War of the Realms Box Set

by Sarah J. Stone

  The man’s head shot up, a look of relief in his eyes. He shook his head feverishly, afraid to say any more as he might change the course of the conversation. However, the king and the peasant weren’t quite on the same train of thought.

  “I run this Kingdom by your tax dollars, sir.” The king walked over to the guard standing next to Oedipus, giving a wink in the commander’s direction. “If you didn’t pay your taxes, you are depriving your king and your lord of food and water. It seems that my army is slacking in their duties.”

  The king reached the belt of his guard, and his eyes glimmered as he slowly pulled a long leather whip used for horse training from his waist. He rolled the tail around his burly hands and waited patiently for a response from the peasant. Without realization of the course of the king’s thoughts, the peasant spoke.

  “I would never want to deprive my lord his food and water,” the peasant said shamefully. The king turned toward the peasant, allowing the tails of the whip to slowly unravel at his side. A nefarious grin washed across Osiris as if he were possessed by something otherworldly. The reality was that his own power and greed were the possessions haunting him.

  “Guards, if you would,” the king said, motioning to the man on the floor. He looked up, his relief turning to fear, and he struggled as the guards grabbed him under the arms and turned him so his back was facing the king. The other guards moved back into a pool, giving the king ample room to swing his whip at his leisure.

  “Your Grace, please, I only meant I would always want to take care of my king,” the man begged.

  “When we lack the ability to do our jobs, peasant, we must pay the penalty. I am a direct hand to God, so be blessed that he has chosen your punishment wisely,” the king said with a smirk. He shrugged his robes off and stood behind the man, his white shirt loosely buttoned but tucked into his leather pants. The buckles on his brown mule boots reflected the metal tips on the tail of the whip.

  The king pulled back, swinging the leather device around his head, the ends of the leather straps snapping in the air. Every muscle in the peasant’s rawboned body tensed in anticipation of contact. With one large swoop, Osiris pulled the whip back and fluidly rolled his wrist, causing the tiny metal tips to slack against the back of the man. He went up on his tiptoes, screaming out in agony as Osiris threw the whip back and forward again.

  With each touch of the man’s skin, blood curdled under his torn and tattered shirt until the cloth itself was nothing but blood-soaked shreds. The new holes revealed deep lacerations on the peasant’s skin, and with each blow, blood floated up in the air like a red mist, pieces of his flesh still caught in the strips of leather. Slowly, the man went limp in the arms of the guards, and the king took one last blow, sending blood splattering across the shiny steel of the sentinel’s armor.

  The king dropped his arm to his side, the leather strips piling at his feet, and a mixture of blood and sweat covering his brow. He handed the whip to one of the servants and took a fresh, warm towel from their basket. Slowly, he wiped the remnants of the peasant off his hands, the meat and blood splattering on the floor at his feet.

  “I want you to tell everyone–peasant–that this kingdom doesn’t stand for those who don’t play their part,” the king whispered in the man’s ear. “Guards, escort him back to his home and clean this mess up. I want that whip to be my new best friend, so get it all nice and oiled for me.”

  Oedipus watched as the servants and guards scattered, doing the king’s bidding as quickly as possible. Osiris turned toward the commander, and they both put their arms up in greeting. Their embrace was short but warm, and the king’s furl turned to a pleasant look at the sight of his oldest friend.

  “Oedipus!” he jollied. “Good to see you have returned unscathed. Let’s retreat to the dining hall. I am starving after all that physical exertion.” The king patted his expanding belly and looked sideways at Oedipus. “I gotta keep my young, handsome figure after all.”

  “Your Grace,” the commander said with a laugh. “It’s good to be back. And you look as spry as you did when we were kids.”

  “You shouldn’t bullshit the king, Oedipus,” he said with a deep, growling laugh.

  The two men entered into the dining hall. The ceilings stretched high into the darkness, and chandeliers with lit candles dipped down over the tables, held up by strong iron chains. The smell of meat and spices filled the room, and it took a moment for Oedipus to adjust his eyes to the darkness since windows were scarce in that part of the castle. The two men sat opposite each other and watched as servants filled their cups with wine and bowed out of the room nervously.

