Chapter Two #2
the courage to yell after him. The sudden noise, paired with their victim’s flailing, caused the mare to rear up and let out
a sharp, irritated whinny. Determined to maintain an air of composure, Cyrus pretended he’d meant for that to happen and swept
his cloak out with a flourish and a toss of his head as he grappled with the reins to steady the agitated horse.
Once they had reached a small clearing, safe from prying eyes, Cyrus slid from Soulripper’s back and tethered her to a sturdy
little birch. The peasant still dangled face down over the horse, blubbing. Cyrus rolled his eyes and gave him a prod.
“Get down.”
The man cringed away from him, dragging himself to an upright position. His face was blotchy, his nose running. Ugh. But he looked suitably pathetic. The ideal bait. Now all he needed was a trap.
“Get down,” Cyrus repeated.
The peasant trembled as he climbed from Soulripper’s back, wide-eyed and white-faced. He found his tongue after several false,
stumbling starts. “B-B-Bokor will find me, he’ll save me—”
“Counting on it,” said Cyrus absentmindedly, searching through Soulripper’s saddlebag. Where had he—ah. There it was. He lifted
out a trowel he used for harvesting his vegetable patch. The peasant cowered as though he expected Cyrus to gut him with it
there and then. It was gratifying. The people of Ranragh could stand to learn from this man.
“Here.” Cyrus threw him the trowel. He didn’t raise a hand to catch it, and the metal clonked off his skull. The man let loose
a fresh stream of snivelling. Cyrus sighed.
“Pick that up, and start digging.” He cast an eye back towards Eborre, imagining the route Bokor would take, and took a couple
of steps back. “Right . . . here.” A solid stamp to the earth. Soulripper stamped too. The peasant jumped.
Cyrus looked meaningfully at the trowel. The peasant almost tripped over himself in his haste to pick it up before he straightened,
wavering in place.
“I won’t tell you again,” Cyrus said softly, and watched in satisfaction as the man all but dived for the ground.
As the perspiring peasant toiled in the earth, he leaned against a nearby tree and picked at his nails.
By the time the hole was big enough for Bokor to stumble into—no small feat, especially considering the size of the trowel—the peasant was slick with sweat, red faced and puffing for breath.
Cyrus had him drag a carpet of leaves and crisscrossed branches over the hole to disguise it, then kindly gave him a break by tying him to a tree at the end of the clearing.
He stuffed a handful of leaves into the man’s mouth and retreated into the shadows with Soulripper to wait.
Unknown Wrongdoer Attacks Bokor
From our Eborre correspondent, we heard how the city’s champion was the victim of a curious attempt at wrongdoing by an unknown
assailant.
Reports indicate that Bokor was found partially buried in the woodlands just outside Eborre with only his head above ground.
A note left at the scene of the crime, glued to Bokor’s head with resin, read “SHAKE BEFORE ME.”
Bokor has yet to provide a formal interview in the wake of his attack. However, a short statement has been released confirming
that he did not recognise the wrongdoer in question, but that he will “rip his preening little head off his shoulders” if
he sees his attacker again.
Whether a premeditated attack on Bokor in the run-up to Athaca’s championship elections or a spontaneous assault remains to
be seen. Our correspondent spoke with a local blacksmith’s apprentice who was caught up in the attack, but he could shed no
light on the wrongdoer’s motives.
“I’ve no idea who he was, didn’t recognise him. He was off his rocker. Kept talking to his horse.”
“Kidnapped by a lunatic”: turn to page 19 to find out more.
Cyrus screwed up the ball of parchment and flung it at the wall of his lair as hard as he could. Some people just didn’t appreciate creativity and flair.
Time for plan B.
“Welcome, people of Elzekar!”
Lailar’s voice was deep and husky and projected effortlessly. It wasn’t hard to see why people were drawn to her. She had
an instinctive, easy grace; even here, involved in some ridiculous ribbon-cutting ceremony for a new bathing facility, her
muscular legs were poised in a natural power stance. Cyrus knew perfectly well that those thighs had crushed many an unfortunate
wrongdoer.
