Robert Wisser was waiting once again. In the rain and wind, filthy as the mind of a teenage boy, he listened to the faint tinkle of Biter's piss against a wall. Despite all that, Robert didn't mind waiting too much, not for this. This wasn't like waiting for Anne. This would be but a few moments, a minute if that, and at the end of it, Biter wouldn't stand with a mocking grin on his face, glad that he'd kept Robert waiting.
Shortly enough Robert heard the jangling of belts and the fastening of trousers.
"Finished back there?" Robert called. He didn't mind waiting much, but that did not mean he was happy to be waiting. Each moment without movement was one where he wasn't nearing the Pale Boys. Being in Quenasses, being so close, it was insufferable. Anticipation had been building in Robert since he'd returned to the city. He couldn't wait to soak the floors in their tainted, mad blood.
"Aye," Biter said, rounding the corner of the alley he'd gone to piss in. "I'm done."
Robert nodded. They moved again, quickly wending their way through the streets of Quenasses. Hooded cloaks covered their appearances, ensuring none would know of Robert's return until he wanted them to. It would be a grander affair that way, perhaps even Anne would be surprised.
What an occasion that would be, he thought.
Soon enough they were among the traders and merchants of the Guilds' District. Besides the Bastille, this was the finest area of Quenasses. The houses were large and eloquent. The people polite and dignified. Best of all, no more than a few buildings were covered in that petty peasant art the rest of the Vovequians adored. The Guilds had thought it unprofessional to keep children's paintings on their places of business, and so had removed them as they established themselves. Robert could respect that level of professionalism, and though he doubted those in charge of Quenasses held that same respect, there wasn't much they could do about it. Guilds were far too powerful in all of Vovequia. Unlike in Drevon, they were practically unregulated here, allowing Guild members to run their districts as if they were a city within a city.
Compared to the fine stone buildings of the Guilds' Districts, and the finer people trading within, Robert and Biter looked no better than beggars. Suspicious eyes glanced everywhere Robert walked, watching his hands more than his face, seeing if they'd snatched anything they shouldn't.
Unluckily for the people eyeing him, they'd never spy the thing Robert had snatched, as he'd hidden it under his cloak. A sabre – heftier than the one he'd had before – now hung at his side, replacing the blade Biter had snapped. Robert had pinched the thing from a blacksmith a while ago, just as he'd entered Quenasses. Biter had frowned throughout the theft but after Robert had outlined there was no other way to remain unseen and kill the Pale Boys, Biter's protest became a silent one.
"Excuse me," said a rather fat man, dressed in a light blue coat with a white and gold waistcoat underneath. "Are you two quite lost?" He approached with a smug, rich grin.
"Sod off," Biter barked, stepping between Robert and the fat man.
"Excuse me?" the fat man scoffed. "Do you know who you're talking to?"
"I don't care," Biter said. He socked the fat man in his wobbling jaw, sending him reeling to the floor. Robert could've sworn he saw a yellowed tooth fly down the street.
Biter grabbed Robert's arm. "Let's run, shall we?"
Already a crowd of disgruntled merchants were swarming the pair. Robert saw them as no threat, but he'd rather not start a massacre. Not here, at least.
The moments after Biter's punch were a blur. Robert followed his bald companion, fleeing through the growing crowd of merchants, pushing men, women, and children aside as he ran. He heard shouting after him, and the thundering of angry footsteps. Through streets and narrow alleys Robert ran after Biter. The short, bald man was ducking and diving randomly, in any direction he pleased to lose the multitude of pursuers chasing behind.
After a few minutes of non-stop sprinting, Biter finally skidded to a halt.
"I think," he panted. "I think we're clear."
Robert nodded, too out of breath to speak. If they hadn't stopped then, he wouldn't have been able to keep going much longer. It had been far too long since he'd had to run, and Robert was being sorely reminded of that fact. Despite the strain on his body, Robert couldn't help but smile. He felt giddy, from his toes to his brain there was an uncontrollable buzz in his body. He hadn't felt like this in a long time, it was the rush he used to get in a fight, or when pursuing a woman. Before he knew none could beat him, and before he knew no woman would resist him. Well, none except Anne.
"Why start a fight?" Robert said after catching his breath. "Are you mad?"
"Bored," Biter said bluntly. "Suppose that's not too different. Saw an easy way to get us moving."
"Well next time you could let me know about your little plans."
"I did," Biter said. "I told you to run."
That was true enough. No matter where Biter went, he made sure Robert followed, and wherever Robert went, Biter was never far behind. It was a peculiar thing, really, the Zweihander's loyalty. He seemed entirely content as Robert's right hand now, never seeking to escape, nor to kill the man that had nearly killed him a few days prior.
"Why've you never run off on your own?" Robert asked, deciding to gain some closure on his curiosities. "You said you've friends? I've seen one of them."
