Beyond the Dragon Doors

It started off as a medieval fantasy version of Waiting for Godot set in the realm of the 8th Age. I'm not really sure if the finished product bears that description anymore. As always you can find the other great entries to this week's Flash Fiction Challenge at Chuck Wendig's terribleminds.
Feel free to leave a comment and please to enjoy!


In the year of the Prophet Giames, 1282

    In the fortress-city of Rhea, a bastion of Prizraki strength in the increasingly hostile and rebellious north of Secunda, lies the Palace of the Conclave. Deep within this palace, past many guards and barricades, is a room where the highest Prizraki Lords dwelling on the Second Continent meet twice a year to direct the course of their great Crusade against the false prophet and his legion of followers. These wise lords of a foreign empire sit at the ancient Stone Kings Table in a room locked and protected by the Dragon Gates, large metal and stone doors that bore the relief of a great dragon upon them. There, in their consummate and communal wisdom, advise Grand Prince Pietrov IV, the Voivode of Voivodes, of how best to wage his war for control of Secunda. That is how the heralds and the priests of the Prizraki Empire tell it. Of course there are rumors to the contrary. 
   
    "He's taking his sweet damned time," Prince Rivka said aloud, to everyone and no one in particular. The other gathered lords did their best to ignore his complaining. They were well used to the Prince's temerment, though they mostly tolerated it because he was the third son of the emperor and cousin to the Grand Prince. "He's been keeping us waiting for hours now, with no word or messenger to tell us how long he will continue to be."
   
    "I'm starting to believe our great Voivode General forgets we are his peers,"Rivka continued, "and not some motley band of common foot soldiers under his command."

    "He'd be lucky if we were under his command," Grand Baron Zoktair snorted. Out of all of them, the Baron had spent the least amount of time in Secunda and had the greatest amount of contempt for the people, culture and traditions there. He hadn't even bothered to learn the local languages, not even the common dialects. "I wouldn't be surprised if half the Northern Legion were infected by the heresy already. Most of them aren't even Prizraki, but baseborn local shits.Can't know where their loyalty lies."

    "A rusty saw is of no use to the woodsmen," High Exarch Tzesarvic piped in. No one was certain if he was quoting scripture or not.
   
    "We will not hold Secunda if we continue like this," Baroness Elena said. She was Pietrov's second wife and half his age, but that did not mean she was meek. She was as fierce as her husband when it came to matters of the realm. "The breakdown of the rebels alliance was pure luck, one we might not get again. We need to consolidate our gains and try to win back the support of the people."

    "Agreed," Baron Gubanov said. Although born across the sea in Prima, Gubanov had grown up among the people of Secunda. He felt he knew them better than anyone at the Conclave, even the It's time we stop bullying the local people here and stop those decrees that are clearly not working."

    "What are you suggesting then?" Zoktair spat, pointing his finger at Gubanov like it was a flaming sword. "That we end the pogrom? Let the heretics continue to mock the Almighty with their debaucherous ways? Perhaps we should all put down our swords and embrace them and the rest of the rebels like long lost brothers and sons?"

    "Blasphemy," the High Exarch shouted, spittle flying from his mouth. "Pure and utter blasphemy. I will not hear it."

    "The plan has some merit," Elena said calmly. "Back in the homeland we let the pagans on the fringes of the Empire live their lives in peace so long as they bend the knee and give oaths of loyalty to the Emperor. Why couldn't the same be done here?"
   
    "Good lady, I apologize but I fear your sex must be getting the better of your intellect," Tzesarvic said, shaking his head. "To be shown the truth of creation and to firmly deny it as the heretics have done is the greatest sin possible. The fact that they've turned their backs on the Esher and follow the flashy words and empty promises of a false prophet is akin to spitting in the face of God Himself. No tolerance or mercy can be given here."

    "I'm not certain of God, but I know you're doing a wonderful job of spitting in our faces," Rivka said. He made a show of wiping his face with his sleeve.

    "You insolent little --- if you weren't the son of..."

    "But I am old priest and you had damn well remember it. My father is not a young man and when he dies..."
   
    "When he dies one of your many brothers will be emperor," Zoktair interrupted. "Not you."
   
    "You'd better pray that's true Baron for if I do become emperor my first act will be cutting off your fat pompous head and mounting it on a pike in my dining room."

    "Do you really think I'm afraid of you, boy?" Zoktair said, getting to his feet. "You, who can't even hunt down a pack of fucking rebels in the woods and you think you can take me on? I'll strangle the life out of you first you piss-ant little..."

    "Gentle lords enough," Gubanov said, his voice loud enough to echo in the chambers. "This bickering is pointless. Every time this council convenes we do nothing but argue over petty strifes. I shouldn't have to remind you that we may still lose this war, yet we continue to squabble like children. If it weren't for the Voivode..."

