The Gods' Games Volume 1 & 2: Graphic Edition (The Gods' Games Series)

by Quil Carter

  Malagant felt uneasy. He looked at the black tome with the silver writing. It seemed ominous now, almost haunting to look at. Like it was emanating some dark force of magic. Malagant didn’t trust it anymore.

  “We should have kept looking for Ben,” Malagant whispered, glad Teal couldn’t hear his admission.

  Anagin didn’t answer him for a moment; he was looking at the prophecies again. “We’ll send out search parties, offer a reward. What is done is done, but we will try our best.” Anagin paused; he glanced over at the dozing Teal as well. “Malagant, if the book is oddly writing like this. If more things are not like they seem… especially if you did receive the sapphire pendant back–”

  Anagin’s expression was grave, his yellow eyes looked into Malagant’s blue ones, showing a sorrow in them that made Malagant’s eyes start to burn. “–I can no longer reassure you that Ben is alive.”

  44

  If anyone wanted to find King Erick, they knew to check his chambers. For the last week this is how it had been and was now common knowledge throughout King Erick’s court. If you needed Erick to sign off on something: chambers. If you needed counsel on how to handle something: chambers. Erick was hiding out and he was not to be disturbed.

  Every time there was a knock on the door, Sweeny would spring into action.

  He would grab Erick’s mantle or surcoat and quickly dress him as he stood up and stared dazed and defeated ahead.

  Sweeny would quickly brush his hair, wipe the sweat from his brow, and give him a shot of straight corn alcohol to snap him out of his lethargic state. Then Sweeny would run and tell the guards to bring them in, then run back to finish Erick’s primping.

  By then Erick would have regained his kingly air and he would fake it and pretend he cared until they were satisfied.

  Then they would leave, and Erick would flop back into his velvet chair with a sigh and continue to stare at the fire. Or he would move to the balcony to stare at the mountains that surrounded them, or the snow-capped trees below. Sweeny hated when he was out on the balcony, the ground was a hundreds of feet down and he was always afraid his king would jump. He always stayed in the doorway arches when Erick was outside, ready to rush to him to pull him down if his king did decide he’d had enough.

  This new mage though, Mage Nikken, was happy. Nikken, a feroe elf in his mid-twenties with wavy black hair and prominent purple eyes, would prance around like an idiot whenever Nyte brought him over to observe Erick’s body language and movements. He was already acting like he was king which made Erick even sadder. Sweeny disliked him and was glad when Nyte became too busy with their eventual departure to bring him around more than once or twice a day.

  Eventual departure!

  Sweeny felt a shiver of excitement. He had always wanted to get out of the Pyre. Now he was about to go on an adventure, in a way he was a part of the prophecies! Even if they weren’t real prophecies.

  Whenever Sweeny thought about it, he felt a rush of both anticipation and fear. Then an overwhelming feeling of responsibility; he would have to help his king through this. He had known for a long time that Erick was human and now that Erick was going to be leaving the Pyre to go out into the rough world of Alcove, he was going to need Sweeny’s help. Erick had no skills for living outside of the castle, even during the rebellion Erick had spent most of his time inside of war tents reiterating orders from who they now knew were Xalis and Darsheive. Erick had seen little of the world outside the castle.

  But, then again, Sweeny had little experience outside of the Pyre himself, but at least he’d been kicked around for most of his life and had lived a rough existence. So he would become used to it quicker than his king.

  His king had lived a comfortable life in royalty; Sweeny knew this because he had been the one to make Erick’s life as easy as possible. He would continue to do so once they left, even if Nikken was now going to take over as king.

  Because…

  Sweeny felt his cheeks blush as he looked over at his king who was sitting in his usual chair. Ever since that moment between the two of them before Nyte had interrupted – his feelings towards Erick had started to change. Well, in a way they had been changing even before that incident, he just hadn’t realized it until he’d become face-to-face with the prospect of his king being intimate with him.

  And they would have been intimate… maybe not all the way, Sweeny didn’t know how far it would’ve went but even what they had been doing before Nyte came, was far.

