Sword of Kings
Prologue – The Prophecy’s Demise

by Bill W

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Legal Notice:
The following story contains descriptions of graphic sexual acts. 
The story is a work of fiction and has no basis in reality.
Don’t read this story if:
**You’re not 18 or over,    
**If it is illegal to read this type of material where you live,
**Or if you don’t want to read about gay/bi people in love or having sex.

The author retains copyright to this story.  Placing this story on a website or reproducing this story for distribution without the author’s permission is a violation of that copyright.  Legal action will be taken against violators.

I wish to extend my thank you to Emoe57 for his editorial assistance with this chapter.

E-mail responses to the stories, story suggestions, or other ‘constructive’ comments or advice may be sent to: bwstories8@aol.com.

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Part I: Orthilue

King Orthilue labored in the midst of the battle, swinging his great broad sword at one onrushing foe after another. His powerful physique was straining beneath his hauberk of chain mail, and his silvery hair flowed gracefully behind him with each powerful stroke. The scars on his body, souvenirs from past battles he had fought along Tarolia’s borders, shone in relief on his bronzed skin. They stood as silent witness to his experiences as a warrior. Dark red blotches of blood appeared on his skin and clothing, some from freshly made wounds upon his own body and some from the splattering of his opponents’ life juices. These crimson stains accentuated the fierceness of the battle.

With a mighty downward blow from his broadsword, Orthilue dispatched one of his attackers by rending both his opponent’s helmet and skull with the fearsome stroke. As the King regained his balance, he noticed a tall dark skinned warrior charging him with the ferociousness of an outraged bull. His Majesty braced himself for the force of the assault. Orthilue parried the first energetic stroke, using the aggressor’s own force against him, sending the off balanced assailant stumbling awkwardly by. As the warrior wheeled to resume the attack, the king swung his sword in a giant arc and carved a lengthy gash across his enemy’s abdomen. The foeman stood momentarily, as his entrails spewed forth, his body exploding through the widening gash.

No sooner had this most recent victim’s body hit the ground than the king found himself once more occupied with a new attacker. Orthilue exchanged several vigorous blows with this new assailant, each combatant taking his turn delivering a potentially fatal thrust, when the King spied an opening in his opponent’s defense. Propelling his mighty sword forward, Orthilue impaled his foe on the weapon, the point extending outward between the attacker’s shoulder blades. The King now found his sword trapped by the weight of the lifeless form, and he struggled to free it for further use. He pushed his latest victim to the ground so the dead warrior was sprawled out on his back, then Orthilue placed a foot on the soldier’s chest and he gave a mighty heave to pull the blade free of its vise-like grip.

The monarch was becoming weary from the physical exertion and he took this momentary pause to catch his breath and think back upon the evening. Less than an hour before, he had been feasting in the Great Hall of the castle, merrily conversing with his guests and enjoying the evening’s entertainment. It was an elaborate social gathering that was attended by many of the most prominent and influential of Tarolia’s nobility. This banquet was being held as a minor repayment for their dedication and hard work on behalf of the kingdom. In the middle of the festivities, guardsmen had burst into the hall in utter agitation, explaining the Castle of Leander was under attack.

At first the guests did not comprehend the gravity of the situation, for never before had this mighty fortress been engulfed in battle or bloodshed. Not from the days of the mighty King Ethelbert, the builder of this edifice, or for several generations since. Leander had always been considered an unbreachable tower of strength; both friend and foe agreed upon that point. It was now almost incomprehensible such a bold and unprecedented assault could be taking place.

The castle had been purposefully designed with many additional features to protect it from falling. Its outer walls were constructed ten feet thick and great oaken gates, covered with heavy iron plating, guarded all of its entrances. There was also a massive iron portcullis that hung behind the gate, to further block admittance to unwanted visitors. It could be lowered in seconds and it would serve as a second line of defense should the outer gates be breached.

Both the gate and the portcullis were operated by a series of gears that were locked in the gatehouse and kept under constant guard. These gears could be activated instantly, at the first sign of trouble, to seal off the gaping opening into the fortress. The battlements were equipped with openings through which archers and spearmen could release their weapons and yet remain protected themselves. There were ports high up on the castle’s outer walls through which boiling water or oil could be poured over attacking troops, siege engines, and other large weapons of war. All of this helped to make Leander one of the most renowned structures in the entire world.

How was it then that this force had found a way to get by these great protective barriers and the guards who defended it? How was it possible that they were now conducting this bloody spectacle in the vast expanse of the Outer Courtyard? There was no simple answer to this question, but surely deceit had played a role in this debacle. So had the lack of vigilance on the part of the Royal Guard, an apathy brought on by the long peaceful years through which they had lived?

The strategy had been brilliant, well executed, and flawlessly drawn out. It had allowed these hostile forces to gain admittance to Leander and placed its future in jeopardy. The assault had actually begun when several small units had earlier gained entrance to the castle, one group at a time. There were Merropites, who had masqueraded as merchants from their distant cousins’ city of Akikta, and gnome smiths, who had disguised themselves as dwarfs from the Amber Mountains. Secretively, they had entered the city over the span of several weeks prior to this attack. Once these advance parties of warriors and spies were entrenched in the castle’s daily life, they merely had to wait for nature to give them the deep nighttime shadows they needed to execute their plan.

They had been in Leander for days before the appropriate conditions presented themselves. Not only was there a new moon, but there was also a heavy cloud cover that blocked out the light from any of the stars that appeared in the evening sky. The well-timed execution of a daring scheme, which had been performed the previous day, was the clinching stroke. It had incapacitated the mechanism that controlled the gate and ominous portcullis.

