The Betrayer
"Betrayal is the only truth that sticks."- Arthur Miller
The sound of the whetstone clashing with his blade was akin to a thunder's roar inside his mind. The sparks- fiery red and golden yellow- were like lightning cutting apart the darkness for mere seconds, which felt like eternity. The only other light came from the full moon, bright and heavy in the cloudless sky. He dared not look up, lest his mind started playing games with him at the most unfortunate moment. The grinning skull of the Man on the Moon was the last sight he needed to witness before proceeding with his task.
The Janissary's sigh was drowned by the ghostly wail of the whetstone as he once again slid it down his curved sword. Once more, the brief shower of sparks illuminated stoic blue eyes and thin lips pursed amidst a trimmed blond beard. The man's expression, his features seemingly carved out of stone, contrasted sharply with his position. Perched atop the railing of one of the highest towers of the royal palace, one leg dangling idly outside, the Janissary observed the City of Kings down below with cold indifference. The signs of life were few and far between. Only lone candles and the light of that thrice-cursed moon illuminated the city hidden under the veil of the night. Without the hustle of its daily life, Istanbul looked like a city of the dead. The Mediterranean and the Black Sea, bordering the capital on both sides, only served to strengthen that comparison. Their waters were frightfully still, like mirrors reflecting only the nothingness of the black abyss above.
The Janissary knew it was all an illusion, tricks of a doubtful mind turning against its owner. The city was just as alive as ever. But the drunken brawls and bawdy songs just couldn't reach his ears. The sneaky thieves, with their catlike grace, could easily stay hidden from his eyes. And a thousand other things, perhaps, prowled the sunless city without him knowing it. But it was not his place to unveil them. His task was clear. Or at least it should have been. All his life he had been taught to keep his oaths and follow his promises. And, somehow, no one had bothered to teach him what to do if they contradicted each other.
The man knew not if he was the one in the wrong. He didn't know if there was some hierarchy of vows he was supposed to adhere to in such situations. His mind was clouded in doubt. Protect and destroy. Simple tasks for simple men. But who was to be protected and who was to be destroyed, the Janissary couldn't decide. He was the blade that shields, the only concrete existence in that ocean of lies surrounding him.
Protect your family.
The first lesson he learned. The first lesson anyone earns.
But this one had been drilled twice inside his mind. Once, a lifetime ago, in that village hidden deep inside a mountainous embrace. His memories were muddled, like droplets of blood diluted amongst the ocean's waves. There were scattered pictures, sounds and scents remembered by a boy long since dead to the world. Another life, another name. The boy's father had been staunch and stern like the grey giants surrounding his birthplace. And yet there were memories of kind words uttered around a warm hearth, a heavy, yet gentle hand patting a little boy's head. But there was no face he could assign to that memory. The memory of the boy's mother was fainter still. There were songs in a language he had been forced to forget, gentle embraces and whispers granting him courage in the nights when the winter winds howled outside like starving wolves. Her face was one yet thousand. Every time he strained his mind and tried remembering, she slipped even further away. Her eyes were the green of verdant forests, the blue of clear skies, the black of a summer night. Her hair was a golden waterfall, the red of autumn leaves and the black of a raven's wing. Her face was pale and tan, thin and plump.
Amongst all the ghosts inhabiting his memories, hers was the only one he knew he'd never- ever- truly recall. The only concrete proof that the woman had even existed was the memory of her screams when the soldiers had come to take the blood tribute. On that day, at the ripe old age of five and a half, the boy had learned his people were slaves even without collars around their necks and chains dangling from their limbs.
The boy's father had disagreed, axe in hand. The soldiers had treated him more as a nuisance then a threat. His weapon had soon fallen from the deathgrip of a chopped-off limb. The man himself had been forced to his knees, torn clothes stained red with his own blood. With a sword to his mother's throat, the boy had been given a knife and a choice. A life for a life. A thousand thoughts had rushed through the boy's mind. A thousand had been left unheard and unseen, drowned out by his screams and tears. Someone else had made the choice for him on that day.
The weight of his father, after he had jumped onto the knife, had felt like a mountain.
They had taken the boy to a new family then, a real family tasked by his real Father, the sultan, to educate him into the ways of his people. The boy had been too tired to disobey. At least that memory was crystal clear still- feeling you were at least sixty at the age of merely six. But the years had taken his fetters along with his memories.
The first lesson they thought him was to protect his new family.
The boy had been killed and from that blood tribute a man had been born. The Janissary had quickly grown to be a part of his new family. The sons of millers and woodcutters, of fishermen and hunters. The sons of slaves from the Black Sea in the east to the Adriatic in the west, from the Danube in the north to the Mediterranean in the south. They were the Children of the Porte, overseen and commanded personally by their imperial Father.
