Vigil's Balance: Nine – Rules of the Game

“Although I’m sure you’ve all enjoyed the lovely hospitality of my realm,” the Queen said after Gobhoill had removed of my gift, “we have not come here simply to enjoy fine food or reminiscence about days long since past. No, not at all.” She extended a delicate hand and twirled one finger. A black rose materialized in the air, spinning slowly. I’d received a rose exactly like that one a few weeks back—my ‘invitation’ to the hunt.

“We have come as is our obligation and commitment,” she continued, “because I have called the Hunt—as is my right as undisputed sovereign over the Realm of Oblivion.”

A few of the guests nervously shifted from foot to foot. We’d come to the heart of the issue and if there was going to be open violence, I had no doubt that it would happen now. I steeled myself, preparing to summon my Soul Bound weapons.

“Yet, there is one that would dispute my claim,” she said. The words were as cold as the arctic tundra. “Renholm of Greenbriar—or excuse me, Renholm, King of Oblivion.”

A round of cruel laughter broke out among the assembled guests. Queen Ionia let the laughter continue for a painfully long time before finally raising a hand and calling for silence.

“Now, such a claim obviously cannot stand,” she said. “There cannot be two Oblivion Courts. The easiest way for us to resolve our dispute is for you to relinquish your claim to the Throne.” She fixed her cruel gaze on Renholm. “Admittedly, you do wield a small sliver Chaos—a magic that is ours by right—which is the only thing giving your ridiculous claim any credence at all. But there can be no real question about who the true Archfae of Oblivion is.”

She swept a hand around at the grand ballroom.

“Esteemed guests, your eyes should tell the truth plain enough. True, this miscreant draws on the power of Oblivion, but let common sense be your guide in the matter. I have ruled this court for the past five-hundred years. I fought beside the Ghostblood of the Sapphire City. I’ve stared into the Void and communed with the Old Ones. An army stands ready to serve my desires while Renholm of Greenbriar is merely a disgruntled pixie with an axe to grind and a dank cave in the mountain passes above Ironmoor. Little one,” she said to Renholm, “will you see reason and relinquish your claim?”

I wanted to laugh. Renholm never saw reason.

In fact, using a logical argument was the worst possible strategy with him. She needed to stroke his ego or appeal to his greedy nature. Embarrassing him in front of these nobles was a guaranteed way to get him to dig his heels in. Then it occurred to me that maybe that’s what she was after all along. Maybe she had something else to gain by calling the Hunt.

Renholm floated into the air, head held high, chest puffed out in pride. “The Chaos magic flowing through my veins makes me a claimant and I will not relinquish my claim to the Jagged Throne, because I am the one true monarch of Oblivion.”

She gave him a cruel, cold smile. “As I suspected. And since I am also unwilling to relinquish my crown, for what should be fairly obvious reasons, we find ourselves at something of an impasse. Of course, I could simply snuff the life from your frail, pathetic little body… You are nothing while I am the vassal for a god older and more powerful than time itself. But war…” she trailed off, letting the word linger in the air.

“I think we can all agree war is for lesser beings. Ten thousand years ago the Courts went to war. The Black Days we called it. Few of even the eldest Fae remember those days, but I do. I was but a youngling during the wars, but I remember them well. Cities decimated. Thornes shattered like pottery. Blood ran in rivers and the bodies were piled so high they seem to brush the heavens above. Terrible weapons were built. Unspeakable acts were committed that could’ve been the death of us all. The end of the Wylds.

“When the Accords were settled, the iron clad rules of hospitality were established—set forever in unbreakable stone—the Disciples of the True Moon took their solemn oaths for the preservation of us all.” She nodded at Gobhoill. “The Disciples are neutral peacekeepers meant to help mediate conflict between the courts so that such widespread destruction and violence are never visited upon our lands again. It is they who envisioned the Grand Hunt. Trial by combat, meant to reveal the truth and resolve such messy, ugly conflicts in a more civilized manner.

