XL. Descent into Chaos

Laelianus fidgeted on the cold stone as he tried to stretch his aching limbs. Alden continued to pace and swear in his odd tongue as what seemed like hours ticked by. A woman in black stepped out of thin air as if she had walked through a door, followed by a towering, bulky man in executioner’s garb. Alden spat in disgust and turned his anger to the woman. She calmly dismissed him with an indifferent wave of the hand as she glided over to Laelianus.

“Don’t ignore me Morana!” he spat as she did exactly that.

“Hm.” Morana snorted as she looked down her nose at the king. “So this is the king of Duvachellé. Strange, you don’t bear the Dorso family resemblance. Has that cursed line finally died after so many centuries?”

“I am Eluveitie. The last Dorso male has died, my line shall now reign.” Laelianus replied as officiously as possible given his situation.

“Shall it now?” Morana laughed. “Then I hope the whore carries your heir to term, for you end now my king.”

A man with lavender hair rose up from a puddle of darkness. He grabbed Morana’s arm as her hand glowed violet, wisps of black smoke fell off him from the rapid ascension out of whatever hellish realm he had travelled through. Morana’s hand went limp and the glowing subsided. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear with one hand and snatched the other from his grasp before turning her back to both men. The newcomer cut his golden eyes at Morana briefly before turning his attention to Laelianus.

“Forgive my lack of formality,” his voice was as dry as the winter air and lacking any sincerity. “But I am in a hurry. How do we reach the Tombs of the Kings?”

“You may be informal, but hardly rude.” Laelianus replied coolly. “Who is it that makes these audacious demands?”

“Osric.” He gestured to the woman who stood bristling with hostility and killing intent. “Now, the tombs, my Teacher is quite impatient.”

Laelianus straightened his posture. Here was the fiend Osric, and it seemed he himself was a student.

“The Tomb of King’s is known only to the Duvachellian monarchy.”

“That is why I ask you.” Osric replied, annoyance evident in his tone.

“It must stay in the Duvachellian monarchy. Send your ransom demands to the palace. I’ve nothing more to say to you.”

“Ransom? What use do I have for such trivialities? I have lain waste this entire hemisphere, what I want I take. I do not need ransom.” Osric kneeled down to look the king in the eyes. “I require you to divulge the information I seek, or I shall slaughter each citizen individually. I shall have you hear their lamentations as families are slain and women ravaged by unspeakable demons.” Osric waved his hand over Laelianus’ shackles, freeing him. “And if that does not move your stony heart, then it shall be you I destroy, joint by joint.”

Osric took Laelianus’ hand in his own and channeled a black aura. The mage pushed the King’s index finger with his thumb, breaking it effortlessly. Laelianus yelped in pain and surprise. Osric broke another finger, and quickly smacked The king in the mouth to silence his outcry. Laelianus bit his lip and breathed heavily to stifle any further vocalization. It was not the first time he had broken his fingers, but it appeared that the courtly life had made him soft.

“Nnggnn. Can’t…go…” Laelianus stammered as his fingers throbbed.

Osric dropped his head and sighed. “Alden, have your men surrounded the lake?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Have the citizens of this fine city brought before us.”

“I can’t! You can’t go up the mountain in winter”.Laelianus grunted, his eyes red and watery. “It’s impossible.”

“I care not for seasonal difficulty; my powers surpass nature itself.” Osric’s eyes wandered, as if the conversation were a bore to him.

“No… you jackass! We can’t because it isn’t there!”

Osric contemplated the king as one would a buzzing gnat. “Do you think I’m a fool? Or are you just desperate at this stage?”

“He’s right I’m afraid.” Morana added indifferently. “It’s only there when a king’s soul knocks on death’s door or the beginning of spring.”

“And you choose to tell me this now why?” Osric hissed through clenched teeth.

“Then we kill him and go there.” Alden snapped.

Morana huffed and rolled her eyes. “Idiot, then who will take us?”

“Enough.” Osric ordered. “Who else of the royal family remains Morana?”

“I dunno.” She snorted, picking at her nails.

“None.” Laelianus smirked. “I am the first and I am the last.”

“Do we believe him?” Alden lit up a cigarette as he eyed Laelianus suspiciously.

Morana looked the king over with her piercing stare. “…Yes. He is, unfortunately speaking the truth.”

“How are you so certain?” Osric rose to his feet. “Forget it., bring him with us. We’re leaving.” Osric swirled his cloak, wrapping himself in its folds and vanished in an instant.

“As you wish.” Morana looked down at Laelianus in contempt. “Alden, let’s go.”

Laelianus was enveloped in a cloud of smoke, Morana followed directly after. Alden cursed and leaned against the wall.

“So what was the point?” The gentle snowfall ramped up in intensity as he slowly faded away.

