Allard's Chains

The group sat for dinner with the Count that evening.

 The table was grand — a thing fit for a king's hall — and in this hall, Saint-Germain sat the throne. Julian stood silent at his side, less a guest and more a guard... or perhaps a slave.

Tension clung to the air. Only Christoff seemed at ease, still relishing his earlier "victory" over the Count's men.

Tao cleared his throat.

 "So, Saint-Germain," he said carefully, "what's your relationship with our friend Julian?"

Saint-Germain gave a hearty, forced laugh and swigged from his jug of mead.

 "Well, it's a funny story, you see." He wiped his mouth and leaned back in his chair.

"Found this sack of shit about eighteen years ago, half-dead on the streets of Paris. He'd drunk himself nearly to death."

A rattling cough escaped him.

"And why was that again?" he mused aloud.

Julian whispered, "Please stop."

The Count snapped his fingers, as if remembering.

 "Ah — that's right. His wife had just died in childbirth. Poor thing suffered from haemorrhages. Bled out because her dear old father couldn't afford to fix her condition."

He turned to Julian, feigning sympathy.

 "Did I mention her father died not too long ago?"

Julian's head dropped lower, barely lifting his voice.

 "No... you didn't."

The Count smiled, a grin too wide, too eager.

"Anyway, I took him in. Ran a little operation — bit like what the Americans call 'Mandingo fights.' My own private gladiator pit."

 He chuckled, a sick, low sound.

Moses stiffened visibly.

"Julian here had a knack for it. Gave him a sword but he always finished fights too quickly, had to teach him to draw out the fights, savor them."

 He giggled. "Eventually, I realized he'd be even more useful at sea. Pulled some strings, gave him a ship."

Wilhelm's knuckles whitened around his fork, rage trembling under the surface.

"Few years back, though, the ungrateful bastard got discharged. Instead of crawling back to me, he went chasing after his long-lost kid. Didn't find 'em, of course. Boo hoo."

He shook his head mockingly.

"So that brings us here. My question: how the hell do you know him?"

Tao opened his mouth — but Lumiere spoke first, voice sharp.

"What's so funny about a man losing his wife?"

The Count looked at him, feigning innocence.

Lumiere slammed his hand on the table. The crack echoed through the hall.

"Answer me, you hairy pile of shit."

Saint-Germain rose slowly from his seat, towering over Lumiere.

"And who are you supposed to be, little boy?"

Lumiere, trembling, met his gaze. His voice cracked.

"Lumiere... Lumiere Allard."

The table froze. Even Moses and Wilhelm stared, stunned. But no one was more shaken than Julian — and the Count.

Saint-Germain reached out and, with grotesque tenderness, brushed Lumiere's cheek.

"Allard, you say?"

Lumiere stood paralyzed, horror rooting him to the floor.

The Count's smile stretched into a monstrous grin.

"Amazing. Isn't it, Julian?"

Julian didn't move. He looked like a corpse already.

Saint-Germain's laughter exploded from him — harsh, choking, animalistic.

"In all my years of dealing in the dirty underbelly of this pointless world, I've never stumbled onto such a miracle."

He grabbed Lumiere's face roughly, yanking him closer.

"I wonder if you taste the same as your father."

Wilhelm moved first.

In one smooth motion, he drew his pistol and emptied it into the Count's chest.

Saint-Germain staggered backward, wheezing, bleeding — still laughing — before collapsing behind his chair.

Chaos erupted.

Guards stormed through the doors, rifles raised. One took aim at Wilhelm.

A silver flash — Tao's polearm severed the man's wrists cleanly before he could fire.

Tao bellowed over the fray. He took a deep breath before he spoke, forcing confidence to tear through.

 "Take the ship! If it's the last thing we do!"

Their soldiers roared and leapt into battle.

Only Lumiere and Julian remained frozen in the blood-slick hall.

Lumiere coughed, the bile rising in his throat. Not just from Saint-Germain's vileness, but from something heavier — something breaking inside him.

He staggered forward and seized Julian by the collar.

"Who the hell are you?" he rasped.

Julian turned his face away — but Lumiere's hands tightened, desperate.

"My name..."

 Julian's voice cracked.

 "Is Julian Allard."

The words barely landed before Lumiere heard it — a wet, rattling breath.

He turned.

The Count's body was gone.

Above, on the deck, the battle raged.

Tao and Wilhelm carved through Saint-Germain's men, bodies crumpling in their wake. Idris fought too, though clumsier, his trail of victims less elegant but just as bloody.

In the corner, Xia and Kolya huddled behind a mast, paralyzed by fear.

But nowhere was safe.

A soldier spotted them — a pistol in hand and a twisted grin on his lips.

"I hate priests," he sneered, taking aim at Kolya.

The shot never came.

Moses crashed into him with a roar, tackling the man to the ground. They grappled — fists flying, boots scrabbling.

The soldier slammed Moses onto his back, hands closing around his throat.

The world darkened at the edges. Moses clawed uselessly — until he spotted it: the pistol, just out of reach.

With one last, desperate lunge, he grabbed it — and fired.

The soldier jerked once, then slumped, dead weight atop him.

Moses lay still, blood spattered on his skin, his soul reeling.

 He had killed a man.

He felt dirty, he felt disgusted, he felt wrong.

Across the deck, Tao moved like a storm — his polearm a blur, soldiers falling in pieces around him.

Wilhelm and Idris, though, were flagging. Wilhelm's pistol clicked empty. Their swordplay, rough and desperate, barely kept the enemy at bay.

Worse — some of the soldiers noticed Idris' burns, and targeted them viciously.

The two of them were cornered, breath ragged, when Christoff reappeared — a stolen mortar cradled in his arms.

He roared, tackled a soldier to the ground, and unleashed fire.

The mortar tore through the crowd, flesh and timber exploding in a cloud of smoke and screams.

Christoff turned back, beaming, waving the weapon like a trophy.

He never saw the shadow rising behind him.

"Run!" Idris screamed.

But it was too late. An axe swung down in a sickening arc, splitting Christoff in two.

The shadow stepped into the firelight — a giant with a gleaming face like a mirror.

Wilhelm stared, cold certainty filling his veins.

He had known the moment he set foot on this cursed ship.

Now there was no doubt.

This was the monster who had stolen everything from him. And tonight — tonight he would lay his brother's soul to rest.