Chaos Lives in Everything - 7. Chapter 7

Across the Atlantic Ocean in Paris, France, an American tourist named Robert Smith was strapped to a cold metal table. The manacles that bound his wrists and ankles to the table made it impossible to escape. He was helpless, forced to endure the endless, sadistic torture that was being inflicted on his body. All ten of his fingers had been cut off and now lay in a metal petri dish along with all five toes on his right foot.

The room he was in was white and plain with blinding florescent lights that stung his eyes. The light like the pain was inescapable; no matter which way he turned his head or how he tried to narrow his eyes against the light, there was no getting away from it. His torturer had not given him any drugs for the pain. Twice he had fainted with the dying hope that when he woke up he would wake up back in the hotel with his wife, Angelica, or better yet, back in their home in Connecticut. But now he knew that he would never leave this room alive and he would never see his wife again. He had given his interrogator all of the information that he could with the promise that he would be released. That promise was just a lie because now his interrogator was just torturing him for the pure joy of it.

Before all of this, before this room, before the torture, Robert had been a private investigator. Most of his clientele were wives who wanted to see if their husbands were cheating on them, black mailing, things of a less savory nature. When he had been approached with this job he had taken it despite his misgivings, the feeling in his gut that told him there was something seriously wrong with this particular client. But when he’d been offered an all expense trip paid to Paris and enough money that they could start a new life, go anywhere that they wanted to, his wife could tag along of course, the misgivings had gone away immediately. After all Angelica and he had been talking about going to Paris since they’d gotten engaged two years ago; going up to the Eiffel Tower and all of that. There was no way that Robert confuse. Besides all he had to do was take a few pictures and the job was done. He never expected that the job would land him in this situation.

I’m sorry Angelica, he thought. I should have never taken this job. I should have never…

A scream caught in the tortured, raw confines of his throat as another one of his toes fell into the bowl at his feet with all of the other severed digits. Tears streamed from the corner of his eyes. Why is she doing this to me? he thought. I answered her questions, I told her everything that I know.

But he knew. After a while of slinking in the shadows and tearing apart people’s lives the shadows engulfed you. If anything else, this was karma. And karma is a bitch.

“I-I told you,” he said, though he knew it would do no good. “I don’t know who the man was. He wouldn’t g-give me his name. A-All I know is that he gave me a lot of money to take pictures of King Yaldon’s house. Why are you doing this? You said that you would let me go if I gave you the information I knew and I did.”

“I lied.” The elf smiled. Her face was covered in blood, his blood. Her eyes were the color of green acid. “I’m doing this because I hate humans, every last one of them. You are nothing but vermin, a cockroach in an endless sea of cockroaches. If it was up to me I would eradicate you all, every last one of you.”

In that moment, Robert didn’t care if he never left this room or the house in Connecticut or saw Angelica again; in that moment all he wanted was for the pain to stop, even if the only way to make it stop was death.

“If you’re going to kill me just get it over with,” he said, his lips trembling. He couldn’t believe the words were coming out of his mouth. They seemed to be coming from the mouth of a stranger. “Just make it quick. Please., don’t torture me anymore. Have mercy on me.”

The elf’s grin spread from ear to ear as she reached for the large battle axe leaning against the wall for such occasions. She came around to the front of the table and raised above her head so that the large, curved blade of the axe glinted in the light. The axe was absurdly big, almost bigger than she was-or so it seemed from the way that he was lying down. “As you wish,” she said.

Robert did not scream as the axe came down. The blade sliced through his Adam’s Apple, through muscles, tendons, and bone. Each time the axe pulled free, making a wet squelching sound. More blood splashed across the elf’s face. She laughed joyously as if having the time of her life. Robert’s head rolled off the metal table and onto the floor.

With the axe still in her hand, the interrogator turned executioner left the white room just as her cell phone started to ring.

“What is it?” she said briskly.

“King Yaldon has requested you,” said an equally brisk male voice.

The elf cursed silently. “Now? I’m in the middle of something.”

“Yes, now. Come at once.”

She clenched her jaw. “I’m on my way.”

King Yaldon hid himself from the world in a secluded mansion that had once been an ancient war fort. Built from nothing but rubble, King Yaldon had it converted into the majestic land piece that it was, fit for a king of royalty.

The mansion was surrounded by a wrought iron fence. Three guards stood at the fence day and night. Never was the fence to be unoccupied. There were three other guards standing watch on the other side of the fence just behind the house. There was additional security inside the house, three guards each on the first and second floor and two more that stood watch outside of Yaldon’s bedroom door.

Furthermore several powerful wards had been cast over the mansion and the seven acres of land that it sat on. Yaldon’s guards were the best known warriors, loyal to a fault, and inconcievably dangerous. They would risk their lives to preserve the life of their king without question. Since King Yaldon had locked himself in the room three centuries ago there had been seven assination attempts and in the end, each time, there was nothing left of the assassin.

Upon entering the mansion the elf was searched by the guards. She handed over all of her weapons and walked up the grand staircase before her, all of the way to the third floor.

“How is he?” she asked the guard sitting outside of the door.

The guard sighed. “Today has been one of his rougher days.”