    "Who is still not here," Rivka said.

    "Thank you, o great oracle" Zoktair said. "Please, regale us with more of your wisdom. Does the sun really rise in the east and set in the west? Does bathwater really clean one's stink? Pah! If you were as good at catching rebels as you were bandying about and wasting our time this war would've been won long ago."

    Rivka's rebuttal was cut off by the booming sound of the dragon doors opening. The lords turned to look, expecting to see the large, glaring form of the Voivode framed against the doorway. Instead they were met with the near cowering form of an army messenger, tired and out of breath.

    "My lords..." he wheezed.

    "Yes, what is it boy?" Rivka growled. "Spit out your damned message already. No doubt news that my dear cousin shall not grace us with his presence for yet another day.

    "Stop bullying him Rivka," Elena scolded. "Give the boy a chance to catch his breath and speak."

    "It's the Voivode, my lords," the messenger said. "He...he's..."

    "Yes?" Gubanov said. He could feel his heart racing and the small dark chill up his spine that heralds dark news.

    "He's dead my lords. Felled in a rebel ambush on the road to Rhea."

    The messenger continued on, filling in the details of the Voivode's death to the demanding lords.. But Gubanov didn't listen. He couldn't. He could only look about the room, wondering what the future held in store now. Pietrov's son was still a babe. One of them would have to become Regent until he came of age and he knew the Conclave would not survive the decision. He wondered if Prizrak itself could. Before he knew it he was walking past the lords, past the messenger and past the dragon doors, into the long winding hallway of the palace. He was halfway down the first corridor when he heard the real shouting and yelling begin.

The Last of the Silver Brotherhood

Another flash fiction challenge from Der Wendig over at his awesome blog terribleminds. The challenge was to completely fuck with a character, drag him through the mud and do everything you can to break him.
I think I might've succeeded on that one. 
This story is a little different from the other flash fiction, though. It's the first one posted on this site that actaully relates to 8th Age, the fantasy setting I'd created that got me wanting to write fiction in the first place. For the record it's not related to Paragon or The Tantalus Company, but it definitely takes place in the same world and shares many of the same themes which is why I created to 8th Age Apocrypha section for it and others like it.
As always please leave any and all comments and please to enjoy!

             Felexas gasped when the blunt end of his tormentor’s spear smashed into his skull. Pain flooded through his body but he refused to scream out. He would not give his bastard jailers that satisfaction.

               

“I’m not telling you whoresons anything,” he spat out. One of his teeth came out as well. “You’ll get nothing from me.”

               

                They slammed their spears into him again as a response. This time though he didn’t have the strength to respond. He could only lay and rest his cheek against the cold wet floor of the cell he was being held captive in. He felt his own sweat and blood roll drip off and pool in a puddle beside him. They spat on him one last time before they left, leaving him to the dark. His body was worn from his lack of food and sleep and the daily barrage of beatings. His muscles ached with a pain he’d never known was even possible before now. Still though, his body’s pains were as nothing compared to the pain inside of him, the suffering he felt within. He did not know if his liege lord was safe.

He was a proud member of the Silver Brotherhood, those patriots sworn to protect and serve Asam ap Mirh, the great liberator of Secunda and protector of the faithful.  Through his brilliance Mirh had rallied the Auric kingdoms and forged them into a weapon to strike at the apostate Prizrakis and their false idols before driving them into the sea, back to their desolate lands.  At the time it seemed as if paradise had come to the lands of Secunda, as all hailed and revered Mirh as if he were the prophet come again. Now though, barely five summers after the great victory against Prizrak, the paradise once promised was but a dream unfulfilled, and the faithful squabbled and feuded amongst themselves. There were many who prayed for peace, and many more who called to Asam ap Mirh to seize power and restore order to the realm as a new High King.

Though he knew not his liege lord’s mind on the matter, Felexas hoped that he would follow the latter course and unite the Auric nations into a single Realm devoted to the True God’s teachings. He had been a member of the Silver Brotherhood and had guarded Mirh’s life dearly for nearly three years now, and he loved his master as a son loves a father. The way the man commanded respect in a room the moment he entered it without even saying a word, the manner with which he commanded those beneath him, as if he were making a request rather than an order. The way he could look at you and make you feel as if you were the only person in the room who mattered. Asam was a god in Felexas’ eyes and heart, though he knew it was apostasy to even hold such feelings for  a mortal man.

