Chapter 1: Death Merchant

Darton sat on a crate, a cigar smoldering between his fingers. Arybian, strange place, terrible food. Made good smokes though, nice and smooth, almost creamy. Too bad it was so damned expensive to ship to the islands. He stuck the cigar back between his teeth and reached into his pocket and pulled out a small leather bound notebook and pen.

He liked to attribute his success on writing everything down. Didn’t forget anything that way. He flipped to an free page and wrote “Obtain cargo ship. Islander/Vallak crew.” He closed it and slid it back in his pocket before deeply inhaling the smoke. Airships were all well and good, but his crews hated flying over water. They got angry about flying over lakes in the wastes, he didn’t even want to try and get them to cross the ocean. And the sheer amount of cargo he could transport in an actual ship. He grinned. He would have to ask his accountant to run the numbers. He pulled the book out and added a note to do just that.

Malik Langstrom, Darton’s second in command came around the corner with a clipboard. “Why do you have to smoke down here? You’re sitting on a crate of heavy flares for god’s sake.” He snapped.

Darton grinned, his trio of steel teeth glinting in the dim light of the warehouse basement. “I doubt a little bit of hot ash will penetrate these heavy crates, even if they are wooden. And if I smoke in my office Vislow thinks he can get away with those cheap Rojyan cigarettes. And then the whole place smells terrible for a week.”

“Fine. Now, I wanted to talk to you about the Preskov account.” Malik said, tapping his clipboard.

“The Rojyan loyalist general? What does he want this time?” Darton asked.

“Reduced prices. Spouted off about it being our duty to help protect the workers in his nation or some shit.”

“Really? Interesting. I mean, we can go lower, if he starts buying in larger bulk quantities, and provides his own transport.” Darton said, examining his cigar.

“I told him that and he got irritated.” Malik continued.

“You mean he is here? Now?” Darton demanded.

“Yes. You’re due to speak with him in an hour.”

“Why is he here so early?”

“To try and intimidate us with his rather large number of armed guards I should think.” Malik said.

“Interesting. Well, in the case, I will meet him in an hour and a half, and get the men ready. Full scout vanguard, I don’t care if you have to open some cases. I want to make a statement.” Darton said, a wolf like sneer spreading across his face.

“I’ll also make sure we have enough mops ready.” Malik sighed.

“That’s why I pay you so much.” Darton said and went back to his cigar.

After nearly an hour of smoking in silence he ground out the remaining fire left in his cigar and slid the stump into his pocket. It was time to get ready.

To Darton religion always had a strange fascination, especially the similarities between the different ones. Namely, the big bad, the one who ran the underworld, always was red. So for these sorts of meetings he wore a dark red suit and black tie.

Along with the suit came an eye patch. His left eye was perfectly functional, but it was slightly lazy, which tended to throw off his aim, and it was somewhat embarrassing. He slid the long, Lynne style dagger into the sheath on his belt and looked at himself in the mirror.

Presentable. He opened a second box, hesitated for a second, then grabbed a half smoked Grail boiler room style cigar, a especially obnoxious type, since the tabaco was dried in the hellish environs of a sand ship’s boiler room, which was full of grease, oil, and half a dozen different chemicals, which gave the smoke a harsh, acrid scent and taste. It was an acquired taste, to say the least. He lit the cigar and left his office, towards the meeting place.

The warehouse was ancient, possibly pre-fall, but at some point before the Second War of the Wastes someone had come along and rebuilt it. Darton’s organization had repaired it after the war ended, and had been based there since. It was a good fifty miles outside of Falcon’s Reach, in an area full of large crags, deep cravasses, which prevented sandships from getting too close. In short, perfect. Preskov had come in his own airship, a large vessel with a gaudy red gas envelope.

They met at the center of the warehouse, which had yet to be filled after the most recent shipment out. Preskov’s hob nailed boots clacking on the well weathered stone floor, while a loosely fastened section of the sheet metal roof rattled in the wind.

Darton raised an eyebrow at the man’s attire. Despite this being a metal building, in the wastes, in the middle of summer, Preskov was wearing a heavy overcoat. Maybe they had to fly near maximum altitude to avoid detection and Preskov still hadn’t worked the chill out yet. The general had a face that looked like it belonged on a rather large rat or some other creature you find digging in the trash, and beady eyes which never stopped moving.

Preskov had at least twenty bodyguards arrayed behind him, facing about ten of Darton’s mercenaries, who all wielded assault rifles.

“Ah, Comrad Darton! Late again I see!” The general bellowed once the arms dealer rounded the corner.

“Hello General, I assume the toxins are working well.” Darton said coldly.

“Ah yes! The nerve agent works wonders on the vermin.” The general replied.

“I was told you wanted to renegotiate our agreement, improve on the pricing. Or did I misunderstand?” The arms dealer continued.

“No, no, no, you are correct. We have worked together for a long time, and you have been a good friend of the revolution. You are a capitalist, and it is your way to do such things, but you are far too greedy. You are taking from the mouths of Rojyan children in your greed.” The general said in a conversational tone.

“Is that so? Because I am not the man waging war on his own people. You do not like my prices? Fine. Go somewhere else.” Darton countered.

The general’s face reddened. “Where would I go? You have your dogs kill anyone who tries to get into this trade.”

