All-Patron Reward: Original Draft of Fall of Saints: The Villain Appears

Continuing our look at the earliest version of the story that became Phoenix Rising -- let's see the first appearance of our villain!

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     The figure sat in shadow, long fingers caressing the packet

of Cards. The single lightglobe, hanging over the doorway, did not

illumine the high-backed chair or its occupant; in fact, it seemed

almost that the light avoided the lone figure.

     The door opened, and a tall, red-haired man entered, green

eyes darting about like a hawk's and taking in the entire room. He

stepped forward and bowed to the seated figure. "At your service."

     "Sit down, Aron." The voice was warm, kindly; yet Aron

shivered at its sound. The shadow-hidden silhouette smiled to

itself at the sight. Aron would do well to remember that fear.

"You and the others insisted I meet with you now... and you know

that it was not yet time. So what is it that is so urgent?"

     The big fighter shifted in his chair, nervous sweat glinting

on his forehead. The figure laughed inwardly. *Oh, yes, Aron, you

do well to fear me. Remember that, the next time you think to

dispose of me. You need me. I do not need you.*

     "It has to do with Eagle."   

     "What of him? Many young men dream of revenge, and he's

capable enough. It's no surprise he would try for the Saints."

     "You don't understand!" Aron stabbed a finger at the shadows.

"Just this past month he began *healing* people."

     The figure was silent for a moment, then chuckled. "So. A

true hero after all, is he? Well, we've dealt with his kind

before, Aron. That's why the mortality for Saints is so high in

the first year, Condor."

     Condor nodded. "Yes, but usually it's just some idealistic

fool, M--"

     "*STOP!*" The long-fingered hand lashed out and grabbed Aron-

Condor by the throat. He pulled futilely at the fingers like steel

about his neck. "You forget yourself, Aron my friend. I have told

you -- told *all* of you -- that you are never to speak my name,

my title, or in any other way to refer to me directly, not even in

my presence. You will speak with me when *I* choose it, and at no

other times. You are given the ability to pretend to your Saintly

powers through my aid alone; for that, and for the freedom you

have, I expect you to obey at least THAT command." The hand opened

and Condor hit the polished wood floor heavily.

     "I... I am sorry." Condor stood slowly and then seated

himself again. "But you don't understand. The others never gained

the Saint powers. By the Hells, there hasn't been a true Saint in

sixty years!"

     The figure nodded, sinking back into the cushions. Aron was

correct, of course. This was a difference to be noted. But

something else worried Condor, the shadowed figure could smell it

in Condor's fear. "And...?"

     "And he's on the right track."

     "So kill him!"

     The red-haired false Saint shrugged. "An easy thing to say.

The boy is *good*, better than almost anyone I've ever seen. And

if he has the Saint powers, he might be able to get away, warn

someone."

     The figure gritted its teeth. *Demons of Darkness! This fool

is right. I can't take the risk now.* Aloud, it spoke. "Very well.

Arrange it. I'll be nearby. If he manages to escape you... I'll

deal with him myself."

     Aron nodded, swallowing visibly. "I will convey the message."

When the seated figure said nothing else, the Condor Saint rose

and left the room.

     Now alone, the seated being mused on the situation. The smell

of Aron's fear lingered in the air, and much of that fear was not

of Michael, the unfortunately noble Eagle, but of the figure who

ruled the Saints. It wondered momentarily if perhaps it was going

to far with the terror it generated. A proper amount of fear kept

the rabble in their place; too much, and they became unreliable.

     With a shrug, it turned its attention to the Cards. It was

reluctant to use the mystic plaques too often; not only were they

seductive in their revelations, in the ability to show the future

to one who held them, but they were also enigmatic and seemed to

have a perverse tendency to give correct but ever-more-misleading

predictions the more one asked of them.

     But this was an important juncture. "Show me, Cards! What

should be done about this young Eagle? And shall I be called upon

to take him myself?"

     The long fingers shuffled the enchanted deck, then spun out

three cards. The magic within the Cards told the holder when the

proper number had been dealt to answer the question.

     The first card shimmered and showed a young man, clad in the

armor of a Saint. His sword was drawn and he faced a horde of

enemies, but his eyes showed no sign of fear and he seemed ready

to withstand any assault. The figure's brow creased and a low hiss

escaped its lips. "The Eternal Warrior! A powerful card indeed,

young Ross."

     But lying above the Warrior was a card whose face showed only

a skeleton wielding a scythe. The figure smiled, and another

observer would have shivered at the way the light shattered off

the too-white teeth. "Death."

     The final card came to rest directly across the face of the

Warrior, and the figure's laugh was mirrored in the visage that

smiled soullessly from the magic Card... for the face was its own.