Upon This Raak

Upon

This

Raak

Published by Gerry Markee

Copyright 2015 Gerry Markee

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Hard is the world!

Sensual sin grows huge.

There are sword-ages, axe-ages;

Shields are cleft in twain;

Storm-ages, murder ages;

Till the world falls dead,

And men no longer spare

Or pity one another

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter One James Thurber

Chapter Two Thomas Jefferson

Chapter Three Seth

Chapter Four H.S Truman

Chapter Five Northrup Frye

Chapter Six Thomas Szasz

Chapter Seven Amelia Barr

Chapter Eight T.S. Eliot

Chapter Nine Richard Nixon

Chapter Ten G.K. Chesterton

Chapter Eleven Matthew 10:34

Chapter Twelve John Dryden

Chapter Thirteen H.L. Mencken

Chapter Fourteen W. Somerset-Maugham

Chapter Fifteen Mark Twain

Chapter Sixteen Ernest Rehan

Chapter Seventeen Charles Colton

Chapter Eighteen General McAuliffe

Chapter Nineteen Woody Allen

Chapter Twenty J. Enoch-Powell

Chapter Twenty-One Winston Churchill

CHAPTER ONE

Human Dignity has gleamed only now and then and here and there, in lonely splendor, throughout the ages, a hope of the better men, never an achievement of the majority.

James Thurber (1894–1961)

I

Zaburo padded through the shadows to the stables. He slipped inside, unseen, and passed three stalls without disturbing the horses. The shadow slipped into the stall with the furry mountain pony. Soothing the pony with his expert hands, he fed her a carrot from his cloak pocket. Relaxed, the pony ignored him as he sat in the shadows.

The dwarf staggered into the dimly lit stables, his hot gold and silver jingling in a huge pouch at his side. He was giggling to himself as he rolled his dice around in his fingers. He came up to the stall, tucked the dice back into his sleeve and gave a loud belch.

Nice of them to give me that last drink, he muttered. Guess it doesn't hurt to be nice to a winner. He leaned against the stall for a moment and laughed. He pulled himself together then tossed the saddle over his pony.

Zaburo gripped his blackjack and crouched low on the other side of the pony. He could see the dwarf's legs and he tensed up. The saddle plopped onto the pony's back. The stirrup smacked the shadow in the back. The dwarf reached down to tighten the saddle, and found he was looking right into piercing dark eyes. The face was covered, except the eyes.

Crunch! Zaburo snapped the heavy blackjack into the dwarf's nose. A muffled groan. The dwarf fell forward onto his elbows into the straw under the pony. Zaburo dropped the sap and whipped out the garrote like a coiled snake. It snapped out and swiftly coiled around the dwarf's neck twice. He grabbed the other handle and with one strong reef pulled both ends as far apart as possible. The dwarf smacked face first into the straw frantically trying to pull the wire loose. Zaburo let the wire go and the dwarf tugged the garrote loose. The shadow grabbed the dwarf's ears, reefed the head left, and heard a dry snap.

The little dwarf cheat slumped into the straw as his body voided itself. Zaburo uncoiled his garrote and tucked it back into his pocket. He hooked his blackjack onto his belt, intently watching and listening. Patting down the sleeves of the cheater he found the dice. Zaburo tucked them into his belt. He snapped off the money pouch and tucked it into his side loot pocket.

Satisfied he had everything, Zaburo peeked over the stall. Seeing no one there, the pulled a small dart out of his sleeve and poked the pony in the neck. The poison acted quickly. The pony dropped on top of the body of the little cheat. He could hear more bones break and he smiled. Zaburo checked the pony and found it was still breathing. Good. He slipped back into the night.

Kuranas was a bustling little frontier town on the eastern fringes of the Kingdom of Darvuun. This town on the farthest reaches of human civilization had been colonized by humans thirty years ago. Originally a military outpost established at the end of the Vilehand War, it had developed into an important hub for future Darvuunian expansion.

Kuranas sat with its back against the wall. The western side was the base of a precipice over six hundred feet high. An unassailable volcanic ridge behind it and an open plain in front, guarded the only large valley for miles that opened into the river plains beyond. The main castle snuggled up to the wall with a horseshoe wall around it. The next ring housed the rich and powerful merchants and then the city spread out. The markets, businesses, and homes of the rest spread down to the flat lands below where a ten-foot high horseshoe wall swept around everything, curling back to the precipice wall.

