Who needs Enemies?
Ratcliff grapples with the scent of death, as new enemies and old appear, and the consequences of Klem and Iatr's actions prove... excessive. Whatever the future holds, it'll probably include a riot.
Previously in this story arc;
If you are new to this story, start here, and read from the beginning.
Who needs Enemies?
“Specifically our wizards?” Sheriff Ratcliff asked with a raised eyebrow, looking at the ageing spymaster.
They sat across from each other in a large underground chamber that was Lord Sael’s “Study.” Its aesthetic resembled a high society private gentlemen’s club with a focus on gambling, reading, and para-botany. In the centre of the room, on a large round table surrounded by comfortably upholstered furniture, lay the corpse of a wizard who had been consumed by a magic-eating mushroom.
The horror of the corpse was somewhat mitigated by the comfortable surroundings Lord Sael had provided—complete with a Tanbaku hookah and a glass of expensive whiskey. Ratcliff was absorbing this news with a detachment greater than his usual natural professionalism. The last two weeks of his life had expanded his horizons of what to expect living in Rundell, adding to his list of growing potential tragedies. This was the third variant on being murdered by the Fey. ^1
1. There was also the “Rabid human-eating giant black fey dog in the sewers” (known as - “The Mauthe Doog”) and “Abducted by an aquatic horse with red eyes, tentacles and unusually strong swimming skills” (most likely, a “Kelpie.”)
Sael shrugged.
Ratcliff grimaced, “So what happens to people who eat Treorai but don’t have magic? And does being awakened matter or not?”
Sael took a long inhale of the Tanbaku hookah before responding. “The mundane have very strange dreams or waking visions. It’s proven popular amongst Rundellians who live on the streets or in the sewers. The most… vulnerable can often be found passed out in strange parts of the city gripped by these hallucinations. Many are mistaken for having passed out from hunger or deprivation. Which may also be the case. Treorai’s greediest partakers often forget they have real bodies, and wind up dying in their fever dreams.”
Sael didn’t look fazed or disgusted as he described the state of Treorai’s victims. He looked academic, and slightly bored. It seemed to Ratcliff that this was just another Tuesday for him - but the sheriff couldn’t help but shudder at the thought of such detachment.
“As for the unawakened; they make up the majority of the dead. Having magical potential seems to make them a target. Being unaware of their magic seems to leave them vulnerable. Some act out like violent lunatics and get themselves in serious trouble.”
Ratcliff listened carefully to Sael’s words, trying to stay present, his chin resting on his fist, one foot resting on its neighbouring knee as he indulged in the Tanbaku, feeling a strong need to feed his vice. The body was occupying a rather large slice of his attention, despite its otherwise unnerving stillness. ^2
2. This isn’t surprising. How often do you sit in the presence of a nearly 6 foot long mushroom farm, covered by dark red mushrooms with bright green spots.
A mushroom farm that once was the brother of a childhood friend of yours.
“How… many wizards have died?” Ratcliff asked, feeling suddenly suspicious.
Sael took a moment before answering, “This month? Seven we’ve found. Last month it was only three. It is as though they don’t take the threat of the mushroom killing them very seriously. I can only assume that it doesn’t kill all of them, and that there’s some benefit to consuming it that makes it worth the risk. Given its history as a non-lethal ritual reagent, I assume that eating it must grant them some knowledge or power.”
“That would make sense. My sister has always been indifferent to risk when it comes to the pursuit of knowledge,” Ratcliff said. The flavour of his tone had the taste of an indulgent and disapproving brother.
“This trait runs in your family from what I’ve observed,” Sael said with a wry smile.
Ratcliff snorted, and shifted the direction of the conversation, “So with seven options to choose from, why show me the body of Loren, brother of my former childhood friend?”
“Former childhood friend? Are you and Aron no longer amenable?” Sael asked, avoiding the question.
“Friendly enough, but we live very different lives. The Pendeghasts are a dedicated military family whereas my family…” Ratcliff said, pausing to find the right descriptor.
“Power-hungry politicians?” Sael offered.
Ratcliff raised his eyebrow, and looked unimpressed.
“Would you prefer evil wizards?” Sael continued, now grinning.
“I’d grant those titles might apply to my father, but they’re unfair when it comes to my sister. At worst, she’s a power-hungry wizard—which, as far as I can tell, describes all wizards. So really, she’s just a wizard,” Ratcliff said with a sigh, annoyance creeping into his tone.
“But you’re dodging my question. Why show me Loren’s body?”
“Ah, that. To show you how real the fey threat is,” Sael said. “If they’re willing to kill Loren, they’ll happily kill you.” His gaze was penetrating and Ratcliff felt a chill run through his body, the directness of the spymaster's words sinking into his skin like the bite of a frozen metal blade.