That afternoon a small party of conspirators had slipped into the gatehouse before the evening guards had been stationed. They managed to jam the gears with heavy iron bars, making them inoperative. It had been a gamble to sabotage the controlling devices without knowing exactly when the invasion would begin, but the indifference with which the guards performed their duties had ensured the deed would go undiscovered. Now that the conditions were right, their comrades were being loaded onto the immense log rafts on which they would travel down the Shadow River. Using the blackness of night to mask their trek past Cassander, a smaller city upstream, they rode the current until they reached the capital city. The troops disembarked from their vessels just west of the barbican, which partially obscured and protected the Great Gate. Almost noiselessly, they made their way to an area between the river and the massive bulwark of the fortress. Once assembled, the forces crept stealthily along the outer wall until they reached the entrance to the castle.

Their archers quickly and quietly dispatched the two outer guards, and the contingent slid forward, nearer to their objective. As the foremost attacking soldiers reached the opening of the gate, one of the inner guards perceived their movement. He alerted his companions with a scream before he, too, was felled by a feathery shaft. The gatehouse guard spun and raced into the small room containing the controls and latched the door behind him. He tried to release the gears and close both barriers to the attackers, but nothing happened. It was then that he discovered the damage that had been previously perpetrated upon the machinery.

Keeping his wits about him, the soldier grabbed the battle horn that hung on the wall. He blew a warning blast to arouse the sleeping men-at-arms. The shrill note aroused the officers and foot soldiers alike, and they began bursting through their barrack’s doors. Most were still trying to gird themselves as they stormed out of the quarters, as they sought to learn the cause for this alarm. Although their efforts were swift and orderly, they could not react quickly enough to stem the tide of intruders entering through the disabled gate. The battle had now begun in earnest.

One of the pages managed to slip away and race to the Great Hall to give his warning. Upon receiving the initial news of this attack, King Orthilue commanded his servants to mount the walkways connecting the battlements and light the torches overhanging the inner walls and courtyard. This simple act would allow his troops to more easily see and recognize their opponents, thus reducing the possibility of their felling their own troops in error. Hurriedly, the King departed from the rear of the Great Hall and raced to his bedchamber to don his chain mail and retrieve his battle-worn sword.

Now the King stood knee deep in bodies, some lifeless and others writhing in pain from recently received wounds. He battled desperately to defend his home from this unprecedented and unprovoked assault. This raw carnage continued, with Orthilue adding more than his share of souls to their eternal rest. Apprehensively, the ruler searched the area before him, seeking out his next opponent. After engaging this new adversary, the monarch lifted his sword to deliver yet another fatal blow, when everything went black.

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Slowly King Orthilue slipped back into consciousness and he found himself staring into a pale blue sky. The sun was approaching its zenith and his majesty concluded it must be midday. His head throbbed and his eyes burned as the memory of the battle gradually filtered back into his brain. The King thought the pain in his head must be from the blow he had received during the battle and he tried to gain control over it. As his mind began to clear, the mighty leader began to wonder about the battle. What had happened? Who had been victorious? How long had he been unconscious?

Orthilue tried to sit up, but he found his movements restricted. He forced his eyes down over his struggling torso and he spied the ropes that kept him securely in place. Seeking to find an answer to this dilemma, he slowly turned his head to the right to see if he could find and identify his captors or determine the extent of his predicament.

As his head rolled imperceptibly to the side, he discovered the familiar features of his wife’s lovely face. Even though her head was smeared with dirt and her eyes were puffy from weeping, he still found her extraordinarily beautiful. He watched her intently, as she sat unaware of her lover’s observations. The queen was propped up against a wall, her feet and hands bound together, awaiting her abductor’s next move.

Gabina and Orthilue had been married for more than twenty years but the sight of her still awakened something deep inside of him. Even in her present unkempt state, the monarch still felt that warm glow within his soul whenever he beheld her. This often caused him to feel and, sometimes, behave like a love-struck teenager who was having his first encounter with the goddess of love.

Slowly the King released the vision of his soul mate and he let his gaze move gradually along the wall until he came to the next captive form. Bastien looked much older than the eighteen years that had passed since his birth. He was the royal couple’s elder son, heir to the throne, and the future King of Tarolia. His strong, fair features and his lean, hard, muscular body accentuated his handsomeness and athleticism. His head full of ebony hair contrasted nicely with his fair complexion and emitted a special aura about him, letting even the casual observer know this was a young man to be reckoned with. Oh, how Orthilue loved this young man and His Majesty had often disclosed the extent of his pride to his dearest confidants. Bastien had an excellent mind and had picked up the business of state very easily. He was quickly maturing into his role as a future leader and ruler of his people. The King had good reason to be so proud of this fruit of his loins.

Next to Bastien sat Orthilina, his sister. Although she was two years his senior, Orthilina had always allowed her brother to be the unquestioned leader among the royal children. She realized it was Bastien who would be King after her father and she held no resentment or jealousy toward him because of that fact. She loved her brother and had always doted on him when he was younger, always putting him first. For that, her brother loved her much in return.

Orthilina and Bastien could have passed for twins. She had much the same appearance as her brother but her features were much softer. She was beautiful in her own right and she found herself much sought after by other noblemen’s sons. She possessed a firm, well-endowed body that had long and graceful limbs. Even if she were not the King’s daughter, she still would have attracted the attention of many suitors.

Besides this outward beauty, the princess was also graced with a gifted mind. She could rival many of the King’s advisors in raw intelligence and she often challenged them verbally, to their grave consternation. Although rebuking her publicly for these actions, privately the monarch admired her spunk and prowess. Orthilue had often pondered how he, and later Bastien, could best utilize her particular talents without upsetting the patriarchal society of which they were a prominent part. Try as he might, the King never fully resolved this predicament.

After the sovereign looked once more upon his eldest child, he noticed that his firstborn was busily trying to calm the two girls sitting next to her. Orthilina was attempting to console her sister Latona, who was sobbing heavily. The younger girl’s maturing body was vibrating spasmodically against her cousin Adina’s, as she visibly vented her fear. The older princess offered words of comfort to her younger sibling and she selected her words carefully in an attempt to bring her sister emotionally back under control.

