The Court of Lords was in full session, the thirty representatives of the most powerful guilds, organizations, and families of the city of Daliarre-Traxx were present, turning the great domed room with the tiered ceiling into a riot of colors. Men, women, both and neither of several different races were wearing the latest fashions, dripping in jewels and precious metals, expensive illusions brought out sparkles and colors or otherwise enhanced outfits. Rich embroidering on expensive material draped the bodies, cut to emphasize, hide, or take attention away from features, embroidered with everything from precious metals or crushed gems spun to thread spun so fine that it was almost ethereal or arachnid webs crafted into shining thread. The stitching ranged from expensive and delicate to expensive and rough, depending on the race, background, and who the being represented.
Only four seats remained empty, even though they were some of the most lavish, placed in the best positions, and would normally seat some of the most powerful beings in the Six Worlds. Four seats that just their empty presence caused fear in all who viewed them, fear instilled by those who could claim those seats.
The first, wrought of blackened bone, chased with silver, inlaid with metals and gems that went beyond precious, and carved into shapes that pulled at the eye, hurt the mind, and displayed things dangerous, powerful, deadly, as well as cold warnings. That grim seat, nearly a throne, had skeletal hounds sitting on either side, the hounds inlaid with precious metals, with cold amber lights in their eyes and a near invisible flicker of bluish flames around their infernal iron teeth. It belonged to IV, whose cold will once ruled the entire Six Worlds for eon upon eon until she had apparently been destroyed at the close of the Lich King War.
The second was a carved throne of black iron that was as stark as it was massive. The arms, back, and seat were worn smooth with age, a scabbard built into the chair itself, and a hook for a helmet on the right side of the back of the chair. The chair belonged to Gor DuMay, the Blossom of Death, the ruler of the Stygian Wave and Lord of the Lands of the Blossom, known as the Stygian Lands to the rest of the world. Gor duMay had been the fist of IV's cold will until he too had been destroyed at the end of the Lich King War.
The third chair was made of silks, inlaid tastefully with gold and gems, more a work of art than it was a chair, although the shine on the cushions showed that it had been sat in over the years. Flanking the chair were two black striped white great-cats, massive tigers with tusks the length of a grown man's arm, their emerald eyes watching the proceedings. Each cat was collared, the leashes held by beautiful women dressed in silver shimmersilks. The chair belonged to The Queen Mother, ruler of the Valley of Grace on the continent of Balikimayn, an Eternal who had fought in the Elder God War before the Great Migration to the Six Worlds. The Queen Mother, none knew what name she had been given by the Elder Gods, had taken the seat during the War of the Nine Cities in the ancient past, but never sat upon it, preferring to stay in her own nation far to the north and delegating her authority to one of her coldly beautiful daughters.
The fourth chair was simply cut, hewn from an oak stump by hand with a knapped flint axe. It had each of the civilized races and the more dominant savage races roughly carved into it, and was smooth with age and use. Beside the chair two kobolds, with long knives strapped to their powerful calves, used to crouch as alert guards but had been forbidden from entering the chamber earlier in the year when the city had ejected the kobolds from within its walls. That chair belonged to the Thorn Lord, the only living member of the Lich King Council, the Eternal Elba.
Such was the fear of the owners of the seats that the chairs remained although they had been empty for the years following the Lich King War. The rest of the chairs were fully occupied by members who listened to the Voice of the Court, who stood on the mosaic tiled floor of the huge amphitheater. All of them had heard the terrible news, that Fraker the Axe was approaching the city. Arguments had flown fast and furious as to what he would be coming to the city for, and a stabbing had taken place when tempers had frayed past the breaking point.
Currently the Voice of the Court, a thin weedy man with a voice like rolling thunder, was reading out the Court records, detailing which noble had voted to expel the kobolds, which noble had spoken out against them, and who had been vocal and avid supporters of the law. The reasonings, which had sounded valid when the law had been passed, now sounded thin as a peasant's gruel. They were small, they were strange, they were quick to attack when threatened, they brutally savaged anyone who attacked a child or a pregnant woman, and they did menial jobs that no human would do which had led everyone to think they could do nothing else.
All of that made no difference now, not when Fraker the Axe was approaching.
Fraker the Axe, Favored Son of the Eternal Elba.
