Chapter Five
Mighty Maximillian Battles Earthshaker; Emerges Victorious
Cyrus stared blankly at the headline. He could not be reading that correctly.
He had barely stayed awake long enough to clean himself up last night, the adrenaline of the fight draining fast by the time
he’d hauled himself onto Soulripper and set off for home. He’d been asleep within seconds of crawling to his bed. Probably
inadvisable with a head wound, but he’d woken to the damnably cheerful tweeting of birds outside and to sunlight determinedly
boring its way through his window. So everything turned out fine.
Or so he thought until he picked up today’s copy of Athaca News, his jaw cracking around a yawn and his black silk robe knotted about his waist.
His first thought: They had made it to page two. But the leap of glee at the shadowy depiction of a cloaked wrongdoer facing
off against Maximillian was quickly stifled as his gaze slid to the headline.
Mighty Maximillian Battles Earthshaker; Emerges Victorious
Cyrus squinted. He rubbed his eyes and looked again, in case that changed anything. But the ink remained stubbornly in place,
spelling out its dirty little lie.
Emerges Victorious
That was not how he remembered things, and despite the egg protruding from the back of his skull, Cyrus knew damn well he
remembered yesterday’s events with perfect clarity.
The parchment was beginning to tear under the strain of his fingertips. He forced out a slow breath. Then he slammed the door
shut and retreated to his brooding chair to read.
There were exciting scenes in the quiet village of Arclee last night as wrongdoer Earthshaker challenged the champion Maximillian
to a fight.
What followed was a tense and unpleasant evening for the locals with the wrongdoer attempting to burn down the village (and succeeding in burning down the tavern, which had until then survived at least three separate arson attempts by other wrongdoers as well as one accidental arson incident by the owner’s toddler daughter).
Maximillian is said to have arrived on the scene at speed, with the two proceeding to battle fiercely.
The reasons for the wrongdoer’s challenge are not publicly known. One villager, who wishes to remain unnamed, shared her observations
that Earthshaker “was staring a lot” in what she described as “a leery kind of way.”
We at Athaca News were lucky enough to speak to Maximillian following his defeat of Earthshaker, where he shared his insights into the battle
that took place, as well as letting us in on some hairstyling secrets. He also spilled the beans on his latest brand deal
with Swordz4you, an exciting new partnership which includes the chance for one lucky reader to win a sword of their own.
Cyrus stared down at the parchment. One word stood out as though the scribe had scribbled it in giant bold lettering.
Defeat. His defeat of Earthshaker.
That obnoxious, conniving, lying bastard.
His hand trembled as he turned the page, his eyes promptly assaulted by several drawings of Maximillian without his top on.
There was no way his abdominal muscles were that defined. Nor was it possible for pectorals to be quite so perky. And he didn’t
have a belly button piercing. Cyrus had been far too close yesterday; he would have felt it.
Maximillian Spills All: Inside the Life and Times of One of Athaca’s Most Iconic Champions
More drawings. Lots of them. Was that at Maximillian’s insistence? Or had the reporter just spent all their time gazing at
the champion and doodling that detestable dimple instead of talking? Cyrus wouldn’t be surprised. They reduced him to goggle-eyed cackling caricatures. Of course they turned Maximillian into a pretty doll for the masses to lust over.
Cyrus skimmed the interview impatiently. The brand detail was not of interest; the hairstyling tips were, admittedly, but
this was neither the time nor the place. His heart performed a funny little skip when his eyes alighted on his own nickname—finally—and
he leaned in a little closer, nose almost touching the parchment as he read.
We heard about your recent battle with the wrongdoer Earthshaker. How did that come about?
Maximillian smiles with his usual charm. “You know, I can’t really say. I only met him for the first time about a month ago.
He turned up in Arclee one day and said he wanted to . . . check me out, I suppose. See if I was worth his time.”
We can imagine many people wanting to check Maximillian out. He laughs at this and assures us that we are too kind.
“Well, clearly Earthshaker found that I was worth his time,” he confides. “He showed up to challenge me personally. I think he was maybe just feeling a bit frustrated,
a bit bored, you know? We all feel that sometimes. Maybe he wanted an end to the monotony, a worthwhile fight. Something different.”
