In his dark hours, Corza sometimes suspected the king was fully aware of his attempts and conspiracies to overthrow the man. That he only kept Corza around to show him how futile it all was and how insignificant his existence; that it was never spoken about, never mentioned out loud, just to torment him.
Then logic and anger would push away such insecure thoughts. There was no way that Lord Rictor knew of his plans. He had always been careful, making certain that not even the smallest connection could be traced back to him. Lord Rictor might not find him pleasant company to have around, but Corza's skill in long-term military planning was indispensable. He could thank his miserable family for that skill at least, he thought bitterly.
No, he was certain the Stone King would never permit any such schemes. He would surely have put Corza to death as an example. The man was not exactly stable.
Corza thought back on his appointment to the position of High General. It was no wonder Lord Rictor distrusted all those around him. At the time, many years ago, treason had run deep in the highest ranks of those surrounding the Stone King. In one night, the entire high council of generals had been massacred after an attempt on the Stone King’s life. Not even the servants had been able to escape the horrors of the bloodbath; not a single one of the staff had seen the next day’s sunrise. The only known survivor was the Stone King himself, who was said to be a creature of the underworld when they found him, rambling incomprehensibly and waving his sword around, his face and clothes completely covered in blood.
Still, Corza could not deny that the Stone King was more easily agitated these last few months than during a decade of preparations. Where before Corza’s methods to get things done were ignored or, at the most, met with a sneer or icy silence, now he had to be careful not to get his brains smashed in by his lordship’s right arm.
Perhaps it’s the stress of the invasion, Corza tried to convince himself.
After the Bloodnight, as people had named the massacre, the Stone King had not shown himself for several months while selections were made to replace those lost—a process that put Corza in his current position of power. But Lord Rictor was nothing like Corza expected; rumor even said he was a completely different man when he finally emerged after his months of solitude. It was after his reappearance that Lord Rictor brought his Darkened—his very own murderous king’s guard—to life.
Corza figured the stress of the situation had really done a number on the old fool, as any man who spoke to phantoms could hardly be deemed sane. Still, the Stone King’s cold, calculating way of ruling the Dark Continent always prevailed over the unsettling nature of those abrupt, private discussions.
Far below, in front of the harbor, lay the Stone King’s ship. The Behemoth was an immense vessel, larger than any other ship in their flotilla and big enough to hold hundreds of men. It was currently packed with Darkened and ghol’ms. The Silent Shadows—as the tongueless Darkened were sometimes referred to by the common folk—had a crude gesture system, supported by a variety of hisses and grunts. In combination with their training, it was enough to run a smooth ship without the need for any dedicated sailors.
The Behemoth had arrived shortly after Corza and his men began their assault on the anchored ships. It was an unexpected visit; Corza had figured the Stone King would not involve himself in the early stages of the invasion. Throughout the entire battle, at sea and on land, Corza felt those calm, calculating eyes judging his every decision.
His lordship had not once left the deck of the Behemoth during the fighting, nor sent any of his men to assist. But now that most of the city was in their hands, the Stone King had apparently decided it was time to visit the occupied castle. Corza watched the man make his way up the main street, accompanied by a full squad of Darkened.
What’s he up to now? thought Corza, narrowing his eyes at the silhouette with the red and black cloak coming up the hill.
The Stone King took his time reaching the castle. It was as if he was taking an afternoon stroll, only instead of admiring the flowers, Lord Rictor was surveying those captured during the fighting. Men, women and children were brought to the main street and forced to kneel in the gutters that still ran red with the blood of the fallen. Anyone who resisted was put to the blade, their blood added to the streams running downhill.
Corza saw a woman spit at Lord Rictor´s feet. At once a Darkened moved in and slammed the pommel of his sword in her face. She was pulled to her feet screaming and dragged away toward the harbor. Probably to be kept on the ships for entertainment during the upcoming voyages, figured Corza.
He briefly wondered if he should send some men to push a few minecarts down the main street unseen. Maybe he would get lucky and take out his lordship.
No. It would be too risky with this many eyes watching, and he’s already nearing the top of the hill.
Behind Corza, the shouting and grunting continued. The swishing of metal through air mixed with the sound of heavy panting. Every now and then, Corza heard a gasp or a sob from behind the island king. He looked to the side and saw King Baltor, eyes still fixed on him as he shielded his wife and daughter from harm. The king’s hand was on one of his swords, but he had not drawn it yet.
Corza looked at the queen and princess, who were more focused on the scene in the middle of the room than he was. Looking at them, he licked lips gone dry from anticipation. His hand unconsciously moved to his Roc’turr, the sacrificial dagger on his belt.
Such fine lines, both of them. The same gracious figure. When this is all over, perhaps I’ll pay them both a visit. I can keep the mother within earshot while I work on her daughter.
When they forced their way into the throne room, Corza’s crossbowmen had quickly taken out most of the Talkarian soldiers present. But one enemy soldier had been just as quick to strike down any man who held a crossbow. The Talkarian fighter wielded the largest sword Corza had ever seen. It had been a surprise to see such an unusual weapon, especially as the majority of the resisting soldiers had fought with two shorter swords.
