Only a few of the pirate ships remained intact, or mostly intact. The pirate hunting fleet was cut in half, but they still pressed the attack. The owl riders were nowhere in sight; perhaps they had run out of things to drop on the ships.
“Captain, signal the ships to draw in tightly, we are going to follow the three remaining pirate craft,” Connor ordered. After seeing much of the fleet burn, he was not too anxious to do anything but head for home, but he couldn’t disobey the tall imposing soldier’s direct orders.
Sails were unfurled and every technique was employed to drive the fleet at maximum speed. Try as they might, they weren't able to gain on the pirates. On each side there were small islands; some were nothing more than pillars of stone jutting out of the ocean floor. Others were small, rounded islands that were rocky with thick palms.
Ahead, they saw a large structure that seemed to hover over the ocean, miles from the surrounding islands. When they got closer, they saw that it was a man-made floating island. Three stories in some places, the buildings were all bound together and were floating on hundreds of individual pontoons. There was a lot of bamboo, with other woods mixed in. The place looked like a massive woodpile, or like toys assembled by small children. When the returning ships were clear, the pirates in the floating city began firing cannons.
“Are we still out of range?” Connor asked.
“We are out of their range. I would love to try the cannons with the rifling. Shall I turn us broadside to the structure there?” the captain asked, pointing at the floating island.
“Please do, and fire at will.”
The lead ship turned ninety degrees as the enemy cannonballs continued to fall fifty feet short. As soon as they were aimed at the island, they began to fire. One at a time, then all at once, a dozen cannons were fired. They were built larger than the models they were copied from; the inclusion of rifling and more concentrated black powder made them more accurate and gave them a longer range.
The captain looked through a looking glass and roared in approval at the damage they were inflicting. He handed the scope to Connor who put it to his eye, to take a look. Splinters the size of a man’s arm were being blasted into the air as shot after shot was successfully fired. Three ships off the island's coast also took brutal, devastating damage. When the remainder of the allied fleet turned to fire, there were soon sixty to eighty cannons firing at the pirates with no successful return of fire. Men were diving into the sea; fires were staring here and there where a cookfire or lantern had been overturned. Twenty minutes into the barrage, the fight was over. The white flag was raised over the island, signaling their surrender.
“Look out for traps but move in so we can take whoever is left as prisoners,” Connor instructed the captain.
The floating city had collapsed under the savage cannon bombardment and was now nothing more than a large disc of burning trash, floating on the water’s surface. Dozens of men and a few women were fished out of the water and brought on board the lead ship for questioning. Not all of them were fighters, but no soft men were among them. Included in the group were five Mavit Tomar. Nicholas dragged them forward and Connor looked at them with an appraising eye.
“There has been a drastic increase in crime and immorality. A cultural and societal decay has been sweeping over the human lands for the better part of five years now, and every time we get to the heart of it, we find one of you,” he said looking at an older Mavit Tomar with light grey fur and short curled horns. The man’s expression showed how little regard he had for humans, both his coconspirators and his captors. “All of these,” he indicated the human pirates, “are going to swing at the end of a rope.” The humans looked nervously at each other, not sure if they should make a last attempt to win their freedom. “But what to do about you? We are not at war with Warfield, with your people… or are we?”
“Your kind are beneath us, meant to serve as slave labor for our plantations and mills.” The older man looked daggers at Connor, then cast his venomous glare at the rest of the crew and soldiers. “You may have stopped this operation, but the rot that has been introduced into your cities and towns will last far into the future. When your kings fall and your people descend into ruin, we will conquer you as it should be. Humans will assume their place, in chains.”
“Your plans may bring out the worst in humans, but we outnumber you at least ten to one, maybe twenty to one,” Nicholas said. “The chances that we’ll be in chains, serving you animals? Not a chance in hell.”
Chapter 25: House of Horrors
Radek looked at the high gates around the keep and wondered if this was the right course of action. Something had to be done, the sense of evil from inside was palpable and filled him with righteous fury. Behind him were the other Paladins, Sir Hristo Syphon, Sir Otgar Isaac, Lady Iovita Honor, and Lady Anastasia Shirin. They stared back at him with the same level of commitment.
