Oblivion's Crown

by M. H. Johnson

  Kentric’s eyes blazed with hate. “I will crush that boy to dust!”

  Craven’s gaze hardened. “Do not underestimate this Terran under any circumstances, Kentric. For all intents and purposes, his unit served as the Terran equivalent of Dauda.”

  Kentric chuckled coldly, peering around his chamber with his hot gaze before addressing the monitor once more. “I suspect they are like the night they profess to embrace. It is fear of shadows and gloom more than the dark itself that gives them power. And once you pop their bubble? They are as fragile as glass.”

  Craven’s eyes glared with sudden intensity. “Watch your words, boy!”

  Kentric smirked. “You need not think me a fool, Father. Is your pet there now?”

  “Of course not. Not for this conversation.”

  “Good. When will it be time?”

  “Not for a very long while, and say no more on it!” Craven hissed. “Caligula will inform us when all the kings upon all the boards are ready… and not a moment before!”

  The High Councilor took a steadying breath. “With the Dominicus gates no longer under your control, you will have to adapt your strategy.”

  Kentric nodded. “First I will crush all opposition within a hundred miles, then I will focus on the heart of the continent. Once my power base and major industrial centers are secure, I will wipe out the eastern holdouts. Only then, when I have an unbeatable advantage with the resources of an entire continent behind me, will I flank Valor Hunter on multiple fronts before crushing that annoyance to dust!”

  “And what prevents the boy from repeating what occurred at Dominicus Territory?”

  “My seer assures me that the boy skirted oblivion itself, and risks censure from the gods themselves, if he dares repeat the act.” Kentric smirked. “Not that I take the words of even a collared seer seriously. No. What will stay my enemy’s blow is that when my hidden sword is unsheathed, it will be upon the territory of least tactical significance, yet of greatest sentiment. Highblood Province itself!” He flashed a wicked smile. “I too have spies at my disposal. I know he has bonded with several young females, Highblood’s daughter as well as my own former slave among them! No, Father. When my battle-mechs strike, it will be at the one place he dare not obliviate, unless he would destroy everything he loves. And even so, it will be only the smallest fraction of my forces as my plans come to fruition!

  "Whether he expends himself casting catastrophic magics and kills everyone he loves only to be hounded by scores of battle-mechs positioned around all his gates or he dies on that battlefield defending his whores matters not! One way or another, he will fall to my legions, and I will savor every moment of his demise.”

  Craven nodded approvingly. “It will take time, Kentric. But with patience and ruthlessness, I have no doubt that you will one day be crowned Jordia’s newest Overlord.” With a final nod, the screen went black.

  Kentric’s frigid smile lasted long after the hyperion connection ended.

  Of course there had been no deserters. Only sacrifices. Morale had never been higher, the freeflowing wine and what were now hundreds of willing pleasure maidens for his massive contingent of troops only added to his soldiers’ love for their Overlord. And those men who surrendered to the occasional soft, lilting voice wafting through the ether he did not hinder in the least as they dashed for the gate in the dead of night when most were asleep with looks of mania or ecstasy upon their faces. For the horror beyond the gate had finally proven itself useful. Telling him the secrets he most wanted to hear, for the paltry cost of only a few hundred men and the Dauda who had failed him.

  Just the thought of Elsith’s look of horror when he had traded her soul for his own benefit brought a fierce smile to his scarred features. As if she had actually thought he had the slightest interest in her well-being after failing to slip past the keeper’s inhuman sentinels.

  What a fool she had been.

  Now everything was going according to plan.

  15

  “My lord!” Alwin did his best to wipe the horror from his face, merely bowing solemnly before Val as he picked through the scorched, burned, and melted remains of the Ormur vanguard, having found only a single functional wand among the entire group that he had not destroyed. Fortunately, though damaged, Val thought he just might be able to repair two of the robes, even if the rest were little more than rags.

