Board Thread:Fun and Games/@comment-35614398-20200816110753/@comment-35614398-20200921165342

The Attempt to Kill Evola

The tyrant Evola was paranoid, erratic, quick-to-anger and quick-to-judge. It was generally considered by the members of the dictator’s inner circle that the man was insane, though none would dare say it to his face. Evola slept for 6 hours a day, from 11pm until 5am. Since the beginning of the Great Crusade, and the war with Cappodokia, that number had decreased to four, and sometimes not even that as Il Duce had ordered he be awoken should anything of note take place whilst he slept. This had the side affect that during those precious few hours when the madman slept, he slept heavily. Evola had to be woken each morning with a minor electric shock, which had been rigged to go off when the door to Il Duce’s quarters were opened. These arrangements were incredibly detrimental to the mental wellbeing of the tyrant, but Evola’s orders were carried out as he commanded.

As a consequence, when the two Cappodokian assassins slew the guards outside Evola’s door, the tyrant did not stir. When a third Italian soldier stumbled upon the scene, and fired panicked shots which echoed throughout the building, Il Duce seemed completely unaware.

Markos Valotis had trained in the Cappodokian Secret Service for 18 years, since he was sixteen. He was respected throughout the Service, and known for his high success rate in operations. It was no coincidence that he’d been given this assignment. His partner in the mission, Adrianos Laziadis, was held to a similarly high regard.

The door to Evola’s quarters was forced open, and the two men piled in, the noise of the gunshot still ringing in their ears. Laziadis was cursing.

“God damn it, the whole base will have heard that!”

“We just have to move quick,” Valotis replied in a hushed tone, though he was certain the dictator was still very much asleep, “Let’s just kill the bastard and get the hell out.”

Laziadis quickly crossed the surprisingly bare room, until he was stood beside the bed in which the Italian lay. The assassin stared in disgust. Even when sleeping, the tyrant’s features remained in an expression of hatred and distain.

“Get the hell on with it!” Valotis hissed to the other Greek. “Soldiers will be here any minute.”

Laziadis pulled a long dagger from the sheath at his belt. He gripped the weapon’s dark handle with both hands, and raised the knife high above Evola’s still form.

“Go to hell, κοπρίτης” Laziadis spat, and brought down the knife.

And then suddenly he was reeling backwards, screaming as white hot pain from his arms overwhelmed his senses. A silver flash streaked upwards across his vision, and he stumbled backwards and fell onto his side, howling in agony. Laziadis stared at the bloody stumps where his forearms previously had been, and continued to cry out as the figure in the bed rose quickly.

Valotis turned from the doorway in surprise, and shouted as he saw Laziadis fall, and the figure of Julius Evola rise to stand from his bed, a silver lance in hand. The Italian stepped over Laziadis’s writhing form, and brought his sword up before him, pointed at Valotis.

“You dare try to kill me, you miserable dog?” Evola snarled.

Valotis stepped backwards, fumbled at his belt and drew his own long dagger. He held it up before him, and met Evola’s sword as his opponent swung at Valotis. The blades connected with a sharp clang, and Evola kept up the attack. Valotis’s mind raced as he continued to parry the other man’s thrusts. Everything had gone wrong. But if he could kill the other man, this could be corrected-

A thrust from Evola narrowly missed the assassin’s torso, before Valotis beat it aside. He then went on the offensive, striking out attempting to impale the dictator, who dodged or blocked his attacks. The two fought, metal clashing against metal as Laziadis’s screams died down. Crazily, Valotis thought, he seemed outmatched by the mad leader before him, who blocked all of the Greek’s attacks and kept up his own hard-to-avoid assaults.

After what seemed like an age of sparring, a blow from Evola caught Valotis in the arm, who dropped his sword with a yell. The Italian then kicked out with a yell, booting Valotis in the stomach and forcing him heavily to his knees. It was then that Italian soldiers finally arrived, guns at the ready. They stopped, seeing the scene before them, of one assassin lying dead bled out on the floor, and another on his knees at the mercy of Il Duce.

“Take this Muslim scum, and stop and nothing until you find out the names of every one of the bastards who desire me dead!” Evola raged. He struck out, and Valotis took a blow to the face and fell onto his side.

“You eastern dog,” Evola spat down at him, “You’ll stop at nothing to avert the end of your cursed race!”

Valotis tried to stare defiantly up at the tyrant, and saw only the bottom of a boot as it came down and struck him in the face, knocking him out cold.