This is gonna be a big'un.
I present to you book one of my Imperium series, The Court Conspiracy, written by yours truly, edited by kramer53.
Theme: November by Max Richter
Disclaimer: I own nothing
. . .
IMPERIUM
Book I
THE COURT CONSPIRACY
PART I
Wisps of Rebellion
Chapter I
"All manners of frightful monstrosities live within the Blightlands. It is a wonder those who dwell there have raised an entire civilization from its rocks. They must have gained the favor of some forgotten mountain god, I suppose." - Eugenides, royal scholar of Her Grace's Court
…
Ash fell from the sky.
High Queen Elsa frowned faintly and turned her face skyward as an flake of ash touched her cheek. Nix, her magnificent snow-white mare, cantered in place, snorting with unease. A servant on horseback neared and held a fanciful parasol to protect his High Queen from the soot, who spared the servant no heed; if she had wanted protection from the ash, Elsa would have commanded it.
Around her, Elsa's soldiers shifted their footing in discomfort. They were men of the north, where snow fell as often as ash fell here, in the Blightlands, a scar of desolate terrain near uninhabitable by any humans. In the distance, Elsa could see geysers spew fountains of hot steam from rocky crevasses in the barren earth. Further beyond hunched the Ashpeaks, scorching mountains that spat molten rock and flakes of black soot.
General Thorleif, who sat on his own brown stallion to Her Grace's left, rose a spyglass to his eye.
"Any sign of them?" Elsa's striking teal eyes scanned the smoking land as she squeezed the reigns. The terrible heat of this place leached at the Winter in her veins, and she was finding that sitting straight was beginning to require effort. She pondered on how her soldiers felt, clad in thick leathers and heavy plates of armor.
"Nothing, Your Grace." The General spoke in a tone sharp and formal, like the black and silver uniform he wore.
Just as he finished speaking, however, a faint thumping came to them. Carried by the scorching breeze, the beating of drums resounded against the perilous Blightland hills. Across the plateau, the Blightlander army rose from the valley.
They were not evenly split into battalions like the Imperial Militia. Rather, the Blightland army simply stood at stoic attention in any which position they chose, scattered and seemingly without order.
"He's there," Elsa whispered, "I know he is."
In answer, General Thorleif rose the spyglass again to his eye, "Ashlord Malekith. Man's built like a damn bear." He continued to peer through the glass, "Five hundred strong at most. A small force, can't be all of them."
Elsa knew otherwise. This was the entire Blightland army, a legendary force small in numbers, but unmatched in strength and brutality.
Her military, in contrast, even this fraction of it, was truly an impressive sight to behold. The pikemen stood at the front, protecting the spearmen and archers, all of whom stood at perfect attention. The only men who had horses were the officers and commanders, dressed in black uniforms trimmed in silver with slender swords at their hips. Bannermen stood before each battalion, Imperium's insignia flapping in the hot gusts: a wreath of snowflakes before a black backdrop. Every two dozen feet the front lines had parted to admit space for brass cannons: fairly modern machinations of war.
Ten thousand men, a hundred every battalion, a hundred battalions. Small enough to be mobile, and just large enough to be daunting. Perfect size for the journey made from the north. Such a long, long journey.
"A rider is breaking from the army." General Thorleif checked the spyglass. "It's Malekith."
"As we agreed," mused Elsa, "a Blight doing as he's told. The stars must have aligned."
"I still do not believe this is wise, Your Grace," Thorleif stopped to look at the High Queen.
She was not a tall woman, but upon that splendid mare she seemed to tower above all else, as though the horse was her throne. Her snowy hair, so often trapped in neat buns, was then bound in an unkempt braid. Unlike her military, Her Grace was not clad for war. Rather, a dress clung to her body, dark and silver and elegant. By some magic it was untouched by the fire and smoke of the Blightlands.
From as south as Corona and the Southern Isles to as north as Arendelle and the North Beacons, word of High Queen Elsa's command over Winter had spread like Winter itself. Whether it be true or not, few outside Arendelle were inclined to believe. As for Thorleif, he had seen it with his own two eyes.
He would follow that woman to the ends of the earth, for reasons more than duty.
"Which isn't wise?" She turned her head to look at him for the first time since he joined her side on this desolate plateau. "Negotiating peace with a warlord, or letting war burn my people?"
