The Star Of Saree

by A. J. STRICKLER

  Never in his life had the crown felt so heavy, or he less like a king. Honor and nobility had drained from him like water from a leaky bucket. What would his father think of him now, cringing before his own nobleman? His mind was made up; it was time he stood his ground with Alexis Serban. He was the king, after all.

  Wiping his sweaty palms on his burgundy and black doublet, Petru seated himself on the Wolf Throne and waited for the baron’s entrance.

  His nervous anticipation was brief. The throne room doors slammed open and Baron Serban entered, followed by several large warriors. The mercenaries were heavily armed and their dark expressions harbored an unmistakable conviction for violence. The nobleman himself had donned an ornate set of Alarusian plate armor. A black cape trimmed in gold hung slack from his shoulders, and a jewel-hilted longsword was strapped to his side. Petru swallowed apprehensively as he studied the baron’s appearance. The contempt Serban held for him was written all over the aristocrat’s face.

  “Have you recaptured the prisoner’s…Your Majesty?”

  “I have sent out several companies of men along with most of the royal guard. They will soon be found,” Petru said, trying to keep his voice even.

  The baron ran his hand over his carefully oiled hair and folded his arms across his chest. “With Pepca involved, I don’t believe your heart is in this hunt, sire. So I have taken it upon myself to dispatch some of my own men to ride down the rebel trash and locate your renegade daughter.” Turning to a blonde giant whose light blue eyes and square face marked him as an Alarusian, the baron motioned towards the door. “Bernard, take the men and wait for me outside. I would like a word with the king alone.” The grim mercenary lowered the huge double-headed axe he cradled in his massive arms and waved the baron’s bodyguards out of the room.

  When the door closed, Serban approached the dais and put his booted foot on their lower step. Petru tried to straighten his shoulders as he gripped the arms of his throne. He was determined not to be intimidated or threatened by his vassal. Today, he would show his baron who was king. “What is it you want to speak to me about, Alexis?”

  “I believe it is time we got something out in the open, Majesty. Clear the air, so to speak.”

  Petru leaned back and adjusted himself in his seat. “I agree things need to be set right. I have been lenient with your undertakings with the peasants and your provocation of Warmark, but it’s time I put my foot down. I know you are powerful, Alexis, but I rule Trimenia, not you. I will no longer give way to your threats. When Pepca is found, I will deal with her, not you. The others you may have.” The king could feel his legs shaking, but he had called Serban’s bluff.

  The baron smiled, then chuckled out loud. “Well, the spineless king has grown bold. You must have stolen some of Pepca’s courage before she ran off.”

  The king shot up from his seat. “Your insolence will no long be tolerated, Baron Serban…”

  Before he could finish, the baron stepped on the dais and shoved him into his throne with enough force that the heavy wooden chair nearly toppled over backwards.

  “Listen to me, weakling. I have tired of playing our game. Trimenia is mine. I only allow you to live to keep the people confused about who the true villain is. I have spent a great deal of time making them believe it is you who orders their lands taken and imposes the staggering taxes they cannot pay. The peasants believe it’s you who has betrayed them.”

  “That isn’t true. The rebels know it is you that has raped this kingdom and the word will spread. They hate you, Alexis; they despise your very shadow,” Petru shouted.

  “You’re right. The people hate me, sire, but they blame you,” Serban said with a wink.

  “The crown of Trimenia is my birthright. I have been ordained by God as its rightful ruler. Your brutality and lies cannot take that away.”

  The back of Serban’s gauntlet struck him across the face, knocking Petru to the floor and cutting a gash in his cheek. “Your god means nothing, nor does your anointment by the Church. Power is what rules, Petru, and in this land, I am the power. You are a king of shit,” the baron raved, his face contorted by his sudden rage.

  Serban was mad, there was no question of it. Rolling over and leaning back on his hands, Petru watched as a pair of fangs descended from the baron’s mouth. Serban smiled down at him with a spark of madness in this eye. “From now on, I will make the decisions concerning Trimenia and you will obey those decisions and play your part or I will tear the queen and your precious daughter Danika apart.”

