Serving Lant Agriche

Chapter 1: The Child Murderer

Disclaimer: This story is not for kids. There is some violence. There is a lot of violence. That is just how life is.

Dion POV

Chapter 1 – The Child Murderer

At thirteen years old, Dion snapped his feet to attention and raised his right fist to his chest to salute his father.

"Relax," Lant Agriche said easily. He leaned back into his armchair and crossed his legs.

Dion lowered his arm but otherwise made no further movement. His red, empty eyes looked at the air over Lant Agriche's ear.

"Do you know why I summoned you to my study?" Lant Agriche said.

"No, Sir," Dion replied.

"Because you interest me, boy," Lant Agriche said. "During your exam, you were told to confront someone. Who did you see?"

"I saw a prisoner in peasant's clothes, Sir," Dion said. "About six feet tall. Short brown hair and brown eyes. Identifying features include a wart on his right cheek and missing left ear, most likely bitten off."

"Anything else?" Lant Agriche said, softly.

Dion searched through his mind, recalling the victim's features perfectly. "His face was smooth, Sir. No signs of facial hair. I estimate his age to be between sixteen to three and twenty years. At your request, I will draw a rough sketch of the prisoner."

"Have you seen the prisoner prior to the trial?"

"No, Sir."

"Did you recognise the man?"

"No, Sir."

"Do you know his name?"

"No, Sir."

"Interesting," Lant Agriche said. He cupped his hand near his mouth and lit his cigar with an expert hand. His blood-red eyes shone briefly as the box lighter made a Clicking sound. Lant Agriche inhaled a few times before expelling white smoke. The tip of his cigar glowed with each breath he sucked in. "Walk me through what happened that evening."

Dion mulled over the recent memory. The exam had been easier than he had thought. His instructor had warned him that failing the exam meant failing his education to become a useful Agriche. Failure meant immediate death. Any objections would fall on deaf ears. You either passed or failed on the first go.

"My instructor provided me a phial. She called it a type of psychedelics," Dion said.

Dion picked up the glass phial with his thumb and forefinger. The phial was small and opaque like a woman's perfume bottle. He uncorked the top and inspected the poison at eye level.

"Your muscles will relax after partaking," his instructor said. "Your vision will also fog for a few minutes. When you can see clearly again, notify me and we will begin your exam."

Dion drank. The symptoms his instructor described never came to him. After a pause, he said, "I am ready."

"Good," his instructor nodded her head. She waved a hand at the guardsman standing next to the door. "Take your weapon and begin," the instructor told Dion.

Dion picked up a black-enamelled scythe leaning against the wall. The curved blade waved back and forth over his head as he walked. With his short, adolescent arms, he had shrewdly picked a long-range weapon for his exam.

"On command, I entered the exam chamber," Dion said. "I was ordered to kill the person standing in the middle of the room.

His older brother, Foutaine, was in the corner, playing with a dagger in one hand by flicking his wrist. Like clockwork, the dagger kept rotating in the air in circles. When Foutaine caught Dion's eye, his square jaw unhinged and he gave his little brother a toothy grin. His eyes never left Dion, even as he continued to toss his weapon up and down. He had been assigned as Dion's executioner, should Dion fail the trial.

Dion saw his target. The prisoner was taller than him, but not barrel-chested or a heavyweight like Foutaine. The prisoner was only be a stone or two heavier than Dion. His missing ear and the sinewy veins poking out of his biceps showed that the prisoner was used to hard labour. The prisoner was not in a fighting stance. He stood with his hands at his side with his mouth hanging open.

Killing the target seemed too easy. Dion suspected a trick.

"I attacked first," Dion said.

The man laid crumpled at Dion's feet. Dion exhaled through his mouth. His black tunic was wet from the prisoner's blood. The prisoner had not been sliced through completely. The top half of his torso was split diagonally from his body, from the edge of one collarbone to the middle of his ribcage. Dion had not bothered with using his full strength. He knew that once the heart organ had been severed, the man was virtually dead.

Foutaine kicked the prisoner's head with his foot before ruffling Dion's hair. "Good job, bro. Welcome to the big leagues." He gave a thumbs up to the instructor standing in the doorway.

"My instructor than verified that I had passed the exam," Dion said.

Dion did not know what else to say to Lant Agriche.

Lant Agriche snubbed his cigar in an ashtray and stepped away from his seat. He walked to Dion and lifted Dion's chin with two fingers. He blew white smoke into his son's face.

Dion did not flinch. He only thought briefly that his eyes felt a little dry.

"Take off your shirt," Lant Agriche said. He withdrew his cold fingers.

Dion took off his gold-embroidered tunic to reveal pale, unblemished skin. His waist was still thin enough for him to pass as an adolescent girl. It would still be a few years before his growth spurt.

"No damage at all," Lant Agriche tutted. "I've looked at your file. I imagine your education has not been advanced enough for you.

"Pain is also a lesson," Lant Agriche said. "I should have your instructors punished for their neglect."

He unbuckled his belt.

Dion did not move. He expected his father to beat him with it. It would be the first time his body would be abused. He had completed all of his previous lessons unscathed.

"Bite on this," Lant Agriche said.

Dion took the brown belt and held the soft leather between his teeth.

Lant Agriche swatted Dion with the back of his hand. His knuckle hit Dion's cheekbone. Dion spun around and landed on his hands and knees. His grasp on the floor slackened when his father's tailored shoe connected with his shoulder. Dion's head slammed against the stone, cobbled floor.

The torment didn't end. Lant Agriche continued to stomp on Dion with his foot. Blood soon trickled out of Dion's mouth.

I'm hurt, Dion observed.

When he had lost his breath, Lant Agriche pulled out a switchblade and grabbed Dion's arm to flip the boy over. The blade pierced through Dion's chest in controlled strokes. Dion only stared at the ceiling with glassy eyes, focusing on breathing through his nose. Blood spurted from his knife wounds and out of his mouth before cascading down his skin. The cement between the stones greedily sucked up Dion's blood. Dion's heart began to beat faster, working harder to transport a dwindling supply of oxygen through his system.

"Get up," Lant Agriche ordered.

Dion rose. His heart and limbs were still intact, but his consciousness was fading in and out. He began to sway on his feet.

"I haven't broken you," Lant Agriche murmured. His tone and look were impassive.

Lant Agriche could actually see the gaps in Dion's chest where he had stabbed him. There was enough space in each knife wound to slip his fingers in.

He signalled a guard to escort Dion to a physician.

"They're only flesh wounds," Lant Agriche told the guardsman. "When the boy's health returns, have him report to me again."

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Note: I wrote this fic because I used to be as lost as Dion. Maybe I still am, but I think the ending to this story will be fairly happy. (Maybe "happy" is a relative term). Please enjoy ^^