by Ed Montalvo
Chapter 11
I pondered of traitors in all corners of the world. These vile souls exist within all humans. When given the chance, they will turn on their own families, friends. And what justifies their actions, is dreadful to conceive. It is with pride I say, my people value family and friends as they value themselves. I am proud of my Ayrian heritage.
Memoirs of the Ayrian King Boris Von Brouka, Princess Tatiana’s 5th generation grandfather.
It took Ceron less than a moment to realize she spoke of Dregous. His mind raced, trying to come up with a plan. His days as a cheating cutthroat came to mind and the lies he spun. Though lies wouldn’t save him now, only a conception of the truth will. “Does it matter?” Ceron was aware of the empire’s female ability for sensing deceptions. He and Hahniah used to make sexual games out of her talent.
She looked over her shoulder into the darkness, “It matters to me.” And returned her attention to him.
“Indeed?”
“Let us be blunt,” her Drouwen accent surfaced with a hint of frustration. “The Empire has recently undergone change since your dealings,” she stepped closer to Ceron. “The one we seek threatens the security of the empire and your beloved surface,” she said. “Where is Dregous?” She suspected he was aware of her ability to sense deception. “If you are unwilling to answer, I will mount a search to find him!” she threatened.
Gods damned, Dregous warned me… Ceron thought. “Why? He is but a male and a simple second-grade mage,” he guessed his arcane status, “I am certain such a diminutive station is no threat to the illustrious and powerful Empire.”
She studied Ceron curiously and wanted to kill him but thought better. With a flare of frustrating annoyance, she addressed Henry while signing a hidden Drouwen. Ceron caught the infinitesimal facial gestures. He didn’t know what she said until it was too late.
The magistrate heard a swish sound and saw Henry with a surprised stare and a blade point protruding his throat and another from his heart. “Henry,” Ceron said weakly. “Oh, great heavens, why?” his eyes pooled.
“Answer my question or another will pay… say your lovely servant, the one you have sex games with?”
Cerons’ heart swelled with grief and anger. He couldn’t allow his emotions to control him. His tears beaded his lashes, “Ask your god damned question,” he kept a mild tone. He feared for the life of his lovely little Cherie.
Her mocking smile, enraged him but kept it in check, “Hmmm, that is better… is it not?” she taunted. “Now where in the abyss is he?” she asked roughly.
“I know not,” he answered truthfully.
His calm demeanor was starting to dig its way into her nerves, “Was he here?” she snipped.
“He was.”
“And?” his simple answers were annoying but figured it was due to his dead friend.
Ceron stared at his old comrade, “Pardon?” the loss of Henry and Hahniah and the pain of their deaths aided him to mislead the Drouwen witch.
“And… what else?” she snapped.
Ceron smiled inwardly; his cavalier tone must be pestering her, he thought. “He did not stay long.”
She stopped pacing and addressed Ceron, “Not long… where did he go?”
“To hell for all I god damn care,” his grief misled her.
She studied his eyes, “Is that so…,” she mused.
“As you say… …I chased him out.”
She raised a brow at the plump man, “Why?” she demanded in a low dangerous tone.
“I feared if he were caught in my city, I would be forced to kill him,” Ceron confessed a measure of truth. The strong emotions of his loss shielded him.
With a slight but calming sigh, “It would have been an Imperial service had you done so…. Why did you spare him?”
“I thought… …in time, it would be in my interest to gain someone’s favor,” he confessed truthfully.
She weighed his response carefully. Ceron was no fool. It was rare finding a male with cunning. And finding one on the surface, that deals with the empire through the black market. She was pleased she didn’t order his death. Ceron may still be of use to her. “Well played.”
“Gratitude… I thought it was.”
He plays well, she thought, “Hmm, you satisfy me, however, rest assured, I have eyes and ears to ensure his discovery. When that comes to pass, we will leave your town.” Ceron didn’t need the Drouwen senses to detect deception to know she was lying.
She stepped closer as he watched her. She was far more attractive than he wanted to admit. He hated her for what she did. Then the Drouwen mistress blew out the lamp, leaving him in the dark. Ceron expected to find a blade, instead, he felt a gentle kiss on his lips. Slightly startled, but held his ground, “Who are you?” he ventured.