  Val flashed a darkly bemused smile even as he felt his scarred flesh pull with the motion. “Don’t try to hide it, Alwin. I know I look a horror.” He let loose a bitter chuckle. “All I have to do is check my character sheet to see the -6 Appearance penalty I’m suffering. Apparently there are limits to most forms of regeneration if the surface is so badly damaged that there is no nearby flesh to perfectly mirror. Sword wounds and the like, though often lethal, are a thousandfold easier to heal than if your entire face is seared off in an explosion so severe your head is little more than a charred skull with a brain somehow miraculously intact within. And what might be the tiniest microscopic scar in a regenerated sword wound, well, I know I must look a horror with a thousandfold worse scars. Over practically every inch of my body.”

  Alwin paled and swallowed. “My lord… for your strength, your resolve alone… I have no words.”

  Val shrugged. “Actually, I’m grateful,” he said, his voice oddly reflective. “This isn’t the first time I near perished in a firestorm. Maybe surviving that earlier shock is all that helped me squeak through this one. And, miracle of miracles, the regenerative magics here actually gave me back my sight. My eyes had been flash-fried out of my head! And equally importantly, my nerves aren’t screaming with endless phantom pain. They are as quiet as I could hope for, my sense of touch as miraculous as I could want. Honestly, Alwin, just to have survived that disaster and not be forced to feel constant unending pain I need to be drugged to the gills for? Yeah, I can take some scarring, knowing only nightmares, not endless pain, will haunt my sleep.”

  And I know my Ava will love me no matter what, the bitter ache in his heart assured him, no matter how strong a front he had to present to his men. And somehow I think Julia will as well. As for Bethany and Angelica? There is no greater test to see just how serious they are about forming a pride. If it was just gentle infatuation… I will free them without anger, and without regret.

  “It’s the Ormur magics, my lord,” Alwin softly explained as they gazed at the luminous tower before them, oddly brilliant even as it seemed darker than the night itself, a thousand thousand stars swirling and glittering within. “I have no doubt that superior healing magics would, eventually, heal almost any scar from mundane laser fire or sword blow. But with arcane scars, they can sometimes leave burrs within the very fabric of one’s soul. That you survived multiple wounds that should have been permanent ruptures your soul fled from, to have healed as well as you have and as quickly as you have despite all you had suffered… truly, I doubt even the best healers could do more for you than what your magics and status as a Contender have already done for yourself.”

  Val chuckled ruefully. He was now as scarred as any villain in any saga, and was bitterly certain he’d have to be more ruthless than any Hollywood-approved vigilante if he was to have even a hope of grasping the crown with his bloodsoaked fist. He already knew his secret dream of being the beloved hero of a glorious tale was nothing but delusional idiocy.

  So be it. Whatever it took, hero or villain in the eyes of history, he would claim Jordia's crown and protect the ones he loved.

  No matter how many opponents he had to butcher to do it.

  And he was all too aware that his path to victory was by no means assured.

  His tactical insight and ruthless savagery were what had allowed him to take out so many foes, and their blood was what allowed him to walk the Path of Kings.

  No fate had protected the stories of their lives, so why should he expect fate to hold any special regard for him? Death could claim him at any time, and no destiny would protect him f
rom folly and agony, should he ever play the fool.

  The lesson came at a bitter price, but it was one he had learned well.

  A single ruby gem and reduced enticement resistance had nearly spelled his death.

  Knowledge of all that his foes could do, arcane and otherwise, were what he needed above all else. As for enticement? Overlord enhancements aside, his willpower needed to be strong. And discipline was the first step to achieving that, as well as whatever madness was in store for him when next he leveled up.

  Val gave a bitter shake of his head. “I played the fool once. I will not do so again. I seem to be vulnerable to arcane enticement, whether indescribably beautiful gems that I didn’t have enough time to sense were explosive traps, or dwarven bikes that didn’t strike me dead like every other fool who gave in to temptation, and wasn’t I a lucky bastard for surviving both those follies."

  He flashed the mage before him a bemused smile. "So let me ask you this, Alwin. Are there any nests of Selkies or Sirens lurking in lakes and streams nearby? Any magical horrors or coven of wizards or witches who use charms and enticements to lead their foes to their doom?”

