Seeds of Discontent

by spikeskat

The sound of pounding footsteps echoing in the hallowed halls of the Watcher’s Council drew frowns from several of the older, more seasoned brethren talking quietly in small groups as they made their way to their various destinations. The noise grew steadily louder causing one such group near the end of the hall to stop… and wait.  

One did not run within the Council Headquarters – it just wasn’t done. No matter the urgency.  

The owner of the loud, galloping gait rounded the corner and nearly collided with one of the men of the group who’d had the misfortune of being in his path. Thankfully, another of his cronies was able to catch him before he disgraced himself and fell to the ground in a heap.  

Nathan didn’t stop to offer his apologies. What he carried in his knapsack was too important. For the Council, more specifically Travers… and for him. With the information he possessed, a promotion was definitely in order. He just prayed Travers would acknowledge his contribution and give him his due. 

Though, he didn’t see why not.  

Revealing that the Order of Taraka was no more was worth a pat on the back. But, that was nothing compared to the other thing he’d managed to unearth. Heck, if Travers played his cards right and listened to what he had to say, the man would no longer need the slayers. There’d be no more dealing with pubescent young misses that balked at doing their duty. Though with Miss Summers now among the dearly departed and another, more malleable potential taking her place – something he’d found out very recently – they hopefully wouldn’t have that problem any longer.  

Yes, there was the Cruciamentum, a crude rite that enabled the Council to strip the slayer of her strength and be pitted against a creature of the night, who in most cases would likely send her to her untimely end. But what had once been a time-honored tradition dating back centuries was starting to lose favor among the younger generation – it was only a matter of time before the practice was done away with altogether. 

Then how would the Council deal with its less dedicated slayers? 

Nathan flew up the steps two and three at a time, his leather-soled shoes ringing out on the hardwood floor. At the end of the hall was Travers’ office. It took up an entire wing, and truthfully, the man deserved it – he’d taken over from the previous Head Councilman and single-handedly turned the place around, making the Council run more efficiently. 

And if Travers acted like somewhat of a god as his due, well, he wasn’t going to raise an eyebrow. In fact, he was going to try his hardest to become his right hand man. Which was why he’d come himself from Tel Aviv, rather than send the journal by courier. 

“Mr. Jones!” Eunice, Mr. Travers’ secretary, cried as he raced up to the woman’s desk. “What—?” 

“Is he in?” he demanded, cutting the woman off. When she did nothing more than stutter and stammer, he asked her again. “Is he in?” 

“Yes… but—” 

“No buts. Trust me, Eunice. Get Travers on the intercom and tell him I’ve come straight from Tel Aviv with a matter of grave urgency. He’ll make time to see me.” 

The elder woman seemed doubtful but did like he asked. She pushed a button on her phone and waited for Mr. Travers to respond. 

“Mr. Travers? I have Mr. Jones here. I know your day is rather full, but he says it’s a matter of some urgency.”

“Mr. Jones? Isn’t he supposed to be in Israel?” 

“Yes, sir. He’s just returned.” 

“Very well. Send him in.” 

“You may go in, Mr. Jones,” Eunice told him, gesturing to the set of closed double doors behind her. 

“Nathan! You look a mess,” Travers greeted, taking in Nathan’s unkempt appearance. 

“Yes. I’m sorry, Mr. Travers,” he apologized, running a hand through his hair. He didn’t bother with straightening his clothes, knowing his headlong run up several flights of stairs had probably dislodged his shirt from inside his waistband. “I felt the information I had to impart was too important to waste time going home first to make myself more presentable.” 

“Information?” the Head Councilman inquired. “Eunice said it was a matter of some importance?” 

“The Order of Taraka has been destroyed,” Nathan told him, taking a seat in one of the Queen Anne chairs the other indicated. He pulled the knapsack from around his neck and placed it on his lap. 

“Who told you this?” 

“Nobody. I saw it for myself. But, that’s not why I’m here.” His hand delved into his pack and pulled out a worn leather journal. “I know you were less than pleased with the former slayer’s performance and her ambivalence about her duty.” 

Travers huffed but remained quiet. 

“What if I said you could get a whole army of ‘slayers’? Trained assassins that would do your bidding without question.” 

“Go on…” 

“It’s all there, in that diary,” Nathan told him, rising from his seat to place the book in front of him.  

Travers placed a hand on top of the journal and looked at the watcher. 

“If what you say is true…” 

“‘Personal Assistant to the Head of the Watcher’s Council’ has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?” Nathan was nothing if not shrewd. “I’ll leave you to read through the journal. I’m going to go home and take a shower, get a few hours sleep. Let me know what you decide.” 

“Nathan?” Travers called out when he was at the door. “Have you shown this book to anyone else? Acquisitions, perhaps?” 

“Now, why would I do that? I’m not stupid. I know who holds the real power here. Beside, you’ll need me to help find them… or, did I not tell you that part?” 

“No, I’m afraid you may have skipped over that bit of information.” 

“I know where they live. And I know how to make them fall into line like good little soldiers. That’s not in the diary… only what they’re capable of is.” 

