Chapter 5: NIGHT OF BLADES
"Mahdi-Kal, here are the names of the seeds of revolution."
He turned away from the twin moons toward the man who now held a piece of brown paper toward him. The man, wearing a habib, gave a low bow as he took the parcel from his hands.
Written in the language of Ameraic and black ink lay a list of personalities—a hundred and thirty-five. He scanned through them, perhaps there might be some familiar names. He squinted his eyes at the words as he scrolled down.
"Are the words not to the liking of my lord?" The man pleaded with his head bowed. "I can draft another with a far more polished structure, Mahdi-Kal."
"That won't be necessary." Without raising his eyes, he still scanned each name and their locations. "How are you capable of remembering all this?"
The man raised his head with a settled confusion on his face. "Even I don't know how, my lord. It must be the blessing of Eid-Xhalor to aid the way of the La-Gessieb."
The man pressed his fingers together, then raised them toward the moons. Then his other free palm on his chest, while he bowed with eyes closed.
"May I be found worthy in the just eyes of Eid-Xhalor."
He ignored his act of reverence, then continued scanning to the very end. He saw an intriguing name.
A rolling thunder crashed from above, only after the bright explosion of lightning.
Anvill Mongoteri, the Wade-Bisor, Baron of the Economy.
He folded the paper as he sighed. That name might just make his mission harder. He had earlier wished not to be affiliated with one of the baron families. But...
He turned toward the window as a low subsonic hum rattled the structure from above, making the gas lamps sway wildly. And approximately the same time, a white pillar of light shielded his vision.
This pillar of light moved further away, illuminating more familiar structures..
Low-roof houses carved mostly out of stone with dark metal reinforcements, in a scattered array with stone-slabbed streets and some up an irregular patch of land.
The pillar of light went further ahead until he could finally see the great machine possessing the light. It was the Sul-Myrr, the Floating Cone.
"Sul-Myrr. They who obstruct us from the gaze of Eid-Xhalor."
"You may leave now." He turned his neck toward the kneeling man. He narrowed his eyes at the man who quickly stood, still bowing. "You know what you must do."
The man raised his head, then kissed his outstretched palms.
"I understand, La-Gessieb."
The man retreated, then, walking back to the counter, his hands grabbed the Myrrknife—forged from the ambers of steel and molten Myrrdium, a relic of royalty.
"Halt." The man stopped in his tracks, then gave him a look of confusion.
"La-Gessieb?"
He walked toward the man, then grabbed the Myrrknife from his palms, after which he turned away from him.
"Find yourself another weapon."
This would lead eventually back to him, since it was only possessed by those of royal blood.
The man bowed, ever compliant. "Aye, Mahdi-Kal." Then he reached under his brown flowing garment, bringing out a steel curved sickle—a tool for the fields.
"I follow your way, La-Gessieb," the man muttered lastly before turning away toward the steel door not too far from reach. Then he yanked it open, but he didn't move through it. Instead, he just stood at the threshold.
He gave the devout man a side glare.
"May Eid-Xhalor guide your path."
The man, hearing his words, gave him one last bow before walking into the fog and storm, leaving the door wide open. Yet still, autonomously, it bid itself shut.
He closed his eyes, then again opened them with a deep exhale.
"DIE."
The guttering gas flame flared violently before losing its glow, coveting darkness into the midst of this room. Yet from the lightlessness shone an azure streak like calm lightning—the unmistakable form of the Myrrknife now elongated into a long sword.
And the blazing ring of the halo behind the unseen figure of Nether.
And subtly, the darkness devoured the glow. As more cold wind rippled through the window, under the light of another great machine nested in the skies, the room was found devoid of any form.
He found himself in another room, a tad bit identical to the earlier one, with a young man nested in sleep wearing an equally brown tunic. He tilted his head—one of the revolutionaries.
They were about a hundred of them alone in the laborer quarters: devout worshippers fooled by the Covenant into the wrong path.
Perhaps he could compel them onto the right path using the Voice, but still, he didn't have the required amount of physical resistance to the effects of using the Voice on such a majority.
The only way then was...He walked with his woolen hood draped over his face. Then, with the gleaming Myrrsword, he carved an azure streak over the figure's neck.
Before driving it deep into his skull, sending crimson splatters of blood over his face. Yet with the woolen fabric of the cloak, he wiped it up.
Then he watched the scarlet blood spread over the lifeless man's mattress. He turned away from it after muttering a silent prayer of grace to Eid-Xhalor.
May you hold the deceased in your gentle bosom.
And with that, his very shadow embraced him, drawing his form out of the midst of the room into the bowels of another whose walls he dyed in blood, and another corpse to which he bid a silent prayer.
And then again, he retreated into the shadows of the harmless night, yet into another—one he impaled against his own mattress.
And another, a dark-skinned woman he gave a quick drive into her heart, granting her freedom to the world beyond.
He stared once more at the breathless figure, then with a shake of his head, wove into the darkness, arriving at a distinguished room where a man slept along with a wife and children of two.
One he was certain was of the age of Tar-Shür, and the other, a little girl, was yet to become.
The walls of this confined space were lined with mats of Lorian silk and an outstanding amount of Myrridium lamps, which he suspected to be for the safety of the young lad and lass.
Shutting his eyes, he walked slowly to where the man lay with his wife cuddled in his bosom. Then he opened his eyes.
May you find everlasting peace in the halls of Eid-Xhalor.
A pillar of light bathed the structure with a subthrumic hum; the Yul-Myrr drifted far above.
With a blur of azure motion, he traced a gentle arc over the adjoining necks of the two fellows, silently and bloodlessly—not sparing a glance at the corpses. He walked away.
Slowly melting into the shadows, yet still a trail of moisture drifted from his eyes onto the stone floor of the quiet room. Within moments, his silhouette was gone like an illusion.
In the damp night of fog, he moved like a quiet shadow—a merciless knight granting the embrace of death to every personality whose name was christened in ink on his list.
Walls dampened with blood, mattresses soiled with ichor, lifeless forms impaled to whatever structure held. As much as he could, with his own sense of justice, Nether ventured into the dark path of opposing fate.
And when his kill count was finally near a hundred, he found himself before the great house of the Baron of the Economy—the Wade-Bisor.