“Some innocents will be harmed,” he said plainly.
“We all feel the evil inside that castle. No one there can be ignorant of what is happening behind these walls, especially considering who the deviant is,” Otgar said in his deep gravelly voice. He was the oldest of the knights, his grey hair cut just at the ears. He was several inches taller than six feet, well-muscled, and exceptionally good-looking for a man in his mid-forties. Like all of them, he wore full plate mail, his was dull grey iron, accented with a bronze emblem of his house on his chest and along the ridges in his belt and buckler. He was the newest to be called ‘Paladin’, but his strong faith had allowed him to pass from Novice to Acolyte to Paladin in record time. Perhaps more than any of the others, he had no leniency for those with even the slightest trace of evil. “There are no innocents within the keep. Domina help any who come between us and the subject.”
They all agreed that evil had to be crushed without mercy, but they were not all as cavalier about collateral damage. Without discussion, they followed Sir Radek Oskar to the main gates of the keep. Manning the gate were four guards, professional soldiers wearing a combination of plate and mail armor, each wearing the prancing stallion crest of House Dara. They came to attention when five armed knights approached them on foot.
“Halt, who goes there,” the lead soldier called out.
“I am Radek Oskar. My fellow knights and I are followers of the goddess Domina, and it is our mission to root out evil, wherever it hides and to vanquish it. You may not be bad men, but you protect the worst of the worst.” The guards looked at him like he was insane. “As a blessing, I will allow you to step aside and allow us to pass. There is a monster in the shape of a man inside this place. We mean to apply Domina’s justice, and you need not perish today.”
The thinly veiled threat was more than enough to spur the men to action. As one they drew their swords and took up a defensive stance. Radek gave them a look that was determined, though not surprised. Their swords were already in their hands, but he drew his sword and initiated contact before they could react. The guard who spoke barely deflected the first of Radek’s attacks. The other three guards were ready to aid their comrade but were met by the Paladins.
“Those that shield evil are complicit,” Otgar growled as he slammed his heavy longsword down onto the guard’s thin blade. Poorly constructed, government-issued steel stood no chance against a Paladin exercising his Righteous Tempest ability. For several seconds, he was blessed with two to three times his normal strength. His tempered steel blade smashed through the guard’s like it was made of glass. His sword continued with its considerable momentum and carried on through the man’s skull. In that instant, with another man’s blood on his face and chest and hands, he looked like a religious zealot, like a maniac; more than he looked like a noble defender of the faith.
Iovita swung a sword not unlike herself, thin and strong, sharp and elegant. She brushed aside a guard’s thrust, and with a thrust of her own, he stabbed him in the eye and retreated before he could fall dead. Anastasia faced the last guard, a man about the same height as her, and maybe fifty pounds heavier. Her swordsmanship was very typical of the training given to O’Bell knights. She did not try to overpower her opponent but instead moved faster and with greater precision. He met her opening attack, and because she was just a woman, he tried to overpower her and walk her down. His blows were heavy and lacked any finesse, he planned to get a lucky swing to pass her defense, and it would land with enough force to kill or maim her. Her patience paid off, and when he let down his guard, she was able to get her point under his chest armor. He yelled in pain as the longsword pierced him near the hip. Holding his side with his off-hand, he renewed his attempts to pummel her into submission. She might not have the strength to take each blow directly, but she was able to either sidestep or back away from many of his strikes, or to turn them way, deflecting his power to the side. When he began to tire, she went on the offensive again. Her blade edge drew a bloody line across his left thigh, then the right, and then she hacked at his offhand, nearly severing it. He now screamed in pain and dropped to his knees.
“Mercy! I beg of you, mercy!” Tears filled his eyes as he dropped his sword to the paved ground. Anastasia looked at him, not sure what to do, when Otgar stepped between them.
“No mercy for enablers of evil!” he said matter-of-factly. He brought his heavy blade down on the back of the man’s unprotected neck. Like a guillotine, the razor-sharp steel separated head from shoulders with surgical precision. The head struck with a meaty thud and rolled a foot to the side. The headless body fell forward, leaking blood pumped by a still-beating heart.
