Castle Shyr

YAY!

You finally get to see the Castle Tevlar.. and meet King Valagor...

Um.. yay?


-Retribution-

There it stood, Castle Tevlar. For twenty one years now it had been all Mordecai had. It was his prison, his sanctuary, his graveyard, his home. His childhood had been plagued with nightmares during his waking hours; endless chases to the hollow of his mother’s room to escape the raging Ju’agul; countless scares by the ghost who wandered the halls and stalked the halfling without mercy. Yet Mordecai had learned from his childhood, he had been taught and trained to keep these things hidden, useless things like emotions. He had become a marvelous actor, well adept to keeping his emotions locked in and away from others, but he could not fool himself, no matter how hard he tried. As he lead the men towards the front gates his heart beat painfully in his chest, his stomach twisted and lurched and a light sweat broke over his taunt skin.

He felt the muscles stiffen in his aching body as the two huge gates swung open with guttural cries, revealing the shallow tunnel that cut down into the earth to give passage to the only entrance to Castle Tevlar. Cradled in the fog beneath the swamps a rusted and bloody doorway leaked into the castle’s inner sanctum like a tomb. Never had Mordecai been so aware of the sounds of his shifting armor, his heavy boots, his breathing, each and every sound he and his men made was amplified as it tore back and forth across the hall stretching forever ahead of them. The two guards posted at the door stepped softly aside, silent somehow amidst the thundering noise of the arriving army, and held open the doors. Mordecai turned his gaze slightly as he passed by the two Tev soldiers, and in his feverish mind imagined them smirking at him behind their masks, mocking his defeat. He snapped his eyes forward again and continued his trudge onward and upward to the throne room where the King would be, awaiting news of the attacks.

He tried to ignore the looks of the other Tev in the castle, but the further up they went the more the numbers rose, until Mordecai’s army was walking through a parted sea of onlookers, whispering curiously to each other. They could sense his failure! They could smell it on him! Mordecai tipped his head back the slightest bit, bringing his hood further over his face to hide his eyes, his panic pooling in them. He clenched his hands into fists, the crunching sound of the leather roaring in his ears. This was his first true failure, not that the King would really be able to tell - in the past, no matter how well Mordecai had completed the task the King had always found one thing or another to pull upon, and the halfling had gotten used to the threat of death arising no matter what he did. But there was no reason for this fear. Even if the King carried out his threat and put Mordecai to death, there was no reason for his fear. Death would not be so bad - a thought which had often accompanied Mordecai’s long treks through the castle. He felt his fear subsiding a little, but there was still a twinge in the pit of his stomach, a weakness in his gaze.

The troupe finally came to a halt outside the throne room, Mordecai at a point, flanked by the two highest-ranking generals under him, both men stirring restlessly. Six guards and one of the King’s personal assistants protected the archway that lead into the throne room. The youngish Tev assistant cocked his head to the side slightly, as if trying to decide whether or not the army’s arrival was worth the King’s attention. After a moment’s pause he seemed to make up his mind, and vanished into the vast throne room to alert the King. Mordecai’s gaze dropped to the marbled floor under his feet, though his head remained tilted upright under his hood. His ears twitched slightly, tilting back to catch the talk of the two generals behind him. They were planning to band together, on blaming the whole failure on Mordecai alone. They were devising a lie now, one that seemed realistically complicated but at the same time was easy enough for the two of them to remember in detail. The whole thing made Mordecai chuckle lightly. They figured that by turning in a scapegoat they could save their own skins - Mordecai knew better. There were hundreds upon hundreds of excuses he could give for the failure of the mission, many of them highly plausible- but it was useless. Even if the mission had failed for some reason other than poor leadership, Mordecai and the generals had been in charge of keeping things together and achieving victory - the ultimate price fell on their heads no matter what had gone on in Crawyn Valley.

“King Valagor wishes to speak with Mordecai, General Wiston and General Nebori.” The thin voice of the King’s assistant broke Mordecai from his thoughts and startled the Generals from their discussion. There was no hesitation in Mordecai’s step forward, but the two generals were a bit shaky on their story, and their hesitation was well noted by the assistant as he waved them forward impatiently.

