An evil smile parted Waxxon’s beard. “And you are?”
“Prince Xylus, fifth son of King Obed.” The Vyking extended his massive hand that had an extra thumb. His other hand was the same.
Waxxon clasped Xylus’ forearm. The Vyking’s scaly skin was cold like a serpent. After they greeted one another, Waxxon turned his attention to the other prince.
“Prince Manfrid,” the other Vyking said. He extended his hand, which looked mortal like Waxxon’s and his skin was softer and warm. Manfrid was also six inches shorter and fifty pounds or so lighter than his brother. He continued, “Second son of King Obed.”
Xylus chuckled at the announcement. Waxxon’s brow rose in question.
“He’s the bastard son of my father,” Xylus said. “And not of my mother, Queen Xaeeria.”
Waxxon grinned and said, “No matter. As long as our objectives are the same.”
“Our purposes not directly related,” Xylus said. “We each have our reasons for the fall of Hoffnung. We have yet to venture into the heart of Aetheaon. Much to see, and much to conquer.”
“As agreed with your father, King Obed,” Waxxon said, “no torches to the buildings inside Hoffnung’s walls.”
Xylus scoffed. “What makes you think we’d do such a thing?”
“Every port along the coast that you’ve invaded has reported its village burned completely to the ground.”
The demented prince laughed.
Anger stirred in Waxxon’s eyes.
“We won’t lay fire to Hoffnung.”
“Good,” Waxxon said with a firm nod. Inside he felt immediate relief. “That’s good to hear.”
“Because we need houses for ourselves, too, until we overtake the other kingdoms.” He towered over Waxxon and added, “Unless, you think we’d be in your way?”
“Not at all.”
“Our warriors will aid you in killing any that oppose your taking of the throne,” Xylus said.
“Some may be difficult to detect since they wear the same armor. However,” Waxxon said, pulling something from his pocket, “should you find any knights wearing these Dragon Skull pendants, kill them where they stand. No questions asked. The bearer of these are the most loyal to Queen Taube and handpicked by King Erik himself before he died in battle.”
On Waxxon’s open palm was a blood-coated Dragon Skull pendant that flickered in the glow of a brazier.
Manfrid leaned closer and studied it. “What does it represent?”
“The Dragon Skull Order. Now that the warning bell has sounded, they will be alerted and try to take back the throne.”
Xylus asked, “Where did you get that?”
“Before I took the lift down, I was attacked by one of these knights. My guards were quick to bring him down.”
“Are there others within the city?” Manfrid asked.
“It’s possible. Although that was the first one I have seen during the past moon. They don’t reside here and are usually scattered throughout Aetheaon.”
“How many are in this Order?” Xylus asked.
Waxxon frowned, thinking. “I believe the original count was near two dozen men, but a few have died over the years. Some due to old age, and well, others foolishly died because of their loyalty to the crown.”
“At that small a number, you haven’t much to fear. I doubt any Dragon Knight or any of your knights will survive fighting against any of my people.”
Waxxon’s jaw tightened momentarily at the prince’s direct insult. He turned to one of his bodyguards and extended his hand. The bodyguard handed him three iron brands. The emblem on the end was a wolf’s head with a large W beneath it. He took the brands and offered them to Prince Xylus.
“What are these?” Prince Xylus asked.
“Heat the brands over hot coals and stencil this mark onto your Vykings’ leather vests.”
“For what purpose?”
“To let my people know you’re aligned with me, and for whenever you send out troops to the neighboring townships and cities, word will spread quickly of my takeover.”
Xylus stared down at Waxxon, unblinking. He waited until his gaze forced Waxxon to look away. Waxxon swallowed hard, but kept the brands held out for Xylus to take. Finally, the prince yanked them from Waxxon’s hand.
“Understand, this does not mean that we serve you because we don’t. We bow before no other, except for our father, King Obed.”
Waxxon looked into the prince’s eyes again. “All it implies is for recognition purposes only. To show unity. I’m certain you’ll find pleasure in killing anyone that opposes our union?”
A narrow grin crept across Xylus’ face, revealing his sharp demon teeth. “We look forward to such.”
