Guul'Zaroth Ch.10 Reign

Castle Umbra stood at the heart of Volotos, the capital city of Agares. It's walls of slick black stone soared up to the sky and surrounded the palace. The castle bore an array of spires atop its roof, rising to streak shadows across the silvery moon. Its rooftops were decorated with innumerable stone gargoyles and its courtyard a garden of statues and violet flowers. Notably, there stood a grand portrait in stone, over thirty feet high in the image of Mordica. Her beauty perhaps exemplified for fear of repercussion, her name a terror still, even millennium after her death. The statue displayed a flawless feminine form, garbed in a flowing dress with cascading hair that fell to her knees. Literature would recall it as golden in hue. Her face was without emotion and her arms were outstretched as if to call forth her tremendous power.

Rain pattered the city streets and slid off the heavily arched roofs of the palace in thick sheets, creating a cacophony of rain drops and their pitter patter across the city-scape. The night was lively under the moon, for Volotos was the city of vampires. The only humans permitted beyond its walls were either a meal or a slave. On this evening, the city was on close watch, as it had been for over a week. Not soul dared to step out of line, not since the princess had gone missing.

A small squadron of soldiers approached the castle gates, the eyes of their commander turned ever upward to gawk at the display over head. With rope around their necks and vacant eyes, three dozen bodies swung from the arch of the gates, dangling nearly fifty feet off the ground. Sweat formed on the captains face and he forced his eyes away from grim spectacle.

The squad of vampires were all dressed in royal military attire. Light, black steel plate with the breast emblazoned with the Lockhart royal symbol, a stylized bat with wings spread wide and mouth agape. Their open-face sallets were decorated at the sides with webbed wings and their captain wore a billowing crimson cloak.

Their armour was slick with rain and their march was slow and weak. The king had ordered them out seven days ago, and the scouts had been scouring the area without rest. They had gone as far as the edges of Valdovis and sent orders for the count's men from the other regions to begin conducting searches. Theyturned up nothing and so they returned with ill news for their king.

The guards let them pass with small nods of acknowledgement, the outer gates left behind and the front doors to the castle looming ahead. It was a huge, oaken portal, braced with steel and nearly three feet thick. The doors moved outward of their own accord as the soldiers approached, and summarily closed behind them.

The moment they stepped beyond the threshold, they could feel a great weight bearing down on their shoulders. Power radiated from the centre of the castle, almost driving them back toward the door, but they dare not turn and run. They could feel the king's overhwhelming presence, his anger and his unfathomable might. They pressed on toward his throne room.

The interior of the castle was enourmous, a maze of winding halls and spiralling stairs. The walls were decorated with fine art and portraits of the vampiric royal family. The normally bustling castle was devoid of life. Not a single being moved. If not for the undeniable force of the king's energy, there may have been a pervasive sense loneliness to the huge, nearly empty castle.

The captain took a deep breath and dismissed his men with a simple wave of his hand. He pressed on alone. Sprawling corridors gave way to a single, wide hall, the black-gold doors of the king's throne room ahead. He stepped up to the doors and briefly stared at his boots, gauntleted hands reflexively balling into fists. Finally, the doors opened and stepped forward, his senses overwhelmed by the scent of roses.

The vampire king's chamber was an inner garden, huge swaths of red roses at either side. The ruby coloured flowers climbed the walls and spilled onto the path. The walls were lined with immaculately detailed stain glass windows depicting his greatest conquests and victories. His gargantuan throne loomed at the head of the room, behind it a circular window taking up most of the back wall. The aperture depicted the image of a nobleman in ancient robes from centuries past, and the dwarfing visage of a young Methuselah rising up behind him. It depicted his ascension from a mortal form to that of an elder vampire.

Beneath the window, in his throne, Methuselah lounged with a neutral, almost apathetic expression. His face couldn't hide his true feelings, the force of the king's magic made everyone in the castle feel it. The hatred, the fury and the sadness. In his hands, he cupped a great golden chalice, fit for a man of his size. Inside, nearly a gallon of blood swirled. The king didn't even look at the soldier but stared straight through him as he took a long drought from his cup before tossing it aside, still mostly full. It clattered against the steps beneath his throne, spilling the essence onto the stone floors. Blood dripped down in long, thick rivers, pooling at the bottom of the steps.

The soldier dropped to one knee, removed his helmet and bowed his head. "Hail, my king, His Majesty Methuselah, first of Mordica's blood," the captain said in a breathless, husk of a voice. He felt as if there was a tremendous weight pressing down on his chest. He could hardly breath.

"My daughter is not in your company," Methuselah said, his voice a low baritone, tinged with the eloquence of royalty.

