“I will go to the battle,” said Mora, placing her hand on Rederick’s armored shoulder. “I will heal those who are viciously wounded and send as many back to you and Walthur as I can.”
“I’d rather you not,” Rederick said as he turned toward her. “You are the wife of the King of Aquis, and you sit on my Grand Council.”
“As does Dahken Keth, and he leads the charge. There are times when a life does not count, My King,” she replied. Mora boldly strode away to her horse, pulled herself into the saddle and rode toward the battle.
Rederick hung his head for a moment and then looked up at Cor. “Where is your Lady?” he asked.
Cor jerked his head back up the northern slope even as wounded soldiers began to filter into the tent and said, “She’s back up there, waiting.”
“Waiting for what?”
“For Nadav to push back our soldiers. She is praying to Hykan and conserving her strength. When she is ready, she’ll come out and fight, but not until she absolutely must for the protection of our son,” Cor explained.
He looked out across the field and saw dozens of forms – soldiers and dismounted knights staggering away from the fray, likely seeking Garod’s healing. Cor quickly surmised that not enough returned. He knew more fell under the assault than were wounded, for the more he watched, the more he could feel the wounds the men and women fighting ahead received. He dropped down from the place up the rope where he hung.
“Majesty, we have little time before this turns badly,” Cor said.
“I agree, Lord Dahken,” interjected Menak from the side, and both men looked at him in surprise as if they had forgotten his very presence. “My fellows have informed me that their magicks have no effect.”
“Then we know on whose side your gods stand, do we not Lord Menak?” Rederick asked rhetorically. Then he cocked his head to one side as a thought occurred to him. “Will you still be able to take Cor to Ghal and bring him back?”
“Those spells are long prepared and require little power, Majesty, but I think it is more an issue of Nadav’s magicks being much more powerful. Perhaps but whatever, I stand ready.”
“Then go, now and quickly,” commanded the king, and the two bowed briefly. Menak turned to return back to his tent, and as Cor moved to follow him, Rederick suddenly reached out to stop the Dahken. The two clasped arms, and then the king pulled Cor into an embrace. “May the gods be with you my friend.”
It was only a few dozen paces to Menak’s own tent, though the terrain caused the Loszian some difficulty with his lacking of a leg. As they neared it, Cor saw a large, purple-black stone planted heavily on the ground, and he wondered how the crippled sorcerer had managed to transport it. “Caution, please,” Menak said, and he pointed at the ground just in front of his tent’s mouth. Two concentric circles with dozens if not hundreds of runes between them had been inscribed on the very ground.
“Inside the middle one?” Cor asked.
“Yes,” Menak said with a nod, “but take care not to disturb any of the inscriptions. The results could be… unfortunate.”
As he gingerly stepped over the runes, Cor asked with a motion at the stone, “And that lets us return?”
“Yes, that is my return beacon. I liberated it from the foundation of my abode before we left. It was not easy. If you are done asking questions, might we be about this business?”
“Sorry,” replied Cor, feeling suddenly chastened. After all, there was little need to ask the questions, for they had been asked and answered a hundred times already.
Menak himself carefully stepped over the runes to stand next to Cor inside the smaller circle. With his hand he pulled up the sleeve of his silk robe to expose the nub in which his wrist ended instead of a hand. He closed his eyes and slapped his open palm against the scarred skin in a gruesome caricature of clapping. Even though he expected it, the sudden flash of light still blinded Cor momentarily, adding to the feeling of unease that his body had no weight at all.
30.
Nadav was bored. The whole affair was so mundane, for no one and nothing could stand before his powers, to say nothing of the over one million automatons he controlled. To be honest, the fact aggravated him to no end. This was his great shining moment, when he would prove to the whole world and his gods that he will rule all. The Shining West had fielded the greatest army they had seen in centuries, bolstered by the bronze skinned barbarians of Tigol and a handful of Loszian traitors, and they were nothing to the deluge of death he brought upon the land. They made their stand in a valley from which they could not easily escape, a wonderfully defensible position, and yet they would fall before him. It was just a matter of numbers, mathematics, that he would crush the life out of all of them – the new King Rederick, the traitor Menak, Lord Dahken Cor – all of them. The rest of the Shining West would see this and grovel at his feet to be sure, and next would fall the Northmen. Then he would move on to Tigol and eventually Dulkur. He would conquer all the world in the name of Losz and his gods, and none of it hardly mattered to him. It was all so easy, boring and uninteresting.
