Outside was a beautiful early spring day, at least by Western standards, but Nadav despised every moment of it. The morning sun shined down bright and warm, burning off the cold chill and dew of the night before. It was not yet noon, perhaps an hour off, and Ghal bustled with activity from one corner to the other. The servants and slaves moved through the streets almost happily about their mundane everyday tasks.
Except, when the Emperor of Losz came out of his tower to stand atop the dozen purple steps that led into the city below, all of the activity stopped, and the people stared. There were no bows, no sudden prostrations. Some simply looked with blank expressions, while others did not fear to show their disdain or hatred. Yet others completely turned to look away, and after a long moment, everyone returned to their tasks. Nadav simply stood and watched, knowing that soon they would all feel his wrath.
He stepped nonchalantly from his tower, the twelve slaves in tow, but his steward had stayed behind of course. He had a purpose, a destination, and that was the tower that stood in the northeast quarter of the city. He knew it would take his entourage the better part of an hour to reach the base of the tower on foot, but Nadav didn’t care. He wanted all of Ghal to see him moving through the streets, proud and powerful, and he wanted them all to see what was to transpire. He encountered the same reactions from those he passed as those who first viewed him leaving his own great tower.
Nadav knew that, in whispers, they called him Ek Sovr Cra. The Broken Emperor.
The tower was great and impressive, standing nearly two thirds the height of Nadav’s own. This was a brave thing in and of itself, for it meant a challenge to the Emperor of Losz for one’s own tower to near the height of His. Black and purple, it was beautiful and terrible at once, and the levels of the top half were completely open to the outside. Curtains of dark silk bellowed in the wind to block prying eyes, but occasionally one of these would whip upward with a gust to reveal baleful green fires burning in the tower’s heart. It belonged to Pue’Tor, the overall richest and most powerful of Ghal’s lords, excluding Emperor Nadav.
Pue’Tor was the first to abandon Nadav with a flash when Nadav’s magic was repulsed by the power of Garod.
No steps led up to the great black door of this tower, and Nadav glided up it silently and confidently. It was almost double even his great height and wide enough to permit a massive war chariot. The door that appeared black at first was made of a fine ebon wood of some sort, and two huge black iron rings easily two feet across were inlaid into it. He lifted the great iron knocker and brought it down hard to cause a deep echo to reverberate through the tower beyond. He waited patiently, but only for a moment before pounding the knocker into the door again. This time, a man’s voice answered from within.
“Ek Sovr Cra is no longer welcome within these walls,” it said.
“I am Nadav, Sovereign of all Losz,” Nadav replied with more peace than he knew he had. “I am denied entrance nowhere within my empire. The door shall open, and Pue’Tor shall face me.”
“Lord Pue’Tor denies you entrance,” the man disagreed.
“Very well,” Nadav said with a sigh. He reached forward to touch the ebon wood with one long finger. It was a relatively easy trick, one he had done months before on a well made table, and it worked well here. A dark cold spread from his fingertip throughout the wood, and it began to creak, complain and rot. After a few short moments, the wood seemed to disintegrate into a fine saw dust, leaving a gaping hole where the door once stood.
Beyond was a hall little different from his own, though it was perfectly circular and clearly occupied the entire ground level of the tower. In the dead center was a pillar of green flame that radiated no heat and climbed upward to the levels above. Over a dozen figures stared at him in a mix of awe, fear and anger. They were Western slaves and mixed blood servants and guards, but Nadav saw no Pue’Tor.
Nadav’s slaves watched in fascinated terror as he rotted, melted and froze flesh from bone. Some of Pue’Tor’s servants attacked him with whatever weapons they had at their disposal, even bare hands, while others tried to flee. A dagger wielding Loszian half breed in black leathers spontaneously spurted maggots from all of his orifices at once and screamed as they ate him alive. Another simply turned to dust from an unnatural cold, much like the tower’s once imposing door, and his chain and plate armor seemed suddenly rusted from age. They all died horrifically, and when Nadav’s slaves began to swoon, wretch or try to look away, he compelled them to continue watching.