  “You are a monster,” the king stammered.

  “Yes, I am a monster. You would do well to remember that. Now get off the floor. We have things to discuss.”

  Petru righted the throne and pulled himself up into the seat. He was visibly trembling and his face was bleeding. He pulled a silk kerchief from the pocket of his trousers and pressed it to the shallow wound. The nobleman that stood before him wasn’t human; he was a creature of legend. The people’s whispers had been true. “What do you want of me?” he said, his voice shaking with fear.

  The baron looked at him with cool confidence. “First, I want those escaped prisoners found and I want your son.”

  He had ignored the prince’s act of defiance, but Serban wouldn’t. His only son was in as much danger as Pepca, maybe more. “I don’t know where Dimitri is. I’m not even sure he’s even in the palace.”

  Frowning, the baron called, “Bernard”

  The large mercenary opened the throne room door.

  “Milord?”

  “Clear the areas around the throne room of servants and any royal guardsmen still at their posts. Kill the queen’s personal guard and bring her to me.”

  The mercenary nodded and closed the door.

  The king jumped up from his throne. “You can’t do this. Zaria has done nothing.”

  The creature glared at him from the corner of his eye. “If you speak again, I will tear out your tongue.”

  The king’s mouth became a white slash and he felt as if his bladder was going to let go. Pressing his shaking legs together, he watched Serban pace like a feral animal.

  In that moment, King Petru realized Pepca, Dimitri, and even those who supported the rebellion had been right. There had been a monster at Trimenia’s walls and it was he who had opened the gate for it. It was he that deserved God’s justice, not his servants or his family. He had been the fool, and Petru knew he was the one who should suffer for it.

  The queen’s squeals interrupted his self-loathing. His beloved Zaria squirmed in the hands of the two mercenaries who led her into the throne room.

  Serban jerked the queen from their grasp and held her in front of him. Zaria let out a scream, only to have the inhuman baron squeeze her until she could not breathe. “If you do that again, Majesty, I will rip your jaws off. Do you understand?”

  The frightened woman nodded as best she could and stared at Petru. Zaria looked at him for salvation, but he could only sit there and tremble as the baron brutalized his wife. The two mercenaries who had brought her in placed themselves to either side of the throne, their hands firmly on his shoulders. The baron moved forward until he held Zaria at the bottom of the small dais.

  “Now, King Petru, I will ask you once more. Where is Prince Dimitri? Tell me or I will eviscerate your wife before your very eyes.”

  Tears of anger and indignity welled up in the king’s eyes. He well knew the inhuman thing would kill Zaria without a second thought. “He is within the palace walls, but I don’t know exactly where.” The king heard his frantic voice once again betray one of his children. His face burned with shame. Serban had reduced him to nothing more than a sniffling coward. “Please let her go. I have told you what you wanted to know. Just leave, I beg you.”

  The baron’s cheek twitched and his eyes grew wild.

  “I still don’t think you understand. Perhaps a lesson is in order.” Serban ripped the top of the queen’s gown, exposing her ample chest. Pulling her closer,
the fiend roughly ran his hand over the Zaria’s lovely assets.

  “I have always been an admirer of the queen’s breasts, sire. So large and soft, a man could grow quite fond of them.”

  Zaria began to cry and shake. It was clear to Petru that his wife was scared and humiliated.

  “Petru, please,” she begged. Her voice quivered as she pleaded with him to deliver her from the baron’s cruel degradation.

  The king jumped to his feet. He could not watch Serban disgrace Zaria any further. “Let her go, you evil bastard,” he bellowed.

  “Hold him,” the baron ordered.

  The two mercenaries shoved him back on the throne. The big men held him in their vise-like grip. He struggled, but his resistance was in vain.

  Zaria screamed as the vampire’s fingers sank into her soft flesh. Blood erupted from the queen’s chest as the baron crushed her breast with his inhuman strength.

