Arc Four

Heart of Darkness

Chapter One

"The Book of Graes Del spoke of a fantastical world, one that enraptured Argadon the Soulbinder. He became obsessively convinced that the Book chronicled a true history of a time before even his own in the Elder Days."

The Seer's Parables

Olympia,

The Southern Isles

May 15th, 1843

The horizon smoldered with the blood of a dying sun. It glinted red against Hans's eyes as he stared down at the villa that opened below him. Upon a rooftop and across the street from the horse-shoe-shaped building, Hans pushed down the disgust he felt gazing upon the crowds of elites mingling amongst the white-clothed tables set up in the villa's courtyard. He was not here for them, and it was not his place to bring judgment to them.

His brother was another matter.

Hans drew a grappling hook from his belt and untwined a great length of rope, holding it up and considering the throw that he would need to make to land the hook on the nearest tower. He'd been waiting for some time in the Southern Isles, tracking Maxwell's movements closely. For a long time, he'd been conflicted. Wondered whether he really had it in him to kill the man who'd ruined Hans's life, pushed him to hatred and villainy. After much soul-searching, he'd decided.

Yes. He had no qualms about killing Maxwell Westergaard.

He should have done it years ago, anyway, the same night that his eldest brother had raped Mallory James, the only woman that Hans had ever truly loved. It was just what his brother deserved.

He'd chosen tonight for a very particular reason; Maxwell was hosting a party, ostensibly to celebrate a recent, lucrative trade deal that King Westergaard had negotiated with Spain. It seemed that the black mark Hans's legacy had left on the country's foreign affairs was beginning to fade. In any case, tonight would be Maxwell at his worst. He'd be self-aggrandizing. Cocky. Drunk, most likely, and insufferable. He'd be forcing himself on some woman, threatening her with character assassination unless she slept with him. Nights like tonight were the type Hans wouldn't have any trouble at all finishing the deed.

Hans took a deep breath. Then he ran. He ran down the side of the rooftop, coming to the edge and twisting his arm, launching the grappling hook at the nearest tower. It landed in a windowsill, and Hans jumped into the void. He sailed over the street for several moments, and then he started to fall. His weight tugged against the rope and it held, swinging him in a wide, graceful arc through the air. The wind rushed in his ears as he angled right, sailing around the side of the tower and beginning to twist back towards the building.

The rope grew short and he reached the top of his arc, rising above the villa's walls. He twisted his arm and the hook wrenched free. Hans floated for a moment before coming down lightly on the walls, quickly hauling the hook up behind him. He stashed it where the wall met the tower, beside a door that led inside it, before turning around and taking stock of his surroundings. He was now on the north side of the large building, on the wall that ran around the interior courtyard.

"Hey! Who the hell are you?" A pair of guards had noticed the former prince and were advancing quickly. His hand strayed briefly towards the knife at his side, but he checked himself. Tonight, there would only be one casualty.

He sped up, tapping the magic that had been raging inside of him for a bit over three months now, and ran. In a heartbeat, he'd crossed the distance to the soldiers, and he got to work. Hans ducked to the side and rammed his knee into one's hand just as he was drawing his pistol. The gun flipped out of it and arced through the air, right into Hans's outstretched hand. He bashed the grip into the man's head, sending him to the ground.

Just as that guard's knees hit stone, Hans placed a hand on his shoulder and vaulted over him, landing with his legs astride the next man's shoulders. Hans twisted down to the ground in a roll, flinging the soldier's body into the stone crenellations. He came up in a crouch and glanced over his shoulder at the groaning bodies. They were down for the count.

Hans looked over the wall into the courtyard and scanned the faces, searching for familiarity. To his surprise, he saw some men mingling below that looked distinctly Italian. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Italians in the Southern Isles. He looked away, bringing his attention back to the mission at hand. His brother could be anywhere down there, or hidden amongst the villa's walls. It wouldn't take too long to search the place, but it also wouldn't take too long before he stirred up too much commotion, and Maxwell fled. He figured he had less than five minutes.