Nadav climbed the narrow iron spiral stair of the tower and cleared every level the same way in turn. He cared not for any he slew, ignoring their pleas of loyalty and mercy. Those who fought found their weapons useless, disintegrating and crumbling from age as soon as they made contact to rend his silk clad form. He left piles of bones, mounds of rotten flesh and puddles of goo behind him as he rent his way through floor after floor.
Finally, Nadav had no more stairs to climb, no more levels to ascend, and it was at this pinnacle that he found Pue’Tor half sulking, half cowering in his plush bed. Pue’Tor was short as Loszians go, standing just over six feet in height. This had always led others to believe that he was only part Loszian, and that part had dominated his Western heritage fully. Those who questioned him often found that his power and prowess with necromancy was in fact fully Loszian. However, Nadav cared not, and to Pue’Tor’s credit, the shorter Loszian stood bravely from his bed to face his Emperor.
“It is time for the reckoning,” Nadav said quietly, calmly so that it was almost a whisper.
“Your ability to slaughter my servants proves nothing, Sovereign,” Pue’Tor replied. “It will merely inconvenience me for a time as I replace them.”
Everything in Nadav’s sight turned suddenly pale sickly green, and he knew he was engulfed in the pillar of flame centered in the tower. Pue’Tor had called it forth from its column to surround Nadav, and it immediately disintegrated his silk robes. It was corruption at its most vile, and Nadav knew that he had felt it once before in a more concentrated form. This baleful energy was nothing to him, and he turned and reveled in it, much as one might enjoy a joyful summer rain. The emperor began to absorb it, almost through his very pores, allowing it to replenish his expended stores of power until the flame itself disappeared. No sign of it was left, as if it never had existed.
Pue’Tor took a long, long time to die.
* * *
“Only a few short hours ago,” Nadav intoned solemnly, “the twelve of you were slaves, servants bound to me by magic as well as oath. Now you shall receive your reward. Now you shall become Loszians.”
The twelve knelt on the carpeted floor of Nadav’s private rooms at the top of his tower. They were naked of course, as he would not have them enter their new lives still wearing the trappings of their old stations. Before each of them was a set of fine silk robes of varying dark colors. Their quality was fit enough for Nadav himself, and while there was no way to know if the robes would fit the new Loszians perfectly, his steward assured him that they could be easily adjusted. Besides, it was likely that they would discard their first robes for other colors and forms to better fit their new personalities. These silks were more symbolic than anything.
The power emanated from Nadav and reached out to encompass the circle of Westerners simultaneously, while the steward stayed well beyond its reach. Whether fueled by Pue’Tor’s flames or pure desire, Nadav knew that he poured more power into his new nobles than any he had made before. He could feel their strength bolstered by the energies that he imbued them with even as they screamed their terror and pain. His eyes closed, he fancied that he could hear their bones stretching and their joints popping just underneath their cries as their bodies became Loszian. He felt the magick begin to wane, and his legs grew weak from the effort. Despite lack of strength, Nadav refused to allow his knees to collapse beneath him.
A dozen forms lay crumpled upon the floor around him, some of them moaning in various states o
f half consciousness. Other than himself of course, they were the most gorgeous, incredibly wonderful Loszians he had ever laid his eyes upon, and he could feel the raw power of his gods within them. None of them could ever challenge him, but they were strong. Oh yes, they were strong, and Nadav’s manhood grew suddenly erect and throbbed as he looked lustfully about them. Even the females drew his lustful eye, a fact that amazed even him. As they rose to don their robes, he allowed each of them to service him in turn as it pleased them.