  Petru’s efforts to free himself stopped. Sliding from his seat, the king fell to his knees and stretched his arms out to his shrieking wife.

  Serban gave him a mocking leer. Jerking twice, he ripped the queen’s breast from her body. Zaria’s cries for mercy ended. The queen convulsed for a moment, then went limp. Serban leaned down and lapped at the bright blood pouring from the ghastly wound, like a rabid dog, before dropping the queen unceremoniously to the floor. The king howled like a wounded animal and pulled at his hair as the baron slowly walked to the dais, his mouth covered in Zaria’s blood. Serban tossed the lump of yellowish, bloody flesh that had once been his wife’s beautiful breast into his lap. Petru felt his bladder let go as he slapped the gruesome token away.

  “Oh my dear God please, please, I cannot bear this. I beg you, Alexis, have mercy.”

  Serban grabbed his hair and forced him to meet his gaze. “Now you know the cost of defiance. You will continue to reign here as my vassal till I say different. You will speak to no one of…my condition or of my little demonstration. If I have to remind you again, Petru, it will be Danika I come back to rend. Do you understand?”

  Petru could barely hear what the monster was saying, he was blubbering like an infant. “Yes, yes, I will do as you say.”

  The vampiric baron grabbed him with his bloody hands and pulled him to his feet, slamming Petru down hard on his throne. The king’s expression went slack. Petru stared at the red mess covering the baron’s face. It reminded him of Danika’s first birthday party when his daughter had stuck her face in her cake. Had the icing been red?

  Serban slapped his face, bringing him back to the present; the monster wasn’t going to allow his mind to slip away into insanity.

  “Listen to me, Petru. I will send for your royal healer, though I doubt it will do much good. I suggest you think of some way to explain your wife’s injury in case the queen does survive, although I would imagine it would be better for you if she didn’t. And have this place cleaned up before I return.”

  The baron motioned for the mercenaries to follow him as he strolled from the throne room.

  Petru staggered to his wife and pulled her torn body into his arms. Zaria still lived, and he put his hand to her chest to try and stop some of the bleeding. The king gagged as he took in the damage the baron had inflicted on the love of his life.

  Glancing up, the distraught king watched as the two warriors held the throne room doors open for their master. Serban glanced back over his shoulder, a whimsical smile playing on his lips. “And, Petru, you really should change your pants.”

  * * *

  “Bernard, find me something to clean my face. I don’t want to leave looking a mess.”

  The huge Alarusian warrior handed Serban a large, wet towel.

  “You are become quite proficient in attending to detail, Bernard. I will see you’re rewarded for the effort.” The mercenary gave his employer a thin-lipped nod. “Find the royal leech and send him to the throne room, and, Bernard, there’s no hurry.” The massive warrior bowed and went to see to his master’s orders.

  After he cleaned the queen’s blood from his face and armor, the baron led his personal guard out into the courtyard. He was pleased with himself. He had longed for the day he could show Trimenia’s pathetic monarch who truly ruled the kingdom. Once he tidied up the rebels, Trimenia would finally be under his thumb, then he could turn his attention to more provocative endeavors.

  Torches moved through the dark of the courtyard in his direction. Two of his men dragged Prince Dimitri between them. The prince looked battered and bloody, but he was still alive.

  “Tell me,” the baron ordered.

  “We caught him trying to go over the wall. He killed two of our men before we beat him down,” the mercenary answered.

  The prince dropped to his knees, head wobbling on his shoulders. Sometime his sellswords could get a bit overzealous. Serban reached down and pulled the prince’s head up, looking at his bruised face. “Well, it seems I will need to let you have a little time to heal before I torture you, Prince Dimitri. In your current condition, it would be a waste. Your suffering will just have to wait till you are feeling a bit spryer. Have him locked up for now; I will see to him tomorrow night or the night after, and move our forces inside the palace walls. I want to make sure the king doesn’t surprise me and attempt something foolhardy.”