  Thinking about it made Sweeny have to take a deep breath. He’d never even kissed an elf before, or even seen one aroused, and here he had been with his mouth over the king’s penis. He couldn’t believe it and it had been several minutes that he’d replayed in his mind over and over again.

  Especially in the privacy of his bed chambers when the king was asleep or he could sneak off for several minutes. He’d suspected he’d broken records with how many times he’d relieved his own tension since that had happened. At first he’d only thought about what he’d done with the king but now he had an entire fantasy in his head about Erick taking him.

  But nothing like that had ever happened again, and it had never been mentioned between them either. Erick was too stressed out and too depressed to do anything but stare at the flames and drink.

  And that’s exactly what he was doing now.

  Erick was tipping his wine glass from one side to the other, his eyes transfixed on the flames burning strong in the fireplace. He looked like he was in a trance. This was just his normal state now to Sweeny’s sadness. Hours would go by and he would only blink, or occasionally take a drink from his goblet. Sweeny made sure he was always there to refill it once it got low. Erick would sometimes break his gaze to nod at him, but mostly he just stared.

  And Sweeny stood beside him, ever vigilant… and waited to be needed. Though he wanted his king to talk, he also was relieved for a quiet day. Lately when Erick started talking, he started ranting and getting angry. Everything Sweeny said back seemed to enrage him further. Then the next thing he knew things were being flung at him. Sweeny never dodged the objects being flung, and now he even made a point to step into their path. Erick got mad when he missed, he didn’t want to make him mad; Erick was stressed out enough as it was.

  Sweeny looked over when there was a knock on the chamber doors and sprang into action. As he ran around to gather Erick’s things Erick grudgingly got up, still drinking his wine and held out his arms for Sweeny to dress him.

  After Sweeny did his primping and quickly brushed his king’s hair, he pulled the heavy oak doors open and saw a Sentinel standing there, fully dressed in polished steel armour, plated with Alcove’s emblem.

  “Steward Zoltan requests a meeting,” the guard said with a bow. He looked nervous himself; he knew the king grew ill-tempered with every knock of the door.

  Sweeny knew what this was going to be regarding, he gave the guard a pained look but all he got in return was an apologetic shrug.

  “Send him in,” Sweeny said with a defeated sigh. If it was up to him he’d send the guard away, but he was only a squire, he had no say. So he turned around and pushed the door closed behind him.

  “Your Grace… it’s Zoltan,” Sweeny whispered, immediately he braced himself for the goblet being thrown.

  There was only one reason for Zoltan visiting; he came every day, sometimes twice. ‘You must take care of Lord Philrick. Lord Philrick is ill, if you want the information you must either do it soon, or implement the torturer to do it for you.’

  “Show him in,” Erick’s quiet, distant voice said. He was looking out the double oak doors leading to the balcony, a cold wind flowing through the warm chambers. The mountains surrounded them, covered in snow that trailed down to the trees below. It was an overcast day with a promise of more snow.

  Soon there was another small knock on the door. Lighter and delicate. Zoltan was an old steward with a long beard, and watery blue eyes that sagged with age. He had survived Eri
ck’s purge and was a loyal elf that Sweeny didn’t mind.

  Sweeny let him in. The old elf nodded at him, he was carrying in his hands rolls of wrapped parchment.

  “Your Grace… I do hate to–”

  “I will see Philrick now.”

  Both Sweeny and Zoltan looked at Erick in surprise.

  Erick turned around; he was holding his black ivory crown in both hands. The expression on his face was blank, but his red eyes seemed alight. It gave Sweeny a chill.

  “N-now, Your Grace?”

  “Now.” Erick placed the crown on his head.

  The steward gave a quick nod and stepped back towards the arch of the door. The king always exited first unless you were a Sentinel protecting him.

  Sweeny was frozen in place for a moment, before he sprang back to life and got Erick his woollen cloak.

  “I will not need it,” Erick said simply. He walked out the door and behind him Zoltan followed. This would be the first time King Erick had exited his chambers in a week.

  Sweeny watched him go with wide eyes. “My king, the towers are cold…”

  “Come, Sweeny.”

