The Wrath of Kings

Chapter 1: The Blood King

I will never know why you clicked on that thumbnail. What could have possibly interested you? The cover? That's literally just the first image Google pops up if you search "cool fiery iPhone background". The title? "The Wrath of Kings"? Oh, yes, what a truly creative title. "Kings." "Wrath." "Of." What is this? A fantasy novel? (Yes. Yes it is.) Maybe it was a genuine desire to figure out who these kings are and what makes them so wrathful. (It's a long story....) At any rate, whatever path you took to get here, thank you for taking the time to read my novel. I truly appreciate it, and I hope that you find my characters, story, and writing style suitably novel. If my writing sucks, though, please feel free to unleash your wrath in the comments and explain in extreme detail every single error I have made. (For real though, I appreciate feedback. It's how I improve as a writer.)

Anyways, that was a long paragraph...

Welcome to Maroozo!

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The sickening, harrowing sound of splintering bone echoed dully in the vastness of the chamber as skull collided with cold, dead concrete. A sharp anguished gasp was uttered from the sufferer's breath before his shocked, bloodshot eyes shut, attempting to block out the sudden rush of searing pain. Hot blood gushed forth from the jagged lesion, pooling beneath the spasming body of the wounded man, slowly soaking seamlessly into the fabric of his crimson tunic.

Beholding this appalling scene were six other men, all of them dressed similarly in their ornate, scarlet apparel, and all of them dismayed at the events that had presently unfolded before their eyes. A storm of fear, horror, and ire raged behind the glassy orbs fixed within their currently intact skulls, as they veered their gaze from the dying man to his murderer.

If the six were wrathful, it was paled in comparison to the fury that consumed the regally garbed man who fumed, standing haughtily atop the council table, staring down at the victim of his rage. By now his convulsions had ceased, leaving only an inert corpse, its eyes open wide, the life behind them slowly dying like an ember being smothered until his sightless eyes stared out only into blackness.

All were silent—the six, the murderer, the dead.

Abruptly the silence was rent asunder. The smooth ring of sword upon scabbard resounded about the seven, as one of the six drew his weapon. His ire showed upon his face as he bellowed at the murderer.

"Damn you, Kirlian! Damn you to bloody hell!"

Kirlian, the murderer, looked at the one who had spoken and their eyes locked. Neither gaze strayed. Neither intended to.

The one who had drawn his sword grit his teeth, never breaking eye contact with Kirlian.

"May death come to you with godspeed. May you be cursed with the fortune of—"

A steady, commanding voice cut off the one who had drawn his sword.

"Helmard!"

A third figure, one of the six, had entered the stand-off, and the other two broke their mental battle to divert their attention to him.

"Helmard, you speak empty threats and emptier curses. You grasp a sword in your hand, a weapon. Why do you avenge your brother's death by words when you have wrought steel to turn to? Words draw no blood, blades do."

Helmard gazed upon the blade, reflecting in the torchlight of the chamber, that he held firmly in his hand, seeming to consider these words. But, after a moment passed, he lowered his sword.

"Valdmark, you speak wisdom, as usual, but Kirlian is the king. I have no right to spill royal blood."

"Yours was spilt first, you have every right to vengeance!"

Suddenly, Kirlian, the king, the murderer, drew also his sword from his scabbard.

"Bastards of hell! You betray my trust and now seek my life? Try, boy, and you'll have a grave beside your brother's before the morning."

A flash of rage sparked within Helmard, as he retorted, "You spilt good blood! Whether it was mine or another's, I would still seek vengeance."

"You won't even avenge your own brother as he lies dead at your feet!"

"I will not spill royal blood. I may have broken your trust, but I will not break my oath to you."

Valdmark interjected.

"You owe him no loyalty! He is King of Maroozo only by blood, not by valor! I have seen two monarchs fend off the drakes of the mountains and the damned Empire of Asino with as much courage as their men. And I have seen one cower in his tower, honorless, slaying his men when they do not do what he too has not the courage to do."

Kirlian noticed Valdmark's hand stray towards his hip where his scabbard hung and said: "I appointed you as one of my seven Generals because I had faith in you and trusted you to lead. I trusted your experience and you repaid my trust, not with loyalty, but with the very cowardice you preach against."

"I give my loyalty to those who earn it, not to those who kill good, innocent men, simply to frighten them into obedience."

"You swore an oath."

"And if I break that oath? What then? The gods won't strike me down, I assure you."

"The gods might not strike you down, but I will."

A sneer of victory spread across Valdmark's face.

"Then you will have proven me correct."