Palemoor

DATE: IMMORTAL REIGN 1023 MONTH 3 DAY 14

“That was productive,” said Ruxian. “He’s consistent if nothing else.”

“About as productive as your sarcasm,” chided Palemoor. “Let’s move.”

“Easy for you to say,” Ruxian bristled. “He threatened to violate my non-existent sister.”

Hobbling, the old man squeezed in between two people and sat down. He patted his chest, searching for cigarettes in his imaginary breast pocket. The reflexive motion left him chewing on his lower lip.

“You could always buy a sow and name it Your Sister,” Palemoor cackled maliciously. “Now come. Help the old man find a place to relieve his bladder.”

Sighing, Ruxian led Palemoor towards a maid. As they crossed the dining hall, Ruxian felt the eyes of the guards, the heroes, and above all, the emperor from his elevated throne. Suddenly, Ruxian, too, could hardly wait for one of the black-clad women to show them out the side door.

“And where are you cool kids going?”

It was the tattooed man with folded arms and the face of someone moments before squashing a cockroach. Ruxian briefly entertained the thought of having him bang his head against a wall but chose not to risk it, not while Palemoor was watching with a toothy grin.

Inside a surprising odourless and spacious chamber that housed a row of latrines, Palemoor tapped an obelisk, sending running water splashing. Having prepared the background noise, the old man waved for them to close in and produced his notebook. Ruxian held back a gasp. Apart from the several pages of scribbled notes – which he presumed were Targonian text – Palemoor had a map of the castle, going as far as dotting the path leading to the throne room.

“No time to waste,” declared Palemoor, taking on a grave tone. “Ruxian, translate.”

Before Ruxian could protest, the crippled elder began speaking like a racecourse announcer.

“…if you are interested,” said Ruxian, pausing to catch his breath. “Please introduce yourself.”

“The name's Destora,” replied the tattooed man with a wide grin. “If you’re really worried about this backwards nation, we can seize the throne now. We have the power.”

Palemoor shook his head. “Amateurish at best. Why do you think they assembled us before their emperor? And if I recall correctly, you were also down on your knees.”

Destora spat in disgust. “Give me something to throw at him, and I’ll put a dent in his pretty skull.”

“Not before those hammers mince you,” retorted Palemoor. “You’re free to distract them while we –”

A knock on the door alerted the trio. They were running out of time.

“I got this,” said Ruxian.

Opening the door wide enough to poke his head through, Ruxian clapped his hands.

“There is nobody inside. Go back to the dining hall.”

Having dismissed the maid, Ruxian returned to the group with a triumphant grin. Palemoor nodded in approval while Destora narrowed his eyes at him. Ruxian sniggered. How he wished he had this moment on camera.

“That’s it,” concluded Palemoor, tucking away his notebook. “Follow me.”

The three men marched out and into the hallways which now seemed eerily empty. There were no patrols, no bustling servants serving food, and the commotion inside the throne room had faded. Lifting a finger to his lips, Palemoor gestured for a left turn.

On and on they went, spiralling downwards through a labyrinth of unmanned corridors and waiting rooms. Ruxian couldn’t shake the question gnawing at the back of his mind. Where is everyone? The sound of crashing waves growing louder with each flight of stairs, Ruxian felt his courage rising with each step, until an unexpected encounter chilled his blood.

It was Susie with two soldiers in her company, their shimmering hammers bathing the corridor in blue. The nun had traded her revealing white habit for a plain, sepulchre gown. Panic and rage had replaced the friendly smile Ruxian had come to know. Hair matted to her sweaty forehead and short of breath, she reminded him of a marathon runner crossing the finish line.

“Ruxian,” snapped Susie. “Where have you been? Return to the throne room at once.”

Ruxian took a step back. Susie had never omitted his title or commanded him before. “I will if you tell me why.”

“This is not a game!” screamed Susie, drawing her scissors with trembling hands. “Come with me this instant!”

“Now!” cried Palemoor, thrusting a fist upwards.