Waxxon nodded. “Good.”
From one ship, a large ramp was lowered to the side of one dock. A dozen muscled Vykings rolled a large black coach down the ramp. Silver skulls were fastened to the four corner posts atop the carriage. The crimson curtains hung over the windows. Two horses, blacker than pitch tar, were led down and hitched to the front of the coach. The horses’ eyes glowed like fire. Smoke drifted from their nostrils. The smell of brimstone filled the foggy breeze.
Waxxon stared in question. He shook his head. “What are you doing?” he asked. “That coach will never fit on any of the lifts.”
Xylus roared with laughter. When he stopped, the pupils of his eyes were blood red. His jaw tightened. The prince’s yellow teeth were pointed like a serpent’s.
Waxxon swallowed hard, and his eyes shifted nervously. When Waxxon glanced at Manfrid, the other prince held the same fear toward his younger brother as Waxxon had just learned to respect. Until this night, he had not fully understood whom he was working with in order to take Queen Taube’s throne. Now, he liked the situation even less.
Xylus said, “You’ve much to learn about my mother and her children.”
Waxxon worried that perhaps he didn’t really want to know. The fact that Prince Manfrid feared Xylus made Waxxon keep a more watchful eye toward the odd Vyking prince. Physically, Manfrid appeared every bit as similar as the other Vykings on the docks, the pillagers and marauders, but Xylus was nothing like him. He was cold, cunning, and desperate to shed blood. And something else worried Waxxon even more: How many sons did King Obed have?
Vykings gathered the dead Hoffnung guards and promptly lay them in the rear of the black coach.
“What are they doing?” Waxxon asked. “We have a burial ground. Pile the bodies on the lift and—”
Again, Xylus laughed. “You think these men deserve your holy ground?”
Waxxon shrugged. “Why wouldn’t they?”
Xylus eyed Waxxon curiously. “I wouldn’t take you to be a worshipper of any holy god. Not with you turning on your own city out of greed and lust for power. From what holy tome did you read such?”
Angered by the suggestion, Waxxon replied, “I did not.”
“Then never show your petty weakness in my sight again.”
Waxxon replied only with a firm nod, but he slid a careful hand to the hilt of his sword. However, he doubted his skill with a sword was any match against Xylus, but he wanted to be prepared in case he needed his sword quickly. At the very least, he could try to defend himself.
Vykings continued carrying the corpses to the black carriage. Waxxon wondered why they wanted the bodies placed inside. From the ship stepped a bald man. Tattoos of runic symbols covered his face. He stood six foot tall with a boldness and arrogance that only a spoiled child of royalty possessed. But this pompous man’s height and size were not much different than Waxxon’s. However, the man’s eyes glowed red like bubbling blood. His gaze sent chills down Waxxon’s back. The Lord had never seen pure evil upon any race or creature, but the darkness that flowed around this man frightened him to the core.
Waxxon tried to hide his fear and hoped that he was being successful. The last thing he needed was for these two princes to suspect his uncertainty in power and control. Even though he ha
d done the deed of allowing the Vyking hordes to enter the port and gain full access to the city and trading routes, marauders never hesitated to kill the weaker leaders and take extra thrones and kingdoms for themselves. He had only asked King Obed to help ransack Hoffnung, but Xylus wanted all of Aetheaon.
The mysterious bald man seemed to glide inches above the ground as he moved. No footsteps clicked against the wooden planks of the dock. He came to a corpse that the Vykings had yet to take. He extended his right hand toward the dead guard. A skull-shaped emerald with ruby eyes was set in the man’s ring. The red eyes on the emerald glowed as the man spoke in a deep, frightening tone. The dead guard’s body twitched and suddenly moved. Something rushed into the corpse, breathing unholy life into it.
Waxxon watched in horror as the dead man pushed himself into a seated position and then managed to stand. The amount of blood around the body was too much for the man to have survived after the battle. A deep gash separated half of the man’s throat, but yet, he stood, staggered, and hobbled toward the carriage. With each uncontrolled step the walking corpse took, small streams of blood trickled down his mail. He knew the man had been fully dead before the bald man had summoned strange life back into him.