"Do you want me to piss off?" Biter replied.
"Not particularly," Robert admitted. "But you've had plenty of chances to do so, and we both know you're not sticking around because you're fond of me."
Biter scratched his nose before shooting snot straight out of it. The yellowy, grim liquid splatted against the floor.
"I've seen how you get when you've been wronged," said the Zweihander. "You're not a happy chick I'll tell you that. If I go off trying to find my mates, you'd no doubt come for me in time. So, why make an enemy out of you when I can stay on your good side easily enough?"
"A fair point," Robert judged. The simplicity of this man. Compared to those in the High Council, it was more than a breath of fresh air.
"So," Biter said. "Bastille's not far now. Ready to kill some maniacs?"
Robert shook his head. "Not yet. It'll be getting dark soon. Best to get them while they're sleeping. Gives me chance to clean up too. I'd rather not be covered in filth when I wipe the Pale Boys from this world."
"Alright. I've heard you're allowed to wash yourself in the river here."
"You're lying, aren't you?" Robert asked. "Setting me up so I'll make a fool of myself."
Biter frowned. "Get a grip."
They found their way near the river, stepping down so that the water was just below their feet, streaming between the city's grey stones.
It was beautifully clean, the river. No water in Uttoll could match it. The rivers there were murky, tainted with the waste of factories, mines, and anything else Anne used to make her powder-fuelled weapons of destruction. Perhaps in the nicer places, like the Arch or Dolpon one could find a river as clear as this, but Robert had never seen one.
The Chelyse, it was called, if Robert remembered rightly. He cupped some of the waters in his hands, letting the cold liquid wash over his face, cleaning it of dirt as he rubbed his cheeks. Then, he cupped some more water and drank deeply.
"Is that safe?" Biter asked.
"I can practically see to the bottom," Robert said in between gulps. "I'm sure it's fine." He rubbed his neck before dipping his head wholly under the flowing river, wetting his hair and drinking more deeply.
"It is nice that," Biter said. "Proper clean. I heard the murky rivers, the dirty ones is where we get all our diseases. Someone told me that, anyway."
"Did that someone think themselves a smart person? I bet they did. See, the thing about people who come up with theories like that, is that as soon as they have an idea, they automatically believe it to be the truth. No research, no proof, just their opinion, displayed as fact."
"That person is dear to me. He's a good friend."
"Doesn't mean he can't be wrong," Robert said. With his face decently cleaned – it wasn't a perfect wash, but it would do – he threw off the cloak disguising his uniform, and took the pins and medals from his pockets. As best as he could remember he made himself look as he usually would, using the reflection of the water as his mirror. He restored the pride, the splendour in his appearance, so that when the Pale Boys looked upon him again, they wouldn't know the trials they put him through.
"Sun's getting low," Biter commented. "Think you're ready?"
Robert nodded. "Got your sword?"
Biter gestured to the bundle on his back. He'd done his best to wrap the five feet of steel but couldn't tightly cover the hilt. Luckily, none had questioned why a beggar was carrying a disguised blade.
They reached the Bastille by nightfall, the sun just setting behind the hills surrounding Quenasses. It was a scenic image, and it would've made a wonderful painting. Robert cared not for that beauty now. Spilling blood was the only thought on his mind.
As usual, there were guards by the door to the Bastille. Luckily, they were neither Pale Boys or Anne's women. Both of these men were Zweihanders. They nodded to Robert as he approached, sharing a confused glance between each other.
"Lord Courtesy," one of them plucked up the courage to say. "You were reported missing."
"Well now you can report me found," Robert said. "Let me in, will you?"
They hesitated a moment.
"Did I misspeak?"
"No, Lord Courtesy. Perhaps we might find Countess Dreor for you, or the Patriarch? Someone to welcome you back proper."
Robert hovered his hand over the hilt of his hefty new sabre. "I'll find them myself. I've been away for a while, and won't be stopped by either of you two reprobates. Move."
The Zweihanders stepped aside, allowing Robert entry to the Bastille.
"Are all of your lot so stupid?" Robert muttered as he and Biter paced quickly through the courtyard.
"Not stupid. Stubborn," Biter said. "For better or worse, we stick to what we know or what we've been told."
"Hm," Robert sniffed. "Like dogs."
"Your lot made us that way."
"My lot did no such thing," Robert replied. "I believe there are many people who enjoy being treated like dogs. Given orders, having a master and all that. There are very few who truly want their own path, their own way."
"Whatever you say," Biter sighed.
Without Thyrus as his guide, Robert could barely remember the route down into the catacombs. Still, he could take all the time he needed in finding his path. The Pale Boys weren't going anywhere. They didn't even know he was coming.