King Baltor, his wife and one of his daughters had been at the far end of the throne room when Corza and his men barged in. There was nowhere for them to go. All the exits were covered, and the king was smart enough not to try and make a run for it with his wife and daughter in tow. Had they fled, they surely would have been struck down by one of the waiting Doskovian soldiers.
However, Corza's men found that the Talkarian soldier with the large sword was a force to be reckoned with. Helmet and steel chainmail offered the man some protection, while small steel shoulder pads made certain the soldier could make full use of his arms. His legs and one of his hands were armored so they could be used to stop any incoming attack, even if made by a sword or spear.
The man had single-handedly halted the Doskovian forces from reaching his king, and was now the only soldier left to guard the royal family.
Since the ghol’ms were busy with the fires and clearing the enemy barracks at the other end of the castle, Corza had ordered his men to kill the soldier without much thought. But within moments ten more had lain dead on the floor, the white marble floor slowly coloring bright red as their blood and guts poured from their bodies.
The blade of the large sword looked thick and heavy, but the Talkarian wielded it like it weighed nothing. It cut through Corza’s own soldiers with a sharpness that seemed unlikely for something so thick. The brute had cleaved an unlucky soldier in two with his first strike, completely separating torso from legs. Several other Doskovian soldiers who had attacked at the same time met an equally definite end. Some missed arms or legs, and all lay heavily bleeding on the floor. It seemed the weight and speed of the large sword gave it a momentum that could not be stopped. The last two Doskovian crossbowmen had fired at the lone Talkarian soldier, only to hit air or blade as the fighter dodged and deflected the bolts before striking down those that had taken the shot.
Corza looked back now in time to see a Doskovian soldier venture too close and rec
eive the full force of a downward slash. The blade cut through the side of his neck all the way to the opposite hip in one clean movement.
Most of the time, the Talkarian soldier used both hands to guide his blade. The extended grip provided plenty of space for it, but Corza now saw that the man also used his armored glove to support the blade itself during a swing, giving it additional force should it meet any strong resistance. The man made circular motions with the sword, keeping himself out of reach of his enemies. But he did not merely swing the blade; at times, he let it rest on his shoulder while spinning himself around. He even moved the blade around his neck to the other side, quickly changing directions with the large weapon.
Corza’s men chose that moment to launch a new assault. The Talkarian soldier reacted by ramming his blade straight down onto the floor and using it as a vertical wall to deflect the first attack. He grabbed one man’s incoming sword with his armored hand, ripped it from the soldier’s grip and struck down the attacker with his own weapon. Right away, he threw the sword straight through the neck of a third and kicked the point of his own massive sword to bring it up into full swing again.
Hesitation surged through the group of attackers. Blood had made the floor treacherously slippery, yet the large man’s stance remained as rooted as that of an ancient tree. They circled around the Talkarian fighter like wolves trying to take down a large, dangerous quarry.
The king and his family were being ignored by everyone but the general. None of Corza’s men dared look away from the dangerously long reach of the brute’s sword.
There were too many opponents for the Talkarian soldier to win, but it seemed pride refused to let him surrender to the Doskovian forces. And for every man that falls, there’s another five waiting to take their place.
Corza turned back toward the window again. The fight bored him; the outcome would not change. His own men would keep attacking the lonesome fighter with his monstrous sword to the point of exhaustion. Eventually, they would land a hit, however small, and another, and another, till the Talkarian soldier was losing too much blood and energy to keep on fighting. At that point, one of his soldiers would simply go in for the kill.
Below him, the Stone King entered the castle. Each Doskovian soldier he encountered made certain to properly salute the ruler with a closed fist to the chest. As the party crossed the drawbridge, Corza let out a sigh. He did not look forward to the Stone King’s unpleasant company.
The general had not spoken directly with Lord Rictor for some time; not since he was sent out from the Dark Palace on his assignment to recapture the Tiankong Empire’s dragon egg and punish the traitors who had stolen it.
At the time, Corza had needed all his expertise in groveling to prevent the Stone King from throwing him off the palace balcony. The egg had been his responsibility, and Lord Rictor had not taken his failure lightly. Little did the man know that Corza had always intended for the egg to be stolen—but by his own men, not some sorry excuse for an Aeterran squad.
At least Corza was able to use the opportunity to rid himself of High General Wayler. Being the high general in charge of their homeland security, Koltar Wayler had been one of the bigger obstacles standing in Corza’s way of getting rid of Lord Rictor and taking his place on the throne.
In the official reports that Corza had sent, he deeply regretted that his esteemed fellow high general had fallen victim to enemy forces during the attempt to retrieve the dragon egg. Naturally, he did not fail to report that, however unfortunate, High General Wayler’s incompetence had tipped the battle in the enemy’s favor, resulting in the death of the two Darkened that had accompanied them and the enemy squad being able to flee—with Corza in hot pursuit.
Corza gritted his teeth. He would never admit it, but he had greatly underestimated the small Aeterran squad, and the rapidly-grown dragon had been a very dangerous wildcard in the whole situation. His intent had been to hatch the dragon and keep it for himself; then, once fully grown, to use the beast to rid himself of the Stone King and take over as ruler of the entire Dark Continent. That future seemed less and less likely with each day that passed.
