Ryk E. Spoor
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All-Patron Reward: Original Draft of Fall of Saints: The Villain Appears
🕑 Added 2021-02-08 21:13:05 +0000 UTCContinuing our look at the earliest version of the story that became Phoenix Rising -- let's see the first appearance of our villain!
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The figure sat in shadow, long fingers caressing the packet
of Cards. The single lightglobe, hanging over the doorway, did not
illumine the high-backed chair or its occupant; in fact, it seemed
almost that the light avoided the lone figure.
The door opened, and a tall, red-haired man entered, green
eyes darting about like a hawk's and taking in the entire room. He
stepped forward and bowed to the seated figure. "At your service."
"Sit down, Aron." The voice was warm, kindly; yet Aron
shivered at its sound. The shadow-hidden silhouette smiled to
itself at the sight. Aron would do well to remember that fear.
"You and the others insisted I meet with you now... and you know
that it was not yet time. So what is it that is so urgent?"
The big fighter shifted in his chair, nervous sweat glinting
on his forehead. The figure laughed inwardly. *Oh, yes, Aron, you
do well to fear me. Remember that, the next time you think to
dispose of me. You need me. I do not need you.*
"It has to do with Eagle."
"What of him? Many young men dream of revenge, and he's
capable enough. It's no surprise he would try for the Saints."
"You don't understand!" Aron stabbed a finger at the shadows.
"Just this past month he began *healing* people."
The figure was silent for a moment, then chuckled. "So. A
true hero after all, is he? Well, we've dealt with his kind
before, Aron. That's why the mortality for Saints is so high in
the first year, Condor."
Condor nodded. "Yes, but usually it's just some idealistic
fool, M--"
"*STOP!*" The long-fingered hand lashed out and grabbed Aron-
Condor by the throat. He pulled futilely at the fingers like steel
about his neck. "You forget yourself, Aron my friend. I have told
you -- told *all* of you -- that you are never to speak my name,
my title, or in any other way to refer to me directly, not even in
my presence. You will speak with me when *I* choose it, and at no
other times. You are given the ability to pretend to your Saintly
powers through my aid alone; for that, and for the freedom you
have, I expect you to obey at least THAT command." The hand opened
and Condor hit the polished wood floor heavily.
"I... I am sorry." Condor stood slowly and then seated
himself again. "But you don't understand. The others never gained
the Saint powers. By the Hells, there hasn't been a true Saint in
sixty years!"
The figure nodded, sinking back into the cushions. Aron was
correct, of course. This was a difference to be noted. But
something else worried Condor, the shadowed figure could smell it
in Condor's fear. "And...?"
"And he's on the right track."
"So kill him!"
The red-haired false Saint shrugged. "An easy thing to say.
The boy is *good*, better than almost anyone I've ever seen. And
if he has the Saint powers, he might be able to get away, warn
someone."
The figure gritted its teeth. *Demons of Darkness! This fool
is right. I can't take the risk now.* Aloud, it spoke. "Very well.
Arrange it. I'll be nearby. If he manages to escape you... I'll
deal with him myself."
Aron nodded, swallowing visibly. "I will convey the message."
When the seated figure said nothing else, the Condor Saint rose
and left the room.
Now alone, the seated being mused on the situation. The smell
of Aron's fear lingered in the air, and much of that fear was not
of Michael, the unfortunately noble Eagle, but of the figure who
ruled the Saints. It wondered momentarily if perhaps it was going
to far with the terror it generated. A proper amount of fear kept
the rabble in their place; too much, and they became unreliable.
With a shrug, it turned its attention to the Cards. It was
reluctant to use the mystic plaques too often; not only were they
seductive in their revelations, in the ability to show the future
to one who held them, but they were also enigmatic and seemed to
have a perverse tendency to give correct but ever-more-misleading
predictions the more one asked of them.
But this was an important juncture. "Show me, Cards! What
should be done about this young Eagle? And shall I be called upon
to take him myself?"
The long fingers shuffled the enchanted deck, then spun out
three cards. The magic within the Cards told the holder when the
proper number had been dealt to answer the question.
The first card shimmered and showed a young man, clad in the
armor of a Saint. His sword was drawn and he faced a horde of
enemies, but his eyes showed no sign of fear and he seemed ready
to withstand any assault. The figure's brow creased and a low hiss
escaped its lips. "The Eternal Warrior! A powerful card indeed,
young Ross."
But lying above the Warrior was a card whose face showed only
a skeleton wielding a scythe. The figure smiled, and another
observer would have shivered at the way the light shattered off
the too-white teeth. "Death."
The final card came to rest directly across the face of the
Warrior, and the figure's laugh was mirrored in the visage that
smiled soullessly from the magic Card... for the face was its own.
