The Headsman Commeth

The early morn was heralded by avian choirs in rejoicing chorus, as the darkness of the night was cast aside to the favor of a new day.

Hedges flanked the cobblestone path that approached the manor of the Eisenvary Estate. A pristine structure, three-stories high with an attic level, made of brick and finished in stucco painted the color of cream. The roof, curbed, was made with tile. Sashed windows dotted the entire structure and a small garden surrounded the fountain which lay in the midst of the courtyard, an angelic creature it’s center piece, heroically posed, bearing water.

Inside, the manor was not typical of the gentry. It was sparse of decoration, lacking the gilded corridors as well as walls adorned in magnificent tapestries, works of art and sculptures. The Count did not share the tendency of his peers towards outright displays of vanity, an aspect that granted others the perception that he was merely a miser and utterly provincial in his life and conduct. This reputation did not bother him nearly as much as others anticipated, for he relished in his frugality both in finances and in presentation.

But the Count was indeed bothered this day. The sound of his shoes tracing back and forth across the carpet of the manor’s parlor, was audible even in the hallway outside.

“Brother, for pity sake sit. If I have to watch you brood for but a moment longer...”

Count Alarik paused and turned to gaze at his younger brother, Harlec, Baron of Erdstahl. Who was lounging in a couch smoking a cigar carelessly, his azure eyes seemingly staring off into nothing.

“Please don’t look at me like that,” Harlec said. “It gives me the impression you are angry with me.”

“And if I am?”

Harlec titled his head back, rolling it towards his elder brother until he met his stare.

“Then I shall have to inquire as to why?” Harlec smiled. “Surely, giving my brother good council is not grounds for such wrath?”

Alarik huffed and then went back to pacing again.

“Send him away,” Harlec said in between drags of his cigar.

“What?”

“Send him away,” Harlec repeated. “If the mere approach of this man to your doorstep is to illicit such a reaction, I can’t imagine what you’ll be like when he finally appears.”

“Were it so easy,” Alaric dismissed.

“So it is,” Harlec argued, donning next a hypothetical tone for a hypothetical conversation. “Deepest apologies dear sir, as it is, your services are not required, Good Morning!”

“Damn it all!” Alaric swore. “I have hired hunters, mercenaries and they all have either died or taken the coin and run. My constabulary is stretched beyond it’s means and I am devoid of any capability of seizing the initiative against these lupine marauders. In effect, I am constrained and made to feel impotent.”

Alaric continued his rant, “So I ask His Highness for help and what does he give me? Soldiers so that I may put an end to this madness? No, he sends a glorified headsman and a damnable one at that. I cannot fathom in the slightest how His Highness can possibly believe that one man may turn the tide where a thousand cannot. It is at this point I must consider whether that catamite is bent towards suicide or that I am stark raving mad!”

“Tsk tsk tsk,” clicked Harlec’s teeth. “Temper, temper brother. If a royal official had heard you say that then-.”

“Fuck him!” Alaric cursed, prompting his brother to break into hearty laugh, but Alaric persisted.

“No small wonder the Royal Family is as degenerate and poxed as it is! The King’s madness, the passing of every viable prince save for the one who’d sooner sit in a man’s lap than on the throne. All because of their association with that sable, cursed dynasty. What could you expect when your ‘finest agent’ keeps company with the diabolic?”

Alaric sighed pausing for a moment before relenting, “And yet, so great is the desperation at this given time that I must partake of any scraps His Highness may deem to confer upon me from his table of plenty.”

“There you have it then,” Harlec posited. “Better to take what is offered, however meager. Now brother, will you please sit down and join me for a smoke?”

Harlec gestured with a cigar box, prompting Alaric to resign from his vexed ministrations and sit down in the chair next to the sofa. Lighting a cigar, he allowed the smoke to dull his senses and remove him from the misery he found himself in. He hoped, however unlikely, that this Konrad Mydlar was as good as the Prince-Regent believed he was.

***

The thunder of hooves echoed amongst the trees as two riders made all possible haste towards their destination. Coursing down a winding road that was well laid but nothing more than earthy composition. On either side branches reached out as if in a bid to snatch the riders from their horses but thus far had not succeeded.

Riding slightly ahead of the other was a man of five-and-twenty, clad in blake and sable attire, masked and top-hatted, equipped in dark leather armor that fit well to his stout frame. Only a white cravat contrasted this ensemble save for his fair complexion, stone-gray eyes and umber mane. His mount was a mighty destrier, tireless and stalwart, upon which hung saddle bags containing supplies and ammunition as well as holsters for a rifle, shotgun and a mighty blade that signified the manner of his office: A Sword of Justice.