It wasn’t until the next day that the other three lords of Ghal came to Nadav’s tower, which was good. It allowed him time to rest through the night and regain his strength. He had been prepared to deal with them immediately after dispatching Pue’Tor, and to some extent, it surprised him that they awaited so long. They came to his throne room together, as he knew they would, and Nadav made it clear to his subjects that they were to allow the lords entry. He did not make them wait long, as he wanted to end this as badly as they. He arrived into his great hall dressed in silks of mixed black, purples and silver, and his twelve new Loszians filed in just behind him. The three lords stood shoulder to shoulder at the bottom of Nadav’s carpeted stairs.
“Welcome my loyal subjects,” Nadav called out, his arms spread wide. “You have come to beg my forgiveness and renew your vows to me.”
“No,” replied number one, dressed all in blood red.
“Definitely not,” agreed number two. He was robed in black with sigils of red.
“Nadav,” said number three in robes of the deepest blue, an uncommon color among Loszians, “we have come to offer you your life.”
“You have no power to make such an offer,” Nadav replied in a most matter of fact tone. Mere months ago, he would have flown into a rage at such a statement from a lesser, and he inwardly marveled at the changes in his demeanor.
“We have all we need, fallen one,” responded number three. It seemed that he was the leader of the group. “I doubt you can defeat our combined might, and you certainly cannot defeat all of your nobles united against you. Your lunacy and idiocy has brought the Loszian Empire to the edge of a great chasm, and we will not allow you to push it over. So what if you killed Pue’Tor yesterday or even Venid’Kos so many months ago. No one loves you or follows you anymore. By the gods, we don’t even fear you.
“Stay within your tower forever,” continued the blue clad sorcerer. “Live, eat and fuck as you may. We will make certain you have whatever superfluous luxuries that you desire, but this must all stop now. Your hold on the empire has been broken.”
“My hold has never been stronger!” Nadav proclaimed. “Gods damn the nobles of Losz, for I have created new Loszians, and their loyalty to me is without bounds. I will end you all at once or one by one. I care not for the order of it.”
“You will create no more Loszians, Ek Sovr Cra,” number three stated. “Once, you would have never bestowed such a gift upon a lowly Westerner, but now you have done it over a score of times. You dilute our blood every time you do so, and it disgusts us, just as it once would have disgusted you.”
“I must replace our kind with those who can remain loyal. The gods Themselves granted me these powers, and you have no right to tell me how to use them. I am done discussing this matter,” Nadav concluded. “Beg for your lives or die.”
The three lords looked to each other briefly, and number three seemed to shrug ever so slightly in his blue robes. They struck out simultaneously, each wielding a different magick with a different intent. The spells struck Nadav for just a moment before he held his right hand before him, his palm facing his attackers. Their assault suddenly stopped, their magicks blocked by a shield which none could see. Nadav began to laugh as they poured more and more energy into their attacks, but they could not penetrate his barrier.
The black robed one was the first to go, and Nadav ended him quickly, causing the poor sorcerer’s skin to simply slough away from his bones. The blue robed one stepped forward and hurled a terrible blue-black spell at his former emperor, and Nadav met it with his own just before he would have been struck by it. Nadav’s own spell was a reddish brown magick of putrefaction that overwhelmed number three’s attack and enveloped him. The poor Loszian rotted in place down to his bones in a matter of moments.
Having seen his cohorts defeated so soundly, the first Loszian threw himself onto the floor at the foot of the stairs. “Mercy, Sovereign!” he wailed. “I beg you!”
“Why should I show you mercy?” Nadav asked haughtily as he descended the steps. “What need do I have of you?”
“I can be of great use My Sovereign. Your new servants have to develop their powers, and I need no such time. I am ready to serve you now,” number one said without looking up from the floor. Knowing that Nadav had reached the foot of the stairs, the prostrated Loszian looked up into the emperor’s eyes and said, “And I can serve My Sovereign in any way My Sovereign pleases.”
Nadav’s eyes glinted in the hall’s light. Later, while Nadav pleasured himself at his will on the former noble, the emperor whispered into his ear a question. “Do you know how I killed King Aidan of Aquis?”
6.