“Ah,” Ratcliff said.
“Another?” Sael asked after a sufficiently dramatic pause, holding up the whiskey decanter.
Ratcliff held out his glass.
“We have orders, Captain Rorrick,” declared the silver-haired and iron-willed Captain of the King’s Guard. Sir Quinas Artur lowered the spyglass from his eye and passed it to his sharply dressed valet, who immediately scanned the crowd with it.
The Captain of the King’s Guard was dressed and mounted for combat, eager for the possibility. His highly successful soldiering career had ended prematurely due to an excess of competence, resulting in his promotion to the prestigious, though less exciting, role of leading the King’s Guard. He was not, however, a man to make impulsive decisions or break protocol—traits that had earned him the post. So the protestors had enjoyed three tense days of relative peace as he waited, watching.
“The protestors were warned not to damage the King’s property. It’s clear they intend to exploit the breached window, and regardless of the weapons used, that’s an attack upon the crown and, by implication, a threat to the king. I won’t allow them to continue,” Sir Quinas commanded.
He raised his right hand in a sharp gesture, beckoning someone forward. A Knight rode to his side, his King’s Guard uniform adorned with chevrons marking his rank, his mount moving with disciplined precision.
“Sir?” the Knight asked, a note of hesitation in his voice.
“Is this necessary, Sir Quinas? It will only aggravate them. Let them antagonise Ratcliff for a time. Many will go home feeling justice is done. If we disperse them now, they’ll just come back in greater numbers,” Rorrick said, his tone thick with disinterest. It was no secret that Captain Rorrick and Sheriff Ratcliff had little affection for each other, a fact that Sir Quinas quietly noted but did not address.
“This is an attack upon the crown, Rorrick. No exceptions,” Sir Quinas’ voice was cold and final.
He turned to his knight-lieutenant. “Sir Gawin, tell Mage-Lieutenant Maerik to drop three Thundersmoke bombs into the densest part of the crowds upon our charge. And send word to the Red Riders to dispatch a pursuit team to collect all persons of interest who may try to flee.”
Watch-Captain Rorrick sighed and turned his horse away from Sir Quinas.
The Captain of the King’s Guard called out to him, “Ready your men, Captain Rorrick. You’re not sitting this out.”
“Of course, Sir Quinas. I wouldn’t dream of it,” Captain Rorrick replied, his tone laced with barely concealed indifference.
The mood of the crowd shifted quickly with the first shouts as attention snapped to the column of armoured knights and watchmen advancing down the street. Their pace was deliberate and unyielding. The King’s Guard rode at the front, their heavy plated armour gleaming in the mid-day sun. Red and gold surcoats, emblazoned with the king’s crest—a flaming sword gripped by a mythic Griffon, with a golden crown floating above—seemed to blaze like fire.
Fear gripped the crowd, and within moments, shouts and screams erupted as multiple silvery-white balls of light flew into the air from behind the mounted column and arced towards the protestors.
It had been many days since the last confrontation with the King’s Guard, but no one in the crowd had forgotten what those lights signified. Some protestors scrambled for shelter behind wagons they had used to casually block the streets, while others pushed their way back, desperate to escape the incoming barrage of magical artillery.
A deafening thunderclap shattered the air as the first magical ball exploded ten feet above the crowd, unleashing a wave of pressure and sound. People were thrown to the ground or knocked off their feet, lying disoriented by the blast. Thick, noxious fumes filled the air as tendrils of smoke slithered down from the blast, spreading through the square like venom.
Screams and shouts ripped through the crowd, soon joined by violent coughing as the second and third blasts echoed across the square. The smoke thickened, growing darker and more suffocating as the magic took hold. Confusion spread like wildfire through the crowd, as disoriented protestors staggered to their feet, their vision obscured by the dense magical smoke. They stumbled blindly, guessing which direction might lead them to safety.
The unlucky few found no refuge behind the wagons as the heavy horses of the King’s Guard shattered them with brutal force, splintering wood flying through the air. The armoured warhorses kicked with unnatural strength, sending the barricades crashing down in a shower of broken wood as the King’s Guard advanced into Ylan Plaza.
“This is your fault!” Jake Bracken shouted, his face twisted with fury as he pointed his knife at Iatr, who slowly pulled himself up from the street.
People were shouting and running, the crowd around Jake, Iatr, Klem, and Robert growing tighter as the chaos swirled.
