War of Mortal Gods
Page 8
The baby’s dorsal fins lit up as he let out a throaty belch and fired a thick circular energy beam from his mouth, cutting through the steps leading up to the throne.
Those present rejoiced with sounds of adulation. The Queen Mother cackled, lifting her great-son to a sitting position on her thigh. The child let out a smaller burp that puffed out smoke, followed by joyful infant squealing noises.
“That’s my boy,” Queen-Mother Furia grunted. “The only good thing about seeding Zerakians.”
She placed a kiss on the forehead of her great-son, who went back to greedily suckling on her exposed breast before turning her attention back to her son.
“I have no further need of you other than to see that you still breathe air, remove thyself from my sight, and attend to business with your father.”
Merc’s jaw shifted as his nose flared, and ears twitched, hiding his displeasure for his mother’s words and tone while showing her utter respect by taking the knee once again and bowing.
He rose to take his leave from the throne room, heading down a hallway leading to the central royal garden, all the while feeling his mother’s burning eyes on the back of his neck.
Merc entered the central garden with his mind racing at light speed. He took his time walking down the mirror gleaming green stone pathway surrounded by vibrantly colorful trees and vegetation from his homeworld. Along with the foliage were small undomesticated animals such as pink and red creatures similar to sparrows with red and white feathers, three eyes, one being on the forehead, and two fluttering wings.
At his feet, scurrying past him were creatures similar to squirrels, save for them being the size of domestic cats. They had jet black thin, matted fur with a thick black and white bushy tail and deep burning red caldron eyes. Like foxes from Earth, their long ears twitched as they curiously stopped and looked at the Crown Prince.
His thoughts were on the fact that he knew he was walking into an ambush. The question that befuddled him was how unpleasant it was going to be for him.
Merc’s pace became slower as his ears picked up the sound of a very gruff and enthusiastic old voice.
“So, there we stood on the planet of Valmon, myself, Amun-Ra from Anu, and Sol-Thulo from Sar in thick of battle commanding a combined total of six-hundred of our finest warriors against six triage-Legions of Razcargian scum, which was three to one odds per warrior in their favor. Each side took heavy losses, neither side giving quarter.”
Merc, finally reaching his destination, stood quietly listening on.
For a brief moment, a smirk fell on Merc’s face as he remembered being a young child sitting attentively in that very garden with his siblings and cousins as either his great-father or father spun tales of glory.
His father, dressed in a royal purple pleated leathery skirt held up by a thick silver metallic belt with jewels and Thracian markings, sat on a curved white stone bench surrounded by a sizable crowd of his great-children whose ages spanned from toddler to teen. They sat or stood listening to another one of his epic tales.
Lord Nelron was a foot shorter than his son and appeared to have been forged from Thrace's core. The top of his head was mostly bald save two golden blonde rope thick braids that started on each side of his temple. They ran down the side of his skull to his tailbone, where they hung. His long full beard of the same color hung with the shape of a blade stopping in the middle of his chest.
Nelron’s bluish-grey scaly skin had the appearance of hard raw metal, while golden-white light emitted through his eyes from the power coursing through his cells. His world-shattering physique contradicted the face of a man by Earth standards in his late seventies. Battle scars and cracks within his skin faintly pulsated the unbridled energies within him that secured his continuous reign as the High Region of Thrace, among other titles bestowed upon him throughout his staggering lifespan.
In the middle of his tale, a massive beast came from out of the foliage and approached Merc emitting a screeching growl that would vibrate the bones of a lesser being. It was the actual creature etched in the main plate of High chancellor Nuwata’s corset belt.
The animal was twice the size of a polar bear with fiery red fur. Its head and face resembled that of an eagle or hawk down to the razor-sharp grey beak that had the piercing strength of a rhino tusk. It also came armed with a set of five thick black claws on each of its four paws.
What made it more terrifying to behold was its bright yellow piercing eyes, devoid of all emotion similar to that of a Great White Shark.
Merc smiled as the beast did the exact opposite of its appearance, nuzzling the side of its face against his thigh seeking affection from him, as a deep chirpy purring sound came from its gullet.
He complied by rubbing the top of its head with one hand while giving its chin a good scratch with the other.
“Durongo,” he whispered. “How is my favorite Corursid today?”
Durongo grunted, plopping down on its hind legs while raising one of its paws, placing it on his forearm as Merc continued to pet it.
“That day on Valmon would be remembered as one of the bloodiest and destructive battles in the Razcargian Conflict.” Lord Nelron said, nearing the end of his tale. “We lost nearly three-quarters of our initial forces that day but succeeded in wiping every single Razcargian scum off the face of the planet and liberating the people of Valmon, who would later bravely fight alongside us to end the conflict.
In that battle, we lost Sol-Thulo, who single-handily slew more Razcargian scum than I ever could with his mighty sword, Black Nova. I had the honor of carrying his body off the field of battle and delivering him back to his family, where I knelt before them and told them of how he fought and died the perfect death.”
“Whatever happened to Black Nova?” A young onyx and purple scaly skin Thracian boy with red dreaded hair styled in a Mohawk inquired.