  To his credit, Alwin took the question seriously, contemplative eyes staring at the magnificent tower even as he organized his thoughts.

  “No Selkies or Sirens live within Greengrove or the adjoining territories, my lord. Though in the forests deep in the heart of the continent, there are tree spirits that will do all they can to entice you and fill you with sweet love beyond anything you can imagine, granting you eternal youth and long life, it’s true. But you will forever be bonded to her tree, little more than a sentient pleasure mound she ruts upon whenever she’s hungry for fresh offspring, your mind slowly drained of all knowledge as she implants all your memories and wisdom to the brood she spawns from your seed.”

  He flashed a bemused smile at Val’s curious stare. “At least the boys are human, if a bit odd, who leave the forest with an odd conglomeration of knowledge, knowing both how to survive perfectly well in woodlands, and being quite proficient in their father’s favored skills. And it’s not unheard of for families whose sons go missing to tree spirits to adopt the child as their own. Even Dominion tests performed by their pathetic excuses for clinicians do show the child to be relatively human, or close enough that they do breed true. As for the sire? As soon as the spirit feels he’s given all he has to give, she looks for fresh hunters, explorers, or wanderers to entice or claim as her own.”

  Val quirked his mangled excuse for an eyebrow. “Really. I’m surprised those forests weren’t burned down long ago.”

  For just a heartbeat, rage flared in the older wizard’s gaze before he closed his eyes and shook his head. “I have to remember where you're from. As innocent as a babe regarding so many dark truths that make up our world.” He sighed, frowning at the tower as they lay in wait, Spirit Linked with Val once more, eyes out for lone stragglers to make short work of from ambush.

  “I’m afraid it’s not that simple, my lord. A truth we teach our children with our oldest fables. Take the story of old King Jonas. When his own son went missing, he had his seers divine the cause, their magics so great they could direct his men to the very spirit that had claimed his boy as her own. Furious, he let his lumberjacks loose upon the culprit tree spirit, cutting her tree at the roots.”

  Alwin shuddered. “It’s said they could hear the screams ringing through the entire forest, and the king found, to his horror, that the fine wooden door he made out of the tree contained a perfect wooden relief of his son and the infant in his arms, faces twisted in eternal torment, their lives ended the moment the tree was cut. And before Phoebe’s moon had waxed and waned, every woodsman died in horrible accidents. Houses falling upon entire families, trees crashing upon fathers and sons exploring the forest, axes bouncing off trunks thick as stone to split open the head of the man who had swung it, splinters going septic with illnesses no potion could cure. And ever since that day, no man dares a second strike against any tree whose screams echoes through his soul.”

  Val shook his head, chilled by the tale. “Alright, that settles it. No mysterious woodland beauties for me. In fact, let’s avoid those forests altogether. I have no interest in cutting down trees bound to the lives of who knows how many villagers.”

  Alwin flashed a mirthless smile. “But one of the many Fae truths few dare speak of in the North. Why our true gifts are so strong here on the continent of or ancestors. Why we hold our woodlands sacred. So many of us sharing blood with Dryads, Faeries, and other Fae powers. And the best artificers claim the blood of dwarves run in their veins, as well as the gnomish blood no Dominion citizen can deny. Even though most consider the story of King Jonas little more than fable, rulers intent on cutting down trees may lose a tenth of their most beautiful men and women to arcane ties poorly understood, and all peace and productivity to furious kin willing to summon dark secrets and powers carefully hidden to kill the lord that dares destroy their families. Not even the most jaded of our covens breaks the ancient foraging treaties between Men and Mer that free our forests of deadwood and secondary growth alone. Tree farms void of magic and other sources of energy and building materials means, thankfully, that there are far less conflicting pressures now than there were once upon a time.”

  Val’s gaze hardened. “Save for your cousin.”

