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English
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Part 9 of Falls the Shadow
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2013-01-25
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1,014
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1/1
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Fighting a War That's Already Lost

Summary:

It was dark and it was quiet in the heart of the Citadel. Frantsen's wife and one of the ladies cried softly, still, but the rest of them had long since outlasted their panic. Deep, numbing fear had set upon them instead, and it was as heavy as the weight of the keep around them. Frantsen felt glued to his chair with it. He felt smothered in it.

Notes:

The story follows Frantsen, who is Duke Vedris's heir in Magic Steps. This story takes place after the four have all managed to find their way to Summersea and have been fighting a coup to put Sandry in charge of the Citadel.

Work Text:

"Something wicked this way comes." –Macbeth

It was dark and it was quiet in the heart of the Citadel. Frantsen's wife and one of the ladies cried softly, still, but the rest of them had long since outlasted their panic. Deep, numbing fear had set upon them instead, and it was as heavy as the weight of the keep around them. Frantsen felt glued to his chair with it. He felt smothered in it.

He wanted to pace, but he feared his legs would not hold him. The room was dark, the mage-lights and lamps his father would no doubt have known to bring into the safe-room, had he been alive, were left outside in the panic when the Citadel was breached. Frantsen had been so sure. So sure that his hired swords would hold the keep against this invasion, that he and his family would be safe within its walls, as his father had always been safe as Duke, before him. His pride had them going about their daily lives without notice for the battles that raged through Summersea. They had been dining in the main hall when Duke's Guards had rushed in to move them to safety, safety that Frantsen's pride had refused to allow until it was too late.

There was crashing outside the doors and the ground shook. Either Frantsen's wife or her maidservant screamed and one of the children began to cry. Frantsen could not look away from the doors that were the only barrier between him and the evil that stalked him. There was magic in this sanctuary, but the spells that could be raised in order to make it impenetrable took time. Time Frantsen had not given them, since he had refused to allow that he may have to hide within his own Citadel.

How had it come to this? How had everything gone so terribly wrong? When his father had died suddenly of a weak heart, Frantsen had been shocked and saddened by the news. Yes, he had also been pleased that his father had made him heir to Emelan long ago; his older brother was long dead, neither Cole nor Gospard had aspirations to the Dukedom. He was well aware that his father had begun to think he was unsuited to the title, and if he had felt relief that Vedris had died before he could change his successor, it didn't mean he was not a loving son. He had even scolded his wife when she expressed the thought aloud.

Besides, he had been sure he could be as good a Duke as the old man, who was more suited to military affairs than the politics and pomp required to garner the respect a great man deserved. His father hadn't even held court; Frantsen had planned to change all of that.

Another crash outside the doors. He had planned to change so many things. And then, out of the blue, as if they were ghosts that materialized from the grave one night, the soldiers had begun their attack, already within the city. Namornese soldiers, led by the Empress's ward, his own cousin Sandrilene. If it had been only this, he was sure he could have led his Guards to victory... but she came with dark magic and no one – no one – could be expected to stand against the power she and her pet mages wielded. Who had heard of a girl who could twist the ground to suck entire troops down into the sewers to drown, who could strike people down at will with lightning? Who could have expected his cousin to find a mage capable of creating boom-stones from nothing, enough of them to supply an army and level the Arsenel in a single night? Who could defend against the assassin that killed off his generals in their sleep, quick knives and silent steps whittling his support and his sources of knowledge to the quick before he even knew to defend them against this unknown enemy?

I could not have known that it would turn out this way, he thought as the doors began to sprout and grow, old dead wood betraying him as it chose life over their ages-long duty and grew out from the middle, creating room for his enemies to walk through. The ground shook again and walls and the ceiling crumbled and rained dust with the force of it. The children and women alike were screaming. Frantsen's guards stepped forward, swords bared, but were quickly felled; two strangled on their own clothes and one with a throwing knife in the throat. The two died slowly, trying desperately to rip the cloth that wove itself into their mouths; the third died quickly, the blood flowing for only moments before he was still. Behind him, the room was in chaos as four shadowy figures walked in from the hallway. Frantsen had not moved from his chair. This couldn't be. This wasn't how it was supposed to end. He was Duke.

He looked from brown eyes to green to grey and to too-bright blue. All were too young to look so utterly free of life.

"Cousin," the blue eyed girl said, nodding. She looked around the room, noting the panic-stricken family behind him, but not acknowledging them in any way.

"That is it, my friends," she said, turning to look at her companions. "The Citadel is ours. Welcome home."

No, Frantsen thought. I am Duke. The Citadel is mine. He opened his mouth to protest, but Sandrilene was walking from the room. "Daja, if you will," she said as she walked out. The dock-tough boy and feral girl followed her into the black. The dark-skinned girl dressed in sailor's clothes surveyed the room. Her eyes fell on his children and stayed there, but only for only a moment before Frantsen saw her shrug. She pulled a small stone from her pocket, threw it amongst them, and walked away.

Frantsen stared at it, still immobile.

This wasn't how it was supposed to –

The boom-stone exploded. Frantsen fer Toren, Duke of Emelan, knew no more.

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