He shifted his weight, glancing out from beneath his hood. A large crowd had gathered to see Lailar in person. Cyrus had spied
a handful of journalists earlier clutching quills and parchment, which was a positive sign. They would scribble up their coverage
of the event and send it via raven to Athaca News headquarters, where legions of questionably literate scribes would copy it out for distribution. His success today would
be plastered all over the news parchments by this time tomorrow.
“I’m so happy to see you all gathered here this afternoon,” Lailar continued, “and I’d like to offer thanks to your own resident
champion, Saffra, for extending this invitation.”
Of course. Champions were, by nature, conniving creatures.
Even though they were competitors in elections and for the affection of the adoring masses, they often played at friendship for the sake of a good write-up in the news.
No doubt Saffra had been handsomely compensated for Lailar’s appearance in her town.
“It’s such an honour to be invited to open this new bathing facility, which is so desperately needed here in Elzekar,” Lailar
added.
Did the good people of Elzekar realise that they were being insulted? Cyrus didn’t think so, judging by the pleased smiles
on their faces.
“Not only can I welcome you to your new facility, I can also take this opportunity to introduce you to the latest addition
to my skincare range, Lailar Loves. With just a touch of this, you’ll have smooth and perfect skin, just like me.”
Cyrus glanced at the assembled peasants. Privately, he wasn’t so sure. They all looked a bit . . . crusty.
“Let me show you,” she said, and Cyrus leaned forward, watching keenly as she picked up the pot of cream from the tray and
held it aloft.
“Say no to being ugly,” she urged the gathered townsfolk, like they had any choice in the matter. “Say yes to Lailar’s anti-aging
cream!”
With that, she dipped her perfect fingers into the cream and raised them to her face. Lailar touched her own cheeks like she
was handling something infinitely precious. She even gave a little sigh of pleasure as she did.
“Everyone who uses the new bathing facility today gets a discount on their first pot—ow! What the—”
That was all Lailar managed to get out before the chaos took over—gasps from the assembled crowd and panicky shouts from her team, as before their eyes Lailar’s face began to swell up and turn a ferocious shade of pink.
It was . . . very, very pink, actually. And the swelling looked worse than Cyrus had anticipated.
He’d sneaked into the facility earlier and sprinkled a little ground-up surprise into her cream, confident that it was the
perfect ploy. Lailar would be humiliated and undermined, and whilst she flailed about in misery, Cyrus would leap onto the
stage and proclaim his triumph. If Lailar or anyone else thought to threaten him, he would threaten them with something worse.
A risky move, but there were enough trees about for him to call on his magic discreetly. The moment he let his eyes start
to glow, they’d be sure to fall into line.
But he hadn’t intended for her face to swell that much. Her eyes had almost disappeared entirely. Maybe she was allergic to nettles.
Lailar’s hands flapped at her cheeks as though she could claw the cream right back out of her skin. The crowd was growing
more unruly as they pressed closer to the stage to see the drama unfolding, and Cyrus let himself be shunted forward.
One of her assistants came scurrying closer just as Lailar bawled, “Trent, you idiot!” Her assistant cringed. “Get them away
from me, clear the way—get me in those baths!”
The order spurred her team into action. Flailing peasants were shoved aside as members of security charged through, flanking
Lailar and barging past the ribbon tied prissily over the entrance to the new facility. Lailar disappeared inside, loud swearing
bouncing off the ceiling within. Trent ran after her in a flustered panic.
The mayor turned back to the crowd, alone on the platform now, a bead of sweat trickling down the side of his neck.
“I’m sure Lailar will be fine!” he tried, pretending that he couldn’t hear her cursing and yelling from behind.
Something crashed; Cyrus imagined her throwing a projectile at Trent’s head.
“Please, do not worry, Lailar will be just fine!”
The crowd still jostled and shouted, torn between concern and anger. Cyrus allowed himself a moment of satisfaction, listening
to Lailar’s tantrum. With every snarl, the benevolent mask of the champion slipped a little further.
Then he stepped forward. Time to claim his moment.