He didn’t even care enough to watch the battle or enjoy the brave fight the Westerners put up. He just lounged outside his tent on a plush couch just large enough for one to stretch out across it. Oh yes, he was slightly annoyed when those damned flames appeared, preventing his dead from utterly enveloping his prey, but even that was just a minor inconvenience, a delay of the inevitable. Even as his numbers began to drop substantially, he refused to care about the arrows and other missiles or the charging steel clad horses. It was just a matter of attrition, and that was all. Again, mathematics.
That didn’t stop his lords, his newly created breed of Loszians, from idly stomping and huffing like children. They stood at their chariots and watched the battle with an intensity that would make one think that a loss was even possible. They paced and shot questioning or even angry glances his way when they thought he was not looking. They warned him, questioned him and even begged him to allow them to act.
“Sovereign, the yellow riders eliminate our flanks,” they said, and he ignored them.
“The enemy’s arrows pierce many. Their heavy cavalry ride down your servants,” they said, and he waived them away.
“Sovereign, the enemy attacks with soldiers, and the yellow riders are back again at our rear.”
To this he answered, “I still have half of my servants, and the Westerners footmen will be crushed under the weight of so many. There are two hundred thousand of my dead at our rear, more than enough to handle a few yellow barbarians. We are in no danger of failure. Be still.”
“Then Sovereign, allow us the thrill of aiding your victory. Grant us freedom to use our powers upon the Westerners or the Tigolean horsemen,” replied one, and Nadav didn’t even look up to see which.
“It is not needed,” the emperor replied, annoyed. “I have said for you to be still. Would you risk my wrath? Should the Westerners somehow bring down my numbers to equal thrice theirs, I will simply raise all of the dead in the entire valley. Then they will be beset on all sides, and they will die.”
Then it struck Nadav as sharply as an unexpected errant arrow or perhaps a bolt of lightning tossed down from a clear sky. He shot into an upright position, his back stiff and erect as the sensation identified itself. Someone had entered his tower in Ghal, transported into one of the antechambers that he used to receive the lords when called to court. The Loszian emperor stood and turned to look south, as if he could see the intruder way out on the horizon. He only had to focus for just a moment to recognize Menak’s disfigured presence; he could almost see the cripple hobbling about his tower’s lower level.
“What does he there?” Nadav mumbled, as his eyes narrowed to look at nothing in particular. He turned to face the silent Loszians who merely stood and watched confusedly. “I must return to Ghal to deal with something. My minions will kill until all of my foes are dead. Raise more from the fallen if you so desire, and use your powers in wh
atever way you will. Just be certain to eliminate them all, and be certain that my tent remains empty. When I return, I would not be pleased to appear inside something or someone else.”
Inwardly, their confused inaction angered Nadav, but he chose to ignore it as he clapped his hands together. That never felt right anymore due to the loss of two fingers, and he reminded himself to make Cor Pelson pay horribly. The Dahken had a woman and a child, and the Loszian knew that he could inflict far more pain on him through them than physically on the Dahken himself. He envisioned fucking Cor’s woman with his own sword while the Dahken watched, chained to a wall, and oh the things he could do to that little boy. Nadav appeared before his ebony throne at the top of his tower, leering nastily at the delicious thoughts in his mind.