The glory of the corps echoed far and wide, and tales of its members' ferocity farther still. They were weeds torn away from their roots, growing like parasites on the blood of the hundred nations they had been chosen from. They were the slaves with golden collars, allowed to wield the whip. But even when their memories of stolen childhoods were lost, those around them always remembered. Those recruited by the devshirme were strangers amongst anyone other than themselves. An upstart slave was always a slave, regardless of his garments and his newly chosen name.
The only thing the hatred did was make them stronger. They strove to thrive to spite them. The janissaries carried on a legacy of a dozen generations, the vengeance of slaves turned masters. They amassed wealth and lands, climbed the hierarchy of the Porte, made their illusionary chains into whips of their own. And not long after, the sultan himself had cried out against being turned into a slave of his own subjects.
And so the corps had schemed amongst themselves, hatched plots concocted inside their ruler's own home. The sultan was largely still a child- certainly not old enough to be called a man. But the seeds of his doubt in their fair-weather loyalty were too dangerous to be left to bloom. He was to be deposed of by his own guard, like the emperors of old by their trusted Praetorians.
The Janissary didn't doubt the necessity of such a decision. It was treason either way. The only choice they gave him was who to betray, his family or his imperial Father. The bitter taste of a boy's memory, about a choice more or less the same, felt like ashes in his mouth. So many vows he had sworn in his life. They were meant to have been his lifelines, the guidelines through which his life had meant to be played out. But in reality every promise had just introduced another knot amongst the gnarled web of conflicting loyalties which marred the Janissary's life.
His family needed protection once more. And yet again Father's life could pay for it.
Obey God.
Yet another creed that was supposed to be as clear as the waters of a mountain lake. But the ripples which erupted when the boy had forcedly spat at the Cross at their orders had quickly turned the stillness into an ocean amidst a storm. Their imperial Father's right to rule was nothing less than divine. So wouldn't deposing him mean betraying the Crescent as well? How many infidels would they need to slaughter to clear such a stain on their souls? Such questions burned inside the Janissary's hazed mind. Of his doubt on which God would even judge him after his death, he dared not think. His conviction was crumbling as it was- like a castle build upon pillars of song and sand. But to question the divine meant to doubt every choice the Janissary had made in his life from the day he had been born by the boy's sacrifice.
And so he shut off the whispers of his own traitorous mind and armored himself in false beliefs. Beliefs that the Corps' loyalty was more than just lip service to king and god and country. Beliefs that the boy hadn't died in vain so a broken man could live. And belief that, at the end of the day, his choices actually mattered.
One last time the whetstone struck the steel, before being thrown away into the darkness. The sound of it hitting the ground far below never reached the Janissary's ears. Sword sheathed and mind steeled, the soldier was off to do the only thing he knew. Kill in someone else's name, for someone else's cause. The Corps had failed through the years- or at least the man tried to convince himself so. Corruption was rampant amongst them, original purpose long forgotten. They had turned into the very thing they had hated, if not even worse. They spilt blood in the name of a God they didn't believe in, for a ruler none of them truly considered worth any loyalty to.
Kingslaying was the last sin they needed to their name. And if it meant that betrayal was the only way to save his family, then so be it. It was a fool's compromise- to break your vows to keep them- but it was the only way he saw. The Janissary headed towards his lord's chambers, stride tensed and mind in silent prayer to whatever God was willing to listen:
"Let me be on time."
He felt like a ghost trapped amidst the palace walls. The moon was his only companion through that royal maze, its milky light spilling across the marble floor and showing him the way. His footsteps, a soldier's stride drilled into him throughout the years, sent an even echo reverberating throughout the chilly night air. The lack of guards made his fears grow. The Janissary didn't know how many of his brethren were part of the conspiracy. But the very fact that not a single sentry could be glanced from one end of the palace to the other spoke volumes. His heart almost leapt with joy upon hearing the distant din of battle.
It meant there was still a chance to prevent the mistake before it had happened, sweep his brothers' sins and hide them away. His steps quickened along with his heartbeat. A smile crept on the Janissary's face. He knew battle. He knew it the way a husband knew his wife, a father knew his child. To a man sworn never to take a wife and father any children, the symphony of clashing steel was the only maiden's song allowed. The Janissary loosened his sword in the scabbard, hand clutching the handle in readiness. He was almost running now, all discipline forgotten as the battle-haze started clouding his mind.
Four corners left-three… two. One.