Adina was also weeping, though not as violently or as animatedly as her cousin. She overcame her emotions first and she tried to assist the older girl in trying to calm Latona. Although both of the girls were fourteen, Adina was much more mature and sophisticated than Latona. Orthilue had requested Adina be allowed to come visit and spend time with Latona, while the King’s youngest daughter, Tayce, went to spend time with Adina’s younger sister. The sovereign had hoped Adina’s influence would help Latona come to grips with her immature behavior, as she acted more like a baby than Tayce, who was three years younger. Adina had only been at Leander for two days, so no significant change had occurred.

The final figure that he could see was that of Fabrien, his younger son. Fabrien had flaxen hair, like his mother and his sister Latona, and he was by far the fairest of all of the King’s children. He had always been a polite, mild mannered child and the one with whom all of his siblings got along with best. His birth had come almost exactly between Bastien’s and Latona’s, making him the third oldest child and the second in line to the throne. Even if he never became king, Fabrien would be a diplomat of great importance to Tarolia.

Focusing on his second son, the king could see the boy showed signs of having been beaten. Knowing the boy as he did, the King assumed that Fabrien had put up a struggle against his captors, despite their size and their numbers. Now, the lad had acquiesced and sat quietly and motionless against the wall.

Trying to avoid the agonizing pain he felt for his family, as they lay trussed, battered, and emotionally drained, with great care Orthilue rolled his head cautiously to the other side to find what discoveries awaited him there. The physical pain was staggering from this simple act and it seemed as though it took him hours before he could see the area on the other side of his body. In fact, it had only taken him about ten minutes to complete this simple task. As his eyes came into focus, he gazed upon a tall, powerfully built, swarthy skinned soldier. He was striding directly toward the place where the King lay. The figure bent forward, hovering over the King and letting his own foul breath filter into the leader’s nostrils.

“Ho, the dog has awakened,” grunted the captor. “Maybe now we can begin our entertainment.”

“Who are you and what do you want, you cowardly vermin?” questioned the king, trying to keep his voice steady and forceful.

“I see there is still some spirit in this bound cur,” retorted the soldier, “but we shall soon take the sting from his tongue. Be careful of what you say, you motherless mongrel, or you shall force me to dispense with you sooner than I desire.” The King merely glared into his opponent’s face. “My name is Moustapha, Commander of the Armies of the Lord Madumda, the greatest of all who dwell in this land. I have been sent here to dispense with your mock rule of this country and to secure the symbol of your defiance toward my Lord and Master. When I accomplish that, it will remove the final obstacle that has prevented my liege from openly declaring himself Ruler of Tarolia.

“Scoundrel! Do you think you shall find that which has passed through my family for so long? I will not relinquish it that easily. Never shall that jackal you call your Master set one finger upon it!”

“The Lord Madumda had foreseen this might be your reply, so we have made preparations that will loosen your tongue.”

The king spat in Moustapha’s face. “You may torture or kill me as you like, but with my dying breath I will still protect this land from the evil which is even more incomprehensible than the universe itself.”

“Well spoken, you braying jackass, but you shall soon change your tune. Nay, we shall not torture you, as you suspected, but you shall be forced to watch as we bring unbearable pain upon each member of your family. As you watch them squirm and you listen to their screams of agony, then shall you give me that which I seek! Bring forth the elder male.”

Two guards strode over to where Bastien was seated. Gruffly, they yanked at the young man’s arms and hurtled him to his feet. From there, he was led across the courtyard, not knowing what fate to expect. He was just a helpless pawn in this struggle for power. The prince was positioned between two poles that had been driven into the ground about six feet apart, and he was tied, spread-eagle, between them.

“I will give you one more opportunity to tell me the whereabouts of your talisman,” the commander snarled, looking the King squarely in the eyes. “Tell me now or you will soon learn what games we have planned for the remainder of your family.”

“You may wait until hell freezes over,” the King spat out, trying to show his utter contempt.

“We shall get it sooner or later, but have your own way. I am afraid, however, that you shall soon regret your stubborn boast.” Moustapha then nodded to a thick-necked, pale skinned soldier who had moved into position near the restrained youth. The warrior strode over to where Bastien was held fast and he ripped the youth’s shirt from his body, exposing his bare chest. He then took a knife from his tunic and cut the strings fastening the lad’s trousers, and they fell harmlessly to the ground, exposing all his glory. The soldier then moved behind the young man, whipped out his own massive, erect cock, and he rammed it up the poor boy’s unprepared rectum. Bastien screamed in pain as the massive tool tore his ass open, and the agony only grew worse as the burning pain from the dry fuck shot through his body. While the first soldier molested his victim, a second trooper moved in front of the lad and pulled a dagger from his belt. He sadistically touched the cold steel blade against the youth’s chest and made his first incision. Slowly and mechanically the blade was used to flay long strips of skin from the boy’s breast, causing him to writhe and cry out in unbearable anguish.

Orthilue tried to close his eyes and block out this unholy vision. The King had already resigned himself to the fact that the safety of the only thing offsetting Madumda’s awesome power was far more valuable than the life of any individual, even the lives of those closest to him. As King of Tarolia, it was his duty to protect all of the people of the land, not merely his own family. No matter what the cost, Madumda must never have it.

The King also heard his wife’s agony next to him, as she watched her eldest child being tortured. He tried to whisper words of support to his queen; in an attempt to give her the strength she would need to endure what he knew was to befall them. He realized that what was to come would be difficult for him to witness, but even more so for the mother of his children. She had always been extremely protective of her offspring and he silently acknowledged this would be much more difficult for her to bear. Now he did what he could to help her maintain the grace and dignity her position demanded.

Though he was still trying to block this heartless scene from his view, the King found he was still staring at the grisly spectacle before him. He watched as the blood ran down Bastien’s stomach and dripped to the ground and his clothing below. The prince had come to the same realization as his father and he knew they would all die, regardless of what they did. He tried to stifle his involuntary cries of pain and accept his fate in true heroic fashion, but despite his good intentions, he was having little success in doing what he desired.