  Alwin actually had the grace to flush. “I was not so blinded by humiliation that I failed to ask fox and crow what exactly my cousin had been up to, to so incite your wrath. What he did to the Fae who took on mortal form just to savor the joys of life and love… only to be ritually sacrificed? Unforgivable. He forgets his own grandmother! All in a mad quest to seize stable dwarven ruins. As if there was such a thing. Truly, my lord, that dark secret revealed is why the entirety of my tribe has chosen to align themselves under your banner. To choose otherwise would be to declare his actions right, and so earn the enmity of the forests and fields forever.”

  He flashed a mirthless smile. “Since you were the one to name them, I am allowed to as well, ancient covenants kept. The Fae that entice are Dryads of the forest, Selkies of the sea, and Sirens of ocean, lake, or stream. Of them all, to love a Dryad is to invite sweetest doom. If you win the heart of Selkie or Siren, they are as likely to marry you as drown you, and many a virile young man who survived that first tussle came home with a beautiful wife that was the pride of the entire town. Especially a fisherman’s town. Sailors who marry Selkies somehow always make it back ashore, no matter how cruel the sea.”

  Val chuckled softly. “Now I feel like I’ve fallen into a realm of fantasy. The North? Definitely more high-tech sci-fi.”

  Alwin’s brows furrowed. “My lord?”

  “Never mind. Okay, it’s settled. Avoid exotic, beautiful women radiating sensual peril at all costs. What enchantments should I be looking out for?”

  The wizard smiled. “You know about the fire gems already, and thank all the fates you are not dead. I’ve never heard of any mage so poorly taught that they were denied that most basic of all lessons.” He frowned. “At least every Southern mage would be. That you survived? Very, very few could manage that feat and live to tell the tale, no matter how, ahem, steep a price they paid."

  Alwin looked momentarily embarrassed, hurriedly speaking on. "There are of course magics to charm and seduce. In fact, many a witch enjoys such glamour and beauty that it is almost impossible to resist the allure of their smile, and their scent is always that of a Jordian in her prime, the perfect mate for any man who catches a whiff of her musk.”

  Val smirked. “Really.”

  Alwin solemnly nodded. “And it’s true. Any witch you mate with will give you the most beautiful, clever, and talented child you could possibly hope for, and be happy to leave her on your doorstep the minute she’s weaned. Of course, there is a price.”

  “There always is.”

  “Your bewitching lover will drain you dry of youth, from spring to summer and straight to the fi
rst hale days of autumn, so you are still strong enough to see your daughter through her childhood. And, like as not, if your beautiful daughter has any talent for the arcane arts, her mother will come to claim her on her twentieth birthday. Still a child, really, but that is the covenant they follow, and few daughters would decline or could decline their mother’s summons.”

  Val whistled. “Wow. No witches for sure, then. Good thing Jordians have access to rejuvenation vats.”

  Alwin flashed a strange smile. “Witches always know when a man has been rejuvenated, even just once, no matter how young he looks. They will absolutely refuse truck with him, considering him ‘spoilt fruit,’ so to speak.”

  “No kidding. Why are they so repulsed by men who undergo treatment? I thought survival was almost always assured until after the third rejuvenation.”

  Alwin’s intent gaze met Val’s own. “Every time Jordians embrace those cold, soulless arts, they forever surrender a fraction of the vitality that gave them their virility, potency, and power. And most fools, content to live lives of meaningless technological puzzles, utterly blind to the magical potential that might have been theirs, never even realize the true cost of their obsession with youth.”

  Val blinked, feeling suddenly chilled. “Are you saying the rejuvenation vats drain wizards of their power?”

  Alwin sighed, screwing open a silver flask, taking a sip before offering it to Val, who savored the mead trickling down his parched, scarred throat. “Let me put it this way. No Southern mage with an ounce of pride in himself as a wizard would touch such a thing, and you Terrans with your artificial bodies reeking magic that Dominion fools pretend are simple synthetic constructs, forgive my candor, are too new to life on Jordia to even feel the need. But though Darklords find their Psionic powers unaffected, their connection to the life force all around them begins to shrivel and die.”