“Very well. I’ll see you in the morning. If the diary proves… interesting, we’ll discuss your new job title.” 

“Oh, I’ve no doubt of that, Mr. Travers. Good day.” 

Travers’ eyes narrowed at the closed door, not appreciative of the borderline insubordination of the young watcher. Though, in truth, he couldn’t fault the man. Positions were afforded to those that brought something to the table, and if Nathan could deliver a whole army of slayers, loyal only to him… well, it would be worth the position he’d have to create for the man. 

He punched the intercom button on his phone. 

“Eunice, cancel my meetings for the day and reschedule everything for two days hence. I’m not to be disturbed.” 

“Yes, Mr. Travers.” 

He rung off, and smiling somewhat sinisterly, opened the book and settled back in his chair to read. 

~*~*~*~*~ 

November 12, 1899 – Forgive me if my words appear blurry. I have been told by the elderly lady looking after me – another demon, thankfully – that I have been in and out of consciousness for the last week. Fever, she told me. And, apparently, I talk in my sleep, which is why she suggested a diary to help rid myself of some of the painful images locked inside my head. She did not bother to recommend that I talk to someone, not even to her. Us demons are not ones to share our pain – even demons like me. Well, I used to be that way.

So, here I am, putting quill to paper, explaining how I came to be in the care of another demon. And I would say to exorcise a few demons, but that will never be the case. 

See, it all started with a plan I had. A plan for me, and others like me, to finally be free. But, I was worried at first that it would not work. It was not like others had not tried to escape in the last four hundred years. The Q’lathnyack are not cowards. But the head of the Order of Taraka seemed to have a sixth sense about these things. It was why I told no one of my plan, not even my wife. If I succeeded, she would likely think me dead. In fact, she had to believe I was dead.

I pray she does not grieve overmuch. 

I had to do it though. If I was going to find the means for all of us to be free, I needed to be out from under the watchful eye of Sylam, and his right arm, Desdem – two of the most fierce, evil demons to ever inhabit the planet.

My plan was simple enough, though it was fraught with risk. It was not often that one of the Order’s assassins botched a job. I could probably count on one hand the number of times it occurred. Sylam only recruited the best, usually after a particularly trying initiation ritual. Then once welcomed into the ranks, and depending on whether you were human or demon, several months to several years were spent honing your skills to make you the best assassin you could be. Bring out all your natural talents, if you will. 

I had to plan my deception to coincide with a contracted hit that had some chance at failing, then see to it that it did fail. 

Twenty years it took me. Twenty long years of biding my time, being the perfect assassin for the Order. But I could not have them guessing that I loathed what they had made me become, now could I? 

In actuality, twenty years was but a blink of the eye for my species. The Q’lathnyack are very long-lived. At five hundred and six years of age, I’m still considered a child. Still, it mattered not. Even a year was too long being enslaved and forced to commit such atrocities.

I took great pleasure in killing the other three spies assigned to watch over me that day. They were human, and the sound of the bones in their throat crushing beneath my grip was music to my demon ears. I did not even mind running full-tilt onto the lance, skewering my stomach clear through as I tried to fake my own death. The pain had been intense, but I ignored it as I lay there, knowing that another of the Order’s assassins would be by to confirm the hit, or the failure. 

I had done my research beforehand and knew that the Senator’s bodyguards would not come back to make sure I was dead. Their first thought had been to run. No, it was the assassin that worried me. I will not go into details about how nervous I was, laying there completely exposed, trying to keep my body’s natural defense mechanism from activating. 

Blending into the background is all well and good. Our species are like chameleons in that regard. But if I had done it, the assassin would have known I was not dead. When Q’lathnyack die, we do not have the capability to disappear any longer. So the Order’s scout needed to see me, lance and all, lying on the ground dead with an apparent mortal wound. 

I am assuming it worked, because here I am. Safe. Free. 

I am tired, however. Probably from the loss of blood and the resulting fever. I will attempt to write more tomorrow. 

November 15, 1899 – After being captured by the Order and forced into serving them, I came to hate what I could do. The other day, I was never more grateful for the fact that I could disappear at will, thanks to my ability to blend in with my surroundings.  

Somehow, someone in the small village where the woman lived got wind that she had been taking care of someone. Apparently the extra food supplies she had purchased had sparked curiosity among some of the more nosy people that lived there, who in turn struck up a conversation with someone else, not realizing that the Order had spies everywhere.  

I made it out just in time, clinging to the back wall and forced to listen to one of Sylam’s faithful interrogate and later kill my benefactor. 

It is just one more thing that he will have to answer for. 

And I swear, he will. 

December 10, 1899 – I killed my first assassin today. I figured that while I was researching how to defeat the Order once and for all, I may as well take out a few pawns along the way.

Black knight to king’s four – and another one falls… 

True, I doubt it will do much good. Sylam very nearly has a waiting list of human and demon alike just biding their time for the chance to become a member of the elite Order of Taraka. Still, if nothing else, killing them off one by one keeps my skills sharp. And helps ease my conscience somewhat. 