  “So,” the king said as he picked up a large turkey leg and ripped the meat off the bone with his teeth, “how did the excursion go? Did you make contact with the wild dragons?”

  “Well,” the commander stated as his thoughts flooded with images of the gory confrontation that ensued, “they weren’t quite ready to hear our shifters. We lost over three hundred men.”

  “I told you, Oedipus,” the king spattered as he chewed his food ungraciously, “we are not in the business of holding their fucking paws or whatever you call it. If you need them, you take them. Period.”

  “Absolutely, Your Grace,” Oedipus answered wishing the king had been there to see men burning alive and their limbs being torn from their bodies. There was not much anyone could do at the end, and the commander had simply dumped the pieces of the army in a pile and set them ablaze. He comforted himself in thinking that it was an honorable way to be disposed of. Though the smell of burning flesh was permanently pressed into his nostrils.

  “Your Grace,” Oedipus said, picking at the meat on his plate and thinking about Artus, a man that had been on his radar for years. He was a fool who believed that slave-less nations and free shifters were the future. The demise of his friendship with Oedipus and Osiris had started when they were young and had developed into a lifelong feud that Oedipus knew would end with someone’s head on a stake.

  “There is a situation that is in dire need of attention. We have tapped Avalon. There is no question that we need to start thinking of moving outward. You are the King of Kings; everyone knows this, and your bounty should be greater than just some torched realm with seedless soils.”

  Oedipus’ blood began to boil as he thought about taking over Avalon as king, the other rulers looking down upon him from their high towers. The king sat quietly, mulling the commander’s words over in his head. Steam brewed in Oedipus’ chest as he thought about Artus and his dragons training at that very moment.

  “Artus,” Oedipus continued, “has gathered forces, and they are preparing. The word in the mouths of Whisperers is a coup.”

  The king looked angrily up at Oedipus, slamming his spoon on his plate and wiping his mouth on his sleeve. The commander sat still, watching as the fire from the candles reflected off his eyes. Though Oedipus had vowed to be the demise of Artus long ago, promising to present his head to the king, Osiris, in his dream world inside the castle walls, thought it foolish to chase the man. He felt Artus was just a distraction that would meet his own demise soon enough.

  “Enough!” the King shouted, slamming his fists on the table and rattling the metal plates and chalices. “I have told you time and time again that Artus is no more than some weaseling imbecile, who will drag you down with him. Leave him be!”

  Oedipus sat expressionless, irritated by the king’s dismissal. He was far removed from the world that had decayed outside of Thorn, and Oedipus feared that the gold and the power were beginning to draw him off course.

  “As far as the issue of territory,” the king stated softly, but with feeling, “we will discuss that today at the High Council meeting. I expect you will be there.”

  “Of course, My Lord,” the commander said, gritting his teeth.

  “Well, then,” the king said, holding his cup up to the girl attending him. He wiped his greasy beard once again on his sleeve and licked his lips, his eyes s
earching the young servant. “Go arrest or torture someone. I am going to take a nap.”

  He reached out and smacked the dark-haired girl on the ass. “You, slave girl, come with me to my chambers.”

  Oedipus laughed as she scurried along behind him, her head down and cheeks bright red.

  Oh, to be king.

  Chapter Two: The Pleasure of a Blade

  “I am so pleased that warm weather has come,” Leonetta spoke as she leaned in to smell the blooming flowers along the garden path. “Are you pleased to have found yourself here, My Lady?”

  Ashia looked up from her hands, surprised that her mistress was asking her such a frivolous question. She had just arrived two weeks before on a ship from the Broom Isles. Her father hadn’t the money to pay his taxes to their king and sold her into slavery. Leonetta had been in the harbor that day on a journey to choose fabrics for her wedding gown. Ashia had been the only female slave, and Leonetta immediately purchased her and made a place for her at her side.