“You don’t say?”

“We’ve had to restrain him twice to keep from hurting himself. The hallucinations are getting worse. I don’t think he knows the difference between what is real and what is not anymore.”

“Should I be worried?”

The guard shook his head. “He’s been more docile for the last few hours. More lucid. I think that you will be fine. If not I will be right outside of the door of course.”

She smirked. “I can take care of myself.”

The elf entered the room, closing the door softly behind her. The drapes had been pulled over the windows so that the room was almost completely dark; the only source of light was the fire crackling in the hearth. Other than the warmth that came from the fire, the room was cold. She thought she could detect an underlying smell of mold and the smell of rotting flesh.

She glanced towards the large four poster bed with the willowy black drapes but King Yaldon was not laying in his bed as he usually did. Instead he sat in the armchair, facing away from the fire where the light could barely touch his skin. She could see his face, haggard, his skin a sickly gray color, so darkly gray that it was almost black. His long hair, thinning and black, once glistening and beautiful, was now thin and greasy, like the hair of an orc. Most of it was gone, showing his blackened scalp. His eyes peered listlessly into the shadows, perhaps seeing something that the elf could not see.

Yaldon was not the magnificant king that he’d once been many centuries ago but still the elf bowed, showing her respect and devotion as was expected of her. Her respect of him was not heartfelt. It was simply her duty, part of her job. She silently wished that the plague would just finish him once and for all. He was useless, cowering in this dark room, cowering away from the world. The plague had taken his mind, his strength, and soon it would take his body and soul. Do us all a favor and take your last breath, she thought as she stooped to the ground. Die so that we may have a king that is actually worthy of greatness and respect.

“Your grace,” said the elf.

“Candestine,” said Yaldon, saying her name.

Candestine stood and looked at the crippled, weak thing standing before her. “You called for me?”

“Yes. How are the interrogations going?”

“Quite well.” She did not add that she was bored to death, so bored that she thought she would go bad. There was little joy in interrogating. The only joy came from the torturing and the grizzly part at the end. But it wasn’t enough to sustain her. She wanted to kill beyond the walls of the interrogation room.

“Yes, you have always done exceedingly well,” said Yaldon. “In fact you are the best at what you do. I have a job for you. I’m sure that you’ve heard of the troll attack that happened in Roc City the evening before last.”

She nodded. “Of course. It’s been all over the news.”

“It worries me.” He looked at her with dull eyes. The light that should have glowed within his eyes were gone, extinguished by the plague like everything else. “Something’s happening. I can feel it in my ailing bones.”

“Perhaps it is nothing. Perhaps it is just a coincidence.”

“You know better,” he hissed sharply. “Do not be stupid! There has not been a troll attack like this since the Wars. A name came up, a name that I never thought I would hear again: Skold.”

Candestine felt her insides turn into ice. She grew frigid. “Skold? After all of these years? Are you sure?”

“There are photos of him. He was in the very city where the troll attack happened. Apparently that’s where he’s been living. He’s been working has a bounty hunter.”

Of course he has, Candestine thought. Killing is the only thing he’s good at. “Do you think he’s responsible?”

King Yaldon frowned. His jaw was clenched and his eyes had grown wide. He’s afraid, she thought. He’s afraid of Skold.

“Do not be afraid of him, my lord,” she said. “Even if he is responsible there is no way that he is a threat to you. We took everything that once made him powerful. He is nothing but a ghost. You and I saw to that.”

“You and I both know what he’s capable regardless,” said Yaldon. His lips quivered, his eyes seemed to grow wider and wider. “And you know the lengths that he will go to for revenge. He is insane. Ruthless, bloodthirsty. Kane made him the perfect weapon. Which is why I am sending you on your first bounty hunter mission. I want you to go to Roc City and kill Skold.”

Candestine’s face dropped. “What?”

“You know him best.” Yaldon’s voice had dropped down to a pleading whisper. “You know how he fights, how he thinks. You know how dangerous he is. Of course I will not be sending you alone. I will be sending you with a team, a team that I have already selected for you. I think that you will find their performance satisfactory. You will be in charge, they will follow your orders without question.”

She could not believe her ears, even as he spoke. “You mean it, my king?”

“You will leave for Roc City tomorrow. A jet will be waiting for you at sunrise. As soon as you will leave you will pick your team. I don’t care what it takes, kill him. Whoever gets in your way kill them too.”

Again Candestine bowed. “As you wish, your grace. I will leave now and make preperations for the job.”

With that she turned to leave, her heart leaping with excitement. But before she could leave the king called her name.

She turned. “Yes, your grace.”

His eyes were cold as steel, no longer full of fright. “If you fail me it will be your head that I’m after.”

She grinned, her confidence unwavered. “I never fail.”

For the last three centuries Yaldon had sat in this room, in this darkness, staring at the same walls. In those three centuries he had not felt the warmth of the sun on his face or felt the cool, refreshing breeze of a beautiful Spring day on his face. There was no clock in the room to look at to tell the time of day. Time had become a seamless entity. This room was both his prison and his sanctuary.

