Victory

The Dragon’s Head Pass was the place he chose to test his gift. Malav was eager to see if the dead would truly rise on his command, but he took the time to prepare first. He wanted things in place to advance on Cearaden immediately if all went as planned. His father would not be given time to prepare to meet him.

When his forces were in place and ready to march through the pass, he took his place in a central archer’s perch and drew the blade. In the Luzor tongue, he barked the order to rise and fight.

The Cearazon forces were steadily raising their wall, bringing stone and building, after having lobbed rubble enough to partially block the pass. There were soldiers standing guard over those working but none were prepared for what they saw.

The rubble began to shudder and shift. Dead men rose, some clutching weapons but most unarmed, and began to advance on the now horrified workers. They began to scream and flee and Malav grinned, commanding, “Kill them all.”

The terror of his father’s forces prevented them from marshaling themselves effectively. By the time his decayed army reached the main line he had his own living forces pushing through the pass behind them.

The dead made surprisingly effective soldiers. They fought through wounds that would have been mortal to a living man. They fought headless. And each man that fell he commanded back to his feet, now a soldier for Luzoron. Malav exulted after having crushed the entirety of his father’s forces who had not fled in terror. He had more than doubled the size of his army of the damned.

He strode down from his perch and mounted his horse, riding to the head of his new army. The stench that made some of his living soldiers vomit did not seem a terrible thing to him. He found it almost pleasant. It was the smell of victory.

There were three strategic fortresses between Cearaden and the pass, and Malav barely paused as he used them to grow his army. The fortresses were well protected from the outside, but the dead that rose within them to do his bidding had not been warded against. It amused him to note the fighting grew less pitched and more men tried to flee or beg for surrender the closer he got to Cearaden.

At his father’s hastily closed gate he raised his sword and gave his commands. The screams from within were like the sweetest music to his ears. When the gates were flung open for him Malav rode at the head of his army of the damned with pride and those who dared to peer from windows muttered prayers and supplications to every god but Malies.

He kept his blade drawn and in his hand as he made his way to the throne room, flanked by his father’s dead soldiers. Malav took up the throne and waited patiently, debating if he wanted his father and brother to serve him in life or in death. He could not hold back his vindictive grin as his father was led sheepishly into the throne room as a supplicant.

“Find my brother as well.” Malav almost purred to the living soldiers as they brought his father to his knees before him. He dismissed them with a gesture. “Father.” Malav made a tsking sound and shook his head, his mocking tone almost playful. “Had you simply accepted my wife you would not be groveling before me now.”

“She didn’t wish to gloat, Malav?” Iotav glared sullenly. “Or did she leave you when I struck you from the line of succession?”

“King Malav.” He looked at his father with fury boiling in his veins. “Faithfulness is not something the line of the Kings of Cearad is known for, and my wife is a jealous woman. She will not be able to refuse my apologies when next I see her.”

“King Malav, you intend to beg forgiveness from a common w***e? How will anyone mistake you as worthy of the crown?” Iotav sneered.

“In a day and a night, I have conquered Cearazon. Anyone who mistakes me for unworthy will find themselves joining an army of the damned. When Ayred arrives, I’ll show you.” Malav smiled maliciously as the sneer wiped itself from Iotav’s face.

“Your Majesty,” Malav watched as his father hunted for words and tried to plead. “Your brother-it wasn’t his-the line cannot end! You must spare-”

Malav laughed. “My wife will be bearing my child soon enough. A child that will be dedicated to Malies. The Kings of Luzoron are being restored.” He stood and stepped down from the throne, approaching his kneeling father. “Cearazon will serve.”

Two of the dead soldiers moved to King Iotav and pulled his arms out to the sides so that his chest was open, obeying Malav’s desires without him having to speak a word. Malav watched as his father closed his eyes and began to mutter a prayer, while he raised his blade to bring it down with a sharp motion embedding it in into his father’s unprotected heart. The man shuddered. When Malav withdrew the blade, in his father’s place was a loyal servant with his knowledge and experiences intact.

“Where is my brother?” Malav smiled down, pleased with his handiwork.

“On his way to Gaelel, King Malav.” The man who was once Iotav spoke respectfully.

“You’ll change your clothes to look more alive and regal, and then you’ll make certain all of your living forces owe me allegiance. I will leave you here to govern while I give Malies the war he desires.” Malav had begun to walk away before he turned and grinned viciously, “You will not sit on my throne in my absence, and when I return with my wife there will be a royal wedding. She will be honored more than any queen yet has.”

“As you command, King Malav.” The former king rose from the floor and bowed.