“As the offended party,” she continued, “I have called the Hunt, but it is not fitting for a Monarch to fight such a battle, and doubly so since I am the Caller. Gobhoill shall act as Master of Ceremonies since I do not want there to be even a whiff of impropriety where the Hunt is concerned.  It is for this reason that I am appointing Sir Jeffery the Stalwart to serve in my stead. He shall be my hands and feet. He shall wield my blade and draw the string of my bow. Come forth my Champion!”

The clopping of hooves reverberated off the high ceilings as the crowd parted once again and a newcomer approached.

“Jeffery,” Renholm snarled, his tiny hands curling into fists. “I should’ve known she would choose you, my eternal nemesis.”

Jeffery stood seven feet tall, was built like a tank, had four beef slab arms, and wore heavy obsidian armor that looked like it was made from dried magma. He had a comically oversized sword that belong in a late-night anime series strapped to his back. His legs were powerfully muscles and ended in black hooves, and he had the head of a horse, with a piercing purple horn jutting up from his forehead. He was like the unholy love child of a minotaur and a unicorn. But with four arms.

He was a goddamned Manicorn.

“That’s Jeffery?” I growled at Renholm under my breath. “Are you fucking kidding me? I thought it was another pixie, not fucking Horse Goro from Mortal Kombat.”

“I will confess that he has changed some since last I saw him,” the Pookah replied softly, “but that is most assuredly him. I would know those beady, spiteful eyes no matter what face they are peering out of.”

Great, as if I didn’t have enough to worry about.

“Sir Jeffery the Stalwart will command our forces, but he won’t be alone. It is known that the most challenging hunts require compatriots, and the deadliest beasts cannot be slain alone. Joining Sir Jeffery in this most exalted contest are the knights from our allied courts. Narvik, Host of the Fell. Aymer the Primeval. Shuri, Arc-Healer of the Six Nightmares. Iret who hails from the Throne of Tears. Khapi representing the Emissaries of the Four Seasons. Ashur, Warmaster of Araethyrea. Bogen CrowEye, of the Sibylline. Ku-Aya, Seer of the Hallowed Memory. And Elyon, Seductress of the House of Lust.”

A goddamned squad of monsters and killers formed a neat line in front of the Throne as Ionia called out the names, flanking Jeffery on the left and right. Most were humanoid, though they were all far from human. Beast men, demons, elves. Even one of those spider people with face tentacles. Some wore elegant robes while others were decked out in fine leathers, perfect for stealth, or elaborate scale male that radiated subtle magic. A few wore heavy armor crafted from bone and stone, though none wore metal of any kind.

Their weapons were as varied as the wielders—daggers, bows, swords, halberds, spears—but like their armor, all were made from forged glass, yellowed bone, or sharpened obsidian. It was a reminder that I had one advantage over these assholes. Cold Iron. They couldn’t touch the stuff with experiencing physical agony and its presence leeched away whatever powers they held. It was a small thing, but something I was sure I could use to my advantage.

“And standing in opposition,” Ionia continued, “are the assorted champions and allies representing Renholm of Greenbriar, the pixie who would be King. It is with great honor that I present your champion, Boyd Knight, Inkarnate Vigil and servant of Raguel the Mad, Butcher of the Exalted Ones and Lady Melwyn, Princess of Petals.”

Raguel the Mad? Butcher of the Exalted Ones? Those were titles that I’d never heard before. I was pretty sure that even muttering those words anywhere in Wildespell was a good way to end up tied to a stake and set of fire for blasphemy. But it was a firm reminder that there were two sides to every story and it showed exactly how bad the blood was between my boss and hers.

While I silently mused, Melwyn scooted up beside me, her head held high even though we were vastly outnumbered. She didn’t look at all phased by the fact that we were in an enemy stronghold, badly outnumbered and staring down some of the deadliest warriors in the Fae Realms.

Cal, on the other hand, seemed to know exactly how stacked against us the deck was.

“We are so fucking boned,” he muttered, just load enough for me to hear.

