The Heroes’ Party

DATE: IMMORTAL REIGN 1023 MONTH 3 DAY 14

Now accustomed to understanding everything thanks to his newfound psychic abilities, Ruxian took a moment to realise the stranger wasn’t speaking Targonian. Given the tiger tattoo on his broad shoulders, it was probably safe to assume the man came from the same world. Sneezing, Ruxian quickly gathered his coat.

“You deaf?” the man snapped, advancing on Ruxian. “Or just dumb?”

Ruxian rolled his eyes. Of all the fish in the sea, the Eternal Empire had reeled in a street thug trying to mean-mug. Standing next to this man seemed a sure way to invite a cold slab of steel between the ribs.

“Hey, I know you!” the man exclaimed, leaning forward. “You’re that fraud, HypnoPro!”

“Sorry,” Ruxian scoffed. “I don’t do meet and greets with fans.”

Ruxian’s response surprised even himself. The timid boy who once cowered from chatroom arguments was now talking back to a man whose extra-large knuckle sandwiches might send him home and beyond. Upon some introspection, weeks travelling with Dramien and an intimate instance ensnared in the embrace of a Dracon assassin, this creature no longer registered as a threat. At this point, even the scent of Susie’s perfume was more alarming.

“You little...” snarled the man, raising his fist before pausing. “Wait! You understand me?”

Ruxian gave him a cold, dismissive stare before showing him his shoulder. “No.”

The other man with greying sideburns stared down at his notebook with knotted brows and unblinking eyes, muttering like a pastor shuddering with religious zeal. Notwithstanding his hair and wrinkles, he had the lean muscle of a prize fighter and the foot of a war veteran, that is, one missing several toes.

Before Ruxian could accost this curious figure, Susie returned with the maids laid out before him a plain white shirt and trousers. Sensing she was about to dress him, Ruxian promptly waved her away. The linen, biting against his skin and offering little warmth, seemed unworthy of the ceremony.

Marching down more opulent corridors lined with enormous windows, Ruxian joined a few dozen other “heroes” dressed in equally unvarnished uniform before a majestic door embellished with a golden circle. Scratching his chin, Ruxian stared at the giant ring, wondering where he had seen it before. Then it struck him. This was the symbol the Dracon girl had carved into the tree, with a small but distinct difference: hers bore an extra slash that severed the loop.

With a grumble, the panels slid aside, revealing a cavernous hall. Ruxian heard a collective gasp from his fellow men and women in white. The throne room, dwarfing even some community parks, was a spectacle. The glass-domed ceiling, its frame bedecked in golden flowers, shot sunlight straight into his eyes. Ruxian grimaced. He shouldn’t have left his shades behind.

Lifting a hand block out the sun, Ruxian surveyed the surroundings. He searched for Kerroth amongst the row of soldiers but came up empty. Moreover, there was something odd about these guards. Draped in priestly habits rather than knightly armour, they wielded shimmering hammers so disproportionately large that Ruxian found it both terrifying and comical.

His gazed swept over the throne, atop an elevated dais, and briefly met the eyes of the seated man. Ruxian quickly turned away from the spine-chilling glare, but a prickling sensation lingered, one which he could not scratch away. It was cold, uncaring, like a butcher bearing down on livestock. Despite the crowd behind him shuffling like nervous schoolchildren, they remained silent, alerting Ruxian to one vital reality: none of them could communicate with one another.

Kneel.

Ruxian jumped as the commanding voice jolted through his skull. For an instant, he saw himself falling on his knees. Blinking, Ruxian looked up to see the emperor on his feet with a radiant sceptre raised. Spinning around, he confirmed he was the only one left standing and recognised this immediately. It was the very spell he had unknowingly unleashed on Susie the morning after his arrival, only several times more potent.

His response, or the lack of, sent waves of uneasy whispers rippling through the Targonian contingent. Before Ruxian could decide his next move, a firm hand clutched his wrist.