  “Oh, very much, Your Grace,” Ashia said bowing her head. “It is a great honor to serve the future Queen of Avalon. A person could not ask for much more from this life.”

  Leonetta stood up straight and whirled around toward the girl, frightening her. She eased her stature, realizing the effect she had on the girl and walked toward her. Leonetta reached out and lifted Ashia’s chin and stared into her crystal-blue eyes. The girl was utterly striking with long, flowing black hair, tan skin, and eyes bluer than the waters of Fortune.

  “My Lady,” Leonetta said kindly, “I think you will come to understand I hate the idea of humans as slaves. And though I cannot currently do anything about it, what I can do is ask that you speak to me as you would a fellow slave. I made you my hand because I needed someone greater than just a person to empty my chamber pot and brush my hair. I need a confidant–a friend, to be clearer. Can you do this for me?”

  Ashia stood staring at the princess inquisitively. She was already used to unfair and manipulative treatment, and she feared this, too, was nothing more than a trap. She took a deep breath, slowly let it out, and answered in high hopes.

  “If that is what you wish, Your Grace, then I would have it no other way and would be honored to have you as a friend,” she said, bowing slightly.

  “Good,” Leonetta stated, hooking her arm into Ashia’s. “Then it is settled.”

  The two walked slowly through the gardens, whispering to each other of the happenings in the kingdom. The sun was bright overhead, and Leonetta paused to feel it on her face. She remembered being a child, running through the fields outside of Avalon’s gates, feeling the tall grasses under her fingertips and wishing she could stay there forever. She was not the future queen that reveled in fine clothing, expensive, jewels, and an adoring kingdom. Rather, she was quiet, reserved, and found her mind racing off to her homeland, the Vale. Even though she had never been there, the elf king had paid her a visit when she was breaching her sixteenth mark of birth and showed her, through thoughts, the glory of his kingdom.

  These roses are almost as beautiful as my future queen. Leonetta’s eyes glimmered, and a smile washed over her face at the sound of Holland’s voice in her head. Ashia looked inquisitively at Leonetta, not understanding her sudden change in mood. There were no shifters in the Broom Isles, only ogres, trolls, and warriors, so she was not used to the shifters’ way of communication.

  Leonetta looked down the path leading to the fountain where the rose bushes sat. Standing at the end was Holland, his bright red hair blowing gently around his face, a huge grin pointed in her direction. She unhooked arms with Ashia and ran down the path, her blue, flowing gown flitting behind her and her breasts heaving from the corset beneath her dress. She flew into Holland’s arms, knocking him back slightly and kissing him all over his face.

  “Oh, I’ve missed you,” she said, laying her cheek against his chest.

  “I see you each day, Your Grace,” Holland said teasingly. “But these lips….”

  He lifted Leonetta’s chin toward him and bent down, brushing his lips against hers. There was a time–just a few years past–he wondered if the taste of her lips was only enticing because it was forbidden, but that thought had since left. He had been in love with the princess her whole life, and she with him, something they knew they had to enjoy while it lasted.

  Holland lifted his lips from hers and stared deep into her eyes, forgetting for just a moment that he was still enslaved inside the walls of Avalon. Movement caught his eye, and he looked up at Ashia, who was standing, her hands clasped, and her eyes pointed at the ground. He smirked slightly at the rosy complexion that fell over her as she stood watching their secret.

  “My Lady,” Holland said, pulling from Leonetta and bowing. “The commander requests your presence in his chambers.”

  Leonetta turned to Ashia, watching as a recognition of fear spread across her face. Her hands began to tremble, and she looked to Leonetta for comfort. Leonetta quickly crossed to her and wrapped her arms around the thin frame of the girl. She rubbed her back and whispered into her ear.

  “The travesties that befall you by the future king will not be forgotten. I promise I will make this up to you, but until I can change these laws, I am afraid you must comply, or he will have you chained.”

  Ashia held on to Leonetta’s comforting grasp as long as possible. She stood in the garden light, enjoying her last moments of chastity while knowing her time in the commander’s chambers would leave a lasting mark. A tear flowed from her eye, glistening in the sun and reflecting the red from the roses as it moved down her cheek.