“Don’t talk about Popov like that. He doesn’t like to be called names. But as for other places to go, well you’d have to figure that out for yourself. I don’t advertise for my competitors.”

The General gritted his teeth, but did not say anything.

Darton waved over one of his staff members, took the clipboard from their hand, quickly scanned it, nodded, and waved the assistant away. “So, are you here to buy? Because if not I would request that you leave, as you are disrupting our normal operations.”

The General grinned. “I have come to commandeer your stock, your staff, facilities, and all other assets for the Royal government of Rojya.” He reached into his jacket and withdrew an envelope, opened it, and held the contents of it out.

“One second.” Darton muttered and put the cigar back between his teeth before snatching the document from Preskov’s hand. He squinted slightly. “Really hate your language. Absolutely idiotic syntax. Alright. This writ hereby gives the Government of Czarina Andreyevich rights of any and all land, livestock, provisions, yada yada yada, or any other assets the agent executing this decree deems necessary. More boilerplate… Issued by Field Marshal Gregory Preskov.” Darton glanced up at Preskov, back at the document, then he giggled in a manner unbecoming of any one over the age of fifteen.

“Did you make this yourself? Or did your daughter make it in grammar school?” Darton wheezed as he suppressed his laughter, before he caught Preskov’s glare. “Oh. You’re serious with this. Well, congratulations on your promotion at least.”

The arms dealer took the cigar back out from his mouth and shook it slightly, the ash from the tip landing on Preskov’s shoulder. He stuck it back in his mouth and inhaled deeply, the tip glowing orange. I the same motion he blew the greasy, acrid smoke into Preskov’s face, before using the tip of the cigar to ignite the document.

Preskov staggered backwards, waving the smoke out of his face, he coughed twice before shouting something in Rojya. His men all raised their submachine guns but did not fire, in response Darton’s men raised their weapons.

“I really hate having to do this. But you forced my hand.” Darton said in a slightly sad voice as he dropped the cigar, ground it underneath his boot, and struck Preskov directly in the jaw. “Damn it all you’ve got a hard face.” He said as he shook out his hand in an attempt to reduce the stinging in his knuckles. He hadn’t punched someone like that in a while and had forgotten how much it hurt.

“I’ll kill you!” Preskov shouted, reaching for his sword. One of the Rojyan soldiers fired a burst at the Grail mercenaries, hitting one of them several times. The chest armor held up, but one of the bullets caught the man in the throat, and sent him to the ground, arterial red spurting from the sound. Almost mechanically one of the other mercenaries turned and put a pair of bullets between the shooter’s eyes. The other Rojyan soldiers stood frozen, their weapons still at their shoulders, but no fight in them.

Darton ignored the gunfire, and with his left hand punched Preskov in the side of the face, he could feel the other man’s delicate facial bones breaking, and his own fingers dislocating from the poorly aimed blow.

Preskov staggered, blood pouring out of his nose, while Darton fought the urge to vomit at the sight of his mangled fingers. The general regained his grip on his sword and began drawing it from the ceremonial sheath. The arms dealer was much quicker, using his left arm he pulled the general in a tight embrace, with his right hand he yanked the man’s side arm out of it’s holster. “Didn’t have to end like this.” He snarled as he pressed the revolver into the underside of Preskov’s jaw. He saw the man’s eyes go wide with realization, then glassy. The smoking gun and dead general fell to the ground next to Darton as he shook his head, trying to clear the ringing in his ears caused by firing a pistol so close to his face.

“Who’s second in command here? Step forward!” He shouted. No Response. “I said step forward! That is in order!” The vein on his forehead pulsing.

A youngish man stepped forward, his blonde hair matted down with sweat, his eyes wide with terror.

“Congratulations! You’ve just been promoted!” Darton said, his voice suddenly friendly, almost welcoming, in sharp contrast to his red faced shouting only a few seconds before. “Now, a little piece of advice, tell your men to stand down, before they get turned into a fresh coat of paint of my walls.”

The young man waved at the soldiers who slowly lowered their rifles.

“Smart. Now, the next piece of advice I have is to continue buying our weapons as before, because if not… Well I have plenty of information that could fall into the hands of the rebels in your country.”

“Very well.” The young officer said, stammering slightly.

“Wonderful!” Darton said, slapping the man on the back like he had known him for years. “Pleasure doing business with you!” Then he walked off to find someone to fix his hand. It hadn’t been the best day, but it hadn’t been the worst day either, so he had that to be thankful for.

“I was once asked what is the greatest achievement each nation has accomplished since contact was reopened.

Falcon’s Reach has become the center for diplomacy between the nations. For many reasons, including, but not limited to, the court culture in Hydris is far more accommodating than that elsewhere, the nobility more naturally took to their jobs as ambassadors than the bureaucrats of Rojya or the military officers of Grail-El.

Rojya’s feats of engineering are impressive, not only do they maintain the iron curtain, the single largest man made structure known, but they are also in the midst of constructing underground rail systems in their major cities.

As for Grail-El, while many scholars claim that the purge of The Wastes was unnecessary, excessive, and inhumane, it should nevertheless be recognized as an impressive feat.

Lindor Menoth

Proffessor of History, the University of Hydris.”