The Eternal Elba. The Thorn Lord. An Elder Lich King. Hero of the Elder God War. Step-Mother of Fraker the Axe and the Wraithkillers. The lone living among the Lich King Council. Eternal and as powerful as the Gods themselves.
Whose chosen people were the kobolds.
The nobility knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that Lady Elba had heard of their expelling of her chosen people, and had sent her Favored Son, Fraker the Axe, to kill the nobility, possibly the commoners, and maybe even destroy the city itself. There were only a handful of beings who walked in the guise of mortals that destroying a city wasn't hyperbole. Compared to Fraker the Axe, only Gor DuMay, the Blossom of Death himself, and Tyrin Ironjaw, the Iron Tyrant himself, were considered worse, and that was due to the armies they had led.
Plus, they were both dead and gone, slain with their hands around one another's throats at the end of the Lich King War.
While Fraker was alive and heading for the city.
Each time a noble heard their name called as one who had supported the law to expel the kobolds, they openly displayed their terror. One noblewoman, from a powerful merchant guild, heard her name called and heard the vile things she had said about the kobolds and chose to drink poison right in the court rather than suffer at the hands of Fraker the Axe. A few nobleman chose to open their veins with their daggers, knowing that the pain was nothing compared to what they'd feel at the hands of the Herald of Carnage. One man heard his name called and ran shrieking about the upper levels, begging people to hide him, save him, do something, anything to protect him from Fraker's, and by extension, the Thorn Lord's, wrath.
Finally, the Court of Lords settled down, and one statesman stood up. Garrelous was his name, of the House of Itremiun, a cold and deadly man who had taken his seat from his father's dead hands after a brutal inter-house war that had lasted over a decade. The Court of Lords fell silent as he walked down the aisle leading to the floor and slowly crossed the waxed and polished expanse.
"MiLords and Ladies," he began, "There is only one option left to us. If we do not defend ourselves, then within a rising of the green moon we shall all be dead. We must remove the stiletto from our sleeves and strike, not openly, but with guile, subterfuge, and treachery."
Some of the nobles looked doubtful as Lord Itremiun spoke, but they did listen.
"We all know of the tales of Fraker the Axe, and these tales all speak of one thing, one thing that we have an advantage over him." Lord Itremiun smiled coldly, his thin lips, so strange to the eyes, stretching in a narrow and unnatural looking smile. "Hundreds of warriors cannot best him, poison cannot fell him, magic cannot slay him, but all stories agree.
"Fraker the Axe possesses less intellect than that of a commoner whelp who has been kicked in the head by a horse." The pale eyes in the brown face glittered, full of conviction. "He can barely read his own name, his speech is low and grunting and he often resorts to the hand signals of the Trade Tongue, battle strategies are beyond him unless they involve a frontal assault swinging his great axe, and he mates with man, herm, and woman of all races, even fey and changelings. He is driven by little more than impulse, than the most base of desires.
"MiLord and Ladies, I suggest that rather than throw wave after wave of guardsman, militia, and soldiers at him in the very type of battle he relishes and that his Step-Mother crafted him to crave in his very soul, we sacrifice what we must, we use the tool that has stopped peasant revolts, restored order from mob rule, and enabled our families to rule over this great city for centuries." The cavernous hall was silent. Everyone knew what it meant, but nobody could believe that Lord Itremiun could be suggesting it.
"Let us all sacrifice what is necessary and call forth the Black Hand of Death." He smiled.
* * * * *
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
Fraker walked down the cobbles of the city, taking in the sights that surrounded him. Statues stood on every corner, graven arches were commonplace, intertwined magics shone and glittered in delicate weaves of artwork that glimmered from pedestals, and in the air gryphons, hippogriffs, drakes, mages suspended by their own power, and flying carpets carrying exotic men and women darted about on errands. The people on the streets jostled one another, palanquins were carried down the street by every manner of bipedal and quadruped creature, carriages slowly moved through the crowd pulled by the mundane and the strange, and here and there a mounted rider pushed their way through the crowd.
He'd been in the city the better part of the morning, wandering around and trying to get his bearings. He knew it would be easier to just get directions, but one thing he always loved was exploring a new city. The sights and smells, the babble of language around him, the heat of the crowds, the buildings and the artwork. All of it was ever changing, wondrous, and something that he loved.