  “There, there,” Leonetta said, wiping the tear away. “You must look happy. It will not end you, and when you are done, I shall see you have a proper bath. Okay?”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” Ashia said, taking in a deep breath.

  “Do you know where he stays, or shall I escort you?” Holland asked with remorse. He had not thought of what this would do to such a young girl, especially watching troves of ladies enter and exit the commander’s chambers weekly.

  “It will not be necessary,” Ashia said with a strong voice. “I know where he stays.”

  Leonetta watched as Ashia gracefully made her way back through the garden, the gold in her neck and wrist cuffs–the sign of a royal slave–sparkling in the sun. Once she had turned the corner from sight, Leonetta turned back angrily toward Holland and clenched her fists. She ached for Ashia, being thankful she still had her chastity intact.

  “I should slit his throat while he sleeps,” she said through gritted teeth. “He has no respect for me, for this kingdom, or for any lives.”

  “Leonetta,” Holland whispered, taking her by the arm and pulling her to the edge of the opening, “you cannot speak that way. Even queens can be tried for treason. It is the way the world has become, and there is no use in getting so angry and sending anger to the heavens over something you cannot yet change.

  Leonetta stood for a moment, breathing heavily and thinking about Holland’s words. Slowly, her muscles began to un-tense, and her hands fell lazily at her sides. She grasped onto the edges of the silk hanging from her gown and smoothed them through her fingers.

  “Your words are wise,” she finally concluded. “I just hate to see such hatred in this world.” Leonetta looked up, catching Holland’s gaze, sadness covering her face, and dimming her emerald eyes.

  “I know, sweet princess,” Holland said, stepping closer and brushing his hand against her soft cheek. “But even this is temporary. We will find a way.”

  Leonetta closed her eyes as his hand moved down her cheek, grazing her neck and falling softly across her collar bone. When her eyes reopened, they held a different tense than before, and Holland’s heartbeat quickened at the sight of wanting in her look. He leaned down and pulled her close to him, pressing his lips hard against hers and caressing them with swipes of his tongue.

  “I want to be alone with you,” Leonetta cooed, her eyes still closed from the
kiss. “Is there a time later for a flight?”

  Holland stood thinking for a moment before opening up his mind to hear Oedipus. He quickly closed it, his cheeks blushing slightly at the sounds from his bedroom. He took Leonetta’s hand and pulled her through the garden, glancing around to make sure no one was watching. As she approached the corner by the palace walls, she looked up in amazement at the blooms of golden hops hanging down from a trellis that lined the walkway. She usually didn’t have the opportunity to travel back this far, and she breathed in the sweet scent of nectar, reminiscing of the way Avalon used to be.

  The area was almost completely enclosed in flowers, shielding any view from the castle. In the center of the enclosure was a single bench, covered in soft, yellow pillows. Leonetta looked at Holland in amazement.

  “This was your mother’s,” he said quietly. “She had it built when she was pregnant with you. I don’t remember it, but my father spoke of it a few days ago, so I came, and sure enough, it was still here. Apparently, your mother’s Hand, now working in the kitchens, comes out here and maintains it in memory of your mother.”

  Leonetta walked slowly around the enclosure, running her delicate hands across the flowering pods. She knew she could–using the power of the fae–muster past memories from this room. She longed to know her mother, but the only remnants of her after father banned anything to do with her from the castle out of grief was a small drawn picture her mother’s Hand had given her. She kept it tucked under her pillow at night and in her bustier during the day. The edges were worn, but she could still make out the beautiful smile on her mother’s face.

  She sauntered over to the bench and gingerly sat down, rubbing the soft fabric under her hands. She could almost imagine her mother sitting here, her own body growing inside of her. Leonetta wanted to muster her memory right then, but she looked up at Holland, standing there smiling at her, and an overwhelming feeling of need came over her. She reached out her hand, bringing him next to her on the bench.