Blood and Justice

Prologue

Dario the Scorpion

“Let’s not call it a corpse until it’s done bleeding, fratimo,” Galmier the Fox said, giving his signature sly smile. He was missing a few teeth, and those that weren’t missing had taken on a yellowish plaque, but there was something about it that agreed with his face, giving him a roguish charm. “Hmm?”

Dario, known amongst the Elite Guards as Dario the Scorpion, simply shook his head, feigning amusement when all he felt was an acidic stir of disgust as if he’d once again drunk too much wine. “The princess is barely twelve.”

“Queen Alessandra married when she was but fourteen, no?” said Maria the Snake. A slender and short woman with one of the sharpest Low Southeastern accents he’d ever heard. Thick and brisk with words slung together in a blur. The kind of accent that made you aware of your own. “Is it really all that different, darling?”

He scoffed. “Times have changed since then. A boy can only marry when he becomes a man. A girl can only marry when she becomes a woman. Neither of those occur until their eighteenth birthday.”

“I’m tellin’ ya, mius amenus,” said Galmier, “you’re gettin’ wrapped in somethin’ that hasn’t happened. It’s just a letter.”

“A letter of engagement,” Dario returned. “The fourth one, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Fifth, actually,” said Maria the Snake, a hint of amusement in her tone.

The three continued along the wall walk. The curtain wall was built tall enough that it’d take six sizable men stacked on top of one another to scale over the top. Within these walls was Lyxnell, the capital of the Southeast. The birthplace of the Redvayne dynasty for over four hundred years.

Along the outside of the city, nearest to the inner wall, were the slums. Buildings made from mud, clay, thatch, and scrap wood. As was common across the entire city, the buildings were constructed close, offering narrow alleyways in between. However, here in the slums, they were practically stacked on top of each other, sharing walls or roofs.

Despite its rather impoverished nature, the slums had some of the best street vendors. Whether it was wine or cured sausage or garlic-soaked tenderloin or even knick-knacks. This was where you got the best quality for the lowest price.

Now, if you wanted strong armor or fancy clothing or hygienic escorts, you had to venture deeper into the city. There, everything was built tall and oft interspersed with towers. Structures were made with fired clay bricks that took on gradients of blood red to sunset orange to midday yellow. Sort of like the fire poker flower.

In the center of town, roofs came together, cleanly and distinctly. While everything remained close, each building had a distinguished beginning and end. As was common across the mainland settlements, shops were level with the street, and every floor above was either storage or apartments.

In the distance, the sun began its final descent toward the horizon. Light slipped away, replaced by waves of shadows creeping along the rooftops and through the alleyways. For the briefest of moments, the city was split with half shrouded in darkness and half bathed in sunlight.

At middle of this divide was Redvayne Castle. Sat upon a layered sandstone foundation to further accentuate its already discernible height. Almost every roof came together in a shingled spire with a flag on top depicting the Redvayne scorpion.

Throughout the courtyard, on much smaller poles, were the banners of every other noble house in the region. The windows along the hallways were empty, the ones connected to private chambers were concealed with wooden slats, and the arched windows belonging to the individual watchtowers were outfitted with stained glass portraying various Elder Beings.

The castle walls, made from clay and smoothed stone, were once a bright mixture of yellow and bright red that gave it a sort of amber color. But after so much time, the stones had been sunwashed into a peach shade reminiscent of pale-skinned men from the Central Region. Not quite as white as the Northerners trapped in their endless winter nights.

In all, it was plain to see the combined grasp of Mother Nature and Father Time taking its toll.

As darkness prevailed, the castle came alive with the soft glow of lit torches, gently roving across the parapets and through the cloisters around the courtyard. Most nights, there would be so many and more of these lights. Enough to make the stars jealous. But on that night, as it had been these last few weeks, the collective glow was fainter than usual.

“Five letters of engagement does not mean a wedding,” Galmier said, stealing Dario’s attention. “That’s why I tell you: don’t call it a corpse until it’s done bleeding. Do you truly believe the queen would marry off her eldest daughter to some lesser lord?”

Dario knew the chances were slim, but still, the very possibility made his innards coil tight. “A lord is still a lord.”

Galmier shook his head, laughing. “Mius dieunzel! You worry too much.” He tapped a finger against the side of Dario’s helm, sending a metallic ping echoing around. “Get outta your head, mius amenus. A lord of shit and piss may still be a lord, but in comparison to a lord with lands and gold, which do you think the queen would prefer? This Lord Soto will never be considered for the princess’s hand. Queen Redvayne is just being her courteous self and not rejecting the offer because it’s…uh…what do you call it?”