She dug her heels into Nix's sides and the mare threw back her head, shook her mane, and started forth. Thorleif watched the mare go, a speck of white amid the filth. Elsa's servant sat there on his own horse, parasol held out awkwardly as though the High Queen had never left.
The General watched her go for a lingering moment, then turned his horse so that it rode across the ranks of the Imperium Military.
"Hear me, officers of Imperium!"
The officers snapped to attention.
"No arrows will be notched, no cannons will be lit! As Her Grace High Queen Elsa rides to meet Malekith, we will bare no arms!"
The officers relayed these orders to the captains of their platoons. It took an entirety of 5 minutes for the order to spread. The military force was rippling with perplexity, but they would obey.
Elsa rode across the plateau. Nix did not gallop at her full speed, for the stones underhoof were jagged and treacherous. If she broke a hoof, she'd collapse and send her mistress falling to her death.
In the distance, nearing rapidly, was the Ashlord of the Blightlands. He rode upon a large serpentine lizard, lower than a horse. It's head resembled a cross between a lizard and a snake, and its tongue flicked eagerly as it caught Nix's scent carried by the breeze.
The feared varda dragons. Not true dragons, of course, but a subspecies. Tales have it that they eat the horses of riders, that their barbed tails inject paralyzing poison, and that those wide, hideous mouths spit skin-boiling acid. This was but one of the many monstrous creatures that roam these hellish plains. Superstitious folk believed that the Ashpeaks are where demons are birthed.
Nix slowed to a trot, then stopped. They were roughly one hundred feet from Malekith and his varda, and she refused to approach the lizard any closer. Elsa patted the mare's side, eyes on the large figure dismantling the varda, and swung herself from Nix's back.
The ground was uneven in some places, sharp rocks sticking out here and there. Elsa recalled a tale her father told her as she approached Malekith. A man who fell in love with a Blightland girl, whose father would only deem him worthy if the young man crossed the plateau barefoot.
Some say the geysers melted him to nothing. Others say the earth opened up for the man to be swallowed whole by the Blight goddess that lived under the earth's crust.
She always hated that story.
They were close enough now for Elsa to distinguish features of the Ashlord. He was massive, far above 6 feet, his shoulders wide as a grizzly bear's. He wore a scaled cloak which fell over one arm, the other bare and rippled with muscle. His beard was black and tangled, eyes dark and severe, his hair trapped in dozens of braids that fell over his scarred shoulders.
Malekith was a true Blightlander, immovable and harsh.
Twenty feet.
High Queen Elsa rose both her hands and stretched out her fingers. The winter under her skin was not as forthcoming here in this fiery land, but she had ten years of training and focus. The winter would respond.
Her Winter spilled forth, twirling and spinning in intricate patterns until a the crude shape of a table, made entirely from ice, rose from the ground. Two icy chairs joined the table at opposite sides.
Malekith stopped several paces away. When the light first poured from her fingertips, he had assumed an ambush, his hand gripping the leatherbound haft of the two-faced axe tucked in his belt. He rose both eyebrows at the table, gaze shifting from the ice to the petite High Queen who presented it. Elsa sat herself down, perfectly comfortable, and delicately crossed one slender leg over the other.
Malekith stopped behind the chair at the other side, eyes hard in scrutiny.
"Come sit, Ashlord," Elsa ushered him forth, "I have beverages."
She whistled and Nix hesitantly neared. The varda's vertical pupils expanded in hunger, and its forked tongue flicked, but it made no move for the mare. Elsa retrieved from the saddlebags a small pouch of smaller teabags and a jar of honey.
"Chai, peppermint, or ginger?" She sifted through the bag, voice dainty as though she were attending a tea party among prim ladies.
No hint of an answer from Malekith.
"I think ginger has a pleasant tang to it," Elsa plucked two tea bags out, "A shame I didn't think to bring squeezed lemon. Honey?"
The Ashlord said nothing.
Two little teacups sprouted from the table's surface, filled with water. Ten years ago, turning ice to cold water would have been an impossible feat. But a decade of practice, accompanied by the Blightland's heat, made the task simple. The ice holding the water remained strong. The hot air would not melt it unless the High Queen deemed it so.
Elsa plopped a teabag in each cup, stirring honey into the mix with an ice spoon that appeared between her fingers. "I hope you like your tea cold, Ashlord." With a polite smile, she leaned over and set his teacup back in its place. As she did so, the crude table shed its frost, revealing underneath something elaborate and flamboyant in its design. Malekith visibly hesitated before finally lowering himself into his comically small chair.
