Part One;

Aftermath

Falke awoke to the sound of voices. Hazy, on the edge of his consciousness, the words meant nothing to him, just murmurs on the edge of his hearing. But, legible or not, they tugged his weary mind back into the waking world.

"He's awake."

Falke sat bolt upright, but cried out in pain as the muscles in his abdomen seemed to turn to fire. He gently settled himself back down, and looked around.

He was in a small room, and laid on a wooden litter with a bedding of hay. Several oil scones adorned the walls, giving the stone room a soft, inviting glow.

"What's your name, lad?"

Falke looked up into a woman's gnarled but not unkind face. She was perhaps sixty seasons of new life. Behind her stood a man of about the same age, and a younger woman of about his own age, maybe a little more.

"Falke. Falke of the House of Soltezi." he groaned. The effort of talking was taking its toll, "Where am I?"

"Soletzi, eh?" the old lady nodded meaningfully to the man, "Son of Onius? Yes, I thought so," she added as Falke nodded, "You look so much like your father. But anyway, you asked a question, and I shall answer."

"We're close to Bargainers Square, near Worths antique shop. I'm sure you know the one. But this is my house. We were fortunate enough to escape the monsters that ravaged the city." Her face darkened, "It would seem you were not so lucky. You've lost a lot of blood, and have been unconscious for two days. I'm not a healer, but I believe your hand will be spared, and even usable if you're fortunate."

"The creatures seem to have left the city, so if your after any revenge, you won't get it." said the man, speaking for the first time, "But we found this close to you," he held up the circular blade the Minion had thrown, "as well as some other odd trinkets throughout the city." His jaw hardened, "The city is ruined. Hundreds are dead, hundreds more are dying. The Directorate is no more, and the king was murdered by his own son!"

"But… hold on…" Falke managed to prop himself onto one of his elbows, "Why would Prince Tristan murder his father? To what end? The coronation ceremony was already underway, and he would be king right now. So for what reason would he throw that away and kill his father?"

"Everyone knows that bastard was a rebel. Was a handful for the Directorate and half the Royal Guard, always disappearing and turning up whenever he felt like."

Falke's brow knotted, "It doesn't make sense." he insisted, "But I'm too tired to argue. What are your names?"

"My name is Agatha," said the lady, "And this is my husband, Merrick, and our granddaughter Felicia."

"Agatha. My father has mentioned that name in the past." suddenly Falke's eyes went wide, "My father? And my mother? Are they alright?"

For a long moment nobody said anything, and to Falke that was answer enough. His throat tightened before Agatha laid a comforting hand on his shoulder, and Merrick opened his mouth to deliver the terrible news.

"Falke, your parents are dead."

It was amazing, thought Merrick, exactly how much destruction had been wrought in a single night. The entire Royal Guard was gone, the Directorate of Wizards dead, and the monarchy all but a memory.

Falke walked beside him, his leather boots echoing loudly on the cold cobblestones. He had been very withdrawn, not going outside or even speaking, for the last three days. His grief was a heavy burden upon him.

So when he had unexpectedly asked if he could accompany Merrick to buy some food, the old man had allowed it. The boy needed to see the city, and to see exactly what damage had been done.

Merrick carried a small belt knife, which he fingered nervously. Tammerland was lawless, now. The only thing that mattered anymore was Kisa. Cut-throats and thieves were the worst enemy now, and Merrick knew he would have to be careful.

The bodies of the dead had been cleared away, and for that he was grateful. However the pentangle, the sign of the Coven, was still painted on doors with blood. Walls still bore bloody handprints where victims had tried to escape their tormentors. Buildings stood still and empty, and some had been burnt to ashes. It saddened Merrick to see his once proud home in tatters.

"We're nearly there," he said. Falke merely nodded, "Be careful. Bargainers Square is a dangerous place now, especially for old men like me."

Saying nothing, Falke looked to the bladed disk that hung from his belt. He wasn't certain he could use it in a fight, but he had decided to take it with him. It was a way for him to scream wordless defiance to the creatures that had murdered his parents and destroyed his home. He wondered what the Minions of Day and Night called these weapons. The circular blade glinted in the sunlight as he regarded it carefully.

"I do wish you wouldn't keep staring at that thing, lad. It gives me the willies."

Falke managed a small smile, "I was just wondering what to call it. It has to have a name, as surely as a sword and a bow and an axe."

"Call it a ringblade, and have done with it. It's round, and it's a blade. Ringblade."

"Ringblade." murmured Falke, deciding he liked the sound of it, "Have you heard anything about those gloves I mentioned to you?"

"The lead lined ones? Of course I have. A few of those… Minions," he spat as he said the word, "were killed, and they were stripped of everything they wore and were burned outside the city. But they're heavy, those gloves, from what I hear. Doubt you'd be able to wear one, with your hand and all."

Falke considered this, "I see. And is there any way to make a custom glove, one that'd fit my hand?"

"I spoke to a blacksmith for you about that yesterday, and he said he'd give it a go for the right price. Ah, here we are."

They stopped by a small wagon which held a variety of foodstuffs. Vegetables, with meat and fish a little further along. Falke's stomach growled.

"So what exactly is 'the right price'?" he asked, picking up a small pot of honey that he'd spotted in the pile, "I don't have a lot, but I'm sure I could match his price for a glove."

"Don't be so sure, my boy," said Merrick, carefully examining a loaf of bread for weevils, "With no Royal Guard, people are setting their own prices all over the city. It wouldn't surprise me to hear that a loaf of bread like this one is four times the price it was last week."

Falke frowned, "One way or another, I need one of those gloves if I can ever use this thing."

"Why would you be wanting to use that thing, anyway? What's wrong with a sword, like most men, or knives, or a bow, or even a quarterstaff?"

"You could say it's my way of balancing the world out." said Falke, "Every one of those Minions I come across, I shall kill with the ringblade. Consider it getting even, if you will."

Merrick grunted, "Worthless revenge is more like it," he muttered, and then turned to the seller, "How much for three loaves?"

Falke turned away, put the honey back where he had found it, and tried to ignore the haggling between Merrick and the stall owner. Allowing his attention to wander, he looked out across the stricken city.

A man who was missing both of his legs was strapped to a small wooden box, and he used two wooden handles to propel himself along. With every movement the muscles in his arms would ripple. Falke imagined that the fellow would have to be very strong to be able to move with only his arms. Another glance showed him a woman missing an arm, and one side of her face bloodied and bruised. Another man limped along on one leg, using a stick as a crutch. And leaning against one of the shops, a young boy with a hand missing. Next to him was a girl wearing a tattered dress that was crusted with dried blood.

Looking around at all of the wounded, Falke realised exactly how lucky he had been. And it was right then that he decided that he wanted to do something, anything, to make the lives of his countrymen better.

What could he do? He had little money, no medical expertise, and he was alone. What could one man do to help hundreds of people?

That thought preyed on his mind as he and Merrick left Bargainers Square and headed for the old mans house.

From the shadows of one of the many alleyways that led away from Bargainers Square, a man wrapped in a black robe watched the old man and young fool who carried one of the Minion weapons.

Who was this boy to defy the might of the Coven? Carrying the weapon itself was an open insult, and one that would likely get him killed should the Minions of Day and Night see it. Killed slowly. And painfully.

What could be seen of the mans face suddenly showed the suggestion of a grim smile. This young man might well prove interesting, and perhaps even useful. The Afterlife willing, he wouldn't be killed before he could be initiated.

With a snap of his cloak, the man turned, and disappeared into the depths of the alley.