From the bathroom came a blast louder than a dozen grenades. Before the confused Targonians could shield their ears, Destora hurled a stone table at them as though it were a mere pebble, sending one of the guards flying. Laughing maniacally, the tattooed man then flung a salvo of chairs, his arms but a blur.

Jolted out of their initial shock, Susie quickly lifted her arms as the other guard braced himself. The chairs shattered against an invisible wall, bursting into debris and splinters. Waving his arms frantically, Palemoor darted past the nun with such pace that Ruxian struggled to keep up.

Setting the soldier on Destora, Susie darted after Ruxian and quickly gained on him. Palemoor, swinging back, stabbed at the nun with a stolen fork. With disturbing ease, Susie snipped through the utensil. She gasped when the old man laid a hand on her chest and leapt back, her face flushed with humiliated anger.

“Not the man I used to be,” mused Palemoor as he ran. “Oh well, I can think of worse things to do before I die.”

“She’s going to castrate us!” yelled Ruxian between laboured breaths. “What were you thinking?”

“Just testing my magic on a human being,” replied the old man. “I suspect she caught on.”

Ruxian snorted. “Like what? Groping a woman young enough to be your granddaughter?”

Palemoor tapped at his temple repeatedly. “You’re a slow one. Who do you think blew up the toilets?”

His burning legs and lungs, however, prevented Ruxian from further processing the loaded question. Making a sharp turn, he ventured a look back and found Susie nipping at his heels. He may not have had the pleasure of fleeing from a Targonian Grizzly, but Ruxian imagined his current predicament was probably not too different.

More guards barred their path with hammers, sandwiching the unlikely duo in a hallway. Taking a final peek at his notebook, Palemoor pressed both hands against a wall. The old man gnashed his teeth and unleashed a guttural cry. The Targonians threw themselves to the ground, bracing for impact. In an instant, an earthshaking explosion tore through the masonry, spraying the soldiers with shrapnel.

Ruxian looked down, swallowed, and jumped after Palemoor. Wind pressed his face, forcing him to close his eyes. Hitting the cold water hard, Ruxian let out a silent scream before surfacing, gasping as he swiped hair out of his face. The old man was right. Anything beyond the outermost wall gave them a clear look at the lake. While the dive was much higher than he’d hoped for, the sight of Susie was motivation enough.

Palemoor, already powering through the lake with rapid strokes, spun around and gave Ruxian a wave. Ruxian returned the gestured and began dogpaddling in the opposite direction. The water, much choppier than the kiddie pools where he learned to swim, made the shores seem a distant dream. Had he not a favourable current at his heels, Ruxian would’ve surely become fish food.

Washed onto the cold, damp bank, Ruxian lay flat, catching his breath, happy to be on solid ground again. Thoroughly soaked, he shuddered, sat up, and dragged himself into the bushes with leaden limbs.

The rustling behind him hastened his footsteps. Something was gaining on him. Breaking into a run, Ruxian tripped over his own spent legs. Clutching at branches, he scrambled back up, scratching his face and arms as he stumbled through the plants.

“Stop.”

Ruxian froze. He knew the voice. Slowly, he turned and found Susie. The nun, having likely discarded her gown in the lake, confronted him in her dripping camisole and pantaloons. It was not her attire, but the scissors that demanded his attention. The only thing sharper was her eyes, like a cat staring down a mouse. He almost wanted to laugh. The one time a beautiful woman showed up in her underwear, and the only thing he could think of was running away.

“Susie,” said Ruxian, slowly edging away. “Do you want me dead?”

The young woman inched forward. Murmuring something unintelligible, her scissors grew to the size of a grown man. This was her answer.

“You smiled when I told you I liked Targonia,” Ruxian said, failing to steady his voice. “Was that a lie?”

Susie lowered her head briefly before spreading the jaws of her giant blades. “I was relieved. It certainly made transporting you easier. Now, am I going to have to prune you or will you come quietly?”

Ruxian snapped his fingers. Instead of compelling Susie to disarm, he ears rang almost as loudly as the time he shook Lucius’s hand. Staggering, Ruxian collapsed face-first into the soft mud, groaning as his vision faded.

“The easy way it is then.”

That was the last thing he heard.