His Step-Mother had always impressed upon Fraker the life and chaotic nature of civilization, subtly warning Fraker away from the permanency and unchanging environments that so enamored the Undying Kings and many eternals. She had always followed her own advice, taking her step-children along when she visited the many different cities, civilizations, and cultures across the Six Worlds.
Peeping got his attention, and he looked down at his waist, seeing the little lizard had pushed itself out of the belt pouch far enough to point with one of its little arms. He looked where the Peeper was pointing to see a trader's stall full of all manner of clockwork wonders. Garden fairies on music boxes that danced and twirled, clocks that when the hour struck scenes rotated by with animated figures, fake monkeys banging cymbals, polished metal kobolds doing flips, and much more. Shrugging, Fraker headed over to the stall to see what had gotten his companion's attention. At his waist the Peeper chirped and pointed, excited enough that the belt pouch rocked back and forth.
The merchant, who had been doing brisk business all day felt his blood congeal as he saw the massive black armored form smoothly exit the crowds that moved past. Very few wore that armor since the end of the Lich King War and all of them were deadly warriors, powerful and steeped in evil and cruelty. He had only seen the armor outside of the Great Museum a few times, and one of the times the woman inside of the armor had been long dead, the thick purple veins under the gray skin of her face seeming to twist and throb with some unholy life and her eyes little more than red flames.
The creature in the armor seemed to have some kind of demonic familiar at its waist, a small creature with different colors of green in a mottled pattern. It was pointing at his stall, at him, and the merchant wondered if the little imp wanted its master to take his soul to feed upon. He felt cold sweat bead on his back as the man, if that was what it was, moved up to the cart. The thing was massive, half again the size of a normal man, and the merchant looked up into a dark brown face seamed with scars, bushy eyebrows over deep set brown eyes, and breathed a sigh of relief that this one, at least, was still living.
The being, which the merchant was sure was a fearsomely ugly ogre, looked down at the wares that the merchant had for sale, and the merchant felt the long practiced sale cadence dry up in his throat. Normally he'd be trying to sell all manner of things to the giant, but its sheer presence drove all thoughts of money from his mind. He'd be happy to just escape with his life.
The little thing in the pouch gibbered and pointed at one object in particular, a wind-up clockwork monkey bearing cymbals that the merchant had imported from the dwarf-hold of Naggas-Shakk. The ogre reached down and pointed at it and the little imp bobbed its head rapidly, still gibbering.
"That? That's what you're all excited about?" The ogre rumbled. The merchant almost sagged in relief. The little imp didn't want his soul, it wanted its master to purchase something.
"How much for toy?" The ogre asked, fixing its fierce gaze upon the merchant.
Hideously ugly for an ogre or not, a customer is a customer. The merchant thought, drawing himself up. If I can sell to the living dead, I can sell to this one.
"It's not a toy, honored guest, but rather a curio, an item of delight and mystery from the Skyraker Mountains, crafted by dwarven smiths in their deep halls and given a life of its very own through the art of gearmancy." The merchant proclaimed, reaching down and stroking the top of the monkey's head with two fingers. "This curio has real monkey fur, gems set in pearls for eyes, steel gears that will last for years, can play six different rhythms, and is guaranteed to delight and amuse."
"I don't know, it seems kind of small, and I don't want to be paying a mage to recharge it after only a few hours of playing with it." The ogre replied, one of his hands making quick motions of possible interest. The merchant saw the motions and knew that the ogre wasn't as stupid as he looked to have mastered the intricacies of the unspoken part of the Trade Tongue.
"That's the wonders of gearmancy, honored guest," The merchant began, flickering his fingers to let the ogre know that someone else, a valued and regular customer, had expressed interest. "It requires no magic to entertain and delight, you just insert a bronze key into its back and carefully wind it up."
"The key better not be extra." The ogre rumbled. His hand idly told the merchant that if it was that much bother, he could just come back later rather than possibly damage the merchant's relationship with an already established and beloved customer.
"Of course not, honored guest, it would cause sorrow to see this marvelous thing stilled after only a little bit of delight." The merchant waved his left hand telling the ogre that his wife most insistent that all customers be treated equally as if they were guests in her home, and so of course the merchant would listen to any reasonable offer.
"Might I see it perform?" The ogre asked, his left hand telling the merchant that of course he would put up a reasonable offer, he had no intention of insulting such a hard working honest man as the merchant.
