Emperor

by Isaac Hooke

  But Malem had discovered that looks weren’t all that mattered when it came to attracting the opposite sex. Personality, confidence, and charisma went a long way. It also helped if one bathed occasionally—something that had taken him a while to learn in his youth, considering most of his friends back then were animals of the most stinky variety.

  “Some dwarven women are ugly, this is true,” Gannet continued. “Especially the bearded ones. But other dwarven women are beautiful. I’ve slept with my fair share—the mountain dwarves used to have a tribe in the Harken mountain, not far from Metal territory. And let me tell you, the smaller they are, the more vigorous they behave in bed.” He gave Malem a sly look. “Try having a dwarven woman ride you sometime, and you’ll see what I mean.”

  “Something about a woman having to shave her face just seems wrong,” Abigail commented.

  “Oh, they don’t shave,” Timlir said. “They wax their faces, mostly. As well as their pussies.” He glanced at Malem and raised his eyebrows twice.

  “I love women who shave their nether regions,” Goldenthall stated. “In fact, I often ordered my wives and mistresses to do just that. There’s nothing that turns me off more than a woman whose lips I can’t see.”

  “What about you, Breaker?” Gwen asked. “What do you like, when it comes to the shaving department?”

  Malem shrugged. “It has never mattered to me. I can’t see a woman’s nether regions when I’m pounding her senseless anyway.”

  Malem heard a commotion outside and switched to the viewpoint of one of the oraks he had Broken, a creature that stood guard just outside the main entrance to the inn. The lead wagon in a passing merchant caravan had broken down, and a robed man who looked like the trader was trying to prop up the vehicle with a long stick; two of the hired swords in the caravan were helping him. The horses at the front of the wagon meanwhile were rearing, and the driver was on his feet beside them, reins in hand, trying to calm the animals.

  Other than that, everything seemed relatively normal out there.

  Malem considered sending in some of the oraks to help, but decided against it, worried that this might be some elaborate trap.

  Malem had rented out the entire inn and its common room for the month while his army worked a few days away to the west. When the mayor of Redbridge had heard he was in town, he had personally paid the inn’s proprietor, effectively giving Malem free rent for the next month. Word had spread across the land about the rogue Breaker who had defeated Vorgon, and the mysterious half monster women who joined him, so such welcoming behavior wasn’t entirely unexpected. In all the towns and villages on the way here, Malem hadn’t had to spend a drachma on food and lodging for example. Of course, it helped that most of the towns knew he had a dark army camped somewhere in the forest beyond.

  Mayor Townshed had also given Malem the key to the city, and allowed him full authority to station his own security personnel outside the inn. This was good, because Townshed didn’t have men to spare, not after the loses taken in the recent war.

  Not that Malem had to worry too much about security. The townspeople kept clear of the inn for the most part, probably because most of the guards Malem had assigned belonged to the darker races: oraks, goblings, night elves, and Eldritch. Currently, the oraks and Eldritch were on duty, with the former watching the immediate vicinity around the inn along with the nearby streets and byways, while the latter perched on the rooftop, ready to offer magical assistance from above. There were a few orak mages on the rooftops as well. When dusk came, the night elves and goblings would take over, as their night vision was slightly better than the former races.

  Solan stretched, rising. “Well, I think I’m going to pack it in early tonight.” The half dragon looked similar to Gannet when it came to the looks and dress department. He was definitely stronger than Malem, at least physically. And like Gannet, he was also bound to Malem. The only one’s not bound to him were Timlir, Xaxia, and Goldenthall.

  “Come on, you’re a dragon!” Timlir said. “You can’t go to sleep now. We haven’t even begun the drinking yet!”

  “I’ll be skipping the drinking games tonight,” Solan said. “I want to get up early to hunt.”

  “I think I’ll join you,” Brita said, standing. She glanced at Malem. “I mean, going to sleep early. I’m not going to his bed.”

  “Sure you’re not,” Xaxia joked.

