Prince Kristian's Honor

by Tod Langley

Chapter 18

  True Love

  Smoke and haze filled the night air surrounding Belarn’s capital. Blazing fires stood in stark contrast to the thick black columns of smoke where several blocks of the lower districts lay in ruins. Ferral could not stop the dead from entering through the ruined gate; he lacked control over the creatures he had raised, and so they poured in through the broken doors Mikhal had set ablaze. Those that lived near the gate were startled awake as a hundred lifeless monsters broke into their homes through windows or shattered doors. People screamed as the dead tore them to pieces, their cries ringing out across the city even as defenders franticly tried to erect some type of barrier to stop the rising tide of dead from overwhelming their city.

  The infested areas grew silent as the dead started their transformation. Soon, a thousand new creatures began to wander the lower streets of Belarna searching for more victims. Derout finally gave up on saving any of those in the lower portion of the city and quarantined the entire district. He ordered bordering neighborhoods set afire to prevent the monsters from moving into new areas. The plan was effective, and their advance was halted. The terrified screams of those still alive but trapped by the walls of fire echoed through the streets up toward the battlements were Ferral’s general surveyed the damage.

  Derout shook his head in disappointment.

  “What a waste,” he complained. His decision had saved the city, but even the cruel general had difficulty blocking out the tormenting sounds of those burned alive or ripped apart by the dead. Derout bitterly hated the Erandians and would gladly use deception and trickery to destroy all of them, but he did not want to be responsible for the deaths of his own countrymen. In that, he was different from Ferral. They both craved power and would stop at nothing to obtain it, but Ferral wanted to use the power to destroy the world for his unholy god. Derout simply wanted power to place himself above all others. He turned to his men along the wall, trying to ignore the endless screams of pain that accompanied the towering infernos that consumed a large portion of the black citadel.

  Shortly after his decision to give up a part of the city, a barrier was constructed to keep the dead from penetrating further into the heart of the capital. The creatures moved slowly away from the intense heat, back through the shattered gate, and out onto the lifeless battleground. He was unsure of how many he had destroyed or how many he had saved. The general only knew that his actions had prevented the rest of the city from falling to Ferral’s creatures.

  Derout frowned and shook his head as he looked at what remained of his army. A third of their number was dead because of the battle against the Duellrians; they now served the sorcerer-king as slaves in his transformed army. Another third had joined them after fighting futilely against the advance of the creatures against the unprotected citizens near the breached gate. Until Derout had ordered them to torch the houses, they had tried to contain the things with just their spears and shields. Now, they massed beyond the repaired gate, trying to regain access to the living that they could sense behind the black walls. The general watched his men pour hot oil and loose burning arrows at those below in a futile attempt to stem the attack. There were thousands of the things, and more seemed to be coming from behind the hill where Kristian’s army had made their last stand.

  “At least they’re dead,” the general consoled himself. It felt good to know that the cavaliers were destroyed, that his Black Guards had helped defeat them once and for all.

  He felt a nagging sense of uncertainty, however. Derout was troubled by a message he had received just as the predawn light moved slowly across the macabre scene below him. The dead fell to the ground lifeless once again, and then a mounted messenger carefully approached the citadel. Derout had ordered a large patrol to finish off any Erandian or Duellrian survivors. A single courier from that patrol returned with news that the remainder of the Duellrian army was found only ten miles from the fortress. The rider described the frozen bodies they saw from a distance, and the three men searching the dead. As the patrol closed on the three, the dead began to awake. In the confusion, the three survivors escaped into the forest.

  “At least seven thousand more dead soldiers are approaching the capital,” the scout reported.

  “They’re drawn to the strong presence of life protected behind these walls,” Derout said, frowning. “It’s that or they are drawn to their master.”

  Derout did not know what evil magic Ferral used to devastate the remainder of the Duellrian army. He did not care if they were dead; they were his enemies, and he was glad his own men would not be wasted hunting them down. The news of the three escaping, however, did not sit well with him. It would not sit well with Ferral either.

