Twinsoul, Chapter 10

Chapter 10: Answers

                 

Varcor’s rest had been punctuated by visions of a being of glaring light, who simply glared at him with eyes of truth.  He begged and pleaded with it to stop, claiming he would apologize if he only knew his crime.  He turned away, only to see a silver crystal mirror, reflecting the being in the background as the half-elf he had nearly destroyed.

Awareness returned to him in a flash, and he sat up quickly, hardly aware of his surroundings.  His heart pounded, but more than anything he felt a stinging pain deep within.  He had done wrong, and he knew it.

“I need to know more,” he said to himself, placing a hand to his forehead.  “Something is not right.”

“Indeed, Excellency,” whispered a voice directly into his mind.  Its tone was sardonic and tainted, but there was no malice to it.  The half-orc prince whipped his head back and forth, looking for the source, and found only shadows.  He could see now that it was late at night, perhaps long past midnight.  He was sitting in a bed in an inn of some kind, but he did not recognize it.  A single open window above the bed let in moonlight from outside, but from it he also smelled sulfur and ash, as though a fire was burning nearby.  He leaned on the sill to look better outside, but nearly fell out of bed drawing away from the black horse that stood not ten feet from the window.  Its fiery mane wavered in the night air, and Varcor realized that there was no ground beneath it; he was on the second floor.

“Back, demon!” he hissed, holding forth his right hand, bringing fire to his palm.  He regretted that his sword was across the room at the time, he would have felt better to have it close.  However, his dismay was greater when he realized his glove from Reylyn was missing.  “What do you want with me?”

“Oh, relax,” the demon horse said, accompanied by a strange sound that could have been laugher.  “You really think you’re in danger?  And if you were, are you blind? My head is on fire.  What are you going to do with a little spark like that?”

“Who are you?” Varcor yelled, angry more at his own foolishness than anything the visitor had said.  “What do you want?”

“What do I want?” the demon looked pensive.  “I wish for nothing more than Jarexellion to choke on his arrogant god-complex and be cooked and prepared by his own generals to be served at a banquet in my honor.”

Varcor started to respond, but his confusion mounted in such a way that he was only able to stare absurdly. “Excuse me?”

“This, of course, has no bearing on why I’m here,” the demon admitted.  He bowed graciously to the prince.  “Your pardon, my lord.  My name is Lyxas.  I am here to take you somewhere you need to go.”

“I’m afraid I cannot comply, Lyxas,” Varcor said, “but I have somewhere else I have to go, so unless you mean to take me to Cagar-Tugan, I will decline.”

Lyxas narrowed his eyes.  “I’m afraid this order does not come from me, dear boy, but someone whose flame could singe even my fur.  I fear for the safety of my pelt if I do not return with you in tow.”

“Be that as it may, I do not even know where I am, much less why I would leave here with a demon to go anywhere.”

“You are in Westway, prince,” Lyxas said shortly.  “Your entourage carried you here from the Crystal Caves, being the nearest place on the way back to Cagar-Tugan.”  He seemed to smile dryly.  “Tell me, what will you do once you’re there?  Your father will send you back out to finish the job, and will keep doing so until you have killed the lucky twit you almost murdered.”

“I have no choice,” Varcor said firmly, regretting every word.  “He must die, for the sake of my people.”

“For the sake of our world, you had better listen to me!” Lyxas growled in his mind, mane and hooves flaring.  “You are right to suspect your knowledge, because you don’t have the whole story.  You do need to know more.  I know you do not want to kill this sorcerer, and not for any reason you have given yourself.  No, something deep within is crying out that this is terribly awry, and you will be wise to listen to your own wisdom.”

“How do you even know all this?” Varcor asked, concerned.  “I do not recall ever telling anyone.”

“I don’t know, I guess,” He said simply.  “I happen to know something about you that you don’t, Chosen of Faarthus.”

Varcor glared at the taunting demon.            

“Want to know more?”  Lyxas said invitingly.  “Go back to Faarthusia, but stay clear of Cagar-Tugan.  The silly little girl who taught you should have one more lesson lined up.”

“Silly little girl?” Varcor pondered.  “You don’t mean Reylyn?”

“She’s the youngest of us, even though that bronze liar says he is.”

“Who are you?” Varcor demanded.