“Unseemingly?” Maria the Snake said.

Dario sighed and said to her, “Please don’t help him.”

“Right, you have my thanks, sorima,” Galmier said to her before prodding Dario along the flank with his elbow. “Unseemingly. Hmm?”

With a groan, Dario shoved him away. “I don’t care if she pays this lesser lord any mind or not. I still don’t like it. I think it’d be better for the royal family and the princess if they refused him outright. Put this folly to rest before it has a chance to spiral outta control.”

“You’re so sweet on the queen and her lil’ princess,” said Galmier. “Hopefully, for your sake, the king consort does not find out.”

Beneath his helm, sweat began to bead on Dario’s forehead despite the night’s chill. Thankfully, for his helm, the other two couldn’t see the slight flush overtaking his face.

Dario, no different than the other seven Elite Guards, was dressed in plated-steel armor tinted a golden shade with a layer of crimson-dyed leather beneath. Links of chainmail protected the gaps between plates, and for whatever chainmail couldn’t catch, there was a layer of cotton-stuffed gambeson.

However, where Dario differed from his garrison—other than their captain, Eldorado the Chameleon—was that they all refused their helms unless in the midst of battle. The Southeastern heat was nothing to scoff about, and wearing so much metal you felt as if you were baking alive. Even the slightest bit of relief, such as a removed helm, was better than nothing.

Dario cared little for relief or comfort, but more so about maintaining the natural decorum.

Across the way, from the local cathedral, came the peal of the belfry. Eight chimes exactly. The other two turned his way, and embarrassingly, Dario departed with a slight bow and the announcement, “I have other matters to attend.”

This sentiment, though, was echoed by their voices mimicking his cadence. While he punctuated with silence, they followed with laughter.

“We know how this works, fratimo,” Maria the Snake said.

Galmier shooed him away with a flick of his wrist. “Go on, attend to these other matters. You know where to find us when you’re finished.”

Dario, wanting to rebuke them, instead remained silent. He turned and started down the nearest staircase. At the bottom of the wall, he saddled one of the patrol horses and took through the streets, almost racing against the shadows as they stretched across the rest of the city.

By the time he’d reached Redvayne Castle, the sun was a stroke of light against the horizon. It glimmered against the canal waterway, turning the surface a strange tint of green with nothing but darkness beneath.

Fishmongers and marine merchants began the nightly trek into town to fill tavern stools. Most shops locked their doors and closed their windows, while above their apartment windows emitted the soft flickering of guttering candlelight.

Dario tied the horse to a post in the royal stables. From there, he cut across the western courtyard, which was populated by olive trees and bushes of rockrose. Their pink petals were just beginning to take full bloom just in time for the summer season.

In all fairness, though, there was little distinction between spring and summer other than the amount of sandstorms. In which they favored the spring season.

As he passed through the inner cloister, he came across Sallen the Spider and Felix the Rabbit, addressing both with a nod. Sallen was a tight-lipped woman with short black hair and squinted eyes. She had a mole on her upper cheek that many of the guards claimed was a spider bite from childhood. Dario didn’t know the legitimacy of this rumor, but he knew better than to ask about it.

Last time someone was fool enough to do that, they woke up swollen all over. Big pus-filled lumps that took weeks to recover from. Strangest of all, no one could truly prove if it was Sallen or not.

As for Felix, they were a bit of an enigma. The most recent recruit to the Elite Guards, as well as the youngest. Long brown hair tinged with streaks of rust-red. All cropped around a smooth face. Mousy nose. Eyes with prominent lashes. Lips so full they were the envy of many escorts and royal ladies.

What made Felix such a mystery was that no one could discern their gender. Not even Dario, despite having been within the same garrison for almost an entire year. Man or woman, it didn’t matter to him. Felix was deadly to their foes and just as loyal to the creed as they were to the crown.

The cloister led him to the north entrance, where Queen Alessandra Redvayne waited with Princess Marissa. The queen was a shorter woman with gracious hair black as raven feathers. Her eyes were wide, yet they retained a sort of calm. She had purple irises that reminded him of the Western sky at night—the few times he’d actually been able to see it.

Tonight, she wore an elegant dress of crimson that hugged her voluptuous frame. Around her shoulders was a transparent shawl complementary to her eyes. It ebbed against the breeze, almost as if it were waving at him.

Upon hearing the squeaking bolts of his armor, she turned to greet him, her lips pulling into a full smile.

