Rattus Rex

Chapter 47 - Subterfuge

Heston Regias stood overlooking the rolling hills before him with a deep sense of longing in his heart. In the distance, he could just make out the light from Tremon, as it brightened the sky above ever so slightly. The town itself, however, was out of sight.

They had force-marched all the way from the capitol to this unimportant part of the kingdom in two weeks, as they passed through the smaller roads and zig-zagged from army outpost to army outpost, commandeering a few men, then setting off into the distance as quickly as possible.

Even his own orders to join this rag-tag group had been a surprise, revealed only on the day they had set off, and without any hint of what they would actually be doing. At first, he had found it a curious coincidence that the roads were taking them closer to his place of birth, but as he now stood only a leisurely ride away from Tremon, he understood that it not simple happenstance that had placed him here.

“Lieutenant,” a voice from behind made him turn and face general Firande’s aide-de-camp, Sander; a young man only a few years his senior, with a pair of rectangular glasses upon his nose, and always burdened with a satchel full of dispatches and parchment.

He immediately stood at attention, before Sander waved him off and instead pointed toward the tent behind him. “The general is expecting you. Please go in.”

Performing a sharp salute, to which Sander responded with a raised eyebrow and a slight smile, Heston marched into the tent with steady steps, pushing aside the entrance flap to reveal a circular interior with room enough to stand, fully furnished with a writing desk, a rack of armor and weaponry, and a small assembly of books in the corner.

Hung above the assorted necessities of a command-tent, a silvery mask looked down at Heston with its empty sockets brimming with condemnation. He recognized it as traditional war-grab from the Northern regions of the kingdom—from where general Firande had spent most of his storied career—symbolizing the wearer’s position as a direct subordinate of the king and dedication to duty.

The silver was edged with a tracing of the king’s face, meaning that—when worn in times of war—the general gave orders with the authority of the king. Any victory gained with the mask on would subsequently be credited to His Majesty, as if he had been on the battlefield himself. Similarly, a defeat would mean that the wearer would have tarnished the king’s honor—an offense often rewarded with death… or worse.

The mask signified both the general’s position, as well as his burden. It was a heavy thing to carry, and an even weightier object to display so openly. It meant that they were not assembled on mere army-business, but were operating under direct, royal command.

Heston swallowed, finding his throat dry.

In the center of the tent, a round table housed four figures, all of whom had turned to face the interloper. Clearing his throat, Heston saluted and said, “Second-lieutenant Heston Regias, reporting for duty.”

“Yes, yes, very good, Lieutenant. Please step closer” said the man seated opposite the entrance. General Firande was a surprisingly slim man, with a well-combed set of hair, and a very subtle beard. His eyes, however, were ablaze with blue fire in their deep-set hollows, from whence the man appeared to look through and beyond anyone in his presence.

Heston took another step into the tent and straightened once more, standing at his most rigid attention. “At ease, Lieutenant,” Firande said, a tinge of humor to his voice, “You are not being court-marshaled, here.”

“Why is he here,” Said one of the three men in attendance, Captain Merdo, with a narrow face, and equally narrowed eyes, “I thought you said this knowledge of this mission was on a need-to-know basis. Why involve this… pup?”

Heston’s face reddened at the insult, but he merely clenched his jaws and stared straight forward, neglecting the general’s order to stand at ease.

“Now, now, Merdo. No need to be so hostile,” said the only woman in attendance, mage Arlean, a gentle-looking old crone who always had a smile on her face. Heston had seen the woman reprimand undisciplined soldiers by hanging them upside down in the air and letting them levitate along as the column marched. He bought none of her kindly demeanor.

“If the general has seen fit to summon this young man, then there’s bound to be a good reason for it; isn’t that right, Firande, dear?”

The way she addressed a general of the king’s army by first name only suggested the power dynamic between the two were anything but simple. The last man in attendance finally chipped in and said, “Did you not hear the general, boy? At ease; that is an order.”