Outside of the last wall a tent city for the poorer souls and transients had grown into a permanent shanty town. Small bars were set up in huge tents, catering to the wandering mercenaries, adventurers, and crooks. Law was virtually non-existent here, protection being a service of Guilds of extortionists and murderers. But some law was better than no law at all. Gambling, drug dealing, and smuggling were the main industries here, and of course there were the peripheral service industries, like money laundering, property recovery, and contract enforcement.

Here the borders of Darvuun tended to be a little fluid as a result of the continuing skirmishes with the degenerate offspring of outlaws and barbaric half-breeds, the Nomads of Kooran. These barbarians worshipped the Dark One Koo-Ra, an unknown and unseen god. Over the decades, outlaws and assorted scum of the earth had developed into a clannish society of warriors of the plains. They were accomplished horsemen and archers of great renown. The only time they came together was to trade and raid.

To the north were the Draakka, the dark elves ruled under the iron scepter of Immortal Mhel-Khur. Little was known of them, other than they were demon-worshippers. What was known was that they held a lot of territory and did not tolerate humans; in fact they hated them intensely.

Lastly, to the south in the lands called Tangersee, ruled a bestial race of warlike psychopaths called the Raak. They were ugly to behold, having the face of a warthog, including a pair of tusks protruding from the lower jaw of their snouts. They were a race covered in a short but thick coat of hair.

The Raak were the numerically largest race aside from humans on the continent. Between wars, they existed as a loose collection of a dozen tribes. There had been thirteen once, but the Vile Hand Tribe had been annihilated twenty years ago. They had been the Royal Clan of the Raak, but they were gone now.

It was at the end of the Vilehand War that Kuranas was established as a military post, then as a thriving trading post. But the thriving was in the black market, smuggled gems, illegal drugs - including the fabled mauve hashish of Tangersee, and weapons. In twenty years it had grown to a thriving town of ten thousand Darvuunian settlers and soldiers.

The growing illicit trade with the Raak had an effect on the Osiris-worshipping Darvuunians. Exposed to the worship of the Lord of Shadows and the Night, some of them began to openly scorn the official state Osiran religion. Over a period of time, Guilds of Thieves and Assassins prospered in this rough area, wielding incredible economic power and influence. Their influence enhanced the growth of the worship of Seth, and created some concern in the capital city of Nova-Primus.

The military had been co-opted years ago, and a system of controlled bribery, hidden taxes and tithes existed beneath the facade of good Darvuunian government. Anything could be smuggled or bought with the right hands greased or controlled. This was enhanced by the co-operation of the Wizard’s Guild that was the primary large-scale market for mauve hashish.

With the military making money on arms and the magicians making substantial profits from the illicit trade in drugs, both tended to look the other way on other types of smuggling and illegal activity. The main concern of the Darvuunian government was to be a growing military presence on the eastern coast of the River Yax. The government knew that corruption was widespread, but did nothing. They knew the wizards were involved, but society was wracked with dissension and King Andraxan feared a civil war. Andraxan saw Kuranas as the vanguard in a long term plan to expand further east of the River Yax. He would look the other way, for now.

Beyond the last of the ratty tenements that defined the city limits of Kuranas patrolled the heavy cavalry of the Darvuunian Army. Patrols were frequent and heavily armed, which helped to regulate the trade entering and exiting Kuranas. They also were very often involved in small battles and skirmishes with the Kooranian barbarians. Over the years, they had solidified their hold on this area, but there were surprises once in awhile.

Every so often a mad prophet would rise up as a Spirit Speaker and rouse the barbarians into a holy war for one cause or another. The last Holy War had been stopped just outside the city walls of Kuranas with the introduction of Crossbowmen in battle. This deadly weapon, developed initially by the Raak had been improved on by Kuranas' weapon-makers. The Kooranian horsemen might be good light cavalry, but crossbows and heavy cavalry were slowly winning the war.

