Bloodless

by Roberto Vecchi

  “I am not done yet,” she said, her voice radiating all the vocal perfection of an angel.

  To the shock and awe of every orc, they turned in unison. Standing before them was not the broken body of a defeated woman, hair matted with dirt and grime, body covered in bruises and blood, lungs left barely breathing to slowly end on their own. No, in her place stood the utter impossibility of immortal, vocal expression forged into a mortal woman.

  “I said, I am not done yet,” she stated again, her voice penetratingly brilliant.

  Rhoaggar roared with a deafeningly loud, anger driven bellow. The enraged orc charged. Soliana stood still. Rhoaggar leapt high into the air, perhaps higher than any orc had ever leapt before, swinging both of his huge war axes. As he landed, he met iron. Bracing herself, Soliana allowed the perfect sound of her soul to permeate her body and caught both war axes, one in each hand. The orcs, many brandishing their own weapons now, stopped. The chieftain stood up. The orc with the staff grinned. Without hesitation, Soliana allowed her expression within to gather. As it did, all sound around her seemed to fade as hers grew. When all sounds except the one from her ceased to be, when she could no longer hold hers, she released it. Exploding outward, the blast of sonic vibration knocked everyone within one hundred feet backward at least five feet. The chieftain fell feet over head in his chair. The orc with the staff waved his hand, deflecting the better portion of the sonic assault, but was still visibly struck. Those closer were impacted more solidly. Rhoaggar was knocked completely unconscious. Soliana picked up the larger of the two heavy war axes walked over to where Rhoaggar lay, barely breathing. She raised the axe in the air as the crowd, including the chieftain, were just regaining their footings. She hesitated briefly, and then let it descend, severing the orc champion’s head.

  The orcs, still not believing what they had just seen, all looked to their chief, who then looked at the orc with the staff. “Yinilli muese ig thock ig thein!” he shouted.

  The orcs all turned toward Soliana, still holding the war axe in her hand, and said, in unison, “Yinilli muese, ig thock ig thein.” Each of them, even the chieftain, bent down to one knee, lowering their weapons.

  “Soliana?” asked Jaro as he tentatively walked to where she was still standing, limping and holding his wounded arm “What happened?”

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “Your hair,” he said, “It is red.”

  She was about to look at it when she turned around and saw the orc with the staff standing directly in front of her. “Yinilli muese ig thock ig thein,” he said softly.

  “Yinilli muese ig thock ig thein,” repeated the still kneeling orcs.

  “What does that mean?” she asked.

  “She keeps what she kills,” answered the orc.

  Enbluedo

  (Bloodless)

  Predictably, his Warbringers all protested their assignments as they were all under the assumption they would be included in the march and subsequent siege of Pretago Cor. Indeed, even he had first made that assumption. Though he did not protest against the new instructions he received while in his latest mediation with Satan, he did have his doubts until the fullness of his plans were revealed. Thus, he was more forgiving when his Warbringers initially questioned the validity of being separated and assigned separate military targets instead of using their full strength against the capital. However, so insistent had Gin’ev’s protests been that they bordered on insubordination. After threatening punishment and reminding the elder Warbringer of their greater mission for Satan, he fell in line, albeit reluctantly.

  All but Vismorda offered him resistance. She seemed detached, aloof, and unconcerned with the change in his plans. Perhaps because she had been included in the small dispatchment of militia to accompany him, or perhaps because she was too concerned with his two Ravens to give much energy to protestation; either way, however, she offered no words other than, “Yes, my Lord.” In truth, he had expected the staunchest protests to have come from her. She had grown bold with her insertions over the last few weeks. Stemming from her dominant assertion during their sexual collisions, her boldness in other areas began to grow, but at the same time, so did her submissiveness, almost as if she was taking pleasure from submitting to him and did so willingly instead of as a result of his forceful imposition driving their coupling. She still resisted and fought back, but not with the desire to impede him ending their sex, but rather to enhance it. There were still times when he felt the same from her as he had in the past, as if she was trying to change, but had not completed the alteration to its fullest.