“It was retrieved from the battlefield,” Nelron answered with a smile. “Given to Sol-Thulo’s eldest daughter, I believe, where it will be passed down her bloodline.
The moral of this story, my children, are the failings of pride. My pride before the battle nearly cost me from discovering one of the greatest warriors I would have the pleasure of meeting, someone I have the honor of calling my friend to this day, all because he was not Thracian.
Be proud to be Thracian, my children, revel in it but do not allow it to blind you to the self-worth of others around you who are not. And so, ends my tale, and my lesson.”
As the children clapped and rejoiced at the heroic story told to them by their great-father, Nelron’s long elven ears twitched as he looked down at one of his youngest great-daughters. Her head was down, and she had a sad look in her eyes.
“Why do I see sorrow in your eyes, child?” Nelron asked.
The little girl with her orange braided hair styled into a Mohawk, dark blue scaly skin, ice grey eyes, and a mousey nose gazed up at her great-father with a face close to tears.
“Great-father …I am part Razcargian by my mother …does that make me scum?”
“Stand and come forth, child.” Nelron motioned with a hand gesture.
As the child slowly got up from where she sat and approached him, Nelron lifted her, setting her down on his lap.
“Here, my words, little one, and all who are of my bloodline before me. You may have come from Razcargian womb, but you were seeded by a Thracian. And once you have one drop of Thracian blood within you …”
“You are Thracian through and through!” The children around him howled, finishing his sentence.
“When your mother conceived you, she no longer became scum in my eyes. She became my daughter. And you are the great-daughter of the High Region Nelron, a mighty Thracian princess who will fight, kill, and die for the glory of Thrace.”
Nelron’s words caused the young girl’s face to light up with joy. She giggled as one of the most powerful beings in the universe, tickled her belly while placing a kiss on her forehead.
Finally acknowledging his son with a glance, he proceeded to break up the congregation of off-springs before him.
“Now, off with all of you, I must have words with your father and uncle. Go, eat, play, and fight. We shall have tales of glory for another day.”
“Yes, Great-father!” all the children screamed in unison.
As they departed, each child halted before Merc, giving him a proper Thracian curtsy acknowledging him as either their uncle or father.
With his hand, Merc halted the little girl that sat on Nelron’s lap.
“Father,” she acknowledged with a curtsy.
Merc, with a narrowed stern gaze, stooped down, getting eye level with his daughter.
“Now, Chana, after all of my teachings, did you believe you were Razcargian scum?”
A devious little smile grew on the child’s face, bringing a smirk to Merc’s visage.
“Very cunning to get more of your Great-father’s attention.”
“Tis, as you said, father, the smallest skill can be sharpened to deliver the deadliest blow.”
“Give thee proper kiss for my teachings and be off with you. Take Durongo, while your great-father and I have words.”
Chana wrapped her small arms around her father’s neck, pecking him on the cheek before running off to play with her cousins and siblings.
“Come, Durongo! Let us go play!”
Durongo unleashed a booming screeching roar as it stood up and trotted off, following Chana.
Now alone with his father, Merc switched from squatting to falling to one knee with his head down, displaying his unwavering respect and loyalty.
The High Region rose to his feet and beckoned his son with a hand gesture.
“Rise and come closer, boy, let me get a look at you.”
Merc did as commanded rising again. He strolled over to his father, who looked him up and down as if he were sizing him up. Nelron grasped both his son’s arms, examining what he created with fatherly pride.
“I remembered the day I pulled you from your mother’s slit,” Nelron savagely grinned. “At the time, you were smaller than your other siblings, a bit feeble. But as I cleaned the blood from you and gave you proper strike, a powerful war cry came from your gullet. On that day, I knew you would grow to become a force of nature throughout the universe, second only to me.”
“I live to meet your expectations and serve your will, father.”
Lord Nelron moved closer to his son, staring into his very soul.
“And what is my will?”
Merc answered without hesitation.
“The growth and prosperity of all citizens of Thrace, my lord.”
His father’s ears twitched as he released his son and clasped his hands behind his back while giving him a semi-nod of approval. Nelron’s simple ‘innocent’ gesture drew a look of concern on Merc’s face.
“Does something trouble you, father?”
“Should I be troubled?” Nelron asked with a shrug.
Merc straightened up, more careful to stay within the sternness and respect line as he addressed his father.
“I was taught to never answer a question I do not understand, father.”
“Then let me be plain with my inquiry.”
Merc stood his ground as his father leaned in, whispering in his ear.
“Do I appear to be so weak and feeble that you can freely plot and conspire to your heart's content, hiding secrets from me?”
Merc skillfully kept his poker face from chipping while his insides turned. Another lump plagued his throat as he tactfully answered.
“Father … I …”
A booming animalistic roar capable of crippling the king of beasts itself came from the High Region. His eyes blazed bright, matching the intensity of his canine daggers protruding from his upper and lower jaws. He hovered inches away from his son’s throat displaying the intention to bite it out. Merc standing his ground, roared back with lesser intensity while submissively lowering his head.
Nelron emitted a low growl as he calmed himself.