Dario took a deep breath and removed his helm. A few feet away, he came to a stop and bowed. “Your Grace,” he said. Then, to the little princess, he said, “Your Highness.”

“Stand, Scorpion,” Queen Redvayne said coolly. “As you were.”

Rising to his full height, Dario set his helm on a nearby window ledge. He was a man late in his thirties. Tangles of brown-black hair that fought him anytime he came equipped with a comb. His beard, still in its early stages of growth since he last shaved, was fuller along his upper lip. The hairs on his chin were beginning to adopt a coat of snowy white.

Beneath the beard was naturally darker skin tanned by generations under the sun. Permanent wrinkles of age creased the areas around his eyes and mouth. His nose, forever crooked since his fight with Queen Redvayne’s brother almost twenty years prior, was plump along the tip. During his childhood, it was often compared to a grapefruit or a lemon.

To many, he was considered handsome. This had been discussed—to his chagrin—many nights when others had their fill of spiced wine or ale. To himself, though, he saw a withering man with no romantic prospects.

But perhaps that was for the best. Elite Guards were meant to show loyalty to the crown far above anyone or anything else. Even their own families, should they have any.

He met the queen’s gaze and offered a small smile, which proved a difficult feat for someone like Dario. The queen’s hand jumped as if it might reach out to caress his face. Instead, it fell at her front and folded against her other hand.

Silence billowed between them. Not quite as awkward or rigid as it might’ve been around others. This, though prolonged, held some semblance of comfort. Even a bit of warmth.

The silence broke as Princess Marissa clambered about how excited she was for another walk around the city. It was a tradition of sorts between them. An excursion every few days, when Dario had the time.

The princess could hardly retain her excitement. She was like a fire popper with a lit fuse. Dario had to hold onto her hand to keep her from running off through the streets.

Leaning in close to the queen, he whispered, “Have you any word yet?”

The queen stiffened at his question, but her alarm dwindled quickly, concealed beneath her usual calm demeanor. “A letter arrived an hour ago.”

“And?”

“It was a success,” she said. “Minor losses for us.”

“What of the rebels?”

She shot him a stern look. “The less we speak of them, the better. But from what I hear, it’s all been taken care of. Save a few prisoners currently in transport.”

He nodded, relieved. Soon enough, they would be back at full capacity for the guards and patrols. And now that the insurrectionists were no more, life would return to some semblance of normal. Especially if they kept quiet about it.

The queen was very adamant about this. There was to be no talk of rebels or revolution. Those sparks had already been flamed once. Now that the fire was extinguished, it was their duty to do everything they could to keep them from resurrecting.

With that off his mind, he bid farewell and led the princess out from the castle walls. They took to the streets, heading north toward the canal.

The princess could go out at any time she pleased, so long as she was accompanied by a fleet of guards. But for a child, that was far from liberating. You were just trading the stone walls of the castle for the steel-plated walls of soldiers.

This trip around the city of theirs was private and intimate. It allowed the princess to breathe freely. Gave her room to explore and live no different than any other kid. And it gave Dario a chance to show off his knowledge with history lessons of the region or conversations executed solely in the Elder Speak.

In this, the princess showed some promise, especially for her age, but she was far from fluent. All the better because she was less likely to catch him cursing. Less likely to understand him whenever he was muttering to himself.

As the day completely conceded to night, the princess and Dario the Scorpion had ventured beyond all the shops and markets and vendors to the canal docks where tethered schooners bobbed gently against the current.

While the Southeast was of a dry heat, being so near to water filled the air with a thick humidity that Dario had only ever experienced in the Southern wetlands. And while the night wind brought some relief, it also carried a heavy stink of salt and fish piss.

The princess followed the docks to the waterfront, feet thudding against rotting boards. Beneath, currents rippled against wood posts with an audible splash. Dario remained where the dock met land. He looked out across the canal at the opposite side, where a line of drywood trees swayed against the breeze.

There was a prickle along the nape of his neck. Dario turned his head left to right, looking in either direction, met only by shadows and emptiness. Most had ventured into the city by now or returned to their homes.

Slowly, he shifted around, looking back the way they’d come. Again, he only saw shadows. And while he tried to convince himself of this, there was a tightness in his heart that wouldn’t let it be true.

“Your Highness,” he called over his shoulder, “we should head back now.”

The princess groaned. “But it hasn’t even been an hour.” Her footsteps gradually grew louder as she approached. “And you promised you’d show me the fire dancers.”

