That Which is Evil

Moira Brighton had spent the occasional lunch in the cafeteria with her mundane classmates. Despite being a mostly affluent crowd, their manners had often left much to be desired; it had seemed more a public middle school than a private pre-university when it came to certain students. Moira had attributed to these rude eaters a baked-in apology: they weren’t expected to act in a refined, ladylike or gentlemanly fashion when eating in public; those in the Order were.

That impression changed when Laksha tore a leg from the slow-roasted citrus chicken and shoved the entire limb in her mouth. Horrified and wide-eyed, Moira watched as the bone was torn from the mouth without a shred of skin, meat or tangerine-orange glaze remaining. Laksha chewed with her mouth closed (Lady be praised) but offered a mortifying moan of delight as she savored the sweet, tarty meat. Moira felt an urge to crawl under the table and forego the neat cuts of turkey and broccoli on her plate. Lord Brighton, who enjoyed a mid-day salad, kept his eyes on his greens.

The three had chosen the dining hall on the first floor for the mid-day meal they furnished for the visiting Warden; though neither was too hungry, politeness demanded they eat with her. The generous spread would be wasted on a humble eater; the Spear Warden was anything but. Both Brightons changed into more appropriate evening wear, expecting Laksha would have something similar to change into; if she did, she didn’t bother to don it and sat at the table of finery and feast still wearing her bronze and leather armor.

A guttural swallow later, Laksha sighed, “Not the American dining I had in mind, but this is quite good!”

“Are you certain you even tasted it?” Moira muttered, earning a giggle from her better.

Laksha offered Moira a half-lidded glance and bounced her eyebrows suggestively. “I could give you a taste if you doubt it-”

“My Warden,” Lord Brighton harshly interrupted. Both turned, neither amused. He cleared his throat before stating in a more hushed voice, “Warden Singh. You are of course welcome in my home and to all the Order can do for your business here.”

She nodded half heartedly as she reached her arm—reached with both arms, Lady help us all!—over the chicken to grab the matched set of mashed potatoes bowl and gravy boat.

“But as the Lord of this family and master of his abode, I would only ask: why have you blessed us with your presence?”

“I have to repeat myself, then?”

“To travel across half the globe to meet my daughter, Warden though she is, seems...”

“Irresponsible?” Laksha offered without sarcasm.

Lord Brighton cleared his throat. “‘Curious’ would be the term I would choose. The whole of the East is yours to watch over, after all.”

“The East?” Laksha bitterly repeated as she drowned the innocent pile of mashed taters on her plate.

“Simply spoken from our perspective; I meant no offense.”

Moira was torn between her father’s unprecedented humility to her right and the aggravated dining crimes to her left. The result was silent disbelief.

“Aye, it’s not very precise though, is it? The whole of China, Japan, and India... it’s a bit much for one girl to take, you know? Even with a whole third of the Order behind her.”

Lord Brighton contemplated his words carefully before daring to speak. Such politics were more a matter of families than corporation; the aristocracy still commanded the Order, and India only had her Warden by virtue of an English family accustomed to careful, selective breeding with other noble houses. Lord Brighton eyed Laksha’s brown skin. Though I suppose this generation marks quite the changing of our times, there...

Laksha stood up now, letting the chair groan as it slid across the wood flooring while she reached across the table... and grabbed a bottle of wine put there solely for vanity.

Lord Brighton’s mustache nearly curled. 1982 Chateau Lafite-Rothschild. Only a few hundred are said to still exist. Received as a gift from High Confessor Roberts for my exemplary work upon arriving in America. I was looking forward to saving it for Moira's graduation. Why did they have to bring out that one...? But Lord Brighton's lips did not move, and his eyes struggled to not keep glancing as the bottle was sloppily handled by the youth.

Finding no reason to slow her words, the Spear Warden continued, “Of course, with our eldest sister guarding everything from Greenland to Russia to Libya, I can hardly wine." Lord Brighton's left eye twitched once. "But the Americas! We must be right fortunate, wasting resources here as we do.”

