text: “She’ll hang by her freakin’ balls!” The sixteen mercenaries she’d sent to kill him met that fate too, so it wasn’t an idle threat when Lance swore that his own mother would perish. He chugged his ale and slammed the tankard onto the table, forming a crack across its wood. His sword stood unsheathed beside him, blood dripping from its edges onto the open wounds of his latest kill. She was growing more desperate to finish him off. He still didn’t understand, but he understood enough as he stared down all the faces gawking back at him. To send a woman into a crowded bar during daylight, seduce him, and try to stab him in public, though? That epitomized cruelty. One by one the faces cowered. He snickered. He was getting good at this. Lance picked up his sword, left the appropriate amount of gold on the table to cover the costs of wood and corpse removal services, and left. The city of Thead was smothered by the high heat of summer, the sky colored crimson as desert dust wafted through. He glanced in the direction of the walls to the east, travelers coming and going, those coming more threatening to him by the day. Any one of them could be out to kill him. He masked his face with his bandanna and disappeared into the alleys behind Main Street. Thead was a city erected around a deep underground station. The desert in which it was built was too unpredictable for daily tasks, so the founders dug tunnels. And those tunnels forked into other tunnels, which forked into marketplaces, banks, homes, and everything else you’d expect to find in a major city. Electricity was flowing all day and night to light the routes. And, somewhere in the depths of the underground pit city, his mother was waiting, a knife in one hand and a concealed knife in the other. He was four years old the first time she ordered a hit on him. A boy approached him, a couple of years older, and asked to share toys. Lance was so glad to have the opportunity to make a friend, growing up alone with no siblings and no father. His mother was a soldier of the Queen’s Contempt, an order of troops thought to carry out Her Highness’s secret, merciless agendas. So he often spent his time alone, never learning to read nor write, but only to wait and play. He was thrilled to have a boy his age talk to him at the playground. Someone was watching, though. Someone he did not know and never met again. Lance named the boy Hits in his memories. Hits made flying sounds with his wooden dolls and tied capes around their necks, turning them into superheroes. He ran around the playground, making earnest effort to enjoy time playing. Lance was too young to suspect foul play as Hits ran out of the playground and into the busy city, talking to hooded strangers. Hits returned from one of those ventures with a knife concealed in his sleeve. He charged at Lance, the caped doll tight in his hand, then dropped it, revealing the knife behind it. Lance was confused, but it did not last when Hits started slashing at him. He cut through Lance’s sleeve on the first strike, leaving a scar the length of his arm. Hits bared his teeth and growled at him, then licked the blood off the knife. “I’m a present from your mother,” he said. Then an arrow pierced his neck. The boy fell dead onto the tiled playground and, when Lance turned, saw a cloaked figure being subdued by local guards. A bow fell from his belongings, and he never saw the person again. Twenty years passed since that day. The second attempt came nine years later, after Lance was old enough to register for military training. He’d hoped the lessons would bring him the discipline and guidance he missed from having suitable parents. And, with the assassination attempt always lingering in his mind, he thought weapons training would benefit him. And he excelled. So, when another young man his age approached him with a raised sword on the training grounds, he already had the skills and alertness to make quick work of killing him. He gained fame in military school and, with that, came more assassination attempts. Eight have come in the last year. And so, he battled with the question, why did his mom want him dead? Often, when his mother would come home from work, she pummeled him with the blunt side of her weapons. Taking himself to the playground and spending the day there seemed the safer choice. Until he met Hits. Perhaps that is also why he excelled with weapons training - he already had enough exposure to garner his interest! His mastery followed. He abandoned his military training. If fame meant more promotions, and promotions meant fame, then he didn’t want his mother to learn about him. He spent some years above ground for a time, but those efforts, too, were futile. She proved that she was going to find him no matter what he did. He sheathed his bloodied sword and took his first steps into the depths of Thead. Forgetting her was not a choice for him. She was not going to forget him. She had the money to pay the finest swords and best detectives to ask for the whereabouts of her “missing son.” He was going home today, a thought which sent goosebumps from his head to his heels. The