 Felexas had no one else in the world; all of his family, his parents, his uncle, his sister, had been killed by the Prizraki, crucified for refusing to renounce their beliefs during the war. Just like them, he would not renounce or give in to his captors, whoever they were. He would stay forever faithful to his lord, even if it cost him his life. He would expect the same of any and all of the Silver Brotherhood.

A bright flash of light hit Felexas’ eyes, caused him to wince and squint as he made out three figures open the door and enter his cell. Two of them were the guards while the other was a tall, lean man, richly groomed.  

“It’s no use, m’lord,” one of the guards told the well dressed man. “We’ve been trouncing him for hours and he hasn’t broken. I don’t think we’ll be able to force him to fess.”

“A pity that,” the man replied. He accidentally stepped in shit, made a disgusted face and wiped it off on Felexas’ face. “A confession from him would have quelled any suspicion and lent credence to our story. As it stands we’ll just have to pin the murder on this silver brother. All the rest of them are already dead.”

A cold sinking feeling emerged in Felexas’ gut, and it seemed like his cell around him was spinning.

“What are you saying? Why have you done?” Felaxas’ said, and grabbed onto the well dressed man’s leg. The man kicked his hands away, and Felaxas was too weak to resist the beating. He did however keep yelling at the man, demanding answers he wasn’t given.

Finally the well, dressed man ordered them to stop. He looked down at Felaxas with an expression on his face that was equal parts loathing and disgust.

“We can’t have him howling out during the execution. The people might become suspicious if they hear him.” He scratched his gin with his finely gloved hand while he pondered what to do.  “Cut out his tongue and then get him to the executioner.”

He tried to fight back but failed as one of the guards grasped him and held his mouth open wide while the other drew a knife. He felt the the blade tear into the muscles of his tongue and the wash of his own blood fill his mouth and flood down his throat, nearly choking him. He tried to scream out but all that came was a rush of bile. They wagged his own severed tongue in front of his face, letting him stare in horror at it before they threw it to the ground and stomped on it like just another piece of shit. Afterwards, he barely felt them grasp him by the arms and carry him out of the cell.

He heard the crowd’s roar before he ever saw them as the guards dragged into the light of day and into the grand city forum of Deamoth.  At first they looked like nothing but a multi-colored, bobbing  sea, but as his eyes adjusted to the sunlight after so many days of darkness he saw that they were nothing more than an angry, hate filled mob eager to see blood spilt this day. The guards threw him onto the raised wooden platform before the crowd.  The city magister and another man stood there as well and Felexas recognized the other man as Veronus Tremplie,  the High Master of the Alchemist Guild and one of Asan ap Mirh’s closest allies. His confusion mounted as the shouting of the crowd turned to a crescendo so loud he could scarcely think. Surely Tremplie would stay his execution and put an end to this farce. Why would he risk offending his greatest ally by killing one of his bodyguards. His heart sank when he saw Tremplie smile and greet the well dressed man as he walked onto the platform and stood beside them. The magister smiled as well and stood forward with his hands raised, urging the crowd to silence.

As quiet fell over the city forum Felexas steeled himself, found some last part of himself that was not tainted with fear and humiliation. He would die with honor at least, and although he believed the well dressed man when he said his brothers were dead he knew that his master would avenge their death as well as his own.  

“We are gathered here today to pass judgement on this man Felexas,”the magister called out, his voice clear and loud enough to reach even the back of the mob. “Once a sworn silver brother and protector of the great Asam ap Mirh, he has forsaken his vows and committed a terrible sin that not even the One True God could forgive him now. Look upon him good people of Deamoth and know that here lays the apostate who has betrayed and murdered your great hero.”

The mob erupted, screaming out and throwing rotten fruit and rocks at him. He withstood the blows as his mind went numb and his world shattered. They’d murdered Asam. They’d killed him and his silver brothers and there was nothing Felexas could have done to stop them.  And now they would cover their sin by blaming him for it. He wanted to scream, call out to the crowd and tell them the truth of it, but all that came from his mouth was blood. He could do nothing now, nothing but watch as the executioner forced him down and shoved a wooden block beneath his head. A sudden thought  struck him then,  that he would forever be known as the traitor who betrayed his master and killed the greatest man since the prophet walked the earth, all whilst the real killers profited from his death.  His will broken, he looked out over the crowd and realized that the magister was still speaking.

“This was what bought the traitor’s honor and compelled him to the task,” the magister said, and threw down a bag of coins. “Base Prizraki silver seduced this faithless man, and whilst Asam slept he crept into his room and shoved a dagger into his heart. I ask you gathered faithful, should such a betrayal go unpunished?”

The crowd booed and hissed.

“Then watch good people! Watch and bear witness that justice is done!”

The was no last thought in Felexas had before the axeman’s blade struck his neck. There was only darkness and then, nothing.