“Don’t turn around,” hissed a silk voice in a language Ruxian had never heard before. “Kneel.”

As instructed, Ruxian pressed his knees against the cold, smooth tile. He stole a backward glance, but whoever spoke to him had melted into the crowd.

Esteemed heroes from worlds beyond, the psychic voice boomed again. Welcome to the Eternal Empire, a land your ancestors defended in centuries past. I am Emperor Paerawyn, ruler of this land. In our most desperate hour, we implore you, heroes from realms beyond, to lend us your might.

“Didn’t really give us much of a choice, Your Highness!”

It was the man with the tiger tattoo, upright with an accusatory finger pointed at the emperor. He laughed, clearly revelling in the outraged cries and unsettled looks his actions attracted. The Targonian warriors advanced on him with hammers held high, but the promise of a messy death only made him cackle louder.

We have prepared handsome rewards for those who join our cause, Emperor Paerawyn resumed, waving away his guards. But for those who refuse, we shall prepare you a path home. But before we proceed, please join our banquet in celebration of our ancient alliance.

Ruxian flared his nostrils in disappointment as the soldiers lowered their hammers, the very weapon that fed his morbid curiosity. He refocused on Paerawyn, who descended the throne with slow, dignified strides. The lanky figure bore the smooth skin of a teenager and the air of a veteran powerbroker. More importantly, Ruxian felt an invisible boulder on his chest. The emperor’s presence was suffocating. Yet, stealing a quick glance around, Ruxian realised he was again the only one who perceived the oppression.

A stream of maids in black flowed into the hall from discreet side doors, arranging countless cloche-covered plates on trestle tables long enough to span a short street. Like many others, the promise of a good meal and a trip home drove Ruxian to lift the silver dome, unleashing an aromatic steam cloud that dampened his face. The pork, garnished with herbs and drowning in broth, squirted juices as Ruxian poked it with a fork. A clattering of plates and utensils followed. Ruxian took this chance to survey his summoned peers, finding a disturbing number of pensioners and children. There was also no shortage of men jostling for seats beside attractive women, despite the apparent language barrier.

“Wouldn’t eat that if I were you,” said someone to his left. “Ah, you do understand me.”

Ruxian snapped his neck towards the voice. It was the old man from the dressing room just moments ago. Unlike him, however, this stranger reeked like an unbathed dog.

“So nice to have someone to talk to,” he said, inclining his head to train a lazy eye on Ruxian. “You know what’s going on here...young man?”

“I'm Ruxian,” replied the hypnotist, “and I know no more than you do.”

“My friends call me Palemoor,” the old man chuckled, “and I suspect you’re being...modest.”

Ruxian eyed Palemoor and set down his fork. “You don’t trust me?”

“Heavens no,” a coughing fit punctuated his denial. “That boy did something,” his good eye darted towards the emperor, now enthroned again, “and only you resisted it. Dare I say, that wasn’t part of their script.”

Ruxian shrugged, reached for his fork, then retracted his hand. “What do you want from me?”

Palemoor leaned closer while keeping his eyes on the doorway. “I need to get out of here.”

“You heard the emperor,” replied Ruxian. “They’re send us home.”

“And you believed them,” Palemoor sighed. “Listen. I’ve forgotten more about war than you can ever learn, and I don’t see a nation bracing for war. They. Are. Lying.”

“But why?” asked Ruxian.

“You ever hide good grades from your parents?” sniggered Palemoor. “Now, we’re going to need collaborators. For starters, we should try that quasi-gangster with the tiger tattoo.”

“There is no “we”,” replied Ruxian, slashing the air with a hand in firm refusal. “Right now, you're less convincing than UFO conspiracy videos,” he then pointed to the tattooed man. “And why that idiot?”

Palemoor cackled like a struggling motorbike engine. “His sort tends to make good decoys,” stealing one final glance at the row of giant hammers, the old man got to his feet. “Come on. Let’s go make some friends.”