  The warriors saluted and dragged the prince away.

  “My lord, Archbishop Lech and a Brother Xavier would like a word.” He turned to see that Bernard had returned and was pointing to the priests waiting a short distance away.

  “I don’t have time for priests right now, I must tend to other manners. You know what must be done here; see to it while I’m gone.”

  “As you wish, my lord,” the Alarusian said, glancing at the priests.

  The baron’s horse was brought to him and he took the reins, swinging up into the saddle. He wanted to get back on the escaped prisoners trail; though it was too dangerous for him to track them personally, he wanted to be sure and see to the organization of the pursuit himself. That bastard Vladimir was too dangerous to let slip through his fingers again.

  “Please, my lord, a word.”

  Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the Archbishop Lech and a monk in white robes moving quickly towards him.

  “I have little time to chat, Your Eminence. I have renegades to catch.”

  “I only ask for a moment of your time, Lord Serban. I don’t know if you’re familiar with Brother Xavier. He is from the church in Asqutania.”

  Serban appraised the hooded monk. He didn’t seem to share the pious demeanor of most priests. “I was aware the pope had sent an emissary to assist you with your…trials, but I had yet to make his acquaintance.”

  The monk made no comment, only stared at him strangely.

  “We have something very important to discuss with you,” Lech blurted out before he could comment on the monk’s silence.

  The gate swung open, causing the gray warhorse the baron rode to whinny with anticipation. “Well, my good archbishop, spit it out. I really must be going.”

  “This is not the place; there are too many ears.”

  “What is all this about then, could you at least tell me that?” the baron snapped.

  “We believe you are in great danger. The Beast’s minions are closer than you know.”

  The baron threw back his head and barked a great laugh. “I don’t have time to listen to your stories of devils and demons. I salute your efforts on rid the kingdom of evil, Eminence, but I assure you I am in no danger.” The baron put his spurs to his horse’s flanks and rode out of the palace into the night.

  Archbishop Lech sighed. “I told you he wouldn’t listen.”

  The monk at his side squeezed the strange rod that hung from his red sash. “Then we have no choice but to act on our own.”

  The sun had made a rare appearance and Pepca was glad of it. The previous three nights without a fire had been awful, but last night had been the worst. She thought she was going to freeze to deat
h, crouching down along the bank of the cold stream. Vladimir had made them abandon the horses just south of Brova. He claimed it would be too hard to hide the large beasts if they came across any of the patrols he insisted were hunting them. She thought his decision was sound, but the loss of the horses hadn’t helped her sore feet. It was clear Vladimir was in charge of their flight south. Julian followed his direction without question, and she thought it best to obey the rebel as well.

  Vladimir was older than either Julian or her and seemed as if he was very experienced in this sort of thing.

  There was no doubt about his confidence; the man himself was strongly built, put together with the hard, lean muscle common in the men of Trimenia. Though he was well spoken, Vladimir’s appearance was crude, almost wild. He was not unattractive, just unkempt, Pepca thought. A tangle of black hair hung to his shoulders and the stubble of his beard made his weather-beaten complexion even darker. When they moved, his deep set brown eyes seem to take in every detail of their surroundings, watching for anything that would alert him to a trap or ambush.

  Vladimir had kept them on the run since they left the palace. Although it didn’t seem like they had traveled very far south, both he and Julian seemed quite pleased with their progress and the fact they had evaded the patrols out looking for them.

  “We should find a good place to lie low; this bright day won’t be a friend to us. We could be spotted from a great distance if we have to travel in the open,” Julian said.

  Vladimir pushed back his dark hair. “I agree, but we can’t stay near this creek. They will have men searching both banks. I know a small dugout some distance from here. We used it to hide our wounded when we tried to take Brova.”

  Pepca remembered hearing about the rebel attack on the capital. Her father had said the uprising had been ill planned and nearly all the rebel forces were destroyed in the attempt, but she wasn’t about to mention the king’s assessment to either of the rebels.