Hans trotted along the villa's walls, heading down the eastern side now. There weren't any more guards atop the walls, a fact that made the former prince uneasy. With so many elites in attendance at once, he would have expected a larger security detail. The walls themselves were wide, perhaps four meters or so, and served double as a state building. Inside were offices used by several government departments, though none of them would be in use right now. Unless, of course, one wished to hold a meeting, outside of public scrutiny.

Hans almost stopped, it hit him so fast. There were Italians here, for reasons that couldn't possibly be benign. There was no logical reason to make a two-thousand-kilometer journey for anything but business. And if the state had legitimate business with Italy, Hans would have heard about it by now; the state would have made some announcement. They were here to discuss something behind closed doors, and Maxwell had chosen this villa, even decided to host this party in the first place, all for the purpose of warding away prying eyes and unwanted ears. He'd have his own men planted amongst the crowd, swearing that they just broke away from a conversation with the Southern Isles's crown prince, deflecting the attention of any partygoers looking for him. And his guards were, sans the pair that Hans had already dispatched, inside the building, keeping watch over the affair.

Olympia's finest would leave the party, convinced that they simply missed the prince among a sea of other nobles. And Maxwell would have his illicit deal, whatever it was.

Hans ran to the edge of the wall and clasped the edge, swinging over the side facing the courtyard. He came down and kicked through an expensive glass window, landing amidst a pile of shattered glass on a plush carpet. He whipped his head about and found himself in an empty hallway.

He fell to his search with incredible haste, making his way as discreetly as he could at great speed through the chambers of the building, passing through empty hallways and offices until, at long last, he stepped through a door and heard the sound of a pistol's hammer being drawn.

"Put your hands above your head real slow-like, boy, or else I'll put a slug of lead in the back of your damn head." The gruff voice came from behind Hans. He quickly surveyed the room.

Hans was in a small sitting room, the type where wealthy businessmen would wait before an appointment with the government. In the middle of the room was a small coffee table with a vase in the center; beyond it there was a plush sofa and some paintings on the walls. He slowly placed his hands behind his head and began to turn, bringing a grizzled-looking old soldier standing beside the doorway into the next room into view. He held a rifle leveled at Hans.

"That's right. Keep those hands where I can see 'em." He started to reach for the door behind himself, groping against the wall. Hans figured that this soldier had been stationed outside the door to Maxwell's meeting to ward away unwelcome guests. This soldier was guarding something, at least.

Hans ducked forwards. The man fired his rifle one-handed; Hans didn't even need to use his powers to protect himself. The shot went wild. Having closed the distance, Hans threw his elbow into the soldier's neck, throwing the man up against the wall. He rammed his knee into the soldier's gut and allowed him to fall away from the wall, swinging his leg down and kicking his head into the floor. The former prince picked up the man's rifle and shot the doorknob.

There was a loud bang, and with a slight push, Hans shoved the door inwards. He peered into a large chamber, only as wide as the walls themselves but ten meters deep. There were at least fifteen men in the room, including Maxwell and an Italian viscount wearing a loudly plumed hat. The rest were armed guards, standard fare for an illegal and possibly dangerous meeting. They were all already turned to face the doorway, shock registered on their faces at the gunshots and the intruder.

Hans looked about, smiling crookedly. "You know," he said, straightening his cravat as he stepped over the threshold, "when I was planning for this night, I couldn't help but ask myself whether it was really necessary to wear a suit."

He set the old guard's rifle down, leaning it against a sofa, all the while keeping his eyes trained directly on Maxwell's stunned face. "I told myself that there wouldn't be any point in wearing something nice if I was just planning on getting blood all over it."

Maxwell's face went ashen. He was stuck in his seat, unable to move. Hans was supposed to be dead. Maxwell had heard the coroner's report. He'd committed suicide in prison, the very morning that he was to be executed by the state. Of course, he'd never seen a body.

