Coil of Worlds

Each man took their time memorizing the strategy laid out on the table before bowing. Turning to Colm, he said, “Write a missive with our response. You can take it to the wall in the morning. No reason for us to seem too eager.”

Lukar clapped his hands twice, signaling that the captives be brought in. He moved to the other side of the room where servants had already readied the restraints. The hostages struggled against their bonds, hate spewing from their eyes. Lukar’s lips curved into a shadow of a smile. Semnac would appreciate their offering this night. It promised a favorable outcome for the coming night’s assault. Turning around, he invited his war council forward, though some of his commanders took their leave, returning to their own tents to issue orders to their troops.

Curses suffused the space as each man’s gag was removed. Lukar turned in time to receive a face full of spittle.

Silence descended as everyone waited for his response.

Lifting his sleeve to wipe the saliva from his cheek, Lukar pointed to the fool. “This one is mine.”

The Pyranni would beg for his death long before he received it. Semnac’s pleasure shot through his bones, leaving him quivering with excitement. It had been a long time since any meal showed real courage, daring to fight against his inevitable demise. Lukar hoped the man held in his screams for a little while at least.

The other captives were quickly divided amongst his councilors. Lukar sat back and watched, leaving his own meal for last, needing the man’s fear. The meat tasted better when fear laced the blood. The scent of warm iron filled the tent and had him salivating and his stomach howling. He swallowed several times before his own dinner cravings pushed him over the edge. He prowled over to the man struggling against his bonds.

Lukar had been right. Because he was careful not to hit any major arteries, his meal was stoic until he reached the bones. When his prey did finally scream, it was music to his ears.

The next night his army stood sentinel to the meeting between the two kings. They awaited his signal with bated breath. No one shuffled their feet or shifted their weapons. It was quiet. The snap of the flags in the wind was the only sound Lukar could hear.

He stood, waiting, impatient for the other king to exit the main gate. He muttered a curse. For all their planning, no one had given any thought to the possibility the king might be late to his own assassination.

A horn blew a second before the gate clanked open to allow King Ragnar and his council out of the city. They were twenty strong. If they were any other foe, Lukar and his three men would never stand a chance, but Semnac’s power pumped in his veins. His speed was without equal. They thundered closer, and dust twirled behind them.

The king was easy to pinpoint. The man’s extravagant armor was too bright and too frivolous, providing the man with little protection. Surprisingly, Ragnar was a powerful man. Lukar had pictured a man who had let himself go, whose girth would outstrip the man’s ability to fight. Before Ragnar dismounted, they stared at each other, each taking the other’s measure.

Lukar stepped back, entering the ceremonial tent without a backward glance. His three commanders stood behind him, their hands on the hilt of their swords. Ragnar had his men enter first, spreading out in the room, surrounding Lukar and his men. Lukar’s expression never portrayed his sense of triumph. How easy they were making it for them.

When the king strode inside, Lukar nodded his head in a semblance of a bow. They stood on opposite sides of the small, rectangular table, eyeing each other with disdain. At last, the Pyranni king graced him with a smug smile. Ragnar held out his hand for the treaty, which one of his men rushed forward to give him.

Ragnar broke the silence, “We could have saved our men the trouble if you would have come forward sooner.”

Lukar shook his head, slicing his hand in the air. “You never would have believed me.”

Ragnar studied him a moment, malevolence sparking in his eyes before it was hidden once again. “You’re right. I would have perceived it a trick. You reduced Valorri, a once prosperous city, to rubble.”

He bowed stiffly to the man, though he fought against Semnac’s wishes to do so. He whispered for his goddess’s patience. “My apologies for overthrowing your city. Let us sign our alliance to one another. I’ve set my eyes on Kureto. Whispers of your war with the Kurites has reached my land. After so many years, I am surprised at your inability to conquer the Kurites.”

His comment evoked a scowl from Ragnar, and the Pyranni men reached for their blades. None of Lukar’s men moved a muscle, though they did eye the others.

Both kings stared at the other until Ragnar snorted. Avarice glittered in his gaze, hinting at the madness Lukar suspected had existed all along within the other king.

Ragnar said, “You’ll find it not so easy to conquer Kureto. They delve into the dark arts. Its power is not easily understood by those who worship the God and Goddess.”

“Surely they have weaknesses.”

Ragnar snorted again. “Of course they have weaknesses. Although they can see in the dark as if the light shines, they can’t handle the sun. Their sensitivity to light makes it extremely painful for them to walk in the sunlight. Once above ground, they are easy to overpower.”

The information the King of Pyran imparted was new. The level of difficulty they’d had in learning anything of importance about the Kurites was surprising, for they were a secretive race, choosing to hide in their holes. He’d sent scouts along the coast of Kureto, hoping any information gleaned would provide them with a means of conquering the land.

“I have heard rumors about their ability to use magic.” Lukar left the statement hanging. The other man did not disappoint.

“The golden-eyed demons control the magic. We’ve yet to determine the exact type of power they hold, but the pakas are controlled by it.”

Pakas. It took him a moment to place the name. The felines. The Pyranni king spoke of the large, intelligent beasts. He heard one of his men shift his weight behind him, and Lukar realized it was time to end this pretense. There were many behind Gharra’s walls who could provide him information about the Kurites.

Ensuring he kept the motion casual, he lowered his hand to his sword hilt, signaling the three behind him of his imminent attack. Knowing they’d protect his back, Lukar drew his sword and struck the other king’s guard so fast, his sheath and sword were still ringing when the man died.

Without pausing, using the Pyrannis’ surprise as leverage, he made quick work of eight of the men. In his wake, blood splashed the inside of the tent, the ceiling, the floor. Each time a Pyranni started to cry out a warning, he was silenced with a knife in the throat. Lukar killed the last man between the king and him with a clean thrust to the chest, sending the man flying across the floor, landing against one of the tent poles.