Moira looked slowly to her guest with wide, disbelieving eyes. Lord Brighton’s expression darkened, but he spoke in a trained, even voice, "At least 500 confirmed deaths a year from unregistered mage activity, and an estimated 500 more vanished by what is believed to be the same. Our presence reduced those numbers to just a hundred in three years and down to mere dozens today. We’ve stopped dozens of dangerous organizations and hundreds of individual rogue mages. I petition the wisdom of the Wardens to understand: how is this a waste?”

Moira offered no such wisdom.

Laksha wore a mischievous grin as she sat the bottle next to her plate, shoving aside the water goblet whose place it took. “Ah, right, all those nasties... almost all at once too, wasn’t it? But now America has real nasty problems... Outsider-worshipping mages, real evil bastards who want victims and the like. Why,” Laksha almost sang as she folded her arms over her head, “you’d almost think there was something here before... maybe a few somethings, right? All policing this place proper and keeping it all spiffy for their less evil purposes... oh it meant a few casualties, sure. Some just can't help themselves as easily as we do.”

Moira raised an eyebrow and tossed her father a glance... and nearly did a double-take at how his expression had grown grim. "Policing? There were deaths!"

"Some of them being the nastier mages, their corruptions and slaves and such... and America is hardly a stranger to murders, love, nevermind the South American countries with all the permanent illusion barriers they're suffering." Laksha reached down to rub the cork of the aged bottle, her palm hovering above it. She eyed a vase of white roses at the table. “But my point is that such was the way of the Americas, yeah? At least I was taught as much before the Brightons went and increased our presence ten times over. Now the books sing your praises, forcing those evil rogue mages underground... you know, the bad guys, like the Guardians Manifest who refused the Order's contracts and tried to fight for an independent Abyssal America. They had hit squads of mages that rooted out the real nasty- ah, but dead, one and all, now."

Moira shook her head, confused. "Who?"

"A very large and well-organized crime syndicate that specialized in theft and spatial magic," Lord Brighton explained. "Extremely dangerous, violent, and notorious for their past discretions with so-called 'mana factories.' Hardly the guardians you purport them to be-"

Laksha continued, "Oh, and the local little university for mages, Firesmith Academy was it? Gone now, of course... well, hiding, most probably. You never did manage to snuff them out, but ooooh, the real baddies, those academics!"

"Pyromancers." The room fell silent. The fate of Moira's mother was well-known. Lord Brighton explained his position no further, but Laksha offered no challenge. "You would let rogue mages roam free." It was not a question from Lord Brighton.

"I would let the foxes help me hunt the rabbits, instead of trying to kill them all on my own." Laksha let her hand grope down the length of the bottle she held hostage. Another twitch. "Pests though foxes be, they'll make the real job much easier, keeping everything nice and... bottled up." Laksha's hands gripped the bottle firmly... audibly so. Moira was silent as she weighed Laksha's words. "A Warden's meant to kill those evil ones, not just ones who do things we don't like. But no, a Brighton is not one to let the grass grow under his feet! You knew the law and played the merciless sheriff quite nicely, keeping a stiff upper-lip and rounding up everyone with the spark. If you found them, contract. If they refused, surveillance. If they so much as cut cheese in a manner not to your liking, sword! You took that precious, dangerous little bottle of America and-” It flashed from her holster too fast to follow. Moira was never in its arc, but it had cut a wide half circle over the table. It had seemed to move without the Spear Warden's hand; nonetheless, the mythic spear had grown, cut, and shrunk in a single, nearly invisible moment. "... cut it's fucking head off."

The roses near the center of the table fell, their severed heads plopping into bowls of soups and sides. Without ceremony, Laksha lifted the top fourth of the wine bottle away, showing how cleanly it had been cut for her hosts. Trembling at the bottle’s new lip, kept inside the bottle solely by surface tension, was the red wine.