Mordecai had often visited the throne room, for both pleasant and unpleasant business, but the room never ceased to frighten and amaze him. There were ten columns spaced throughout the room’s interior, muddy silver in color and about the width of three grown Tev. The room’s ceiling was a mystery in itself, for the whole thing seemed to stretch up into a sharp point over the direct center of the room - but the outside of this point could not be found. It could not be seen from the towers and it could not be found in the floor above. It was as if the throne room simply did not exist in the castle, as if the archway did not lead into another room, but another place.

The throne room was a silent dungeon caked in shadows, so wide that even echoes were scarce, most sounds not strong enough to reverberate through the hall. At the far end sat a long platform breached by four thin steps, this dark stone housed the thrones. The Master throne was directly centered and in nicest condition by far compared to the others, for each new king took it upon himself to construct a new throne in his honor while the other three sat untouched. For all Mordecai knew those unlooked chairs could have very well been the original royal thrones - they were worn and tattered enough.

“Mordecai, back so soon? This is a pleasant surprise.” The voice of the king suddenly slid out from the shadows with a suspicious ease. “I take it you met with success then?” As the two Generals and Mordecai took to one knee, the King unfolded his long robes and stood gracefully in front of his throne, casting himself into harsh silhouette.

“No, my liege.” Mordecai said quickly, his words, like his steps, without hesitation. He felt the room shudder as if passing a deep sigh, awaiting the King’s response. Valagor, however, held his tongue. Mordecai could feel the Tev’s anger gathering like a spark about to ignite a wildfire and knew that he should relish the silence, for it was the calm before the storm. He watched with a listless stony gaze as the king seemed to puff up like an angry bird, then fly down the stairs in a flutter of robes and gold. In his haste to approach Mordecai his hood was tossed off, letting loose unkempt and shaggy gray hair which hung in tattered strands at his shoulders, matching the beard which just barely dripped off his chin. His boots skidded slightly as he came to an abrupt halt before Mordecai, lifted his hand, and then struck the halfling viciously across the face.

Mordecai was only caught slightly off-guard, and he teetered to the side as the sting spread through his skin. With his eyes squeezed shut Mordecai was unaware of his lord’s hovering hand, and was again startled as he was roughly jerked forward by the collar of his tunic. He slowly opened his eyes and was not surprised to find they were locked to the pale green and white of King Valagor - one horribly scarred and off-center.

“You dare show your face around here after you suffered defeat!” He roared, his breath rank across Mordecai’s nose. “You dare speak to me so casually about such humiliation?” He hissed, softer but no less angry. He stiffened and tossed Mordecai backwards, balling his hands into his fists before releasing them and driving his fingers into his hair roughly. “You,” He chuckled after a long moment, spinning slightly in his flowing robes like an eager child, “Mordecai the halfling perfectionist has finally failed me? How amusing..” Then like a treacherous and unannounced storm, the King’s amusement was gone, and he snapped back to his men with narrowed eyes. “How many survivors?”

“A mere half dozen at most, King Valagor!” Shouted General Nebori sharply, his voice hitching and cracking in the middle. “Two of them leapt into the Jir River and a few others escaped through the woods!” The King’s turn was so slow it felt like time itself had stopped, his eyes seemed to crawl over the distance, followed by a tilt of his head and the sliding of his boots. The General started and leaned backwards, as if trying to avoid the bite of the snake - it was impossible. The King took a small step forward, his hands balled up so tightly they shook at his sides.

“There are half a dozen survivors running free.. And yet you… are here.” Valagor growled, halting directly in front of Nebori. He reached out a hand, invisible under his long robes, and wrapped his thin fingers around the smaller Tev’s neck. Nebori closed his eyes tightly, his shaggy hair falling into his face as he reached up and wrapped his hands around the King’s.

“It was not our fault, your majesty!” Wiston spoke finally, trying to defend Nebori and himself. “It was the halfling! His careless negligence left our forces paper thin where they needed to be the strongest! He sent us in without order, it was mass chaos! We were lucky to return at all!” For a moment the room fell quiet, and a spark of hope flared in the hearts of Wiston and Nebori, for the King released his hold on the younger General, and stepped back, studying his sleeve as if deep in thought.