“Saug-fah Te’shorfd of the great house Te’shorfd,” she whispered.
It took Ceron a few moments to find his way back to the stairs. His tunic had a difficult time securing his flab from jiggling as he rushed up the steps. His shoulder thumped the door and fumbled to find the handle. With a quick and hard backward slam, it shut with a hard thud. Leaning against the door he panted heavily, his face beaded with sweat. “Oh my… what have I done?” he whispered.
***
Contemplating over the ledge where her nest sat, the matriarch gazed at the natural formation of the great cavern with a measure of pride. She watched other harpies fly about with profound admiration, and of what she’s built.
The first male harpy ever born stood two hundred ten centimeters tall. Unlike other harpies, his wings extended from his back and not the arms. He flexed his dark feathered wings as she studied him. He slowly fanned them while pondering the view. So beautiful, so powerful… now is the time, she thought. “Now you know the truth of your father, what plan you my son?”
Broah-vock continued stretching and detected a slight pride in her voice, “What would you have me do, mother?” he asked, not caring either way.
She smiled and didn’t get her hopes up. He has addressed her subserviently on other occasions, only to discover he wasn’t. “Stake your birthright,” she strolled over cautiously while studying him. Her thin bird feet and razor-sharp talon clicked against the stone. He looked over his shoulder watching his mother’s talons then gazed up to her face. She stood one and a half meters tall. Her dark brown feathers extended from shoulders down the length of her arms. She folded them over her bare breasts. Thin feathers covered her sex and half a meter-long tail feathers shielded her bottom. Her slightly wavy brown hair draped her shoulders and upper arms. The pale skin and lite brown eye shined enhancing her beautiful face, her jagged teeth barely peered passed her blood-red lips. The matriarch studied her son intently, “You shall be the new Ayrian king.”
“Mother?” he continued studying the venue. She considered him from head to talon. He resembled a tall powerful Ayrian minus his talons and thick muscles towering over her. His mother admired his broad shoulders. “Does it matter? I will be king soon enough. I rallied many different harpy clans. None dare stand against you…. What more is there?”
Damn his father’s noble blood, it flows through him like poison, she thought. The matriarch glimpsed the grand opening of her self-proclaimed kingdom. “You are correct… as always. I will do what I can to rest the past.”
Broah-vock looked sharply at her and felt his blood boil. Many times, she told him how his father forced himself on her, giving her the first male ever born. “We are over five thousand strong,” he yielded to her. She smiled inwardly. “The morrow, I will go east and meet with the two clans of the southeast…” he hung an unspoken ultimatum.
She grinned, “It is time to claim your birthright,” and stepped to the ledge leaping into the air to their treasury alcove. Broah-vock studied his mother. He despised her actions to reach her goals.
Stories of his father disowning him rushed through his mind like a whirlwind. She had sent word to the Ayrian King regarding their son. He i
magined the king scoffing and scorning her. Then threaten his mother and his life should she breathed of their relationship. Had she met with the Ayrian king, his assassins would have killed her and him. More stories of Ayrians searching for them lurked in the back of his mind. Lost in his whirlwind thoughts, Broah-vock didn’t see the matriarch return. “Broah-vock, are you well?” she asked.
He whirled, giving his mother a frightful stare as if he wanted to kill her, “Mother,” his tone bland. He wondered how he could have let his guard down and allow someone to surprise him.
His reaction astonished her and wondered if she startled him. He masked himself so well, it was difficult to see. “Are you well?”
He ignored her question and noted her closed hand. Silently she handed him a ring, “What is this?”
“Your father gave it to me professing his love,” she lied. It was an Ayrian prince ring.
He wondered if his mother ever kept track of her lies. If his father hated her, why would he give a memento, he thought. “Many times, you said he wanted us dead,” Broah-vock gave her an accusing stare.
