Garbled speaker chatter snapped Voy out of his trance. The pseudo-kartorim whipped around and rolled out of the bed he’d been failing to restfully sleep in and snatched the shoddy device from his lopsided end table. He worked the knobs on it as quickly as he could risk, too often breaking the poorly made thing in his eagerness for, well, anything really. There were few things he found as tedious as an empty schedule.
Pacing around his room as he worked, small clips and snippets occasionally snuck through the static but faded quicker than he could get anything meaningful. The Duke of Treffel’s estate was only a few miles away, the fact that the radio his majesty had ‘spared no expense’ to issue Voy couldn’t properly pass a message was either gross incompetence, an insult to Voy’s intelligence, or more likely some contemptuous mingling of the two.
“Figures,” Voy muttered with a smile. Better get dressed and see what they need. Tensing in anticipation, Voy willed his carapace armor to extend out from the silvery tattoo-like marks on his skin where the armor’s substance compressed when not in use. It rolled and crawled out over his skin and well worn slip-suit like a wash of inelegant razors until his human visage was replaced with that of dull grey metal.
The process wasn’t supposed to be painful. According to other kartorim, extending one’s carapace was about as intense as blinking. But Voy wasn’t other kartorim. Unfortunately, he was uniquely less in every physical sense. Where others grew demonstrably larger than any normal human, he’d only grown a few inches to around six foot five, positively diminutive compared to his peers. Where other’s carapace looked immaculate, unique, and finer than any crafted armor he looked like melted steel had been gobbed over him and smeared around until it cooled.
And everything hurt. Not one muscle, tendon, ligament, organ or bone had gone unaltered during his traumatic ascension, and every moment and movement echoed with chronic consequence. He was made stronger and faster to be sure, but at the cost of never really being at rest either.
Voy stopped his carapace’s extension before it formed a helm over his head, choosing instead to set out with his natural face visible to meet with duke Emeron. His foul temperament could sometimes, if rarely, be abated with a warm smile when greeting him. Not that Voy expected that to have much chance of working today, the duke would certainly blame the poor excuse of a radio on Voy’s ‘inattentiveness’ or some such nonsense.
This had been the way of things for the last five years off his life. His initial optimism had long since faded, but so too had his dismay. Voy had been assigned to Treffel shortly after waking up in an off-the-books hospital, Avaron told him it was only temporary while he had teams of researchers and doctors working on a way to fix him. The High Marshall hadn’t tried to sugarcoat the assignment itself, the dismal world was far from the border systems yet lacked all the sophistication and advances of the core worlds.
Voy hung his hopes on Avaron’s promise and chose to pour himself into helping the people of Treffel where he could. Each morning he reminded himself that no matter his afflictions or misfortunes, the people who called this world home needed someone to stand in their defense, and until he was relieved of his post he would use his gifts to uplift them.
With a final once-over of himself and the splinter-wood single room apartment he called home Voy scooped up the busted radio into a bag he’d brought with him from Anitora, pushed open the rickety door and stepped out into the cobbled street of the city. Sooty air greeted him, the exhale of a culture that lived by coal fire never lifting from the ‘peasant’ quarter. Pedestrians already crowded the roads in clothing that had more in common with rags than intentional garments. Treffel’s stony ground was rich with ore, but it made poor medium for agriculture. Cloth was rare as a result, only the wealthiest members of society could justify using what good soil existed for something you didn’t eat. Wagons drawn by hulking insect like creatures lumbered through the middle of the road, normal livestock like horses couldn’t be sustained here for the same reasons that cloth was a luxury.
Heads no longer turned to him when he stepped out, even here the people knew he wasn’t a real kartorim. One look at his carapace proved that. Voy breathed in the stale air sharply and put on a defiant smile. Today would be a good day, he would allow no alternative. First order of business, stroll to the duke’s manor and see what it was he wanted.
Confident strides carried Voy out into the street and through the city. His steps clanged against the stonework road or squelched in what he hoped was merely mud as he made his way. Passers by gave him a wide berth as he went, less from respect and more for the reasonable conclusion that trying to push aside a man covered in metal was an exercise in futility.