Waxxon glanced from the eerily miraculous rebirth of the dead man into Xylus’ eyes. The prince smiled deviously. He said, “You’ve allied with the proper armies. With us, you’ll never die.” Then he laughed heartily in a mocking tone.
Chills shot through Waxxon. The former Hoffnung guard moved, but not like a normal person should. No life reflected in the man’s eyes, just emptiness. He marched as though he was controlled by a voice unknown, a darkness that only demons cherished, and a lust to wander endlessly.
How could that ever be considered living? Waxxon thought.
He looked at the bald man near the walking corpse.
“Who is he?” Lord Waxxon asked.
“Mors. He’s our brother, the Plague-bringer. Regardless of what armies that align against us, as we wipe out their forces, Mors can turn their corpses into an army that fights for us. The more of the enemy we kill, the greater our army becomes. And should any of our living fall, they will rise again.”
Mors climbed up onto the black carriage seat and grabbed the reins. From the shadows dozens of Ratkin ran toward the carriage. The stench of decay and rotted garbage lofted off their bodies. Flies and gnats swarmed around the rat humanoids. Tiny maggots dropped from their wet, matted fur and wiggled on the dock.
Waxxon shook his head, trying to stifle the building nausea at the back of his throat. “I told you that the carriage won’t fit on any of our lifts.”
Mors raised his hands over his head, mumbled some words, and a black swirling mist formed beneath the carriage. The mist moved in a circular motion, expanding and growing larger, until the dark mist shrouded the carriage and all of the Ratkin. Seconds later, the mist, the carriage, and the Ratkin were gone. Waxxon was certain that he also saw the eyes and arms of little imps within the swirling darkness that didn’t belong to any of the Ratkin.
“Where’d he—?”
“He has gone to begin building our undead armies. The kingdoms of Aetheaon will be ours.”
Xylus clasped Waxxon’s shoulder and walked past him toward the lifts. Manfrid looked at his brother, partially in fear but also in loathing scorn. Manfrid glanced at Waxxon and shrugged, gave an uneasy smile, and followed his evil half brother toward the lift. Waxxon watched the undead guard move across the dock, thrashing about, and mindlessly wandering. He glanced to the top of the mountain peak where Hoffnung’s fortified castle walls stood. Suddenly, his desire to reign lessened to his fear of what evil might soon possess the great city and his soul.
Chapter Six
Sarey, a busty barmaid, set two drinks on the crude oak table near the back of the Pig-Sty Tavern where Lehrling and Bausch sat. The two Dragon Skull Knights sought to relax for a few hours in Esgrove before heading back to the City of Hoffnung.
Since this was their regular table, the barmaid wasted no time bringing them their preferred drinks. She offered a gentle smile to Lehrling like a young lady might an elderly gentleman or a beloved uncle. Lehrling nodded graciously and held the mug in a toast-like manner toward her.
He gulped down a long drink, wiped the foam from his yellow beard, and set the mug down hard. His shoulder length golden hair was better cared for than the young maiden’s.
The barmaid’s rough muscled hands and worn fingernails indicated that she labored hard in the fields whenever she wasn’t waiting tables in the tavern. Her hands were the only part of the maiden that lacked femininity. The rest was like beholding the face and body of a goddess in all her splendor but was doomed to wear drab clothing.
He smiled at her, and his blue eyes twinkled in the lantern light. “As lovely as usual, Sarey,” Lehrling said.
She offered a playful curtsey and turned quickly with a sly, flirty smile toward Bausch, whose eyes and long hair were blacker than coal. His skin was dark like a man who had traveled many hours beneath the hot sun. He was a handsome man, well kempt like Lehrling, but a darker gaze danced in his eyes. Solemn and quiet, he was often difficult to read.
Sarey took Bausch’s mug and bent forward across the table to give him an ample view of her cleavage. With a slight giggle, she watched his lustful eyes leave her brown eyes to glance at her full breasts. She winked, set down his mug, and turned on her heels, quickly heading back toward the bar. Her long brown hair bounced as she sauntered. She was so delicate in how she walked and yet, so subtly lewd in her manners of waiting tables.