The king drew his sword; his eyes wide at the speed in which Lukar had dispatched his men. Despite the grunts and cries behind him, Lukar ignored them, gliding forward to kill the king. Ragnar’s face was mottled with rage.

“Traitor,” he spat. “The God and Goddess damn you for your subterfuge.”

“Ah, but my goddess is not yours,” Lukar said with a smirk, bowing to the man before him, mocking him. “We follow a different set of rules. Semnac’s rules.”

The man was good. A master swordsman. But Lukar, flooded with Semnac’s presence, felt as if he fought a novice swordsman. Ragnar’s sword moved as if in slow motion, and Lukar countered, striking back with relative ease. Silence fell except for their two blades, and Lukar knew the others were dead at his men’s hands. He blocked the king’s sword with half his mind occupied, already turning to the rest of the night’s activities.

Lukar thought for a moment to use the king to enter the gate without hindrance. Gharra’s defenders would do anything to protect their king. He mentally shrugged. It was against the Malirran code to leave any adversary alive. Lukar knew without a doubt that Semnac would object, and her disapproval was not something he wanted to ever face.

Suddenly tired of the fight, Lukar slid forward, and with the strength born from drinking blood, he cleaved the king’s head from his body. He watched with interest as it fell to the ground, rolling to a stop beneath the table.

He shared a smile with his men, checking them over for injuries. Although they all had wounds, Lukar judged them minor. He strode forward, lifting the fallen king’s head above his. As a short, celebratory toast, he opened his mouth wide, allowing the blood to drip down and hit his tongue.

He savored the sustenance of a king, rolling it around his mouth before swallowing. Closing his eyes against the blood dripping on his forehead, cheeks, and chin, he sent a prayer to Semnac. Lukar paid no attention to the blood saturating his face, uncaring that it made him look as if he had bathed in the king’s blood. His three war advisors were already throwing the bodies of their foes on top of each other as a shield.

Carrying the head by its hair, Lukar strode toward the back flap. Throwing it open, he lifted the king’s head so his army could get their fill. Their answering war cry, “Malirra!” led the surge forward. The horns blew, and the ground trembled with the number of feet running across the field. He looked on with pride as his army swept over the land. Once his men understood the strategy he’d implemented, their heads had come up and their shoulders were thrown back with pride once more.

“My King,” one of his men called to him as an arrow split the tent and landed on the table. It reminded him he wasn’t completely impervious to death. Using the bodies as a barricade, they waited for his troops to thunder past.

His army’s exuberance clashed against the city’s walls, and time stood still. Lukar strode outside, satisfied with their success so far. King Ragnar and his council was dead. His ships assaulted the castle. Perhaps they controlled the castle and the curtain even now. Unprepared for their attack, the gates and its defenders wouldn’t withstand the full-out assault for long.

A loud crack resounded through the night, and Lukar turned his attention to the western gate. Malirrans poured through the opening, vanishing from sight with more men taking their place behind them. Exultant with their progress, Lukar released a wicked laugh, shocking himself with the carefree sound. Soon, the Pyranni defenders began splitting their attention between the Malirrans running rampant within its walls and the battle still raging outside the gate. His archers sent missile after flaming missile into the city, creating chaos within.

Seeing flashes of silver and black, he called out to the archers to hold their positions. The ladders met no resistance from above, and the men scampered unimpeded up the wall. More and more men landed above, shoving Pyranni defenders over the battlements to the ground below. Those that didn’t immediately die from the fall were run through by the Malirrans waiting to scale the ladders. Screams filled the air, but the grinding of metal against metal overpowered everything else.

Kicking his koti forward, he yelled, “Charge!”

The troops waiting for his command flowed forward, desperate to keep pace with their king. When Lukar entered the main gate, calamity ruled. His animal pushed through, using its wide chest to drive through the press of bodies. He lost count of the number of Pyranni warriors he killed. Searching for one of his commanders, he caught sight of the man’s armor. Lukar shoved his way forward until he was close enough to be heard.

“Strike toward the east gate,” he yelled.

The answering command reached the surrounding men, and they pummeled their way to the right, fighting to reach the easternmost gate. When he next looked down, Lukar was bemused by the fact his guards circled him once more. Twisting around in time for his arm to take the brunt of an arrow, he roared in fury. Before he could locate the man who dared to attack him, one of his guards took the man out with a throwing knife.

Taking a moment to study his surroundings, Lukar saw a crowd of villagers in the distance running toward the supposed safety of the castle. Did his men control the curtain wall? The sounds of fighting were so loud, he almost missed the fall of the east gate to his forces outside the city.

Time melded together, and the number of dead was the only marker for the passage of time. Lukar struck the enemy as often as his guards did as they steadily worked inward. His army followed, cleaning up behind them, street by street, building by building. He didn’t bother killing the villagers unless they carried a weapon. It was not his intent, or his army’s.

Sunlight streaked through the sky as dawn arrived. At last, his men had reached the innermost sanctum of the city. Standing proud along the curtain wall, Malirrans decked out in black and silver threw spears and shot arrows down into the Pyranni troops below.

He saw when Pyran’s warriors comprehended the depth of their defeat. One by one, under the watchful gaze of his men, Pyranni warriors threw down their weapons and knelt on the cobblestone road in surrender. Around them, women cried out in fear, and young children clutched anyone close enough to hide behind.

Lukar scanned the road before him, keeping the animal at a steady pace until he stood before the wall. He raised his sword and yelled, “Malirra!”

The chant echoed throughout the city. Then every man in his army, for as far as he could see, bowed in his direction. Once they rose from their knees, Lukar rode with stately composure through the castle gate to a new chant.

“Lukar the Bloody!”