  Brita shot her a withering look. Malem could feel the ire pouring from the half dragon’s energy bundle. Solan’s bundle meanwhile only exhibited amusement.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” Malem told her quickly, hoping to diffuse the situation.

  Brita glanced at him, and forced a nod. She glowered one last time at Xaxia and left.

  Abigail glanced at Weyanna, and nodded at the pastry in her plate. “You’ve barely touched it. I see two bite marks and that’s it.”

  “I know,” Weyanna said. “They’ve been sitting there all day. They’re hard.”

  “Don’t worry, she likes them hard,” Ziatrice commented with a wink.

  Goldenthall lit up, and told Weyanna: “I got something you might like then. Up in my room. How about me and you—”

  “Goldenthall!” Malem said warningly.

  The former king raised his hands in surrender.

  Malem heard shouts coming from outside, followed by the clang of swords. He switched to the viewpoint of the external orak.

  What he saw shocked him.

  2

  Malem stared aghast as oraks overflowed from the canopied wagons of the stalled caravan. The merchant who had been attempting to prop up the lead wagon had turned toward the inn, and was launching huge balls of flame at the surrounding oraks. Not a merchant then, but a fire mage. Some of those flames hit the inn itself, lighting it on fire.

  Malem’s attention was drawn to the emerging oraks, which were running toward the inn’s entrance. They weren’t his. No, these oraks were bigger than those in Malem’s army. And they wore a strange, multicolored armor. Stamped onto their chest pieces were two bronze horns.

  They carried two handed-swords, which they used to good effect against the pikes of Malem’s own guard. The Eldritch on the rooftop launched attacks of their particular deadly magic, but the impacts seemed to be absorbed by that multicolored armor. One of the Eldritch fired the tendrils of Green Rot at the fire mage, and it melted through his robes to reveal similar armor underneath.

  The fire mage raised both hands; beneath the rooftop Eldritch, a wall of flame arose, engulfing several of them.

  Malem’s view went black as the orak he was using to observe the scene was stabbed through the heart.

  He felt the boomerang effect as his connection was severed, and he hunched over, squeezing his fists.

  “You all right?” Gwen asked in concern beside him.

  Abigail was also leaning into him, and had placed a worried hand on his shoulder.

  “I’m fine,” he said.

  Weyanna was gazing nervously at the entrance, as if expecting someone to burst inside at any moment. The shouts and the sounds of clashing swords continued from without.

  “We’re under attack,” Weyanna announced calmly.

  “Yes.” Malem took some stamina from the remaining oraks bound to him, and straightened.

  Weyanna straightened suddenly.

  “I can’t transform,” she said urgently.

  “Probably a good thing!” Timlir said. “You would have destroyed the inn! And probably killed us all in the process!”

  “Apparently someone has laid an anti-dragon debuff on the building,” Malem commented.

  “Who do we know that can do that?” Mauritania asked.

  “No one,” Malem told her.

  Ziatrice smelled the air twice in concern. “I think the inn is on fire.”

  “It is,” Malem said. “Grab your most important belongings, and come back down here. Grab Solan and Brita on your way out. We’ll evacuate the building together.”

 
Abigail, Mauritania, Gannet, Sylfi, Wendolin, and Weyanna hurried up the stairs.

  The others meanwhile stayed with Malem.

  “What about you guys?” Mauritania asked from the stairs.

  “We already have our most important belongings,” Malem said, with a purposeful glance at his companions.

  “What about your dragonscale armor?” Mauritania said. “And Gwen’s?”

  “Okay fine,” Malem said. “Grab our armor if you have time. We’ll wait for you here. Hurry.”

  “And my chain mail!” Timlir said.

  “Notice how most who went were dragons?” Xaxia commented, retrieving Biter.

  “Dragons and their hoards,” Timlir muttered, grabbing his ax from where it rested on the table.

  “I’m not a dragon, and I’m fetching your gear like a little errand boy!” Mauritania shouted down from the top of the stairs.

  “Yes, yes,” Timlir told her. He glanced at Xaxia. “Sensitive ears, that one!”

