The Wielder of Death Magic

“Why we are here?” Nicola commented through his gritted teeth, “-the audacity...” his chin lifted to a complete halt by the suddenly present head-maid. News of the guest’s arrival had her materialize beside the throne.

“Don’t you dare!” echoed a timid-looking Midne, her voice had an impact, equal if not rivaling the kings. The latter curved his frown slightly, delighted at her strength, and threw his regard at the trio, “-raise thy heads.”

“Allow me, majesty,” inferred the butler, “-my name’s Theon Rodster, last heir of the Rodster family, an impoverished noble working as direct aid to the Goldberg Dynasty. His greatness, I must implore for the return of lord Nicola Vonhem’s son and wife. Queen Eia and prince Raiden are important to us and the people.”

A hand rose, signifying for the plea to halt, “-Theon Rodster, I’m glad to see a well-mannered gentleman in this oaf’s entourage. Let me explain thy situation in layman’s terms. Nicola Vonhem, you eloped with my wife, bore a child, and laid claim on my throne. Infidelity is a crime punishable by death, so says the archaic laws we follow, topped only by terrorism and blasphemy. The world, technology, and advancement in research haven’t smartened the populous, nay, only a fraction grows smart, and the other grows dull and inattentive. Making a stable living from adventuring is second nature, everyone knows how to fight. Thus, there’s no reason for people to get wiser, and I don’t mind if they remain bound by tradition. The minute amount pursuing the ways of knowledge suffice for the kingdom,” he stopped, gathered his breath, and checked the envoys, “-what I mean to say is simple; they don’t care.”

Nicola’s anger capped; the regard turned red – fist curled. Opposite, Theon Rodster, kept his calm and listened, “-majesty, please elaborate?”

“Sure, however, the explanation is already there,” an empty side-glance foretold of Midne’s next order. She quietly exited the room. Massive doors thumped behind, “-how’s the audience?” inquired curious guards.

.....

“About to get heated,” said she lifting her dress and scurrying towards the castle innards. Attending retainers noticed the erratic pace, “-lady Midne, need help?” they asked, she shook her head and carried, eventually passing the outer walkway where the sun’s ray pushed loud shadows of marble pillows onto the tiled floor. The shadows felt like a ladder had been dropped symmetrically. ‘-Master needs this,’ doors to the lounge opened, she scanned and landed on a feisty lass, “-general Minerva.”

“Midne,” she rose from her slump, “-what’s the matter?”

“I need help,” she said, “-please send a man to the dungeon.”

“Could have used the phone,” she yawned, “-understood, I’ll send a few men.” A quick and firm exchange, general Minerva had a habit of asking questions – not then, by way Midne arrived and sought for men – resolve sufficed.

The stench of rot, repugnant and unbreathable covered the dungeon. A think mist of the devil’s fumes – the scent of death and blood, circled nooks and crannies. A party carefully watched their steps. Muddied and damp, one wrong move and it wasn’t rare for carelessness to lead to an untimely death against the rough-edged tunnel walls.

*Wahhh, WAHHHHH,* screamed, chills stabbed them to a stop, “-she’s at it again,” echoed a prisoner.

“There wails the screaming lady,” commented another, “-guards, when’s the next meal, I’m getting hungry living off rats.”

“Last meal ain’t coming,” echoed a common accent, “-king’s orders, you’ll die without food.”

“Damn...”

‘Banter?’ narrowed Minerva, ‘-no,’ replied a shortly-lived mystery. Prisoners were shackled to tables, others nailed and many maimed beside opened guts of unlucky survivors. Below the idyllic castle laid an epitome of hell on earth. ‘Hardened criminals,’ she blinked, ‘-they speak to save what little sanity remains. I don’t think it’ll help.’ Louds taps arrived at the shrieks, “-Eia, stand up,” said Midne.

At the throne room – the silence eventually landed on the foreigner, “-who is that?” inquired a cold Alta.

“My name’s Po,” he replied, “-I’m from the northeast, a child born to the snowy landscape of Konak’s peaks.”

“Well, Po, why are you here?”

Perpetually squinted eyes lifted and paid heed, “-to pay honors to King Igna.”

“Are you not here to plea for selfish gains?”

“No,” he smiled.

“He’s a spy,” shrugged Igna, ‘-man,’ he scanned the interface, ‘-ever since the project activated, our intel exchange’s grown to the point of unfairness. Won’t make of mistake of complacency ever again, I will use all I have to go against the world, I’ll use everything at my disposal.’

“Majesty?” whispered Alta, “-the man’s rather stumped.”

“Oh,” the line of thought cut, “-my apologies, I should explain how, yes?” his squint turned a single line – the man frowned with his eyelids. “Po birthed from Konak – snowy speaks. I know well of who leads said continent – Snow, subordinate of Cimier, well, Snow’s an independent faction working under the Emperor. How should I put it,” a brief pause, “-got it, the emperor’s poisoned dagger. Getting things done in times of war requires tact – who’s more tactful than the underworld. Circumventing trade ban using less than amicable channels. Tis the way the world works,” he horned onto Po, “-and you, envoy, are here to test waters for a potential trading channel. I heard GateSix’s focus has changed per the decree of the emperor. They no longer make weapons, budget’s overloaded since Alphia came in the fold, hasn’t it?”

‘My heart,’ gasped Po, ‘-it’s being torn to piece, I can’t think, the king’s aura, he’s strong and saw right through my fa?ade. What should I do?’

“Well, don’t do anything for now.”