“Another time—STOP!” His arm shot out, keeping her at bay. “Stay back, Your Highness.”

Dario reached over his shoulder and drew the sword from his back. It was an old Southeastern design, created long before there were kings or queens or settlements of any kind. Back when they were all tribespeople.

It had a crescent-shaped blade of tempered steel. The handle, lacquered drywood, was wrapped in tanned leather. The handle was almost twice the length of the blade. But the weapon was well-balanced enough to wield with one hand or two.

Ahead, from the vendor stands and the narrow alleyways just beyond them, he caught the faintest glimpse of silhouettes shifting against darkness.

“I am Dario the Scorpion, Elite Guard for Queen Redvayne.” His voice boomed with an authority that felt foreign to him. “Announce yourselves or disperse. I will not warn you again.”

Slowly, they came out from hiding, one by one. Four of them in total. All dressed in scrap leather and rawhide, wielding blades that were more rust than steel. Each of them donned a mask. Some were made from burlap with holes cut for eyes. Others had been whittled from wood and held with knotted rope.

“You wanna tell the rest of your friends to come out?” he asked.

In response, the four charged at him. Dario met them halfway, knowing it was better to have solid ground at your back than water. Especially with him donning such heavy plates.

The four were almost as pathetic as their armor. Sluggish movements. Fumbling their way through a strike and a parry. Lacking the proper discipline to attack with companions rather than fight alone.

Dario sidestepped the first swordsman and cut him down with a single swing. The next came almost immediately after, but before he could bring his weapon down, Dario had cleaved through the side of his head. When he was on the ground, a good stomp to the face finished him.

The next two had at least made an effort to attack in tandem. A shortsword to the left and a mace to the right. The shortsword lacked reach. When the wielder overextended himself, Dario seized him by the arm and pulled him aside to absorb the mace’s next blow. His skull, despite the wooden mask, caved rather easily. He dropped fast, limp by the time he hit the ground.

The last of the four pressed onward with his mace, bringing it from left to right in a wide arc, putting all his might into every swing. Dario had seen new recruits do the same.

For some reason, they all believed fighting was a matter of strength. That’s why they were so damn easy to swindle. They always put their money on the bigger opponent during melees.

As the mace arced, Dario waited for it to pass before rushing forward. By the time the mace was making its return on the backswing, he had already slipped behind the wielder.

With his free hand on the man’s back, he pushed him against the crescent’s edge as it dragged across the soft underside of his throat.

The man went down to his knees, choking on blood. It seemed Dario hadn’t cut deep enough. He’d missed the arteries, and now, the man was like to drown before he bled through.

A second cleaner swing nearly severed the man’s head from the neck. He was dead mere moments later.

Turning back toward the city, Dario waited. In the lull of clashing steel and shuffling feet, the others caught on quick. Several more crept out from the alleyways, taking to the main road. Another five with similar states of armor and weaponry.

Aside from the two at the center.

One of them was exceptionally tall. A mountainous beard and scant hair on his head. The visage rattled a memory loose in Dario’s mind. Verdugo the Butcher, he recalled. The man’s bounty had been plastered all across the region. Every settlement and village had his face posted somewhere.

Beside him was a shorter man, even more so in comparison to Verdugo. The shorter man was dressed in lacquered iron and leather scales tied together with silk. Beneath, he wore a two-piece robe cinched at the waist with a sash. From head to toe, his clothing was colored in shades of black.

His face, difficult to distinguish against the night, was pressed hard as stone. Thin lips turned into a frown. Forehead creased with concentration. Long hair knotted at the back.

The shorter man popped his sword from its sheath with his thumb before drawing steel from leather. The blade was long and narrow with a slight curve along the spine. While Dario had never met any of them, he recognized the sword’s design as belonging to the Everlasting Blossoms.

The other three in their company were less distinct in their appearance. Average height. Average build. All donned masks. Whereas the other two seemed less concerned about concealing their identities.

“I told you,” Verdugo said to the Blossom. “Don’t matter if it’s four on one. An Elite Guard ain’t nothin’ to sniff at.”

“Quiet,” the Blossom replied. “What’s done is done.”

“Well, if she asks, I’m tellin’ her it was your idea.”

“I didn’t want to risk anyone catching us at the rear.” While they bickered, the other three charged. The Blossom turned away from Verdugo and called out, “WAIT!”

But it was too late. Once cowards find their bravery, they aren’t wont to relinquish it so easily.

All three of the masked attackers were armed with shortswords and wooden circular shields. Dario took his sword in both hands. His feet spread apart and planted deep. There was enough distance between him and the docks to make a stand here.