Voy did his best to move around others as well, not wishing to throw his weight around unnecessarily. Most people weren’t trying to be rude, it was just a crowded street filled with people with busy schedules. Morning sun hung in the sky above. Rays of sunlight shown down in clearly defined columns between buildings as it reflected off the smog. A gentle breeze was rolling in from the north, in the nicer parts of the city such a thing might make the air almost clean.
Letting himself get lost in thought, Voy arrived to the stonework arch bridge than separated the peasant quarter from the esteemed almost unconsciously. Murky water ran beneath it, the river had not been clear for Voy’s entire tenure here. Soot and refuse from the entire city all ran into it, carried off into the marginally less polluted lands beyond. Duke Emeron’s administration had not seen the point in proper waste management when the wilderness beyond was scarcely better.
Across the bridge he went, leaving behind the disordered cobble streets and leaning structures of the low quarter for the altogether more aesthetic ‘elite’ section of the city. Strictly speaking commoners were not barred from this side of the city, its standard architectural trends and paved streets were certainly more inviting, but the upper echelons of Treffel’s elite had enough wealth to price out the region against anyone not similarly connected.
Technically Voy was supposed to live here. No amount of status on a world like this compared to direct scion of the High Marshall. Nevertheless, once he was here the local rulers and socialites had worked quickly to fabricate a litany of excuses for why he had to be housed across the river in one of the poorest apartments available.
Voy tolerated it. Their luxury was still spartan compared to the affluence on Anitora and he saw no reason to fight for the ‘privilege’ to be around people who risked censure from Thurgia’s central government just to keep him somewhere else. This way the symmetrical, skillfully constructed brick buildings and clean even roads wouldn’t suffer his presence unless the duke called for him. Lately that had been a less frequent thing. The only thing they ever truly needed him for was slaying moegons, large burrowing creatures with ultra durable builds and terrible disposition.
Eagerly he picked up his pace, whatever the duke wanted him for couldn’t possibly be worse than a day spent staring at the ceiling. Rounding a row of storefronts the scenery morphed once more. Gone were the storefronts and well kept apartments, replaced by larger mostly walled estates. Manors for the very highest levels of society. Situated at the end of the long road atop a hill was the largest of these veritable mansions, the duke’s home itself. Easily the largest of the estates, duke Emeron conducted all his duties from there and as a result it doubled as a sort of city hall.
The building itself was covered overhead with a blue bubble of ionizing light, an energy shield of a sort that kept the air beneath free of pollutants. In a pinch, it could be fed more power and serve as an actual defense but Treffel was such an unappealing target that no such need had ever arisen. Guards in gaudy purple dress uniforms with brass re-breathers stood at either side of the gate in, gazes locked onto Voy as he approached on the empty street.
“Morning fellas, how goes the guarding?” Voy asked as he came within earshot. The guards didn’t budge, instead crossing their ceremonial glaives to block the gate.
“State your business citizen,” one of the guards ordered, “or be charged with trespassing upon the duke’s grounds.” With a chuckle, Voy came to a stop before them.
“Same as always Rainer, to see your sister. Is she in?” The guard who’d issued the command laughed and pulled his spear out of the way.
“You’ve used that one before you knuckledragger, get new material,” the guard recomposed himself, “head on in the duke’s expectin’ you.” Voy nodded his thanks as Rainer waved his hand at the other guard, evidently a new hire, to pull his glaive out of the way to let Voy through.
One of the only groups Voy had managed to maintain a positive impression with since his arrival was the local guard, a hybrid force of police and military that handled all aspects of law and defense for the duke’s holdings. Oftentimes he would be sent out on tasks also assigned to them and his involvement meant they could take it easy and not risk casualties. It was one such assignment that caused the duke to start assigning moegon hunts to him exclusively, a dangerous job that always claimed lives before Voy’s involvement.
Passing through the gate caused Voy’s skin to tingle, a side effect of the thin energy shield over the manor. The change in air quality was immediate, the reek of the city banished by high technology. The courtyard outside was idyllic compared to the city and world beyond. Exotic flowers, doubtlessly brought in from other worlds, lined the walkway approaching the door structure ahead.