  Malem fetched his scabbard and stood. He secured the sheath to his hips, and drew Balethorn as he turned toward the door. He reached out, trying to Break those monsters he could sense beyond the walls of the inn, but these particular oraks were all strong-willed unlike their smaller counterparts, who usually had a few weak fellows in their midst.

  To his left, Ziatrice hefted her halberd, Wither. To his right, Gwen had her bow Wasp in hand.

  The clangor of swords hitting pikes grew in volume, as did the shouts and screams of dying oraks.

  Malem had six more oraks under his command out there, and decided to crush their wills entirely, killing them for their stamina rather than risk losing more strength when they fell. That left at least another twenty defenders that weren’t Broken, plus the Eldritch on the rooftop, none of which were his—Mauritania didn’t like him controlling her men. Not that he could Break them now if he wanted to: they were as strong-willed as these latest oraks.

  A bracelet of black mist appeared around Ziatrice’s wrist, her dark magic swirling about in anticipation of the coming fight. She licked her lips, her tongue passing beneath her sharp teeth.

  Nemertes, we need you, Malem sent.

  He kept the huge blue permanently bound to him, using up fifteen of his seventy slots, mostly so that he could maintain telepathic communication with it.

  He stared at the door, listening to the fighting outside, and waiting for a response from the dragon. He continued searching the external monsters with his beast sense and did find a weaker-willed one among them, an injured individual. He was able to touch that one’s mind, but from the way its will was rapidly fading, he knew the creature wouldn’t last long—wasn’t worth breaking.

  Nemertes…

  Yes, yes, the blue dragon replied. I’m coming.

  Bring a few Blacks with you.

  Nemertes had made a camp for herself outside the city he was constructing in the forest, but she usually ranged far and wide—according to the weak perception of the dragon he had on his beast sense, Nemertes was located roughly ten miles away at the moment. Not far enough to be completely out of his influence, but not close, either. It would take her some time to arrive.

  And it might be too late by then.

  I might have to order her to remain closer, going forward.

  Malem sent out a mental call to Frank and Garter, the orak couriers he had left stationed on the western outskirts of the city.

  Fetch reinforcements!

  Yes, master! came the reply.

  But then Malem felt the boomerang as his connections to Frank and Garter severed. He slumped slightly, and was forced to draw stamina from the other oraks bound to him.

  So, no reinforcements, then.

  And then the doors broke in. Two of the large oraks rushed inside.

  “Aim for their faces!” Malem shouted. “Magic does not penetrate their armor!”

  Ziatrice threw out her arm, and the mist that wrapped her wrist extended, whirling malevolently toward the two oraks in the lead. The mist formed dark chains that wrapped around those oraks, and she yanked her hand backward, and the pair flew through the air toward her.

  She sidestepped out of the way and swung Wither as they arrived, severing the heads of the two oraks before they hit the ground.

  “Chopping off their heads works too!” Ziatrice quipped

  Gwen released arrows from her Infitas Quiver in rapid succession. She turned the throats and faces of the targeted oraks into pincushions.

  Xaxia rushed forward, swinging Biter. Her blade glowed purple as it ate through the orak ranks, giving her stamina that she used to further her offensive. She moved in a blur, an artist at work, the blood of the oraks her paint, the walls her canvas.

  Timlir fought at her side, swinging his ax, Hamstringer, at the taller creatures. It lived up to its name.

  A group of oraks broke past Xaxia and Timlir, but they were struck by smears of dark magic. The black tendrils hit their bare faces and necks above their armor, and the creatures screamed, falling to their knees as dark veins spread across their faces.

  The source of that magic didn’t come from Malem’s left, where Ziatrice stood, but his right. He glanced that way and spotted Goldenthall: the man’s eyes were pure black, and dark mist curled around them in evil plumes. As Malem watched, puffs of dark magic erupted on the floor behind the man and four oraks appeared. They rushed forward with pikes in hand to form a defensive position around Malem and the others.

