by Julia Mills
A flash of light, the deep rumble of thunder, and the pounding of huge, steel deadbolts sliding open shook the stone walls. Long unused hinges groaned in protest as a ton of oak and steel slid across the earthen floor, opening the door to Viktor’s only hope of seeing his beloved again. Taking a deep breath, the King entered the altar to Zeus he’d built and consecrated with his own blood.
Kneeling before the stone statue of the Father of the Gods, Viktor prayed the words he’d been taught upon his resurrection, “Father of the Gods, Ruler of Sky and Thunder, I come to you a humble servant on bended knee to pray for guidance. With a sight only the most powerful could possess, look into the mortal world, place your eyes and protection on meum custos animae. Place your hand of protection upon her. Lead my steps that I may find her. It is with reverence, respect, and absolute obedience I forfeit my immortal existence that she might live. I gladly offer my soul to Charon and make my journey across the river Styx. I pray upon your altar and ask for your favor. Ever faithful, ever obedient, your servant.”
Viktor spoke with unyielding belief and a strength that poured from the everlasting love he possessed for Katarina. She may not know who he was to her or what she meant to him, but he did know beyond the shadow of all doubt that if she had the chance for a full life filled with love and happiness, his sacrifice would be the best thing he’d ever done.
Waiting for a sign that his prayer had been heard, Viktor focused on the single glimmer of light in his soul that was his Katarina. Thousands of years spent wandering the darkness, waiting to feel the warmth of a love blessed by the gods and forged by Destiny, had brought the mighty King to this moment in time. He would save her. She would live. He would slaughter the one who dared to harm her. And then retire to the Elysian Fields, content with his life, happy in the knowledge the world had not been deprived of the blessing that was his Katarina.
Head bowed, repeating his prayer over and over, the words were stolen from Viktor’s lips as a flash of lightning tore through the air before him, striking the granite sculpture of Zeus the ancient warrior had fashioned with his own hands. The crash of stone hitting stone echoed off the walls as dust filled the chamber. A shaft of bright, white light shot from above. Viktor raised his hand to protect his squinted eyes as a voice spoke that he’d only ever heard while his human heart still beat.
“I hear your words, Unum. The conviction of your belief in me and your relentless courage to save your custos animae. Your prayers have been answered. I accept your sacrifice but in so much as your willingness to forfeit your life, Charon has no need of your obolus and my brother has no need of your soul.
“Look within yourself. Follow the light to your mate. Take the weapon before you forged by Athena from the bronze of my shield, Aegis, blessed by my own hand. May it serve you well, Unum.”
The light extinguished. The dust settled. Silence was deafening as the grave filled the chamber. Viktor looked down. There, lying at his feet was the weapon of the gods just as Zeus had promised. Bowing to what used to be his altar to the Father of the Gods, the King simply whispered, “Thank you. I am ever in your debt.”
Racing through dark, winding, long-forgotten tunnels, Viktor threw open the doors and using his preternatural speed, dashed into the dense forest behind the castle. Following the light of his dear Katarina, Viktor drew upon the powers given to him as the leader of the Kings of the Blood and sent the same directions he was following to each of his comrades. Their overwhelming support of his call to arms flowed back to him. With more gratitude than he could ever express, the ancient commander severed his connection to the others, directing his entire focus on Katarina and the bastard who would forfeit his life for daring to lay a finger on her.
Arriving at the private airfield owned by KI, Viktor awakened the pilot and prepped the plane. The other Kings arrived en masse just as the first rays of a new day broke over the horizon. Not a word was spoken during the three-hour flight to Olympia, Greece as Viktor dreamt of new and creative ways to flay the skin from Bjorn’s body while maintaining a tenuous hold onto Katarina’s guiding light.
His worry that serious injury was the cause of Katarina’s continued unconsciousness fueled the King’s need for violence. His almost uncontrollable rage burst through his mental blocks, bleeding over onto his comrades. Viktor snarled as Roman gripped his shoulder.
