The Anarchist #2
By Austin Corbin
Corvus sighed as the blood seeped into his dirt floor—a mess he desperately wanted not to clean. The strange politician lay in the chair against the wall, blood still spitting out of his neck. The man posed no threat to Corvus, yet he knew what must be done; anyone trying to form some type of government must die. It was part of his creed as a Steward of Anarchy. There were plenty more of his kind, wandering the cities, the settlements, the whole country. The Stewards of Anarchy was an elite group of military commanders handpicked by the two generals of the Anarchical army to keep the Anarchy safe, a program that went back generations. After the first few went undercover and set out into the country, they recruited more; they recruited the best of debaters, the most skilled in combat, and the people who were born to wander. As these qualities all invested into one living, breathing human being are quite rare, the most apt recruits were few and far between.
As for Corvus, he was more of the type to stay at home and read. However, he was a masterful swordsman and a dead shot with his Thompson and revolvers. Corvus was chosen by a man named Thomas Farrel Canfret, who spent eighty-four years of his one hundred and two-year life as a Steward of Anarchy; he never retired. It was rare that a Steward of Anarchy meet another, besides, of course, the mentor and the student. This was because of the strategic dispersal of the original Stewards of Anarchy. Even for the ones that travel enough and to the right places, they remain strangers, as revealing their identity would go against their creed. However, there was a system to call all Stewards. If help from the entire corps of Stewards was necessary, then the individual that calls all of them has a mark that they must don upon their forehead; then they must wander the country; when another Steward sees this mark, they will stop the other and don the same mark themselves; then the two wander together and find more Stewards of Anarchy. The process can take years; however, most threats to the Anarchy take years to escalate.
Corvus sighed. The blood was either going to be an eyesore for years, or it would take digging it out and re-mudding the seat and floor. Thankful he would not need any firearms, he leaned against the counter. Quickly he checked the body for any other weapons or bombs; not finding anything but a small pocket knife, he hurriedly dragged the rather large man into his cellar, where Corvus left him as he ventured off to find his shovel. Once found, the shovel made quick work of the wall in the cellar where Corvus walled up the body with mud, twigs, and rocks. The man was not the first to be buried in the walls of the cellar; Corvus knew he soon needed an expansion. Corvus kept constant track of his kill count, and it would never be something he would be proud of—simply a number attached to the duty he would forever carry out with a sense of accomplishment.
Corvus, in the end, decided to shovel out and re-mud the blood-soaked floor and chair. He figured it wouldn’t be too much more work than walling up the politician; however, it was just as much work, if not more. It all took Corvus into the early afternoon when he remembered his coffee on the woodstove and picked up his pipe once more as he sat on his bed. The day, not yet near to over, took on the slow, moody, grey guise of a cloudy day in autumn despite the summer month.
This led Corvus to find a pleasant book on his bookshelf, which he read for the rest of the evening until, on his third bowl of North Carolina tobacco, Corvus seemed to drift into a waking slumber, something he often found himself inundated with, an augmented reality where fine motor skills fade and a state of unmoving, peaceful, yet observant sight sets into the eyes. This strange sleep lasted for quite some time.
The second knock on his door confused Corvus mightily; it was late, and he had drifted into a more acceptable state of sleep, yet on his door, he heard a knock. As he got up, he groaned, not out of some awakened rheumatism, nor did he groan out of anguish; no, he groaned for the years he had spent alone; he groaned for every frown, every smile, everything he had done alone. Since his mother had given him away to Thomas Canfret, he could only remember her face. After he was done with his education at the age of eighteen, Corvus knew nothing but the occasional stranger on his adventures and the occasional knock on his door as he was at home. He groaned.
Once he had properly armed himself and met the door, he tiredly opened the door. His heart absolutely dropped; confusion, worry, and anticipation flooded his mind. The woman standing in front of him bore the mark to call all Stewards.