It was Paladin, an elven rebel, that had engineered the Black Death, a biological weapon. The plague swept across the world within weeks of Paladin releasing the plague, first through Europe and then Asia and so on, carried mostly by fleas, rats, and birds. The mortals were affected by the plague the most, almost wiping their species out completely. Many fae were killed too, of course, but not nearly as mean. The fae had always been more durable, their physiology stronger.

The plague produced a number of symptoms. Most of them were the same but for Yaldon it was different. He had no idea why this was. There was no science or magic spell that could give him the answer. And even worse, he had no idea when he had contracted it. He couldn't even remember when it was he had started to fall ill. The plague, this sickness had become his life and he could no longer remember anything before it.

My skin didn't always used to be black, he thought. Once upon a time it was pale, fair. When I stood under the night sky my skin would glow. And I used to have hair, beautiful raven hair that used to glisten like a black diamond. My mind used to be sharp and the dead didn't used to haunt me. I used to be great, I used to be powerful. But the plague, Paladin has taken that away from me.

He did not have the luxury of immortality that all fae were given. Yes, he could be killed by a bullet to the head or to have his throat slit with a knife, he was not impervious to death. No one was. But the plague was killing him. Very, very slowly. Each century that passed he felt weaker and weaker; more and more of his hair fell out and the hallucinations became more real, more solid. The worst part of it was that there was no knowing when the inevitable would happen. His doctors had informed him long ago that it could be years...or centuries. Centuries of enduring this hell.

"Why wait when you could just end it now?" a voice whispered in the dark. "It's simple. Just take a sharp blade and draw it across your throat."

Yaldon jumped out of the chair, a shriek trapping itself in his throat; his eyes flicked around the room, trying to pierce the darkness, looking for the source of the voice. But of course there was nothing else in the room, nothing else but his own slowly decaying body.

Paladin may have seven centuries ago but he still haunts me, the king of the fae thought, shuffling over to the mirror. He forced himself to look in the mirror, at what had become of his face: A wretched, disgusting mask. I wish I could have cut his head from his shoulders myself.

But someone had done that for him, the one being who was perhaps even more evil and powerful than Paladin had been.

"Skold," Paladin whispered. He shivered, afraid. Once he had not been so afraid but those days were long gone.

Though he could barely hear his own voice the very name seemed to fill the room, making it grow colder, making the fire without warmth. When he had said the name he'd looked down at his hands, at the large ring on his finger. It was gold and had his crest: Three swords that were connected to form a Y. When he looked back at his reflection he saw that his skin was starting to rot before his eyes and fall off, like paper curling within a flame. It fell to the floor with sickening, wet plopping sounds.

Yaldon's hands fluttered around his face as he screamed in mindless terror, his eyes bulging out of his head. His skin had fallen completely off, showing the polished bone of his skull and now that was starting to crumple too, turning into dust. In the back of his mind, too far away to be reached but there nonetheless, Yaldon knew that this was simply another hallucination brought on by the illness.

It felt real. All too real.

Candestine was seated on the jet, heading towards Roc City. Paris was hundreds of miles behind them. Within hours they would land in Roc City.

For hours she had been studying the picture of Skold. The picture she was looking at currently showed him standing in a parking lot. She could tell that the picture was taken at night because his hair was glowing, glowing to match the moon. He had that wide, wide grin on his face as he looked at something in the distance, a grin that Candestine was all too familiar with. Because when she smiled-and she only smiled when she was about to kill someone-her smile matched his.

Someone cleared their throat. She looked up, sighing in annoyance. She did not like that Yaldon had picked her team for her; she wished that she could have picked her own team. Yaldon had given her six elves, elves who nothing about what they were in for.

Ananu sat across from her. His blood-red hair was pulled back from his face and his eyes were a dark, glowing opaque color. She could tell just by looking at him that he was of the type of mind who thought he knew everything, who thought that he had seen everything there was to see. Stupid, unbridled youth. It's disgusting to think that I was that young once, she thought.

"What?" she said, not bothering to hide her irritation.

"You said that you know Skold when you briefed us," said Ananu. "You never said how."

"I thought I knew him. There's a difference. We have a history together."

"Romantic?"

Candestine laughed coldly. "Romantic? Skold has never and would never go anywhere near a woman. He likes cock too much."

"How do you know him?"

Candestine remained silent, ignoring the question.

"Is he really as dangerous as you say?" Ananu asked.

"He's worse."

Ananu grinned. "I'm sure the six of us can take him. Excuse me, the seven of us."

This time Candestine did not laugh. "You'll be saying that when he has you choking on your own blood. Yaldon sent you on a suicide mission. None of you will be making it back, something that our dear king did not tell you."

Ananu scoffed. "And you think you will?"

"My chances are better than yours."

"And why is that?"

She handed Ananu the photo. "Take a close look."

Ananu looked down at the photo and then up at Candestine. His eyes widened. The resemblance between Candestine and Skold was uncanny. Though Candestine's eyes were acid-green and she was taller than Skold by several inches, she had his same silver hair, high cheek bones, petite narrow nose, and wide mouth. Her eyes possessed the same coldness, the same thirst for blood.

"He's my younger bother," said Candestine.