A simple reply had the man in complete fear, “-majesty...” before the game carried, doors opened anew, Nicola’s shrouded gaze turned to a prisoner. The stench of excrement, urine, vomit, and rot followed the deeply painful scraping of chains. Guards held her by the neck, treated her worse than a dog, a kick threw her before the king – disheveled hair, scratched marks running across her visage, a broken forearm left to fester. Her blue pupils read emptily, Nicola subconsciously stretched his arms, “-Eia...”

“Hold on,” affirmed Midne gripping her chains, “-eldest son of Marquess Hanet Hart, I wouldn’t touch her if I were you. Lass is plague-ridden; her mind’s not exactly present. I mean, for a traitor, our king’s mercy allowed her life.”

“Here,” arrived a body bag, “-your son,” guards mercilessly flung the decomposing body of Raiden beside Eia, she screamed and fought, tore herself new wounds, and latched onto the body bag, an animalistic possessiveness gripped her mind, Midne allowed slack in the constraints, allowing the prisoner to lay over the body.

“Now then,” Igna crossed his legs and leaned into the throne with one elbow over a golden armrest, “-Nicola Vonhem Hart, Theon Rodster, and Po. Shall we proceed?”

Forced to act, Theon took the stage, “-majesty, to respect thy straightforward approach, may I speak freely?” the king nodded, and Theon inhaled, “-we were sent to negotiate on behalf of the remaining nobles. They’re wary of what is to become of Dorchester. The land has been split and the Empire’s no longer supporting the rebellion. Riaz one day walked into castle Garsley, demanded an audience, captured the queen and prince, and left. We were under orders to protect the border and only arrived late to the end. We know it’s over; the crest of rebellion has lost its shine – many of the townsfolk have deserted east and west, braver ones making north to recently occupied Dorchester. Duchess Goldberg, Marchioness Hanet Hart, Marquess Aymer Ragenald, Count Alane Ernold, Count Charle Geurin, Viscount Hewelet Rawlin, Viscount Olian, Baron Joceus Moses, and a handful more have asked for mercy. They wish to return and serve his majesty.”

‘Those names,’ a fragment returned, ‘-they’re nobles who ruled Dorchester long ago, back when I was Staxius, are they not dead?’

“The nobles mentioned,” interjected Alta, “-most of them have died, leaving their crest to heirs who were killed or imprisoned. Most of the noble crests owned by the Dorchestrian council are destroyed or missing. Tell me, Theon, why bring back the dead?”

“Majesty,” he rose a straight face, “-I was asked to speak of those names by the ruler of Dorchester.”

“I’m intrigued,” Igna smiled in anticipation, “-tell me, Theon, who are you truly?”

“I see,” he lowered his head, “-his majesty has figured out the truth. How it feels to be alive again, my apologies, I should have been upfront. War between Dorchester and Kreston, how those days were full of glory and resolve. I miss the old days, especially with the Silver Guardians, princess Gallienne and the Riverty royal family. Never expected the Haggard name to garner such an astounding history, I’m impressed,” a white glow engulfed the man, “-was I missed?” he grew in stature, the complexion eased, the face shrunk into a charming sculpture of what was considered beautiful in the olden days, “-my name’s Theon Rodster – or so is my current identity. You’d remember me as Duke of Dorchester, Sten Parcyvell.”

“Sten Parcyvell?”

“Yes,” he smiled, “-the sadist leader of Dorchester, the cruel dictator. Such is my legacy left to the world, what about you, reincarnation of Staxius Haggard, doth thee not remember?”

“Reincarnation?” sparked chatter.

‘With enough power and knowledge, people of the olden days can be returned to the present. It’s not a great idea – however, it’s possible. Sten Parcyvell caused a lot of problems in the past, his personality and the way he treated his people. I can’t exactly kill him, he’s a puppet – real leader lives on high,’ he glared at the heavens, ‘-those bastards wish to intervene in worldly matters.’

“Theon Rodster; the current show of strength has told me quite a bit. You’re the current ruler of Dorchester, nobles wish for safe passage, yes?”

“Yes.”

“What about you?”

“I want to pledge allegiance to the Hidrosian crown. Looking at Eia,” he smiled sadistically, “-I see the king’s ruthlessness knows no bound.”

“Understood, I’ll consider the offer on one condition. Take news to Dorchester, the land will split into three regions, north, east, and west. North will be controlled by the Empire, East goes to Arda and West to Kreston, basically becoming tributary states for the independent provinces.”

“What about me?”

“Well, Theon Rodster, once the job is accomplished, how about joining us as Dungeon master, head torturer.”

“Head torturer?” he gulped, “-are you sure?”

“Yes,” returned an honest nod, ‘-I thought I’d sent him to Dorchester and have him killed by an uprising of peasants, or be killed here in an unfortunate accident. He was reincarnated, perhaps the gods had no play in the matter, or perhaps they did – until I learn more, best to keep the sadistic Sten close. Who knows, life as Theon Rodster might have changed him.’

“My lord Haggard,” amplified Theon, “-might I ask one favor?”

“What is it?”

“Is it possible for me to enter a slave pact with his majesty?”

“A pact?” he cackled, “-Theon Rodster,” the aura suddenly shifted, a darker presence rose from behind the throne, two shadows stood beside the king, “-doth thee wish to make a deal?”

“Yeah,” he said, “-I’d like to sell my soul, I don’t want to die, I don’t want to go back to hell, I want to disappear, I want eternal solitude – grant me salvation from my past, grant me, an undeserving man, a moments rest.”

“As you wish,” *snap,* “-Theon Rodster,” time stopped, a blurry tunnel stretched to encompass Igna and the butler, “-thy wish has been heard.”