Her heart skipped, “I did…. Truly I do not know why he did… perhaps shame for being with me, their sworn enemy. We thought we could bridge the gap of hate.” She recalled the day she saw him. It was a cool spring morning. Her heart pounded with lust for his loins to swell within her. The memory ached her sex. Her pack abandoned the hunt to ambush the Ayrian party. She needed satisfaction for her strong urge, regardless of her hate for the Ayrians, her lust for the young prince was stronger.
The legendary Harpy love song aroused males, making them powerless to resist their appeal. Once under the harpy’s control, they would lure them deeper into the woods to quill their lust. Once the young harpy’s desire quenched, she realized who she had fornicated. It didn’t take her long to hatch a plan in order to boost her position within the clan. Wounding Ayrian pride and their ego was a bonus for her as well as a good tale to tell and laugh about.
She didn’t want them harmed, instead, they were spared, to remember their humiliation. The Ayrian prince impregnated the lustful harpy.
The matriarch relished the memory of that day while her son examined the ring. It was made of gold and platinum forming the orifice with a flat edge. The smooth surface cradled an odd ruby with the Ayrian symbol, wings. The center sported a brailed design of a large bird with a nine-meter wingspan. A floral pattern incrusted the perimeter of the stone. “Attractive ring,” Broah-vock whispered.
She sighed like a lovesick child. “I thought as well.”
He placed the ring on his thumb, then extended his hand to admire it. “Have you not heard from him since?”
“No…,” she walked to the edge, “but I send word a few days ago.”
“And?”
“I still wait.” The matriarch glanced at her growing realm.
“I meant the message,” he stepped beside her studying the same venue while fingering his ring.
She smiled inwardly, “I requested to meet him in the woods, where you were conceived. I wish peace between our peoples…” she started.
“Why would he want that?” His tone neutral, betraying none of his disdain for his mother’s deceptions.
She smirked shily, “Because my dear boy, what Ayrian would feud against his son?” the matriarch barely gave an upward glance. “It is against their nature.”
Her words struck him hard, though he displayed no reaction. “I should have seen that,” Broah-vock studied his mother. He had little affection for her, but on occasion, she would slip and give a jewel of information.
All his life she told him how his father, the Ayrian king wanted to make her and him disappear. And he found himself disliking the king without ever meeting him. But what she said, about feuding, and the Ayrian nature. He wondered if, in fact, his father was capable of hating anything or anyone for that matter.
She saw the distaste in his eyes. It was the same look the young Ayrian prince gave her while they sexed. “Trust me my son.”
Again, her words struck him hard, though not like before. It was as though she portrayed a mothering nature. It infuriated him, but kept himself in check, “Trust you…,” he scoffed.
She tried to hide her glare. If Broah-vock drifted from her plans, everything will fall apart. Her claim on the clans would be in jeopardy. She brewed a backup plan that would ensure his loyalty. The thought softened her stare and smiled.
“I amuse you?”
“I recalled a moment with your father,” she lied.
He pitied her for her attachment to the Ayrian king. He didn’t understand why. Broah-vock debated following her. Harpies mated with humans only because they lacked males. He was the first male ever conceived. “When does all this begin?” he asked.
She smirked, feeling pleased he yielded. “Soon my lovely son.” She sang a song Broah-vock enjoyed as a child. Other harpies chimed forming a chorus as he sat on the ledge to enjoy them. He was immune to their charming voices, though found their songs pleasant.
***
The sound of clashing blades and shields mixed with screams filled the Palace halls. Explosions and flashes of fire happened throughout. A young centurion knight flinched against the eruptions, then informed Duke Dorian, his daughter-in-law and grandchildren went missing.
Lord Dorian already knew their fate and his heart burned with sorrow. He quickly searched the palace telepathically, nothing. With the battle in hand, he was forced to swallow his misery. His daughter by law and her two toddlers were as he predicted, dead. Everything was proceeding as he envisioned. His lordship reminded himself, this was the only way one of his houses would survive. Since Dregous’s birth, he consistently manipulated events in time to force fate’s hand to his will. In doing so, he also forced them to commit the unheard-of crime ever committed in the empire. No such crime has ever taken place; the willful killing of children. This horror was the catalyst for his son to explode and destroy the Empire. His lordship stood tall as the centurion flinched again from another fire flash behind his Duke.