Sweeping the hood from his face, Cyrus vaulted the barrier in one clean movement to land catlike upon the platform. The mayor
jumped, his hand flying to his chest.
“But will she?” Cyrus asked loudly.
The mayor stared at him. “I don’t—who are you?”
Cyrus narrowed his eyes, then looked meaningfully out across the crowd. “I said, will she be fine?” he repeated pointedly.
“I don’t—none of us can—why?” the mayor spluttered. “Do you know something about this? Who are you, you really shouldn’t—”
Odd, the lack of instant recognition. But perhaps the chaos had driven Cyrus’s name from the man’s mind. Undeterred, he raised
his voice to address his audience.
“I am Cyrus. Earthshaker.” Finally, the crowd quietened. They were all staring at him now. He breathed deeply, savouring the
moment, and fancied he could taste the apprehension in the air. “Feared and maligned across the realm. I have bested your
champion.”
The silence that followed was, Cyrus thought optimistically, taut with fear. Then a young girl with straggly plaits and eyebrows so fair they were near invisible held up her hand, despite her mother’s hurried attempts to stop her.
Unexpected. But every successful wrongdoer ought to thrive on the unexpected. Cyrus pointed at the girl. “Speak, child.”
“What did you do to her, mister?” the girl asked.
Was it too much to ask for an intelligent question from the likes of these people? Cyrus masked his sigh only because he didn’t
want to seem agitated. Cool, calm control was everything, especially with the furtive scribbling of quills on parchment and
assessing glances from the reporters in attendance.
He could be patient. The girl was probably a simpleton. He might as well take the opportunity to ensure they got the story
right this time.
“I have broken through Lailar’s pretence,” he said. “These champions you all adore so much . . . they are nothing more than a facade. A pretence at greatness.” Disdain dripped from his tone. “Apply the right
pressure and they will reveal their true selves.”
The girl blinked at him uncomprehendingly. “She went all pink.”
Ah. She was curious about his methods. Perhaps not a simpleton after all. Cyrus tossed his head, letting his hair bob attractively
with the motion.
“I poisoned her,” he said, pausing to enjoy the sharp intake of breath from the crowd before he added, “with her own face
cream.”
The intake of breath seemed to huff to an awkward halt. The townsfolk peered up at him in confusion. One or two scratched their heads.
“Huh?” Not the girl this time—a man, further back, with a weaselly little face screwed up in a way that made him look even
uglier than he already was. “She didn’t eat no face cream.”
Cyrus flapped—no, pointed a hand towards the jar of cream, lying where Lailar had dropped it. “No,” he said, with what he
felt to be admirable patience, “but she wiped it upon her face, did she not?”
Trent trudged out of the baths. There was a red mark on the side of his face where Lailar must have thrown something at him.
He was soaked through, a sad little trail of wet footprints following him out of the building. But he still frowned at Cyrus.
“You put something in her face cream? Just to hurt her?”
“That’s fucked up, man,” said a random peasant. The crowd was getting agitated again, shuffling forward, voices rising in
pitch and dissent.
“It wasn’t just to hurt her,” Cyrus snarled, “it was to expose her true colours, which I have succeeded in, and for me to demonstrate how laughably easy
it would be for me to destroy her entirely if I wished. I could have killed her in her dressing room! I could have killed
her entire team! But instead I have chosen to reveal the truth of Lailar to you all, because I have wits on my side, and schemes, and it was all part of my grand master plan to defeat another champion!”
“How many champions have you defeated with face cream?” enquired the mayor.
Cyrus sputtered. “I haven’t—she’s the first, but—”
“What was your name again?” asked Trent.
“Citrus,” offered the mayor.
“It’s Cyrus, and I’ll rip your innards out of your nostrils and feed them back to you, you snivelling little worm,” Cyrus hissed. This
had gone on long enough. He shook a dagger out of his sleeve.
The agitation of the crowd abruptly surged into chaos once more. Cyrus paid it no heed, leaping down from the platform as
peasants scattered before him. He could recognise when the time came to abandon a plan, and this one needed leaving behind
in the dust.