“Negligence,” he said after a long pause, looking momentarily to Mordecai, before his gaze moved back to Wiston, “is a big word for you, General Wiston. Are you sure you comprehend it well enough to use it when speaking to your king?” Mordecai cast a small glance to the General, trying to gauge the other Tev’s reaction, for they all knew what was coming. “And as far as being lucky to have returned, I don’t know if you’re going to be, but I certainly am. For I would far rather have traitors and conspirers die at my hands then at the hands of my enemies.” Mordecai had only a moment to ponder how the King had figured out the scheming of the two Generals so quickly before Valagor turned suddenly back to him. The King reached out and roughly grabbed Mordecai’s shoulder, shoving him to the side as he bent down and retrieved the dagger poised at the halfling’s waist. The King spun with a grace he did not seem to possess and drew the blade across Wiston’s throat in a single, fluid motion.

“It looks as if I will be needing a new General,” Valagor beamed, flicking the blade towards Nebori to splatter the Tev with his cohort’s blood, “or two.” He took a step towards Nebori and leaned forward, smirking madly as the Tev attempted to lean backwards away from him, then gave up and stiffened. He wrapped his hand around the soldier’s collar, like he had done to Mordecai earlier, and hoisted him to his feet. “Before I kill you, Nebori, tell me - with whom should I replace you?” The king sneered, eyes narrowed in what could only be pleasure. “Perhaps Noya, she is one of my best, after all. What do you think of that, General? Being replaced by a woman?”

“N-noya did n-not return w-with us, m-my liege.” Nebori sputtered, regret under toning the submission in his voice. “W-we believe s-she was k-killed or c-captured.” Though Mordecai’s face was completely blank as he observed the scene before him, his lip was curved into a smirk on the inside, a slight bit of satisfaction filling him as he noted the fear in Nebori’s eyes. The Kings of Tevlar Castle had a way of wringing out traitors and conspiracies; no matter how well they may have been hidden or plotted.

The King seemed to lock up suddenly, as if he had forgotten what he was about to do, his eyes began to slip in and out of focus and a strange, blank expression filled in over his features. Then he slowly tilted his head to the side, like a predator sizing up his prey, and brought the dagger to point at Nebori’s chest. Mordecai’s smirk faded slightly as he watched the King with a twisted sort of awe. Valagor was a master at torture and it was very rare for anyone aside from the prisoner to be witness to it. Mordecai felt a sickness rise in the back of his throat as Nebori tried to scramble backwards, out of the King’s grasp, but it did no good. Valagor had a sturdy grip on the General’s collar, and there was no way for Nebori to escape the dagger which was being thrust towards his chest at an agonizingly slow pace.

The scream which managed to echo through the throne room also penetrated deep into the heart of Castle Tevlar, alerting all previously unaware of the commotion. Prince Shakir’s ears pinned sharply back as the sound rang through them, offending his senses. He narrowed his eyes and turned quickly from the room, ignoring the protests from his student as the boy dropped his heavy weapon. The Prince paused at the head of the stairs, then ran into the adjacent room, knowing of a few secret passageways that would get him to the throne room without having to push through the swarming mass of his gathered subjects. Shakir had received a report the moment the troops had returned, then had pushed it to the back of his mind; he had more important things to worry about and the thought of failure never crossed his mind. However now it was top priority, he only hoped he was not too late. His father was beginning to loose the weak grip he held on reality, and was very apt to doing stupid things in his temperamental rages.

Prince Shakir turned the final corner and shoved aside a rough and worn slab of stone, stumbling out into the hallway before the throne room. He hesitated for a moment, seeing the large group of people gathered, and tried to silently slide the stone back into place without being seen or heard - as far as he knew he was the only one to use the secret passages, and he wanted it to stay that way. Having successfully sealed his route he made his way through the crowd, pushing and shoving rudely into anyone who stepped into his way. About half-way to the arch a guard spotted him and yelled to the Tev to make way for the Prince, which they did with a dutiful unified mumbling.

“Father!” Prince Shakir shouted as he made his way into the throne room at last. “Are you alright?” He asked, a convincing amount of concern in his voice as he tromped towards the platform. His heart began to race as he noted two bodies on the floor, and a third being dragged towards the platform by his hood. He stepped over the two generals, letting out a slight sigh of relief as he realized that Mordecai was not one of them, and stopped next to his father.

“Your mock concern won’t fool me this time, Shakir.” King Valagor sneered, yanking roughly on Mordecai’s hood so that the halfling had no choice but to gag out loud. “And do not think just because he is not dead that you’ve succeeded. You cannot protect him now! He has failed miserably! Death is the only suitable punishment.”

