by Joe Ducie
As he moved at the head of assault group, he muttered and twisted my fingers into patterns, bones cracking and healing, cracking and healing, old magic (and here I didn’t know a better word, for it wasn’t Will light, but ancient incantation) that dispelled the traps and the energy barriers as we approached them, clearing a path.
Our ascent up the tower was not waylaid a moment by the myriad protections, placed over centuries, impregnable even during the Tome Wars. Vrail and the others gave me stern, startled glances under their battle-grim set jaws and hard eyes. What I was doing was beyond any of them, and they knew it.
One thing to want me on the throne, I thought. Another to see the reality.
“If we don’t win this,” Vrail breathed. “We’re all for the executioner’s block before sunset.” He laughed, high and clear, a sound I’d heard often during the Tome Wars. Sanity seeping somewhere silly.
A barrage of weapon’s fire met us in the corridor outside of the grand throne room. Oblivion dealt with it, turning the guns and staff weapons to liquid metal with gritted teeth around a bloody smile. The world took on a red haze and I knew if I looked in a mirror I’d see that my eyes had turned wholly crimson. Lord Oblivion with eyes of blood… He wisely kept from looking at Vrail and the others, keeping his cover intact, and slaughtered anyone who stood in his way—and some that didn’t, turning to flee as he approached and their nerve broke.
The doors into the throne room were sealed. Oblivion laughed, calmed down a touch, the red haze receded, and slammed his fist against the golden doors, which stood thirty feet tall. Some power in his hands made that knock echo like a thunderclap. Centuries of dust and cobwebs fell from the eaves and vaults high above.
Not by the hairs on his chinny, chin, chin, I thought. Beyond, I sensed Faraday and his men arming themselves, gearing up for the assault.
Oblivion sighed and took a step back. Power rushed down through my body as he raised his boot and slammed the heel into the doors.
A burst of shock and energy reverberated into the doors and they were flung open, wrenched from their hinges, broken and useless.
The ornate white chamber on the topmost floor of the Fae Palace, as vast as an ancient Roman pantheon, was cast in light from high arched windows amidst pristine pillars of marbled stone. Fancy as shit.
The Dragon Throne, in the guarded heart of the chamber, was made of black iron and set upon a crystal dais. Legend held that the throne was forged from the bones of an ancient dragon, an emissary of the violent Everlasting (which I now knew to be true), and sucked in daylight like a possessed shadow. A part of me, and not a small part, heard the seat whispering my name, as it had done ever since King Morrow named me his rightful successor in the final days of the Tome Wars.
The tiered stands at the edges of the throne chamber, marble, of course, in keeping with the opulence and the façade, rose up to the cheap seats and was, thankfully, empty. I had a feeling things were about to get messy. Messier.
King Jon Faraday sat on his throne surrounded by twenty Knights Infernal with their blades drawn. As expected, Arbiter and advisor to the king, Fenton Creed, commanded the guard. A psychopath of a man, gifted with the greatest natural talent for Will ever seen. Before Astoria’s mantle and Oblivion’s possession, that was. He was tall, rake-thin, and rather unintimidating at first glance. Also at second and third glance. But he possessed the strongest known Will in Forget. His frame belied the fact that he could incinerate legions with his mind. If it came down to a direct battle of Will with him, I would be wiped from existence, smashed like a fly.
“Declan,” Jon Faraday said. “Stop this. Now.”
Oblivion strode forward to face the strongest Will practitioners in the Story Thread as if he were going to stomp on some kittens. I felt Vrail and the others hesitate, only briefly, before joining him in his stride.
Power gathered. Like storm clouds or a flash flood, hoo-boy, did power gather.
Fenton stepped forward, smirking, and met Oblivion three quarters of the way across the chamber toward the Dragon Throne. He’d grown a moustache since last I’d seen him, thin and coiled like the rest of him, curled at the ends He looked absurd… confident.
I knew I was about to watch him die. I would have warned him, if I could.
Fenton smirked. “I’ve wanted to do this for over seven years,” he whispered. “Ever since you started making a name for yourself in the Tome Wars, you arrogant prick.”