He wondered if the windships he ordered to follow the Aeterran squad had caught up with them yet. If not, he would have to make new arrangements—and quickly, or he would lose the chance to secure that winged menace for himself. But there was no choice but to wait for their report before he could decide his next step.
A shout from the princess snapped Corza out of his thoughts.
“Turak, look out!” she screamed as the Talkarian fighter took a blow to the back.
The big man spun around as his sword flew through the air, barely missing the Doskovian soldier who had heroically tried to stab him in the back. Curiosity getting the better of him, Corza turned around fully, but he was disappointed; the Talkarian's armor had taken most of the damage, though he did see that blood now ran down the man’s arm from a cut on his shoulder.
So, the princess cares for this man. I bet I can use that to my advantage.
Unable to look away from her protector, the princess had a frantic look in her eyes. She clung to her mother as tears ran down her cheeks.
Yes; they might even be lovers. She would be the right age for that.
The door at the other end of the throne room swung open. Corza pushed his thoughts aside and forced himself back to the situation at hand.
Silence fell over the room as the Stone King strode in and looked around. In his wake, several Darkened quickly moved along the walls, all with swords and axes already in hand. Their tattooed faces looked like demons, always watching from the shadows.
“Lord Rictor, what a pleasant surprise,” exclaimed Corza.
“What is going on here? Why is this man still allowed to fight?” said Lord Rictor.
The Doskovian soldiers halted their attack and opened their ranks as the Stone King approached the circle. Fists hit armor in salute. A few soldiers nudged those next to them, whispering words of excitement that the Stone King would grace them with his presence. One or two held their heads down in shame for not finishing the fight sooner.
“That is a fine weapon you have, sir. What is your name?” asked the Stone King in the Terran language.
“Turak,” answered the Talkarian fighter. He was clearly not feeling chatty.
“Well, Turak,” Lord Rictor carefully pronounced, “my name is Lord Leonard Rictor, but you can call me ‘my king,’ or ‘my liege’ if you prefer. Turak, why not lay down that heavy-looking sword of yours and admit defeat? I am sure it feels as heavy as a mountain after all that waving it around.”
The Stone King looked silently at the fighter, who seemed to be taking his time to come up with an answer.
“You are not going to win this, Turak, and you know it. Look at yourself. You are sweaty, bleeding and exhausted. Please allow me to make it easier for you. If you lay your weapon down now, I will permit you to work in the iron mines. We can always use strong men like you.”
Turak looked over his shoulder, locking eyes with the princess. They held a conversation without words, her eyes pleading for him to do as he was told, his trying to make her understand this was never going to end well.
The Talkarian fighter turned back to the pale man in front of him. A fine black cape, a thin black ring around his head, white hair hanging down to the shoulders. The man who had introduced himself as Lord Leonard Rictor was apparently not an image that impressed the fighter.
“Not gonna happen, you bastard!” Turak suddenly shouted.
The Talkarian fighter launched himself forward, using the momentum to bring up his sword and let it fall like heaven's judgment on the invader of Tal’Kabur.
As the blade fell down, Lord Rictor stepped forward, bringing up his right fist. The solid stone arm to which the Stone King owed his title forcefully knocked the incoming sword to the side. The blade landed heavily on the white marble floor, missing its intended target.
Lord Rictor swiftly moved in, his st
one fingers sliding over the sword, pressing it down. Sparks flew from the edge as stone challenged steel. At monstrous speed, the inhuman hand reached up to clasp around the Talkarian fighter’s face and helmet. The princess shrieked as her lover was lifted off his feet and slammed backward onto the marble floor. The Talkarian clawed at the stone arm pinning him to the ground.
“You should have lain down your weapon,” the Stone King said softly, kneeling beside the pinned soldier. The sounds of crumpling metal and cracking bones echoed through the room as Lord Rictor clenched his stone fist and crushed the fighter’s head and helmet.
“No!” screamed the princess.
The queen dragged her daughter to the ground to prevent her from running into Corza's soldiers. She held her close, comforting her even as tears ran down her own cheeks. King Baltor’s knuckles whitened as his hand tightened around his sword grip.
Lord Rictor stood, took out a napkin to wipe the blood off his stone hand and walked toward Corza.
“Milord, to what do we owe this honor? I hadn’t expected you to involve yourself so early in the plan,” said Corza with his most flattering smile.
“High General Setra, so nice to see you again. It seems like you have made it through the day alright. As to why I am here...well, your ability to bring your given assignments to a successful close has not been that great lately, so I wanted to make sure things went as planned here. Speaking of which…was there not another assignment that required your attention?”
It was said in the most casual manner, but Corza felt the weight of the question in the air.
“My lord, perhaps this is not the best time to discuss these matters.” Corza spoke softly, trying to move away from the dangerous topic. Lord Rictor’s face tightened as the man’s stone-cold eyes locked onto his.
“Tell me, High General Setra, when have I ever given you the impression that you can dictate what I should or should not do?”
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