“He would not have given you the same mercy that he cried out for,” he said to her as he wiped his blade on the guard’s cloak. Radek had defeated his man and now they were clear to enter the property.
“You didn’t leave one for me,” Hristo said, his sword still in its scabbard. “Let’s get about this grim business. I don’t want to be here after dark.”
“When the people of Cozar find out what transpires in their King’s keep, they will thank the gods and thank us,” Raked stated.
Hristo looked amused, “The common people rarely thank those who bleed for them, for their benefit. Do not expect thanks for carrying out the will of the gods. We do what must be done, and we’ll receive any rewards in the next life.”
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Hristo stepped over the dead and walked regally into the courtyard. The alarm had been sounded and the rest of the king’s men were filling the space between the outer wall and the entrance to the keep itself. A dozen men in various states of readiness were prepared to defend their king and master. Hristo reached out with his senses, trying to find the source of the evil that was somewhere within these walls. The men before him were no saints, but they were not themselves the reason for his coming to the far east of his uncle’s domain.
“I am Hristo Syphon, nephew to King Kel Syphon, and in his name, I command you to stand down. I know you men are charged with protecting House Dara and the Dara clan, but there is perversion going on in this place. A depravity that no good man should abide, much less defend. At least some of you, if not all of you know what Geert Dara does. We, the Paladins of Lady Domina will pardon any of you who drop your swords and leave now. Through prayer and repentance, you may yet find yourselves welcome in Hespian Gardens when you die, many years from now. Do not and you will die today. Where you go after death will be infinitely less desirable.”
The soldiers looked at each other, not sure what to do. They shared an understanding of the crimes they were defending. Hristo’s calling them out on their turning a blind eye to their master’s sins resonated with almost all of them. Of the dozen, two brave souls dropped their weapons and with downcast eyes, walked out of the compound forever. The rest did not dare to do what they deep down, knew to be right and stood prepared to go down with their liege lord.
“May Magus have mercy on your souls,” Hristo said as he launched himself at the front row of men. Calling on his Righteous Tempest ability, he used his enhanced strength and speed to carve his way through two men before having to defend himself. The others did the same, their bodies filled with Domina’s blessings and strength. They were five against ten, but they defeated the Dara soldiers quickly, just as a dozen more soldiers boiled out from the castle interior. From his reports, Hristo knew that there couldn’t be many more. That’s why he felt confident in only bringing four fellow Paladins.
Iovita killed with skill and grace, weaving between multiple opponents as if they were dance partners and one of her father’s balls. She was tall, tall as some of the men she faced; but she was lithe and sinewy, her muscles tight from years of sparring practice. She had adopted the human religion, finding it not too far from what her elven people believed in.
The elven gods, or whoever had only sent the elves Nigide, the god of the dead. The humans prayed to many gods, and their gods would, on rare occasions, answer their prayers. When she met with the black human, Hristo Syphon, he told her about his being visited by the goddess Domina and allowing her to fill him with love and blessings. In what felt like years, but was only hours, she imparted to him a dozen lifetimes of knowledge. He was still a follower of Magnus, but now he had a new patron deity.
With a prayer on her lips, she allowed energy to flow into her, to surround her, and to bind her. If it were dark, they would have seen her pale skin glowing with Holy Fire. She was already the fastest of all the Paladins, but she accelerated to an unbelievable speed when calling on the divine spirit. Her thin blade flashed, too quickly for the untrained eye to see. She relied on her speed, not to inflict bone-crushing or traumatic wounds, but to give her enemies dozens of smaller injuries, often to vital areas of their anatomy. She rivaled Hristo for the number of opponents that she could defeat in a short time.
Otgar had already burned through his enhancement reserve, so he relied on his natural strength and speed. Like most Paladins, he was a second son or cousin to a royal line. In his case, his father was a duke in Tebron. He might have gotten the title, but his father married a second wife shortly after his mother passed and they had a son almost immediately. The boy was to be elevated, when and if the old duke were to pass. He had never been lacking for coin, or the finer things in life; but he knew from the first moment his half-brother took a breath, that he would rise no further.