  “My Lord,” she said from atop her horse. “What has you deep in thought this morning?”

  “I am just dwelling inside the moment we are quickly approaching. There is a certain amount of satisfaction knowing we are on the threshold of everything that has been promised us, promised me from when I was no older than Malice and Vile,” he answered.

  “You have struggled long, my Lord. It is right that all your suffering should reach its culmination with me at your side. Though,” she said pausing for a moment wondering how she should breach the sensitive topic, “I am not sure how we are going to prevail. Our forces are substantially lacking the strength to overcome the defenses of Pretago Cor and the Silver Castle.”

  “You are correct. If our goal was the simple assertion of our power as a means to capture and control the capital, we would surely fail. We cannot possibly match their military might with our rather small contingency in the open warfare of a siege,” he answered looking behind him as he rode at the head of their column. When Satan had initially instructed him to bring only one hundred soldiers, including none of his Warbringers nor any of his necromancers, he was initially confused, if not suspicious, of his master’s intentions. Yet, they would be quickly put to rest by Satan’s following statement:

  It is a small thing, my child, to demonstrate one’s superiority in the overt display of military power. Such victories become trivial and mundane, void of true greatness and glory. But, to conquer in a bloodless display of authority and dominance demonstrates complete control that cannot be refuted nor resisted.

  “But we are not going to put them to siege, my dear,” he added.

  “We do not mean to conquer them?” she asked, a little surprised. “Have your plans changed?”

  “My dear, Vismorda, I too thought to question our Master. And I too was wrong. Our goal has not changed, only our methods,” he said.

  She was going to respond seeking more information, but was interrupted by the sound of horses in the distance, many of them. Coming into view moments after they heard the thunderous hooves beating on the ground, was a contingency of no less than two hundred mounted soldiers all bearing the colors of Pretago Cor. Vismorda grabbed for her fountain, as did Malice and Vile, in preparation for the attack.

  “There will be no need, Vismorda,” said Jesolin calmly as the riders continued to quickly approach. “Though I must admit, there is a temptation to unleash Malice and Vile. They seem particularly lethal today.” Had he not held up his hand to hold his soldiers in place, they too may have engaged the approaching riders.

  There is a moment often referred to when one sees “the whites of their eyes” as the point of no return in battle. In that moment, a threshold is reached as it becomes too late to break off an attack. Likewise, it becomes too late to mount a defense if response is delayed any longer beyond that specific moment. Perhaps the phrase in reference to this moment was coined in a more humble dispute than mass warfare. Regardless, however, it was nonetheless referred to on such grand scales of battle that seeing the whites of one’s eyes became largely impossible. And while neither Jesolin nor Vismorda could actually see their whites, they would not have to, because just before that moment, the driving hooves slowed and tension eased. When the force from Pretago Cor stopped, a lone rider slowly walked his horse forward. Jesolin responded in kind, as did Vismorda, her ravens right behind her.

  “Lor
d Kahl?” asked the rider.

  Jesolin responded with a slight nod of his head.

  “I am General Oathion,” announced the rider taking off his helmet, “High Commander of His Royal Highness’s mounted cavalry. I have been sent to provide you a royal escort to Pretago Cor. King Yahnaros sends his apologies as well. We would have been here sooner had we been expecting your raven. As it was, we were delayed because we had difficulty catching the bird.” His face had every appearance one would expect from a general of renown. He had several small scars on the right side of his forehead with a larger one down the left side of his face. His face was lean showing a small compliment of wrinkles around his eyes. Though he had the look of a man well in his sixth decade of life, he carried himself without the natural slouch of the elderly as he was still able to bear the weight of his full battle armor easily.

  “General Oathion,” replied Jesolin, “no apology is needed. Indeed, it is we who apologize for not announcing our intention of pledging fealty to King Yahnaros sooner. We are humbled by the King’s generous display of welcoming us on such short notice.”

