Lorch
Lorch crumpled the parchment in his fist, his knuckles turning white as he leaned against the desk of dark mahogany wood in his private study. A puddle of discord swirled in his stomach as he replayed the letter’s message over and over in his head.
Soon after he had returned from the stables, a messenger had arrived with the note, and after a quick interrogation, he gleaned that no one else had seen its arrival.
The more he thought about it… about her, the more his insides rebelled. His heart – the traitorous thing – wanted to savour the note, keep it close, keep it intact. But Lorch’s mind was stronger, it seemed, and with a cry he hurtled the ball into the nearby hearth, the parchment becoming food for the flames dancing there.
It was all an act, it had all been but an act. He knew this to be true despite what she had written on paper.
Lorch clenched his teeth as tears of frustration pricked at his eyes. He would not let them fall though. No, the iron barrier he had erected around himself would not allow leaks to form.
His mind brought forth images unbidden, despite the fight to keep them away. He remembered her smile, which seemed to reveal itself to him alone, severing her own carefully composed defences. He remembered her touch; sure and strong, as she took her pleasure from him under the shimmering chandelier in his royal chambers. Her eyes held him captive within their violet depths, keeping him pinned like a mouse under the claw of a cat.
It was only after he had learned she was a Fury that all these traits made sense. She had been created to entice, moulded to slide under your skin like a sharp blade.
And that was exactly what Ariiaya Trillia had done. She had slid beneath his skin so deep that remnants of her scent still played at the edges of his memory.
His father had said shortly after his return from visiting The Fates that Ariiaya had been sent to kill him. Him. But she had not done so.
Why?
Initially Lorch thought perhaps she had felt the same way about him. But after thinking on it – obsessing over it – he could not get past the pleading he had seen in her eyes as she faced him in the throne room. Her hands had lifted, and he knew that she had been seconds from pulling a weapon to defend Elijah.
A weapon against him.
He had been so stupid. And with that knowledge, he had vowed to take the hurt and fashion it into his own weapon. He had never before thirsted for revenge, but neither had he felt heart-crushing pain like this.
A weapon that his father provided in the form of an iron-gilded, magical gem in a necklace.
“Sorry to interrupt, Your Majesty – but your father requests your presence in the meeting chamber. He said your council is ready.”
The gentle, feminine voice nabbed his attention. A woman stood in the doorway, her chin tilted up. Her hair was swept back into a braid, but he could tell that the brown tresses were thick and only just wrangled into submission. There was a softness to her face, yet a keenness to her evergreen eyes that paused his words as they rose. Her simple moss-green apothecary’s robes featured a leather pouch at her hip, accentuating the curves of her body. She was beautiful, and he had not seen her around the castle before.
His hurting heart gave a little lurch.
Until he spied the pointed tips of her ears, causing his eyes to narrow in suspicion.
Normally a soldier would bring summons from his council, not an apothecary.
“Who are you?” he asked bluntly.
Those keen green eyes blinked once, a tiny shift in her feet the only tell of her discomfort, “Celadine Clover, Your Highness.”
“My father trusts messages to healers now, does he – Celadine?”
“He requested I bring you a tincture for your headache and thought it prudent for me to bring you the message too.” A pause, before she tacked on, “Your Highness.”
It was like his father to be thrifty, he supposed.
“Ah, of course.” He stepped forward, taking the little vial from her outstretched fingers. He turned it over in his palm, not moving to consume it.
When silence pulled between them, the healer was first to speak. “The council, Your Highness.”
Ah, his council. A bunch of miserable, crusty old fools. He had never cared for their company but his father insisted on gaining their cooperation to construct their defence against whatever the other courts may do when they ultimately chose to stand with Eliverus. It was inevitable, his father said.
“Thank you, Miss Clover. For the tincture and the message.”
With a small nod and a curtsy, the apothecary fled the room.
Lorch sighed, swiping his crown from its perch on a red velvet pillow nearby, replacing it with the vial. Nestling it upon his head, he stopped by a nearby mirror. The terrible visage looking back at him forced him to hesitate. Sunken cheekbones cradled large bruises beneath his eyes like black voids, copper hair pushed back into a semblance of the flawless wave he was famed for. His lips were chapped with dry crevasses that could rival those in the Dragon Teeth mountains. His brows narrowed in hatred of what he saw.
“You were a fool for letting them go,” he said aloud, a slightly deranged laugh escaping as he thought about the faces of his mother, sister and former commander. A weak moment where he had allowed his heart to call the shots. No, he would not do so again.
He watched the lips of his reflection hitch up, his voice dull. “It was for a purpose, was it not?”
Yes, yes, it was a calculated move. They would find Ariiaya and tell her that there was still a goodness in him worth saving.
They would return for him.
And then he would crush them all.