Otgar was of noble birth, so he would never be called a sellsword, but that was what he was for much of his life. He had lent his sword to many conflicts over the years, standing shoulder to shoulder with princes earning their stripes on the battlefield. His most harrowing battle had been six years earlier when the Lords of Shadow had invaded Xoran and were bent on ending all life. He’d received a vicious bite from a Dragonkin that put him in an infirmary for nearly a year. In his sick bed, he’d turned to gods for healing and a renewal of faith. When he met Radek Oskar, he was already a man of deep belief, and after seeing what he could do, he quickly assented to following the goddess. He didn’t fight gracefully like the classically trained Iovita Honor or Hristo Syphon. Instead, he fought like a street thug, chopping his enemies with strong downward blows, while simultaneously bashing others with his shield. He kicked, threw elbows, and even head-butted a man who was pressing in on him.
Anastasia found herself cornered by two soldiers, each around six feet tall and as thick as mature trees. A defeated soldier lay between them, and his fellow soldiers tried to hack at her without stepping on their friend’s body. The man on her left was swarthy in complexion, bald, with a curly, black beard, and a wicked grin, giving him a dangerous countenance. He saw a woman before him, and he relished the thought of slicing up her perfect, pale skin. His heavy sword crashed repeatedly against her upheld shield. Each blow reverberated through her frame, rattling her bones and taxing her muscles.
The soldier on her right was a sturdy man, though not nearly as threatening as his partner. He wielded a short sword and shield and concentrated on getting past her defense. She could hold off both attackers, but the shield on her left arm was quickly growing heavy, and with the persistence of their attacks, she could not even consider going on offense. She always felt holy power coming from her core and surrounding her like an invisible blanket. She needed a distraction, something to create a separation for just a second so that she could strike. Drawing the light inward, she let it build up till she felt overflowing with the energy.
“By Domina’s holy light!” she cried out. Brilliant, pure light exploded from her and became a flash that was blinding in its intensity. Her opponents recoiled from the harshness of the light and had to pause their attack. Taking advantage, she swung her sword with all her strength at the neck of the man on her right. He crumpled to the bloody ground without even a final scream. The other guard was still stunned and was rewarded with a slash that opened up a long bloody gash on his sword arm. He screamed out in pain and dropped his weapon. He barely got his shield up in time to avoid the same fate as his late partner. With the upper hand and facing only one combatant, Anastasia pressed her counterattack. She was a trained duelist, trained by the best of the O’Bell knights, but she was angry and let her emotions take over. She struck again and again, battering the man’s shield and backing him across the courtyard. When he stumbled for an instant, she kicked his shield to the side, then struck with a lightning-quick thrust. Her blade found a home between his chest plate and his armpit. It sank deeply into his solid torso, tearing through his lungs and heart in rapid succession.
When she had finished off the men, she looked around to see that she was behind. Radek and Hristo stood over a pile of dead soldiers, and Iovita was looking bored. Radek beckoned her to follow as they entered the keep.
He addressed the others, “Hristo, Anastasia, and I will enter through the main entrance. Iovita, go with Otgar around the back.” They nodded and started to walk around the outside perimeter of the building. Hristo looked scornfully at the trapping of House Dara. He’d grown up in King Syphon's castle and this place was a hovel by comparison. There was bad energy from this place, he could sense…”
“I feel the evil here. It grows stronger as we get deeper into this cursed place,” he said to the others. The guards had all gone outside to protect the manor and the servants were long gone, either hiding somewhere or they had left the premises.
“I feel it too,” Radek said, reaching across his body to hold the hilt of his sword. “Be prepared for anything.”
They walked cautiously, each of them now feeling suffocated by the wrongness of the castle. They passed hall after hall and walked through sitting rooms and a small ballroom.
“Upstairs!” Anastasia whispered before heading up a wide staircase.
