Swords?

-

When Galcian next awoke, he was on a soft, velvety bed. His eyes, still blurry and puffed, opened slowly, adjusting only tentatively to the light.

What was this place? He couldn't tell. The light hurt too much for the young man to get his bearings straight. It clearly wasn't where he'd just been, amidst mounds of smoke and rapidly approaching flame.

So where?

It was all so disorienting that Galcian was not at first aware that another person was in the room with him. It took a moment of quiet to notice the soft exhalation of air from somewhere on the other side of the space.

"Who's there?" he inquired, cautiously. The effort of saying even that little caused his lungs to ache. Had he inhaled that much smoke?

His question brought about a muffled snort and the shifting of position. Whoever it was, they seemed to be asleep.

Galcian sat still. Best not to wake them for the moment, then. Despite his light-headed state, Galcian retained his survival skills (gleaned, of course, from the experiences of Galley). Relaxing, he allowed his eyes to open, slowly, willing himself past the pain of the puffiness.

The plan was a success. So far, anyway.

With what little sight he retained Galcian inspected himself. His sooty, stolen clothing was gone, replaced with satin pyjamas. The thought that somebody else had undressed and then redressed him made Galcian's skin crawl. What could've been done to him while he slept?

He slid his hands across the bed, searching for the edge and beyond. Surely there was addresser or night stand somewhere close, he thought to himself; but nothing of particular interest presented itself. Just bed sheets.

His vision began to clear. Out of the mist of nothingness sprang vague, twisted shapes, obscure and unidentifiable. Galcian could well have been tossed into a world of blobs. It took a few minutes for the shapes to redefine themselves into straight edges. The room revealed itself to him.

It was a study, from the looks of it. Books lined several shelves. A gigantic, three-dimensional map of Valua stood unused and dusty in one corner of the room. It looked to be carved from marble. A couch, a desk, several filing cabinets. . . and a man. A small, jowled man, puffing away quietly in an easy chair. Samson King, in fact.

The details of the plan suddenly rushed back. In all the confusion of that night, in the transition period, the glory of being freed, Galcian had forgotten about this man. The last snag in the plan. Damnit, everything was ruined!

Or was it? Could he simply make King vanish?

That sounded good.

A letter opener in the form of a dagger lay upon King's desk, half of it still embedded in the slit of a letter. That would do. One plunging motion into the man's throat and it was the end of problem. That he would have to dispose of the body afterwards meant nothing to Galcian; at the moment, clearly, he lacked the gift of foresight.

Dragging himself out of bed (his limbs were still greatly weakened), Galcian edged along the posh carpeting with as much stealth as possible. It was unnecessary, really, for Samson King slept like the dead; Galcian later chalked it up to mere instinct. Yet when one is not fully possessed of their motor skills, subterfuge becomes well nigh impossible, and Galcian could not help but wince at every bump and thud that erupted from his movements.

Samson King slept on, oblivious to the crawling death that approached his desk.

Galcian clutched the edge of the oaken furniture, striving valiantly to pull himself up. His muscles creaked and groaned in harmony with his screaming lungs. The pain was nearly too much; yet Galcian moved on, fuelled by rage. This man would not screw up his plans. He would not. The path to nobility lay in sight, with but one lumpy obstacle still standing in the way.

His fingers clutched at the knife. They attempted to disobey Galcian, fumbling here and there, yet the murderous young creature was implacable. In time, he managed to wrangle the weapon between his fingers.

But the movement cost him greatly, for in the doing Galcian sent a pot of ink sprawling with his elbow. It slid casually off of the desk and smashed on the woefully uncarpeted wood flooring. Galcian's knees were sprayed with thick black beads.

The noise was enough. King, startled out of his dream – he'd been reminiscing on women, as per usual – flew upwards in a frenzy, releasing several potent curses into the air for Galcian's scrutiny. It took a moment for him to grasp what had just happened, for his first impression was that the teenager was attempting to open a letter. Then the full impact of the knife came to bear on him.

"Just what do ye think yer doin', eh?" was all he asked.

Galcian threw the old man such a look of contempt that he staggered back, visibly, and barely had enough time to dodge the letter opener that threatened to catch him full in the face. It was a poor throw, hence King's ability to dodge the bullet. On a normal day, Galcian never would have missed.

His failure evident, Galcian slid off of the desk and reached underneath the desk, seeking out a shred of glass from the inkpot. It was in vain, however, as King was now upon the desperate boy, pinning his arms down. Galcian snarled and attempted to break free, but his normal strength was gone.

"Calm yerself! Right now, or I'll break yer twiggy little neck, boyo!" And, indeed, King's hands found their way around Galcian's head. One twist was all it would take.

"Get offa me, you piece o' shit! Get off!"

"Not til ye calm down. Otherwise I'll call in the guards, and I bet ye won't be likin' that much, now will ye?"

The plan flashed briefly to mind. "You can't treat Jelice Voirel like this, bast'rd! I demand you get off!"

"Ahh, true; however, ye ain't Jelice, now are ye?"

That brought an end to the struggles. He did know, after all.

"Peh, then you may s'well off me now, then, 'cause if I get free your fat ass is dead, hear me?"

King laughed in spite of himself. "The boy has spunk! I've ne'er heard such a foul mouth. Ye'd never pass fer Jelice, boyo."

Defeat threatened to collapse Galcian's spirit. The plan was rapidly vanishing. Was it all over already? After all those months of waiting and hoping?

"Were ye the one that set their house ablaze?"

"What if I was?" Galcian snarled.

"I'll take that as a yes. Grand arson 'n murder one, then. Ye know that's instant execution."

Galcian remained silent. King leaned in close, his mouth astride Galcian's ear. Galcian shuddered at the sensation of the old man's breath on his flesh. "And ye killed me only hope'n the world. I was rearin' Jelice, you know. He was gonna be my heir."

"Tough shit, then, eh?"

"Indeed, boyo. I'm right annoyed that ye stole my own plan from me. Though, I was gonna blow the place up instead."