Orthilue tried again to block out the action, but once again he found his eyes glued to this debacle. His mind raced over the reasons why he could not ignore what was happening, until he finally concluded his eyelids had been removed, most likely while he had lain unconscious. One of these foul, unfeeling creatures had severed the skin that overlapped his eyes, making it impossible for him to blot out the events unfolding before him.

Having given a barely noticeable signal to his troops, the general watched as his soldiers started scurrying back and forth across the courtyard. As the activity continued, Moustapha began to shout additional orders. Motivated by one of these commands, a guard ran up to the still form of Bastien, which now hung limply between the two poles, and cut him free. The soldier then dragged the semiconscious prince to an area in front of the stakes on which he had been secured. Now, the young man lay motionless on the ground.

Moustapha walked back to the king and spoke. “I will give you one final chance to give me that which I seek, or you will watch your son die.” Before the King could respond, the Queen wailed out in distress.

“Not my son!” she cried, and the King continued to try to reassure her.

“Gabina, be still. You must not give in.” Hearing this, Moustapha signaled his men to continue.

Two guards now approached the still form of the prince and they fastened the young man’s wrists and ankles with long lengths of a heavy-duty rope. Next, they secured the opposite ends of each rope to the saddle of a riderless horse. After this process had been completed, the soldiers waited patiently as the young prince was revived. They watched with amusement as the first guard doused the nearly comatose lad with cold water, and he coughed and wheezed back to life. When the prince had sufficiently recovered, the villains began their bloodthirsty deed. Each of the four horses was whipped severely at the same instant, on Moustapha’s command. This sent the hurt, frightened steeds bolting in four different directions. This sudden jolt wrenched the youth’s limbs from their proper place on his body and left the ground covered with dark pools of his blood. He didn’t die immediately, and mercifully he passed out from the pain and did not feel the end when it came.

As the Queen shrieked out and sobbed, the nauseated king lay back, staring blankly at the heavens. What more could possibly await him? What other foul things could the warped minds of Moustapha and Madumda still have planned? What other deeds were yet to be executed upon this bloody field? Orthilue did not have long to wonder as he heard the screams and cries from the young girls. The King turned toward the spot he had last seen them, hoping to offer what solace he could, only to find something even more disturbing. Several soldiers were holding the pubescent maidens down, as their comrades took turns sexually assaulting their writhing bodies. This carnal assault continued for what seemed like an eternity to the King. When the last of the warriors had finished satisfying his physical lust, the girls were deemed expendable.

Orthilina was dragged across the courtyard to a place where a pit had been dug in the soil. She looked into the hole and her face paled with what she saw. The pit was filled with the thick, squirming bodies of a multitude of vipers. Orthilina stiffened as the rabble pushed her forward, toward the brink of the excavation. Fighting to keep from being pushed in with those horrible reptiles, the stricken girl grasped one of her captors as she was flung forward. Struggling furiously to maintain her balance and prevent herself from falling among those deadly snakes, she clung furiously to her unprepared benefactor. The trooper was caught completely off guard by the princess’ frantic act, and lost his footing. His arms were flailing violently about as he and the girl fell into the midst of the squirming forms. The deadly creatures lashed out and struck each victim numerous times, injecting them with enough venom to kill twenty times their number.

Gabina began to plead with her husband again, trying to get him to save her remaining children, but once more he tried to convince her that his duty to the kingdom came first. Although not totally convinced by his argument, the Queen turned away, sobbing pitifully and still mumbling to herself.

Trying desperately to control his emotions, the King scanned the compound, searching for the other girls. Just as he located his niece, Adina, one of the guards grabbed her hair from behind, snapped her head backwards, and he drew his blade across her throat. Then he let Adina’s body fall, as she struggled to breathe, while her life oozed from her body.

Orthilue felt a sickening wave of nausea building from deep within his center. ‘What cruel being could so nonchalantly massacre these innocent children?’ he thought. He had little time to pursue these thoughts further, and he knew he must push these questions from his mind. He must use this time to make an effort to plan his escape.

As the King searched the area for a clue to what he might do to free himself and save the remainder of his family, he spied his next-to-youngest daughter, Latona. A soldier had just placed a noose around the young girl’s neck and several of his mates were lifting her skyward. As the noose tightened around her throat, she had time to think about what was happening, as her lungs burned and craved the oxygen they needed to survive. Her body squirmed violently as she tried unsuccessfully to shake loose from the hangman’s knot, her face giving way to darker colors as her lungs were deprived of air. Finally, with her last dying throes ending, her body dangled limply above the ground on which she had stood only minutes before.

The Queen was quite hysterical now; wailing and lamenting the fate of her children, when the soldiers grabbed her final child. Fabrien looked over at his mother, trying desperately to control the fear that he knew was clearly visible on his face. Seeing this, Gabina finally reached her breaking point and could take no more. “Spare, my son!” she cried out.

Moustapha quickly turned toward the Queen, as it slowly sank in. Finally, he smiled, in twisted pleasure. “Then you must tell me the whereabouts of your talisman,” he uttered, as his smiled widened in anticipation of her response.

Gabina slowly lifted her eyes until they met his, and they stayed locked together in that manner for several more seconds. Before the king could interject, she spoke again. “It is hidden in the throne in the Great Hall,” she muttered softly, in defeat.

Looking smug, he sent a soldier to secure his prize. When the soldier returned shortly thereafter empty handed and whispered something to his superior, Moustapha turned red with anger. He barked out a quick command to the soldiers closest to Fabrien and they sprang into action.

The warriors grabbed Fabrien and stripped him to the waist. Now they extracted red-hot metal rods and began to sear the young man's flesh, making him cry out in anguish as each new patch of skin was assaulted.”

“You think me a fool? Do you believe you can play games with me?” he spat out toward the Queen. “You shall regret that error.”

“What do you mean?” Gabina responded, totally confused.