Another laugh escaped him, and it sounded crazy to his own ears. Perhaps he was becoming just like those calculating, crazy old fools on his council. Misery had become venom in his veins, and misery loves company, they say.
His face held a wide smile now, chapped lips tearing to bleed. He dabbed the tip of his tongue at the wounds as he moved alone through the golden hallways to his council chambers. Only a few of the wall sconces were lit, leaving the hall frightfully dark, but he found he liked it better this way.
As he took his place beside his chair at the circular table made of deep mahogany and topped with a large covering of pure gold, his eyes roved the men of the council. Those men stood now, each one bent at the waist in respectful bows. Council meetings were just a back and forth affair of trading suggestions on how they could better fill the royal coffers. Most of the time he would just let his father handle it, enabling himself the time to sit and daydream.
Not this time though. This would not be like their normal meetings.
He nodded to his father, who stood tapping his foot to one side.
“Thank you for gathering here tonight. Not much notice was provided, and I know this is not our usual time of day for discussion but as you all know, these are not usual times.” Lorch stood, placing his hands on the cool wood.
Each of the five older men nodded and took their seats, all plastering looks on their faces that they hoped hid the fact that they would much rather be in their warm beds. Lorch knew that the weather had become unusual of late. Where they normally sweated through hot, sunny days and balmy nights, now things seemed to be growing colder. Much, much colder.
He had also noticed a strange, black matter gathering on the outside of his castle. The stuff pebbled on leaves and petals in his usually immaculate gardens. To the touch it was as hard and cold as black ice. Some had even begun to gather on the banks of his secluded pool, and on the leaves of his favourite willow tree.
He had heard whispers from his servants – when they didn’t think he was listening – that it reflected their king’s bitter, broken heart. Some said it was a sign from the gods that their land was teetering on the edge of total ruin.
With this and the sickness that reports told him were running rife through the towns of his court, Lorch was coming to think they might be right. The gods were angry, and he had a sneaking suspicion he knew why. He used to pray to them – to the gods and goddesses of darkness and light – but it had been a long time since he had knelt on his knees in the castle prayer room, for his belief had become an afterthought long ago.
He owed the gods nothing.
“Of course, Your Highness, we are at your every beck and call,” the man closest to him said, a plump man with two chins and a rather large nose. His hair was receding, the line above his brows moving further and further towards his scalp with every meeting. He had been on the council for decades, his word heavily influencing the other men around their table. What hair he had left was surprisingly voluminous, and sandy blonde in colour.
The same colour as his fair, plain daughter.
She had been as meek as a whipped foal, and as uninteresting as the sole of his shoes… yet he had still bedded her, back when he enjoyed the simple pleasures that a plain noble woman could bring. It was like accepting a glass of cheap wine just for the sensation of getting drunk.
Until he had her, and everything changed.
Arii.
Now… now he craved the rich, more luxurious wine, and would settle for nothing less.
He had not been with anyone since. He couldn’t be with anyone again. Not until his soul quenched its thirst for vengeance.
Lorch sat as his father began to speak, fixing his attention on the scar that was stark against Valdis’ rugged face in the firelight. He used that feature as an anchor, pulling himself from the thoughts of Ariiaya’s skin, her heady scent, her moans of pleasure…
“You all know of the returning blight of the Fae with the emergence of the supposed lost heir, Eliverus Herington. By now you would have also seen the forces we have been amassing on these very grounds. For the longest time we have lived in relative harmony with the south, east and west – but we strongly believe that a time of calamity will soon be upon us. The Fates have foretold of chaos on the horizon. You all saw the destruction that the Herington Prince reaped upon our own throne room. He cannot be allowed to become a reason for the other courts to band together and usurp our throne. Our monarchy has challenged the fibres of this society, but we are strong, its people are strong, and because of us, they did not need to fear the Fae.”
Valdis paused, sweeping his gaze over the councilmen, before adding in a severe hiss, “But that could all change if we do not have your unwavering support.”
“You have always had our support,” piped up the man furthest adjacent to the King’s hand, his grey hair parted in the middle, bushy eyebrows drawn, “but there have been rumours afoot that the King’s army has been amassed using…” he swallowed, almost choking on the word, “magic!”
Murmurs erupted about the table, fingers fidgeting and voices mingling. Lorch couldn’t help but let his eyes skip to his father as he laced his fingers together and leaned forward, drawing his lips to his fingertips. Many different scenarios had played through his mind prior to tonight, quiet contemplations on how the council would react to his father’s unorthodox – no, sacrilegious was a better word – method to amassing their army and gaining the power they now had.
Lorch did suggest not telling the men, but his father begrudgingly insisted they needed funds to bring in more people to create more soldiers, as many of those who worked in Bonemire had been struck down with the sickness that was gripping the land. That too, his father blamed on the discovery of the Fae heir and the imbalance his existence created for Fythnar. They also needed to weaponize the soldiers, armour them in hopes it would prolong the carnage they could cause – even though the things were already dead. Weapons and armour cost gold, and even Lorch knew that their coffers were not overflowing as they once were.