A single dribble came down the length of the bottle to bleed over the dignified name on its fading label. But Lord Brighton was no longer concerned with his wine. Laksha continued, “So now you get to be here for good, stomping on all sorts of rabbits... probably forever while the rest of us get spread thin. Cheers, Governor." The Brightons stared, tight-lipped, as Laksha tipped forward, sipped the wine clear from its top and, with audible, determined gulps, drank... and drank.... and drank until the bottle's ass was tipped to the ceiling.

Moira took her senior's words in contemplative silence...

A young-faced Knight suddenly scurried in with a furrow in her brow and, after bending to whisper by Lord Brighton's ear, scurried out. "At this hour? Strange... M- Warden Brighton," he stated in a hushed tone, "it would appear that a representative from the Gorbachevs is coming here for an emergency meeting."

Moira's face fell. Tricia. I guess I'm kind of surprised she didn't try to contact me sooner...

"Then I will go and meet her," Moira said as she rose.

"Him," Lord Brighton corrected.

Moira gave her father a curious glance. Him?

Laksha looked over her Brightons with a curious intensity... and quietly burped.

The McMansions rolled by, one after the other, but Brent Gorbachev, or Brent Jule as his documents always read, could tell which one belonged to the Order before the automated car ever pulled up. A well-timed hologram appeared before him, confirming that the Opekuny had announced his coming.

Brent fixed his sleeves as he reclined in the seating of Tricia Gorbachev's assigned vehicle. With the Gorbachev network behind him, finding Tricia's abandoned car was easy: it was laced with far too much of their tech to hide from their sweeps, after all. What bothered Brent, who liked to call himself a hunter, was its location. A parking lot behind some motels? He had checked the motels, and then the entire block, with an exhaustive scan of the only basic scrying spells he possessed; he could find no trace of her. Without calling in another Gorbachev, one with the Eye of History, perhaps, he had no means of knowing where or why she had vanished. And I'm not about to share my catch... not when they'd just kill her. The car had barely helped him either: it ceased its recording once turned off, and its video logs only showed her and the coterie of monsters that she had acquired. They were clearly gawking at one of the buildings by the parking lot, but I searched both of them and... nothing! They must’ve moved on... maybe they're even going to attack soon. Brent licked his lips at the prospect. "Oh, you poor, stupid little girl... kept around for your genius but tossed out the moment you got too hysterical. Hah! Women, right?" The hologram of Jacob that drove the car said nothing. "But don't worry… I know what that’s like. That’s why I’ll take care of you… Hell, I'm sure your boyfriend will do just fine without you… Isn't that right, pops?" The hologram of Jacob remained stoic as ever.

The massive stone mansion--nearly a castle, really--was as Brent had predicted: the guards outside, likely Order Knights in disguise, nodded the car in as the wrought iron gates swung away. The massive hedges, the perfectly cut grass, the idyllic homestead: it all reeked of Order money and power. Brent was expected; indeed, he'd never dare approach any place that could have some psychotic Warden without properly identifying himself first. Brent was a mage, after all, albeit one of barely any talent; one didn't need to learn much when they were given thirteen Eyes. All cursed... but that's fine. The Opekuny needs their black hound to do their dirty work... The car rolled to a stop before the stone steps. ... and where could it get dirtier than here? "Keep the car running. Obedience lock: Gorbachev only. External surveillance mode." Brent couldn't risk Tricia reclaiming control over his ride, after all; with all of her authorities taken away, she was no longer even registered as a Gorbachev, meaning the car would just report her presence when she arrived and nothing more. The hologram nodded, and Brent let himself out of the car before the butler had a chance to try.

"Welcome to the Brighton Est-"

"I'm expected," Brent interrupted the middle-aged servant as he drew a new cigarette.

"Of course, sir. May I please announce you-"

An engorged, solid red eye with an iris like a raised dais of obsidian suddenly swelled and opened on the newcomer's forehead. A black flame flashed briefly at the tip of his cigarette, and an odor like rotting roadkill slapped the butler. "I think we both know who I am. We don't have time to waste: get your Lord for me so I can save him some trouble."