III

It was in Kuranas that Zaburo Tolchak grew into manhood. He knew his beginnings. He knew he had been rescued from the last remnants of the Vilehand Clan of the Raak. The Vilehand had been slaughtered after their armada had been driven ashore by the Geondran and Darvuunian fleets not far from modern Kuranas. In one of the last of the camps of the Vilehand, Captain Anza Tolchak freed a child from a slave pen. That child clutched the leg of the warrior that freed him. Anza Tolchak became his guardian and named him Zaburo.

Zaburo became the son of Anza Tolchak, honorably retired Captain of the Guard, noted philanthropist, and gem dealer. Zaburo excelled in his weapon training early becoming a master of the longsword, dagger, blackjack, throwing stars, and darts. He was passable with a battle-axe, but it was not his favorite. He preferred the small hand-crossbow that he hid in a holster under his right arm, a rare choice of weapon, and deadly when used by an expert. He was an expert.

As the son of such a prominent merchant, Zaburo began his career as a guard on the caravans that traveled much of the northern trade areas of Tangersee and beyond Darvuun to the east. During that time, he learned the languages of the Raak, becoming an expert in negotiations with the beast men. He had shared the fires of the Crimson Blade, the Festering Fist, and the Bleeding Jaw Clans. He had shared fires with the barbarians on the steppes and had earned their respect as a warrior.

Zaburo also became an assassin. He became his father's son. Anza was a ruthless crime lord, head of the largest guild of thieves and assassins in Kuranas, known as the Kuranas Institute of Contract Killing. Subtle, he wasn't. He introduced Zaburo to the art of killing at a young age and was pleasantly surprised. Zaburo made his first hit when he was twelve, a young thief who had raided his father's garden. He had trailed him through the dark streets, knifed him in the back, and returned a bag of radishes to his father's kitchen.

Anza gave him a starmetal-edged dagger in honor of his first kill. Anza was proud of his son. Moving in the darkness and the shadows seemed almost like second nature to Zaburo. He could climb walls in the darkness almost seeming to meld with the shadows, which mystified Anza. Without the instruction of the guilds, his son developed a wide range of talents in the area of disguises. He drifted among the rich patrons of his casino and charmed them with his glib tongue while emptying their purses with his lighter than velvet touch. He was no mere thief. There was no greater quarry than a creature’s life. He liked finding the cheaters; for they paid the ultimate penalty. Anza saw that ancient wisdom in his son’s eyes and knew he was a killer.

Zaburo never told anyone that he could see heat auras in the dark. People covered in a shimmering red light could not hide in the shadows. It was not something humans seemed to be able to do, which made him conclude that one of his parents had been a Raak, likely his father. The beast men lived much of their lives in shadows and caves, moving about mostly in the darkness of night. Raak had a habit of taking human women as slaves to breed or simply as pleasure slaves. It would seem that he had some of his father's abilities. It was his edge.

By the time Zaburo was fourteen, he had one of the highest success rates in the Guild, twenty perfect missions. He also had one of the highest collateral kills rates in the entire guild, at sixteen. Those were people who were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Some called them innocent by-standers, but he never saw it that way. He killed with ease, grace, and savage cruelty. At sixteen, Zaburo Tolchak was presented the Black Kris dagger of merit at a midnight meeting of the entire Guild to celebrate his fiftieth successful mission. Three years later he was promoted to partner-member of the guild for his successes in smuggling mauve, gems, as well as a dozen legitimate trade deals.

Still, he enjoyed those nights in the casino, learning much from the happy and the desperate, the gambler and the cheat. There is much to be learned from people and the value of money. He had great promise in this land of opportunity.

IV

Smoke filled the large chamber of the casino. Clouds of purple smoke swirled in with the white haze of pipeweed, creating a layer of smog about seven feet from the floor, making the ceiling hard to see. The din of hundreds of players made normal conversation almost impossible. The moans, groans, and cheers of the lucky and unlucky were heard from time to time. The thick mauve smoke from the complimentary water pipes of this upper crust establishment. Only the rich could afford mauve hashish and gambling.

Over near the central fountain a statue of Bast, goddess of cats, was a table of dwarves, warriors slugging back the ale and throwing their money down on a game of dice. Watching the dwarves was a lean man in a loose blue robe. He calmly scanned the crowd, the usual collection of warriors and merchants and upper class sycophants.