  Sweeny dropped the cloak, he looked around at the guards hoping to exchange a confused glance but they were looking forward, stoic of face and rigid as Sentinels were. With the clinking of moving armour, and the shuffling of chain mail, they started following the king.

  Erick was a new version of himself as he walked down the heavily-decorated hallway, his black cloak with a draken embroidered on the back, swaying behind him with every step.

  The hall seemed to light up from his presence. The stained glass windows shone rainbow spectrums as he passed, the huge paintings looked down with muted respect. Everyone’s eyes were on Erick as the king walked confidently towards the prison towers, and no one dared say a word.

  Sweeny struggled to keep up, his silk shoes hitting the green carpet runner soundlessly; a stark contrast from the steel clanging of the Sentinels around him. He felt out of place, like he didn’t belong. Erick was his in the chambers, but he had become Alcove’s king as soon as he stepped out into the castle. The ranting and raving wreck Sweeny had been taking care of was long gone now. The king had risen again.

  The song of Erick’s entourage rang in the halls, echoing off the high painted ceilings and carved stone archways. Soon though, the detailed paintings, the marble statues depicting everything from animals to kings, disappeared. The archways, once beautiful-veined marble and granite, became wood and the luma lamps, torches.

  They were getting closer to the prisoners’ towers and dungeons. Sweeny watched the wooden and iron doors as they all passed them by. Some had slashes in them, others had been burned, some of the iron rungs had been melted and warped from gods knows what.

  A twist started in Sweeny’s gut as they all followed the king. Erick still not slowing down, he was walking as fast as he could, his head held high.

  They walked up a flight of stairs, bare and cold, unswept and at an awkward arch, then finally past the last coloured banner. The walls became bare after, just exposed brick with a chill from the mountains’ winds.

  Sweeny shivered, wishing he himself had brought a cloak, and wishing Erick had his. His king always complained of being cold, even if he was a human now his blood was Dashavian.

  As they all got to the top of another awkward set of stairs, Sweeny watched as Erick pushed his goblet into Zoltan’s hand. In front of them was a wooden door surrounded by three guards, keeping a constant vigil on the former lord above them.

  A guard with long black hair who was unfortunate in appearance fumbled with keys as he unlocked the iron tower door.

  Erick waited, silent. When the door opened he turned around.

  “My squire,” Erick commanded. His voice was so strong and ringing it made Sweeny feel faint, and the feelings that had been growing inside of him swell. He had missed his king. “Is Midin waiting for me?”

  Zoltan gave a nod, still holding the goblet in his hand. “He never leaves, Your Grace. He is ready.”

  Sweeny obediently walked up the rest of the stairs and took his place next to Erick. The king turned around and started ascending the spiralling stairs ahead of them, narrower and tighter than the stairs had been to Xalis and Darsheive’s tower, though these ones were at least lit with torches.

  And there was no fear of metal spikes shooting out from invisible traps.

  Sweeny was handed a torch by Zoltan and he began to follow his king up the stairs. Erick’s long shadow stretched out on the brick wall beside them; the black ivory crown’s spikes three times their length, making the king’s silhouette look almost demenos-like.

  Midin was waiting for them at the top of the tower. The Dashavian had a long creased face, greasy black hair and buggy red eyes that seemed slightly off center. He was hunched over, his hands clasped to his waist. When he saw Erick and Sweeny his mouth split into a stained-toothed grin.

  “He comes, my liege comes,” he hissed nodding his head. “I was told you may; yes… I was. I prepared him in your favourite way, Your Grace.”

  The air was heavy, and it stank of dirty bodies and stale blood. There were torches lit all around them, but it did nothing to quell the horrible feel the circular room gave off.

  Midin’s bed was in a corner, stuffed with stale hay and stained with dirt and body oil. In a corner, a chamber pot bucket and tables full of rusty tools and blood-stained rags. Above them were dark wooden beams, supporting the upper floor, where Philrick was.

  Sweeny’s eyes darted over to a dark area of the round room as he saw movement, but it was only an old dog sleeping in the corner. His dopy eyes were watching the activity around him, with minimal interest.