A few faces recognised Robert as he passed through the halls of the Bastille. Most were cattle. The folk Robert knew of, but didn't know at all, faces that had no meaning, and only stood where they were because of their fathers and mothers. As expected, the cattle simply stared at Robert as he passed, unsure of what they could possibly do with the fact that he had returned.
They looked as if they were eyeing a ghost. Robert liked that. He liked knowing of the presence he had. It gave him strength, to be looked on with such awe.
So, this is how he feels, Robert thought. I can see why he likes it.
After the cattle though, someone of worry caught Robert's eye. She had white hair – though she was not old – grey skin and a dark blue uniform.
One of Anne's, Robert noted. Oh dear.
As soon as the woman locked eyes with Robert, she disappeared down a nearby corridor, no doubt to inform Anne of her husband's arrival.
Oh well, can't do anything about that now. She won't get to Anne before I can get to those zealots anyway.
Robert quickened his pace. Biter followed. Within a few minutes they found a staircase leading down into the catacombs. It was unguarded, letting Robert know he was heading the right way. The Pale Boys never left guards outside their hovels; they'd rather people didn't know where they were at all, and a pair of guards at a stairway would only imply there was something worth guarding. Instead, any poor sod who stumbled on their little hovels would either find himself dead or ushered back from whence he came.
Their footsteps echoed as Robert and Biter made their way down the old stone steps. They appeared endless, the stairs; one long passage led down into darkness, under the world. As he descended further, the silence only broken by his and Biter's echoing steps, Robert found himself to be shivering. It was cold in the catacombs, but not cold enough for that. Sir Robert Wisser, grandest swordsman in all of Drevon, was scared. Not of the Pale Boys, but of one man who might be with them. Well, barely a man. More of a monster, really.
"Why've we stopped?" Biter asked. "Let's get this over with."
"He could be down there," Robert said.
"Who?" Biter asked.
"Who do you think?"
"Don't reckon," Biter said. Robert laughed at that. Another simple rejection. So blunt, so certain.
"If you say so," Robert said. He began walking once more.
The first Pale Boy to die was waiting for them at the bottom of the stairs. His eyes were full of disbelief as Robert charged him, sabre drawn. Those disbelieving eyes widened as Robert disembowelled the milk-white belly of the zealot, letting his pink guts splash to the floor. It was a heavy swing, nearly cleaving the Pale Boy in two. Robert regretted wasting so much energy in that swing. He couldn't exactly help being as angry as he was though.
Two more zealots emerged after the first, coming to investigate the death rattle of their brother. Both were the elite kind of the Patriarch's maniacs. Dark, heavy plate covered their bodies, but it didn't do much to protect them from Robert. He was on them before either could pull out a weapon. A stab to the thigh, a deep slash across the throat, and another stab to the jugular later, and the Pale Boys were dead. Robert relished in their dying gargles, in the fountains of red spilling over the harrowing white of their skin.
With the cries of three dead men echoing through the catacombs, the Pale Boys had now realised they were under attack, and approached Robert in force. First came the new converts; the naked, screaming men that were little more than animals. None of them were any match for Robert, he cut through them as if he were cutting through butter with a hot knife. Each time they attempted to swarm him with numbers, Robert would escape to a narrower corridor, always drawing them in, one at a time.
After he'd successfully thinned the naked Pale Boys, their armoured brothers came to replace them. Again though, Robert found no match. With his skill and rage, he was as wild as the Low Wood among the Pale Boys. His sword was a flash of steel at his arm, whirling around as it pierced and slashed flesh with ease. When his sword was occupied, Robert would keep any other approaching foes back with vicious kicks and elbows, ensuring they were efficiently stunned while his sabre cleaved through skin, muscle, sinew and bone.
Soon enough the Pale Boys realised that despite their numbers, they were the ones at a disadvantage in this battle. Most that could stand began to retreat, waiting for their brothers to reinforce them. They screamed into the nearby corridors, giving both Biter and Robert a rare moment of respite in what had been but a couple of minutes of madness.
"Think they're done?" Biter said.
"I see," Robert panted, ignoring Biter. "Hoping to overwhelm me, not bad."
A huge man came into view. Covered in armour as black as coal, he stood almost a foot taller than any of the Pale Boys around him. In his hands he held a huge maul. Thick muscles on his arms bulged as he twirled the weapon.
What the Pale Boys lacked in skill, they made up for in attentiveness it seemed. In the second that Robert was distracted by the hulking man approaching him, two plucky zealots rushed him from behind. He dodged a blow aimed for his head by instinct, removing the attacker's arm with a lucky backslash. As Robert made to deal with the second attacker, he was reminded of another of the Pale Boys traits. Their resilience.