Terrified and disgusted in equal measure, the butler quickly marched back into the house. Indeed, all the staff had been alerted as to the expected company. The Knights wrinkled their noses at the greasy looking mage but obeyed their orders and allowed his entry. The monstrous hall of the Brighton mansion seemed to stretch in every direction by six hallways, each lined with treasures or artifacts or art. Brent offered an impressed whistle... and stopped his gawking only when he saw the sharply-dressed, redheaded man who could be no other. Welp... time to play the groveling fucking peasant. "Lord Brighton! It is an honor," Brent offered as the man came down the steps. Brent bowed deeply, so much so that he rose his head to a new addition at the top of the staircase: a finely-dressed redhead, a beautiful, shapely beast with birthing hips and all the disgust on her face that got Brent off. Holy shit, this hot little number can not be the Warden! But Brent knew that her red hair, and golden shield badge, marked her as such.

Moira looked back down to the visitor... and recoiled as the Lady screamed her disgust. Evil. It was not a command; the Lady's presence was never a command for Moira. But the Lady had seldom been more right: this creature was vile. John was exonerated a hundred times in the Lady's silence next to this thing that had slopped into her home; Moira's skin began to crawl as he eyed her body in a manner so egregious as to be noted from her place by the top of the staircase. He's... a Gorbachev? There was no blessing of Gaia to be seen in this monster; but Lord Brighton approached it without hesitation. "Father-!"

Lord Brighton paused... but did not look back. "Good evening, Mr. Gorbachev. 'Gaia watches over you.'"

"'The Lady protects all that Gaia watches.'" The day's code had been verified; this was truly the Gorbachevs’ man.

Moira gripped the railing of the staircase. This isn't right, but... but he has the backing of the Gorbachevs. No, he is a Gorbachev, however... vile he may be. We have agreements in place. Unless he shows hostility first, we are bound to accept him peacefully. Moira continued to grimace as the men exchanged words. She could barely focus on their conversation: the Lady was all but howling in her ears, not by Her own voice but by the violent and **** urge to annihilate the monster in her presence. More than the undead, more than the succubus John harbored, more than most of the vile things she had fought… her tolerance of this man came from nothing except obligation. But this... this is...

"... an attack on our Estate? This cannot be her goal."

"I only know that she has been advised away from our goals and virtues. She has abandoned Gaia, misled by beasts that serve an Order contract mage named John Newman, and-" Brent's words cut off as he saw something uncharacteristically... vicious flash across the older man's eyes. "... that is, the logs suggested he was the one controlling them-”

“I know that name well, Mr. Gorbachev. He is a Warlock and a rogue mage who attempted to kill me and the Warden. He is in our custody.”

Brent gave his best effort to seem enamored. “Then their conspiracy is half-defeated. Certainly, the Opekuny has already expelled her and ordered that I take her into custody… which is why I'm here."

Lord Brighton weighed the man's report. "Then we will stop them... and in exchange for your help, we will not lay jurisdiction upon her. I trust that hers will not be a short sentence?"

Brent thought to his private dungeon, the poor souls it had hosted before he broke them… and smiled too honestly. “No, my Lord… she will remain in custody for a very, very long time.”

Moira continued to stand at the stairs, paralyzed between duty and politics.

Laksha Singh, Warden of the Spear, patted her bare belly as she approached the front of the house and the source of some commotion. Her swarthy cheeks had become a bit flushed as she enjoyed the warmth of good wine, and she whispered conspiratorially at Moira's back as it came into view. "Psst, Moira!" The Shield Warden did not respond... and Laksha sensed it all at once: Moira’s hesitation and restrained anger that revealed itself in her clenched fists… and the thing that had entered the home. Laksha knew it had to be the Gorbachev they had just discussed. She cleared the corner wall that blocked her view of the foray below… and saw the thing that had perplexed her fellow Warden. Laksha was far less perplexed. Moira suddenly realized her duty-sister’s presence...

... as the latter took to the air, her javelin in her arms. Its head transformed into a barbed and twisted mesh, an asterisk of four tridents, and her muscles rippled with such strength as to transform the laughing, taunting guest into a weapon.