Klem looked up in surprise as the light in the plaza blazed with an intense brightness, casting harsh, jagged shadows from himself and Jake. His eyes locked on a searing white light hanging in the air, like a second, far more violent sun. He threw his arm up to shield his eyes from the blinding glare.
Jake swore. Then the world went white.
Klem felt himself slammed to the ground as a deafening bang ripped through the air, a wall of force crashing into him and driving the air from his lungs in a painful "wwOOoooppptthhh.” Cries and shouts of outrage erupted from the crowd around him.
When his awareness returned, tears were streaming down Klem's face. His body ached as though he'd been hit by a flying sack of potatoes, the impact crushing his chest. Each gasp for air sent burning pain through his lungs. Slowly, the ringing in his ears began to fade, and with it, clarity returned as his lungs finally filled with air.
He heard Iatr nearby calling his name.
Smoke hung low on the street, curling around the chaos that raged nearby. Shouts of anger and the clatter of hooves echoed through the smoke, mingled with the scream of someone meeting a watchman’s baton.
“We’ve gotta get out of here, Klem,” Iatr hissed urgently, grabbing his shoulder. He had chosen to crawl along the ground, avoiding the watchmen’s sight. Most of the nearby crowd had been knocked to the ground, still struggling to stand. The rest had already fled, desperate to escape the King's Guard.
“Jake?” Klem wheezed, rolling onto his side and pushing himself up.
Iatr pointed to one of the writhing bodies nearby. Klem squinted at the figure, recognizing Jake’s lumbering form as he swatted at invisible threats, clearly more affected by the wizard’s spell.
“There,” Iatr hissed. “Now let’s get going.” He pushed himself to his feet.
Klem followed, and the two boys, naturally suited to running from danger, did their best. But all they managed was a determined limp.
“This was a bad idea, Klem. I knew it!” Iatr shouted.
“Did you! Did you know that?” Klem shouted back, frustration seeping into his voice. ^3
3. Given Iatr’s proximity to bad ideas, he should know how to recognize one.
Though, for him, this wisdom is only ever in hindsight.
Iatr didn’t respond, too focused on dodging the chaotic mass of people fleeing the smoke-filled street. Panicked people ran in all directions, mostly away from the clash of arms and the heavy thud of hooves on cobblestones.
A man ran straight into Klem, knocking him off his feet and sending him barreling into someone else. They both stumbled, and Klem quickly returned to running as the man hurled obscenities at him.
He lost sight of Iatr but kept moving in the same direction, a bit more cautiously now, with bodies surging around him. Klem’s mind spun, overwhelmed by the chaos. The ringing from the thunderclap still echoed in his ears, and the adults’ voices blurred into a violent murmur of anxious sounds.
He pushed through the sea of panicked bodies and noise, fighting against the current.
The sky finally opened up as he broke through the edge of the smoke cloud, the arterial streets of Ylan Plaza revealing themselves like a gateway back to sanity. The streets were packed with people fleeing the plaza like a stampede of panicked sheep.
He glanced toward the landing where Lucy had been earlier but couldn’t spot her. The sounds of conflict grew sharper, and he turned toward a corner of the plaza that remained free of the smoke.
A mounted King’s Guard swung a long-handled baton at a protester who had taken a more aggressive stance. The baton crashed into the protestor’s improvised wooden weapon, splintering it to pieces in his hands. A flash of light accompanied the backswing as the baton slammed into the man’s shoulder, and he collapsed like a rag doll. The knight rode on without pause, scattering the crowd as he went. Klem watched as the city watch advanced from behind, collecting the unconscious protester and dragging him away.
Klem's attention snapped back to his immediate surroundings as a man ran in front of him, blocking his view of the battle. A loud, angry shout jerked his attention back to the smoke he’d just escaped from, where he saw Robert and another boy charging toward him, faces twisted in fury.
He turned and bolted down the nearest street, spotting Iatr further ahead, glancing around in panic. Klem waved his arms frantically, trying to get his friend’s attention.
Relief flickered across Iatr's face for a brief moment before panic returned as he spotted Klem’s pursuers. He waved frantically and shouted something, but Klem couldn’t make out the words over the noise.
He darted past an overturned cart, spoiled produce spilling around it, nearly slipping on the guts of squashed vegetables. He caught himself and dashed behind the cart, changing direction and diving into a mass of panicked adults scrambling down the alleyway.
The plaza's noise faded, replaced by the chaotic shouts and scuffling of too many people packed into the narrow alley.
