The Wielder of Death Magic

“Alright,” said Igna clearing his throat, the sound of helicopters sliced the pensive silence of the mobile control room, “-my job starts now,” he said, dawning on a military uniform. Orenmir strapped to his belt and Tharis holstered within his vest, “-majesty,” a surveillance officer, also a researcher at the university, approached, “-would thee entertain the idea of trying new weapons?”

“Why?”

“Lethalness of rifles, guns, and firearms, in general, has proven a leading tactical advantage in wars. Still,” he glanced at the king’s armaments, “-my liege prefers to use a sword and a revolver, might I know why?” Minerva overheard the genuine interest, ‘-a fair question,’ she looked over and locked her arms.

“Familiarity,” answered the king, “-my sword and my revolver have survived countless o’ battle. They were used by my uncle as well,” he branched the sheathed Orenmir, “-our kingdom isn’t stranger to tales of legendary swords and weapons. Take lady Achilles’ sword, now dubbed as the hero’s holy sword, the first adventurer to clear and defeat the tower of Aris. Her fame extended to her weapon, as for mine,” he twirled the immaculately crafted container and returned to the strap, “-it’s more than enough to handle humans,” he reached and grabbed a slumbering Sathanas by the waist – the lift broke her sleep, drool fell over the couch as he carried her outside.

“Seriously...” she frowned, “-could have woken me...”

“Don’t be a brat,” he hauled her over his shoulder and walked, “-we have a battlefield to visit.”

.....

“General,” saluted the air force, he nodded at the salutes and entered one of the flying birds. Much had changed since the days of the RS-F2 and its armored variant. The current model written as RS-F9X, Thunderbird, is equipped with the AFR and current state-of-the-art technology brought by Midas. The Control panel seemed quite the hassle, with multiple screens and a lot of buttons, a glance at the shoulder pads told of the ranks, First-Class B for the pilot and Second-Class B for the co-pilot. The squadron consisted of experienced airmen, a taken-for-granted fact.

*Connection Established,* read the interface – the sister system spoke across the communication channel, “-right gentlemen,” said Minerva, “-tonight’s operation will involve establishing a forward base of operation. Panzar Unit and Infantry have crossed Savaview bridge and are on their way to Frostrest Castle. King Igna’s unit will fly over the battlefield and scout the nearby hills and forest. Expect the castle to be occupied, whether it is or not, doesn’t change the situation. To conquer, we must move, and going forward is exactly what the air force is here for.”

‘Way to lay it on thick,’ Igna shrugged, the cockpit turned and nodded affirmingly. Blades rattled, and a clear night with great visibility marked the start of a great battle. Meanwhile, the voyage northeast began, the general had her hands on the chessboard, moving her limited pieces strategically around the map.

A report flashed by Erano’s screen as if a gong, “-Brigadier General Erano, per the growing situation of Dorchester – I ask for reinforcement to be moved to the Krestonian border,” he swiped the letter and sipped a warm cup of coffee, ‘-months later and we do battle against the remnants. We should have known; well, we knew deep down that amount wouldn’t have dwindled,” with a regiment of two thousand men – he ordered the latter be split into companies of five hundred each – ordering two of the four to move northwest, keeping the remainder – one in Port Smith and another at the capital. Public order was top of the list; Kreston’s distrust would eventually bring the province’s downfall before an army could.

Similar to Kreston, a call to action reached lady Courtney, Queen of Arda and Duchess of Rotherham’s desk. “-To her royal majesty, Queen Courtney of Arda, we of the Hidrosian government ask for her majesty’s support in containing the Dorchestrian uprising. Reports place the count at thirty-thousand. The first operation is being led by his majesty the king, your son, the king of Hidros. We would be humbled if her royal majesty could send forces at the shared border, limiting any influence the uprising might muster,” it went into further detail, five pages later being signed by éclair.

‘Igna, what are you thinking,’ she leaned on a balustrade and watched as the city within the holy tree echoed, ‘-can we spare men?’ an attendant arrived at her side and knelt, “-orders, majesty. Wish it and we will have it done.”

“Send notice to the guild, tis a formal decree from their queen. Adventurers of adequate skill are to make their way Northeast and aid our army.”

“As you wish, Majesty.”

Frostrest castle, marked on their map – was a few minutes out. “-Orders, majesty?”

“Let me think,” they approached to a sudden alarm, *incoming projectile,* flashed the screen, the squadron leader took charge, “-scatter,” the rotors roared, countermeasure were deployed – the AFR locked and eliminated the assailant. ‘Damn,’ gulped Igna, ‘-they’re quite formidable. Impressed yet again,’ he slid the door, “-I’m going in – have the squadron scout the surrounding area – Central will provide logistical support.” The last sentence trickled onto éclair’s work desk.

‘Seriously, now?’ a brief shake turned into a grin, ‘-let’s have some fun,’ the surveillance system activated – a detection spell scanned and gave accurate numbers and location. Information that was relayed to general Minerva. “-Right,” her call to order changed – moving the troupes into a strategically superior position.

The general of the air force, however, was seen leaping from his helicopter straight into enemy territory, “-king Igna’s entered Frostrest castle,” said the current log.

“Seriously,” she facepalmed, “-the ruler of our kingdom’s on the frontlines. I can’t be asked,” tenseness of war was snuffed, an imaginary picture of Igna choking a snake, representation of stress, had the various channel exhale laughs and ease the mood. A respace that allowed for a greater, clearer view.

“Alright people, follow your king into battle.”