I write this now because I have found what I can only call a lucid moment among hours or even days of dementia. I have read of the days before modern medicine such as the twentieth century on Earth when patients suffered from degenerative mental diseases. For the longest time, it was considered part of just growing old, but now of course we know better. Those older persons endured long periods of unknowing or confusion, but once in awhile, they encountered times when everything was clear. At these times, they understood everything around them and what was happening to them. This would likely bring on great sadness and anger, bringing some to even take their own lives I would imagine. Regardless, I am having one of those moments of clarity now, and I must Chronicle these words while I still can.
It’s really interesting actually - losing myself, Commander Paul Chen, into the Chronicler. There have been many over the years, over the millennia, but perhaps not as many as one might think. The “gods” have found the power (strength? magic? technology?) to keep me alive virtually forever. Of course, if I still Chronicle a millennium from now, there will be very little Paul Chen left I believe.
I see everything on this planet, as it happens, everywhere. I record it into Chronicles, but for what purpose I don’t know. I record it into unmeasured terabytes of storage space in the facility’s massive hard drives, massive in capacity if not size, and once in awhile I connect with one of Rumedia’s inhabitants to pass on the Chronicle. Of course, by this point it has already happened, but it is this constant and almost overwhelming process of observation, recording and passing on that seems to cause me to fragment into this person simply known as the Chronicler.
There have been so many before me, some of whom were poor souls from this iron age world, and I wonder if any of them ever had these moments of lucidity. Did they know what was happening to them? I don’t think so, for I haven’t found any annotations such as this one in the computer’s archives.
The archives! I must talk about the archives for a moment. I’ve never seen anything so incredible, and it has been the work of countless hours to make my way through the information there. For that matter, I’ve only just uncovered the tip of the iceberg as it were. The most immediate files are of course those I created, but beyond that are those of the previous Chronicler. He is the one who first detailed Cor and Rael and countless of their contemporaries. In fact, his Chronicles go back quite some time, and there were other Chroniclers before him.
Even as I write this, I am moving into the oldest sections of the computer’s file system, but my path is blocked. I find Chronicles of the first Loszians as they conquered the entire western continent, but I can’t move further into the past. I know there are more stories to be told - the real stories about who the Loszians really are, where the gods came from. My path is blocked. It is barred. I am not allowed to know. The world is
not allowed to know.
…Ghal shook with Nadav’s fury…
…the huge Shem bellowed across the deck…
…lava spewed down the mountainside toward the jungle below…
…Lord Parol climbed out from…
7.
Lord Parol climbed out from the blankets and furs that were spread across the hard ground in Marya’s tent. He thought her asleep, but she watched him with one eye as he clothed himself. She knew he loathed to leave her moist, nubile body, and in fact she had nurtured the feeling within the noble all for the purpose of solidifying her hold over him. She could defeat any warrior, soldier or mercenary in his employ, but she wielded far more than cold steel. He had to leave. He had to leave to return to his wife before she pretended to notice that he was gone. Of course, Lady Parol knew of her husband’s lack of fidelity, but she pretended not to. Ignoring the wetness between her legs, Marya rolled over to sleep as Parol left her tent.
The army rose before first light and continued its march just as the sun fully rose over the horizon. Army or host was more or less accurate, though it numbered less than five thousand strong. Still, more joined as they marched, for Parol had made many friends in his years as a merchant lord - some he bought and some owed him. All knew his purpose. Parol planned a coup of grand proportions, intending to depose the King of Akor, and by the time he reached the capital, he would have too much muscle behind him for the king to stand against him.
The host, having doubled in size, stopped over a mile from the capital called Theron. Lord Parol demanded that his wife, Marya and several of his close commanders and lieutenants head west to climb a towering seaside cliff. It was a long and circuitous path upward, and Marya wondered at the need for such a thing. Why could they not simply ride into Theron and seize what was theirs?
The Cor Chronicles: Volume 04 - Gods and Steel Page 5