“Just a disgruntled demon,” Lyxas said, starting to drift away on the wind.  “And you are not even . . .”

“. . .awake?  M’lord, are ye awake?”

Varcor opened his eyes, bright light shining in on him from the window he was just looking out of.  Standing over him was Kronta, the very image of concern. 

“Ye were yellin’ like ye’d been stuck in the eye,” Kronta explained.  “I came to see if ye were alright.”

Varcor sat up, his eyes wide despite the brightness.  He looked outside to see morning sunshine spread over the small trade town, a bustling marketplace below his window.

“We need to go,” Varcor said, drawing himself out of bed and moving to his sword, which leaned against the opposite wall.

“Are ye sure?  Ye’ve been asleep for two days, I don’t think ye can take the travel,” Kronta said, though he moved out of his prince’s way.

“I can do it.  I have to go now,” Varcor said as he put his sword belt back on, noticing that his glove had remained on his had, even though it hadn’t been there in his dream.

“Very well, I’ll mobilize me boys, tell ‘em we’re headed home.” Kronta started to leave, but Varcor stopped him.

“We aren’t going back to the city,” Varcor said, adamant in his voice and expression.  “As soon as we’re in Faarthusia, I’m heading north to Reylyn’s Lair.  It’s up to you whether or not you come with me.”

Kronta looked at his prince curiously, and Varcor looked back out the window, almost able to glimpse the glowing, blank white eyes of the demon horse from his dreams.  “I need answers, and my father refuses to cooperate.”

Kronta nodded then, as though he grasped the situation.  “I unnerstand.  We’ll follow ya where’er ya go, m’boy.”

“Thank you, uncle,” Varcor said.  “At least there are some who are honest with me.”

There was not an ounce of protest from the four other soldiers when Kronta gave them orders to escort them to the lair of the Red Lady.  After they reached the section of the road that led into the hills north of the Tharkas Mountains, they broke off from the main path that led to the orcs’ city and into the countryside.  With all haste, the escort made its way through the eastern hills and at the end of the day they found themselves in the village just south of Reylyn’s Lair.

“Me boys will be wantin’ rest,” Kronta said as they entered the town.  “Do ye intend ta go on?”

“Yes, uncle,” Varcor said.  “I have waited long enough for the truth, and I believe that is what Reylyn aims to tell me.”

Kronta nodded, understanding.  “I’ll stand with ye, m’boy.  I’d be a sore uncle indeed if I didn’t do at least tha’.”

Varcor nodded gratefully, fully expecting the answer.  He turned and looked to the mountains in the north, reflecting on his dream the other night.  He hoped that whatever Lyxas sent him here to learn would justify his father’s behavior, or he did not know what he would do.

******

Reylyn woke with a start when she heard hooves clomping on the rocks in front of her home.  Grumbling sleepily, she rose from her hoard-bed and lumbered over to the cave entrance, seeing Lyxas waiting patiently for her.

“You are ready for him, are you not?” he said, sounding as though he was concerned for her.

“You’ve brought him?” she asked, looking around.  “Where is he?”

“Climbing up now, with his retainer,” Lyxas said, and she sighed disdainfully, glaring at him sharply.  The black horse seemed to shrug.  “Two is better than none.  I honestly think he wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for that one.”

“It doesn’t matter.  As long as he hears it, I don’t care if half the country hears what I want to tell him.” She gestured toward the Library section of the cave.  “Would you tell our other guest that it is nearly time?  And no games, nightmare, he’s not exactly comfortable here.”

“My dear, I don’t think I could make him any less comfortable than you are,” Lyxas said, trotting off toward the library.  Reylyn shook her head, and stepped out onto the cliffs to breathe the quiet night air and figure out how she was supposed to break the truth to Varcor.

*******

Varcor’s pace lessened considerably after he left the village, making his way up the mountainside with careful determination, Kronta at his heels.  However, as he grew closer to his destination, he found it hard to stay calm, and he increased his pace as time wore on.  He reached the cliffs while the veil of night still covered the sky, but it was only a matter of time before daylight broke through.

He didn’t even slow as Kronta stopped to catch his breath, marching right into the dragoness’ lair.  However he did stop short once he saw who waited for him in the outer chamber.

“It is good to see you, my lord,” Ganash said, his manner stern as always.  “The Red Lady has been expecting you.”

