James Maxey - Greatshadow

During Relic’s monologue, Father Ver gave no reaction beyond his default scowl. Finally, Relic finished. Father Ver continued to glare down into the hunchback’s face. I noticed the Whisper slip up next to Ivory Blade. She stood on her tiptoes and placed her lips to his ear. As she spoke so softly only he could hear, I noticed that she ran her hand along Blade’s face and hair in a gesture that told me their relationship was more than simply teammates.

“Oh, right,” said Blade. “You should also know the hunchback is afflicted with a potentially contagious flesh-eating disease.”

“This information would be important only if we were considering allowing him to join our mission,” said Father Ver.

“So he’s lying?”

“He speaks the truth, or believes he does,” said Father Ver. “It doesn’t matter. I advise we kill him, and dismantle this abomination.” He gave Infidel only the barest glance as he spoke. Again, I couldn’t help but suspect there was something odd going on with the way the king’s men were ignoring her.

Blade leaned back against the boulder, scratching his chin as he thought. The Whisper wrapped her arms around him and began to plant soft, silent kisses along the side of his neck. Blade’s voice remained steady despite this as he said, “If he’s telling the truth, killing him seems short-sighted. Physically, he’s no asset, but the War Doll offsets this liability.”

“I don’t understand why the king feels we need to hire mercenaries,” grumbled Father Ver. “It shows a lack of faith.”

“I’m not going to second guess the king. And, now that we’re actually on the mission, the decision of who we hire isn’t mine to make. Tower will have to decide.”

Menagerie asked, “Where is Lord Tower anyway? Isn’t it time we meet the man leading this mission?”

“Tower can only carry one other adult with him when he flies,” said Blade. “He’ll be back soon enough with the final members of the team.”

“Flies?” asked Menagerie. “He can turn into a bird as well?”

“No. Flight is a power granted by the Gloryhammer.”

“What’s a hammer got to do with flying?” asked Reeker.

“Kumuk yuh fuh wut wuh,” said No-Face.

“Just try it,” said Reeker.

Before anyone else could ask for a translation, a shadow flickered across the cavern floor. I’d never met Lord Tower, but there was no mistaking the identity of the man who descended slowly through the shaft toward us. He was covered in plate armor polished to a mirror finish; Aurora raised her hand to shield her eyes from the glare. He had his right arm thrust straight out, grasping the Gloryhammer. The sacred artifact was a sledgehammer carved from a single glorystone, blazing with a bright white intensity.

Tower’s right arm was wrapped around a slender figure; at first, I thought it was a woman, but as he drew closer to us I could see it was a man. He had black hair gathered into a pony-tail, and priestly robes of the same style as Father Ver’s, only bright red. His arms were tightly wrapped around Tower’s torso, his eyes wide with terror as he gazed at the ground. Of course, the look of fear wasn’t the first thing I noticed about his face. I couldn’t help but wonder why he had a large letter ‘D’ tattooed onto his forehead in blood-red ink.

The terrified man wasn’t Lord Tower’s only passenger. There was also a bored-looking boy standing on Lord Tower’s left boot. He balanced there on one foot, with one hand gripping Tower’s belt, looking quite relaxed as Tower descended. The boy looked no older than ten. His head was shaved; he wore no shirt, only a pair of white cotton britches. He was heavily tanned, the shade of a loaf of bread fresh from an oven. The boy hopped from Tower’s boot with the ground still ten feet away, dropping to a silent touchdown on the gravel. Tower’s metal boots came to rest seconds later with a loud CLANK. The man in the red robes fell to the rocky ground, groveling at the knight’s feet. It took a second to realize he wasn’t showing gratitude to Lord Tower but was, instead, kissing the ground.

Tower’s face was hidden behind his steel faceplate. His eyes could barely be seen through twin slits in the mirrored surface. He surveyed everyone in the room; glancing quickly at Reeker and Menagerie, pausing at No-Face. I detected a slight shudder before he moved on to Aurora. His eyes narrowed; she returned his gaze without flinching. He then sized up Relic, and, apparently judging him harmless, turned his attention to Infidel.

His eyes lingered on the metal bra longer than necessary. Infidel didn’t move a muscle. He raised his eyes to her face. Again, his gaze lingered for longer than it should have.

He said, finally, “I see we have… guests.”

“Trespassers,” said Father Ver.

“Applicants,” said Blade. “Who did quite admirably on their interview, I thought.”

The sun-tanned boy had been studying everyone as well. He said, “The hunchback and the painted woman are seeking to join our mission?”

“Correct,” said Blade. “I think they could prove valuable.”

“All they prove is that someone has already compromised our mission,” said Father Ver. “Killing them will set an example to those who might seek to betray us.” He looked directly at the man in the red robes as he spoke.

I found it curious that Blade and Father Ver were addressing the boy instead of Lord Tower, the supposed leader of this mission. Just who was this kid?

The boy walked up to Relic. “You appear too old and feeble to make the journey.”

Unlike Father Ver, the child spoke in a neutral, observational tone, with no hint of scorn or disdain.

“Hiring only my body would be a poor investment,” Relic said. “It is my knowledge that will be of value.”

“Your knowledge is of little use if you cannot survive the tests before us.”

“I assure you, I will be alive long after everyone in this room has returned to dust. As for my diminished physicality, the War Doll more than compensates. She is the ultimate fighting machine; no one in this room is her match.”

“That,” said the boy, cracking his knuckles, “sounds like a challenge.” He clasped his hands together prayerfully and bowed toward Relic. “I accept.”

Relic tilted his head quizzically. “Are you challenging the War Doll?”

“Yes,” said the child. Despite the fact that he was well-muscled for his age, the boy didn’t look like a fighter. Most boys of a combative nature were covered with scabs and scars, but this kid didn’t look like he’d ever even been scratched. Despite his modest attire, his gray eyes hinted at a royal lineage. Perhaps, if he’d been in fights before, it had been against opponents who understood the political advantages of not landing a punch.

“I mean no disrespect, but you don’t understand the danger,” said Relic. “The War Doll is a finely tuned killing machine. Her bones are solid steel; her artificial skin is impervious to the sharpest blade. Her mesh-cable muscles can crush a man’s skull like an eggshell.”

The boy responded with a serene smile. “You’re lying. Your companion is a woman with painted skin, not a machine. Your dire warnings are nothing but a bluff. Isn’t that right, Father Ver?”

The Truthspeaker frowned. “The hunchback believes he is telling the truth.”

The boy furrowed his brow. “There is an aura of magic around you, creature. Somehow, you are fooling Father Ver.”

“No magic could conceal the truth from a servant of the Divine Author, could it?” Relic replied.

The boy frowned as he continued to study Relic and Infidel. Finally, he said, “If your ‘War Doll’ can simply knock me from my feet, we shall consider that a victory. I’ll acknowledge that she’s not a painted woman, despite the plain evidence of my senses.”