Even without an arm this naked Pale Boys rose to his feet, gripping Robert's sword arm mid-swing. While he was immobilised, the second attacker advanced, ready to crush Robert's skull. With a swift elbow Robert freed his sword arm, but he wasn't swift enough. Time seemed to slow as the mace neared Robert's head. There was no time to dodge, to parry. All Robert could do was wait for his skull to be crushed.
Fortunately, his skull remained uncrushed. The mace didn't even come close. As the Pale Boy made to swing, he was skewered by a sword larger than any sword had a right to be. With a vicious tackle Biter shouldered the Pale Boy from his zweihander, sending the zealot sprawling to the floor.
Robert nodded to his saviour. "I knew there was a reason I brought you along."
"Had to make myself useful somehow, didn't I?" Biter said. "Haven't had to kill a man yet."
"I thought you could just stand behind me and look pretty," Robert said.
"Pretty? You've either gone blind or mad, mate."
Mate. That was a nice thought. It was doubtful that the Zweihander thought of Robert as a true friend, but that didn't matter too much. It had been so long since anyone had called him mate, friend, or anything of the sort. The only people that had showed him affection in the last few years were women, the men being far too envious or fearful of Robert to ever get close. To some, that life seemed a dream. Having as many women to bed as one had fingers and toes was a fantastic proposition at first, but then the meaninglessness of it all would build. After the first month or so, fucking just became part of the job.
No time for that, Robert told himself as he saw the last of the Pale Boys advancing. There was only about ten of them now, but with Robert's fatigue, he couldn't be sure who would leave the catacombs victorious.
Biter charged ahead, allowing Robert a few more moments of respite. The Zweihander wasn't half bad in a fight. His style was brutish, unrefined, though Robert could see how such roughness worked in the small man's favour. Headbutts, elbows and knees were all put to good use, and when Biter needed space, one wide swing of his sword would do the trick. For a moment, it looked as if Biter alone was enough to deal with the remaining Pale Boys. Robert had almost got his breath back when maul of the hulking zealot crashed into the wall of the catacomb corridor, far too close to Biter's face.
Robert dashed forwards; eyes set on his giant of a target. He hopped swiftly past Biter, dodging the swing of the zweihander with ease and killing two more Pale Boys almost accidentally. With his moment of respite, Robert felt like a man refreshed. His feet were as light as air, his blade moving as though it were made of paper.
The huge Pale Boy had one swing to kill Robert and he knew it. With all his might, he brought his maul down, aiming to crush Robert's head to a pulp and press the rest into the floor. Countering the strike, Robert slammed his sword into the long hilt of the maul, knocking its balance in the Pale Boy's hand and ensuring an awkwardness in his strike. Sidestepping the untrained blow of the maul, Robert slashed again, this time slicing off a few disgustingly white fingers from the zealot's hand, so that he wouldn't lift his maul again.
With a grunt, the Pale Boy reached out, snatching Robert's throat with a thick hand. The movement was quick, unexpected, but not something Robert was ill-prepared for. His sabre still firmly in his grasp, Robert plunged the blade up and into the exposed armpit of the Pale Boy, letting the steel tear through flesh until it poked out of his neck. Robert pulled the blade out with a grunt, letting a fountain of blood spill over him and the floor beneath. His legs failing him, the final Pale Boy slumped to his knees. He was dead before his body hit the floor.
A strange quiet filled the catacombs. Only Robert and Biter's breathing could be heard. A few corpses still twitched, but other than that, they were the only two even able to move among a sea of bodies.
"Must have been what," Biter said. "Thirty of em?"
"Likely many more," Robert said, sheathing his sword. "But consider how many died when we collapsed the floor, and how many were those worthless, naked worms."
"Right," Biter said. The bald man was sweating profusely, wiping his shiny dome with a disgustingly stained sleeve. He sat on the body of the largest Pale Boy, sighing as he did so.
Robert gave Biter a look of judgement.
"What?" Biter said, noticing the look. "I'm knackered."
"Bit disrespectful though, isn't it? The body's still warm."
"Not all of us can be so picky. When there's a seat, there's a seat. We don't wait for our servants to get on hand and knee and allow us to rest our weight on their backs."
"I don't think that this," Robert said, gesturing to Biter's nonchalance. "Has anything to do with notions of class. It's just disrespectful."
"To who?"
Robert pinched his nose. "To the man you are sitting on!"
Biter chuckled, rather pleased he'd annoyed Robert. He leaned on his sword and pushed himself back onto his feet.
"I just needed a moment," he said. "Don't think the fella under me minded either. Fat cunt probably couldn't even feel me on him."
Robert sighed. "If you want rest, we'll find some."
Biter raised an eyebrow. "So, we're done here? I thought you'd want to head home, to Drevon. Kill the rest of the sods."
"What would make you think that?" Robert asked. "I'm no madman."
"Could've fooled me. You seemed the type to take things way too far."
