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The BloodVaine EpicChapter 103: Hair-Brained Schemes
The next morning Targon awoke and went to work. He was done sulking now and the time had come for some action. After pondering his next course of action for almost an hour, he hit upon what he believed was the best way to get revenge on all of his enemies.
At first he had an idea to kill Caimlin and take the Dragon Master throne. Then he had an idea to kidnap Elwen. Then he had an idea to kill Caimlin, take the Dragon Master throne and then kidnap Elwen and have her for his queen!
These plans were dismissed quickly, however when Targon took into account all the problems he might run up against. The Dragon Masters surely wouldn’t let him back and besides...Targon needed a way to trump all of his enemies, not just some of them. So it was that the hair brained field marshal decided to go with the stupidest plan of all.
A plan to make him the Classic Emperor.
Quorandis met with each of the Allied leaders in person that night. Barbod, Willem, Radjar Kath (a slightly uncomfortable meeting alleviated by the presence of Sir Dractor and Elwen), Bersun (whom he intended to introduce Randolph to at a later time), and Caimlin (as chief officer of the Dragon Masters). He never made it to Bjarn or his stand-in. He congratulated each leader, and made it known that he harbored no hard feelings (in the cases of Radjar and Caimlin), and that he had no intentions of taking control of the Allies. He never made it to Constantius Legonis that night either. By the time he had met with Caimlin, he was exhausted, and ready for bed, where he was soon fast asleep.
The following morning, Quorandis’ first stop of the day was the pavilion where Constantius and several of the Classic nobles were being housed.
“Your Imperial Highness,” said Quorandis, bowing to the son of a long-dead emperor, the brother of a dead emperor, and the uncle of a recently-deceased emperor. Constantius was a man of average height, with fine, aquiline features, and a distinguished mop of prematurely white hair. He was spry and fit however, and rose upon Quorandis’ entry.
“Captain-general,” acknowledged Constantius, signaling to Quorandis to take a seat, “I am most honored to meet the figurehead of the Empire.”
A slight smile curled the end of Constantius’ mouth.
“I am not a figurehead,” said Quorandis wearily, “And I will more than pleased to hand over the reins of Imperial power to their rightful owner. You are aware, Your Imperial Highness, that this appears to be you?”
“There is no need to be so formal,” said Constantius, smiling, “And yes, I had rather guessed this. The fact that none of my brothers or nephews were here suggested the fact. Is anything known of my sons?”
“Your elder son was killed by BloodVaine,” said Quorandis, “We have documentation. As for your son Clement, he is alive an well in the free portions of the Royal Knight realm, and should be en route to us even as we speak.”
“Thank you,” said Constantius, with a pained look in his eye, “How soon will it be until you know if I am the Emperor?”
“Probably in the next day or two. We only need confirmation of the deaths of two of your nephews,” said Quorandis, “Once we know for sure, it is my intention to march into Orion, and have you take possession of the Yellow Castle. You can then be enthroned, and people will return to rebuild Orion, and we can start rebuilding all Dametreos.”
“And what of yourself?” asked Constantius, “Will you remain in Orion?”
“If you order it,” said Quorandis cryptically, “For myself, I would return to Talistrand.”
At that exact moment there was a commotion heard outside. This was followed by the rather abrupt entry of general de Graff and another peculiar character.
“I’m sorry sir,” said de Graff as he tried to wrestle the man quietly back outside, “I tried to stop him but he was too quick.”
“Nay, unhand me miscreant! Thou knowest not to whom thou speekest!”
Constantius and Bernard stared in shock at the strange man in front of them. He was dressed in the clothes of a Classic noblemen which didn’t fit right and seemed to be too small for him. His face was shaven although not too cleanly nor too thoroughly. And he spoke in an accent so ancient that Bernard and Constantius had a difficult time understanding him.
“Why Constantius!” the stranger continued, “Greetings to you and my how thou hast grown. But hold! Dost thou not recognize thine own kin? Why, tis I, Osgard Legonis, your long lost...eh...relative.”
Underneath his disguise, Targon smiled.
It’s brilliant, he thought to himself, Sheer brilliant!
His plan was going perfectly. His pride stung a bit from the loss of his beard and the clothes were a bit tight but that was to be expected since he had pinched them from Quandis’s stock. As brilliant as all that was, Targon felt that his greatest subterfuge was the false name. Osgard Legonis. A name Targon had ripped off from a gravestone in the royal cemetery. The idea was that an old family name would sound legit and indeed it did.