*Thud,* he landed, no parachute save the strength of his ankle, ‘-thought as much,’ he dusted the boots and ambled into a tree line, ‘-my body’s strong.’ Before rose a mossy stone castle – the interface scanned and displayed signs of life, ‘-looks about a company of five hundred, they have weapons.’ Vague tugs pulled his cheeks, “-what?” he hushed.

“Why are we here?”

“To fight?”

“I sense a lot of people; can you handle them alone?”

“Sathanas,” he patted her head patronizingly, “-don’t misunderstand – the kingdom’s army can easily handle this little fortress. I chose to enter the battle to prove my might. Now, the decision is yours, either join my cause and become one of my subordinates – or, be killed at my hands. I’m not foreign to spilling the blood of innocents to prove a point.”

“Don’t act high and mighty,” her appearance swapped for a young lady, tall and handsome – hair tied in a bun with swords on her back, “-I might not know much about this world,” she held one of the handles, “-killing people’s always been my specialty.”

“No,” Igna refuted, calmly grabbing her hand off the weapon, “-don’t you dare take my fun away, little brat. Just watch,” he smiled and nonchalantly broke into sight. He circled the castle and arrived at the main gate, “-AHOY!” echoed a thunderous yell.

“Ahoy!” returned one of the lookouts, “-state your name and business. The castle is under command of the holy knights of Leon.”

“Open the gates,” said Igna, “-I bring information from lord Nicola.”

“Lord Nicola?” the name sent echoes around – metallic grate churned, lifting to a sea of on guard soldiers.

‘Mercenaries from Sadia.’

Pass the keep – the olden ruined hallows descended to an underground dungeon, there – prisoners of war, those bearing noble features and fair skin were tied and bled, ‘-by the facial features, they’re from Iqeavea. Wait,’ he narrowed on a certain visage, ‘-that hairstyle, Katherine Goldberg?’ he slowed, “-guard, tell me, who’s that lady?”

“She’s the spawn of Duchess Goldberg – those stuck-up nobles never give a clear answer. Well, not her, she broke after master said hi,” he snickered, “-so much for being pure.”

‘I was right,’ he passed the cells to a bigger room, “-hello,” waved one of two men standing before a shackled naked middle-aged man who bled from various tiny cuts. The eyes were partially burnt, the visage branded and the chest boiled from a mixture of tar and oil, “-just in time for the man’s shadow,” cackled the sadistic torturer, “-lookey here,” he kicked, the man’s consciousness regained, “-M-M-MERCY... L-L-LET THE P-P-PRINCESS GO.”

“Theon,” said Igna, “-I see you’re having fun.”

“Master, I was bored and found work,” he pointed at the other man, “-might I present, Lord Shafthener of the Church of Leon, Inquisitor of the Southern Sect.”

“Pleasure,” said the well-mannered man. They exchanged a gripping handshake and soon stood side-by-side. Theon had a bucket filled with boiling oil hanging over the prisoner, “-I love this method,” said Theon, “-the way the skin melts around the scalp, carrying hair and blood down the face and onto the body – I call it the Dorchestrian Melt-off.”

“Dorchestrian Melt-off?” repeated the inquisitor.

“Yeah,” nodded Igna, confirming what they’d heard, “-Dorchestrian Melt-off. Can’t fault them for having a great imagination,” a sudden pull toppled the bucket – the substance dropped into a folly of screams and painful cries – the repugnant smell of burnt hair and skin proliferated, a poignant sense of warmth and relief washed Theon’s face, “-I LOVE IT!” he applauded.

“Even my comrades at the capital couldn’t do such atrocities... we’re known for our torture. Before this man,” he nodded, “-our methods have no reply. Tell me,” the situation finally ended on the strange guest, “-who are you, and what brings thee here?”

“My, seriously?” he glanced downward, “-Lord Shafthener, can’t thee see my military outfit?”

“A soldier from Hidros, so what? We have plenty of them here.”

“Allow me to translate,” interjected Theon, “-what the guest wishes to say is, surrender or die.”

“Ha,” the man rose a hand, “-a single man going against my company, are Hidros man this daft?”

“The little excursion has been fun,” *smack,* the inquisitor dropped by Theon’s handy work, “-I’m guessing we best keep him alive?”

“Yeah, consider him a present,” added Igna, “-a reward for your senseless whims.”

“It would be my honor,” bowed the warmly deranged Theon.

‘I’ve employed a nutcase,’ back to whence they came, “-unshackle the prisoners, I’ll clear up the exit for when we leave. Theon, remember, treat them, the better they feel, the more toy’s I’ll give.”

“Understood,” he rubbed his hand shadily, “-leave the prisoners to me.” Leaving a man to boil in the distance – Igna found a true match in ways of depravity. Tharis in hand, he stormed hallowed corridors and shot on sight. Immaculate accuracy and unlimited ammunition for it drew on the outside world for bullets. Outlines made it easy to shoot through walls, and the harbinger of death climbed upward to a firing squad, “-RAISE YOUR HAND!” screamed one, bearing resemblance to the Sadian people.

“My, I seem to be outnumbered.”

“Drop the attitude, where’s Lord Shafthener?”

“Napping,” he returned exiguously.

Additional footsteps charged from the dungeon, “-dead, they’re dead.”

Time slowed, ‘-he’s about to give the order,’ Igna faded, pointed Tharis and fired, the confusion lathered their mind, Orenmir’s screams of death permeated across the fortress – true terror faced them in seething bloodlust, “-die.”