* * *

“Year two thousand three hundred and twelve After Dawn: The Sack of Marquez”

“After two days of searching through old lady winter's fury and scouring mother natures scorned, frozen bosom, it was finally conceded that His Majesty King Laelianus Eluveitie was felled in battle and devoured or captured. General Aichlan of Westfaire dispatched his soldiers to search the surrounding areas and the borders of Alfheim to no avail. Her Highness Princess Aislyn of Dorso donned the mantle of leadership given the kings disappearance on Huntmoon twenty-sixth. The cities militia and kingdom’s army was crippled, though avoided a rout. Those who remained shall spend the next several weeks convalescing under care of The Order of Dawns Cardinal Clarissa La Roux and her convent.

The remainder of Huntmoon has been spent rebuilding and defending against countless raids from the beasts of Dusk. Princess Dorso has commissioned General Aichlan’s army to destroy the demon’s holdouts in the abandoned cities of western Duvachellé. The Winter Balls of Coldsun were cancelled in light of recent tragedies. This did little to remedy the broken people of Marquez, who were previously distant and detached from the world encompassing conflict.

In a bid to heighten Morale, Her Highness Princess Dorso has rescheduled the Balls for the second week of Frostmoon in celebration of General Aichlan’s success in liberating the western half of the nation. The refugees marched in droves through Deadsun’s blizzards and frozen wastes to see if there was anything to be salvaged of their homes.”

* * *

Two scribes wrung their hands anxiously as they kneeled before the princess. Aislyn tightened her fur-trimmed cloak; the winter sun from rows of glass paned double doors encircled her in a majestic light. Despite the cold, the fireplace was unused, instead a porcelain radiator hummed in the corner to prevent soot and smoke from damaging the paper. She knitted her brow as she read over the document for a third time. The scribes sat nervously, stealing glances from one another as they attempted to discern her reaction.

The great clock across the wall chimed, it was now noon. The scribes had been working without rest since five, and this was the seventh draft. They were merely three paragraphs, but they would become immortalized once accepted and committed to the Duvachellé royal history. A servant brought in a tray of coffee as Aislyn sighed and took a seat on the daybed. As with the previous six attempts, this one was similarly lacking.

“…I don’t much care for this one either. It makes me sound too much like some tool. Rewrite it.”

The scribes bowed their heads as Aislyn crumpled the document and discarded it.

“Your highness, I know not what you want of us, this document is to be a truthful account of events as has been done since the days of Renata the Chaste some two dozen centuries ago.”

“Are you implying I ask you to lie monk?” Aislyn hissed as she glared at the cowering man.

“No your highness, but I am limited by the constraints of truth in this matter…”

Aislyn stared down at the increasingly nervous monks for several moments, abruptly rising to pace before the doors. “I don’t ask you to exceed your limitations, only that you make my character sound more flattering and befitting of the role I have taken.” She turned to face them again. “It would not be lying. And you two would like to continue living then I suggest you get to work.”

“Pardons your highness,” the second man called as Aislyn made to leave the room. “But we have yet to take bread; may we pause for a midday meal?”

Aislyn stood in the doorway, outside two guards stood sentinel. “…Did you offer my father the same courtesy? Or did you force his will and leave him to starve in hopes of a hastened death?”

The monks sat in stunned horror as she left, leaving them with the echoing sounds of a door slam and the heavy clunk of locks turning over. Aislyn flicked her hair as she put on a smile, halting upon coming face to face with Siegrun. Her faux smile abruptly faded upon catching the woman’s permanent look of indifference. Without a word Aislyn pushed passed and hurriedly strode down the hall. Unperturbed, Siegrun followed closely beside her.

“I must again question your logic in this matter your Highness.” Siegrun said dryly, breaking the silence.

“And I must again question your presence. You were the usurpers aid, not my own. You may return to whatever remains of your nation at whim.” Aislyn replied in a syrupy voice laced with venom.

Siegrun exhaled, though showed no more signs of annoyance. “General Aichlan has returned from Ophelia.”

“And the refugees?”

“All were escorted safely to their homes.” Siegrun paused, wishing to say more, but ultimately deciding against it. “He is currently preparing for an audience with your highness.”

“Have him brought to breakfast nook in the greenhouse veranda; we can discuss matters over brunch.” Aislyn dismissed Siegrun with a wave of her hand.

“I notice you have withdrawn the search for Laelianus.” Siegrun continued.

“That is all Siegrun, you may leave me now.” Aislyn turned a frigid gaze to the loan officer for emphasis.

“He is in Sorn. If you do nothing--”

Aislyn stopped to face the woman and attempted to discern the reason for her insistence on this matter, Siegrun, as usual, offered nothing with her placid expression. “He acquired the throne by such underhanded and dastardly tricks, it is only fitting he lose it in the same manner. We are at war and he hindered efforts to end it at every turn. We will right his wrongs and then, maybe, I shall seek him out. Until then, you are my advisor, or you are my enemy. Which will you have Lady Siegrun?”

Siegrun met Aislyn’s gaze, silently matching her for several moments, eventually offering concession in the form of a deferential nod. “I shall inform General Aichlan of your decision.”

“Excellent choice.” Aislyn smiled, and turned crisply to continue down the corridor.