The trio walked up the stairs, sword drawn and ready. Anastasia peered around the corner at the head of the stairs, then waved the others to join her. The top floor was a long hallway with dozens of rooms on both sides. She turned the knob on the first door to the right and found it locked. Hristo kindly moved her to the side, squared up, and kicked the door in. The frame around the thick wood door shattered, and the door flew inward. He turned and allowed her to enter first. Inside was a small room with a basin, toilet, and two beds on either side. Huddled on the beds were two young girls, each around eight to ten years of age. They screamed when the door had been smashed in and they now cowered and cried as the tall blonde woman strode into the room. They had tousled hair that looked like it had not been washed in ages and had gaunt features as if they were suffering from malnutrition.
“Why are you children locked in this room?” she asked. They began crying and refused to answer after repeated questions.
“Let’s move on,” Hristo growled, then stalked off to the next room. Finding it locked, he kicked the door in to find the same situation as the first. Two young girls lay in their beds, hiding under their threadbare blankets. “Speak up girls, why are you locked away in this castle?”
After several long moments, one of the girls replied, “We are the prince’s sir.”
“The price’s… what?”
“We’re his girls. His property, sir,” she said meekly.
He looked at his feet, finding it hard to meet her eyes again, and he did not attempt to hide the tears that welled up in his dull grey eyes. Anastasia placed a comforting hand on his shoulder as she looked at the children.
“You are the property of Prince Dara?”
“He calls himself Geert. He bought us from the Khonsu.”
She drew in a deep breath, thinking how to phrase the next question. “Does he… hurt you?”
They all nodded.
“Does he touch you? In your private places?”
Again, they nodded.
“It hurts the first time, and every time,” the same girl replied. “Sometimes he has a party, and we must go with his guests. We get whipped if we do not do everything the guests ask if we do not please the guests.”
Radek came into the room, “We checked several more rooms. All are the same. Children from five to twelve or so, boys and girls.”
“It’s pretty clear what evil attracted us here. The rumors are true, and more horrible than I could have imagined,” Radek said grimly. “Let's find the prince.”
They searched all the rooms, finding dozens of children in various states of hunger and physical abuse. They found a massive suite at the end of the hallway, with a bed large enough to accommodate several people. The room had its bath adjoining with another separate room for the prince’s clothing and boots. There were devices along one wall of the room, that the common person might be unable to identify or even guess at their purpose. The knights saw them for what they were—torture devices.
“Sick bastard. It looks like he may have gotten away with his crimes,” Radek said.
“He did not,” Iovita said, dragging a tall, thin man by his collar. Behind her was Otgar with an older couple in tow. He pulled them along roughly by the wrists.
“This must be the prince,” Hristo said, walking over to confront Iovita’s prisoner. He looked at the man with disgust clearly evident on his face. “I feel the evil coming off of you, like the stench of death on a rotting corpse. Which you will soon become.”
“You can’t do that!” the man screamed indignantly. “I am Geert Dara, heir to the throne! Tell them Father!” he said, trying to look over his shoulder.
“This is our home, and you have invaded the royal estate!” the old king whined.
“By what authority do you invade our castle, kill our guards, and handle our royal persons?” the old queen asked.
“Our authority originates from Magnus, king of the gods, and Domina, patron deity of our sect,” Radek answered.
“We are the first to bear the title of Paladin. We are holy warriors, dedicated to the scriptures of Domina and the eradication of evil,” Hristo added. “The taint of evil from this castle is almost overpowering. The things done under this roof are unforgivable. Enough talk, it is time for justice to be administered.” He turned to his comrades, “Take them outside in the courtyard.”
“I am Aretas Dara, king of Cozar! How dare you threaten me or one of my household!”
Hristo turned on the king, looking down at him, “How dare you allow the abuse of children anywhere in your kingdom, much less under your very roof! Your son will be punished, publicly for his crimes, for his sins. If I thought I could, I would have you both suffer the same fate as your execrable child. I will speak with my uncle, King Kel Syphon, and ask that he take the issue of replacing House Dara as head of Cozar. I think of him as a second father, that is to say, I know the man well. I very much doubt that you will be king and queen much longer.” The fury in his eyes was enough to shut the king’s mouth. They nearly shook with horror at the thought of losing their position and power. “When we get to the courtyard, will pray for this sinner’s soul, then he shall burn at the stake.”