I have taken a lot of lives in the four hundred years since being enslaved. I have much to atone for. Strange attitude for a demon, but that is how my people are. We are a peaceful species, and we will be once again. 

October 24, 1900 – I know it has been a while since I have written in this journal. Truthfully, I am not sure why I even bother. It is not like anyone will ever read the words I have written, or even care about the trials and tribulations of some random demon.  

Maybe it is because of the old woman. The one that rescued me. She had nothing to gain by taking me in, and everything to lose. It was her sage advice that helped ease my nightmares, and having my promises, nay, my vows written down helps keep me focused on my task. And when all seems hopeless, and my frustration grows at not finding a means to ending Sylam’s reign, I open this journal and reread each passage – though few there are. 

I will find a way to defeat the Order. 

I must. 

January 8, 1901 – Today is my wife’s, Nichitnia’s, birthday. She is four hundred and ninety-one years old. Or at least I hope she is. I do not know if she is still alive. I dare not try to find out, though I have come across many of my own kind in my travels over the years. I cannot risk making contact and having it get back to the Order. 

For her birthday I killed five more assassins. My total is now forty. Not much in the grand scheme of things, but it gives me a bit of pleasure to do it. Plus, I am sure it drives Sylam crazy, wondering who it is that keeps killing off his elite group of killers.  

I can thank him for one thing, however – he taught me well. I take great delight in getting as close as I possibly can to my target. In some instances, I am literally right beneath their noses when I strike. And they never know what hits them. 

February 24, 1901 – I have been moving around a lot lately. I think Sylam might suspect my being alive. Nothing concrete, but I have this feeling lately that I am being watched. It is why I have backed off in my quest to find out about how to destroy the Order. At least for the time being. I have decided to let the trail go cold, then I will start up again. I cannot risk discovery now. I am my people’s only means of escape. Their only hope of being free. 

February 25, 1901 – I am glad I followed my instincts. I found out quite accidentally that the hotel I had been staying at the night before was burned to the ground. The newspapers were calling it an accident, but I can read through the lines.

I was getting close. My questions were starting to draw notice.

I wonder if Sylam is getting scared. 

I can only hope. 

September 24, 1901 – I killed another one today. I am up to sixty-one now. I have refrained from describing each assassin I take out. I have used this diary more to emphasize the more noteworthy events of my life since escaping, rather than itemizing every kill I have managed to accomplish. So I must make mention of this one. 

It appears that Sylam found out that one of his assassins was actually an undercover agent working for the Watcher’s Council. A spy, from what I was able to gather in the brief exchange I managed to overhear.   

Brave little fellow. Too bad he did not realize that Sylam does not like being made to look the fool. He sent Desdem after the traitor. I hope whatever information the man managed to pilfer from the temple was worth it; his death will not come quickly or without a great deal of pain. He will be made an example of. Cannot do to have others thinking they can weasel their way inside Sylam’s inner sanctum and extract its secrets. 

I almost pity the watcher. Well, I would if my emotions had not been sucked out of me year after year as I was made to commit unspeakable acts against others. Would you have any shred of humanity, of decency, left if the last three hundred years of your life were spent killing?  

I think not. 

Anyway, back to why this kill was special. See, Desdem, the Order’s second in command, brought a lackey with him. Someone to do all the grunt work for him. Leaving him to have all the fun – or at least to Desdem it is fun.  

It turns out that the watcher managed to steal a book. I would not have even paid much attention to it were it not for the way the assassin was guarding it so zealously, even in death. Almost like the leather-bound tome held the keys to the pearly gates of heaven.  

I knew I could not take it with me. If whatever had been contained within was that important, Sylam would not rest until it was back in his possession. So, while Desdem was busy torturing the watcher, I settled back against the wall there in the darkened alley and read. 

Did I mention that our people are gifted with an eye and ear for languages? It comes from being so long-lived. Languages that had become extinct as entire civilization aged and eventually died out are still spoken among our kind. 

The book I held was from such a civilization. It easily predated the birth of Christ. 

But then, so did Sylam, so it surprised me not one whit that the means to his destruction would be buried in a language long since forgotten. 

Reading the text, I could feel a chill run down my spine. I knew I was looking at the means to freeing my people. I committed to memory the specific codex that would bring about the destruction of Sylam then returned the book to where I had stolen it from beneath the dead assassin.  

I am writing this on the train as I leave London behind. I did not want to stick around and chance being caught by Desdem. I think I am going to disappear for a while, maybe travel abroad. Try and put as much space between me and the Order as possible. 

But I am not giving up. No, even as I write this, my mind is replaying the codex in my head.  

I must admit I am bubbling with excitement. This is the first real step I have made in the pursuit of my goal. Now that I know it can be accomplished, I feel like new energy is being pumped into my being – much like humans experience a rush of adrenaline. 

Now I need to concentrate my efforts on finding a warrior who is willing to risk it all.

This is my vow. 

I will find this person, whether it be human or demon, and I will do everything in my power to help them achieve their goal. 

Failure is not an option. 

I will succeed. 

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