Oblivion crossed my arms over my chest and raised an eyebrow. “You are the powerful one, yes?” He nodded to himself and then extended his arms, palms outwards. “You get one shot. Just one. Make it count. Though know this—if you take it and I survive, I will reciprocate in kind.”
Fenton blinked and stepped back. He frowned and then resolved that frown into grim certainty.
“I’m sorry, Declan,” Jon Faraday said from his throne, and he actually sounded like he meant it. I suppose we were family, if nothing else, and if this were the end we could own the truth.
Fenton stepped back again, on the defensive, and held his hands about six inches apart. He gathered power, a great deal of power, in a sphere of crackling green energy. Even from distance, even imprisoned in the back of my own mind, I could feel the heat and the menace coming off that orb—enough to blow up one of the damn moons circling the planet.
Vrail and the others stepped aside, wisely, and made to attack.
Oblivion waved them away with a warning glance and nodded, encouraged, Fenton’s attack.
You can’t beat them with strength, I thought, mostly to myself, because Oblivion wasn’t listening. You have to stand, be true, and hope with a great deal of luck…
Fenton unleashed his sphere of energy and it shot through the air faster than a bullet. The sphere struck me in the chest and exploded in a torrent of emerald-green fire that absorbed my entire body. The flames burnt, licked cool at my skin, but unlike attacks in the past, like the recent Infernal Blade that had sliced a chunk out of my bicep, Oblivion had had more than enough time to prepare for it.
He revelled in the shower of green flame, the energy cool and refreshing, and when the fire faded and the chamber came back into view, Fenton Creed staggered back as if struck a solid and true blow with a fist.
“How on earth—” he began, and then stopped himself and began to prepare another sphere to hurl.
Oblivion grinned. “My turn,” he said, and clicked my fingers. An invisible wave of energy rippled outwards, arced back inwards as it found the inside track, and focused on Fenton.
At the last moment, Fenton abandoned his attack and produced a shield to deflect the blow, his palm raised.
The shield was quick work, sloppy, but fuelled by the immense reservoir of strength within his mind. Like I said, he had access to more Will light than the next hundred Knights, including me, put together.
But Lord Oblivion had that much and more again, and aeons of ageless hate in which to perfect his talent. The blow that struck Fenton would have levelled a mountain.
But to his credit, Fenton weathered the blast. He wasn’t an Arbiter of the Knights Infernal just on power alone—that rank took talent, skill, true ability. His hand crumpled under the blast and the ends of his moustache were burnt away in the heat. He fell to his knees and blood poured from his mangled hand that had absorbed most of the energy and diverted it elsewhere. His eyes were wide, feared, and he swallowed hard.
Oblivion raised his hand again, a question hanging in the air.
Fenton buckled and did something I never expected. He hurled himself sideways into nothing, fleeing across the Story Thread—but untethered. Something all Knights were trained how to do, though always with an anchor, such as one of the worldly tomes—books made into real worlds.
Fenton ripped open a dark tear in the air directly to the Void. We’d all been guilty of that from time to time, but it was certain death for most. For me, I’d been cursed. Tia Moreau had suffered the same. And Tal, sweet Tal… so much the wors
e for her.
Fenton fled like a coward and Oblivion grunted.
Up on the Dragon Throne, surrounded by his dwindling guard, Jon Faraday paled as my eyes met his. He slumped back into his chair, knowing the jig was up, and then stood again and clenched his fists.
“So, a fight then.”
It was a short one.
Oblivion didn’t even participate, instead letting Vrail and my lieutenants do the dirty work. In a way, that was for the best, as they subdued where they could instead of killing. After two quick minutes, during which one mighty pillar in the eastern tiered seating fell with a crash, the marble along the ground dug deep with furrows and running with rivers of molten stone, the battle was over.
Vrail and the others wrestled Jon Faraday from the Dragon Throne and cleared a path for me.
Oblivion contemplated the dark iron chair, the only thing in the chamber that wasn’t pure and white, and then stepped up the dais to stand before it. He ran his hand just above the cold steel, the bones of the old dragon, and snorted.
