In the Victor’s Footsteps
Nallog
the Third strode into the cavernous entrance of Saerons Hall. The walls and ceiling were covered in too
many paintings to count, but Nallog did not look at them.
His
armor – which had gleamed in the morning sun – was now dulled with the blood of
countless men. In his right hand he held
Rienol, the sword his father had taken thirty years earlier from the dead hand
of Raite the Sixth, the former ruler of the Southern Continent. It had served father and son well for many
years, but today the tip had broken off around noon. He continued to use it because the battle was
so fierce that he could not send for another.
He would not use the inferior swords used by the Tirseari, neither would
he take a sword from one of his men.
In
his left hand he held a severed head still dripping blood. He raised it by the hair until he was looking
into the dead eyes. “Come Tember, take
me on a tour of your palace.” Laughing at his joke, Nallog walked into the
hall, leaving bloody footprints in his wake.
An
hour later he sat on a balcony overlooking the Great Ocean with his feet
propped up on the railing. In the distance
he could see his navy celebrating. “Did
you come here often?” he asked Tember’s head, resting on a small stool beside
him. “Probably not lately, didn’t want
to be depressed at the sight of my navy.” Chuckling, Nallog pulled a bottle of
wine from a case he had found in a cellar and drank half of it in a toast to
his ships at sea. The first three
bottles from the case he had poured over himself in an attempt to wash off some
of the blood. It had only partially
succeeded.
Nallog
held the bottle to Tember’s lips, “Care for a drink?”
“Enjoying
your company?”
Nallog
dropped the bottle, which did not shatter but rolled away leaving a trail of
wine, and glared at his son. “I wished
not to be disturbed.”
The
Prince smiled. “I dislike your presence
as much as you dislike mine, but your soldiers are running rampant.”
“My
soldiers have fought for decades, so you can read all your books and never have
to lift a sword.” Realizing he should have been holding a sword as he said
that, Nallog picked his off the floor and pointed the broken tip at his son.
The
Prince slowly advanced. “What books will
be left if your soldiers burn them all?”
Dropping
his sword and grabbing another bottle, Nallog answered, “You can always write
more.”
“But
we need the books that exist now in order to continue.”
“Continue?”
Nallog stood and shouted, “My grandfather, father, and I have conquered the
world! What else is there to continue
to?”
In
reply, the Prince raised his eyes to the stars just beginning to show in the
twilight.
***
This
story began with the image of a guy walking through a castle with a severed
head. I wrote it out figuring it could
be the intro to something else. I ended
up thinking of that something else, but it turned into this huge project of
twenty some novels, which I’ll never get around to writing. But I did have a short little story I posted
on a site that’s more or less defunct.
So I decided to repost it here.
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