Anza Tolchak, the owner of the Sacred Dice Casino and Tavern lightly ran his fingers over his arms and body, checking his wide array of concealed weapons: knives, throwing stars, and small poison darts. He slicked back his greasy black hair with one hand, made filthy by the long heated night and the smoke.

He smiled as he watched the fat dwarf merchant lose another stack of silver on a single roll of the dice. That smile vanished when he noticed the drooling dwarf expertly slip a set of dice from his sleeve and palm them. The croupier pushed the dice to the dwarf. He swept them up with a flourish, and adeptly switched the dice. He was good, noted Anza. The dwarf hurled the dice across the table.

Anza watched the merchant slowly recoup his losses and then begin to take the house. The dwarf rolled the dice a few more times and scored one more big pot again. The dwarf switched the dice one more time and passed the bones to the next player. The cheater accepted a goblet of wine from the hostess, patted her plush ass, and scooped up his winnings. He stood up and bowed to the table and headed off to the bathroom.

Anza scanned the crowd until he caught the eye of a young waiter and scratched his forehead. The waiter made his way through the crowd, picking up empty tankards, deliberately passing by Anza. Anza flashed a quick succession of finger motions with his left hand.

The waiter nodded and returned to the bar, tossing the tankards in the vat of water. He asked for three more but the real message was spoken with his hands. The Host nodded, and when he finished pouring the tankards, dried his hands and went into the back. Zaburo, he called softly into the curtained room. Anza needs you at the fountain.

The young man looked up from his scroll, a treatise on foreign and domestic toxins, Contemporary Poisons, Volume III. Zaburo’s dark hair was slicked back behind his ears and tied in a ponytail with a red cord. His sparse goatee was also dark, but with flecks of red, but his most striking feature were his eyes. His eyes were dark and piercing. They seemed to see everything and give away nothing. He set down his scroll, gulped back a mouthful of coffee, then grabbed a tray of sandwiches and headed out into the crowd. He wove his way quickly through the crowd, touching no one until he arrived at the pillar next to Anza. He offered the plate to his father, who took one and popped it into his mouth. He cleaned his fingers by flicking away the crumbs.

Zaburo read his father’s silent message, then scanned the crowd until he saw the dwarf as his father had described. He finger signed his understanding. Zaburo cleared his throat. Another, sir?

No thanks, I hate tuna.

Zaburo nodded and returned to the kitchen. He set down the plate and took a sip of wine. He knew Anza might not approve. He shrugged a silent, so what? He took a small bronze key from his shirt pocket and opened the flour bin. He wiped off a spot at the back of the bin and slid the key into a slot. There was a soft click as the back of the bin under a flour bag popped open.

Zaburo pushed aside the flour bag, then opened the bin and began sorting through. He selected a wire garrote with pearl handles, some throwing stars, and his favorite lead pellet blackjack. He checked to make sure he had everything, and then stashed the bag back into its secret nook. He was pleased with that place. Two months and still Anza had yet to find it. Zaburo slipped off his waiter's robe, revealing his dark nightclothes and clipped on his gear. He took his small thick sword from the wall and hooked it over his shoulder. He finally slid a matte black mask over his face and slipped out the back door into the shadowy alley.

The ladies were clearing the debris of another profitable night under the watchful eye of Grummah, an unbelievably ugly ogre from beyond the steppes, hired as a bouncer and staff manager. He always made sure that he got his fair share of the spare change found on the floor. He had worked for Anza for years and was happy in this menial, but necessary job. The pay was pretty good too. He also liked it when he got a chance to punch out some snob with more money than muscles. Intelligence was not his long suit but that wasn’t his job.

Anza sat in the dark corner, sipping a glass of the finest vintage wine in the house. It was his favorite wine, a heavy and sweet drink from the northern provinces of Darvuun. Few people ever tasted it, only Anza, a few close friends, and those about to die. When that fat dwarf fool had thanked him for the glass of wine as a parting gesture of the house, Anza had smiled graciously.

As he went over the receipts for the night he shook his head. It was a little low for a weekend, not factoring in that little sneak and his funny dice. It was bad enough that Lady Luck had been overly generous to the rubes tonight, but what the hell?

