Cost

by Andrew Ferguson



It was hot. Michael watched the shadow of the executioner's axe rise
above the silhouette of his head and shoulders. The air was dry, dusty.
Turning his head as much as the binding allowed, Michael saw the
hundreds of people below, their faces writhing in vindictive
justification and vengeful fervour.

Michael heard the grunt of the headsman as that cowled worthy wrestled
the axe's weight. He heard the rolling syllables of the priest of
Aureon somewhere behind him. He could even hear the splat-splat-splat
of his own sweat hitting the stained and scarred oak planking
supporting the rusty iron catch-basket.



He couldn't hear the screaming crowd at all.



When the pitted blade bit deep into his shoulders, the mage was
surprised to feel no pain. Even when the executioner yanked his weapon
free for a second attempt at the human's neck, all Michael felt was a
tearing sensation and a coolness that settled into his upper body.



The burning hate that once coiled around his innards was absent, fled
in this last moment of mortality. Michael supposed if he were ever to
feel regret, now would be the time. Mostly, he was numb, his inner
vision lit with memories.



He remembered Jolene, her face filled with fire as she tumbled back
into the darkness, screaming his name. He remembered watching as the
wizened man who'd so proudly bowed to him on Completion Day came apart
from the inside. His skin turned to dust, then mud in the pouring rain
as Michael's men slaughtered the wizard's students.



No one begins corrupted, a remorseless vessel for reasonless power. It
takes the pressure of years of carnage, of soul-wrenching despair.



 981 YK saw the Last War become a thing of callousness and
unrestrained hunger, the combatants tired and bloody to the point of
numbness. It saw some of the most famous massacres and tragedies. The
burning of Nan Ogoth. The Empty Fields Slaughter. Valthirond's Taking.



Michael fled through town, his neighbours a panicked mob around him.
Behind them Vathirond burned. Armoured horsemen, mounted freebooters
hired by Cyre, howled and cut at the townspeople as they ran for their
lives.



Michael rounded the corner and stopped in horror. His home was in
flames, his family huddled in a group with their neighbours, mercenary
killers surrounding them with leveled spears. Jolene, his wife, saw him
as she hugged Corrine and Kiron to her. Jolene opened her mouth as if
to yell, but one of the riders was quicker. She spun in her saddle,
yanking a short mace from her belt and hurling it at the stunned young
wizard. Michael had a last glimpse of his wife and children before a
tremendous impact to his temple washed everything away into blackness.

The churned mud that made up the road was cold and slick, the product
of a thousand-thousand feet passing along it. Ahead of the prisoner
caravan, a great dark shape rose out of the night, watch-fires lighting
it's walls and towers. Rukh-Maadral, whispered last home of prisoners.
Even now the fortress churned out war materiel at it's forges and
foundries, scarred men watching over their captured labourers. From
Rukh-Maadral, escape was found only through death.



 Michael dug and sweated, hammered and shaped, watching for his
chance. Eight years after his arrival, it came. The wards arcane that
Rukh-Madral maintained were being replenished and the thaumaturges were
fully occupied with their task. For years, Michael had kept his talent
well-hidden. No longer. His voice rose, harsh words filling the air
with crackling, smoking energy.



 The fireball caught the hated Captain Orsoth and cronies in
mid-conversation. Michael clutched the wad of bat droppings and sulfur
he'd husbanded so carefully these harsh years and watched the flaming,
screaming forms of his enemies writhe in the muck as their clothes and
even armour caught fire. Then he blasted them again, the explosion
flinging their now very-dead bodies far into the courtyard and cracking
the anterior portal open.



Michael spoke again, begrimed forehead wrinkled in effort as he used
his talent to replace the materials he'd been unable to find. And then
he left the camp, visible to no sight mundane.



For the next six years, Michael looked for his family, bringing death
as he went. His will knew no bounds. He played faction against faction,
he shredded the minds of the guilty and the innocent alike. His despair
mounted in equal measure to his desperation. Eventually, he was
entertaining, then carrying out the vilest schemes.



In 995 YK, Michael called himself Drakonys. He'd attracted followers of
his own, the desperate and the ambitious. He and his hundreds-strong
band of killers and war mages ranged across Khorvaire. Memories of
family and home were a thing of the past. They worked for whoever paid
them or for themselves. The War carried them along in it's wake.



And that was when he finally found what he had been seeking.



Michael watched as his men put the next house to the torch, flames
lighting the night sky. The tenants had managed to climb up to the roof
and now lay flat on the thatch. An attractive, dark-haired woman with
two children nearing adulthood. All three faces were white in terror,
streaked with soot and ash.



 Michael realised he was looking at his family.



A burst of flame erupted below them and they fell into darkness. He
heard Jolene scream his name as the fire swallowed her. Then nothing.

After the Treaty was signed, people needed scapegoats--scapegoats that
implied no guilt on the part of the Five Nations. As before, the
mercenary bands served their clients. In return for surrendering, the
leaders were quietly guaranteed reincarnation after execution. Michael
cared little, but Drakonys had a last purpose he could serve.



Michael's thoughts returned to the present. After this, he would go
south. Far south. Let the jungle eat his past.



The axe fell.