Beyond Orion's veil

[INTERLUDE]

The behemoth leaned on the balustrade of the baron's office balcony. The railing creaked, complaining under his overwhelming weight. The 6'6" giant had been drawn to the balcony by the rising sun. His armor was less intimidating as the darkness melted and sunshine took its place. The sun's rays made the armor gleam as if it were freshly polished. The armor was adorned with small intricate patterns and runes, but most notable were the three four-point stars on the cuirass. Unlike the previous night, he now wore a black cloak with a star formation sewn onto it.

Unlike the bustling city, the baron's homestead was quiet, the environment as still as water. Baron Aemir Mac Tyr was seething. The murders, coupled with the mysterious dumb boy protected by magic. One so powerful it had nearly killed an archmage, were an embarrassment. With a feast only weeks away, one that would be attended by the true powers of the empire, this situation was unacceptable. But he thanked Belisama.

Aemir believed his god had not forsaken him, for the appearance of The Moriagh that night was all he needed for everything to fall into place.

The behemoth turned to look at Aemir as he approached the balcony.

"That archmage of yours is okay. My druid is fixing her a new arm," Aemir said dismissively. The behemoth turned back toward the sun.

The extravagant noble was dressed in red silk robes tied into a bow at the center of his pudgy midsection. Despite the early hour, he had spared just enough time to put on all ten of his rings, making him look almost like a druid. Though he was not one, he often described himself as a fierce and renowned knight, exuding valor.

"What did you find out?"

"Nothing," the behemoth's distorted voice replied.

"Then why are you sightseeing? Get out there and do your work!"

The behemoth turned to the short, chubby noble and took one step, then another. Aemir was unfazed by the towering knight. He had once been a knight himself. Not only powerful, but also well-connected enough to have The Moriagh solve his problems.

Aemir watched as the behemoth summoned his greatsword and shifted into a battle stance. He held the blade in an inside left guard, the greatsword's hilt parallel to his chestplate, its tip pointing at Aemir.

Aemir tried to summon the rapier he was less known for, and it seemed to take an eternity.

The behemoth was patient, waiting for the treasonous noble to summon his blade. It took fifteen seconds for Aemir to summon his rapier—long enough that, in a true battle, he would already be dead. The delay was due to his age and lack of practice, but with the rapier in his hand, Aemir believed the behemoth was done for. He was further angered by The Moriagh's arrogance. Do I look like some pushover? he thought.

The behemoth moved, the earth beneath his feet seeming to repel him toward Aemir. Looming over him, the behemoth went for a quick downward slash, aiming for a deliberating blow. The tip of his blade gently sliced through the robe's laces, right at the bow.

Before Aemir could register what had happened, he felt the morning breeze on his paunch, which was still jiggling from its abrupt exposure. His brown eyes flared with anger, his bulbous nose ballooned as if white smoke would billow out shortly, and finally, his swarthy voice rose.

"You dare harm me... you lowborn bastard scum of the earth!" The behemoth stared Aemir down.

Aemir's eyes moved frantically side to side—not in fear, he assured himself, but due to searing anger. A bastard had disrespected him—one bearing 'divine blood.' I must end him, he thought.

The behemoth gleefully watched as the very well-fed knight weakly raised his weapon. The towering figure took another intimidating step forward, and the noble stumbled backward in retaliation. The behemoth eased into another stance, his greatsword pointing toward the gray morning sun, with his lead hand tucked into his ribs, ready to smite the noble with an exaggerated fletch.

Killing him is not enough. He needs to suffer for this, Aemir thought.

"Guards! Guards! Guards!" he yelled.

Would they save him? Probably not.

"Phecda, that's enough!" A calm, resolute voice beckoned.

Aemir's red face regained its pale complexion almost immediately as he turned to the rest of The Moriagh. Six pitch-black-armored knights stood just outside his office.

The one who had spoken held the knightly flag of the Order of The Moriagh. The flag bore a black field with the same star formation as on the behemoth's—Phecda's—cloak, rendered in white. The formation consisted of seven interlocking four-point stars in a distinct pattern.

"Dubhe meets Aemir Mac Tyr, baron and lord ruler of the great port of Salvia," Dubhe, the leader, said with a gentle bow.

Aemir smiled in satisfaction, his blade disappearing painfully slowly. Finally, some respect.

"Arrest this bastard," Aemir ordered, pulling his robe closed to shield his belly from the tormenting cold.

Dubhe's warm, welcoming aura turned sinister.

"I should be arresting you, baron—or even," he gestured by dragging his thumb across his neck, "killing you. Ordering The Moriagh is reserved for the king, and I'm damn sure you're not His Majesty."

Aemir could feel the behemoth's grin under his grim helm. His overhanging stomach was once more exposed to the harsh ways of the world. He backed against the railing, his hands gripping it tightly.

Dubhe stepped closer to Aemir, placing a hand on the noble's shoulder. The fine silk felt cold to the touch—very expensive, and probably glorious to wear.

"I'm fucking with you, baron," Dubhe said, smiling again. "But don't order us around. Phecda, put that away," he added, referring to the behemoth's blade.

Dubhe turned to the rest of the order.

"Spread out and start the investigation. Alkaid," he called to the knight with seven four-point stars on his cuirass, "plant the flag at the keep—with the baron's permission, of course." Aemir nodded hurriedly in agreement.

"Move out," Dubhe ordered, then joined Phecda at the balcony. Aemir needed some time to recollect himself.