“My subordinate advised me that what we seek could not be found where you told us it was supposed to be.” With a non-verbal signal, several soldiers began to close in on Fabrien again.

“But it is!” she tried to assure him. “Wait! There are two lions’ heads and you must turn them until they face each other.” The Queen now let her head drop toward the ground, completely ashamed.

Moustapha immediately dispatched that same soldier to verify her account, and again he returned quickly. However, this time he returned carrying the object of his superior’s desire. Upon finding the Queen had indeed given him the information he needed, he gave a wave, letting those surrounding Fabrien know what they were to do next. At the same time he turned toward the Queen and spoke. “I shall now grant you your boon.”

Before the Queen could open her mouth to object, Moustapha withdrew a long dagger from his belt and thrust it through her heart. Her lifeless body fell forward against the blade and trapped it in the commander’s hand. The general lifted his boot against the dead queen’s shoulder and pushed her body backward as he withdrew the metal blade from her motionless carcass. Mechanically and without any sign of emotion, Moustapha wiped the blade on the grass and returned it to its scabbard.

Moustapha’s attention was now focused upon the talisman he had sought, the one that had been created to thwart his master. He gawked openly at the shimmering metal as it glistened in the sunlight. Finally, he had the one thing that would please his master the most. As he stood relishing his success, he suddenly reeled to face the King. “Your defiance shall cost you dearly,” he spat, still embittered by the defiance the King had shown him. Moustapha couldn’t imagine how the King could remain so obstinate, especially after awaking to find himself totally humiliated and beaten.

Flaunting his newfound superiority, Moustapha gave to signal to the huge warrior who hovered over the king’s younger son. Fabrien’s upper body was covered with a mass of blacked flesh and blisters, from his previous bout with this torturer. He watched as the stripped boy was sexually assaulted, as a soldier rammed his thick cock up the young boy’s ass, literally tearing him a new one. As the prince opened his mouth to scream, a second warrior shoved his ample dick down the young boy’s throat and started to fuck his face. The two troopers continued to rape the lad, as roughly as they knew how, until they had filled him with their loads. Just as soon as these two had finished satisfying themselves, two more took their place. This continued until each man who wanted a turn had been satisfied. When it was over, Fabrien collapsed onto the ground, exhausted from this grueling and degrading episode, one of those soldiers bent down and sliced off the boy’s penis. The boy wailed in agony and instinctively reached for the missing organ, before another soldier moved in to deliver yet another cruel stroke. Smoothly, he lifted his battleaxe above his head, before bringing it swiftly downward, severing the boy's right hand. Fabrien screamed and grabbed his bloody stump, but it did him no good. While the lad continued to wail in agony, the same soldier slowly made his way along the prince’s body, until he was in position where he could chop off Fabrien’s leg, just below the knee. This caused another scream to burst from the poor lad’s throat, before the pain became too much for him to endure and he passed out from the overload of sensations to his nervous system. Fortunately, this spared him having to endure the agony of each successive stroke, as his body was slowly hacked into pieces.

The King began to swoon as this last ghoulish deed had been performed. He lay on the ground like a drugged man, not noticing he was being lifted and moved. He was taken through the Great Gate to an open area east of the castle. There Moustapha’s men drove four short stakes into the ground, in preparation of their next act. The King’s hands and feet were lashed firmly into place, each limb anchored to one of those pegs. Orthilue had already been stripped of his hauberk of chain mail and laid bare to the waist. Moustapha slid over to the King, his dagger clenched in his hand, and he bent over the bound form. Without the slightest hint of empathy, the general cut deep gashes into his victim’s bare skin. Having inflicted several gaping wounds, the general stood erect and addressed the monarch.

“Your destiny shall soon be fulfilled, oh mighty king, and the last of your family destroyed. It will not be much longer until the prophecy will not pose a threat to my Lord and Master.”

This final statement triggered the King’s recollection of a morsel of Tarolian history. Slowly, Orthilue remembered the prophecy that had been foretold with Madumda’s initial rise to power during the days of his grandsire, Ethelbert. Too late, the King had finally pieced together the sorcerer’s diabolical plan.

As his final words died from memory, Moustapha whirled and led his men back thru the castle’s gate and left him lying there. Orthilue now wondered what they had in store for him. Surely there was to be more. The King looked about and surveyed the castle’s walls, just as the general and his troops appeared along the battlements. Orthilue could not quite make out what he was doing, but he thought he saw Moustapha lift something toward his mouth. Eventually, the captive heard the long, shrill note that emanated from the slender whistle the commander blew. As the note wafted over the King’s securely lashed form, Orthilue realized Moustapha was signaling someone or something, but the captive still could not fathom what.

Slowly, Orthilue began to become aware of a beating sound filtering through the air. At first the King thought that it was a distant drum responding to the madman’s call. But no, it could not be that, for the sound was becoming increasingly louder and more distinct as the time passed. Considering it again, there was a possibility it was a drum, but the instrument and its drummer would have to be on the move. Was it beating out the cadence for a battalion of the Dark Lord’s mercenaries, as they marched closer to the monarch’s ancestral home? Orthilue listened carefully to see if this theory might prove to be correct, but he surmised the volume of this beating tempo was increasing far too rapidly to be the drum cadence for a military unit.

The captive struggled to lift his head and he peered in the direction the sound originated. He hoped to see what was producing this rhythmic beat and unlock the mystery of its origin. Orthilue thought he caught a glimpse of some movement in the distance, but he found it difficult to believe what his senses were telling him. Although he wasn’t fully capable of interpreting what it was he now saw, but he knew it was extremely large. This anomaly was apparently traveling through the air and it was headed straight toward him. The King strained to look in that direction, trying to discern what type of creature this could possibly be. He continued to focus on the object until there was no doubt in his mind what it was. Above him soared a great bird whose wings seemed to dwarf even the King’s noble stature. Each wing was longer than Orthilue was tall, and that was nearly two meters!