“Please allow me to complete train of thought before you attempt to refute me with a lie, my son.”
Merc slowly nodded in agreement.
“Did you really think that I would be unable to read the chain of events and link them back to you?” Nelron shook his head in disbelief. “A human who happens to be a star eater on my planet, strategic attacks on diplomatic ships within different sectors of the human territory. What confounds me is how you coaxed your sister into this asinine scheme.”
“Attea …is blameless in this father.”
“I shall give you one final opportunity to reframe from lying to me, boy, before I tear your head from your body.”
Merc lowered his head to his father’s calmed whispered threat.
“Quietly from the shadows, I have watched your past ventures and allowed them,” Nelron said with a huff. “Knowing that they neither threatened the security of Thrace, aided in the flourishing of our great empire, and furthered your position as the next Region to the throne. All the while believing that you were learning. That you understood there were certain risks afforded to take, and other ventures never to be attempted.”
Nelron leaned closer, getting mouth to left ear with his son.
“Your lustful ambitions now threaten the empire and our people, and I am to partially blame. The aged rust on my mind and my love for you have blinded me to the truth that you are still too stupid to know when to pull out.”
A chilling growl came from his father’s gullet again as Nelron reared his fangs inches away from his son’s throat. Merc this time uttered, not a sound as he kept his eyes closed and his head down, taking every inch of the verbal berating being administered onto him. Nelron snorted as he retracted his fangs strolling away to think.
“Your plan was dead before it was even conceived because you are part of me. What you thought, I had already considered when I aided in fashioning the laws of Genetic Selection under the Dominion Council as ironclad protection against the likes of even myself. Do you know why?”
Nelron waited for Merc to respond. His son answered with a slow and earnest headshake, which brought a smirk to the High Region’s face.
“To prevent myself and future generations from making the costliest of mistakes. Doing something selfish that might destroy the Dominion Council. The Council which has given our species the greatest of gifts. Infinite power and security through the forged bonds of our allies.”
Nelron strolled back to his son, standing two inches in front of him.
“By itself, Thrace is a mighty, powerful, and prosperous empire. Being a part of the Dominion Council means that our might is near infinite because to challenge Thrace means to challenge all members of the Dominion Council. Our resources are unbounded, allowing us to beckon onto any of our fellow allies for assistance in all matters because if Thrace thrives, they too thrive, and the same can be said in reverse.
That bond forged is worth more than a hundred planets on any given day, and you have now jeopardized it for six measly planets.”
Merc slowly swallowed the spit building in his throat as his father gazed upon him with a dull glare.
“Did you not appropriately scale the weight of your selfish actions to the consequences should you be discovered? Thrace’s embarrassing expulsion from the Council, probable war with our former allies, and imminent vulnerability to our enemies who would wish nothing more than to see us fall. Did thought not seep into that thick skull of yours as you cast your die threatening the stability of your people?
Dare tell me what you did was for them, and then watch lying tongue be removed from your mouth with mine own hands.”
Merc lowered his head, finding no refute to his father’s ironclad argument. On the young ancient’s face was a look never seen since he was a child, fear, and shame.
The Crown Prince softly whispered to his father the only logical answer to repair the immense damage he had created with his ambition
s.
“You must deliver me to Council, father. I must abdicate my claim to the throne, and you must …”
“Silence thy tongue and fetch my pipe and herbs, boy.”
Merc slowly raised his head, meeting the eyes of his father nonchalantly waiting for him to comply. He obediently walked over to the stone bench his father sat on, retrieving a deep metallic blue smoking pipe with ancient Thracian runes etched on the bowl. Similar markings were found on the top lip of the brown and tan wooden disc-shaped container sitting next to the pipe.
He carefully screwed the lid off, revealing glittering red dried up plant leaves inside of it. Merc plucked the herbs using his thumb and middle finger, carefully packing them into the pipe's chamber. He then tightly screwed and sealed the lid back onto the container putting it back down on the bench before walking over to his father handing him his pipe.
The High Region strolled away from his son, taking a seat on the bench crossing his legs.
Nelron effortlessly focused raw sheering energy into his hand, which heated the metal pipe and set the herbs within it ablaze. He calmly placed it into his mouth, taking a healthy draw, and bellowed out white smoke from his mouth and nostrils thick enough to temporarily cover the lower half of his face.
He gave his beard a stroke before he answered his son.
“Thracians surrender to no one boy, not even to our own allies.”
He took another small hit from the pipe, this time firing smoke from his nostrils before he continued.
“Time cannot be reversed, and the dead cannot be raised. Revealing your misbegotten treachery will inflict far more damage than just to our grand empire. We must instead divert your surging river into the ocean and never speak of it again. Any reparations you shall pay will be to me before you ascend to my throne.”
Glowing blue mists of tears filled Merc’s eyes, which he quickly wiped away.
“I am still worthy of your throne after all my failings, father?”
“Aside from Attea, who has no want of the throne,” Nelron said bluntly. “There is no one worthier of becoming the next High Region than you. To be High Region, one must have an infinite and selfish love for his people. Something you have displayed time and time again, my son.