The Janissary's polished boots ground to a halt as he turned the last corner. The sickly glow of the moon was absorbed by all the blood splattered across floor and walls. It was the wretched white of spoilt milk, the blood of ghosts if they could bleed. The scattered bodies were monuments to their owners' last moments in life. Some men had been clearly stuck where they had been standing. Others still clutched their weapons in hand, their flesh now as cold as the steel they had wielded. Dozens of empty eyes stared accusingly into thin air- and he didn't dare meet the gaze of a single one. He couldn't tell usurpers from loyalists. All the man saw were brothers slain by brothers.
The would-be kingslayers were slowly advancing towards the sultan's chambers, like predators on a prowl. There was no outward emotion evident on their faces- only the grim stares of steel and scorn of war-hardened man. The last two defenders were hesitantly drawing back towards the double doors, each one of their steps a countdown to their downfall. It was a mockery of a waiting game. The Janissary drew his sword. There were no words- only the sound of steel unsheathed, like a whip tearing the silence in two.
The defenders glanced at him warily, afraid to allow hope enter their hearts lest their souls be crushed even more. The usurpers glared at him with uncertainty, saw him more as a pest than a true inconvenience. He hated that look. The man didn't know why it was that of all things which sent his blood boiling, wake some inner beast inside of him who wanted to wipe them all out. Two split from the main group and charged him with swords raised above their heads. They were shouting something- were they threats or questions, he didn't know nor care. The blood haze had already clouded his mind, eyes glued to the glistening steel of his opponents' weapons. Be it one against two or one against ten, it mattered not for the Janissary.
The ones he was facing had never paid the price of blood. The moon revealed the faces of people born masters. Second sons bribed into the Corps to reap the benefits, men who had never known the bloody caress of a whip upon their back and the threat of punishment stemming solely from your ancestry. Soldiers without discipline, warriors without training- pests to be uprooted from the ranks of his true brethren. Whatever hesitance the Janissary had felt, it was gone.
The man kicked up a fallen halberd off the floor and met the twin downward strikes of his opponents with both ends. The muscles of his arms strained, his legs groaned from all the sudden pressure, but he stayed strong. Pushing them back, the Janissary brandished his weapon and forced them to pull back. The trio fell into the rhythm of a deadly dance. They lunged, he parried- he struck, they ran. As much as he hated wasting precious time, the Janissary knew his best chance was waiting for an opening. Thankfully, his enemies proved more impatient than him. A third one split from the group and hefted his pistol. The Janissary lunged forward just as the other two tried pulling back to clear their ally's line of sight. The flintlock spat out lead like a roaring dragon spewing fire. It grazed his shoulder, but to the Janissary it was naught more than a bee's sting.
The fleeing usurper's blade ended up caught by the halberd's edge and swung aside. The leaf-shaped tip slashed across his throat, crimson beads followings its trail in the moonlight. The shooter started hastily reloading and the other swordsman moved on the offensive. The Janissary barely moved out of the way and spun around, sweeping his enemy off his feet with the halberd. Before the would-be kingslayer had tried getting up, he found himself with a spear stuck into his chest. The shooter readied to aim once again but the Janissary's thrown dagger was faster. It had barely grazed the other man- but it had been enough. Precious few seconds were bought, in which the Janissary had picked up his sword and charged forward.
One swift strike- and the shooter's hand was arcing through the air. Another strike- and his head followed it, eyes bulged out in silent terror. Three more men lunged at him at the same time, weapons at the ready. The clash of swords echoed through the palace's halls. Back and forth and back again- the Janissary lunged and parried, careful not to get surrounded. One of his attackers lagged behind, wounded shoulder slowing him down. The Janissary switched his focus to him- a hurricane of blows meant more to overpower than to outmaneuver. A diagonal slash, from thigh to shoulder, was his enemy's demise.
The other two panicked, fear starting to creep through their minds despite the boiling of their blood. The lone duo defending the sultan's chambers gathered courage and hope and attempted to push the four rebels back. The Janissary felt the taste of victory caressing his lips and darted forward, sword raised.
And then, just as swiftly and surprisingly as it had appeared, that grain of hope was torn asunder.
The Janissary stopped into his tracks and barely managed to counter his inertia. It had been more on instinct than anything else- a sense of self-preservation honed for millennia and passed from one generation to the next. His heart skipped a beat, the hairs on the back of his neck stood on edge- and a blade arced through the air where his neck would've been if he hadn't managed to stop.
Out of nowhere, as if born amidst darkness and moonlight, a cloaked figure appeared. It clutched a twisted dagger in a hand colored deep bronze- the only feature visible from beneath its pitch-black mantle. It was more a shade than a man. Two golden eyes stared from a gap in its face-concealing veil, boring burning holes through the Janissary's soul. He couldn't see its mouth and yet he had the sinking feeling the creature was smirking.