“What in the name of Faarthus are you doing here, Ganash?” Varcor said, taken off his guard. 

“She only said that you would be arriving, at which time she would tell us all we wanted to know.”  He looked to the entrance, where Kronta stood, gaping at him.  “Colonel Baangs, I’m glad you are here.  You’ve looked after him well.”

Kronta remember his rank, and immediately saluted.  “Thank ye, sir.  I didn’t expect ta see ya here.”

“I have a hard time believing it myself,” Reylyn said as she entered the room from the hoard chamber.  “I was certain that he would decline my offer.  It is indeed hard to pry a good soldier from his duties.”

Kronta dropped from his salute to one knee, and Ganash did the same.  Reylyn almost glared at the subservience, and stomped her front paw down, shaking the cavern and knocking loose dirt from the walls and ceiling.  Both prostrate soldiers fell over, and they both looked up to the red dragon, expecting an explanation.

“I have done nothing to warrant this kind of behavior,” she said to their confused looks.  “Unless you can give me a single laudable accomplishment that justifies this blind respect, something beyond the natural accident of me being ten times your size, never defer to me again.”

“Begging your pardon, my lady,” Ganash said as he stood up, brushing himself off, “but you are a keeper of our kingdom, sworn to aid our people when we are in need.  That in itself is worthy of a bow every once in a while.”

She looked away, turning her nose up at the thought.  Something about the way she did it made Varcor wonder what it was that brought on this unprovoked fit of disgust.

“Reylyn,” Varcor said sternly, drawing startled looks from the two soldiers still dusting off their chain mail.  “Where is he?”

“Who?”

“The demon you showed me.” Varcor said seriously.  “The one who told me in a dream to come here.”

“Demon?” Kronta said in surprise.  “A demon in yer dream told ye to come see th’ Red Lady?”

“Aye, in mine too,” Ganash said.  “He called himself Lyxas.”

“Yes, him!” Varcor said.  “Where is he?”

“He is off to give news to some of our mutual friends,” she said.

“Why didn’t you tell me you worked with demons?” Varcor asked sternly.

“The way your father told you he was working with them?” She shot back.  Varcor scowled and she nodded.  “Yes, I’ve been watching him.  I put a scrying beacon on your glove before I gave it to you.  I heard what all of you had to say about your beloved sovereign.”

“Many rulers sought to learn more about demons, after the Horde . . .” Varcor started to argue, but Reylyn cut him off.

“None of them ever summoned a demon!” she burst out.  “It is forbidden by laws, by religious teachings, and by arcane science to even attempt a demonic summon, and he knew it!”  She calmed, trying to restrain herself from yelling.  “You are here now because I wanted to tell you all that your king is, as you have suspected, no longer to be trusted.”

“What?” Ganash said in astonishment.  “Why?”

“If he summoned a demon and lived, it is only because Jarexellion has allowed it,” she answered evenly, though her eyes burned with pain at every syllable.  “It means Toras Voldur is under the influence of Jarexellion.”

Varcor wanted to scream, wanted to blast the cavern and everything in it to oblivion, just to deny her words.  His fists clenched tightly and his teeth ground together in seething, furious rage.  “How can you even make such a claim?  What proof do you have that he is so afflicted?”

“The last time we met, you had given me something to think about.  I pondered the person who was responsible for the demon horde, and how it had been possible for Jarexellion to attempt the escape of his prison plane.  He corrupts first those who are more susceptible to his wiles, and uses their influence to poison the mind of his real target.”

“Who could it possibly be?” Ganash said.  “I have been with my king for longer than any who have been under him.  I would have noticed.”

“You did,” She said, leaning close.  Ganash twisted his face in confusion.  “You hated him ever since you met him, and resent him still for being trusted more by the king in these of all times.”

Realization swept over the general’s face as his mind grasped firmly on the truth.  “Iksol?  The High Priest of Faarthus?  He’s the corrupt one?”

“How do you think he was able to attain a pardon from the temple for his summon? Why do you think he spends every bit of spare time with that boot-licking, sorry excuse for an orc?  That someone of his meager fire aura attained such a respectable position in the hierarchy?”  Reylyn shook her head.  “I was blind to his poison.  I was the only one who could have spotted him for what he was, so it was thanks to him that I was barred from seeing you for thirteen years.”