“We great these exalted champions with the utmost reverence,” Ionia said with a slight dip of her head in acknowledgement. “The trial to come shall be no easy task, but we have confidence in the strength of your arm, the skill of your hand, and the cunning guile of your mind. It has been many long years since the last Hunt and there are many newcomers amongst our ranks”—her eyes lingered on me—“so Gobhoill will graciously explain the rules of the competition.” She waved a hand toward the giant sasquatch. “If you would?”

“Of course, honored Queen,” Gobhoill replied with a bow. He took a step forward and cleared his throat. “First, let it be known that as the Master of Ceremonies, I shall oversee all aspects of the Hunt. In this contest of strength, will, and guile, my word is as law. As is tradition, each of the Great Houses has provided a Hunter to remind us that a conflict between two courts is a conflict between all. As for the game we shall pursue, our prey are not merely crude beasts of the earth—for what sport could there truly be in that with hunters as powerful as these? No, our prey is the deadliest beast. All of the human variety.”

A chill ran down my spine and the hairs long my neck stood stiff at attention. They wanted us to hunt what now? I had no problem hacking a Mortka into fun-sized meat bits, but hunting people was another story entirely. I killed men before, and a few women too, but that was in a warzone where it had been them or me. This was different somehow. I was a killer, but not a murderer—and there was definitely a distinction.

Based on the smug look painted on Ionia’s face, she’d known I would have reservations about this.

“As the Caller,” Gobhoill said, his rich baritone carrying easily across the hall, “Queen Ionia has selected four targets, each of whom have struck a soul-bargain. Be it for coin, fame, power, or health, these men and women have made an unholy pact and reaped unearned benefits, granted by the power of a dark god—the Void Tree of the Endless Night. Now it is time for them to pay what is due, and you hunters shall collect the bounty. The location and identities of these soul debtors is a mystery, but I have crafted a series of cryptic clues that will reveal to truth. Each Champion will receive one clue.”

A single, thick finger rose into the air.

“The goal is simple,” he said. “Be the first to find the wayward soul and collect it before another champion can. Although doing so may not be as easy as you think.” There was a dark glimmer of mischief in his eyes. “These wretched, lost souls will do anything to stave off the inevitable and the dark power of Chaos can be… unpredictable at best. A new clue shall be given for each subsequent hunt. The first team to collect three bounties will be declared the winner—if there is a tie, then one champion from each side will face each other in a battle to the death.”

“Wait, so let me get this straight,” I said, brow furrowed in annoyance. “Not only do you want us to hunt people, but her team is going to get ten clues because she has ten Champions, and ours is going to get two?”

“Indeed,” Gobhoill said, sounding a little disgruntled at the interruption.

“How is that fucking fair?” I shot back.

“I’m sorry, we’re you under the impression that the world is fair?” Ionia asked, scorn lacing every single word. “Because it is not. Those with power always have a greater advantage than those without. This contest is for the fate of the Oblivion Throne—and the Hunt reflects the power dynamics already in play. Look around. We are strong. You are weak. As in nature, the strong prevail and the weak end up as dinner. When you lose, you shall meet a quick death. Or a slow and painful one depending on the mood I’m in. Perhaps this will teach you and your god not to meddle in the affair of your betters.”

“The Queen has the right of it,” Gobhoill added. “This may seem odd to one not born of our world, but to us power begets power. She has more and thus her advantages are amplified many times over. As for the rules of the Hunt, there is only one that is true and unbreakable. Join the Hunt or become the Hunted. I understand that you may feel some moral compunction against partaking, but should you refuse to participate for any reason, you shall become the new target of the Hunt. The Fae Laws of hospitality continues to apply, but once we leave this place and we convene the games, your safety is your own priority.”

He reached into his cloak and pulled out a velvety pouch. His fingers dipped into sack and pulled out a smooth stone with a rune expertly carved into the surface. “Each stone contains a clue, crafted by me. They will be given at random and you will have two days to prepare—then the horn will sound and the first leg of the contest will begin in earnest. Strength. Knowledge. Guile. Authority. Resources. These are the tools of power. Use them wisely for there are a great many challenges to come.”