Mh, mused the High Queen, head tilting very slightly, Perhaps I should've made it larger.
If it were made from wood, the chair would undoubtedly have splintered beneath Malekith's weight. Elsa's teal eyes finally met Malekith's black orbs. She sipped her tea.
Malekith took the little cup between two sausage fingers, shockingly gentle, and hesitated before he sniffed it.
"It's not poisoned," Elsa prompted.
The Ashlord held the teacup aloft, and the varda instantly darted forth. Nix snorted and cantered back, and Elsa fought every primal urge in her bones and muscles to run. The varda's slitted nostrils flared as it took a long whiff of the tea. A strange and guttural gurgle of disinterest rose from the creature's throat, and it wandered back to its spot.
"Northerner's stomachs," his voice was deep and husky as he downed all the tea in one gulp, "so small."
Elsa's brow arched at that, recalling the time she had been invited to a Highlander longhouse for a feast, whose warriors and shield maidens inhaled mountains of fish and venison at a manic pace.
"Blightlanders must require an entire dragon to feast on before noon."
She instantly regretted having let her tongue loose. The Ashlord had become incredibly still, his hands upon the cold table top, eyes never leaving hers. There was a primal fire behind those dark spheres. Should he attack her here and now, Elsa would have no choice but to defend herself, and possibly kill him. That would start a war. A war she did not need.
A moment passed. "Hm," he murmured, his face easing its severity as he leaned a fraction back. He wasn't enraged. Malekith was amused. That was likely to be the closest he could ever get to laughter.
"I have done as agreed, Nustaverdn," his accent was strange and thick, "See with your eyes," he gestured about, "No men with me."
"And none with me," Elsa replied immediately, eager to begin negotiations. "We have both stayed true to our word. Shall we begin the dilemma we have at hand?"
"Yes."
Elsa leaned forward slightly. "King Eddis of Attolia has come to me with reports of your spies lurking at the outskirts of his farmlands. For the security of his people, I have allowed him to double the ranks of his farmland guard."
"My people hunger," the Ashlord did not raise his voice, "They thirst. The past five Uudn have not been kind to the Vhagn. My sons weaken, my wives are thin."
"You believe your people's time in the Blightlands have come to an end," the High Queen sipped her tea, "I daresay I am surprised, Ashlord. Your people seem to have a traditional and… obstinate quality about them."
"The climb has not been smooth," conceded Malekith, "Yet here I am, speaking your tongue."
A Blightland Ashlord with an eye for progress. She finished her tea. This makes the dreaded heat almost worth it.
"And you speak it well," Elsa complimented. Perhaps commendation would loosen those massive shoulders.
"I cannot say the same for my people," Malekith was unmoved by her bouquet, "They are…" he searched for the word, "...hesitant to join me. The Nrushtrastn is all that they know. All that I know. They fear that in leaving what you call the Blight, they abandon our goddess."
"And you?"
"Atha is no longer lost to the Nrushtrastn," Malekith touched two fingers over his heart, "She lives now in my people."
The High Queen was not a religious woman, which was left unknown. The kingdoms of Imperium, however, were deeply polylithic. So much so that a pagan priestess sits at her court table, who is believed to have consorted with druids. No, Elsa followed no god nor goddess, but she respected those who did. Faith was not foolish.
"And now," Malekith continued, "She leads us to the soft soil."
"Perhaps she does, Ashlord," the High Queen rose her chin, "I have come to you with a proposition."
He gave no audible answer. In the distance, a geyser shot seering steam into the air, as though the Blightland itself prompted Elsa.
"I cannot risk a war between Attolia and your people. King Eddis is young and foolhardy. He sits upon his throne like a printer's apprentice." The High Queen held Malekith's steady gaze, "You're overpopulated, and you wish to colonize. My Imperium's reach is far and wide, the largest ring of kingdoms and queendoms in all known history-"
"Urgish eghn mul," for the first time since their meeting, anger split Malekith's face, "You wish the Vhagn to swear loyalty to your empire." He didn't shout, but his voice was tinged with a trembling rumble.