All this struggle… over so petty a thing, he said. Why this is important to you, I’ll never fathom.
‘You’ve no right to sit in that throne,’ I said. ‘None.’
“And yet,” he whispered. “I’m going to do just yet. Unless you wish to barter Astoria’s grace? Surrender her power to me, Declan, and I’ll kill you now. I’ll take yon Vrail as my host, instead. He’s far prettier than you.”
I—and Vrail—were getting the short end of that deal. ‘Not a chance.’
Oblivion sighed. He turned to regard the chamber, looking around the space he had so cleverly and so quickly overtaken. I sensed his disgust. My brother and those Knights that had survived were on their knees before the throne, Vrail and the others standing watch.
Beyond the chamber, the sounds of Ascension City under siege and attack echoed across the landscape.
“Your grace,” Vrail said, and was the first to bow to me. “We’ll need to have you fitted for a crown.” He laughed that insane laugh again, and I thought perhaps the only allies I could count on were the insane.
Oblivion stepped down from the dais, leaving the throne for the moment, still unseated, and regarded them all.
“We should inform the city of your victory,” Vrail said, staring at me a touch nervously. “Declan? Do you hear me?”
Oblivion looked up, blinked, and nodded slowly. “See it done.”
CHAPTER NINE
THE RIGHTFUL KING OF THE KNIGHTS INFERNAL
‘Always read the fine print’
An hour later, the Fae Palace and the city was ours without further contest on Oblivion’s part, though my lieutenants and squads out in the city were kept rather busy—and would be for days and weeks to come, if my rebellion wasn’t to suffer an insurrection of its own. Putting Jon Faraday to death, publically, seemed to be the best possible salve for that burn.
But before death and ruin. Further death and ruin.
Vrail, once more proving his worth, hijacked the emergency communication system and used a handheld camera, like a mobile phone, to broadcast my face standing above Jon Faraday bound and defeated before the Dragon Throne, all across the city and to the garrisons on distant worlds. The fighting slowed and stopped across the greater quarters, small battles continued in other, outlying districts, but the message was clear.
The leadership had changed.
Get on board or die.
Declan Hale was king of the Knights Infernal now.
Or so everyone thought—apart from me, Tal, Tia, and Annie, no one in existence, no one who would help, knew I was possessed by Lord Oblivion, and for all that mattered, for all intents and purposes, the Knights Infernal had been defeated by their greatest enemies.
Not so long as I live, I thought. So long as I still fight, he hasn’t won a damn thing.
The lords and ladies, those that had fled into safe rooms, bunkers within the Fae Palace, and those that had fled across worlds during the assault on the tower, were recalled. Everyone of power and influence—ministers, secretaries, the royal court, the battalion leaders and commanders of the fleets—were brought to kneel before me in the grand chamber. And still, Oblivion hadn’t actually sat on the Dragon Throne. I wondered if he didn’t like its construction.
He had a servant bring him a stein of amber whisky, however, which he drank and sloshed as he commanded the rich and powerful. None of them argued, they were sycophants and survivors—and some, no doubt, loyal to Declan Hale, actual supporters of mine—and once they had sworn their allegiance they sat up in the tiered seating galleries surrounding the throne to watch the shit show unfold.
Jon Faraday watched all of this on his knees, his massive arms bound behind his back, his eyes blazing into every traitor, every soul, who so easily abandoned him.
All said and done, it was about seventy percent of the full court. The other thirty, if not already off world when the assault began, would either trickle back in and swear their loyalty, or had decided against returning—for fear of the beheading that would follow when they refused to respect the new king.
“That’s the last of them, your grace,” Vrail said. He’d cleaned himself up a little, wiped away most of the blood on his grizzled face.
Oblivion hadn’t even bothered. My hands and arms, my shirt, were crimson. I couldn’t see my face, but I got the feeling—based on the horrified looks of the lords and ladies that had sworn loyalty in frightened whispers—that I wore a mask of blood.