Calmly, as if all was serene around him, Dorian Reached into his robes and handed Centurion Hogah an elaborately designed ivory scroll case with the Von’Negrous sigil. “For your Sub-commander, his final orders.”
Hogah’s heart skipped, then raced, the head of the Von’Negrous has given him the final orders. Was the Duke surrendering? No, this was another of his ruse, it had to be. “My lord?” his faced masked with concern, his eyes held fear at bay.
Dorian studied the young Drouwen junior knight. “Go now,” he ordered with a smile. “You will do well.” He continued seeing Hogah’s future with all his decisions altering his outcome, “I have a request of you.”
He could see the Duke still had the stern confidence, a stillness so calm and profound as if the battle had been won. The look he always had when victory was near. “Your request is mine to fulfill my lord,” Hogah assured.
He removed a wired wrist brace and handed it to him, “This is for you… commander,” and handed him his command seal, a symbol that would inspire the young knight to higher loyalty.
“My lord,” he breathed as he considered the item then locked eyes as though he knew what was going to be asked of him. At that moment, he realized House Von’Negrous will never fall, regardless of the battle's outcome.
“Find him, protect him,” his lordship said softly. The request wasn’t what he expected, but was honored to fulfill it. Hogah didn’t know where, or how to find his prince. “You will know…. Follow the trail… go now, time is short for you.”
Hogah didn’t hesitate, he simply ran through the palace corridors dodging passed reinforcements. He was about to run out, and sneak by the enemy when he recalled the many escape routes the house engineers had been building for centuries. An enemy Drouwen jumped in front of him and lost his footing. He twisted his ankle and grimaced. Hogah drew his black broad sword and slashed his throat in one smooth move. The Drouwen grasped the wound and dropped
.
Dorian watched Hogah escape. He turned and strolled down the hall. “Commander,” he contacted him telepathically. The Drouwen commander waited at his post not far from the imperial palace.
“My lord.”
“Well, old friend, today is the beginning of the end to stomp out all threats to the crown. Is all in place?”
“As always my lord.”
“They have started this,” he paused, “And house Von’negrous shall finish it.” Dorian knew of the sub-commander’s betrayal to frame his commander. He couldn’t allow himself to win this fight. The Duke had to continue his plan. Losing meant the prince will survive and the empire will be made anew. Everything is going according to the Duke’s design. His final stage is set, the curtains are drawn and the players in place. The time has come, “Begin.”
The commander looked at his centurion soldiers with a lustrous grin and signed, ‘The word is given!’ with a strong emphasis as if shouting. The soldiers raised their weapons in a silent cheer as they charged the invading house from the eastern side.
***
“I do not care how you do it, commander, push, them, back… …her forces are divided!” shouted Urilah of the great house Tu’deforontug.
“Mayhaps great lady, but her troops trained with his Lord,” he informed her.
The sound of the Duke’s name sent her into a blind fury. She grabbed the commander’s throat. “Dare not speak its name you dung!” she growled softly, squeezing his neck, digging her nails deep into his skin. The poison within her nails will soon go into his system.
He didn’t touch her hand, instead placated to her rage, preventing her from reacting worse. The centurion went down on his knees, pacifying her ego when she released him. A quick glimpse revealed her glaring and lowered his head. It was well known caressing her ego gained favor. Her nails caused a painful sensation. Almost immediately immense pain constricted his neck, head, and shoulders. She smiled lustfully, “Have a care, my dear,” she warned gently as she watched him squirm on his knees.
The pain lasted but an instant, then the commander awaited her permission to stand. He didn’t bother wiping the sweat from his brow. She’s killed others for less. Urilah addressed another messenger who she hoped would bring her better news. “His father is trapped, our victory is assured,” she announced. Urilah mused but contained her excitement. Many times others thought the Duke trapped and found themselves at the point of his proverbial blade. The soon to be Empress wanted to force her victory in. She returned her attention to her kneeling commander, “Leave, and bring me its sigil,” she ordered.