"But I ended up deciding to wear a suit anyway. Do you know why? Because there's something indescribably right about looking good while I do something that I love." His smile broadened.

"What is going on? Who is this man?" The Italian count spluttered. "Kill him, goddammit!"

The guards opened fire just as Hans accelerated again.

Thirteen muzzle flashes slowly billowed from their firearms, and metal slugs began to trickle through the air towards him. Hans could have used the powers of the shieldheart he'd taken to force the bullets astray, but he had no need. He walked towards the nearest man, weaving his way through streaks of metal death with the casual nonchalance of a man out for an evening stroll.

Hans reached the guard just as time sped up to meet him again, punching him three times in succession and twisting him around in front like a shield, just as the Italian got his own pistol up to bear. The count fired, and the man grunted, his weight collapsing against Hans. The former prince let him drop to the floor.

Hans ran to the nearest chair and stepped onto the seat, leaping off and twisting to kick another soldier in the head. Hans landed in a crouch and rolled, coming up beside another man and punching him in the gut. As the guard doubled over, Hans twisted the gun out of his hand and spun around, shooting a man's knees out right behind him. As he fell forwards, Hans ducked underneath him and rolled the guard across his back, flinging him backwards into man with the punched gut and one more, sending them toppling to the ground. Hans turned and flung the pistol at such an angle that it hit one of them in the head and ricocheted into the other, spinning blood into the air from a broken jaw.

He turned fluidly to face the rest of the room, with nine guards, Maxwell, and the Italian count still coming at him. He caught a fist and ducked away from another, stepping between them both to land a headbutt against a soldier coming right towards him. Hans heard the report of a pistol from behind, but felt nothing. If he had the time, he'd breathe a sigh of relief. It was good to know that, even with little practice, his powers were working.

Suddenly, a series of blows landed on him as he became increasingly surrounded by the remaining men; kicks and punches and ramming shoulders fell like rain. Just as he was making some space he felt the cold steel of a muzzle ram his left temple, and he stumbled a bit just as the gunman pulled the trigger. Acting on pure instinct, Hans sped up again. He was far too close for even a shieldheart's powers to save him; they could push a bullet astray from across a room, but not from mere centimeters.

The former prince moved with blinding speed, even relative to himself as time trickled by. He twisted just enough to feel a painful gouge across the side of his head as the bullet scraped him. His hand rammed the man's revolver and it spiraled into the air, the magazine coming open and spilling its bullets as it flew. He caught the gun and boosted off of a stationary guard's knees, twisting into the air and spinning the pistol's magazine, moving with the precision of a skilled gymnast.

One by one, he caught the bullets in the revolver's chamber. He completed his flip and landed lightly, feeling the heavy press of time catching up to him.

The timewall met him just as he primed the revolver and fell into a crouch. Five bangs in rapid succession split the air, and a cloud of smoke bloomed outwards from Hans's position. He fired with the expertise of a deadeye gunman, shattering knees and shoulders but never hitting a lethal zone. The men fell like dominoes. When he stood again, only he and Maxwell remained. His brother stood against the opposite wall, face ashen and searching wildly for escape. The viscount groaned as he clutched at a wound at his collarbone, spilling red onto the fine carpet.

"Y-you're a goddamn devil," the Italian whimpered softly.

"I am the purifier," Hans responded simply, dropping the spent pistol to the floor. "Be glad that I did not shoot to kill. I come for only one prize."

"You're supposed to be dead," Maxwell said shakily, speaking for the first time. The only exit was behind Hans. He was trapped. He pressed his back to the wall, holding his concealed-carry pistol out towards his brother, unable to understand exactly why his gun was useless against him. "I saw father sign the documents. I heard the reports. You committed suicide to salvage the family name. It was the only honorable thing you'd ever done."

"You're right." Hans's voice became savage. "Taking responsibility for what I'd done in Arendelle was the first noble thing I'd done in my entire goddamn life. Even after you raped the love of my life and beat her to death, I wasn't honorable. I attacked, rather than defended. I let my hatred of you guide my actions when I should have been acting on my love for Mallory. I was a damn fool."