Oblivion nodded to Vrail and climbed the dais leading up to the throne. He turned and the court fell silent, he regarded Jon Faraday and the seven others who had fought to defend him. They all glared defiance, a look in their eyes of knowing death was just around the corner. Behind them stood the Knights who had led my assault on the Fae Palace, grim-faced but resolute. They knew what was coming, too.
Oblivion grinned and crossed my arms over my chest.
“Kill them,” the Everlasting said and stood resplendent before the Dragon Throne. He stood tall, proud, arrogant and eternal—every inch a king. “Take their heads from their necks and toss them from the ramparts.”
And then he sat upon the Dragon Throne, regal and straight-backed, arms on the rests, the most powerful being in the Story Thread, the strength of ages and the largest fleets of ships, the strongest armies, at his command.
The throne… growled.
And the seat shifted underneath him.
I felt a bolt of surprise, raw anger, and then a band of dark metal shot from a retractable recess in the arm of the chair and sealed itself around his wrist. A manacle of glittering black-glass, obsidian-like-stone, snapped into place around his/my arm, tight enough to hurt, to burn. Tendrils of acrid black smoke rose from beneath the manacle—like the score of an Infernal Blade.
Star iron, I had time to think before I was thrust forward in my mind, out of the brig, Oblivion howling past me in the void, shock and rage and hate, our roles once more reversed as they had been switched by Saturnia in the citadel.
I stumbled forward, back in control of my body, the enchanted manacle around my wrist granting some sort of… reprieve? Or honest to god dominance over the Everlasting? That should have been impossible, but then what had the Queen said to Alice: ‘Why, sometimes I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.’
Funny what thoughts sprung to mind during the most dire of moments. For me, dire often made me think of a good book or two.
I didn’t have time to dwell. I was in control. I was me again, even if Oblivion was still in my head, pounding against the walls of the brig in shock, confusion, and rage.
“Stop!” I rasped, as the blades were set to fall on the necks of my brother and his advisors. My voice sounded tight, harsh, as if I hadn’t spoken in over a week. In a way, I hadn’t.
The air in the chamber seemed to gasp. In the tiered seating, the nobles of the city exchanged startled, worried glances. Here’s a mad king, they thought, upon his
mad throne.
“Let’s not chop heads off today,” I decided, though thanks to Lord Fucking Oblivion I was now king upon the Dragon Throne, ruler of the Knights Infernal. I’d wanted this, yes, but not this way.
My mind raced, looking for answers, desperate to make the right move. Beset on all sides. Oblivion hurled himself against the walls of the brig, a storm of hate and power, thrashing against the walls of the prison in my mind.
RELEASE ME!
“Take them to the…” Already a headache was brewing. HALE! The star iron manacle, the magical little band that had restored my control, was frost-cold against my skin. Biting and burning. Which was far better than Oblivion being in control. Less painful on many fronts. I cleared my throat. “Take them to the secured quarters, hold them as imprisoned… guests of the Fae Palace, and then bring me some painkillers. Prescription stuff, please. Let’s not pretend otherwise here.”
King Faraday, my brother, glared at me. Of all he had expected, this wasn’t part of the plan. His arms tensed, bulging with muscle. “Are you well, brother?” he asked, spite and hate. He glared at the star iron manacle twisted around my wrist. Like me, he was lost. He had sat on this throne for half a decade and more, and the first time I sat something unexpected happened. That had to irk. “Does the throne suit you ill?”
“I didn’t want this, Jon, not like this,” I said. “One of the Everlasting possessed my mind. He’s in there right now, howling. It was Lord Oblivion who took your throne, not me.” That got some tongues wagging up in the cheap seats. “I have the Everlasting under control… for now.”
Faraday scoffed. “If that is true, then hurl yourself into the nearest black hole and be done with it.”
“Oh don’t tempt me…” I muttered, thoughts still racing. I glanced at the guards, the Knights loyal to me, that had, in every sense of the word, committed treason for me—for Declan Hale. If I fled now, abandoned the throne, they would be purged.
“Vrail,” I said, his face a stony mask of confusion. He believed me. “My friend. See them safely to the secured quarters. Give them every courtesy. I’ll explain once your return.”