Speaking in their native tongue, Roman counseled, “Tranquillitas Commander, your mate is strong. Destiny did not bring you together only for you to lose her. Cool heads must prevail today for us to see victory. This is an enemy we all know too well. One we have been bested by before. But on this day we shall triumph. You shall have your vengeance, your justice, your pound of flesh, and your custos animae safely back in our fold. Now, address your men. Give them the battle plan.”
Viktor knew the man who had been his second-in-command for their entire lives was right. Taking a long, deep breath then exhaling as he had before every battle both as a human and as a King, the ancient commander stood and looked each of his comrades in the eye. They were the best the world had to offer. They had slain more evil in their very long lives than most people could ever fathom even existed. Each man would die for the other without question or reservation. He was in the company of the Elite and was humbled to be called their leader.
Clearing his throat, Viktor began, “Today, we find ourselves in familiar territory, my amicorum. We ride into battle against an old foe, not on horses with shields and spears as in our humble beginnings, but in this jet,” he motioned around him, “flying through the air. The world around us has changed and we have changed with it but one thing remains constant—our fight to rid the world of evil. Bjorn Markis is more than evil; he is corrupt and must be stopped once and for all. Not only because he had the unmitigated gall to lay hands on my mate but because he has been a blight on the world for three millennia.
“Be aware, his blood will stain my hands and mine alone. There will be others who require the attention of your blades. We go into this battle with Zeus’ blessing. There will be only one outcome and that is our victory. Ready yourselves, we land in ten minutes.”
A simultaneous nod from his comrades filled Viktor with pride. These men had given up forever in the Elysian Fields to spend their immortality fighting the worst evils ever created. It was an honor to have them at his side whether in battle or in business. They were his friends and his family. They were bound by blood but also by a shared comradery that defied all. With a single pounding of his right fist to his chest over his heart, he pledged to lead them to success. Their returning salute was confirmation of their shared belief.
It took less than an hour by foot using their preternatural speed to reach the old manor nestled deep within the Folio Oak Forest. Viktor remembered the bedtime stories his mother had told of the centaurs and dryads, also known as tree nymphs, who inhabited the mysteriously beautiful woods. It was said the dryads stored power in the trees for the centaurs who protected their land from invaders.
Offering a prayer to Artemis, the goddess of the hunt, the Kings surrounded the structure housing their oldest enemy. Viktor marched up the walk, stopping just before the steps leading to the huge double doors, drew his sword but kept it to his side, and spoke with authority.
“Bjorn Markis, as the Unum of the Kings of the Blood and with the authority of the Father of the Gods, I charge you with untold and innumerable atrocities against humanity, including but not limited to the abduction of my custos animae.”
Viktor paused. He spoke again when he was sure his comrades had moved into their second position. “You have been sentenced to death. Come out into the light and face justice for your crimes.”
“Ha! Death is not much incentive to come out of the safety of my home, Viktoras. If you come with the authority of Zeus then what stops you from simply entering of your own volition and delivering your justice, as you call it? Cowardice has never been your trademark. Is it something new? Or is it that you fear for the safety of
your mate?”
Viktor knew it was a bluff. Bjorn thought to manipulate the King. Viktor’s rage surged but he used it to fuel his need for vengeance instead of force his actions. Katarina’s wellbeing was the only thing stopping him from tearing the door from its hinges, slaying everyone in his path, and burning the building to the ground.
Bjorn had been granted his immortality by Eris. The goddess of strife and discord had chosen her compatriot well. She’d also given the bastard magic most did not possess. Viktor was well aware of the power of words and Bjorn’s ability to manipulate them for his own ill gains. Looking at the sword given to him by Zeus, Viktor prayed it would be enough to combat whatever, both physical and mystical, the bastard threw at him.
“I believe it you who are afraid. Were you not known as the Bastard of Achaea in your human life? Is that not why you chose to slander and disparage my name? Did you not believe that my blood would somehow erase your past? That you could rise among the elite if you eliminated me? Did your goddess not want me dead because of my service to Zeus? What does your goddess think of you now that I still walk the earth? Have you lost your ill-begotten favor with a petty deity who is not even important enough to breathe the air on Mount Olympus?”