Heston squared his jaws and finally relaxed his position, while peering at the last captain to speak. Dorok was originally from the North, and had spent his youth testing his strength against the barbarians in their seasonal raids. At forty years old, Dorok looked like a man half his age, betrayed only by the slightest stains of salt at the sides of his head.

Merdo sniffed and crossed his arms, while the general held up a hand and said, “Peace, my friends. Lieutenant, please take a seat.” He waved at a bench off to the side, and Heston gave a curt nod before marching to his assigned position. It was clear from his seat that he was not here to help deliberate and discuss the mission, but for something else.

One day, it’ll be me sitting at that table, he thought, hardening his resolve. He had only joined the army, proper, half a year ago, after having attended the martial academy for two years. As soon as he had turned seventeen, however, he had asked his father to buy him his officer’s commission, which would be his first step toward reaching his ambition.

Heston was going to become the youngest general in history, and to reach that aim this mission was a godsend. Whatever it was that had forced all of this secrecy, it had to be incredibly important.

“I assure you, gentlemen, My Lady,” said the general, addressing the second title to Arlean with an appreciative nod in her direction, “That the reason for all of this cloak and dagger is sound, and once I explain it to you, you will agree that all of this precaution is necessary.”

General Firande eyed them all one by one, even settling his eyes on Heston for a brief moment, then continued, “For now, let me impress that from this moment on you are all sworn to secrecy. Whatever happens during this mission, you may only speak of it with myself, the royal seneschal, or the king himself. Is that clear?”

They all nodded, although Merdo did wrinkle his nose before agreeing.

“Very good. I’m sure you—”

“Can we get to the bloody point, already?” Merdo said, his tone dangerously close to insubordination, “It’s bad enough that I had to leave my men behind in the capitol, but this ragged band of soldiers we’ve scavenged from the arse-end part the kingdom is making me seriously doubt that anything of importance could be achieved out here.”

Dorok bared his teeth at the insolent captain, while Arlean simply raised an eyebrow and cackled, before looking to Firande to see how he would cope with the challenge.

“As I was about to say,” the general continued, unperturbed by the disturbance, although he did level a burning glare at Merdo, “I’m sure you’ve wondered what it is we’re doing here, and why we’ve gone to such lengths to remain unnoticed throughout our journey.”

Again, he looked at each in turn before he continued, “The answer is simply that there is no way we can be too careful, when dealing with the enemy we’re facing.”

“And what enemy is that?”

“The Undergrowth” the general said, wrinkling his nose in distaste, “A criminal syndicate who’s been systematically taking over the kingdom’s underground. Apparently the name has something to do with their bottom-feeding mentality; the metaphor isn’t entirely clear.”

“You’ve gathered us here to catch thieves?” Merdo looked mortified at the denigrating task, “Are we to become trash-cleaners next, General, or mayhap you’d like us unclog the nearest sewer?”

“Captain Merdo,” the general began, pinning the insolent captain down with his unearthly gaze, “I’ve brought you here, specifically, because of your expertise in ambush tactics, well-knowing your tongue has often seen you unpopular with your superiors. Do not make me regret that decision.”

“I—” Merdo hesitated, opened his mouth, closed it again, then finally nodded his understanding.

“Good. Yes, we’re here to catch thieves, but they’re also so more than that,” the general kept Merdo’s gaze as he spoke, making to impress the seriousness of the situation onto the man. “We’ve only known about them for the past three- or four years, and in that time their sphere of influence have grown from the minor provinces all the way to the capitol.”

“I’ve never heard about them,” Dorok said, crossing his arms, “Not even rumors.”

“They like it that way,” the general said, nodding, “And we like that they like it that way.”

“Who does?” Arlean asked, eyes narrowing, “The army, or the king?”

“Both. The less the general public know about the breadth of the problem, the better.”

“I still don’t understand why you’ve assembled an entire army contingent for this,” Merdo said, sourly, “It seems a bit… overkill.”

“I assure you, captain, nothing less than overkill will rid us of this beast,” the general said, shaking his head, “And believe me, we’ve tried.”

“How hard have you tried?” Arlean asked, appearing genuinely curious.