“Tha’ slimy, filth-ridden, underfed, scum-suckin’ rat-bag!” Kronta growled, grinding his fist into his palm.  “I knew he was no good!  Next time I sees ‘em, I’ll rip out his windpipe and beat him to death with the tonsil end!”

“Enough, Colonel,” Ganash said, the coldest of airs carrying his voice.  “We will deal with his depravity later.  Of more concern to us now is what to do about the king.”

“I want proof!” Varcor yelled, boiling over.  “Enough circumstance, enough conjecture, I want to see material proof!”

Reylyn seemed ready for this response.  “You carry a new sword, do you not?”

“This?” Varcor said, drawing the ruby pummeled blade.  “What of it?”

“That sword belonged to your great-great-grandfather,” she explained.  “It was the sword that was passed down from the first of the Voldur lineage, said to be a gift from Faarthus, and has some pretty interesting history.”

“I fail to see . . .” Varcor started to say, but Reylyn pressed on.

“Like the time it was used in sealing the six demonic gates that opened in the sky one hundred years ago.”

This gave Varcor pause.  He regarded the sword once more, and gazed tentatively back to her.  “Go on.”

She nodded.  “The one thing most people don’t know about Crovas Voldur is that he was at the place of summoning when Jarexellion stood upon the brink of this world.”  She looked downward, as one who recalls a grave injury.  “It was fortunate that he came when he did.  I can’t think of what I would have done if he hadn’t saved me.”

Varcor’s whole body went numb.  Somewhere in the distance he heard his sword clatter to the stone, and for a long time he saw only sad, orange eyes.

“You?” he said pitifully after a long quiet.  “This whole time it was you?  After everything you said, all you’ve taught me, it was you who . . . nearly destroyed the world?”

The dragoness was shamed beyond words, and could only nod her head.

“I won’t believe it, my lady!” Ganash said.  “You must be joking!  Surely, you must!”

She smiled weakly.  “I thank you for your confidence,” she said, her voice broken.  “But it is true.”

Kronta scratched his bald head, looking sad, confused, and upset all at once.  If there was anything he was going to say, he would have said it by now.

“I was helpless to resist his machinations,” she said softly.  “He somehow touched this plane, and gave the one dearest to me a grave illness.”  She looked down at her large red paws, as though she still cradled her lover’s body.  “I am a dragon, mightiest of creatures on Kayledon, blessed with a strong aura, with a fortune at my command.  Yet for all my majesty and power, even the ability to heal could not even slow his poisonous work.  I just woke up one day . . . and my dear Votharas . . .”

She stopped, choking on the raw emotion caught in her voice.  Several deep sobs escaped from deep within her, as she struggled to swallow her sorrow.  Tears rolled down, unabated by pride. 

Varcor felt tears on his own face, without even realizing he was crying.  He had felt this darkness in her before, and could feel her burden more now than ever. 

When she was ready again, she wiped underneath her eyes.  “In my weakness I began to dream of the lost power, gone since the destruction of the Prosperi Crystal, the power to return life to the dead . . . It was all lies fed from the Demonfather.  His corruption somehow leaked into my mind from my beloved.  Every lead I followed turned to dust in my hands.  I became convinced that the disease had taken him to another plane, that I could call him back from the abyss. 

“Crovas had been a friend of mine, almost like an older brother.  He had aided however he could to save my love, and was also grieved of the loss.  I shared with him my dreams of resurrection, my plans to bring Vodalian back, and he warned me that my path would only bring sorrow.  He somehow found out when I was going to open the gate, and came to me just as the final incantations were spoken.  If only I had listened to him . . .”

She gestured toward the sword now on the ground.  “He struck the very magic of the portal with that blade, literally severing the tie between our world and Jarexellion’s.  He told me later that his blade was now tied to the auras of the royal family, and if the ruler of the orcs ever lost, destroyed, or gave away that sword that the Dark King would come again.”

“Then it is hopeless,” Ganash said, despair etched in his stern face.  “My liege has doomed us all.”

“No,” Varcor said.  “That is not true now.”  He picked his father’s forsaken sword from the stony floor.  “Jarexellion may be coming, but there is still the Prophecy.  If I can find the Chosen of Taelri, we may be able to combat him.”