Viktor felt the other Kings move closer to the house. They were ready to strike. Dealing the final blow to Bjorn’s ego, the one Viktor knew would bring the bastard out of hiding, he bellowed, “Let it be known to all who hear my words that Bjorn Markis, the Bastard of Achaea, is a coward. He refuses to face me now just as he did three thousand years ago. He instead uses deception and lies, kidnaps women and harms children. He has no honor. He is as the eunuch in the temples—impotent and unimportant!”
The crack of wood and shattering of glass immediately followed by a war cry of pure fury cut through the morning air as Bjorn flew at Viktor with his dagger pointed directly at the King’s heart. In the back of his mind, the Unum heard the other Kings burst into the manor from every available egress while avoiding his opponent’s poorly aimed attack.
Viktor easily blocked every ill-placed jab from Bjorn’s dagger while delivering expertly placed strikes of his own. Blood seeped through the bastard’s sweater from the strategically placed slices of Viktor’s blade. He was purposely avoiding any major veins or arteries. Viktor wanted the bastard to bleed...slowly and painfully. Death would come to the man responsible for so much pain and destruction but first, the bastard had to suffer.
Sparks flew as the iron of Bjorn’s double-edged blade clashed with the bronze of Viktor’s god-sword as inside the manor, Bjorn’s men were being systematically exterminated by the other Kings. Viktor drew strength from his comrades’ relentless determination. He knew the bastard was using magic from Eris; the slimy feel of its ill intent tainted the air around them. It was the only thing keeping Bjorn on his feet.
From the crimson color of his once ecru sweater to the trail of blood he was leaving on the ground, the bastard was dying. Slowly bleeding to death just as he deserved. Dike, the goddess of moral order and fair judgement, may be swift with her justice but Viktor would not pray for her favor. He would exact his revenge for himself. He was the Unum, a King of the Blood, and he demanded payment. He claimed his pound of flesh. He would cut it from Bjorn’s useless hide as the bastard lay dying. Bjorn would pay with his immortal life.
Deep circles under the bastard’s eyes and the pallor of his once olive complexion pleased Viktor as little else ever had. Continuing his brutal assault, the King drove Bjorn into the forest, looking for the opportune place to end the wretch’s life. But first, Viktor had to find the source of Eris’ magic, for if he didn’t, Bjorn’s vengeful goddess would simply resurrect the bastard.
One crushing blow after another of the god-sword and Bjorn was little more than a withering husk of a man only animated by the dirty magic of a forsaken goddess. Lifting his blade over his head, Viktor poured every ounce of disgust and hatred he felt for the bastard into the downward swing of his blade. The weapon blessed by the Father of the Gods sliced through skin and bone as if they were no more than warm butter. Bjorn’s hand still holding his dagger flew through the air, severed from his wrist. The bastard fell to the ground, holding his bloody stump to his chest, crawling backward on his knees, begging for mercy.
“Mercy? You now think to beg for mercy at the end of my sword?” Viktor scoffed. “You will find no mercy here, bastard.” The King leaned forward and through gritted teeth snarled, “There is only your death and no obolus to pay the ferryman.”
Bjorn grabbed for Viktor’s leg with his free hand. The King side-stepped to avoid the bastard’s vulgar touch. Bjorn fell forward, only just keeping his face from the forest floor by rolling to the side. A glitter of something shiny against the fallen leaves caught Viktor’s eye. It was the pendant of Eris, a small but deadly replication of the Apple of Discord.
Advancing on Bjorn, Viktor couldn’t help but smirk when the bastard rolled into a fetal position, cradling what was left of his arm to avoid further assault. Using the tip of his sword, the King cut the leather cord around Bjorn’s neck. Kneeling, Viktor retrieved the charm.
Holding the apple at arm’s length in the palm of his hand, the King threw the pendant into the air. And just as Bjorn screamed for him to stop, Viktor swung the god-sword, slicing the apple in two. Dark, dank magic poured from the halves of the golden fruit. Unsure where the knowledge had come from but with an unwavering belief in his actions, Viktor pointed his blessed blade at the source of the evil.