Feeling his manhood moving about within his robes, Nadav endeavored to calm himself. He pushed the thoughts out of his mind, at least for now, and sauntered to the huge, upright piece of furniture that contained his wardrobe. Menak was still downstairs, in fact seemingly waiting in the great hall below, so there was no great rush. The traitor obviously came here with the express purpose of confronting Nadav or maybe even groveling before him. Such a wonderful moment truly required the best attire. The emperor shrugged off his battered and travel worn black robes and selected a set made of the richest blood red and purple silks. He admired himself in one of his many floor to ceiling mirrors and decided that he really needed a hot bath to wash the grime of war away. Unfortunately, a battle still raged, and it would be irresponsible to ignore that fact for longer than necessary. At the least he wanted to wash the dirt away from his face, but no water awaited him in the basins as he had been away for months. It would just take too long to summon servants. Nadav sighed inwardly, deciding that his appearance would simply have to do.
As he began the long trek down through his tower, Nadav reached out to feel the battlefield. He sensed that many more of his automatons had fallen, their numbers reduced well below half, but the magick that enthralled them winked out of existence less and less with each passing moment. The Westerners and their Tigolean allies slowed as the time passed, which meant their numbers grew tired and dwindled. His dead would continue until their magical bonds were broken, but the living could only fight so long before they became exhausted or died.
Nadav had no sense as to what his Loszians did, and he only hoped they were equal to the task he set before them. It should not be that much of an issue for them. After all, he had already done most of the work! I should not have expected they could handle such a large task, he thought. They will fail me. Already, his ire began to grow towards their apparent weakness, and he vowed to be more selective in how he determined who was worthy of becoming a true Loszian.
The giant spiral stair that wound down through the tower finally ended, opening into the ground floor in a narrow corridor. Nadav had a choice – he could go left or right, make a turn and enter his hall through one of the side entrances, or directly in front of him was the double door that would allow him entry just behind his platinum throne. Never one to endure more hardship than was absolutely necessary, he stepped forward and pushed his way through the great mahogany doors. Normally they would be held open by slaves or other servants, but he had seen none on his way down the stairs. He noted their absence, but shrugged it off with little interest. Without his presence, they likely ran away, and slaves were easily replaced.
Nadav felt Menak in the hall as he entered. The traitor was just in front of him a number of yards, likely at the bottom of the steep steps where he had stood a number of times before. Nadav passed his platinum throne, and as he did so, Menak came into view just where he should have been. His prey stood somewhat awkwardly, apparently having applied a peg or some other thing to his leg to allow him to walk. He looked haggard, exhausted and filthy, and Nadav wrinkled his nose at the smell of hardship as it wafted up the steps to reach him.
“Do not bother bowing,” Nadav said, “In fact, do not bother with anything. I assume you’re here to grovel before me, beg my forgiveness as others have done? Will you offer to suck at my manhood, provide me great pleasure if I let you live? Do you think I’d let a grotesquely ruined person such as yourself do such a thing?”
“I would expect not, Sovereign,” Menak replied, though there was no respect in his tone. “I am not here to grovel, but I am here to beg. I’m here to beg for your life, Great One.”
Nadav couldn’t contain himself, and he cut off Menak’s words with a great laugh that wracked his frame and echoed all through his empty hall. Menak simply stood silently, patiently while the emperor slowly regained his composure. When he’d finally found control again, Nadav had to wipe tears out of his eyes from his laughter.
“Menak,” Nadav said, still chuckling slightly, “you were nothing to me before our gods gave me power. I was already the strongest of us, and I know there are others who have further betrayed me by joining with the Westerners. And I know that the gods have denied their powers potency, so with whom do you thing the gods stand. What do you think you have to offer me?”
“Life, Sovereign. Life,” answered Menak, deadly serious. Nadav felt the desire to laugh again, but he restrained himself, seeing Menak’s demeanor. “You don’t realize it, but your actions in the next few minutes will decide your life. Kneel before King Rederick and the Westerners, devote yourself to them. Learn to live as they do. Veltrina birthed your child. Become a father and watch your child grow. Give up this life of decadent, destructive evil. Free Losz.”