The Janissary let out a breath he didn't know he had been holding. His heart was racing still, but it was for a different reason now. Courage slowly twisted into treacherous fear with each second their gazes remained locked. The Shade reminded him of sleepless nights and gruesome tales around crackling fires. Stories which had made the Boy cringe and the Man laugh, but they were stories just the same. Fairytales meant to scare children into behaving and provide a laugh or two for the adults who told them. Vagaries of fantasy meant to exist only in the reality of a child's imagination.
That… thing before him- it was no mere story come to life. It was Death in flesh and bones, sent to stop him.
The Janissary accepted the challenge of whatever God he had angered (both of them, perhaps) and steadied his shaking hands. He lunged once again. And again. And again. Twice and thrice more even, after that. He attacked with fervor and zeal, called upon skills drilled into him through years and years of rigorous training. The Shade stopped all of his strikes with ease, armed with just a dagger and a look of boredom in its burning eyes. The Janissary wanted to shout and curse in anger. He wanted to just punch that infernal spectre and at least make it react with something more than a swift parry and acid condemnation. The man felt being judged and had the creeping suspicion he was being found wanting.
Once more the Janissary swung his curved blade and put all his anger and fury and scorn into it.
His strike was effortlessly parried but he pushed farther still, freed one hand from the handle and sent his punch flying towards the Shade's face. The spectre's vicious slap sent him reeling.
"If you so insist on acting like a child, I will treat you accordingly."
The Shade's words, so alien precisely because they sounded so human, struck him harder than any hit. The Janissary's breath was ragged and he could feel his limbs growing heavier by the second. The last guards were once more on the defensive, barely holding the attackers back. And that thrice-cursed spectre just stood there, cutting off his path. He felt five again, watching as his whole world was being torn apart.
The death screams of the loyalists reverberated inside the spacious corridors, and before even their echoes had ended, the Janissary darted onwards. Flipping his sword into a back-handed grip he struck sideways, fully expecting his hit to be caught. The Shade didn't disappoint and prepared to push him back- only for the man to twist around him, keeping his sword in-between. The Janissary seemingly darted towards the sultan's chambers, anticipating the spectre's reaction. The Shade lunged at his back, dagger poised to strike. Picking a broken spear's handle up, the Janissary pirouetted back, reflecting the blow. His right hand, sword still tightly gripped in it, flew towards the Shade and carved a crimson gash through its chest.
The spectre recoiled back, shock clearly evident in golden eyes. And then, just as its bronze flesh stitched itself back, the Janissary's triumph turned into terror. All sound suddenly disappeared from the world, as if he had gone deaf at the blink of an eye. The Shade threw away its dagger and unsheathed a sword of its own. For the first time in their duel, the creature took the offensive.
And, amidst the deafening silence, the Janissary realized his life was forfeit.
The first strike knocked away his weapon. The second almost sliced both his hands off when he tried to defend his head. The third was with the pommel to his temple, making him see the stars outside on the inside of his reeling mind. The Shade threw him back like a ragdoll just when the usurpers swung open his master's chambers. The Janissary, despite the entire world still spinning around him, tried to get up. The Shade wasn't about to have any of it, though- it poised its sword to strike into the fallen one's heart. The Janissary's wandering hand miraculously found the spectre's own dagger just in time. He couldn't block the strike- not even on his best day perhaps- but he redirected it, making tempered steel pierce shoulder instead of heart.
The Shade straddled him, pushing the sword even further through him and into the tiles- effectively nailing him to the bloodstained floor. The spectre removed its veil, revealing a razor-sharp grin of moon-white teeth.
"I thought-for a moment- that I have found a diamond in the rough. Alas, your glitter turned out to be fake, young one."
The spectre's grin grew wider- and dark blood, thick and heavy, spilt out and onto the Janissary's face. It burned like wildfire, like a thousand bees stinging him at the same time, like being salted whole after a flaying. Tears flowed from his now only eye as the man felt the right side of his face melt. His screams never left his mouth- the spectre clamped it shut, as if to save itself the annoyance of listening.
Never- ever- before, did the Janissary desire life, merely the right to breathe and walk and exist, this much.
His free hand somehow found itself grasping the Shade by the scruff of its neck. Surprise hadn't even yet registered in golden eyes when the man pulled it down and yanked himself up, headbutting the spectre with all his might. It was sent reeling back, confusion marring a predator's face. The Janissary removed the sword from his shoulder and stared down the fallen beast. And then, with a shout rivaling a dragon's roar and blade dragged across the tiles in a shower of sparks, the Janissary lunged forward-
-Only to strike nothing but air as the Shade disappeared from sight, moving at such speeds it seemed it was fast-forwarding time.
"It seems you were not a waste of time after all."
Its teeth were on his neck in a heartbeat- and thirteen more after, he had no more blood to shed.
The Shade's vitae whispered promises of second chances and redemption assured.