main market at the bottommost level was busy with its usual activity. Vendors were barking at passersby, hoping for a sale. Construction workers were lugging metal rods shaped like the letter I on their shoulders. People bumped into each other and didn’t apologize, their eyes locked on their destinations. Lance disappeared into another alley. There, he entered a local tailor’s shop and plucked the finest looking clothes from the shelves, sight unseen. His mother was not the most important knight of Queen’s Contempt, but her stature was high enough that a man in shredded clothes would draw much attention lurking around her office. He dressed in the darkness under some blown out light bulbs. He emerged in the bustling city again, with a different pace and posture. He crossed the least busy streets and made his way toward Sabtacks Keep. The keep was built of a shining material the builders called presentium. It had a dark, obsidian color up close, but a reflective, sparkling surface when viewed from the city. It was an abundant compound, and quite sturdy as well. The keep aged two hundred years without a crack or loss of luster. Sentries manned its grounds, archers it walls, and eagle-eyed scouts from lookout towers high above. Lance snuck in without issue, knowing all of their movement patterns. He didn’t know where his mother worked, but he guessed it was nearer the top of the castle. He remembered that recruits were kept on the first floors. And he saw young boys, worn and beaten just like him, as he passed through the shadows. He reminisced and wished them well. Lance was also familiar with the next few floors. Soldiers and their dormitories occupied the floor above the recruits. The captains and sergeants had their offices and rooms above them. The dining hall was on the fourth floor, and would be easiest to navigate now that lunch was done. Above that, though.... He shivered. That was all unknown. So, when Lance climbed the final step onto the fifth floor, he crouched and peeked around the wall. He was in a dark hallway. Traces of light from the fourth floor were bright enough to reveal light bulbs along the walls. Yet, none were lit. There was a room across from him, with a glass door and glass windows. The lights within were also off. He squinted, eager to catch the slightest hint of what might be inside, but reasoned the fifth floor was an infirmary. And an inactive one at that. But, don’t soldiers get injured all the time? Something moved behind the door. Lance was thankful he hadn’t moved since he reached the top of the stairs. He squinted again and held his breath, laser focused on the shadow that moved within the shadows. He resumed breathing after a minute, certain his imagination took hold of him. Something behind the door growled. And then, it banged on the glass. The windows shook. Lance jumped. The ground moved a little too, enough for Lance to feel it in his legs. He gazed deep into the shadows, unable to see through the darkness. Bang! This was more forceful than the last. The windows shook again. Lance looked harder, and thought he saw orange, polygonal eyes staring at him. He escaped up the stairs next to him to the sixth floor, the growls and banging on the glass more fearsome now that he was moving. His heart trembling, he peeked upstairs. He wanted to move fast because, now that something was making so much noise so close to him, he needed to flee from it. Voices approached him from the hallway below. He saw the nearest staircase was on the other side of the sixth floor. The sixth floor was quiet like the sixth, but it wasn’t an eerie quiet. It was a sophisticated silence and, looking around, Lance saw office suites. Men and women in fine silk suits strode around lugging large, hard covered books in their arms. They were bookkeepers, but there were others in white gowns too. He did not know who they were. He entered while crouched, hiding underneath walls, as the voices below him grew closer. He saw two men in armor asking the workers on the sixth floor questions as he crept his way up to the seventh. The seventh floor led into a well lit hallway. This was decorated with swords, shields, and axes on its walls. He did not see movement from either side of him, but he needed to traverse his way around until he found the next flight of stairs. He stayed low and tiptoed as the voices under him crept closer. He started left. He passed by many large wooden doors, many of them lit from the cracks above the floor. Traces of voices trailed into the hallway, but he could not decipher the words. He thought he recognized one voice - his mother’s friend Leslie. And Leslie was also a member of Queen’s Contempt. He was getting closer, should his guess be right. But, a pair of voices echoed from the end of the hall, and Lance was forced to leap behind a crate as they turned the corner. He crashed into it, causing it to slide an inch. The voices stopped, their eyes scouring ahead for movement. They continued their conversation after a moment, and Lance crawled into a vestibule behind him. One of the voices was elderly, and he heard the sound of a cane clapping