Earthshaker clearly found it in this champion. As we speak to Maximillian inside the home of one of Arclee’s grateful villagers,
he bears the signs of the battle. He is rumpled but exhilarated, his Style It Like A Champ (SILAC) gel working overtime to
keep that delectable hair in place.
Maximillian offers to discuss the fight in more detail and share his experiences, but as we all know, the most important aspect
of any battle lies in the winning. Does he consider his fight well won?
“Well, yeah,” he says, after some deliberation. “It was a hard fight, but he fled in the end. I doubt he’ll be quick to show
his face round here again. Anyway, the village is still standing, the villagers are safe, and I’m here to tell you the tale,
aren’t I? I’d say that counts as a win.”
As part of his upcoming tour, Maximillian will be visiting Earthshaker’s residence of Ranragh, a town of little reputation
situated upon the northeast peninsula. We at Athaca News look forward to picking up this story again, to discover how Earthshaker handles the presence of his foe.
Cyrus leaned back, letting the parchment fall. A tremor still ran through his hands as he gripped the sides of his chair tightly.
His heart pounded with fury until he felt almost sick with it. Maximillian’s voice rang in his head, shaping these words,
obnoxiously confident. He was so used to everyone believing him. He could say whatever he liked.
The injustice of it burned hot and bitter.
Cyrus would give anything, anything, to hunt him down and strip away the arrogance and conceit until the truth of him was exposed.
Until everyone saw him as Cyrus did: a pathetic facade of nobility, hiding behind peasants and the press to deny the truth of his own defeat.
Action; he needed to take action. A way to put a stop to these false rumours, to force Maximillian to rethink his plans to
put a single pedicured toe anywhere near Ranragh. And, his flaring temper insisted, he needed an opportunity to tell Maximillian exactly what he thought of him.
It was difficult to wrangle his thoughts into order when each vibrated with rage, but he forced himself to sit still and breathe
deeply until his clenching fingers loosened on the arms of his chair and his heartbeat had slowed to an agitated thrum.
Thoughts of revenge had started to pile up at the back of his mind from the moment he’d picked up the news parchment, snowballing
into a furious frenzy the more he read, but in truth there was only ever one viable course of action.
He needed to send Maximillian hate mail.
Most of it would be anonymous, as though the letters came from people across the land who doubted his story. Let the champion
believe that running to the press with lies had tarnished his precious reputation.
One letter would be signed from Cyrus himself, warning Maximillian to tell the truth or else face the consequences. Retract
the lies, and the visit to Ranragh, or see Arclee turned to rubble.
And—a slow, dreamy smile spread across Cyrus’s face as he imagined it—once Maximillian was running scared, Cyrus would hunt him down at another time and place and finish what he’d started before that pesky peasant involved himself.
He’d see Maximillian bleeding and shamed at his feet before long, of that he was certain.
His finest parchment selected and his best quill dipped in ink, Cyrus settled down to write.
The next day Cyrus woke earlier than planned to a persistent tapping at his window.
He was out of bed quicker than dignity suggested was reasonable. Still, he couldn’t be blamed for his anticipation. No doubt
the raven attempting to give itself brain damage by rattling its beak against the rock carried a response from Maximillian,
alarmed by Cyrus’s signed letter, begging his pardon and promising to avoid Ranragh forevermore with all falsehoods duly retracted.
Perhaps he also could expect a flattering comment or two, a simpering attempt to get Cyrus on his side and ensure that he
did not wreak his most deadly revenge after all.
Cyrus untied the scroll from the raven’s leg, sneering as he smoothed a fingertip along the crisp, quality parchment and delicate
blue ribbon. As pretty and showy as the rest of Maximillian, and as easily destroyed.
He dropped the ribbon on the floor and ground his heel into it, unfurling the scroll with a flourish. It was a pity the beady-eyed
bird was his only audience—where were the sprites when he actually had use of them?—but that was fine. He could appreciate
baleful suspicion no matter the source.
His eyes dropped to the parchment, noting firstly that Maximillian’s response was much shorter than he had expected. Second came blank disbelief as he registered the content.
Stop sending me hate mail you prick
Cyrus blinked. He frowned. He read it again, mouthing the words to himself, just in case he’d somehow imagined them.
The raven released a series of short, sharp croaks. It sounded like laughter. Still staring down at the letter, Cyrus raised
a hand towards the creeping buttercup by his door. The plant rushed at the raven in a green and yellow tide. The bird danced
backwards and wisely shut up.