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throne of the dark king
chapter ten

Written by Alex Hera

“This is our final stand,” said Adair. “We must take down this foul creature.”

“You want to fight? With what?!” exclaimed Bruno.

“I still hold a sword in my hand, do I not?” said Adair. “Bruno, run for the trees. Florian, you distract the demon and then follow Bruno.”

“I have just the thing, though usually the bright red clothes are enough,” the jester joked.

The dragon huffed. There was no time to argue. Florian snatched a small, round object from under their hat and tossed it at the ground. It burst into a plume of smoke, obscuring the duo from the demon’s view. Bruno’s feet felt as heavy as lead, and he was unsure if he could find the courage to do what was required – but the dragon let out a piercing shriek, not from a mouth, but from somewhere deep within its body – and without thinking, he scampered towards the treeline with Florian. Adair emerged from the smoke, the magical sword in hand once more. His finger drifted to the trigger and it roared to life, teeth spinning and metal glowing a brilliant blue. He struck at the sable leg of the dragon, and though one tooth chipped, it sliced into the creature’s flesh. It sounded as if the sky itself was screaming, sound coming not from a single source but from all around him.. A tendril materialized from the pale demon’s torso and shot dozens upon dozens of yards towards Florian, wrapping around their neck. The jester gasped horribly, suffocated by the faceless dragon. Before Adair could make a move, the tendril twisted, and so too did Florian’s neck, their life ending with a gruesome snap.

Adair’s eyes darted towards Bruno, still bounding towards the forest in terror, and knew he had to buy him time, in the hopes that perhaps one of them would survive to tell the King. In a final act of desperation, he sheathed the sword, leapt onto the dragon’s leg, and began to climb. Its flesh was both supple and rigid, warm and cold, undulating constantly as he struggled to keep his grip. The twisted monstrosity shook and flapped its wings, hovering above the ground. Its limbs began to contort, sliding through its flesh into different positions without resistance. The leg Adair had grasped onto bent upwards, and just before he slipped, he took the opportunity to leap onto the creatures’ back. He landed with a thud, and swiftly drew his dagger. The flesh continued to shift, and a ripple under the surface of its skin signified a contortion of the creatures body – and in Adair’s mind, perhaps a weakness.

He drove his dagger into the ripple. It didn’t pierce the flesh, but black fibrous strands shot out, multiplying at an alarming rate, wrapping their way around the dagger and soon reaching up to tickle his hand – but they were strong enough to hold the dagger in place. Adair gripped it to keep from falling off. He glanced down, noticing that they were now hundreds of feet above the ground. He hoped there had been enough time for Bruno to escape. With one arm, he struggled to draw the chainsword once more. The strands moved up the hilt of his dagger and wrapped around his hand. A shooting pain coursed through his body. He freed the sword from its sheath and activated it. His veins felt as if they were boiling and his brain like it was melting. Blood streamed from his tear ducts. The buzzing noise of the artifact sounded dull and distanced, his life fading away. His grip loosened as he felt something worming its way into his mind – an intrusive presence which quickly gave way to an incomprehensible but fervent voice.

With his last moment of lucidity, he lifted the chainsword above his head and brought it down on the dragon’s back. Another tooth chipped off and it looked as if it almost phased through the flesh of the twisted monstrosity. The wound sent its black blood spraying across Adair’s face. His vision faded as he watched the teeth rotating around and around the blade, left to right, left to right. His mind went silent and his head drooped, falling onto the blade. His head separated from his neck, and he fell serenely towards the ground.

Bruno collapsed underneath a tree and heaved, unable to press on after sprinting faster than he thought humanly possible for several minutes. He prayed that it was enough, and collapsed onto his back. Perhaps he would make it after all, he thought. He tried not to let his thoughts drift to Florian or Adair. Not now. Not when he’d already experienced so much horror. He just needed to rest.

That was, of course, not meant to be. As soon as he let his eyelids fall closed, he felt the familiar sensation of being pulled through space. He shot upright as the sun dimmed and the matter around him stretched. He blinked once more, and when he opened his eyes again, he could see the entire kingdom. He wondered momentarily if he had gone to the heavens but the thought was fleeting, for in truth, he was falling. Alarming as it was to be spinning in circles as the ground grew nearer, his panic left him for once. There was nothing left to worry about. The outcome was decided. The wind rushed past him, and he wondered how much the impact would hurt, or if it would even last long enough for his body to feel it. Perhaps it could be considered a merciful death compared to those of his friends. But as soon as he wondered why he had been chosen for mercy, he heard a snarl from above, and knew that he was not being spared. As he spun around and around, he caught glimpses of the flying demon diving towards him. Tendrils protruded from the dragon’s torso, and while he wasn’t sure if he could trust his eyes due to the blurred glimpses, it looked as if it had a thousand arms. The crooked, faceless man with wings grew larger and larger, and the arms shot towards him, wrapping around each of his limbs, holding him in place long enough for him to get one peaceful glimpse of the green Earth below him – before the arms all pulled in opposite directions, and ripped him into pieces.

In the throne room, King Ekkehard gazed emptily from his seat of power, bored without his jester to entertain him or his scribe to give him reports on the land. He ignored the sinking feeling in his stomach, caused by the fear that the Knight would keep true to his word and raze his Kingdom. His last hope was his least favorite son – and that made him quite uneasy. His boredom was interrupted when the large wooden double-doors flew open, wind whistling as leaves and sticks blew through the door. Daylight streamed into the throne room and specks of dirt drifted on the breeze, contaminating his royal garments.

“Shut that!” he shouted at one of his servants. He didn’t quite remember his name, but it was unimportant, of course. The scrawny man strained against the door on the right, struggling to get it to close even an inch. Ekkehard shielded his face from the debris flying at him, until suddenly, something cold and wet landed in his palm with a slap. He had nary a second to glance at it, recognizing a dripping chunk of red meat, before a dozen more flew at him. The stone brick walls appeared to bend in on themselves and the stained-glass windows shattered. A shrill tone entered his ears and his vision blurred. More bloody pieces – some larger, like an arm and an ear – were carried in on the wind, slamming into the wall behind his throne.

The room went motionless. His servants cowered in terror and shock. The King looked down at himself, drenched in blood – and then at the floor in front of his throne. He saw the corpse of his son, his clothes soaked in crimson from a gaping wound in his chest. Next to him laid Adair, his neck a gaping hole and his head feet away. Hesitantly, he let his eyes drift to the body of his jester, neck bent at a vexing angle.

The King knew that his end was near too, and for once, he felt a twinge of regret.

Art by Sage / HerbalSpecialTea