  “They’ll probably freeze during the night, anyway,” he hoped. His instincts told him that somehow they would survive. He turned away from the wall, reluctant to tell Ferral the news. The sorcerer-king was too powerful and could no longer be trusted … Derout would have to be cautious. He turned away from the smoke and death surrounding the walls of the city and reluctantly started toward the palace.

  Allisia sat motionless on the dark, cold floor staring past the horrors surrounding her. She showed no outward signs of fear or distress, but on the inside, she was screaming hysterically. The princess wished for someone, anyone, to help her.

  But who is left? she asked herself. Her father was dead. Kristian was dead. At least half of her people’s army was destroyed. Who else was there left that could reach her? She pulled deeper down within herself to escape the terrible things she had seen … the things Ferral continued to make her watch.

  “It has to be a nightmare,” she murmured. “Nothing can be as horrible as what I’ve seen. These things can’t be real,” she kept telling herself.

  She prayed continuously since the nightmare had begun, but no one answered. Allisia’s mind raced from one frantic thought to the next as she silently pleaded for someone to help her. She somehow sensed the presence of someone new entering the room, but was unable to free her mind of the terrible shapes surrounding her.

  Derout snorted at what he saw. The Belarnian throne room had been transformed into a macabre trophy room. Remains of several men littered the floor or hung limply on chains from the massive columns. Their reanimated limbs shook in a vain attempt to reach out across the room toward the one living captive among them. He barely recognized the Duellrian princess chained among the dead. She sat on the floor with her hands hanging above her.

  She stared blankly across the room at the monsters trying to reach her. The beautiful girl’s face had turned pale. Her auburn hair was now a tangled, dirty mess. Allisia’s gown hung loosely from her shoulders, torn to shreds.

  Derout’s attention was drawn away from her by the sound of violent coughing. Ferral was being attended to by several servants. They scurried around him like rats, checking to see if anything could be done to please their master. The sorcerer-king lay on a makeshift cot near his throne of skulls and bones. He continued coughing, his body shaking from the effort. Blood trickled down one corner of his mouth. As Derout approached his king, Allisia felt a little warmth leave, and she fell even deeper into the abyss. She wondered if anyone would ever help her.

  Ferral tried to sit up as his general approached. “Yes, I’m afraid my entertainment got a little carried away,” he said, nodding towards Allisia.

  “I barely pulled her away from them in time. A few moments more, and they would have torn her apart.” He smiled to himself, pleased to have found something new and amusing to do with the princess. “I guess I left their chains a little too long.”

  He fell back into the arms of an older priest, coughing as he tried to laugh at his own joke. He pushed away from the attendant violently, snarling in anger.

  “What news do you bring?” he asked anxiously through spasms of pain.

  Derout hesitated before finally stepping forward. “My Lord, the army of dead broke through the ruined gate. Before they could be destroyed, they
killed a thousand Belarnian citizens. Thankfully, I stopped them from demolishing the rest of the city.” The words pushed Allisia even deeper down into the dark place she was trapped in.

  More deaths … more horror.

  “And how, General Derout, were they destroyed? My legions of dead feel no pain. How did you destroy them?” Ferral asked inquisitively.

  “With fire, My Lord,” Derout responded, confidently.

  “Fool, those soldiers are mine as much as you and your men are. How dare you destroy them without consulting me!” The sick king lashed out at the nearest attendant. Ferral used a servant to pull himself up and then edged closer to Derout.

  Derout backed away from him, fearing the man’s new powers. “But, My Lord, they were destroying the city. I had to destroy them to ensure the rest might survive.”

  “Don’t think on your own again, Derout. My plans go far beyond the well-being of this one city. Besides, alive or dead, they would have served me. Now they are useless piles of ash.”