“Three times we have raided supposed strongholds of theirs, only to find petty brigands who were merely subordinates,” the general began listing, counting his fingers as he went, “Twice, we’ve captured valuable intelligence, only to see it immediately used against us, and four captives have committed suicide before we could get anything other than cursory names out of them.”

He looked to Arlean to see if she was satisfied, and she gave a non-committal shrug.

“All we’ve come up with, through all of that effort, are the aliases of two of their leaders, as well as some very rough descriptions of their capabilities.” The general drew out a folder and retrieved two pieces of parchment. “The first is their leader, known as the Rat King.”

He pointed to the first parchment, which showed the painting of a non-descript face, with the only recognizable features being a set of yellow eyes. “Oh, how lovely,” Merdo said, sniffing at the useless picture, “That could be anyone.”

“Indeed that is the problem,” The general agreed, “His full title is apparently the ‘Thousand Faced Rat King’. It seems every time he shows up, he does so with a different face and size.”

“Have you considered the possibility that it might be more than one person, simply posing as the same character?” Arlean said, scrutinizing the image.

“We have. There is, however, one known feature of his which suggests that it is indeed only one person. According to the stories we’ve heard, he’s often seen transforming his hands into claws.”

“Could be an illusionist, I suppose,” Arlean nodded, rubbing her chin, “Or a very good carnemancer, although that kind of transformation would be beyond anyone I know who practices the art. I guess he’s the reason why you’ve brought me along, then?”

The general shook his head and said, “No, My Lady, you’re here because of the second leader we know of.” He pointed to the next parchment, where there was just a simple depiction of a black spider.

“You’ve brought me here to take out a spider?” Arlean raised an eyebrow, pursing her lips.

“That’s what she’s known as,” the general agreed, “Simply ‘the Spider’. Her alias, and that she’s a woman, is all we’ve managed to learn about her identity, but her powers are very well documented. We believe her to be the chief reason that all our previous leads have turned into blind paths, as she is responsible for the Undergrowth’s information network.”

“She’s their intelligence officer?”

“Yes, and a very good one. Her skills allow the Undergrowth to undertake synchronized operations throughout the kingdom in small cells. Each cell knows nothing of what the other does, or what the broader scheme is, and thus cannot reveal the overall plot, even if caught.”

“And if you want me to deal with her, I presume that those skills are magical in nature?” Arlean said, nodding.

“Indeed. We don’t know how she does it, but from the rumors and bits of information we’ve been able to assemble, it seems she has the power to control shadows.”

Arlean scoffed and said, “Not very likely.”

“I assure you, My Lady, we’ve been thorough in our investigation. Every witness we’ve been able to shake information out of, have confirmed that shadows obeys the will of the Spider.”

“I don’t think you entirely catch my meaning, General,” Arlean said, her voice full of ridicule, “What you suggest is fundamentally impossible; has been proven fundamentally impossible. Shadows are not a power or a force, but an absence of these. You cannot control something that simply isn’t—a first-year at the academy could tell you that.”

“Nonetheless, we believe she has found a way to do just that,” the general said, holding up a hand to stop the mage from protesting further, “No, My Lady, I do not contend that my knowledge of magical affairs are greater than yours, simply that the Spider demonstrably does something you claim to be impossible. How she does it, or if she’s merely faking it, I leave to you. In any case, she will be your responsibility to handle.”

“Consider it done,” Arlean said, her voice a barely subdued snarl. Heston thought the woman looked ready to bite off the head of an actual spider, as if that would somehow restore the laws of magic to normalcy.

“I take it my responsibility will be in setting up some sort of ambush,” Merdo said, inserting himself into the conversation again, “Then what will good ol’ Dorok here be doing?”

“I crush,” Dorok said, his crossed arms almost doubling in size as he flexed.

“Of course you do,” Merdo said, nodding with appreciation, “Then that only leaves my original question. What is he doing here.” The last part, he punctuated with a gesture in Heston’s general direction.

“Him?” General Firande said, smiling gently to Heston, who straightened in his seat. “He’s our bait.”