The manor itself was even larger up close, the dark hardwood double doors at its entrance far too large for a regular person to move unassisted. Behind them attendants waited to draw the doors along tracks when someone knocked for entry.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
Voy laughed inwardly as he reached the door and, gently as he could manage, used his strength to push the door back along its rail unaided, much to the initial bewilderment of the inside attendants who’d been engrossed in a card game on a small table against the wall. They began to rise from the game, fearing retribution for not tending to the door but Voy gave them a friendly thumbs up and gestured for them to stay seated. After reassuring them Voy eased the door closed and set off for the duke’s thronehall. Memory guided him, but he wouldn’t have needed it. The duke’s indignant shouting and labored breaths radiated like a beacon from the curmudgeon’s court.
“Mister Voy! Mister Voy!” The half-kartorim stopped short of the thronehall’s open doorway as the shouts of an eager child raced up behind him. One of duke Emeron’s grandsons sprinted from up a well furnished hall in clumsy gait. The child had taken a liking to him, catching him whenever he could to barrage him with questions about his adventures. He was only around seven and hadn’t yet had the time to find scorn for him the way the rest of the duke’s household did. Smiling as he turned toward him, Voy braced as the little one jumped at his leg, wrapping around his shin and ankle in a bid to hold him in place.
“Are you here about a dragon? Last time it was a dragon and you said you would bring me a dragon tooth last time did you? Did you? Did You?!” He looked up at Voy with untempered admiration. A toy wooden helmet sat too large on his head and a child sized practice sword hung from a belt loop on his shorts.
“Of course I did big man, kartorim are bound by their word,” he said endearingly as he fished into the radio pouch for the moegon tooth he’d saved from the last one he’d slain. It was a tooth only in its shape, and if he hadn’t seen moegons firsthand he would have assumed the tooth was a fabrication. Composed of a dark iron and sharpened to its point, a bit of flattening would see it made into a fine knife blade. The child reached up immediately for the gnarly fang, but Voy held it just out of reach. “You gotta let go of my ankle first bud, your grampa would be real mad if I walked in with you still attached.”
“Ugh. Fiiiiiine,” he pouted slightly before letting go and tumbling backward off Voy’s leg. Voy had barely lowered the tooth down when the boy leapt back to his feet and snatched the tooth out of Voy’s hand, giggling in fascination with the trophy. “Thank you mister Voy!” he shouted as he scuttled back into the maze of the manor.
Re-buttoning the radio bag and giving himself another once-over, Voy straightened and prepared to head in before unfamiliar voices inside made him stop. The duke had stopped shouting, and a more refined yet nevertheless commanding voice had taken the room. Voy recognized the distinct tip-of-tongue accent straight away as from Allodoa, one of the other core worlds and House Caldion’s home planet. Offworld traders didn’t typically speak to the duke face to face, whatever was going on was… Voy bit down and squashed his anticipation. It probably had nothing to do with him. Steeling himself, Voy at last rounded the corner on the open entrance as quiet as he could manage hoping to slip in unnoticed.
Immediately conversation stopped and all eyes turned to him, both from the local guests and court members and the offworlders. Duke Emeron, already red in the face frozen in the anguish of an aborted shout met eyes with the steel coated newcomer.
“Voy,” he said with an uncharacteristically even tone, “uncouth as ever. You’re late.” The duke simmered with pent up fury, unused to holding his tongue as he was. His swollen fingers tapped irate against the wooden arms of his throne, he body language expectant despite not presenting a question.
Voy shrugged, no sense in trying not to piss him off now. “The radio you issued to me broke again. I only came here to-”
“Excuses. We will continue this matter in a moment, after our guests,” he inclined his head towards the offworlders, “finish their begging and leave.” With that the duke turned fully toward the offworlders and gave his attention back to the man who stood as their apparent leader. One look at him and the duke no longer seemed ‘royal’ by any estimation. Where the duke’s finery peaked at furs, hardwood, and the occasional gold embellishment over his pudgy frame the foreigner stood tall and lean, beginning to show his age with shots of white in his combed back blonde hair and his mutton chops. His skin was free of time’s worst ravages, only slight wrinkles at the corners of his eyes were visible.
He was dressed in a blue naval uniform, similar to Thurgia’s federal tans in the cut and shape but colored to match that of House Caldion’s blue and green. Gold threaded tassels and medals from dozens of campaigns adorned his attire, and a tasteful cape trailed from his shoulders and stopped just short of touching the ground. Across it the roaring lion crest of House Caldion roared above the words ‘In malum gladium infer’. Only bladeship admirals were permitted to wear such things as a part of their uniform.