Hans smiled a bit. "But that's the thing about second chances. I'm not screwing this up again."

Hans stood fifteen feet away from his brother, far enough away that he could send a bullet astray if Maxwell decided to shoot. "I've thought a lot about that day, you know that? For years, I told myself that I'd done the right thing. That I'd avenged what you'd done to her. That I'd taught you and your friends a lesson. I didn't kill you because I believed that justice would take its course. That you'd be stripped of your title and lineage, cast away from our family to take a meager existence with other pieces of shit like yourself."

He slowly unlatched a knife from his belt and flipped it around twice in his hand. "But I was wrong. Father quietly covered up your crimes, fired Admiral James on false pretense, and distanced our family from the incident altogether. You never even had to look her father in the eyes and apologize for what you did to her."

"What the hell do you want from me?" Maxwell's hand was shaking. Hans wouldn't even need any magic to dodge a bullet from him. "She's gone!"

"I thought maybe you'd feel some remorse, somewhere underneath all of your blind hedonism. But all indications show that I'm dead wrong. I've been in this city, watching you, for six weeks. I could have killed you a hundred different ways since then, as easily as snuffing out a candle. But I didn't, because I wanted to be sure. I wanted to see that you haven't changed. That you're still a monster. Because only when I'm sure of that will I have no remorse."

Maxwell was silent and ashen, so Hans kept going, anger contorting his face and his speech. "During that time I've seen you beat three prostitutes and refuse payment to one. I saw you assault Lady Debenham at father's last state dinner. I know that you threatened character assassination against her if she didn't sleep with you. I've seen you accept bribes in your office as Minister of Justice – a position which, by the way, is a mockery to this country. You've arranged illicit meetings with illegal foreign agents, much like the one I stepped in on just now. You know, Maxwell, I have to say that I'm almost impressed. It must be pretty hard fitting that much corruption into your schedule."

Maxwell screamed something and fired, emptying the pistol's three-round magazine at his brother. Hans simply stood there as the bullets whizzed past him, his cloud of magic working unconsciously. Then he stepped forwards.

Maxwell tried to run, but Hans was on top of him in a heartbeat, slamming his brother up against the wall and bringing his knife to the man's neck. He pressed the point towards his brother's neck, allowing it to graze the skin and draw a bead of blood.

"You have spent all your life taking from others, brother. You took everything from me. So I find it fitting that I will take everything from you."

"B-brother…" Maxwell mumbled weakly, his eyes bulging.

Hans ripped the knife through his brother's neck. Blood exploded out, splattering Hans's face and white shirt as Maxwell collapsed and fell to the floor. He spasmed for a moment or two, grasping at his neck and making strangled noises, but before long he fell still and silent. Maxwell was dead.

Hans slung his knife to the right and it buried up till the hilt into the wall. Then he turned and picked his way back through the room, stepping over the injured men and walking back through the door.

Less than a minute later, partygoers were alerted by a bloodstained, weary-looking man that there were fourteen injured men who desperately needed medical attention in a meeting-chamber on the second floor, with one more just outside the room and two on the villa's walls. He added also that there was one dead. When asked what had happened, the man merely responded, 'there was violence.'

By the time the scene of the murder had been discovered, attendees found that the man in the bloodstained shirt was long gone. As a likely assassin of the crown prince of the Southern Isles, a nationwide manhunt was conducted for the red-bearded killer, but it was costly, had few leads, and after a few weeks, was given up. Olympia's constabulary determined that the killer must have been the Italian viscount all along, and despite the adamant refusal of that fact by the witnesses to the event, he was tried and found guilty for the murder of Maxwell Westergaard three months later.

He was hanged by the neck until dead.

A fact that was sure to be overlooked by many was that a small, unmarked vessel departed from Olympia's northern wharf on the fifteenth of May just before midnight, and it only had one occupant.