  “There are plenty more to add to your numbers now, Ferral,” a beautiful voice interrupted. The battle-weary general backed even further away from the dais as the demon-woman approached the king. Her hood fell back to reveal a calm, smiling face.

  “The remainder of the Duellrian army has been destroyed. Unfortunate timing caught them on the open plains during a fierce winter storm.”

  The words pierced Allisia’s heart like a lance. Darkness filled her as she realized that her brother was also dead.

  Ferral sat a little straighter. Smiling he said, “At least something went right. Is her brother dead?”

  “Yes,” the demon replied. Allisia would have cried, but the news barely registered in her mind.

  “And their fleet … is there anyone left to oppose me,” the sorcerer pressed.

  “No one,” the demon assured him. Derout shifted uncomfortably.

  “What now, Derout?”

  “Not all of them were destroyed. Not yet,” Derout murmured. He flinched as Ferral’s eyes turned black with fury.

  Quicker to reply than she meant, the demon said, “He speaks of only three men, Ferral. Three ragged, exhausted men who more than likely died last night.”

  “And as of yet, the body of the one man I wanted found and brought to me is still missing!” Ferral fumed. He looked hard at the demon, judging her loyalty. “Who are these three survivors?”

  “I don’t know their names,” she stated indifferently. “What do you care about three worthless men? You have the ability to conquer any kingdom you wish now that you control the greatest army in the world.”

  “I control very little,” the mad sorcerer declared as he was helped from the cot over to his throne. “The pain of raising them was terrible. … I didn’t know it would ….”

  The demon cut him short, turning around to face him. Her eyes seemed to smolder as she said, “All powers have a price, Ferral. Being a leader like General Derout,” the man inadvertently took a step back at the mention of his name, “means sacrificing your personal life for the well-being of your soldiers. Becoming the greatest sorcerer to ever walk the earth means you sacrifice your soul. I can assure you that it will hurt for quite some time.”

  She turned slowly away so that Ferral could not see her face. Looking Derout in the eyes she added, “Yes, Ferral, it will take you some time to recover from what you have done.” She smiled wickedly at Ferral’s general as she moved to leave.

  Ferral did not seem to notice the look she gave Derout as she started to leave. He countered, “I suppose the same holds true for other things as well.”

  “Like what?” she asked, continuing down the hall.

  “Like love.” The mere mention of the subject made the demon involuntarily wince. The movement was barely noticeable, but Ferral had seen it and wondered if he had finally found her weakness.

  “Surely, if someone truly loves another there must be some sacrifice? Some test to prove to the other that their love is genuine?” He smiled, leaning forward to hear her response. Ferral knew he had found out something intriguing about his reluctant demon. She pulled her cloak close about her. It was the first time she had ever seemed bothered by the cold. The knowledge that she was in some way vulnerable excited him. The demon paused, seeing brief images of her mortal life flash before her eyes.

  She abruptly pushed the confusing memories away, saying, “No, Ferral, you’re wrong. Love has no tests. It is patient and kind. Love does not envy or boast. It is not proud. It is not self-seeking. Love always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always forgives … true love will not fail.” She emphasized her words slowly, deliberately, as she looked at Allisia. The young girl was chained to the column, surrounded by the grasping hands of the dead.

  Those words brought a glimmer of hope to Allisia as she continued to push the nightmarish images of the battle out of her head. “There were only three,” she told herself. “Fighting against the hordes of this evil sorcerer … one of them might be Kristian,” Allisia hoped. It was the one glimmer of light penetrating the darkness in her mind. Allisia reached for it and embraced it.

  “But how can I control those things I created?” Ferral asked uncomfortably, suddenly wanting to change the topic. “Everyone that dies immediately fills their ranks, at least when it is dark. During the day, they just lay around rotting.”

  “As you regain your strength, you will obtain more control over them. They wander about seeking the living because they have no will guiding their purpose. And not every person killed will join their ranks, only those within the borders of your own kingdom.” She could see the question on his face.