"I am. Look about you and you'll see what I do to those who think they can do away with me. Yet, I am not so foolish to challenge all the charters of the Pure Sons. That effort could take years, and the Patriarch would surely crush my skull at the end of it all if not sooner."
"Don't think you could take him?" Biter asked. Robert chuckled lightly, though one look at Biter's face told him the Zweiahander wasn't joking. He watched Robert with curious eyes, clearly believing he had a chance against the invincible Patriarch.
"Again," Robert said eventually, judging his words for once. "I am not mad. I'm willing to bet I've seen our leader in action more times than you have, and from a much closer range too. He's not got a great amount of skill, but he's got instincts the likes of which I've never known, and power unmatched. I'd say he's a bit like you in some of those regards."
"It's as I say, all that flowery swordplay gets you nowhere but the grave," Biter said. "Thank you though, that's kind I suppose."
"You're very welcome, now let's get out of this accursed place, shall we? I'm beginning to feel quite uneasy. The two of us here, surrounded by corpses."
"You should spend more time on the battlefield, Lord Courtesy," Biter said. "You'd get used to being surrounded by bodies."
They found their way out of the catacombs rather easily. Robert feared that the maze-like corridors of the place would keep him trapped, but the trail of blood was an easy one to follow, and lead him to the stairs he'd originally descended. The only problem now was who stood at the bottom of those stairs, surrounded by her Gunners, all six of which had their rifles pointed at Biter.
Robert stepped forwards, putting his body in front of Biter's.
"Hello husband," Anne said. Her red lips were awkwardly curled at their edges, and her nose was showing the faintest sign of scrunching. She might've been furious, or even slightly happy to see him, Robert couldn't be sure yet.
"Hello cousin," Robert replied, hearing a quiet noise of disgust from Biter behind him. Anne's tongue rolled in her mouth. She was in no mood for their usual games. Robert was more than up for the battle though. He was high on victory and didn't care who stood in his way.
"Where've you been?" Anne asked. "You were reported missing, you know."
"Oh, you know me," Robert replied. "I go wherever the wind blows. Here and there, everywhere, it's all a blur really."
"Stop that," Anne ordered, her voice sharp and authoritarian. "Just stop it. Why have you returned now, and why are there two Pale Boys dead on the ground here?"
Robert quite liked it when Anne was angry like this. At least she was showing something. "I only got back now," he said. "I've been on quite the journey, dear wife of mine, all thanks to these bloody Pale Boys."
Anne raised an eyebrow. "Elaborate."
"I came into these catacombs-"
"Why?"
Best not tell her about the Sommelier, Robert told himself. Not now at least, it would only complicate things.
"I got talking to that Thyrus," Robert said. "You know, the Speaker for the Pure Sons? Boring man, terribly boring but quite unavoidable, and so he dragged me down here. Then, a few Zweihanders attacked, searching for their friend it seemed, I didn't really care. The important thing is, to catch these intruders, Thyrus was willing to throw my life away, so I shot him."
"Hmm," Anne pondered. "Not sure I believe most of that but go on anyway."
"Well anyway the short raid by some traitors ended with me finding out the Pale Boys were practising magic, Thyrus dead and this whole ruin falling apart. We tumbled into a place I do not know, and the way out led us far away from the city."
"But you came back," Anne finished. "Because you couldn't let anyone get away with even slightly wronging you, so you massacred each man down here."
Robert smiled. "Am I that obvious?"
"Have you gone mad?" Anne said. "You've slaughtered the Patriarch's pets, all with that accomplice of yours. Who even is that and why haven't you let me kill him yet?"
"His name is Biter," Robert said. "And I swore on my honour as a knight I would not kill him."
Anne gave him a look.
"I know. At first, I was lying, but now I mean it. He's been good to me."
"Awful kind of you," Biter said. There was a defeated tone in his voice. "But I don't think this is going to be much help mate."
"I need to prove that I make the decisions now," Robert whispered. "Not her. She needs to learn not all of us are pieces on her game board."
"Ah yes," Anne said, peering round at Biter. "You're quite the well-known infantryman, aren't you? I should've recognised you really. Shame on me." She flattened her uniform at the stomach before her piercing gaze returned to Robert. "Move aside Robert, I won't ask again. You and I, we might be able to find a way around this, a strategy, but we can't do so if we're carrying dead weight."
"I'm not moving," Robert said, eyeing the Gunners around Anne. Each of them shared her cold expressions. They were nowhere near as icy as Anne, but they were decent impressions of her. "He deserves better than to be put down like some rabid dog."
"For fuck's sake," Biter said, shoving Robert aside. The Gunners raised their rifles. "I'd rather not be fought over like a toy between two toddlers. If you're going to kill me just fucking do it. I'm knackered."
Anne held up her arm. Her Gunners did not fire. Perhaps Robert had convinced her, perhaps Biter's bravery had impressed her. Either way, she was hesitating, something she rarely did.
In Anne's pause, in the quiet that everyone had assumed, Robert heard footsteps. They were heavy, and sounded metallic against the stone steps of the catacombs.
"Fuck," Anne muttered under her breath.
The first tree trunk of a thigh came into view. It was covered in gleaming, silver plate. The next leg then hit the floor of the catacombs, followed shortly by the rest of the Patriarch's hulking mass. It looked as if he'd practically been squeezing his way through the corridor leading to the catacombs. He shook his huge shoulders as he entered the open area. Anne's Gunners moved aside, raising their rifles to point at the air.
Like smoke from a fire, hot breath escaped the lion helmet the Patriarch wore over his head. His red eyes looked at Robert, then at Biter, then at the bodies of the Pale Boys littering the floor around them. He twirled Reckoning - his sickeningly brutish weapon – in his hands. Its head made a whooshing noise as it passed through the air. Upon seeing there was no sign of the Patriarch's friendly nod, Robert moved away from Biter instinctively.
"Who is responsible for this?" The Patriarch asked in a low grumble.
No one spoke, not even Anne. Biter looked utterly terrified for a man who'd once seemed entirely fine with the concept of death. Robert didn't judge him though; the Patriarch was enough of a monster to make any man soil his trousers.
"Who?!" The Patriarch roared, slamming the hammer of Reckoning into a wall. The weapon swung dangerously close to Anne's head, smashing through stone as though it were a clump of tomatoes. A blast of wind knocked Anne's hair aside, letting a few white strands fall in front of her stoic face.
With an outstretched arm Anne pointed a gloved finger at Biter. "That Zweihander, that fiend is a defector, my liege. He has massacred your truest of servants."
It wasn't a good lie. In fact, it was one of the worst Anne had ever told, yet you needn't be a mastermind to fool the Patriarch. He was a boy in a giant's body, and everyone knew it. So long he was pointed one way, with an enemy for him to crush, he would believe whatever he was told.
"And what of Wisser?" The Patriarch said. "He appears beside this traitor, on the same night?"
"I'd been tracking him," Robert said, almost unconsciously. "For weeks, I'd followed this man, knowing he was plotting something terrible, yet I lost myself in the search for personal glory. I didn't tell you or even my wife of my quest, and because of that I failed to stop the bloodshed tonight. I am most sorry."
Robert bowed so he wouldn't have to look at Biter's face. He wished it was the Zweihander he was apologising to, he wished things could be different. In such desperate times though, the preservation of the self came before all else. That was nature.
Keep telling yourself that, Robert thought. Soon you might even believe it, but you'll never feel any better for it.
That was true. He'd not forget this betrayal. There was no fun in this one, no joy in watching as a man's hope turned to ash. A resigned, resolute sigh escaped Biter's mouth.
"I didn't think it would be any different," he muttered before readying his sword. The Patriarch gripped Reckoning in both hands, wringing the metal shaft. He took two steps towards Biter. Standing up fully, he was nearly double the height of the bald Zweihander. Robert moved towards Anne, his back to the brewing duel. He wouldn't watch this. It was cruel. Though he couldn't see behind the silver helmet, Robert knew the Patriarch would be grinning beneath it.
The shot echoed throughout the catacombs a moment after Robert turned his back. The smell of freshly burned powder filled his nostrils and after a second, he heard a body slump to the floor. Anne handed the rifle back to her Gunner and once again flattened the stomach of her coat.
It was a perfect shot. Straight to the chest. Biter had suffered little, likely realising he'd been shot just before he died from the round piercing his heart.
The Patriarch turned his head slowly. Though he could see the smoking rifle in the Gunner's hand, he locked his eyes on Anne.
"You've no need to waste your strength on such filth," Anne said, silencing the Patriarch's protest before it began. "Also, if I may be frank, it's getting late, and I'd rather not lose sleep watching a needless fight."
Robert mouthed a thanks to his wife. She glared at him. The combined hatred of a thousand scorned lovers couldn't match the fury in Anne Dreor's eyes at that moment. Despite her story, it was unlikely Anne would be going to sleep any time soon. She'd be too busy giving Robert's ears a lashing.
"That was not your kill to take, Countess," The Patriarch said. He was hunched slightly over Biter's body, staring hungrily at the corpse.
"Remind me in the future and you can kill one of my enemies," Anne said, her tone entirely uninterested. "I'd be more than glad for you to take even the lightest weight from my shoulders."
The Patriarch spun in place. He raised Reckoning perhaps by a couple of inches, but that was more than enough of a signal for Anne's guard. Six rifles were pointed in an instant at Drevon's ruler, without hesitation. The Patriarch seemed taken aback by this, Robert was sure he'd expected the Gunners to stand idly by, or point their rifles at Anne if need be.
A wry smile curling around her face, Anne dismissed the Gunners with a gesture. "I'm going to bed," she said simply before heading back up the narrow stairway and out of the catacombs. She gestured for Robert to follow. He did so gladly. He'd take a screaming lecture over having his head split in two any day.
Anne waited until they'd returned to some form of privacy before she let loose. They ascended the stairs and walked through the Bastille in awkward silence. Robert wished to say nothing, so as not to provoke his wife further. Anne likely kept her silence so that she could brew the perfect storm of words to throw at her husband.
Only two of the Gunners entered with Anne and Robert into the bedchamber. It was a lovely, spacious room, with a luxurious circular bed, purple silk curtains and large tapestries hanging from any wall not already covered by a bookshelf.
Slamming the door behind her, Anne then turned to Robert and jabbed him with a finger. "The truth, now Robert. You reek of magic."
"It is as I say," Robert said. "The Pale Boys, they use magic for their conversions, and for other things too. Then, when that Zweihander and I fell through the floor, we found ourselves in a ruin further smelling of magic."
Anne glared at Robert for a moment, then swiftly moved over to the finely made wooden desk in the corner of the bedroom. She grabbed a quill and ink and scrawled something down before quietly chuckling to herself.
"What is it?" Robert asked.
"Oh, you beautiful idiotic man. I don't think you know what you stumbled across."
"Do enlighten me."
"It is what we've been waiting for. A chance to delegitimise the Patriarch, to knock him from his pedestal once and for all, to remove the faith the people have in him."
"He's far too entrenched for that," Robert said. "The masses would love him no matter what you said. He's big and shiny. That's all half of them need before they decide he's the leader."
"The masses don't run Drevon," Anne said. "Better for us all that they don't. Instead, we are ruled by a hulking man-child. Behind him though, is a body of anxious nobility, who would turn on the Patriarch as soon as the slightest crack shows in that armour of his."
Robert scrunched up his face uncertainly. "I trust you have a plan."
"Only the beginnings husband. It's barely been a minute since I found out the man who had each and every witch, sorceress, and warlock in Drevon killed or exiled has been harbouring magic within his pets all the while."
"Hmm," Robert said, pondering. "Hypocrisy, I don't think it's a crime that would destroy the Patriarch."
"No, of course not. What it does though, is create doubt. Suddenly, our Patriarch is no longer infallible. Suddenly, he can be wrong, then the Counts and Countesses will begin to remember the other times their leader has done wrong. They will scrutinise each future decision, seeing flaws in even the most perfect of moves."
"I don't see it," Robert said.
Anne took her husband's hand in hers. Though she'd been in the warmth of the chamber for more than a few minutes, Anne's hands were remarkably cold. Her fingers were like pure ice on Robert's palm; he almost winced at the touch.
"Of course, you don't see it," Anne said. "It's why I'm the one with ambition, and you're the one who helps those ambitions become reality."
Looking up at Robert, Anne rested her face inches from his, letting her breath kiss his skin. Unlike her touch, the Countess of Uttoll's breath was warm, letting Robert know she was in some way alive. He pulled away from her grasp then, facing his back to his wife.
"I'd rather not play the games tonight," he said, shaking his head. "I'm tired. Do you want to know how many men I killed tonight?"
"A lot, I imagine," Anne giggled.
Robert didn't return the laugh.
"I do mean it you know," Anne said. "We make a fine team, you and I."
Robert did laugh at that. "We've not been a 'team' in years. We live entirely separate lives, reporting back to one another whenever we have information worth giving. We spit venom at each other whenever we're close, and you'd rather I share a bed with practically anyone than with you."
Anne looked taken aback by that. There was a moment of surprise in her eyes, a slight chink in the otherwise impenetrable armour. She quickly resumed her usual coldness.
"Would you really care to have this argument now?" she asked. "Here? You're away for days and the first thing you want to do when you get back is begin a war of words."
"As if it's anything new," Robert said.
A swift punch – quicker than anything Robert could have predicted – flew into his stomach. With a wheeze, Robert doubled over, Anne standing over him.
"I'm sure you'd like to think of me as the villain of your little story," Anne said. "I'm sure you tell everyone you know that I'm a cold, heartless bitch that exploits you to no end, but I want you to know that your story isn't reality. I may be distant, but I have dragged your whining, egotistical arse through the mud for years now. I've granted you status and power the likes of which you'd have never known, all while running the most advanced society the world will ever know. You or anyone else may never thank me for all that, but you are very welcome."
Robert stood in a flash, gripping Anne's face in his hand. Her Gunners raised their weapons, though they didn't fire. Even with him so close to their employer, the two women felt no threat to Anne's life.