The bird was now close enough for the King to even recognize its species. It appeared to be a giant condor. This was hard for him to believe, for it was far larger than any of the species that had ever been known to exist in the world. Its feathers were as black as the darkest night and its claws were like giant, pinkish meat hooks. A scavenger that feeds on the dead and dying, the condor discovered the bloodied King and it made its first dive. This was an exploratory swoop, to see if the victim would defend himself. As it passed over the still form of the sovereign for the second time, its claws dug into Orthilue’s flesh and tore great chunks from his chest and thigh. The King’s pain was excruciating, as he realized that the most devastating end had been reserved for him.

The giant bird landed in the distance, taking its time to devour the first scraps of meat it had torn from its helpless prey. Having finished its first taste of this royal snack, the monster leaped into the air, rose high above the ground and circled the prostrate liege once more. Without warning, the vulture plummeted toward its victim, but decided to land at the last moment. The feathered aggressor stood a short distance from the feet of his restrained target, and it cautiously examined the situation. Eventually, the great adversary began to waddle and hop forward, as the ruler attempted to make his final peace with his God and atone for whatever sins he might have committed. The condor realized its meal would offer no opposition and it hopped clumsily nearer its victim before it made its fatal lunge. The bird’s beak and claws began rending flesh and splattering blood, as it greedily consumed the delicacy. The vulture continued this feeding frenzy until nothing remained but the bared, scattered bones of the monarch.

Part 2: Aurelia

The dark-haired wizard was traveling at breakneck speed, heading for the Woods of Wildoness. He had urgent business there and he dared not waste a minute before seeking out the King of the Elves, because something terrible had happened and he needed advice about how they should respond. The young enchanter was going as quickly as he could, walking as fast or faster than most men could run, and the trees of Wildoness just flew by him as he went. Before long, he was passing the outer limits of Aurelia, the elfin capital, but he was focused on getting to the Royal apartments as quickly as he could. As he approached, he was challenged, so he stated his name and business, causing one of the guards to disappear, to announce his arrival. Shortly thereafter, he was ushered inside, where the king was seated on his throne.

“Your Majesty, I apologize for the unannounced visit, but something dreadful has happened and I’m not sure if the news has yet reached your ears.”

“If you are referring to what happened to Orthilue at Leander, then I have heard the news,” King Rondell announced, “but I have information you are probably unaware of. However, I want to include my son in on this discussion, so let me send for him first. Guard, go tell Prince Dylan that I require his presence immediately.”

After bowing to the King, the guard went to fetch the prince. It wasn’t long before the King’s eldest son joined his father and the mage, which allowed the Elfin King to advise both of them about a few details concerning the demise of King Orthilue and his family. “No one else knows this, but not all is lost…”

Rondell went on to advise the pair about details that only he and a few of his most loyal and obedient advisers had been aware of, up to this point. Once he had imparted all these details, the wizard thanked the Elfin King for sharing this information with him. The mage was grateful to learn these facts and he stored them in the back of his mind, for later use. However, his thoughts were suddenly interrupted, as the King spoke again.

“I think I have a fair idea about why Madumda decided to act now, but what is your take on the matter?”

“I believe he chose this time to respond, because Orthilue kept issuing Madumda challenges, trying to draw him out for a personal confrontation. Even though I had advised him against it, Orthilue thought he could embarrass or humiliate Madumda into taking the bait and facing him one-on-one. Orthilue imagined he could somehow utilize the talisman against his foe, and thus put an end to his threat.”

“Didn’t he know Madumda was far too bright and cautious to fall for such a ploy?”

“He did, for I advised him of that fact on numerous occasions, but he thought Madumda’s belief that his powers made him omnipotent would make him reckless and cause him to overcome his cautiousness and underestimate the threat.”

“So, Orthilue never saw him as treacherous snake he is?”

“Unfortunately, no. I tried to warn Orthilue his provocation might motivate Madumda to find another solution, rather than accepting the challenge, but Orthilue argued Madumda’s vanity wouldn’t allow that. I tried to explain that Madumda was dubbed ‘the fox’ for good reason, and that his cleverness might prove more formidable than expected.”

“And it turns out your fears were justified. Too bad Orthilue didn’t heed your advice. He was a brilliant and powerful leader, but obviously shortsighted on this matter.”

After a few more minutes of discussing various aspects of what had happened, the young enchanter took his leave of the king and his son, knowing he still had to seek out the leaders of the other races and groups in Tarolia, so he could advise them of this new predicament.

Part 3: Fifty Years Later

“I’m telling you it would be foolishness to do as you propose,” the mage told the assembled group. His silver streaked dark hair gave him an air of wisdom and authority, but this did not seem to impress the group he was advising.

“We can’t sit around, like lambs being led to the slaughter. Madumda is methodically seeking out and killing all the heirs of Ethelbert and WE are on that list. He will come after us all at some point, though you are safe from that threat,” the man stated defiantly, letting the wizard know he had no vested interest in this situation.

“That may be true, but if Madumda is successful, we shall all be effected by his tyrannical rule. We are in this together, and you must avoid provoking him into making moves that might accelerate his timeframe. He is very cautious, working slowly to reach his goal, for he fears Ethelbert’s heirs now, not knowing if they alone might be able to destroy him. Once he had the talisman, I thought he’d make his move, but he feels he must eliminate all other threats to him first. This is time consuming and gives us time to prepare, but we shall protect as many of you for as long as we can. Please, don’t do what you are planning, as it will put you all at risk.”

“You will not change our minds. If you’re not with us, then you’re against us, and I advise you to leave, if that’s the case.” The man looked defiantly at the enchanter.

“What could you possibly do to stop him?” the enchanter challenged confidently. “To him you are but bothersome flies to be swatted away. He will never fear you or even respect your challenge.”

“We will appeal to his honor, to take us on in personal combat.”

Beraut laughed maniacally,“He HAS no honor. He will kill you all, without even batting an eye.” He was trying to shock them into listening to him.