  “You are not all-powerful yet. The farther they get from you, the more difficult it will be to transform and control them. Unless …”

  “Yes?” Ferral asked eagerly.

  “Unless you send someone forward that can assist you in controlling them.” The demon put on her best smile and turned to look at Ferral. “There are things we have discussed. Don’t forget about your plans to destroy the older kingdoms to further your quest for power. Send me along with your new army, and I will see that your will is done.”

  “My new army? What about Erand?” Ferral asked her. “After hundreds of years, Belarn is poised to once again conquer those fools. I had plans to send them east, not west.”

  The woman came close, whispering in his ear, “They’re no real threat. They will fall easily. Send your remaining men after them, if you like, but the dead are far more powerful than the living. Send me out to control the dead, and I promise you the Holts and Atlunam will not be able to stand against me,” the demon said.

  “The Holts are so far from here that they are of no concern to me. Not yet, any way. And the Atlunam will not interfere. I have … leverage over them,” Ferral bragged.

  “They are a very real threat,” the demon said, becoming angry. “They are more ancient and powerful than you think. If they unite, all of our plans are for nothing.”

  “Ha!” he shot back at her. “There will never be peace between them. Let them fight and kill each other. We can deal with them once I have destroyed Erand and Duellr.”

  The demon snarled. “The dead are of no use to you right now. They cannot go beyond the boundaries of your power. Give them to me, and I will conquer both kingdoms at the same time you are ravaging the eastern lands.”

  “Very well,” he said after a brief pause. The demon was right. He would have to learn more from the scroll Rebenna had brought him if he wanted to completely control the dead. He had plans for his new army, but he did not need them yet. Ferral had always had a grand scheme, even before the demon started advising him.

  Ferral’s concern was growing, though. Can I truly trust the demon? he wondered. He could do little without her, but she was like an addictive drug. The more Ferral called upon the demon to use her powers to aid him in his schemes, the more dependent upon her he became. She was not subservient to him the way he expected. He did not think her plans
were always the same as his.

  If he were able to create a creature that he could use to channel himself through, he would be able to control the army wherever he sent it. He would no longer need the demon. The mad king would first have to learn how to make such a creature, and then he would have to experiment. Before he could do that, he had to find out who he could trust, he looked back and forth at the demon-woman and Derout, his eyes narrowing in suspicion and greed.

  From behind the throne, within a dark alcove, the slim and pale servant girl with dark hair watched and heard everything they said. Her eyes moved slowly over the prisoners chained to the columns. To her dark and confused mind, they seemed like tortured, undernourished peasants. She felt pity for them even though she would never be able to break free of Ferral’s control to express her feelings. She also wondered about the beautiful girl chained among them. The prisoner was little different in age than she had been many years ago … before Ferral ...

  For a moment, the girl thought she might remember what had happened to her, but she could remember nothing. The dead servant girl could not remember her past.

  She looked closely at the peasants reaching out toward Allisia. Their limbs were too thin. Their faces had no eyes, no flesh. Yet, they moved as if they were human.

  A voice screamed inside her mind. They were dead, kept alive by Ferral’s evil magic. She looked at her own hands and then her body. She examined closely how the shadows leaped across her pale skin with the flickering of the torchlight. Was she the same as them? What had happened to her that made her what she was? Her mind could not go back that far into her past. She screamed silently as doubt, fear, and horror bounced around inside her mind without release.

  She tried to scream louder, wanting to shove people and knock things over, wanting only to be noticed. To know she was not like them, that she was alive. Her mouth barely twitched, revealing none of the pain that she was really feeling. No sound came from her closed lips.

  What did I do to deserve this? she asked herself. She had the sudden notion to run away, to flee Ferral’s evil citadel, but she knew she would never be able to get past the palace doors. Her master would never allow it.

  Ferral motioned for her to bring him a cup of wine, and the dead girl immediately floated silently across the floor to his side, ready to serve.