  The larger oraks continued flowing into the expansive room, and they forced Xaxia and Timlir back. Some also broke in through the windows to form a larger front as they entered.

  “Where are they coming from?” Gwen complained as she continued to fire Wasp. She was drawing and firing faster than any human ever could have, thanks to her monster half.

  “The wagons of the merchant caravan,” Malem said. “But I didn’t think there were that many of them.”

  “He’s created portals,” Goldenthall said in Banvil’s voice. “Inside those wagons.”

  “Who has?” Malem said.

  But Goldenthall didn’t answer.

  Ziatrice had waded into the battle now as well, and was moving her halberd in wide arcs, doffing heads with each swing.

  “If we destroy those wagons, will the portals be gone?” Malem asked.

  “Most likely,” Goldenthall replied in the demon’s voice. “The portals require a physical framework to anchor them. If that framework changes, or caves, then the portals themselves will fall.”

  The summoned oraks were fully engaged against their larger counterparts by then; one of the opponents stepped past and lunged for Gwen.

  Malem stepped forward to protect her. He swung Balethorn, but his opponent blocked it with a surprisingly strong parry that forced Malem’s magic sword backward.

  I shouldn’t have been so surprised. They are bigger than normal oraks.

  It lifted its blade faster than he would have expected, and Malem was forced to physically dodge.

  Before he could strike again, an arrow ripped through the orak’s left eye, and the creature went down.

  Another orak rushed past and Malem once again intercepted. He blocked the heavy blade and felt the vibrations as they traveled down into the hilt. He gritted his teeth and fought back. He refused to let Timlir, Xaxia, and Ziatrice make him look bad. He would kill these creatures with the same ease.

  He stabbed, hitting the armor of his foe, and remembered too late that those multicolored plates were impervious to magical attacks, which apparently extended to weapons: the tip bounced away.

  He sidestepped the next attack and parried, letting his blade cede beneath the momentum of the impact, arcing it downward; at the bottom of the motion he separated his weapon from his opponent’s and swirled it upward in an uppercut swing that caught the orak beneath the neck. It fell.

  But another orak was already on him. This one stood a head taller than the previous, and its armor—obviously customized to its body type—bulged
in the shoulder and bicep regions, much bigger than any strongman Malem had ever seen at the traveling menageries.

  “Get out of the way!” Gwen said. “I can’t target it!”

  But Malem couldn’t. He was too busy blocking that blade, which moved with incredible speed. Every time Malem tried to sidestep to the left or right, the orak flowed with him, and was there with its blade to meet him.

  Smoke began to collect on the ceiling as the walls lit up, thanks to the flames still burning outside.

  Dark tendrils from Goldenthall curled onto the creature’s face, but the orak merely clenched its jaw through the evil magic and fought on. Malem suspected Goldenthall was growing weaker.

  Malem tried to Break the creature, but was unable to wrap his will around the beast. He detected other creatures around him that might be appropriate candidates, but the sense was a distraction, and he almost took a full hit to the chest. He leaped back, and instead took a nick.

  Focus.

  One of Goldenthall’s oraks attacked the monster from the right flank, forcing it to divert its blade.

  Malem used the opportunity to cut off its head.

  His next opponent proved easier, and soon Malem found himself getting into the flow of battle. He seldom had to parry more than one or two blows before downing his opponents. It was all about the mental perception. He had believed these creatures to be far more powerful than he was, and that had allowed them to gain the upper hand. But now he fought like he was meant to fight, as a king among paupers, so that soon he was surrounded by bodies. He kept the monsters away from Gwen and Goldenthall—the latter used his own blade to protect Gwen from any oraks that got past him.

  Just when Malem thought things were going well, a man appeared at the entrance, beneath the burning wall. He was clad in a dark robe. He pointed a hand at Malem, and dark magic erupted from his fingers. It swerved between the intervening combatants, and headed directly for Malem.

  Goldenthall planted himself in front of Malem, and absorbed the magic. Dark veins spread across his face, but the former king merely laughed with a Balor’s voice.