Kronta looked at him suddenly, as though remembering something.  “Aye, there be more hope than ye think, General.  Varcor’ll be the one to drag our sorry arses outta this mess.”

“But where do we even begin looking for the other Chosen?” Ganash said, stroking his chin with one mailed hand.  “I would assume we should start at Solreth, but if news of our activity reached Shae’Ildarae, we would hardly be welcome.”

Flashes of memory came to Varcor the moment Ganash mentioned his clandestine deeds in the Gnoll’s hills.  He turned to Reylyn urgently, his eyes excited.  “My father demanded that I capture or kill a half-elf named Evandel.”

Reylyn’s ears perked up at the mention of the half-elf’s name.  “Do you know why he did this?” Varcor pressed.

Reylyn looked shocked.  “Kill him?”

“He believed that left unchecked he would become a threat to our people, but with his help we could find the other Chosen.”

Reylyn looked angry for a moment, and the temperature in the room began to rise steadily.  “How far has he gone, how deep is his treachery?  Is he so deep in Jaredon’s council that he is blind to the truth?  How did Jaredon learn about the Twinsoul?”

“Jaredon?” Ganash said, confused.

“Twinsoul?” Varcor asked.

Reylyn considered them both for a moment, then sighed.  “Jaredon is the name of the hero Jarexellion once was, if you can believe it.  I have only the stories of an old bronze fool, but Jaredon was a man blessed by dragons, and was a hero among heroes.  The Twinsoul is an entity that came to Kayledon sixteen years ago to thwart the danger that Jaredon had become.  Half the entity, endorsed by Taelri, emerged from a pool west of Tyhal.  The other half, blessed by the Firelord, fell from the sky right above a certain unsuspecting patrol of orcan soldiers.”

Ganash and Kronta looked at each other, then to Reylyn, then to their prince, who stared wide eyed. 

“Then that Bargo bloke,” Kronta said, “he be tellin’ the truth when he says that the feller we just tried to kill be the other Chosen?  The other half of Twinsoul?”  Reylyn nodded gravely.

“Something just isn’t right,” Ganash said, then he looked to his prince, who stood stiffly, staring into space.  “My lord?  What is the matter?” 

“I’m . . . what are you saying?” the half-orc prince said to the red dragoness, trying to wrap his mind around what he just learned.  “I’m not an orc?  Some otherworldly being that fell from the sky?  And I was just meant to kill . . . my twin? ”

“You were raised as an orc,” Reylyn said calmingly.  “Whatever your origins, you are no less the prince of Faarthusia than you were ten minutes ago, that sword is proof enough.  You know now what you are, but you still remain to be the son of Toras Voldur.”

A door flung itself open in Varcor’s mind.  Everything that never made sense before now seemed to fit, and his expression changed from surprise to the blackest rancor.

“Yes.” He said simply.  The Prince lifted his sword to his shoulder and turned from his teacher, his uncle, and his guardian.  “Reylyn, I thank you for this last lesson.  Kronta, Ganash, let us be gone.  We must return to Cagar-Tugan.”

“Why?”  Kronta asked.  “Ye need to go and find yer . . . brother, I guess.”

The prince smiled darkly.  “Before we can see him, I need to have a heart to heart with my . . . dear father.”

********

Cagar-Tugan was startled for the first time in a century when the gate was blown open by a half-orc clad in red, with the General of the Faarthusian army and the head of the Silver Guards as his escort.  No word was sent to the gate’s towers, but neither would any of the guards go to stop such figures of authority, even if they were causing rampant destruction. 

Crowds gathered to watch the march of the Silver Guards as they tromped through the city toward the castle, spearheaded by a half-orc with red robes and eyes of damnation and Darkfire.  Those who were close enough to see whispered that they saw the mark of the king on his forehead, and those who got too close were scared off by the flames that leapt up from the ground where he pointed. 

As the march continued, the members of the Silver Guard who had been on leave or were otherwise occupied when the original five had left stepped out of the crowd to join ranks with their compatriots.  By the time they reached the castle, the entirety of the Silver Guards, twenty fully armed soldiers, now trailed behind the mysterious leader.

Varcor took note of this fact and was glad.  He had noticed that the number of city guards and soldiers in the crowd increased as his march continued. If things went the way he planned, he would need all the extra sword arms available.