Zaburo, dressed once again as a waiter, dropped the heavy bag on the table in front of Anza. He gnawed on a drumstick for a moment as he watched Anza open the bag and count the coins. He cleaned up pretty well, five thousand gold total. I recovered his dice and have taken out my commission.

Anza closed the bag and smiled. Still smiling, he punched Zaburo in the side of the head. He stood up and looked down as the young man staggered back into another table, knocking it over and landing on his ass. An empty goblet rolled off the table and bounced and clattered away. Zaburo glared at Anza without understanding. It is the right of the Guildmaster to make all commission payments of recovered property or on assigned tasks. It is not for you to decide on your fee, not now, not ever. Your fee for this task is Guild standard one hundred gold, not ten percent of the goods. The Guild charges ten percent for return; it does not pay it out. You presume much. And sometimes forget your place.

Zaburo wiped away the blood from his ear and jaw slowly. He wanted to kill this pretentious little bastard. He looked him over and read his strengths and weaknesses. Now was not the time. He tossed his money pouch to Anza and watched him take out the fees, leaving only a hundred in the bag, five solid coins of the realm.

Anza tossed him back the bag and smiled. The flour bin.

Zaburo took a slow deep breath and then left the room.

"You (chop) owe (chop) me (chop) four (chop) hundred (chop) gold (chop) pieces

(chop). Forehand, backhand, the heavy black sword dug deep into the wooden post. Sweat rolled down his face and his sword sliced through the night air. Huge chips of wood tumbled through the air landing in the grass outside the practice circle.

He stepped back from the pole and began to weave figure eight’s in the darkness. In his mind's eye he saw four opponents closing on him. Thrusting low and straight he thunked into the wood, imagining that he disemboweled the first attacker. He pulled loose and rolled to the left. Coming up to his feet he sliced up, cutting a deep gash in the neck pole. He imagined the man falling, shrieking as his blood spewed out between his fingers.

He dropped to one knee and thrust the blade over his shoulder. The blade thunked into the chest of the next warrior. He pulled loose and rolled forward. He came up in a crouch. He snapped his right wrist forward; a black dart whistled out of his sleeve and struck the head of the archery target. He twirled his blade through the air and sheathed it smooth as glass into his scabbard without looking. He strolled up to the target and frowned. The dart had struck the nose of the figure. Damn, he muttered. … too low, again. He pulled loose the dart and clipped it back inside his sleeve.

V

Seth, Lord of Shadows and the Night, sat back on his shadowy Throne of Skulls and caressed his long chin thoughtfully. The young warrior in the obsidian crystal went through the kata again. This time Zaburo hit the eye of the target with his dart. Seth nodded with satisfaction. He rose from the throne and scratched his head with his black ankh-staff. His lightly glowing blue eyes made his jackal teeth glimmer in the swirling dark. He passed his black hand over the crystal and the light faded. Fog swirled around the throne; he faded away into the mists. Maybe there was a small laugh, but it was lost in the cold winds from his leaving.

CHAPTER TWO

The tree of Liberty is a delicate plant. It must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants. It is its natural manure.

-Thomas Jefferson

Four war-horses clumped their way over the cobblestone streets, sometimes almost trampling on the reeking peasants too slow or too stupid to get out of the way. Two noblemen in grey plate armor and their bodyguards from the Elite Darvuun Guard barely noticed the rabble as people, merely impediments in their path.

The first bore the insignia of the All-Seeing Golden Eye on each shoulder of his dark blue robe, a High-Lord Darvuunian General. His ram-horned helmet swung from his saddle horn and a glittering double-bladed axe rested across his lap. His golden hair was long, held at the back by a wrapped silver chain, highlighting his severe and angular features. He confidently steered his horse with delicate pressure from his knees into the crowd. He was Lord Commander of the Army of the Kingdom of Darvuun, Braz-nur.

His companion had a single smaller Golden Eye in a golden pyramid on his right shoulder. He was Braz-nur’s younger brother Caran-nur, Commander-In-Chief of the Elite Darvuun, the personal royal guard of the King. He looked very much like his older brother including the hair and nose. His hair was also long, held at the back by a chain of small obsidian ankhs, the looped cross. Over his shoulder was slung the gem-encrusted hilt of his greatsword, Nightslayer.

