Fiend's Fourth Hurdle

A map of the kingdom lay open across the vast table. It was aged, its surface scarred by use, edges weighted down by stones and rings, and scattered with carved wooden tokens of soldiers, battalions, caravans, and fortresses. The room dimmed save for the torches lining the walls, their flames licking shadows across the steel and gold of the warlords.

Ergon stood silent. He hadn't dared move an inch since Talen's fist silenced the hall earlier.

"My lords," Talen's voice boomed, dragging the room's attention toward the map, "what of the remaining Arcelian beasts?"

Hans answered with chilling calm. "We crushed the last of their major camps. The survivors have been taken, millions now in chains ready to feed the Colosseum. They will fight in the pits until they fall or become sport for the crowds. A few stragglers remain in the Heights, but they pose no true threat as they remain a disorganized and isolated group."

Hans, the Steel Fang of the Realm. First Son of Talen Drakmore. The Seventh Blade of Velrane.

Ergon blinked. Millions, he'd said. Millions.

Hans spoke of war like it was housework.

Then came a coarser voice. "They fuck like rabbits, though," Brian snorted. "Those damned things don't need numbers. They need time and heat." He laughed, a sharp grin under his bristled beard. "Barbaric beasts with nothing but a cock and a growl."

Brian the Greatblade. The Second Blade of Velrane. Talen's own brother. The only man in this room who could laugh so crudely and get away with it.

Leo leaned in then, a smirk tugging his lips. "Then why don't we end them all? Burn the Heights. Be done with it."

Leo the Golden Paw of the Realm and Drakmores. The Second Son of Talen Drakmore. The Tenth Blade of Velrane.

Ergon noticed Leo didn't shout. He spoke like the idea was obvious, like it didn't involve the massacre of thousands. That was Leo, cold-blooded behind a charming face.

Another voice rumbled slowly.

"We may not wish to," said Marlou the Menace, the Fifth Blade. His frame was a wall of armor, his voice the churn of stone. "Let them breed so that the Colosseum feeds off them. One more child equals one more rebel which means one more fight. They might grow stronger but they'll also eventually die in the Colosseum's chains. Our crowds grow bolder as blood spills, and as blood spills, the control remains."

Ergon stared at the man's chest—his sigil, a horse with a helmet for a head. A strange, eerie symbol.

"Farm them?" came a voice too sharp and too bold. "I already have a few in my dungeons. They scream in ways you'd never imagine. More wouldn't hurt though."

The voice belonged to Cassandra.

The Demon Blade.

The Sixth Blade of Velrane.

She leaned on the table with a glint in her red eyes, her red hair tied back in a loose tail that swayed like fire. Her armor was less iron, more leather, colored red, reinforced and etched with wild sigils. On her chest, her own crest: a featureless girl with nothing but long, grinning red hair. She was a woman who had carved her own house from nothing.

Cassandra grinned at Leo. He didn't grin back.

"They breed fast," added a newer voice, Parkhov the Pristine. Ninth Blade. Young and elegant. "A female beastwoman can bear ten children in the time it takes a human to bear one."

The Ninth Blade of Velrane. Parkhov the Pristine Blade. Of House Rokh. A sigil of a Rock, simple and plain, engraved on his armor.

Another voice followed. "And their spawn grow quickly. A five-year-old beastman can wrestle a trained soldier. I've seen it."

The Eighth Blade of Velrane. Malbudy of House Crest. A sigil of Feather atop of a hill engraved on his plate armor's chest.

Talen nodded thoughtfully. "Let them be. The Heights are a natural stronghold. Without inside help, they cannot be breached."

He looked down, eyes scanning the map. "Now… something more concerning. Reports say the eastern rebels have begun uniting with northern Elarians… and southern Ishans."

"Unimaginable," came a cold, refined voice. Yuran of House Elandar, the Fourth Blade. "They share nothing in their tongues or Gods, traditions or cultures."

"Desperation wipes out old grudges," said a different voice, "We have pushed them to the edge. They fear extinction more than one another. Now, we are the thing they hate more than their own neighbors."