This, of course, was Konrad Mydlar. Royal Executioner of Magvaria and the right-hand of the Prince-Regent.

Trailing behind and slightly to his right, was Rayk Kellen, a Lictor (Executioner’s Assistant). He was a plucky lad of fourteen summers, with ash blond hair, brown eyes and a mischievous, youthful visage. Before he entered Konrad’s service he had been a thief and cut-purse, with his crimes eventually catching up to him in such a way, that he would soon have to part with his hands as punishment. However, Konrad intervened and offered the young Rayk the chance to avoid the sentence in exchange for his fealty. Rayk leaped at the mercy, preferring to be a social outcast rather than live life as a maimed man.

They had just passed the border of Nordemars and were now within the county proper. At the personal behest of His Highness, Konrad and Rayk were to render whatever assistance they could provide in aiding Count Alarik in restoring peace and order to his fief. The Prince-Regent’s words still resided in their minds when he stamped his Royal Seal upon the warrant Konrad now carried in his breast pocket.

“His Lordship, Count Alarik, will not receive you well at first, considering your stations and natures. But if his dispatches are as desperate as they seem, that very desperation may yield the fruit of appreciation at your presence.”

Konrad and Rayk held no such reservations that they would be received in any other manner than coldly at best, dismissively at worst. Executioners were viewed, by and large, as tainted. Men who were born in the shadows, lived in the shadows and would eventually depart in the shadows. Such was the way of the world.

Just ahead they heard the sound of gunfire, followed by a clash of arms and bestial roars. They snapped the reigns of their mounts and charged forward, eager to discover the cause of the commotion.

***

She stood defiant, even as her repeating carbine expended the ammunition in it’s magazine. A snarling wolf man surged forward, fangs bared, aiming for her throat. She brought the butt stock of her carbine hard against it’s hanging jaw, dislocating it and sending it hurtling into the dirt road. Another beast, a man who had once been a wood cutter, gripped hold of the carbine and rendered it away. She drew her sword and slashed him across the abdomen, drawing a deep gash that caused his innards to spill out as he fell to his knees desperately trying in vain to keep them in.

Yet, where those two fell, six more took their place. They encircled her and she made ready to fight to the last, a good death in the service of the Monad against these fenrir wild men.

BANG

The report of a revolver cracked the air, and a .45 caliber ball punched through the skull of one of her opponents. She looked over in the direction of the sound and saw two men, one masked, the other a boy not yet a man, approaching fast by horse, the masked one’s revolver still smoking from the shot.

They let loose a fusillade that cut down her attackers, before finishing off what was left with sabers. The fight over, the masked man hopped down from his horse and greeted her.

“I am Konrad Mydlar, Dame. Are you hurt?”

“No, I’m quite alright, thanks to you.”

Sophia removed her helmet, allowing her braided black hair to flow freely. Her smooth, rich complexion contrasted wonderfully with her white uniform as well as her steel cuirass sheathed in brass. Her eyes, white, were a common trait of fully ordained Viragos who were capable of wielding the holy magics.

“I am Sophia Euler,” she declared. “Virago of the Order of the Sacred Fire. Well met Headsman.”

“You recognize me?”

“I recognize the name,” she revealed. “Your reputation precedes you.”

“I see.”

“Fear not,” Sophia smiled. “Unorthodox your veneration may be as a Corbanite, you serve both the Monad and the Crown faithfully. I do not judge you. Where do you ride?”

“To the estate of Count Alarik Eisenvary,” Konrad answered.

“Then we are going the same way. Sadly, my horse ran off during the fight. Might I share your mount?”

“Of course,” Konrad moved back to his destrier whose reins Rayk had been holding and mounted quickly. He reached down to assist Sophia but she, of course, was no stranger to the saddle and ascended in behind Konrad seamlessly. She wrapped her arms around Konrad’s frame, and he could feel the feminine strength in her arms. And she, the sturdiness of his torso.

Rayk, grinning, moved alongside them.

“Hoy there,” he said. “Name’s Rayk.”

Sophia moved to offer a handshake but Rayk instead manuevered to receive her hand in a roguish gentleman's kiss. Sophia, somewhat taken aback, froze a moment before lightly smiling and pinching Rayk’s cheek.

“Such a charmer.”

Konrad cleared his throat and they returned to the task at hand. Spurring their mounts they continued the journey onwards. Anticipating in their minds what awaited them on the road ahead.