The other two were the standard assigned bodyguards of the Generals, masked and each carrying lance and mace. The lances also functioned as honor flags during ceremonial displays, but could very quickly become highly effective weapons. One carried the Two Sun Pennant of the Lord Commander of the Army, and the other the One Sun Pennant of the Commander of the Elite Darvuun. They were never seen without their masks and seldom heard to speak.

By His Beard, cursed Caran-nur. This is getting worse every day. What the hell is taking Andraxan so long to get his act together? Caran-nur kicked a peasant in the head and cursed, thought he heard a muffled scream but was not sure. There was blood on his new boots. It will take swords to get this mess straightened out, he muttered.

Braz-nur pushed a peasant aside with his foot. He loosened the war-horse’s reins. The horse chomped the peasant, ripping off his shirt and drawing blood from man's torn shoulder. Braz-nur laughed. All he has to do is give the order.

Caran-nur shook his head. Unfortunately, Andraxan is an asshole. It those damned priests who are getting his ear. It's crap.

The peasants reacted to the casual arrogance of the nobles with a sudden explosion of anger. Braz-nur was smacked on the thigh with a tomato, staining his new pants. The fact they dared shocked Braz-nur. They were getting very angry and he felt the hairs on his arms and neck stand up.

The bodyguards lowered their lances as the peasants moved to block the path yelling and screaming. One pointed his lance at the chest of a woman who was giving him the finger. She shrieked something incoherent and tried to grab the lance. Without hesitation, the bodyguard thrust, burying the pointed tip into the base of her throat. He twisted it and pulled it free.

They attacked him instantly. The mob swarmed the bodyguard, roaring like an injured savage beast. Dozens of filthy hands grabbed at his legs on both sides and tore the lance from his hand. He was ripped from his mount and they tore the mace from his saddle. The bodyguard clanged to the cobblestones and disappeared under a pile of raging bodies, screaming. One of them finally found the bodyguard’s boot dagger and plunged it into the screaming man’s groin.

Holy Fuck! Braz-nur whipped his Great Axe up from his lap and kneed his war-horse into action. He plunged forward, attacking the enraged mob splattering blood with every swipe of his axe. All he could see was a sea of faces and blood. His mount reared and pounded into the crowd. A horse made for battle, its blood sang and its eyes and nostrils flared wide. Hooves crushed faces and teeth ripped flesh. Braz-nur's axe wove a pattern of green death as he summoned its powers from deep inside. He focused his hate and rage. Every blow left hideous wounds that rotted flesh at a horrifying speed for those he did not kill outright. Using his knees to steer, he headed his mount into the open square.

Braz-nur wheeled around in the square; now finally clear of the narrow street. He turned to locate his brother at the moment Caran-nur went down under the grasping hands of the mob. Braz-nur roared in maniacal rage. He charged back into the crowd, throwing himself from his mount and into the crowd. He heard Caran-nur's howl of pain, then his final shriek. He tore into the crowd with the other bodyguard using his metal-spiked mace. Splattering limbs and skulls, ripping open flesh, methodically killing with his glowing axe. Faces were slashed open by his spiked gauntlets. The axe whistled and killed, cutting through the unarmored crowd with ridiculous ease.

The peasants were horrified at the monstrous specters of death and broke, screaming and fleeing down through the streets away from the square, leaving the markets deserted. Dozens were trampled in the panic that ensued.

When the City Guard finally arrived, Braz-nur stood deep among a pile of corpses straddling the body of his brother. His axe had faded and was covered in gore, like himself. He clutched his axe in front of him, breathing deeply ignoring the blood that trickled down his face and hair. The crowd was fleeing down the streets fearing the soldiers and the insane warrior. There was no pursuit. The soldiers set up a protective perimeter around the square.

The Captain of the City Guard bowed to Braz-nur. My Lord, we regret your loss. Let us escort you to the palace. We will do what must be done.

Braz-nur looked up from the face of his brother. It had been smashed beyond recognition. It had been ripped apart by bare hands in a paroxysm of mob rage. He felt like his chest wanted to explode in rage and sorrow. This should not have happened. Braz-nur stepped up to the officer and glared at the gleaming eye medallion of Andraxan around the officer's neck. With a swift chop, the officer's head flew from his shoulders. It rolled away into the carnage. Braz-nur spat on the headless body, blood still pumping from the neck stump and splattering his boots.

