intense. “But that will not happen without risk! That will not happen without cost! That will not happen without the shedding of blood!”
Just then, a pane of glass in the large bay window shatters. Something strikes Kerrigan in the back of the head.
Blood splatters on the table. Kerrigan lurches forward and drops onto the tabletop. Everyone at the table only watches as he slides off and drops to the floor. Blood is smeared across the surface.
A few of the men jump up and hurry out of the room. A few pull pistols and aim them around wildly. The bespectacled man slowly approaches Kerrigan, only to find him dead.
He looks out through the broken window and into the darkness.
A telescope focuses on the man looking out the window. It holds on him a moment. A calm, practiced finger rests on the trigger of the long rifle. The well-oiled weapon barely makes a sound as the bolt action is manipulated, loading up a second round. The barrel is propped up in the fork of a branch. A dark scarf wrapped about the head and a deep green jacket disguise the sharpshooter amongst the limbs.
The bespectacled man is not a target. Once it is clear he doesn’t see anything, the sharpshooter collapses the telescope and lifts the rifle. After a quick descent, dust springs from faded beige gaiters as the sharpshooter drops to the forest floor. A horse patiently waits there.
There’s a leathery scrape as the rifle is slid into storage between saddle and strap. The sharpshooter mounts the animal. With a gentle kick, the horse trots into the darkness of the woods.