"No my king," replied the captain. "We searched the Eastern stretch of Valdovis but found no news of Princess Laurelei." He took in hard, ragged breaths, his muscles straining themselves to keep his body in position. "We sent two scouts to search the edges of Dravinia, the first reported nothing and the second did not return. We have assumed him killed, likely due to the recent werewolf troubles in the region."

Methuselah leaned back in his throne and looked down upon his soldier with a narrow gaze. "Is that all you have come to report? Failure?"

The soldier's eyes grew wide and he clenched his jaw tightly. "Yes, my king." Droplets of sweat fell from his face and dripped onto his poleyn.

Methuselah went silent, his face a mask of indifference. Slowly, he turned his hand, palm facing upward. Ripples ran across the surface of the blood pooling on the floor. Small beads of blood began to rise, one and then another, until the entire body of essence rose in a swirling mass. It hovered through the air and formed a nebulous globe at the tips of Methuselah's pointed fingers.

The captain's body twitched and his muscles went through spasms. He opened his mouth to scream but nothing escaped. He too was lifted from the ground, his boots kicking and struggling several feet above the floor's surface. His helmet dropped from his grasp and clattered onto the stone, the resounding clang echoing through the hall and breaking the silence.

"I do not require the service of those who only know failure." In a blink, streams of blood shot forth from the hovering mass. They became like arrows, long, jagged shards, crystalizing in mid air. The barrage of bloody needles reduced the orb to nothing and peppered the soldier. Each shard punched through the man's armour as if it were paper. One after another, they perforated his form until over a dozen shafts of blood extended from his neck and torso. His face unchanging, Methuselah lowered his hand and the lifeless body fell back to the floor with a wet slap. The shards returned to liquid and mingled with the vampires own blood to leave him in an ever widening crimson pond.

The doors to the throne room swung open and a pair of desiccated necronoms in ruffled coats appeared and took hold of the body. They dragged it out of the room without a word. |two more nearly identical servants shuffled in and began an immediate mop up.

Just behind them, as the doors were closing, Count Orlov slipped inside. He walked with a measured confidence, his fine black coat and accessories offset by his rat-like face. His hands were tucked behind his back, neatly concealing the six inch long claws that extended from his finger tips. "My king," he said, his arm draped over his chest as he bowed deeply.

"Orlov," said Methuselah. "Prompt as always. I understand you are making arrangements to return to your hold in the East. Before you depart, I'd like you to deliver a message to Countess Rubashkina. Your spy network should be able to transport this information discreetly, yes?"

Orlov nodded respectfully. "Utmost care, my king."

"I require her to release the black fog. Falkrest, a village in Dravinia has been displaying signs of unrest, a pocket of rebellion is forming. Have her put a swift end to it."

Orlov's eyes grew wide, but he maintained his composure. "Of course, my king, but you do realize what this will do? Such swift and finite action will only cause ripples of revolution to spread. We won't even be able to refine the bodies for Mordica's spire. It will leave them poisoned and useless."

"I am counting on it. The humans will deliver themselves to us. Sacrifice one village and three more will ready themselves for war."

"I don't mean to question you, my king, but why not just slaughter them all now and be done with it? What do we gain by dragging this out?"

"The spire is not yet ready. I believe that war is inevitable, so I would delay it. A great king recognizes the strength of his enemies. Agares was once many nations, all in conflict with one another. Voldovis, Traska, Dravinia, Riega and Vaterland. All defending, attacking. Taking land one day and protecting it the next. There is a strong military history in these lands, they are warriors. If this war breaks out too early, before we can finish the spire, it will complicate matters. So we take in small doses, we bide our time."

"Of course. Wise as ever, my king," replied Orlov. "Before I take my leave, I would like to make a suggestion on the subject of the princess."

Methuselah said not a word, only eased himself back into his throne.

"I already have my men scouring Voldovis in search of her. However, I would like to request your permission to employ the talents of a specialist."

The king titled his head back and looked down his nose at the count. "Name him."

"Gutterwink, the finest tracker in all of Agares. Not one soul has ever escaped him.."

Methuselah slowly stroked his beard and contemplated the matter. "That foul creature? Is he not your personal assassin? You would send a deranged killer to find my daughter?"

Orlov shook his head. "Gutterwink has many uses. Touched as he is, he is utterly loyal. He will have express orders not to harm her. Whomever she is with, on the other hand, will suffer as greatly as you can imagine."

Methuselah exhaled a long held breath before continuing. "Very well, but understand this. If your fiend harms her in any way, there will be grave consequences. Am I understood?"

"Of course, my king. Gutterwink will begin the search immediately." A wicked, crooked thing resembling a smile appeared on Orlov's face, his lips peeling back to reveal unusually long fangs. "You will not be disappointed, my king."