“I agree wholeheartedly, sire.” The snobby assistant cooed from the corner, folding his hands neatly behind his back and offering a snake-like smile.

“Nobody asked you.” Shakir snapped, taking another step towards his father. “Father, have you really sunk so far as to start suspecting your own son like a traitor? I was genuinely concerned about you.”

“Enough with the hawk-shit, Shakir. Tell me, what exactly are you going to do about this? Mmm? What lies are you going to feed me to try and stop me this time?”

Mordecai shifted only slightly from his uncomfortable position on the floor, like a good soldier he’d been taught to take his beatings and punishments without showing any outward sign of displeasure. As painful as the position was for his back and legs, he could hold it for hours if need be. He narrowed his eyes a bit, ignoring the itch of blood running down his chin, and turned his gaze toward Shakir as much as he could without shifting anymore. The Prince had always been one step ahead of the King when it came to Mordecai, and had always stepped in and intervened to prevent the halfling’s execution. It was the most baffling thing Mordecai had ever encountered. Shakir was no nicer to Mordecai than anyone else, nor was Mordecai nice to the Prince, and yet whenever the King attempted to carry out his death threats, there stood Shakir, ready and willing to defend. Perhaps it was because the Prince felt akin to Mordecai in some strange way; Shakir was, in his own way, an outcast - less a warrior than a scholar, something his father despised. Then perhaps it was in hopes of gaining his father a bit of respect in the eye of the public - if the King went around killing soldiers without due cause, the people would start a rebellion in no time. However with no clear outward signs of a motivation for his strange interceptions, Mordecai had no choice but to harbor a deep set suspicion on the Prince’s behalf - what was he getting at? Was he hoping that if he kept sticking his neck out for Mordecai that the halfling would feel he owed him some sort of favor? Mordecai scoffed inwardly.

“Death is no suitable penalty here, my liege.” Shakir began after casting a single glance at Mordecai. “You sent your troops out to destroy six villages, did you not? These survivors were, in fact, from a seventh village which was unknown to you at the time of the attack. Your troops did not fail you, King Valagor - they did exactly as you asked, and went above and beyond that to almost completely desiccate a seventh village.” Mordecai was stunned. Had his hood not been pulled so tightly against his throat his jaw might have fallen lax at the Prince’s words. How in the name of Tevlar had he known all that? He had not yet received a written report of the mission - and he hadn’t had time to talk to a soldier before entering. He had known about the seventh village before the troops returned home. That was the only plausible way for him to speak of it now. Did he have spies in Mordecai’s legions? Spies that had been openly communicating him from the start? Mordecai couldn’t hold in the small sneer that seeped over his bloodied lips - this man irritated him just as much as the King himself.

Valagor narrowed his eyes to a thin strip of malice as he tightened his grip on Mordecai’s hood, his whole body stiffening like a Ju’agul about to leap. With a sudden loud cry he tossed Mordecai forward, into Shakir’s legs. He stomped like an angry child up the platform, then with another disgruntled shout turned and began pushing with all his might against the back of the Prince’s throne. Mordecai felt a hand clap roughly onto his shoulder and he was hoisted to his feet by Shakir, who immediately gave him an icy glare - apparently a reprimand for something Mordecai had done that he’d not known about.

“Father,” Shakir said lightly, taking a step away from the halfling, hands out to his sides and voice higher in pitch, as if he were talking to an infant, “come down from there- you’ll hurt yourself.” Shakir was rewarded only with the ear-piercing sound of the throne scraping bodily against the platform. “Death may be far from the correct penalty, my liege, but for his negligence in reporting to you immediately about the seventh village,” Mordecai tried to keep the boiling anger from his face as the prince turned to look at him slowly, “fifty-lashes.”

The throne room was silent for a moment more, the sounds of the scraping throne stopping for a moment or two, before they were replaced by a just as ear-piercing cackle from the King. Valagor slowly slid into a sitting position with his back against the now crooked throne, laughing deep from his chest with his slim eyes squeezed shut.

“Negligence.” He said softly through his cackles. Mordecai slowly moved his gaze from the King to the Prince, narrowing his eyes a bit. Shakir met his eyes only briefly before turning and starting out of the room, a slim crown resting atop his shaved head of blood red hair - silver with a purple streak to match his violet eyes.

“Fifty lashes.” Shakir repeated as he left, waving off-handedly to the two guards posted outside the room. Mordecai’s sneer only grew.