“He shall kill us now or later, of that there is no doubt, but at least this way we’ll have a chance to die like men, not livestock being prepared for a meal.”

“He will not deal with you as you hope! You are being idiots!” The mage was livid now, knowing he was being listened to, but not being heard.

“We have to do this,” the leader argued. “We cannot continue to just sit around and wait, constantly looking over our shoulders for the next assassin.”

“Then I shall mourn your deaths, but I cannot support your plan. Even I am not ready to face my evil brother, for he is far more powerful than I am at this point. Therefore, I see no way your plan can be successful. Don’t you realize the longer it takes him to seek out the various heirs; it gives me that much more time to increase my powers, until I can offset his advantage? Please don’t’ do this. Let him play into our hands, not us into his.” Having said his piece, the mage left the meeting, knowing this group was as stubborn as their predecessor and their chance of success was almost nil.

Part 4: Madumda

Two weeks later, the group stood in front of Treblanc, announcing to the guard that they wished to see the Dark Lord. He laughed and told them to go away, rebuking their feeble attempt to gain an audience. Frustrated, the leader shouted out, “We are the heirs of Ethelbert and DEMAND you announce our presence to Madumda.”

Hearing who they were, the guard sent one of his subordinates to inform the master of the fortress, and it wasn’t very long before the aged diabolist came striding up to the main gate, followed by a horde of military men. Seeing none of those calling him out had ever seen him, they were surprised at his appearance, for he didn’t look as fearsome as they had imagined. He appeared more like an old, broken down shell of a man, unable to do more than support his own bodyweight, let alone paralyze a whole nation with fear, by just the mere mention of his name. His hair was greasy and unkempt, and its ugly yellowish tint demeaned the aura of wisdom and experience that a full head of silvery hair would have commanded, thus bringing him the respect he so eagerly sought.

Not only that, but his robes were wrinkled and soiled, depicting a person of lesser position and power, rather than an individual who wished to assume leadership of the entire nation. His visage was almost comic, and those viewing him for the first time might have laughed in his face, had his powerful reputation and propensity for performing unspeakable acts on his enemies not preceded this confrontation. Playing it safe, those gathering maintained tight control over their own emotions, so as not to provoke him more than they planned.

“What audacity brings you to my home?” Madumda challenged, looking at the motley assemblage before him, deeply perturbed about being disturbed from his previous activities.

“We, the heirs of Ethelbert, challenge you to single combat,” the appointed leader of the group responded, as if that alone should satisfy Madumda’s irate outburst.

“Single combat? There are over fifty of you. It’s apparent you plan to attack me as a group. Even a blind man could see that. Did you think I would be foolish enough to approach you without support?” he asked, indicating the warriors who stood behind him.

“No, that was not our plan. We will challenge you one at a time, to fight with swords, until the death.” His response seemed sincere enough, although Madumda saw it as an opportunity to exploit.

“You are bigger fools than I thought,” he spat out, while lifting his staff and muttering a few words, which no one but those closest to him could hear. Suddenly, his challengers found themselves paralyzed, although they were in full control of their senses. They wanted to flee, but found they had no command over their own muscles, and now literally stood frozen in place.

Madumda moved closer to the group, inspecting them carefully. “I see nothing that makes any of you so special or fearsome,” he stated, derisively, knowing they could still hear him, though they could not respond or resist.

“You shall now pay for your effrontery,” he continued, “and for thinking your lineage would intimidate me or grant you special consideration.” He had more or less growled this last comment out, before sneering at them, to reinforce the fact that he held nothing but contempt for any of them.

“Take them inside,” he command his guards, who soon summoned a wagon and placed their bodies upon its bed, even going as far as to lay one or more persons on top of another. Those who found themselves at the bottom felt like they would suffocate before they got to where they were being taken. Though only one of them actually died, it was later proved that he was in fact the fortunate of them. If the others had known what awaited them inside the citadel, they would have begged to die the same way, for once they were removed from their uncomfortable and degrading mode of transportation, the real horrors began.

They were all moved to the dungeon, where they were put in the same large cell, except their leader. Once they had been placed inside, a lock was fastened to the door. During this same time, the leader had been strapped down upon a heavy wooden table, because Madumda felt he should be the first to be ‘questioned,’ for having the gall to insult him by calling him out. This man happened to be an heir of King Orthilue’s brother, and as he lay bound and waiting for what was to come next, he began to regret not listening when the young wizard had tried to warn him that doing this would be a mistake. Why had he been so obstinate and so arrogant, ignoring the sage advice of one older and wiser than himself? As he watched Madumda deal with the other heirs, thoughts of his wife and children flashed through his mind, and after acknowledging his fate, it saddened him that he would never see them again. He tried to capture their images from his memory, holding on to them and trying to say a personal good-bye to each one.

When all of the heirs were where he wanted them, Madumda removed the immobility spell that had previously controlled them. Urging his soldiers to make sure the captives watched everything he was about to do, Madumda moved over to the table where their bound leader lay.

“How did you plan to defeat me? What aids or devices have you been given to gain power over me?” the Dark Lord demanded, in an attempt to satisfy his need to know exactly what they were up to. When the prisoner did not share the information he was after, Madumda went a step further. Placing the tip of his staff against the man’s temple, he uttered a few words, which caused tiny bolts of energy to course from his staff and into his victim’s body. This sudden burst of power caused the leader unbearable pain and mental anguish, and made his entire body begin to tremble and spasm, as his nervous system reacted to the unusual surge. After such treatment, the leader should have betrayed the Gods themselves, if he’d had any information to share, but he did not. Outraged by his inability to gain the prisoner’s cooperation, the necromancer repeated this process several more times, hoping the man would accept the futility of his stubbornness and elicit the desired knowledge. However, no matter what was done to him, the man did not tell Madumda what he wanted to hear. The evil enchanter even tried using a truth spell on this sacrificial lamb, but he was still unable to gather the required intelligence from him.