As the words reached his ears, Nadav lost his humor and stood shocked into disbelieving silence. He couldn’t believe what he heard. He certainly had no love for the maimed man that stood before him, and he had never respected Menak, for he had never respected anyone. But that any Loszian could give up their birthright so nearly took his breath away. Realizing that Menak no longer spoke and in fact waited patiently as if he expected some sort of answer, Nadav shook off his stupefaction.
“I find myself at a loss for words, Menak the Pathetic. I cannot even consider what has brought you to such a lowly stage, what would make you even think that such a place would interest me. Surely you are not truly Loszian? Your blood must have been tainted at some point in your line,” Nadav mused, but the insult brought forth no reaction. He began to feel rage that became unbridled as he spoke, and his face grew hot. “What was your purpose in coming here? Did you think to reason with me, change my path from ruling this world? You would think me so weak that I would come down to such a level as you? You were nothing to me ten years ago, and certainly you dare not hope to defeat me now? You know I will kill you now, and it will not be swift for both your betrayal and the offense you now pay me.”
Menak now looked beyond Nadav and spoke as if to someone behind the emperor, “I had hoped to reason with him, Lord Dahken Cor, but we both knew how unlikely that was. But I suppose it was worth the effort.”
The emperor furrowed his brow, squinting slightly at the man before him, as if he might divine the source of Menak’s newfound madness. The man spoke to someone who was not present, as if Cor Pelson could hear his voice across the hundreds of miles between Ghal and the battle that currently raged, for surely that was where Cor would be. Nadav looked closely at Menak’s eyes, and the emperor’s face blanched as sudden realization dawned on him. His eyes grew wide as it fully hit him, and the back of his neck tingled as he felt eyes boring into him. Had he hairs on the back of his neck, they would have most assuredly been standing on end.
Nadav felt flat footed as he turned, slow and off balance. In front of him, and on his throne, sat Lord Dahken Cor Pelson. How he had missed the man, his black plate armor a stark contrast to the platinum gleam of the throne, escaped him. Even as he saw the Dahken, he almost did not believe his eyes. Nadav could sense every being, living or dead, within his tower, and yet the armored Dahken simply was not there. Even as Cor stood from the throne and slowly stepped toward the Loszian emperor, Nadav almost could not accept his exis
tence.
“Nadav,” Cor said, “I’ll tell you what’s ironic about this. When I first came to Losz, Taraq’Nok’s intention was to have me kill you, put me on the throne of Losz. It didn’t exactly go as he planned, but here we are nevertheless. I brought you something.”
Though Nadav hadn’t noticed it at first, Cor held a small brown sack in one hand which he tossed somewhat nonchalantly at the Loszian. It hit Nadav in the chest, and he fumbled it a bit as he tried to catch it, giving him the comical appearance of a juggler. When he held it firmly with one hand, he drew it open slightly with the other and then turned it upside down. Two dried and desiccated fingers tumbled out into his awaiting palm. They were long and spindly and their severed ends matched up to his scarred hand, though they had shrunken somewhat over the months.
Nadav gasped as he dropped the severed digits, and they impacted the carpet below with a soft sound not unlike the pitter-patter of a small animal’s feet. He glanced down at them before looking back up at the helmed visage of Cor, and Nadav snarled as he pushed his palms out toward the Dahken. A dark magick shot from the Loszian’s hands, seemingly coming from deep within him, and enveloped the Dahken who stood confidently only ten feet away. Cor held out his hand and looked uninterestedly at the blackish silhouette that outlined his entire figure. He then laughed once and waived his hand through the magick’s stream, dismissing it entirely.
“You can’t hurt me, Nadav.”
As Cor stepped forward, the threat obvious in his movement, Nadav began to back away. “I –,” he said as his foot met nothing but empty space. He lost his balance as his foot finally found the carpeted floor lower than his body expected it, and the Loszian emperor tumbled backward down the steps. Bruised and battered, he landed flat on his back, cracking the back of his skull on the carpeted stone floor. The Loszian willed himself into a sitting position, and though the room spun wildly, he could tell that Menak had moved off to one side and Cor slowly stepped down toward him.
The Cor Chronicles: Volume 04 - Gods and Steel Page 23