Brent looked up only in time to see the attack coming. Reflexively, he opened three Eyes of Rotfire, six Eyes of Hate, and his ultimate weapon: the Eye of Deathly Sleep. It happened too fast for any witness to react. William, Moira, and the six Knights in the hall were all struck with a disgusted horror as the Spear Warden exploded in a mixture of silver and black flames.

The hall filled with the stench of rotting carcasses, ozone, and Warden blood. The **** of the blast dismantled the foray, knocking every vase, painting, and tapestry to the ground. Moira's dress nearly ripped as her shield came to her arm to help her resist the blast. Lord Brighton was nearly **** to bow from the explosion occurring just over his head. Half-melted, half-eaten plates of bronze were all that were left to be spewed from the horrific annihilation that had occurred in none other than the Order's own hall.

Brent scowled at whatever that was that had just attempted to sneak an attack on him, not even cognizant of the gravity of what he had done.

The flames parted, and his scowl was answered with a red-lined, insane, and toothy grin.

Laksha's naked, blood-soaked body shot downward and ran the twelve barbed blades of her spear through Brent's stomach, tearing his intestines into ribbons as they exploded from his lower back. Her spear continued through his form as if it were water, shooting into the ground and carrying him as it carved his organs into the ruined wood flooring. Blood burst from his nose and mouth as he panicked, cried, and shrieked in a high-pitched, mortal squeal. His Eyes snapped shut as he lost all sensibility and control, soiling himself in **** agony as he flailed uselessly.

The trident tapped the far stone wall as it came to a stop. Laksha’s arms flexed, and the spear exploded from the ground to rest its sharp, cruel talons back inside the quivering near-corpse. Each barb was now caked in shredded organs and wooden shrapnel, and each barb deposited the same back into the wailing fiend... and with another visible inflation of her corded muscles, the Spear Warden twisted her arms to spin the blade as she jerked it up, stabbing wood and metal into his stomach and then through his stomach, further ventilating the twitching body of Brent Gorbachev as she continued to blend his internals with one, sharp twist after another, until she reached his lungs and heart. Brent's incoherent screams for mercy filled every hall of the Brighton Estate until they became choked and then became the puking of a single spat of blood... and then silence.

Gallons of blood and blended viscera spread from the horrifying site of the Gorbachev's ****. It pooled in the carvings the spear made in the wood, reached the front door and the two nearest halls, and began to stain a tapestry celebrating peace in England. Laksha withdrew her spear from her enemy. The open wounds on her skin, where they were not charred by unholy fire, began to fester rapidly from the rotfire. If this bothered her, her stoic, cold expression did not reveal it. "The Lady bathes clean the wretched, wipes away all that is wrong, and releases back into good her loyal servant."

Moira watched as Laksha's wounds no longer turned green or black from the bewitching fire... though wounds still remained. Moira watched because she could do nothing else. The truth terrified her into stillness: Laksha had done… everything--perhaps more, perhaps less--that Moira had wanted to do to that man. What is this…? Why do I feel so... Cheated. That monster should have been hers to slay. It was irrational, insane… bloodthirsty in a manner that Moira never before contemplated. Was she a monster? Was Laksha?

The blood-soaked champion finally turned from the mutilated remains of the Gorbachevs’ messenger. Her spear transformed its head into a simple, single blade, letting the wood and viscera trapped in its previous form fall to the ground with a wet noise. She looked back up at Moira... and grinned widely, her teeth the only part of her that wasn't red or burned. "We're Wardens, Moira!”

Moira’s eyes grew wide-

“What do we protect? That which is good! What do we kill?"

Lord Brighton looked to his daughter, clearly perturbed… but somehow knowing.

Moira snapped out of her horrified daze... and the Lady's truth filled her. Of course... I was so worried about politics and treaties that I... I almost ignored...

"What do we kill?!" Laksha demanded angrily through her grin.

Moira's lungs filled with the truth... and answered: