“Give me your sword,” he said, extending his hand.
The one on the left was an older man, his face scarred from an ancient cut running from the left side of his chin to his right eye. At Muzien’s demand, he shook his head and looked away. The man on the right, far younger, glanced around at the people, the torches, and blades, and then drew his sword and slowly flipped it around so he might extend the hilt in offering.
Muzien took it as all eyes of the marketplace watched. Symbols, thought Muzien. Symbols and rituals, all carrying power. Let the city see who the guard truly feared, and obeyed.
“Bring me the merchant,” Muzien said to Ridley, who put his fingers to his lips and blew. From the other side, the crowd parted and into the empty circle came a scrawny merchant with a waist-length beard. He looked middle-aged and, given his pallid skin and recessed eyes, of poor health. Muzien didn’t remember his name, but he knew what he was there for.
“This man,” Muzien cried, “denied us our right. Veldaren is mine now, and if you would seek protection in my city, then your coin must go to my hands and no others. This fool, this oaf, dared to reject my outstretched hand. He dared to believe he would not suffer the consequences.”
Muzien took a step closer.
“He was wrong.”
He kicked the merchant in the face, knocking him onto his back, and then struck with the guard’s offered sword. Over and over, he hacked into the merchant’s neck, purposefully ensuring no blow snapped the spine. He wanted carnage; he wanted brutality. Let them watch as the blood flowed, the flesh separated, and the stupid man flailed and screamed as the blood poured down his opened windpipe. Blood splashed everywhere, and with one final hack, Muzien ensured a spray went across his own face and clothes. Another turn, and he flung the sword to the feet of the soldier who offered it to him. The crowd gasped at the sight of him, fine elegance covered with crude gore.
“You obeyed, and so you live,” Muzien said to the younger guard. He turned to the older. “You hesitated, and you refused.”
Two steps and a thrust. That was all it took. No one saw him draw the dagger from the belt at his waist, no one dared to move as Muzien jammed the blade into the older guard’s neck, twisted it once, and then jerked it free. The body collapsed, and with that done, Muzien tossed aside the dagger as well. With his darkened hand, he beckoned the other city guard to leave him be.
The market was deathly silent now but for a few children crying in their parents’ arms. It put a smile to Muzien’s face. What he stood in now, that combination of awe and terror, was something his elven brethren would never understand. With their skills, they could instill a fear no human could match. They didn’t need to hide in forests. They didn’t need to stalk roads with arrows to win a war against mankind.
They only needed the ability to sacrifice, to kill, to live among the wretches. Everything else came in time.
“Hear me, people of Veldaren!” Muzien cried, hopping back up top of the crate. “Here at the dawn, you will witness the rise of the Sun!”
“The rise of the Sun!” cried the members of his guild in perfect echo.
Muzien turned, let his eyes fall upon them all.
“The city is mine,” he said. “I own its streets. I own its castle. From the lowliest whorehouse to the greatest of the bazaars, it is mine. No guard will stand against me. No thief will steal from me. To no king, no lord, no priest will I bow. I bring you fire that will cast light upon you, but that same fire will also burn.”
He lifted his forever-burned hand above him so all might see it.
“I am the Darkhand,” he said. “In the west, I am the lord of shadows, the king of riots, the bringer of ghosts, and now I come to you. Upon every street you have seen my symbol, and even those of you who are blind will have felt it with your fingertips. Yet still you hesitate to serve. Men deny me protection money. Women sell their bodies, then hide my portion in cupboards and jars. Others yearn for former guilds or whisper the name of the Watcher as if he might save you.”
Muzien let his words echo, let the moment linger. This was it, the grand proclamation that would spread throughout Veldaren, the nation of Neldar, and all the way to the southern oceans of Omn. He wanted every word right, every syllable filled with ice and conviction.
“There is room for no other in your hearts,” he said. “Let go of your false hope. Deny your past, forsake your gods, abandon your king. I am your king. I hold the essence of your existence within the palm of my hands. Your coin, your lives, the very blood in your veins, it is mine, and I am a jealous master. Today, at this beautiful dawn, you will finally learn the truth, and like the children you are, I will teach it to you in the simplest of ways. I am your god, and I will have my tithe.”
He nodded to Ridley, and immediately, the man barked out commands, sending the men with torches back to the various exits so that there’d be three blocking each one. Soft murmurs grew among the people, confusion as to the lesson and what was expected of them. But he would not tell them. Like dogs, he would show them.
“Kill one of every ten,” he ordered Ridley.
The man hurried off, bouncing from exit to exit, relaying the orders. The two hundred in the market waited, eager, wanting to leave but fearful to disobey after the death of the guard and the merchant. When the first of the exits opened up, people surged forward, and Muzien watched as his men let one through at a time, counting. At the tenth, one of the three stepped forward, stabbed with his dagger, and then shoved the corpse out of the way.
More exits opened, and despite the screams, despite the bleeding, the people continued to surge toward them, eyes low, heads downcast, murmuring prayers and clenching fists as they hoped they might not be the tenth.
“Glorious,” Muzien said when Ridley returned. “Is it not glorious?”
“Only you would find beauty in this,” Ridley said.
“The weak die before us, and with each corpse, they learn no one will save them,” Muzien said. “After today, we will hold the very heart of this city in our hands, and it will never be tempted by another.”
He headed toward the southern entrance of the market, left alone so that it would be ready for only him. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a cloth and began wiping the merchant’s blood off his face.
“Come share a drink with me,” he told Ridley. Behind him, a woman let out a wail as her child was knifed through the throat.
“I feel a celebration is in order.”
Tarlak sat in his chair before the fireplace, glass of wine in hand. Today will be a good day, he told himself. No matter if I have to drink until it comes true. He was bringing the last of the glass to his lips when Brug’s voice sounded in his ear, ruining whatever hope he had of accomplishing his modest goal.
Get to the market, damn it, and hurry!
The wizard winced, annoyed by the volume of his friend’s voice. Every member of his mercenaries had a ring they could speak into a single time, sending a message across the wind for him to hear, and he’d always stressed for them to whisper. Brug, however, seemed to have forgotten that instruction; either that or he wanted to make sure his words pounded throughout Tarlak’s brain like a thunderstorm trapped in a teakettle.
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” Tarlak said, cracking his knuckles and rising from his chair. The market was several miles away in the city, and he had no intention of walking. If Brug wanted him to hurry to the market, then by the gods, he’d hurry. Teleportation was always a tricky business, and one of the key requirements was to have a strong mental image of where he was going. Going to a busy, ever-changing market would be a nightmare, so instead, Tarlak focused on a spot nearby, then opened his eyes as he spoke the necessary words of magic. A blue portal ripped open the fabric of space before him, and before it could close, he stepped on through.