  “Where is he?” Erick asked.

  Midin nodded, he walked towards the tools and spread his hands. “Above, above with my treasures, Your Grace. Do pick what you need. I have new ones, all the way from Kariss. Tell me if you wish them explained, my king.”

  Sweeny hovered by the entrance to the tower room, he felt no urge to go any further. He had met Midin several times; he had been a gift from King Shex Salix and King Aspius Amaus from Xal’Crith. A seasoned torturer and inventor of torture devices. He had brought his ‘treasures’ with him all the way from Xal’Crith and had had the time of his life torturing whomever Erick had sent to him. He worshipped the ground Erick walked on; the Dashavian usurper gave him even more freedom than the kings of Xal’Crith had, which apparently was saying a lot. He had a never-ending string of ‘projects’ brought to him, and he was good at getting results.

  The last one, if he recalled correctly, had been the treasoner Warderon Fraust, Lord Fraust’s brother, handed in by Hold Lord Fraust himself. Midin had been excited, rumoured to have a new treasure to try which involved honey, insects, and time. The cooks would fill Sweeny in on the details from time to time but he had tried to forget about them. All he knew is that Midin had requested a lot of honey and cream.

  The lord’s brother’s screams echoed all through the east end of the tower, making elves shudder in their beds as they heard him. The court who lived in the eastern chambers whispered that on stormy nights his screams could still be heard, travelling on the wind to his brother’s ears in the west side of the Frey, haunting him into madness for betraying his kingdom and his hold to Erick. Lord Fraust was the only lord in Alcove that was aligned with King Erick, not just faking it to keep the peace.

  Erick admired a few of the tools in his hands. They were freshly oiled, and the ones with knife edges, sharpened. “What is this one?” He held up a rather nasty-looking instrument, it looked like animal claws made out of iron, imbedded in a piece of warped wood.

  “Ahh, ahh, the Jare’s Paw,” Midin nodded approvingly. He gently slid them over Erick’s hands and directed them into a fist. “For slashing, my wonderful king.”

  Erick balled his fist and raised the claws up; he turned around and looked at Sweeny. “Come here.”

  Sweeny obediently stepped
forward, though he couldn’t hide the fear on his face. With a hesitant step, he walked onto the hay-covered floor, and stopped in front of his king. He braced himself, expecting to be slashed.

  Surprisingly, Erick took Sweeny’s hand and held his claws up against the torture tool. “Stronger than your claws, but I will always admire hibrid claws. Mine are not as strong; malkah cannot climb trees as the elf-cats can. They are thicker, yet they do not look so. They are pale and delicate but sharp.” Erick held out his own hands, his fingers were longer, and his claws short, pointed and black. “Mine are rather useless.”

  “No, my lord, but a malkah is a strong elf, much stronger than a hibrid, steel of heart, great of magic ability, durable. In Dashavia, a hibrid wilts under the heat, a Dashavian stands tall in the blistering sun. His skin reflects the light, his eyes–”

  “We are not in Dashavia though. We are in the North, and still they made me a–” Erick cut himself off. He dropped Sweeny’s hand and picked up another tool. “What is this?” The device had a long handle, and a top that looked like a closed tulip, or segmented pear.

  “Oh, that, that is a horrible device, my lord,” Midin cackled. “Can I speak freely when I tell you what it does?”

  “You may.”

  “You shove it up the backside, Your Grace,” Midin said, his eyes lit up. He reached over and pulled down on the handle as Erick held it. Sweeny flinched as the top segmented part opened up like a flower in bloom. He then twisted a screw, making the segments inch out bit by bit. The ends ferocious and pointed, the middle a steel rod with ribbed iron teeth. “You twist the screw once there is resistance; it will tear up their asses with every turn stretching it apart until it punctures. Lots of blood, and screaming, if you pull it out, their rectum will come out with it.”

  Erick’s eyes lit up like Midin’s. He smiled. “Perhaps on a more attractive prisoner, I don’t want to see any part of Philrick’s ass.”