  “Yes, King Yahnaros is very happy to be welcoming you into the formal Royalty of the Silver Empire. You can produce your historical documents legitimizing your royal lineage?” asked the General who was, no doubt, still skeptical of Jesolin’s claim.

  “Indeed. Though you will understand why I do not choose to reveal them until we are safely in the presence of the High King himself,” answered Jesolin.

  “Of course. These are indeed treacherous times. Now, if you are ready, we will continue the journey,” said General Oathion placing his helmet on his head again.

  “Lead away,” said Jesolin.

  When the general rejoined his troops, leaving Jesolin to his, Vismorda rode beside him and asked, “You have documents?”

  “Of course not,” he said with a wry smile.

  The rest of the journey was pleasant, at least as pleasant as it could be for him while restraining his evil expressions. Though he had no doubt to the successes of their plans for Pretago Cor, he did not wish to bring his illusion of fealty into question before it was called upon. Furthermore, though they made good enough time, largely because of the unseasonably calm weather, he would have preferred to use the gating technique he had shown his Warbringers. However, presenting in a manner to dismiss the rumors surrounding his dark power, even though they be true, was necessary for their success. So, the plight of their journey was placed squarely upon the blowing winds of late autumn, and autumn smiled down upon them so much so that a few of the soldiers from Pretago Cor spoke about how Jesolin’s claim must be divinely inspired to be accompanied by such clear skies and warm temperatures. At night, while it was customary for differing groups to keep to their own, Jesolin insisted they share the same central fire and extending spaces in an effort to promote the continued unity of the Blood Keep with the Silver Empire.

  As they approached the fabled city, dominated by the scope of the interior castle jutting high enough into the sky to provoke wonder and awe, they were met by another, but smaller, contingency of the High King. This one, however, did not contain any soldiers or generals. Instead, it was constructed of high-ranking merchants and officials with the full complement of their entourages meant to impart the hospitality and luxury of the Capital. Indeed, it was becoming apparent to Jesolin that no amount of pageantry had been spared in welcoming him into the validation of royalty. Vast were the colors and endless were the expression of graciousness. Flowered words were spoken at length from the Empires best poets and bards all extoling Jesolin’s righteous deeds of exposing and ridding the Silver Empire of Lord Myosk’s reign of stoic terror.

  When the ceremony had ended and they again began their progression toward the City gates, it became quickly apparent to both he and Vismorda why Satan had decided against an outright siege. As formidable as their army had become, bolstered with the power and mastery of their dark fountains, they would still have fallen short of taking the Silver Castle. Lining the streets of the surrounding city, the largest either of them had ever seen, were not just rows and rows of people seeking to catch a glimpse of the newly rising righteous Lord, but tower upon tower each with numerous archers at the ready. Likewise, resting on the very top of each tower was a lone cannon that, upon closer examination, had been mounted on a turret providing at least partial mobility if not a complete circumferential freedom. Even with mounted cavalry one could not avoid the deadly artillery because of the many portable blockades situated periodically throughout the exterior city. Because cannons could be easily avoided and neutralized in battle, they were absent for the field most times. However, with this sheer number of them, their effectiveness would be devastating to any attacking army.

  As quick as their journey had been to the city, it was equally long once inside the massive outer gate. It was a standard gate in that there was a gear mechanism used to open it. However, such was its massive size that the gears were tied to four beasts of burden each that, on command, pulled the gears into motion. Indeed, no mortal could lift it on his own. Lining the central avenue were the people of Pretago Cor, nearly all of them. Such were their numbers that even Jesolin and Vismorda were impressed. Some of them cheered, some clapped, some shed tears of joy, and others threw flowers and other pleasant items of welcome.

  The interior castle wall, an impossibly high edifice of power and majesty, had been polished so smoothly it resembled glass. No doubt the materials used in its construction were not just the common stone but granite and other tougher materials. After they had dismounted from their horses, and while they were walking up the several white steps to approach the large castle doors, they were met by another small contingency of men all wearing grey robes tied at the waist with white ropes that hung down just above the ground.