Frustrated and outraged, Madumda decided to use physical torture instead of magic, feeling his prisoner might respond to that better than the more supernatural forms of eliciting the truth. The necromancer commanded one of his soldiers to grasp his prisoner’s fist and force him to extend his index finger. Once this was done, the leader’s hand was pinned to the table in that fashion, and then Madumda took a short sword and chopped it off. The recipient screamed out in pain, as blood gushed from the end of what remained of his arm, and then the misguided mage began to interrogate him some more. “Tell me what I want to know and I shall seal the wound and cause you no more harm.”

“But I do not know the answers to your questions,” the man whined, praying the sorcerer believed him this time. However, that was not to happen, and Madumda continued to chop off finger after finger, until there were no digits remaining on his bloody stub. Before Madumda could resume his assault, his victim passed out from the loss of blood and the necromancer could not find a way to revive him. Seeing that cause as hopeless, he moved on to the next heir.

This time the target of his abuse was selected solely at random and then brought out and secured on the same table the earlier detainee had been, but the sorcerer had decided on a slightly different approach to get what he wanted. This time the diabolical mage forced a truth serum down the throat of the heir, expecting the potent potion would gain him the knowledge he desired. When that failed, he even forced a second dose down the man’s throat, but still it did not bring the sorcerer the information he was looking for. Losing his temper, he began to scream at the bound heir, demanding he relinquish the secrets he continued to guard, but the prisoner continued to respond that he didn’t know of such things. This pushed Madumda past the limits of his self control, and he screamed at his fettered victim.

“You have ears, but you don’t seem to hear or understand my requests. If you are not going to use your ears, then you no longer deserve to have them!” The words had barely passed from his lips, before the vile wizard took a blade and sliced those fleshy appendages from the side of the man’s head. As the heir howled in agony, Madumda grabbed a fiery iron poker and held it against one bloody wound and then the other, cauterizing the large lacerations and stopping the flow of blood. The chamber was now not only filled with pathetic wails of the abused victim, but also with the pungent, sickening smell of seared flesh, which caused a few of the other prisoners to wretch in their cell.

Madumda hadn’t done this to get the man to change his mind and respond, but to use him as an example to the others, letting them know that their non-compliance would cost them dearly. Acknowledging there was nothing more to be gained from this person, the necromancer recited a spell and pointed his staff at the heir’s body, and it immediately burst into flames. Within seconds, there was nothing left to show the man had ever been there, making room for the next unfortunate victim. However, this captive would not come easily, and he struggled and fought against his jailers every inch of the way. Knowing the types of horrors that awaited him, this particular heir had concluded he would rather die outright, while resisting, but the guards were easily able to restrain and control him. Once he was fastened down with the leather straps, Madumda went into action.

His first attempt was to cast a spell over him, one that would allow him to order the heir to divulge the specifics of their scheme. Try as he might, this did not work either and this captive was as unaffected by the irate wizard’s attempts as the previous two had been. Madumda was now beside himself with fury and confused as to how these individuals could continue to resist his effort and why they would be willing to endure so much, just to keep from sharing the details of their plan with him.

Once more, out of frustration, the necromancer switched to the more physical means of torture. He began by grabbing a pair of heavy iron tongs and using them to clamp down on various areas of the man’s genitals. This caused his victim unbearable pain and he wailed pathetically. The sorcerer kept telling him all he had to do was share the information he desired and all of this would cease, but the man didn’t comply. In a final act of irritation, Madumda had two of his warriors force the heir’s mouth open, and using those same iron tongs, the sorcerer clamped down on the man’s tongue and stretched it out of his mouth. As Madumda’s one hand struggled to pull the muscle as far out of the orifice as it could, his other hand grasped the hilt of a sharp blade, which he used to cut the tongue from the man’s mouth. “For not using your tongue to speak to me and answer my questions, you shall no longer have it at all!” Madumda exclaimed, as he held the bloody organ into the air, for the others to see.

After Madumda had finished with this captive, he approached him once again, but this time it was not to interrogate him further or to cause him more pain. This time, he held his staff against the heir’s forehead and muttered and few words. This act immediately caused the man’s demeanor to totally change, from being resistive to totally compliant, but this change was very subtly done. There were no bolts of energy this time or any visual clues as to what was happening, but when the necromancer had finished with him, he bore no resemblance to the arrogant challenger who had arrived at Treblanc to throw down the gauntlet before Madumda. As the sorcerer walked away from him, the guards saw only a blank expression and emotionless stare upon his face, making it obvious the prisoner not only lacked the will to resist any longer, but had also lost the capacity to control his own actions. In this catatonic state, he was led away.

Madumda turned to his head guard and snarled. “Watch them very closely,” he barked. “I will be in my chambers, if you should need me. I WILL find a way to make them talk.”

Before he exited, the Dark Lord tuned toward the cell where the remaining heirs began to stir. “You have certainly proven what fools you are. You have saved me months, if not years of effort in trying to locate you, and I thank you for that.”

Madumda released an evil little chuckle, before he stopped and thought to himself for a moment. When he spoke again his demeanor had changed significantly. “You may continue to try to fight me, but you’ve seen what that will get you. I will make it less painful, if you cooperate willingly. No matter which way you decide, I will find a way to make you tell me what I wish to know, even if I have cut off the top of your skulls and siphon the information directly from your miniscule brains.”

As the last of his words reverberated through the dank room, Madumda turned to leave, but not before stopping before the guard closest to him and looking him squarely in the eyes. “If only all of Ethelbert’s kin were such brainless dolts, I could become the supreme ruler of Tarolia in a fortnight.”

This thought caused Madumda to burst out in a maniacal fit of laugher, and although there was no way it could have actually happened, the temperature in the chamber seemed to drop several degrees as he did so. Once the Dark Lord left, memories of his heartless words and cynical laugh caused the guard to shudder and chilled the marrow in his bones. This only reinforced his grudging respect for his master and reminded him that he should never consider defying him, no matter how trivial or inconsequential that provocation might seem at the time.