Page 19 of Nemesis Mine
We heard about your recent battle with the wrongdoer Earthshaker. How did that come about?
Maximillian smiles with his usual charm. “You know, I can’t really say. I only met him for the first time about a month ago. He turned up in Arclee one day and said he wanted to... check me out, I suppose. See if I was worth his time.”
We can imagine many people wanting to check Maximillian out. He laughs at this and assures us that we are too kind.
“Well, clearly Earthshaker found that Iwasworth his time,” he confides. “He showed up to challenge me personally. I think he was maybe just feeling a bit frustrated, a bit bored, you know? We all feel that sometimes. Maybe he wanted an end to the monotony, a worthwhile fight. Something different.”
Earthshaker clearly found it in this champion. As we speak to Maximillian inside the home of one of Arclee’s grateful villagers, he bears the signs of the battle. He is rumpled but exhilarated, his Style It Like A Champ (SILAC) gel working overtime to keep that delectable hair in place.
Maximillian offers to discuss the fight in more detail and share his experiences, but as we all know, the most important aspect of any battle lies in the winning. Does he consider his fight well won?
“Well, yeah,” he says, after some deliberation. “It was a hard fight, but he fled in the end. I doubt he’ll be quick to show his face round here again. Anyway, the village is still standing, the villagers are safe, and I’m here to tell you the tale, aren’t I? I’d say that counts as a win.”
As part of his upcoming tour, Maximillian will be visiting Earthshaker’s residence of Ranragh, a town of little reputation situated upon the northeast peninsula. We atAthaca Newslook forward to picking up this story again, to discover how Earthshaker handles the presence of his foe.
Cyrus leaned back, letting the parchment fall. A tremor still ran through his hands as he gripped the sides of his chair tightly. His heart pounded with fury until he felt almost sick with it. Maximillian’s voice rang in his head, shaping these words, obnoxiously confident. He was so used to everyone believing him. He could say whatever he liked.
The injustice of it burned hot and bitter. Cyrus would give anything,anything, to hunt him down and strip away the arrogance and conceit until the truth of him was exposed. Until everyone saw him as Cyrus did: a patheticfaçade of nobility, hiding behind peasants and the press to deny the truth of his own defeat.
Action; he needed to take action. A way to put a stop to these false rumours, to force Maximillian to rethink his plans to put a single pedicured toe anywherenearRanragh. And, his flaring temper insisted, he needed an opportunity to tell Maximillian exactly what he thought of him.
It was difficult to wrangle his thoughts into order when each vibrated with rage, but he forced himself to sit still and breathe deeply until his clenching fingers loosened on the arms of his chair and his heartbeat had slowed to an agitated thrum.
Thoughts of revenge had started to pile up at the back of his mind from the moment he’d picked up the news parchment, snowballing into a furious frenzy the more he read, but in truth there was only ever one viable course of action.
He needed to send Maximillian hate mail.
Most of it would be anonymous, as though the letters came from people across the land who doubted his story. Let the champion believe that running to the press with lies had tarnished his precious reputation.
One letter would be signed from Cyrus himself, warning Maximillian to tell the truth or else face the consequences. Retract the lies, and the visit to Ranragh, or see Arclee turned to rubble.
And—a slow, dreamy smile spread across Cyrus’s face as he imagined it—once Maximillian was running scared, Cyrus would hunt him down at another time and place and finish what he’d started before that pesky peasant involvedhimself. He’d see Maximillian bleeding and shamed at his feet before long, of that he was certain.
His finest parchment selected and his best quill dipped in ink, Cyrus settled down to write.
The next day Cyrus woke earlier than planned to a persistent tapping at his window.
He was out of bed quicker than dignity suggested was reasonable. Still, he couldn’t be blamed for his anticipation. No doubt the raven attempting to give itself brain damage by rattling its beak against the rock carried a response from Maximillian, alarmed by Cyrus’s signed letter, begging his pardon and promising to avoid Ranragh forevermore with all falsehoods duly retracted. Perhaps he also could expect a flattering comment or two, a simpering attempt to get Cyrus on his side and ensure that he did not wreak his most deadly revenge after all.
Cyrus untied the scroll from the raven’s leg, sneering as he smoothed a fingertip along the crisp, quality parchment and delicate blue ribbon. As pretty and showy as the rest of Maximillian, and as easily destroyed.
He dropped the ribbon on the floor and ground his heel into it, unfurling the scroll with a flourish. It was a pity the beady-eyed bird was his only audience—where were the sprites when he actually had use of them?—but that was fine. He could appreciate baleful suspicion no matter the source.
His eyes dropped to the parchment, noting firstlythat Maximillian’s response was much shorter than he had expected. Second came blank disbelief as he registered the content.
Stop sending me hate mail you prick
Cyrus blinked. He frowned. He read it again, mouthing the words to himself, just in case he’d somehow imagined them.
The raven released a series of short, sharp croaks. It sounded like laughter. Still staring down at the letter, Cyrus raised a hand towards the creeping buttercup by his door. The plant rushed at the raven in a green and yellow tide. The bird danced backwards and wisely shut up.
Cyrus deliberated for longer than he wanted to admit over his response. Simplicity, that was key.
You call a singular letter expressing my (correct) opinions “hate mail”?
Cyrus dithered by the doorway as the raven took to the skies, watching until it faded to a dot and then nothing. He dragged his gaze away, casting an eye round for something to do. But he felt jittery, restless. He wasn’t hungry, gardening didn’t hold its usual allure, and he didn’t want to go out and potentially miss a reply. Not that hecaredif Maximillian replied, of course—
When another raven returned at dusk, Cyrus was by the door within moments.