“If requests for aid amongst friends is so looked down upon on this world, then it is no wonder to me why it exists in such a sorry state,” the admiral replied to the duke and in so doing recaptured the room’s attention. Duke Emeron rested his head against his closed fist, elbow leaned against his throne’s armrest.
“And yet we require no charity. Finish your little display then see yourself out,” the duke replied.
With the focus of the room no longer on Voy, he took the opportunity to meander to an out of the way wall. He winced at the duke’s hostility towards the admiral. If he was the grudge holding type the admiral had the resources and reach to make Emeron’s bloodline a hazy memory. Yet the duke continued to poke at the lion before him with a stick as though consequences were an alien concept.
Unmoved by the duke’s insolence, the admiral began again. “I am flotilla admiral Fortheo Dayne Hembrant, and captain of the Auric Wind. I have come to this world with a purpose in service to all mankind and I stand before you all not as an allodoan, not as an ambassador for House Caldion, and not even under the authority of the Thurgian state,” he paused to look around the room, stopping for a few moments when his eyes found Voy before returning his gaze to Emeron.
“I come to you as a torchbearer, and I call upon you to fulfill the promise of your forefathers Duke Emeron of Treffel,” The duke’s eyes widened, and in his unoccupied hand he began to fiddle with a ring he wore, “the flame of our kind is in jeopardy. Dark forces move against us. The savage cretalan, the insidious ryph, the vile urulax, and the myriad other species shackled to the will of the Pantheon do not rest idly gnashing their teeth and mandibles beyond our borders,” he paused again to let his words soak in the minds of those listening, “They plot. They plan. They scheme, and they do so in preparation for the Apoctillon.”
Uneasy murmurs rippled through the thronehall, and Voy saw for the first time a look of uncertainty grace the duke’s features. Hembrandt clenched his fist in the air before him to punctuate his point. Slowly he let his hand fall back to his side. The admiral turned back toward the duke.
“Duke Emeron, it is in addition to the supply and manpower request that I must also deliver orders that come directly from the High Marshall himself.” Voy’s heart hammered in his chest, he fought to keep his expectations under control. This had nothing to do with him. Avaron had more to worry about than him.
Seeking to distract himself Voy looked over the entourage that accompanied admiral Hembrant. A gaggle of nonmilitary officials mingled with guards in ornate armor, about what he would have expected but for one notably tall woman in a cloak. Even hidden by the cloak her features were striking. Her pale skin and blonde hair was distinctly allodoan, but her emerald green eyes were even more captivating than any he’d seen before. Her figure was only barely concealed by the cloak, it was surely designed for someone smaller and shorter and the raw athletic form beneath formed much of the fabric against her. Voy began to tear away his gaze, not wanting to be rude, when the tiniest glint of a metallic patch of skin caught his eye near her collarbone.
Illati? Compelled by stunned curiosity, Voy refocused his eyes on her to confirm his suspicions only to find her jade eyes staring into his own, her face hardened in aggression toward him. It’d only been five years and she couldn’t recognize him. Voy waved sheepishly, sinking back against the wall behind him before he noticed the uproar in the room around him. Both the duke and Hembrandt were looking his way. Had he broken some House Caldion etiquette? One of the duke’s rules? It was only a wave for hell’s sake… he thought behind a mask of embarrassment.
“Well? What do you have to say on the matter?” The duke asked him in a manner that suggested he’d rather Voy not answer.
“I, um… apologize, your excellence. It was merely a wave, I was just trying to be polite-”
“What on Allodoa are you talking about?” Hembrandt inquired, his arms crossed over his chest and his right eyebrow raised. Emeron pressed his forehead into his hand and sighed.
“Are you certain you want him?” The duke asked Hembrandt.
Voy hesitated before answering again, the realization that he’d stopped paying attention to the two men just as they’d asked him a question turning his cheeks slightly red. Illati was covering her mouth with her hand, concealing a giggle at Voy’s expense. Wait… laughing? She laughs now? Strange as it was, the Illati Voy had known and grown up with had never laughed. Not once, not at a joke or a lighthearted moment. Soft thin lipped smiles were the extent of her comedic expression.
