Tales of Taylos

IV

IV

It had been several days since the King had received the delivery of the ring and rumours of the village in flames were spreading rapidly. He had spent them pondering his choice and many would think that he would be remorseful but that was far from the case as he began to plot his next move. The last Archmage might be dead, but he wouldn't stop until all the Mages were killed, and his heir returned to him

This morning the King had awoken far earlier than usual drenched in sweat after a disturbed night of terrifying sleep. Plagued by disturbing thoughts he had taken a walk through the empty hallways of the castle searching for answers. He was a man of average height who wore a black shirt, trousers, boots and a cloak made from Raven feathers. In his later years, his hair had turned from a well-cared-for long dark brown to a now dirty matted grey mess, the same could also be said of his beard. His face had once shown the glamour of youth but was now haggard with deep ravines of wrinkles making the appearance of a much older man complete with dark shadows under his eyes that told the story of a man that sleep evaded.

He now resumed his usual place, seated upon the throne and awaiting the arrival of the High Priest. He sat gazing at the great Iron Claw that used to be his right arm. It had been thirteen winters since the fateful day when out raiding a Barbarian settlement his company had been ambushed and he had been separated. He fought well but, in the end, he was spared death, and his right arm was severed so that he may never wield a sword again. The King had been undeterred by this and sought the finest blacksmith to create this new weapon. To fit it to him he repeatedly slammed the immensely hot claw against a stone wall forcing the spike up into what was left of his arm. It was on this day that his hatred for the other races that inhabited Taylos was born and every day he looked at the claw and plotted the eradication of all other races.

The silence of thought was shattered by the flat-footed patter of the High Priest barrelling into the room "My Lord, my Lord, I bring you good news" his robe fluttered in the breeze.

"Out with it" the King spat flinging saliva at the priest.

"Yes Sire, we have found another one of those stones that you have been searching for which must now bring your total up to four I believe"

"Give it to me" the King once again spat holding out his hand

The High Priest obligated stating

"In slightly bad news Sire the force you sent into the Tundra to deal with the Barbarian problem was dealt a swift defeat with only a couple of survivors."

As fast as he had snatched the stone object, he now held his claw to the throat of the High Priest

"Why do you always bring me nothing but bad news? Tell me why I shouldn't gut you right here?" he snapped angrily.

The High Priest gulped his Adam's apple coming very close to the point of the claw

"That would be most unwise Sire as I am still a servant of Illunwë and unless you want to invoke the wrath of the Gods."

Without turning his attention to the priest he replied,

"Then make yourself useful and bring me the Oracle as I wish to have an audience."

The High Priest turned tail and began running out of the room wondering why he ever thought the King would be in a good mood and why he had to be the bearer of bad news.

Turning his gaze towards the throne he oddly studied it more than usual he noted the two crests ornately carved into the stone backrest. The first crest was that of the unified Kingdom of Men chosen after the Cruenta Victoria (Bloody Conquest), and the second was the crest of the Old Kingdom of Taylosia and his own family. He felt a pang through his heart as it dawned on him that unless his missing son was found his family and lineage dating back before the unification of the Kingdoms of Old would end.