The men were maybe twenty feet away when it came. A gust of wind so powerful it sent Dario staggering back. Almost took him off his feet, but he caught himself before that could happen. The men, though, were nowhere near fast enough to manage, and all three landed flat on their arses.

Dario took his defensive stance again, but as he guided his feet into position, there came an ache from his chest. He glanced down. Two gashes cut crisscross, along with a puncture at their center. While none of the strikes had managed to get at the leather and mail beneath his cuirass, the damage was alarming, to say the least.

Looking up, he found Verdugo the Butcher standing alone. The Blossom was—

Dario twisted at the hips, spinning about on his heel and swinging wide with his blade. The Blossom dipped beneath and stabbed. The tip of his sword drove against Dario’s plating, creating another puncture.

Dario hacked at him, and their blades met with a squeal. He returned on the backswing, missing the Blossom by a mere hair. Dario pressed him, forgoing any tricks or fancy footwork for speed and power.

The rumor about Everlasting Blossoms was true, it seemed. Which meant he couldn’t give him a moment to breathe.

Dario’s blade raised a little too high, and as it came down diagonally, another gust of wind. His blade cut through empty air, and once again, he was spinning around to meet the Blossom at his backside.

The Blossom managed another two slashes before Dario was able to parry him. Before the Blossom could recover, he shoved him over and drew the dagger from his waist. Two of the other three swordsmen had found their feet and sprinted at him.

The dagger was turned down in a defensive hold, meant to deflect his enemy’s blade while he cut at them with his crescent sword. The first of the three caught Dario’s blade with his neck and dropped.

The second came in with a thrust. Pointed steel screamed against plate. Dario replied with a feigned slash of the dagger, and while the swordsman dodged right, the crescent sword greeted him, tearing through skin and skull. He went to the ground, taking Dario’s sword with him.

The third had found his feet by then and charged, a war cry bubbling in his throat. It came out as a whimper when Dario struck him square in the face with his gauntleted fist.

With the third indisposed, Dario took hold of his sword and planted one of his feet against the second swordsmen, who was most likely dead, save a few instinctual twitches. He ripped his sword free just as another gust of wind brushed past.

This time, Dario went reeling about, slamming into a nearby vendor stand hard enough to make the foundation groan. A searing pain emanated from the left side of his face.

At the taste of copper, he swept his tongue across the inside of his cheek only to feel it push past split skin and touch the cold of night.

He swallowed the pain and composed himself. The Blossom was preparing for another strike, bracing his legs to lunge. Dario pounced first, engaging in another cross of steel. They went at each other relentlessly.

When the last of the swordsmen started to get up, Dario broke from his duel with the Blossom to drive his dagger into the nape of the swordsman’s neck. He wasted no time turning to meet the Blossom, catching another slash with his plated forearm.

It didn’t occur to him, until he felt a pinch at his flank, that the Blossom’s strike was a distraction. And as that pinch turned into an inferno, he realized he’d forgotten all about Verdugo, who was currently to his right, bringing an axehead against his side a second time.

The second strike was harsh, piercing metal and leather, only to get caught by the mail beneath. But the third strike took Dario off his feet, and with it came the snap of steel links breaking as the axehead sank into the gambeson below.

As he lay on the ground, Verdugo hovering over him, there came an explosion from across the city. Flames rushed toward the sky. When they finally fell, the smoke continued, black as the cosmos above.

With the eruption came screams from all over as commonfolk and guards alike rushed to douse the fire before it could spread. That’s when the second explosion occurred. Just as large and loud as the first. But this one was on the opposite side of town.

Verdugo recoiled in response and, after a moment, began to laugh. “Took ’em long enough, huh?” he said to the Blossom.

The Blossom made to respond, but the words never came. Dario had taken up his sword and lunged. Three fast strikes. Of the three, the Scorpion had made contact with his blade once, plunging the tip between lacquered iron greaves into the flesh beneath, successfully stinging the Blossom to the bone.

With an anguished cry, the Blossom went down. Dario stumbled to his feet and called out to the princess, “RUN!” That was all he managed before Verdugo bulled him over.

He fell flat on his face. Blood filled his nose, and tears filled his eyes. Verdugo rolled him onto his back. The last thing Dario saw was Princess Marissa fleeing down the street.

Then, the axe blade planted deep into his head. The initial strike had taken Dario to Lady Death’s door, but when Verdugo slammed his boot heel against the butt of the axehead, Dario was thrown straight into Her arms.