In Anne's eyes there was no fear, no sense of urgency as Robert's hand clamped down on her face. With a grunt, he threw her head back.
"You'll never rule," Robert said. "Not truly."
"Why not?"
"The people, they'll never love you, and before you say it, you can't make them."
"That's what you're for," Anne said, taking Robert's hand again. "Your face, your charm, that will win us every heart and every mind."
She kissed him softly on the cheek. Her lips touched his skin awkwardly, unnaturally.
Robert smiled. "For all your knowledge, for everything you know about people, you've no idea how they actually work, do you?"
Anne frowned. That was one of the worst things anyone could've said to her. She prided herself so on her ability to predict people, to know every possible move they could make and meander around it. With her face in stunned anger, Robert walked towards the door. As he expected, the Gunners wouldn't let him pass.
"Do you really hate me so, Robert?" Anne asked.
"Hate's a strong word," Robert said, knowing he'd finally chipped away at the armour. He might be able to get through to her now. "You irritate me most of all, but I do not hate you. I'm going to find another chamber to rest my head. I've grown tired of tonight's bickering."
"So what?" Anne scoffed. "We are to repeat this cycle over and over again? We need to work together, Robert. We'll not rule Drevon as enemies."
"It would be you ruling Drevon, Anne."
"Can you not see I want you by my side in that?" Anne said, her voice showing what might've been an imitation of emotion. "From all I've done for you, you think I wish to be alone?"
"I don't know what you want really," Robert sighed. "I can take a good guess. You've given me many things, true, but none of them have made me happy."
"Would you rather I remove my clothes at your whim?" Anne asked. "Like every other woman you've met?"
"Goodnight, Anne," Robert said. He pushed his way past the Gunners and out of the bedchamber. Anne didn't order his return, nor did she shout at him as he left her sight. She was above such things, or at least she thought she was.
With the help of a few worried looking servants, Robert Wisser found a small, empty room to rest his head for tonight. He'd told each person that gave him a stare that the blood covering him was not his. It seemed that it didn't matter whose blood it was though, more that there was so much of it in the first place. Each onlooker watched him with understandable caution, considering his state. These looks were not ones Robert was used to. Usually, men looked at him with envy, women mostly with excitement. He liked the change from normality.
He removed his clothes. They peeled away like a second skin, their dirt and grime clinging to Robert after more than a week's wear. Washing himself with a bucket of water he did his best to remove as much of that grime as he could. It was poor form to stain the bed, after all. He winced as the water touched his flesh. It was cold, colder even the autumn air outside. Robert didn't mind too much; he preferred to bathe himself in cold water. It woke him up, and over the years had hardened his tolerance to pain.
While bathing, Robert liked to admire his body. He knew it was an excellent form, and always had been. Though he was slightly lither than he would have liked, his arms and chest still held an exquisite definition, as though they'd been sculpted. There were some bruises on those sculpted features. Fresh, purple bruises he'd not noticed before. They ached when he touched them.
Must have been from before, Robert guessed. He didn't remember any of the Pale Boys striking him. Then again, with their sheer numbers and the amount of adrenaline running through his system, there was little doubt that a few blows could've been struck against Robert without him even noticing. Minor wounds, all of them, nothing more than bumps that would last a week at most. Robert dismissed them as mere blemishes.
From his chest to his stomach, Robert's eyes eventually found his cock. It was not the most impressive, he knew that, but by Atoth did it get the job done. He was a proud man, but he was no egotist, the only reason his eyes lingered on his penis for more than a moment was the way it looked. Tired, near defeated, Robert's cock was showing clear signs of wear. After repeated use, even abuse by some of the more sadistic ladies, it didn't look like it could go through another forty years of torment.
"Finally time to slow it down, eh old chap?" Robert said softly. "I think so."
Slinking his way under his sheet and into bed, Robert shut his eyes. An hour ago, sleep would've found him easily. With his fatigue from battling the Pale Boys, nothing would have stopped him from passing into slumber. Then, as usual, Anne came along and did the impossible. Remembering the fight with Anne, Robert became too angry to sleep. Every word, every look passed through his mind. He constantly kicked himself for not being more venomous, for withstanding even a moment of her torturous presence. Eventually, his thoughts converged on one moment. The punch.
Robert had always known his wife was a good shot. With rifle or pistol, few could match her, and with some lessons given by Robert himself, her swordplay wasn't terrible either. He'd never known Anne to throw punches like that though. It was trained, precise, hitting him right in the liver and knocking him to the floor.
As his thoughts focused, as the moment of the punch replayed over and over again in Robert's mind, he felt a stirring under the sheets. His tired old friend was growing at a rapid rate as Robert pictured Anne's face, and her fist hitting his stomach.
"Of course," Robert sighed, staring at his rigid cock. "For fuck's sake."