  “We, the Wizards of the Silver Empire, welcome you to Pretago Cor. It is customary for us to inspect your intentions prior to allowing you entrance to see High King Yahnaros. It has been done with every visitor before you, and will be done with every visitor after. You will, of course, not object to a magical search?” said a lone robed figure stepping out from the group.

  “By all means, proceed with your inspection,” said Jesolin nodding his head. Long had he exercised and perfected the deceptive techniques and illusions necessary to hide intents and plans. And because there was no magical signature attached to his power, he knew they would see only what he wanted them to see. He held an image inside his mind, an image that was as true as he was standing before them subjected to their magical inquisition. Focusing on that, he projected it into his conscious mind and let them believe his bent knee and lowered head were done so as an act of fealty, a pledge to King and Empire. They need not see anything beyond, because they did not want to see anything beyond. They saw his posture of subservience and assumed there was no more to it than what they had seen. How wrong they would be.

  Only four of them were permitted entrance into the throne room to audience with High King Yahnaros. But that is not to say there would not be many, many more people within. Indeed, he was counting on it. With a razor focus, he strode down the impressively long isle created by two separate lines of the various denizens of royalty present to witness this historic moment. Behind the lines of royalty were two separate lines of warriors, no doubt all high-ranking positions in the Royal Army. Displayed like a sea of grey, behind the rows of warriors were the grey clad wizards of the Silver Empire. As the four of them approached the throne, Jesolin, Vismorda and little Malice and Vile, they saw High King Yahnaros stand, his royal robes flourishing out from him in a display of divine authority.

  “Lord Jesolin Kahl, Lord of the Blood Keep, Avenger of Righteousness, Defender of the Empire, it is with the highest respect I, High King Yahnaros, welcome you into the heartbeat of the Silver Empire. May Pretago Cor ever be your most loyal and humble host. For we cannot express our gratitude enough for the exposure and removal of Lord Myosk’s deception. What would y
ou have as your reward?

  On cue, Jesolin spoke clearly and audibly to the entire crowd, “I would have you legitimize my claim to its throne, formally granting me Lordship over it, its people, and lands.”

  Extending his hands outward, High King Yahnaros replied, “So be it! Pledge fealty to your High King, and it will be so!”

  It was then he felt his connection to his fountain begin to grow. Rumbling inside like the rolling thunder of a distant storm quickly approaching, he felt it build with each passing moment. As he slowly descended, bending his front knee and stepping backward with his other leg, his power began to rise. Drawing upon the depth of hate he felt for everything the Silver Empire represented, drawing on every bit of his rage, he gathered the greater portion of his substantial dark liquid and held it as his knee approached the cool feel of the marble floor. As his head dipped and all about him presented an aura of submission, he sliced his thumb with the tiniest of blades he had stitched into his belt. Though the cut was deep, deep enough to warrant stitching for its proper healing, it did not bleed. Instead, leaking fluidly from the lesion was a bloodless, black mist.

  As he spoke, it continued to seep from the cut, “I, Jesolin Kahl, the Lord of the Blood Keep, The Bringer of Pain, the Bloodless God, the Son of Satan, pledge my undying fealty to the One True King.” The mist, now engulfing the whole of the throne room, held each of those present in a sort of enthrallment. Jesolin rose. “As will you all,” he continued as the mist entered each of them through their nostrils, ears, eyes, and mouths. Walking slowly up the steps, he addressed King Yahnaros directly. “I have changed my request. I now require to be granted Pretago Cor itself. I require you to renounce your crown and any future claim your children may have. I require you to pledge fealty to me and me alone. Furthermore, I require all those present to do the same.” And they did. One by one, they all knelt before the new High King of the Silver Empire pledging their unending fealty. Not one resisted, not one could resist within the grip of his deceptive control. When the last one stood up after completing his pledge, and returned to his place as a newly pledged member of his dark empire, Jesolin could not help but see the irony implicit in the events that had just transpired. Indeed, the Lord of the Blood Keep had just completed what had never been done before. Such was his power and influence, he had done the impossible. He had successfully orchestrated a Bloodless Revolution.