bookpub Chapter 1: The Tragic Death of Michael Baumgart
Chapter 1: The Tragic Death of Michael Baumgart
Chapter 1: The Tragic Death of Michael Baumgart
Stellar shines through winters cloak, but embered night belongs to Smoke.
Sibyl knows where secrets stray, save those held by Sobriquet.
Sustain will stand, enduring ever, none else holds when cut by Sever.
Stanzas words engrave their mark, and every heart belongs to Spark.
Eight there are, from Eight began, Eight above the souls of man.
- Ardan childrens rhyme.
Milord, weve received word - an engagement with the Safid will come within the hour.
Michael felt a jolt of adrenaline at his manservants words. He carefully set his book on a side table and rose from his seat to look at Ricard. The elderly servant hovered in the doorway, concern plain on his face - enough that Michael didnt have to ask the first question which had entered his mind.
Father knows already, he said, smiling at Ricards hesitant nod in response. Of course he does. When does he want to leave for the Institute?
He has already summoned the coachman, Ricard said, licking his lips. He asked-
Youre too good to me, Ricard, Michael said, giving him a thin smile before he turned towards his wardrobe. You know he doesnt ask. Come, help me pick a shirt - and these trousers, are they dark enough?
The old mans feet shuffled against the floorboards as he drew closer. The color will serve, milord, but the fabric - Im afraid theyll be troublesome to clean, he said quietly. If milord would prefer them, Im sure Helene can think of something.
Michael shook his head, kneeling to unlace his boots. Quick, sure motions, although his hands were only steadied by force of will. Nonsense, shell fret enough about the shirt, he said. Pick what you think best, its not as though Im going to a ball. Formal but not flamboyant - something that will pass without comment.
Ricard gave him a side look, then busied himself rifling through the neatly-draped clothing. That is ever the target, milord, he muttered. Though my aim seems poor at best. He paused, then withdrew a matching set of clothes, a dull coffee-brown pair of riding pants coupled with a stiff-collared shirt. I believe this should be appropriate.
Youre right, Ive always hated that shirt, Michael said, smiling as he stripped off his clothes. The mirror showed him fragments of an image, obscured by cloth - a lanky torso, pale skin that was nearly free of bruises for once - it really had been a while since the last major action against the Safid. He shook his head, grabbing the over-starched shirt from Ricards hands and slipping his arms into the sleeves. Perhaps Helene will be unable to save it?
The ghost of a smile flitted across Ricards lips. A tragedy, he murmured. Quickly, now, your father was most insistent that you be ready at once.
Yes, yes, Michael muttered, his fingers dancing over the buttons. What else did the message say?
Ricard paused, turning away from the wardrobe with a heavy coat draped over his arm. Nothing too detailed, he said. Only that it was no mere skirmish - well have Sever at the vanguard.
The button slipped from his fingers, and he turned to raise an eyebrow at Ricard. Which means the Safid will be trotting out Smoke, or maybe even Sustain - assuming they dont want to bury their men piecemeal. Michael sighed, returning his attention to the remaining few buttons. No wonder Father is in a hurry.Read latest chapters at novelhall.com Only
It isnt every day that the Eight risk themselves on the field, Ricard said, keeping his voice low. Should one fall-
The door to the room slammed open, revealing a tall, thin-framed man. Michael felt the chill sense of an unseen blade hovering somewhere near his throat as he turned to face the door. A dark, conservative suit hung loosely from a body forged of hard edges and angles, nowhere more so than in his glowering stare.
Father, he said respectfully, bowing his head. Another effort of will quieted the instincts that screamed against lowering his bare throat, but no edge bit into his skin as he straightened up once more. I was nearly ready.
His father made an unimpressed noise. You should listen to Ricard, he said. Should one fall, there will be a successor. I dare not hope that it would be you, but you will at least be in a position to make the attempt. Not nearly ready - ready. His eyes wandered almost lazily across the room, lingering on Michael. Two minutes, he said. Men would kill for this opportunity - will kill, within the hour. All you have to do is put a shirt on. Dont squander your fortune.
He left without waiting for a response, leaving Michael shivering as the pressure of his fathers soul seeped out of the room. It was always a cold, sharp thing, a sword soul, meant to cut, to rend - to Sever, although it had not been quite strong enough to earn him the eponymous title. He turned to look at Ricard, who had lost some of the color from his face.
Michael frowned. Ricard, he said, are you well? Youre not hurt, are you?
No, no, the older man muttered, stumbling free from his reverie to hold the jacket up for Michael. Its been ages since the last time, his focus has been much-improved these past years.
Dont I know it, Michael snorted. Come on, lets be quick. Two minutes, then well see if todays the day I merit a soul of my own.
The coach ride to the Institute passed slowly, terse silence punctuated by the occasional scowl and mutter as his father caught sight of something through the window that met with his disapproval - the long lines of dirty workmen and merchants jostling for space on the side of the road, the gaudy posters extolling the heroism of the troops on the front, the increasingly-frequent horseless carriages that rumbled by on the road.
Another lash, pulling his lips into a tight grimace. Souls varied, but those who awakened to Form and Order almost always received preternatural strength, toughness and endurance. A whip would barely tickle most of them, and it was said that Sustain was impervious to mundane injury.
He winced as the next blow traced over his spine. He could feel blood running down his back, and his breath whistled between gritted teeth as he sucked it back in. The pain was cutting into his focus, and his vision swam into dim monochrome for a few heartbeats. He shook his head, trying to clear his eyes.