Gold won wars, too.
The importance of this meeting was not lost on him, so he kept his mouth firmly shut and his face expectant as his father did the talking, like every other time they gathered here. His father’s tone, his face, hell, everything about him demanded attention – demanded obedience, and fear. Sometimes, Lorch found himself wondering what things would be like if his father sat upon the throne, and not himself. He had to admit, things would probably not be so different, for he always relied on his father’s counsel above all else.
“Those rumours are true,” said Valdis coldly, pausing as voices rose, “But sometimes it is necessary, for the sake of survival, to fight fire with fire. We need gold in order to keep creating soldiers, enough that whatever is thrown at us will be like waves breaking against shores of iron.”
The youngest of the five councilmen shifted in his seat and said, “Even with our support and gold, we do not have enough to feed an army the size of which you have already amassed, let alone a larger one.”
As if Valdis had been expecting this observation, he motioned to the door, and two soldiers entered. A third man hobbled in tow, the clink of iron chains proceeding his movements. They did not need to be magically inclined to feel the shift in the air, the strangeness that followed his entry. He did not walk nor sound like the others. Lorch kept his head still but watched and waited for what was to unfold.
He wanted to see the councilmen’s reactions, but mostly it was because the presence of an undead soldier still knotted his stomach.
The afflicted man was dressed in a red guard uniform, just like the men accompanying him, but his was spattered with blood, which had been hastily wiped. His head tilted as if too heavy to carry, skin far too pale, his eyes glazed.
Two of the five councilmen flew to their feet, one being the man who had spoken first. “What… what is that?”
As the words left the man’s lips, the undead soldier’s head snapped his way, as quick as a striking asp. His hands flew out, moving to attack. Before cracked, pale fingers could tear and claw, the soldiers yanked the undead man back. His teeth snapped together like a tethered dog, rabid and unhinged as a high-pitched shriek tore from his peeled back lips. The councilman mirrored the sound with his own, but suddenly the soldier stopped, then stepped back, arms falling limp at his sides.
His eyes, though, remained wide and unblinking, fixated on the councilman who had fallen back on his seat with heaving gasps of terror.
Lorch swallowed audibly.
“To answer your earlier question,” Valdis subtly tucked the amulet back into the neck of his tunic, where Lorch knew it remained always. His father never removed it, even to bathe. “These men… they do not eat, they do not need to bathe, they do not need to relieve themselves. They are the perfect soldiers, swift, fearless, relentless. And they all answer to me.”
All five councilmen were staring now, all with open looks of pure shock and horror. Valdis had not let them see the amulet. He believed the less people who knew of its existence, the better. They could not allow the key to their army to fall into someone else’s hands.
Even Lorch’s hands, it seemed. Never did he let Lorch hold it, not even for a moment.
“This is madness!” began one man as he slammed a hand against the table, then winced and checked that the undead soldier was not going to react. When he was met with a slightly swaying, blank faced stare, he gathered the courage to continue and turned to Lorch. “Your Highness, you condone this… necromancy?”
Lorch spoke around his linked fingers. “I do, Councilman Jerico.”
“And what will we do with them when the war is done?”
Valdis moved closer to Jerico, his look all predator in its grace. He had hardly made a sound as the man voiced his grievances, to which the other councilmen nodded in agreeance.
“When it is all done, we will have plenty more land to spread to. With your help, I have plans to erect more facilities like Bonemire, where we can house our armies until they are needed again,” answered Lorch.
“More land to spread to?”
Lorch suppressed an outward wince. Hells, he had not meant to say that. Perhaps it was best to let his father answer the questions. But what was done was done, and so he waved a hand in a look of nonchalance as he answered, “War, which is inevitably coming, will no doubt cause weakened borders. I have the land’s best interests in mind when I say that I will not hesitate to join our courts with the others in a matrimony of peace and prosperity. It is time for order to be seized, and for the land to be ruled under one monarchy.”
He had discussed this with his father a few nights ago – the prospect of a land united under one rule. Lorch had listened eagerly as Valdis explained his grand plan, and found himself agreeing. If the entire land was under one rule, then everyone would have access to all the resources they needed. No court borders, no withholding of trades. Not to mention town taxes all coming into one large coffer.
Lorch had to admit, it was a brilliant plan. It would be a bloody, harsh battle, and order was sure to be difficult to maintain, but with the magic his father wielded, and the possibility of further discoveries, he could not fault the plan.
Once, Fythnar was a land undivided, an archaic time when civilisations were just beginning to rise. As populations grew, and magic ran rife, small groups began to take charge, and towns began to form with communities of different folk. Humans, Fae and elves established separate societies and things became tense. And messy.