The guards at the front gates needed no convincing to open the gates for their prince.  Without pause, save to motion that Kronta and his battalion hold at the gates, he started in, Ganash hurrying forward to take the lead, just as they had planned.

They stopped just before the door to the throne room.  Ganash looked back and nodded solemnly to Varcor, sharing his driving purpose.  The General pushed the doors wide open, revealing a mostly empty room, save for a handful of guards, a surprised and irritated Iksol, and a curiously expectant Toras Voldur.

“My liege,” Ganash said as he bowed, with all the circumstance and gravity he could lend to his voice.  “Your son has returned.”  He then marched up to his own seat, and took his place on his lords left side.

“You went out early just to escort him?” the king said dryly, as though he knew the truth.  “How considerate of you, my good Ganash.  You might have told me he was on his way back, we could have thrown a party.”  One swift motion from the king, and the guards in the room filed out, leaving the four alone.

“I see that you do not bring the half-elf, as you were commanded,” Iksol said, drolly watching as the prince approached.  “Tell us, why this insubordination?”

“You speak to me of insubordination?” Varcor growled.  “Stay out of this, wretch.”

Iksol’s outburst of indignation was prematurely halted by the king’s raised hand and silencing glare.  The monarch then looked to his son, his eyes solemn and darker than before.  “Do you have something to say, Varcor?  Why do you speak to my councilor with such hostility?”

“I have learned much these past few days, father,” Varcor said.  “Without his influence, you would never have ordered me to kill that sorcerer, knowing full well who he is.”

“And who exactly is he?” Toras said, as though quizzing his adopted son.

“My brother.”

Toras narrowed his eyes, and Iksol began to laugh.  “Brother?  How can you even think such foolishness?”

“I’ve told you once to keep your peace,” Varcor hissed, raising his gloved hand and wreathing it in flame.  “Do not make me say it again.”

The raven haired advisor quieted immediately, looking rather shocked that he had just been threatened by the prince.

“My dear boy,” the king said, rising from his seat, “you still have not answered him, and I wish to know why as well.”

Varcor looked at his father in surprise.  “You knew?”

“What makes you think it was his idea?” Toras said, stepping down from the dais.  “Although his position in the temple hierarchy was useful in achieving my goals, he knew as little of the truth as you did, Varcor.”

Varcor backed off, and glanced at the thrice shocked and baffled Iksol.  “But, it was him!  He was corrupted by . . .”

“There is no corruption here, my son,” Toras said.  “My planning has been perfect up until now, and you will not fail me.”

“But he was the Chosen of Taelri!” Varcor bellowed.  “How could you even think of such depravity?”

“The Chosen?” Iksol blurted.  “You never told me that!”

“You did not need to know,” the king said calmly to his advisor.  “The plan would have been the same, even if he wasn’t.  That sorcerer is indeed powerful.  Now I’ll just have to find someone else to do it.”

“Why?” Varcor begged.  “Why did you order me to kill the other Chosen?”

“It is simple,” Toras began.  “For too long have I watched my people, our people be dismayed by those we showed nothing but honor.  We must prove to them that the orcs are strong, worthy of praises of men and elves.  You are among the greatest of our kind, Varcor.  As the chosen, you are destined to destroy the demon lord, Jarexellion.  If there is no other Chosen to claim the victory . . .”

Varcor stared, horrified and repulsed.  “You cannot mean that.”

“I had seen that he was indeed powerful, but I wasn’t sure if he was indeed the second Chosen,” Toras continued.  “If I found out he wasn’t, then his arcane power would have been useful in bringing the Darkfather forth.  If he was, then he would only be insurance of Jarexellion’s demise, to be dispensed with afterward.”  He raised his fist.  “Our glory cannot be shared, or all that we seek to become will be diminished.”

Feelings of disgust and betrayal broiled within Varcor.  He had believed that his father was a great man, a strong ruler, and a beacon of hope to all orcs.  All those hopes were now crushed beneath the heel of the same man.

“Now, my son,” the king said, holding his hand out, offering to share his dream.  “Fulfill my request, and destroy your brother.”

Varcor looked into his fathers eyes, seeing only the deepest of despair behind them.  His face twisted in anger, and he glared back in determination.  “The Twinsoul is all that stands between this world and destruction.  You have no right to condemn the world for your twisted view of glory.”