That meant this woman had to be someone else… someone who looked an incredible amount like Illati, but wasn’t. Someone who was also a kartorim, for House Caldion no less. Who was she? Why was she here? Maybe he could go and ask her-
“Voy Shatterborne!” Hembrandt’s near shout snapped him out of his spiraling thought again. Blinking away his mental wanderings, Voy met eyes with the admiral. “High Marshall Avaron has requested that you be re-stationed aboard my ship, the Auric Wind, in service of my torchbearers as we move to prevent the Apoctillon. Will you accept this honor?” The admiral’s tone sat somewhere between annoyed and amused, his eyes flipping back and forth between Voy and the woman he’d brought with him. Voy replayed events in his mind to inform his answer, doing his best to skip the parts where his thoughts were captivated by not-Illati.
Torchbearers, Apoctillon, saving all mankind… this felt terribly above his station. He’d expected Avaron’s call to arrive when he’d found a way to fix Voy, not when he needed him for an expedition with an organization he knew next to nothing about. Yet, there was a kartorim present in his retinue. That alone legitimized his words, kartorim did not act outside of the Iyallat – the kartorim code of conduct made law – and one would surely not be present with Hembrandt unless they had the consent of their patron house.
But Voy’s order’s were clear: wait upon this world for the day Avaron came with the knowledge of how to heal him and complete his ascension. If this Hembrandt couldn’t prove Avaron’s intent, he would be going nowhere.
“I apologize admiral, but I have many duties here I must see to. The moegons, beasts that infest the rock of this world, are too great a threat for me to leave in the hands of the citizens here.” If Hembrandt had truly been given orders from the High Marshall, he would not let such an excuse prevent their fulfillment. If he did not, he would accept his answer and move on.
Duke Emeron eyed the back of Hembrandt’s head with a dry, thin smirk. Confusion and indignation now rested on Hembrandt, the admiral taken aback by Voy’s unexpected response. “There is no need crystallize your decision now, we have a few days yet before we can depart. Come by my ship later this evening and I can show you the full scope of the expedition. We can discuss it over the finest allodoan vintage.” A perfectly unsatisfying answer, kicking the resolution to a place and time he could make a better case for the outcome he wanted. Hembrandt quickly and easily brushed aside his concerns and fell back into the facade of a well executed plan.
Politics, smiles and gestures with hidden meanings… Voy had forgotten how much he appreciated the ill-tempered Emeron. The duke was too mired with ill-managed anger for such things. Hembrandt waited for Voy’s answer with an expectant smile.
“Sure,” Voy relented, “I’ll be over tonight.” Hembrandt blinked once, his eyes staying closed slightly too long.
“Of course! Tonight will work wonderfully, I’ll have someone come and escort you later. In the meantime,” Hembrandt relaxed some, and turned around to the duke, “I trust you have someone among your staff who can bring me and my crew up to speed on the local venues?” Without a word, the duke flicked his eyes over to colorfully dressed attendant that seemed briefly electrocuted by the sudden attention for quickly bowing to his lord. “Excellent,” Hembrandt lifted his chin, confident from a situation he felt victorious in steering.
At the attendants guiding gesture, the admiral’s entourage formed ranks around Hembrandt and his non-military staff and made for the doorway. As they left, Voy made one last look at the mysterious woman who followed behind them. Her eyes met his and she winked at him with a playful smile before turning with the others and leaving.
Upon their exit attendants rushed over and pushed wooden doors over the entrance Voy had never seen closed before today. The room’s volume returned to normal, the eighty or so assorted guests resuming their business dealings, veiled threats, gossip, and so on. Many shared their impressions of the offworlders and how Voy reacted to them between each other.
“...dishonorable, disrespectful…”
“...gave up adventure for us…”
“...head in the sky…”
“...delusional…”
Voy filtered it out. His purpose for being here remained regardless of any offworlders, and the duke doubtlessly had some task to bestow upon him. Red faced shouting began again as he joined the handful of other petitioners before the duke’s throne as their monarch graced them with his rulings and orders. Simple, predictable, out of the way. Until Avaron came for him, this was his place.