Burn in the Nine Hells, he cursed. The members of the City Guard stood in shock and did nothing when Braz-nur and his bodyguard pushed them aside and strode across the square then up the steps of the palace. He swept passed the two pike men at the top of the steps. Still holding his axe in his left hand, he pushed open the door and entered.

Loran. Braz-nur strode across the entryway to the First Officer of the Elite Darvuun who was standing talking to two members of the Imperial Guard.

Loran turned. Aye, First Officer Loran at your command, Lord Commander. The man stared at Braz-nur for a moment. My Lord, you are injured. I thought Caran-nur was with you, he said looking behind Braz-nur. What has happened?

Caran will not be joining us. He is outside. The scum killed him with their bare hands. Send a team to recover his body. He suppressed the outer rage and let the anger grow cold in his heart. He looked down at the axe in his hand and took a deep breath.

First Officer Loran was stricken. His Commander, his mentor, his friend was dead. Anything else you require, my Lord?

Today is a good day for an imperial audience. He looked straight into Loran's eyes. Praise Seth, Lord Commander Loran of the Elite Darvuun.

Loran looked at Braz-nur and smiled. After all this time the call had come. It will be as you command, Sire. He strode down the hall shouting orders and calling the men of the Elite Darvuun to arms.

Braz-nur looked at his bodyguard. It is a good day. The man nodded and fell in behind him as Braz-nur strolled towards the Throne Room of Andraxan, his dripping axe still clutched in his hand.

The air was hazy in the throne room. The smoke from the burning and rioting in the city below drifted in through the open balconies that looked over Nova-Primus. Andraxan sat slumped on his throne of white quartz, his purple robe wrapped around him. His long white hair was loose over his wrinkled face, his beard untrimmed and uncombed. Thirty years he had been king. He took the throne after his father died in the Vilehand War and had ruled for that long. Now he looked like a tired and spent old man.

Braz-nur threw his axe onto the marble floor in front of him. It clanged across the floor hitting the bottom step of the dais of the throne. No one entered the presence of the King, weapon-in-hand. He marched across the throne room. They have slain Caran-nur! Those fucking scum ripped him apart like carrion. He strode across the throne room's golden carpet and stopped at the foot of the dais. If YOU had not tied my hands, this never would have happened! He glared up at the King. He spared a moment for the waste of good air beside him, the High Prelate of the Darvuunian Order of Osiris. He hated this obnoxiously polite asshole. Just looking at him and he wanted to puke.

The king sat up and parted his robe in regal style. I grieve for your loss, Lord-General. He sat up looking sternly down at Braz-nur. You know my policies. We will not kill our own people with the army. These hard times shall pass. With the aid of our neighbors and the will of Osiris we shall come through this.

That's bullshit, spat Braz-nur. They have also felt the effects of three years of drought. They can barely supply their own needs.

Lord Braz-nur, you are speaking to your king. You will accord yourself in the proper manner in my presence.

And you are a blind fool, Andraxan. You surround yourself with blind stupid fools. While you wait, the city burns. We must establish order. Call out the army now.

General, this cannot continue. The King sighed. You are relieved of your post. Andraxan motioned to the two crossbowmen that stepped out of the alcoves on either side of him. You will leave Nova-Primus and return to your estate. These gentlemen will escort you to the door.

The black and green clad guards came down the stairs and stood in front of Braz-nur, their crossbows pointed at his chest. Braz-nur looked around the Throne Room, picking out the sycophants, assholes and other hangers-on. He had been so angry when he came in he had not even seen them. Just as well. They made him ill. Weak philandering fools who served very little purpose in life, they stood around eating dainty delicacies while those outside starved and raged without control throughout the city. They were too stupid to see the real danger out there.

Braz-nur turned to the guard and held out his hand. Asshole remover, Captain.

The guard smiled. As you wish Sire, He handed over his crossbow to Braz-nur, stepped back and bowed.

My thanks. Braz-nur casually shot Andraxan in the chest. The King had not even realized what was happening, not even when the bolt flung him back on the throne. That comes from being an inbred weakling, thought Braz-nur.