So, four of the most powerful families rose, and an accord was written and the courts established.
An invasion had not been attempted in hundreds of years, and the last time one court attempted to do so, they were quickly put back in place by the ruling family in the north, the great ancestors of the Herington line. Lorch did not have much interest in ancient history, but as far as he knew the court who had attempted to invade were the barbarians in the south – raiders who thirsted for the rich, green lands that their neighbours lived upon. He didn’t blame them, he imagined living in freezing, snow drenched lands year after year would get tiresome. In a way, Lorch supposed history could be repeating – their land was in turmoil – but this time, they would break down the barriers rather than keep them.
Jerico blanched, “You speak of… mass invasion.”
“Correct.”
“What of simply defending ourselves?” said one man.
Furious voices began to rise.
“This is ludicrous,” fired another.
“I cannot condone this!” said Jerico, flying to his feet, chair screeching and falling behind him. The air was tense now, filled with the rising staccato of angry voices. Lorch could see that they were quickly losing this battle, quickly losing the support of the only means for obtaining the funds that they needed. His mind whirled, grasping for something to sway them back, but his father was quicker.
Lorch had not even seen him move.
Valdis – while the men spat and argued – slipped behind Councilman Jerico and drew a knife to the man’s throat.
The room hushed swiftly to silence.
“These meetings, though they may seem necessary, truly are not,” he said, his tone bone dry. Dangerous. “They are but a formality… a chance to allow you all the impression that your opinion matters in the grand scheme of things.” He leaned forward, lips to the man’s ear, but he did not lower his voice. “In truth, though… we do not need you. Not really.”
What was his father doing? They needed the council’s wealth, didn’t they?
“We will, however, close this meeting with a warning, Councilman Jerico, one that your great sacrifice will encourage the other good, devoted men to continue their support, as they have done for years.”
The man quivered, “Sacrifice? What, what sacrif–”
Before he could finish, Valdis’s hand jerked, deftly sliding the blade through the man’s throat and showering the dark mahogany and gold table in a torrent of red. Jerico gurgled and clutched at his throat as Valdis stepped back smoothly, allowing the man to flail and teeter back towards the guards who watched on with blank expressions.
Every set of lungs had hitched in horror, four sets of eyes wide and brows drenched with enough sweat to pass as waterfalls. Valdis had the attention of the room, even Lorch’s own unwavering attention, and he realised he was holding his breath, too.
“I had hoped measures such as this would not be necessary – that you were all smart men. But alas, we must resort to threats upon your safety… and that of your families.” Valdis wiped his blade on a white linen napkin, looking thoroughly bored and not as if he had just slit a man’s throat. “Continue to support us and no harm will come to you, and as always, you will remain under the protection of House Kruel. Should you waver…” His hand lifted and pointed towards Jerico, who had fallen to his knees as he bled over a deep blue rug. One of the councilmen made a small sound of distress.
Valdis snapped his fingers.
The guards let go of the chains, and in a swift blur of movement, the undead soldier was upon Jerico, tearing through the man’s clothing and into flesh so quickly, so violently, that Lorch had to swallow down bile. Jerico’s screams were keening and warbled with his ruined throat, and they only spurred on the mindless beast as it tore him apart.
The closest councilman flew from his seat to be violently sick upon the floor.
“What has been discussed in this room will not leave it. To speak of our discussions or against what has been trusted to you today will be seen as treason, punishable by death.” Valdis snapped his fingers once more, passing his other hand over the amulet as the blood-soaked, possessed beast of a man stood and lumbered back to the guards, who – with shaky hands – retrieved his chains.
His father had each of their councilmen by the balls, and Lorch was coming to terms with the fact that this was swiftly becoming a monarchy which ruled with fear. Fear was a powerful emotion, one which made people do almost anything.
“You are all dismissed,” Lorch finally said, his voice far calmer and stronger than he felt, and he was thankful it did not waver as the men all stood, bowed, and hurried from the room. The guards retreated too, taking their expressionless and wobbly charge with them. Lorch glanced at the cobalt rug, but did not linger on the ruined mess that was once a man. “Well, that’s one way to do it,” he mused, dryly.
“Desperate times call for desperate measures, my son. Soon, the entire land will be begging for your mercy, for your protection and your power.” A smirk played on his father’s lips, his voice dropping, almost as if his thoughts were taking him away.
He lifted a hand absently to the amulet, tucked safely against his skin. “Soon, everything we have worked so hard towards will come true, and the gods themselves will tremble at my feet – the feet of a mortal man. I will be a law unto myself as I will usher in a new age of men.”
A dash of doubt passed over Lorch like the fingers of an ice wraith. He repressed a cold shiver.
It was not lost on him that his father had not spoken of them collectively that time.