Bausch let his gaze follow her until Lehrling shook his head and burst into hearty laughter. His rotund belly jiggled.
Bausch’s jaw tightened and anger lurked in his eyes as his attention went to Lehrling, who was his mentor and weapons trainer.
“What’s so funny?” Bausch asked.
Lehrling’s laughter slowly quieted into a long sigh. “Ah, the lust of being a young man. Enjoy it, lad, while you can.”
“You can resist . . . her beauty?”
Lehrling chuckled. “I’m not blind, Bausch. My eyes can take her in, but nothing more. I’ve aged, young man. I’m not as spry as you.”
“But the way she stared at me and . . .”
Lehrling offered a fatherly smile. “You’ve a lot to learn about certain types of lasses.”
“What are you suggesting? So you don’t think she’s really interested in me?”
“She’s interested in whatever gold she can coax from your pocket or others and tuck into her purse.”
Bausch sipped from his mug with a hint of disappointment on his face. His muscled shoulders drooped slightly. “I have no chance with her?”
Lehrling shrugged. “For a price, I’m sure.”
“Because she’s a peasant, you’d think her standards are so low?” Bausch said in an angry whisper. His hand tightened on his tankard. Veins swelled on the back of his hand into his thick fingers.
“Not at all. But look around, lad. Where else will she earn gold? From other poor peasant farmers? From the marketplace where they sell their produce, eggs, and meats? It’s far unlikely. She and the other bar maidens here need knights like us to add more coin to their purses.”
“Bah,” Bausch said before turning up his mug. He watched Sarey for several moments more and then he turned his attention elsewhere.
While they drank, both watched the mundane activities in the tavern. No bard sang, for which Lehrling was thankful. The last one that he had heard sang far off key and was quite tone deaf.
Other farmers sat drinking cheaper beer and honey mead. Their somber expressions revealed how destitute their lives truly were. After toiling long hard hours in the fields, this was their reward, a chance to sit and drink.
Lehrling regarded his apprentice and marveled at how the boy he began weapon training years ago had grown into a man. As a sword fighter, Bausch had surpassed Lehrling with his skills as a fighter. And though Bau
sch was keen on those abilities with swords, axes, and daggers, the young man was still clueless with how to interact with women. Of course, most men were.
“Perhaps it’s my own fault,” Lehrling said to himself. Too busy training the lad to use steel; he had failed to take the time to teach him the matters of the heart. Not that teaching the young man about the beauties of love was too late. There was still time.
Sarey returned to the table and offered Bausch a keen smile. The dimples that formed at the edges of her curled lips were deadly sensuous, making a man want to kiss her, but all Lehrling noticed was the hunger in her gaze. Not for love, but for money. Apparently the warning he had given to Bausch had struck home. His pupil didn’t respond to the bait of her flirting or luring smile, and she noticed immediately. Her eyes were shadowed with sadness, disappointment. She pouted her lips, curtsied, and leaned toward him, but he kept his attention on his mug.
Sarey gave a confused frown. “Anything else?” she asked in a high-pitched tone.
Bausch shook his head. “No.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Very well,” she said coldly. Spittle frothed at the sides of her mouth as she spoke the words. She stormed away from the table.
After she was out of earshot, Bausch said, “I suppose you were right.”
Lehrling didn’t smile, nor did he gloat. He was a young lad once, and he had learned painful lessons, too. He opened his mouth to reply, but the warning bell sounded three times in Hoffnung Square. Lehrling downed the final drops of his Dredgemen Brew before rising to his feet.
Bausch also finished his drink. His dark gaze settled on Lehrling. Any time Bausch faced the possibility of drawing his sword for battle, all emotions fleeted. His attention focused strictly on staying alive and killing the enemy, ever how many were present.
Lehrling marveled that Bausch had often entered a frenzied state of bloodlust and grew so focused on delivering deathblows that everything else around him vanished. Of course, his avid thirst for battle probably existed because Bausch’s father had been one of the original Dragon Skull Order and after his death, his name and pendant were passed to the young man now seated with Lehrling. Vengeance pulsed through Bausch’s veins. Such was hard to control, but also had made Bausch a fast learner in how to use weapons.
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