John II

  “Your brother’s… Gideon Hale, correct?” I asked the young man who was just about to head up to the battlements for his shift. “Stationed over in Enoch?”

  The soldier, with his oily, black hair and common brown eyes, was strapping a gas mask harness to his chest as he looked up at me with a shocked look. “Y-yes sir. Samson Hale, Sir.”

  Right. “Viceroy will do well, but I won’t fault you for forgetting.”

  He bowed his head. “Forgive me, Viceroy.”

  Tch. It still doesn’t sound right. ‘Ajax was a surety,’ Consul Edwin had said. Always Ajax. “I want you to cancel that shift, find someone else.”

  Samson raised an eyebrow. “Why—might I ask, Viceroy?”

  “You might,” I repeated, throwing a look at a soldier fitting himself for the same duty Samson had been. “You there, find a replacement for Samson here, and be quick about it—night is coming.”

  “Yes sir!” the recruit bowed and frantically searched around.

  Paying it no further heed, I turned back to Samson. “Put back your equipment and come to my solar.”

  Samson nodded and unstrapped the harness.

  Turning away, I walked the second floor of the Garden—still adorned with the marvelous velvets and gold that was once the standard of an old imperium—although, they were slightly worn and withered, no doubt due to the short stint the vermin had here.

  Everywhere I looked, sons and princes alike saluted me. The former because of my status as Myrmidon, the latter because of my appointment as Viceroy in… his stead.

  Some part of me always wanted recognition like this. But another part—a true part—didn’t like it very much. It didn’t feel real. All it did was make me miss the days in the trenches, carving out Enoch alongside my brothers from the wastes of the world; warring against the greater imp tribes, dreaming, hoping that one day it’d all be worth it.

  I still hope.

  Once I got to the third floor of the Garden, a courteous secretary with a rather… gay pompadour did a… curtsy… in my presence. “Viceroy Wells, welcome back to the Garden.”

  I scratched my hair—probably to stop my hidden humour from appearing too noticeable. “What happened to… Derrick, was it? Secretary Derrick—what happened to him.”

  “He was reassigned to Enoch, Viceroy Wells. I am his replacement, Initiate Victor Yates.”

  “Right.” I waved Yates away and pressed on to my solar. “Wait a moment,” I did a spin and he was there waiting with a big old smile on his face—as if he hadn’t dared to move until I was gone. “Assemble a dossier on all the Enochian reinforcements, Plebeian or otherwise, and if someone tries to reassign you, tell them to eat a bullet—categorically.”

  “At once, Viceroy.” He bowed and went about his tasks.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  “Wait a moment,” I raised a finger.

  Yates did a spin a bit like myself and smiled again.

  “Tell the Envoy Logistician that Samson Hale, a son, is tagging along.”

  “At once, Viceroy.” He bowed and turned to leave.

  Will I do it again? I might’ve, but before I could think of anything, he’d vanished down the stairs. Shame.

  Finally entering my solar, I circled around the great oak desk and took a seat on fine black leather. Time seemed to slow to a crawl as I awaited Samson’s arrival. The only thing to do in times like this was steady my mind. Reaching about my waist, I drew a long serrated knife and pricked my index finger, leaving a trail of scarlet blood trickling down my hand.

  And then I put it into my mouth and sucked the blood.

  Back in the day, when… he and I were still an initiate, we’d learned from another initiate who’s name is best left damned that the most venerated tradition of the Sons of Achilles was the drinking of your own blood in times of war, to feel pain again—and make you want to inflict it on others. Supposedly it carried some Rot-mimicking science of some sort.

  It was all fucking bullshit, obviously. And the damned one got a good laugh out of it, but somehow, the tradition found its footing in the mud and the shit. Now you’d be hard-pressed to find a son that doesn’t cut his hand every now and again chasing after that same high that won us the Imp Wars.

  “Viceroy?” Samson called out.

  I hadn’t heard him enter, but I wasn’t ashamed of him seeing me like this. There were far more unique, stranger quirks in the volumes of the order that bore no mockery—even when they should’ve. No. We were brothers. And brothers don’t hurt one another like that.

  “Take a seat,” I ordered while wrapping my hand in a stained napkin.

  Samson sat down, and I could tell he was nervous and a bit scared. Perhaps he thinks his brother is dead? I wasn’t very direct about why I wanted to talk with him, and I couldn’t blame him for jumping to such a conclusion.

  “I’m going to send you to Enoch to join your brother.”

  He blinked in confusion, as if a great weight was lifted. “Might I ask why?”

  “You might,” I replied. “And this time I’ll answer: your brother Gideon is one of Carolus Bilia’s few friends. Of the myrmidons, Carolus and… Ajax are the only ones I trust fully. But Carolus is the matter here; if a power-struggle were to arise in Enoch, I need Carolus to have a solid base of support. You love your brother, I’m sure—and he loves Carolus. You see where I’m getting at?”

  “But…”

  “But what?”

  “Viceroy, Myrmidon Carolus is perhaps the most beloved son in the order. Does he not already have a ‘solid’ support? And regardless, would Carolus not pledge to Myrmidon Ajax in the event of a… ‘power struggle’, as he is the elder?”

  I reluctantly nodded. “Usually. But this ‘power-struggle’ I’m doing far too poorly at hinting might complicate things. I’ve no idea how Carolus might react, and between the two, I’d much rather Carolus wins in the aforementioned struggle than Ajax.”

  “Why?” he questioned.

  “I preferred when you might’ve asked.” I waved him away. “Protect Carolus, even at the expense of your brother’s life. But secondly, and most importantly, I will need you to inform him of something.”

  “You will is my command, Viceroy.”

  Right. “There’s an assassin going to kill the Grandmaster—and I need you to tell Carolus why.”