into the hard floor. She was saying something about new responsibilities to other, who remained quiet. But he recognized her voice when she spoke. Then saw her , as he peered through the vestibule. His mother was a short woman with brown hair. She had an average build, but it had grown some since last he saw her, eleven years ago. She kept her hands folded behind her back. The older woman with the cane spoke about things the Queen wanted her to accomplish, most of which involved killing. Lance’s heart leapt from his chest. Doubts pillaged him. Could he really kill his own mother? Would that make him any better than her? How could he do it when she wasn’t even alone? She was a knight too - could she best him? Had he come all this way for nothing? He remembered the corpse he’d left in the bar. No. He didn’t have a choice. He rubbed his cheek, the last place she’d ever hit him, then exhaled a deep breath. Sooner or later, she would catch him. Lance emerged from the vestibule and followed them. The armored guards from the sixth floor found their way upstairs, along with some white coats too. So, he spied his mother entering a doorway on his right, and disappeared into an unlit room. He stepped back into the hall, once he was certain all were gone, and marched up to his mother’s door. He reached for the handle. There’s no turning back if you open this door . He shook his thoughts away and opened the door. His mother was sitting at a wooden table, staring out of the window across from her. She had just finished wrapping a blanket around her as she sat down. Lance closed the door without a peep. He took two steps inside when she stopped him. “I thought I heard you outside.” He stopped and thought to leap behind the couch next to him, but she turned and looked at him. She snickered, then turned her back to him. “Come to kill me?” Lance did not answer, but he did reach for his sword. His mother stood and walked up to him, her shoes clapping against the floor. “But, you should know something. We are not allowed to have children in the Contempt. The Queen would have killed us both if she ever found out about you.” That did not make sense, then. She should have killed him as a baby. “So,” she continued, “go ahead and kill me then. I won’t stop you.” She grabbed his hand which grasped his sword, drew it, and held its point to her throat. “If this is how you repay your mother after all the years of life I’ve given you, then go ahead and kill me.” She closed her eyes. But then she opened them again, two seconds later, glaring at him through her eyebrows. She turned her back to him again and stepped away. “You could ask her, you know. The Queen is right upstairs.” She took her seat facing the window again and did not look at him. So, the Queen’s Contempt were not allowed to bear children. Was it true? How could he know for sure? Something he knew about Queen Cerim, though, was that she loved killing so much, she assembled a group of skilled women to murder anyone that displeased her. She called that group her Contempt and the people lived in fear of Her Highness. Lance disappeared into the hallway, silent as a spider, and found his way upstairs. The eighth, and topmost, floor of Sabtacks Keep opened into a grand court. Stone pillars supported the vaulted ceiling, some thirty feet over his head. Torches were burning along the pillars, more for an effect than a need. A throne stood on a dais fifty feet across from him, shining with hues of presentium, gold, and jewels. Queen Cerim sat upon her throne, beckoning him forward. “Come forward, young man.” Lance obeyed. Sweat formed upon his brow as he crossed the blazing torchlight. Beads rolled down and into the corner of his eyes, burning them with salt. He wiped them dry with the back of his hand. “I know you,” she said. She relaxed back into her throne, astounded. “You are that talented young boy that disappeared from the military school some years back.” She uncrossed her legs and opened them wide in her throne. “Tell me, how did you learn such skills?” Lance detected a sarcastic inflection in her voice. And, he guessed that she wanted him to look between her legs. He grabbed his sword, but it was already too late. Someone’s heavy hand landed on his shoulder, and a sword protruded through his chest. He spat blood everywhere. He turned and swung, his hand still tight on his blade, but his mother batted it away like a balloon. The sword clattered to the floor. She caught his head and eased him down to the ground. He watched her smile from the corner of his eye as she stepped over his body and approached the Queen. She knelt before her. “I’ve gotten rid of an age old nuisance,” she confessed. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about it sooner.” The Queen remained silent. “We encourage you to breed with our knights to sire strong offspring. None of the others in my Contempt are callous enough to kill their own children.” Cerim cackled. “You deserve that promotion.” Lance spent so many years away from his mother that he forgot how manipulative she was. And there, in the Queen’s court, she finally got the best of him.