Crack. He saw red droplets spatter in his peripheral vision. His back felt almost numb, enough that he looked up towards the amber-glass light on the far wall - but no, it was dim. In nine prior visits he had yet to see it light.
Crack. A muscle in his back spasmed, hurting almost as much as the strike itself. He twisted and writhed, sweat dripping into his eyes as he struggled not to make a sound. Focus, focus, the skin and muscles-
Crack. More red on the floor. It was the only color he could see, everything else was so pale. His vision began to fuzz at the edges once more-
The door slammed open before the next blow could fall, panicked shouting coming from outside. Michael straightened up in surprise, hissing at the pain the movement drew from his ravaged back.
Is this it? his father rumbled, low and dangerous. Is this what my money bought? Look at him, hes not afraid. Hes not desperate. Nobody would get a soul like that.
My Lord Baumgart, please, the attendant said, a hint of nervous energy cracking the dullness in his voice. Our methods are carefully refined over years of study. The best scientists in the world-
Another displeased rumble cut him off. Do you have a soul? his father asked. Well?
no, my lord, the attendant answered reluctantly. I do not.
Then dont presume to lecture me. There was a muffled noise of protest from the attendant, then Lord Baumgart continued speaking in a low, measured tone. Hes not afraid of you. He knows you wont hurt him too badly. A man cant get a soul if he knows the knives arent sharp.
Michael listened to his father speak and felt a cold lump of terror begin to form in his gut. Father, he croaked, his words coming out in a rasp. I think I almost had it this time. Please, let him keep working.
You werent even close, his father replied. Not if you're still clinging to illusions of control. The sound of stretching leather from behind him, of blood dripping to the concrete.
You know he wont hurt you, he said quietly. But I will. For your own good, boy. If youre not meant to earn a soul, then Ill at least give you the dignity of dying in the attempt.
Michaels nerves were singing with adrenaline now. He opened his mouth to speak, to say something that would stay his fathers hand - only to gasp in sudden agony as the whip thrashed across his back. It struck like lightning, hot and blinding. His mind went white. Breath hissed unevenly into his throat.
The overwhelming pressure of his fathers soul filled the room in the moment after the whip savaged him. It was enough to jolt Michael out of his shock for a bare instant, his base instincts telling him to run, to hide, to get away from this cold and lethal thing behind him - then the whip struck again, wreathed in the sword-souls lacerating embrace.
It wasnt even pain anymore. The whip was chipping away at a space that had been Michael. No longer. He was cracked, fractured, bleeding away into the void.
Somewhere in the midst of the pain and violation, the fear stopped. Fear was a base thing, after all. An animal thing. Michael stared at the end of his life and felt - what? Dread? Relief? It had all been for nothing, in the end. All of the suffering, the embarrassment, the inadequacy. They would wash the stain that was left down the drains in the floor, and that would be the end of Michael Baumgart.
It was - disappointing. There was none of the promised dignity in his death. It was only cold and impersonal, the fading of something that had never really mattered in the first place. He looked overlong at it and felt something vital slip away. Hope, perhaps, or whatever serves to kindle it.
The darkness deepened around him, but in the black he could see minute points of light - souls in all their luminous glory, streaming high overhead. Some tiny and faint, some shining like miniature stars. There were thousands, at least. Dead from the far-off battle, from the vagaries of life all across the world, briefly free before they recycled themselves into someone with just the right mix of suffering to whet their appetites.
As he watched, one split away from the river. It meandered down towards him, sinking through a vast ocean until its light shone close and near. Not the biggest soul, nor the brightest, but a soul it remained. Michael studied it, his sense of time slipping away as he watched it slowly turn and twist in currents only it could perceive. He got the impression of solidity, strength. Power, to match his potential. It beckoned, and he reached his hand out - then paused, and let it drop to his side.
This soul had belonged to someone, not long ago. There were far more people than souls in the world, so none remained unpaired for long. Indeed, this one was already straining on some invisible tether as if longing to bound away into the dark. If Michael took it he might escape this dark void for a time, to carry the soul out into the world. Back to his home, his father - his murderer, for the moment.
But just like its former bearer, he would return here. By his fathers hand again or after a long life, it made little difference. Would the time he gained - would any amount of time change the crushing sense of insignificance he felt, staring down his final minutes? Was there anything he could achieve that would not turn to ashes when he once more faced this final dark?
And for what? His own father had killed him. He was surprised at how much that fact stung, even facing oblivion. Could he go crawling back to that man, to beg for his approval after seeing how little it meant? He had looked too far, and seen a truth that he could not disregard - that life was an empty promise. It was suffering, bookended by oblivion that rendered even that pointless.
No. If he had to exercise control for once in his life, if there was any dignity left for him, he would face oblivion head-on rather than taking this middling soul from the river and playing the fugitive until death found him once more. The choice itself was dignity - and he would make it. Michael let himself relax, spreading his arms wide and looking up at the river of souls overhead.
Just let me go, he whispered, unless youve got something better.
The river froze. The lights twinkled in place overhead. There was an ineffable sense of interest, of focus, of amusement that rippled through him. The soul that had wandered down to tempt him faded, as did those in the river above. Darkness, pure and absolute, wrapped around him like a cloak.
And then there was a light.
Pain returned, bright and hot. He was hanging from the manacles in a pool of his own blood and vomit. Men were yelling, somewhere in the distance. He couldnt understand them.
The light remained - bright under amber glass, shining cheerily across the room. Brighter it shone, brighter still - and then the bulb popped with a small wisp of smoke.
As his vision faded, Michael could swear he heard someone laughing.