Idiot, Quorandis thought, and without much malice. He didn’t know who the imposter was, but it was obvious from his general look and mode of speech that he was not who he claimed to be.
Doubly an idiot, he thought, as the stranger rambled on. Didn’t he realize that pretending to be Osgard Legonis meant nothing? Constantius would still be closer to the throne than he. Only his older brothers, or their sons, had a closer claim. As for the long-dead Osgard, he would still be several places behind...
“Wait,” said Constantius, “I once had a great uncle whose name was Osgard Legonis, but he died long ago.”
“Art thou certain lad? Didst thou see him go? Know this, that I am Osgard Legonis. The same whose life and youth hath been retained by the magic which resteth in this sword at my side.”
Bernard raised a suspicious eyebrow. The sword didn’t look special to him and he was beginning to think that he recognized Osgard.
“But wait, I remember the my father telling me about Osgard. He said that the man lost his arm in battle shortly before he died.”
Targon winced. “It grew back?”
“What?!” said Constantius and Bernard together.
“What I meant to say was uh...ah, but of course thine father hast told thee thus. For tis true that this Osgard didst lose his arm in battle, but that Osgard, I am not.”
“But you just said that-”
“Ah, but I am Osgard Legonis. Just um, not the one who got his arm lopped off. You see, that one was my brother. We were twins actually. And we looked so much alike that our parents decided to give us both the same name. And I had to be hidden away, which is why you never hear of me and it was all rather scandalous don’t you know. Anyway, they sent me to live with a magician but he kicked me out and I was raised by wolves, no ducks! And yes...um...right.”
Targon cleared his throat. He just realized that he had lost his accent and was afraid he was losing his believability as well.
“Wherefore dost thou question me? I am no usurper and detest being interrogated as one! Now, thou mayest crown me post haste.”
“Hold on,” said Bernard, “Something doesn’t feel right. Don’t I know you?”
Targon/Osgard, gasped dramatically, “Dost thou insinuate a subterfuge?”
Just then Elbadar walked in. “Hey, has anyone seen Targon?”
Bernard Quandris blinked. He looked at Osgard, then Elbadar and then again at Osgard. It came to Quorandis almost immediately. The imposter was the Dragon Master marshal.
“Targon!” he cried.
Quite frankly, he could barely believe was he was seeing. He had never had a high opinion of the man, Lord Marshal or no, especially considering his ridiculous solo at the ball in Talistrand, but this seemed below even that stupidity.
Targon looked with fear into the furious eyes of Bernard and wished that the ground would swallow him up.
Strangely enough, it did. Suddenly a pit appeared beneath Targon and in another moment, the imposter had vanished. Then, the crevasse closed and the earth stood still. No one knew what had happened or why, but there was a reason for it. A dark and sinister reason. Quorandis stared slight dip in the now-solid ground.
“That,” he said, “is the most peculiar thing I have ever seen…”
Elbadar, de Graff, and Constantius all nodded dumbly.
“Oh…” said de Graff, when he got his voice back, “I meant to tell you-” he nodded to Quadrants “-that Orion is now completely free of any enemy holdouts. Also, our scouts have confirmed the deaths of the other Legonis princes. Your Imperial Majesty.’ de Graff turned, and bowed most formally to Constantius.
“Excellent,” said Quorandis, “I’ll talk to the other Allies about setting a time for a formal entry into Orion, to be followed by the official return of the city to Imperial control, and the subsequent coronation and en-throning of the new Emperor. If we’re lucky, we can have the armies one their way home ere the snows fly.”
Freedom. It’s a good feeling. It means that you’re independent. That you can do anything you want and have no one to answer to. It’s a privilege that can’t be fully appreciated unless its worked for. And for some people it’s something that poses a serious dilemma.
“So what am I gonna do now?”
It had been days since the battle for Orion’s gate. Days since Marus had fought in the Allies ranks. And days that had been well used by a certain deserter to distance himself from those who might identify him.
So it was that Marus stood at the Black Knight border, puzzling over what he should do with his newfound freedom. Marus had spent his entire life trying to escape his surroundings and now that he had, he didn't know what to do. He didn't really know any trades. But he could fight, and if he billed himself as a highly trained mercenary, maybe he could make living.
But Marus’s freedom was short lived. As at that moment, the ground beneath him began to shake. There was no one around to witness the strange phenomena as there had been in Targon’s case, but Marus vanished just the same. The earth had claimed another victim.
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