First Blade of Velrane, strongest of the blades, the man named Turin of House Farley, the House second to Drakmores in valor and combat power.

Talen's gaze darkened. "Futile. These insects will die as they lived. They shall be crushed beneath our boots."

He turned to Turin and pointed. "You shall march north. House Farley has not failed me before."

Turin rose and bowed on one knee. "An honor, warlord. But winter looms. The last time, the snow was more enemy than man. I will need three times the magic stones, more mages, more food, more aid in total."

Talen raised a hand. "Granted. The Queen promised to expand the war budget. The treasury shall obey."

Ergon stirred slightly. He hadn't known his father had spoken to the Queen recently. This wasn't minor. The new year had reached, and now that he thought about it, the meeting of the high council should've had taken place days ago. Ergon knew that much.

"This time," Talen added, "I will march north myself."

Even the air paused as torches flickered quieter.

Talen. Drakmore. On the battlefield.

Even Ergon, barely a guest in this war council, felt the weight of that statement.

"Six months from now, when the fourteen stars embrace the four moon, we shall march to the battle. The winter should be gone by then."

"My lord…" Turin hesitated, "as the Great Warlord and Chief Defender, your presence is..."

"I have made plans," Talen cut in. "In my absence, Hans will take command of Lion's Rock."

Hans stood slowly. "I am honored. Yet I am a man of battlefield, my lord. Not a ruler of ink and scroll."

"You are my son," Talen said, smiling for once. "If you can cleave a man in half, you can handle a quill."

The room chuckled lightly. Even Ergon cracked a nervous smile.

"Though I shall warn you," Talen added, "the battlefield is more fun. I'll get all the glory!"

A rare laugh erupted from him—a harsh, barked thing. The warlords laughed too.

Then Talen turned to his brother.

"Brian. You coming with me?"

Brian shrugged, grin splitting. "You ask like I have a choice. Of course I'm coming. Let's bring back the old days."

Talen raised his voice, his tone now steel again. "To the rest: listen closely."

He pointed across the table.

"To the East, Leo shall command. Accompanied by Malbudy, Parkhov, and Cassandra. Crush the rebels and burn their camps. You are free to break their legs, and if there are any riches, rare metals, spices or herbs, you shall bring them back. Plunder anything of use with no mercy."

Cassandra gave Leo yet another grin, slow and sultry. Leo ignored it, face tightening.

"Yuran," Talen said. "To the south, the Ishans grow bold every day. Our spies are dead and we know little. I'm sure you can overcome that challenge."

Yuran nodded, sharp and reserved. Talen's tone toward him was laced with mockery, but he did not rise to it.

"If you face trouble," Talen added with a smirk, "you can always beg Hans. Or that little bird Faron."

More smirks came. Faron was a joke among them.

Yuran, who was also an Elandar, did not seem to react to Talen's mockery and the subtle plan to undermine House Elandar and Faron's power.

Talen's tone clearly was of mockery and ridicule, but it seemed he trusted Yuran and the situation at the southern borders enough to give him that task. With only one Blade of Velrane remaining, he didn't want to give power to House Elandar in times of war to have unchallenged authority over the lands. That's why he made his final order:

"Marlou the Menace will stay here to protect the homeland in times of war. Try to stay in touch with that little bird of a boy Faron. Watch for rebellion or suspicious activities. Rebels may use this time to create chaos and unease. Stay alert at all times."

Marlou nodded solemnly.

"Let's inform the local lords, tell them..."

Talen raised his voice to a roar.

"PREPARE FOR BATTLE!"

The warlords rose.

Steel scraped wood. Blades were drawn and raised high.

"Glory to Velrane!"

Many voices and shouts of enthusiasm followed accordingly. Aroused they were, generals who couldn't wait to unsheathe their blades upon the enemy on the battlefield.

Men whose cocks ached for a fight of swords and spilling of blood.

And ironically, Cassandra, who was a woman, seemed to be the one most aroused by this call for war.