"Of course, honored guest." The merchant answered, using his right hand to tug a small bronze key from the hooks hidden behind the counter while his left hand told the ogre that the merchant had no doubt that the monkey would of course be quite expensive, but well worth it.
"Is it very fragile?" The ogre's hand informed the merchant that it was a modest little creation, despite its clever construction, and surely could not be that valuable, not as valuable as all the other wonders that the merchant was displaying. At the ogre's waist the little imp kept looking from hand to hand, silent now, and the only thing visible was an inch or so of tiny neck and its peach-pit sized head. Its black eyes were bright and curious and the intelligence in them made the merchant nervous.
"Gearmancy items can be fragile, my friend, but as long as one winds it with care to not over wind it, this item is very sturdy." The merchant let the ogre know that this item was rare and prized even in the lands it came from as he wound it up with his right hand.
When he withdrew the key and flipped the fur covered tail up, the monkey began clattering its cymbals together to the tune of Dance of the Dragonflies while making monkey noises and rolling its eyes. The imp at the ogre's waist began gibbering again and the ogre looked down at it with a strange expression.
Hooked him. The merchant thought, restraining himself from rubbing his hands together with glee.
"How much?" The ogre sighed, abandoning the hand gestures and leaving himself in a position of weakness.
"Thirty gold eagles, my friend." The merchant smiled.
"What? No way!" The merchant realized suddenly that the ogre was talking to his imp, not to him and felt a glow of victory. The little imp made more noises, and the merchant realized that it sounded more like a little bird than otherworldly gibbering.
"Get a job!" the ogre blurted out, scowling at the imp, who chirped more. "What do you mean you have a job? What job?" More chirping and the ogre's eyes narrowed. "Riding around in my belt pouch is not a job, little one." The merchant smiled inwardly, knowing that the bargaining was no longer in his hands, but the ogre now had to convince his tiny imp that the imp couldn't have it at the price the merchant had offered. People were stopping to watch the transaction between the ogre and the pudgy, balding merchant.
"I'm not paying thirty blasted gold eagles for a blasted windup monkey." The ogre snarled. The imp looked unperturbed and made more chirps. "What do you mean that I owe you for falling on you? If you want it so bad, you get the money for it." The little head vanished into the pouch and the ogre grunted in satisfaction, turning his attention to the merchant. "How about thirty silver, that sounds more reasonable." The monkey stopped clanging its cymbals together.
Before the merchant could reply the little imp reappeared, pushing his way out far enough that its arms were exposed. In its little clawed hands was a small, thin rectangle of metal that the merchant recognized as a Novak-Eck tradebar, and from the appearance of the metal, it was solid gold. With a little grunt, it threw it at the merchant, who caught it with one hand, then the imp scrabbled its little claws at thin air, making excited little chirps, trying vainly from where it was hanging on the ogre's belt to reach the windup monkey. More than a few surrounding onlookers began to laugh.
"Hey! That's mine!" The ogre yelled, causing more than a few people to back away. The little imp made more chirping noises, still trying to reach the toy, and the merchant saw the ogre's armored shoulders slump slightly.
"Give him the damn monkey and the key." It rumbled, "Don't forget my change." At those words, the little imp looked up and hissed at the ogre, pausing for a second to blow a raspberry with its long thin little tongue. The ogre shook its head and the merchant was sure he saw the corners of the ogre's mouth twitching slightly. "He says you can keep the change, just wind it up then give him his monkey and the key."
The merchant picked up the monkey, the key still in its back, and wound up the toy, making sure that the little imp could see how he did it. He held it close to the imp, which grabbed it in its claws, pulling it close and rocking side to side. It went from chirping to purring loud enough to be heard over the bustling of the crowd. The merchant noticed that instead of the eyes being beady and menacing, they were wide and liquid, full of affection and joy. He shook himself as the armored ogre turned away and began moving into the crowd.
Before the crowd swallowed him up, the merchant saw the ogre reach down with one armored finger and run the tip of his finger from the top of the little imp's head down its neck while the imp rocked the monkey back and forth, clutching the toy tightly to its chest.
Stygian Wave legionnaire or not, his money's still good. The merchant thought, tucking the trade bar, easily worth fifty times what he had paid for monkey, into his belt.