A man slammed into Klem, shoving him against the wall. He hit hard, sinking to the ground just shy of a stack of crates and a pile of garbage set beside a closed door. Wincing, he started to rise when he saw Robert and Brithon, far too close, charging down the alley in search of him. Klem pressed himself into the alcove of the door, making himself as small as possible. He grabbed loose garbage and pulled it over himself like a rancid blanket. ^4
4. Garbage collection in the neighbourhood was behind schedule due to “Local Unrest.”
There had also been many ‘anonymous donations’ to the pile of garbage in recent days.
Klem heard Brithon first, calling to Robert, “I saw him ahead, I think he turned left!”
Other people rushed past in the alley before Robert and Brithon appeared. Pulled along by the press of the crowd, the Bracken boys ran by without noticing Klem.
Klem huddled under the pile of trash, peeking out through layers of torn sackcloth and ripped clothing. The stench burned his nose, but he forced himself to breathe slowly, counting to five with each inhale and exhale. He lay perfectly still. Brithon stopped suddenly and looked over his shoulder. Klem’s heart pounded as the boy’s eyes scanned the alley, landing on the alcove where he hid.
I am just a boring pile of garbage, Klem repeated in his head, like a desperate mantra.
A trio of men rushed past, briefly cutting off Brithon’s view of him. Klem exhaled softly, but his relief was short-lived as Brithon’s eyes returned to the alcove, squinting in his direction. Klem forced his body to relax and resumed his slow, five-count breaths, praying Brithon would look away.
Brithon vanished behind a group of running protesters, and Klem was hidden from view - if only for a moment. But by the time he exhaled, Brithon was gone.
Klem’s eyes darted to the door beside him, a possible escape. It was a heavy wooden door on black iron hinges, stained with thick varnish to protect against the rain. It looked like a servant’s entrance - unassuming but functional. The plain metal lock was simple enough to pick - if only he hadn’t dropped his tools.
He frantically searched his coat pockets, fingers trembling as they brushed against the thin metal bars he had stolen from a tinker’s shop two years earlier. His hands finally closed on his “Liberators,” as Iatr had named them. Relief flooded him as he pulled them free and set to work on the lock.
As more people rushed down the alley, Klem muttered a hurried prayer to Lugh, begging for swift hands and a quick break-in. Time was running out, and every second felt like an eternity. ^5
5. Whenever he was stressed, Klem fell back on the superstitions of his mother, who always believed that the gods of the Tuatha Dé Danann were fair to those who observed the proper rituals—whether human or Sidhe. Since Klem mostly stole from devout Aesirians, he felt some of his luck was owed to Lugh’s approval.
The rivalry between the Tuatha and the Aesir wasn’t just myth—it was still within living memory, a tension that lingered in the air and left scars that still rent places in the land.
Time stretched on, his focus narrowing as he worked the tumblers into place. The sounds of the alley—running feet, distant shouts—faded as he poured all his attention into the lock. What felt like an eternity passed. A shadow crossed overhead, blocking out the sun for a moment, and part of Klem’s mind wondered if he’d been at this all night.
Finally, the tumbler clicked into place, sending a surge of relief through him. He pulled his liberators from the keyhole and stuffed them into his coat pocket. As his hand reached for the door handle, a hand clamped down on him and yanked him backward.
Falling gracelessly to the alleyway stones, he cried out as he hit the ground, skidding on his upper back and right elbow. Pain shot through his arm, sharp and throbbing, as he folded over it, trying to crush the ache out of his elbow with his body. Tears stung his eyes and streamed down his face as he looked up into the triumphant eyes of Brithon, his red hair blazing in the sunlight, only making him more menacing.
Brithon stood tall between Klem and the door, his eyes gleaming with triumph, the open door behind him taunting Klem with its promise of safety. ^6
6. But it was a weak promise of safety—the kind made out of social niceties, meant to avoid conflict rather than offer real protection.
“I knew I saw a rat in that garbage,” Brithon sneered, advancing on Klem.
Klem kicked out when Brithon got close, catching him on the shin. Brithon cursed and stumbled back, clutching his leg. Klem scrambled to his feet and reached instinctively for his knife. His hand found only empty space. Pain flared in his elbow, adding to the sinking feeling in his stomach.
“I’ll beat your hide so bad they’ll have to stitch you together,” Brithon snarled, grabbing a broken wooden slat from the pile and lunging at Klem. He swung the board in a wild arc, but Klem ducked and backed away, trying to slip around him toward the door.
Brithon quickly blocked his path again. Klem glanced over his shoulder and saw Robert rounding the corner of an adjoining alley, running straight for them. He turned back just in time to duck under another wild swing from Brithon’s board, scrambling in the opposite direction, away from Robert.
Klem’s eyes darted to the door, and his heart skipped a beat at what he saw.
“Hey, Brithon!” a voice shouted from the door.