Lightning flew from the tip of the god-sword, eliminating not only the apple, but also the black magic. Bjorn wailed, begging for reprieve, crying to the sky, trying to crawl from the certainty of his fate. Viktor shook his head at the quivering mass before him. Bain and Tommas appeared through the trees as Viktor shoved the toe of his boot under Bjorn’s side, rolling him to his back.
Nodding to the younger Kings, he looked at the wretch before him. “I find you guilty, Bjorn Markis, of innumerable atrocities against humanity. There is no defense you can mount that will result in anything but your complete and utter death.
“I, Viktoras Katsaros, Unum of the Kings of the Blood, exercise the authority given me by the God of Sky and Thunder and Father of the Gods, Zeus, to pronounce you guilty of all charges. Execution will be swift. Do you witness and confirm this ruling, Bain Kostas and Tommas Papadopoulos, also Kings of the Blood and loyal to Zeus?”
“We do,” the men answered in unison.
Bjorn was wailing. He had given up on begging Viktor and was slithering across the blood soaked earth pleading for leniency from Bain and Tommas. Kneeling, Bain grabbed Bjorn by the hair and jerked his head up until the bastard was looking into the King’s eyes.
With venom only one who’d suffered at the bastard’s hands could have, Bain growled, “There is no leniency here. There is only death.”
Standing while maintaining his grip on Bjorn’s hair, Bain lifted the bastard to his knees just as Viktor swung the god-sword. His aim was true. Bjorn’s head was separated from his neck.
For several long seconds, the Kings stood perfectly still, covered in the blood of their enemy. It was a fitting end to the Bastard of Achaea. Each King prayed for their own immortal soul and that of those they held dear.
Viktor was the first to speak, “Bain, take the head to the sea. Burn it and throw the ashes into the surf. Tommas, take the body to the mountain top, burn it and bury the ashes in the caves under the boulders of the dead.”
To the dead eyes of his fallen foe still hanging from Bain’s grip, Viktor said, “May you remain trapped between the two worlds forever, never knowing rest, never knowing peace, always wanting but never nourished. This is the penance you must pay for daring to touch my custos animae.”
Without another word, Viktor turned and left the forest in search of Katarina. He could smell the death pyres the other Kings were using to dispose of Bjorn’s followers. The acrid aroma burnt his nostrils but it was a welcome scent. The bastard w
as dead. That debt was paid. The others would be dealt with another time. Viktor could mate the keeper of his heart in the way of his people without threat and with a clear heart.
Clearing the tree line, Viktor looked to what was left of the manor. It would be destroyed as soon as...
All thought stopped when Roman walked out into the daylight holding an unconscious Katarina in his arms. Sprinting to them, Viktor stripped the blood-soaked shirt from his body, and using a towel thrown at him from Salvatore, wiped away any excess that remained. With the utmost care he took his mate from his second, holding her to his chest and praying to all the gods of the Pantheon for her survival.
Walking to the gardens nearly two hundred yards away, he revealed the depth of his feelings for her in hushed, reverent tones. With a devotion that can only come from a pure heart filled with true love, Viktor lowered Katarina onto the stone bench beside a trellis overflowing with magenta bougainvillea. He cursed at the bruises circling her neck and the broken skin of her wrists. In that moment, he wished for Bjorn to be resurrected so that he might slay him again.
Viktor knew she lived, could feel her life force, saw proof in the gentle rise and fall of her chest, but had no idea why she would not wake. Kneeling beside her, he prayed for guidance, hoping with all that he was she would arise the vibrant woman who held is heart. She was the one, the only one he could ever love and he didn’t need Destiny, Zeus, or any other deity to tell him so.
Hours later, still bowed in prayer, Viktor’s devotions were interrupted by a tap on his shoulder. Jumping to his feet, livid someone would dare to interrupt, the ancient warrior spun on his heels to confront the intruder...but the words froze in his lungs.
Standing before him was a well-dressed gentleman whose aura shone with the light of the gods. He spoke with a gentle tone that radiated authority, “Hello, King, I am Asclepius, son of Apollo. At the behest of my father and his father, Zeus, I bring healing to your mate.”