“You will do as I say or be pronounced a traitor to all orcan peoples,” Toras demanded, his voice leaving no room for argument.

“So be it,” Varcor said quietly, bringing flame to his hand once more.  Toras barely had time to widen his eyes before his son thrust a column of flame into his chest, blasting him backward into the wall, crashing through the throne as he went.  Iksol stumbled over, tripping over the dais and landing prone on the ground.

“You are both traitors to the wellbeing of Kayledon,” Varcor announced ardently.  “May Faarthus have mercy on your souls.”  With one final glance to Ganash, who nodded his approval, Varcor turned and stomped out of the room, blasting the door down with another fireball.

The orc king stood up moments after Varcor left, roaring at his son’s defiance.  He charged out of the room, just in time to see the prince of Faarthusia take his family sword, lined with flame, and cut through the front gate.

********

“I can see things went as well as can be,” Kronta said as Varcor literally burst out of the castle gate.  “We be ready for whate’er comes, boy.” The whole of the twenty five soldiers under his command saluted the prince as he came forth.  The crowd seemed to have grown, and his dramatic entrance did not help to thin it.

“This is true, but you may not want to come with me,” Varcor said.  “You will be branded traitors.”

“The Silver Guard is what protects Faarthusia’s royal family,” Kronta said, unsheathing his axes.  “I can’t be doin’ anythin’ less than followin’ ye; tha’ would be abandonin’ me post.”

Varcor nodded and managed a genuine smile.  “Thank you again uncle.  It is time to leave.  Make a path through the crowds.”

“Aye, sir,” Kronta said, and began barking orders to his men.  The well-trained soldiers set a perimeter around the prince, and began to spearhead through the crowd.

********

Toras marched past the guards to his room, flanked by his general and his advisor, both of whom followed just to keep his majesty in sight.  He stomped over to the balcony, and scanned the crowd below for his son.  He spotted the white haired, red robed young half-orc, surrounded by twenty or more soldiers.

“Soldiers, seize that boy!” he bellowed, drawing the crowds attention.  “He is a traitor to the crown, and is armed and dangerous!  Bring him to me!”  Dozens of guards began to swarm toward the prince and his escort.

But the Silver Guard did not relent in their duty.  As Varcor marched on, they fought off the soldiers of the city, scattering the crowd and causing mass panic.  Orcan citizens scrambled out of the armed escort’s path, and orcan soldiers did everything in their power to both quell the growing chaos and confusion and hinder the progress of the prince.  Even so, the Silver Guards were the finest trained soldiers in the orcan army, hand picked by the king himself and trained by the brilliant warrior Kronta Baangs.

Brimming with outrage, Toras half turned to Ganash.  “Do something!  Bring back my son!”  He turned back to watch the spectacle below, then opened his eyes wide in horror.

Ganash stood at his back, his sword sticking cleanly out through the king’s chest.

“I serve only the Sovereign Lord of Faarthusia and the Will of the Mighty Firelord,” Ganash growled.  “I do not take orders from madmen.” 

He removed his sword from the king’s back, letting him fall to the floor in a heap.  He turned and started to leave, regarding Iksol as he left, glaring in contempt.

“You will hang for this,” Iksol promised to the general’s back as he rushed to his king’s aid.  Ganash did not turn and reply, but lifted one hand in a rude gesture.

********

Varcor was glad when he heard a call for the battle to cease from a familiar stern voice as he approached the front gates.  He turned to see Ganash rushing up to meet him, roaring out orders to the confused soldiers.  Varcor told the guards at the rear to let him through as the general subdued several of his soldiers with the flat of his blade.

“I didn’t think you’d make it,” Varcor said. 

“I just had to give your father my resignation,” Ganash explained.  “Iksol has stayed behind to see him through.”

Varcor looked up to the castle from the gates, to the balcony.  He could just make out Iksol lifting the king up onto his shoulders, trying to get him away from the balcony.  Just before they exited, he caught his father’s eyes.  Toras Voldur glared with unnatural malice at the boy he called his son, who returned the look with anger borne of injustice and righteous damnation.

In silent agreement to disagree, the king retreated into his quarters, and the prince turned and left Cagar-Tugan, not once looking back.