Brithon barely had time to react before a clay pot, complete with plant, smashed into his face. He went down like he’d been pole-axed. ^7
7. Or in this case, plant-potted.
“Come on, Klem!” Iatr yelled. Klem stood frozen in shock at Iatr’s sudden appearance and Brithon’s swift defeat.
Klem snapped out of it and ran to his friend. Together they pulled the door shut.
He started to ask, “How did you—” when they heard someone slam into the door from the other side. They both grabbed the door handle as someone began yanking on it.
“Iatr!” Robert’s voice shouted through the door. “You’re going to pay for your crimes, you filthy trash rat!”
The door bucked in their hands, and Klem braced a foot against the door frame, pulling back with all his strength. Iatr swore, leaning back and throwing his full weight away from the door to keep it from being ripped open. Klem’s leg and hands burned from the effort.
“How do we lock this thing?” Iatr grunted.
Klem’s eyes caught the turn bolt. “That!” he shouted, pointing with his gaze while still gripping the handle. Robert yanked hard again, and the two of them strained to keep the door shut.
Iatr reached for the bolt with one hand and slammed it into the locked position. The bar slid into place just as Robert yanked from the other side. Relief flooded them both as they heard the lock click. Robert cursed and yanked on the handle a few more times to no avail.
Iatr and Klem both collapsed to the floor in exhaustion. Iatr started to laugh quietly with a hysterical edge to it. After a moment, Klem joined in.
Their laughter came to a halt when they heard Robert scream outside the door, a loud, sharp crackling sound accompanying his voice. One final thump hit the door as Robert’s body slid down it.
Iatr mouthed, What was that? at Klem, who shrugged, his eyes wide with uncertainty. They both crept up and listened at the door.
“You’re sure those are Jake Bracken’s sons?” asked a woman with a rich, crisp, commanding voice. Klem thought she sounded highborn.
“Yes, Captain. I’m certain,” replied a gruff man’s voice. Iatr looked confused, and Klem felt the same—why did the voice seem to be coming from above?
“Very convenient that someone hit that one with… a potted plant?” the woman’s voice rose in amusement. After a brief pause, the woman’s tone sharpened with authority. “Tell the watch to search the building the older one was trying to get into.”
“Yes, Captain,” came the man’s voice again, matching her tone. His voice still came from above.
Iatr and Klem looked at each other in panic, and Iatr mouthed the words, time to go.
Klem nodded, and they crept into the house to make their escape.
Fin - for Now
Editorial Note;
My one year anniversary of publishing on substack passed this last month, and it was a milestone of mixed blessings. When I’d started this journey, I assumed I’d be famous by now. One year is all it takes to become a successful writer, right?
It wasn’t long before awareness that “this is going to be a long haul” set in.
Recently, I’d been grappling with guilt over the frequency of my posting. So many helpful substack gurus say “consistency is key!” and “shorter and more frequent posts drive views and subscribers!”
I’ve come to a conclusion.
I don’t like chasing views and subscribers.
I’m posting more words per month than I was this time last year. Almost double, sometimes more. It varies, mind you, but lately each story has been clocking in near 4000 words, with a steady read time of around 20 or more minutes.
And I prefer this.
The actual writing experience is a bit heavier, and the editorial part more cumbersome. Solopreneur for the win. But the ability to take the story to a few more places, and tie more events together in crafting the narrative… yea—I prefer this. In the end I am the only person who has to read what I’ve written. So I may as well enjoy it.
I was recently listening to Joshua Michael Schrei, host of one of my favourite podcasts, The Emerald, acknowledge the amount of time and work he puts into each episode. I usually only see one episode a month from him, but I’m consistently there to listen to what he has to say. Because it’s good.
It feels more like Art, less like content.
I’d also been stewing on my own relationship with short form content, and the incredibly destructive impact it has on my ability to focus on long term projects. I don’t think I want to contribute to bite-sized dopamine content cookies anymore. So even though this will have a deleterious effect to my ability to ‘go viral,’ I think the most amount of stories I can produce is 2 posts a month of around this length.
Who knows, though. This substack journey hasn’t gone the way I expected it to. The only expectation that’s been consistently fulfilled in my life has been the one where my expectations don’t quite match reality. So much for ‘being in control.’
Here’s to another year of telling stories.
Thank you to everyone who has stayed with me on this ride.
I understand how precious your time and attention are.
Otherwise the social media gods wouldn’t be fighting so hard to own it.
May the distractions from your own long term dreams and projects melt away, leaving the path clear and well lit, leading you to a life full of treasures.
Robin George
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I think your writing has improved from the beginning of this story thread!
Very enjoyable and unique!