Elsa did not hasten to reply. Very much unlike her little sister, she had a keen mind for diplomacy. The Ashlord was not a fool, but long and silver-spun sentences deviating around truths and constructing white lies (as was the common tongue of politics) would not bode well. The Blightlanders favored candor, so candor she would give.
"You yourself have said that your people, the Vhagn, hunger. My people have known nothing but full bellies. Your people thirst. My rivers are long and winding. I am gifting you mercy from a frightful future."
"The Vhagn do not require mercy."
"Your people are dying, Ashlord. Your numbers have dropped significantly over the last five years. Swear loyalty to my crown and you will have land! You will have rivers!"
"The Vhagn have always been free."
"Ashlord Malekith," High Queen Elsa stood then quite sharply, and for the first time in all the ages, the Blight grew cold.
The chilling breezes wafted over both armies, and the air above them essentially buzzed with alarm. Elsa's dress flapped in the gusts, her hair tumbling and flipping. It was not an attack. Clear as ice, it was a command for absolute respect.
A few seconds passed before she let the cold subside, the Blightland's natural temperature returning. Gradually, she lowered herself back down into the chair. Malekith watched, his initial expression of alarm changing to that of something unreadable.
"What do you wish to gain with my loyalty?" Malekith asked.
Elsa stood again with breeze-like grace, ignoring the ash that fell from her platinum-blonde locks. "Peace, Ashlord Malekith."
Malekith took this in, and slowly began to nod.
"Peace… and protection."
The Ashlord stopped at this, quirking his head in inquiry.
Elsa dusted off her skirts. "Your warriors are the most formidable the world has ever known. Should you weld to my Imperium, you will assign twenty men to vow themselves as my royal guard. And you will name one champion who will become the captain of my Palace Guard. In return, I offer safe travels, bountiful supplies, and peace."
The High Queen found that she was holding her breath as she awaited a response from the stoic Ashlord of the Vhagn. The future of her Imperium then rested in this man's tombstone-sized hands. Either war would be declared, and with that, death, or Malekith would set aside his pride, and bring respite to his people at long last.
"You have two days," Elsa said, turning to her mare, "Two days, and I return to my home."
"Men of the Blight do not wait so long."
The High Queen stopped, facing Malekith. "Oh?"
The Ashlord of the Vhagn stood to his full height. If the sun were at his back, his shadow would have engulfed the petite empress.
"I have a… proposition of my own, High Queen of far and wide reaching Imperium." From his belt he drew his double-bladed battleaxe and with a heavy grunt, he drove it into the surface of her ice table.
"Aghn ker." Malekith rumbled.
Elsa stared at the blade for an instant, hairline fractures splitting the face of the table top. With a nudge of will, the table melted, and the Ashlord's blade clattered to the stony earth.
. . .
"Aghn ker... he challenged you to a duel, Your Grace." Eugenides, the scholar of Her Grace's Court, leaned over his notes. He was an elderly man, his face long and gaunt much like the rest of his body, and his hair silver hair was short, thick, and curly. Rather unusual for a man his age. Nobody truly knew how old he was, just that he was indeed quite long-living.
Elsa's eyes became distant with thought, her slender forefinger tapping at her bottom lip. She had suspected what he said was the case.
Eugenides the Scholar, General Thorleif, and Commanding Officer Aeris all stood inside the High Command tent. The Imperial Militia had half-way set up camp, soldiers outside the tent chatting amongst themselves as they ate and rested. Topic of the day, of course: the Vhagn
"Me?" Elsa was the only one seated, resting cross-legged in a gorgeous mahogany chair. While one finger tapped her lip, the other tapped the end of her armrest. "That is rather unorthodox."
"He means to kill you." General Thorleif had worn that scowl for the past fifteen minutes. "Do not take the duel, Your Grace."
The High Queen turned her head to Thorleif, who still hadn't recognized his error.
"Was that an order, General?" Elsa inquired, voice perilously sweet. She had stopped tapping her fingers.
General Thorleif halted in his pacing, ears growing red. "A request, Your Grace," he responded after a lengthy pause. "Forgive me."
She studied him for a moment, the war tent perfectly silent, but then resumed her thoughtless ministrations. "I do not share his culture. Why am I required to respond?"
"Forgive me, Your Grace," began Eugenides, inciting a fleeting eye-roll from the High Queen, "But I do believe that accepting his Aghn ker is the wisest decision to be made here."
"Pig-wash," General Thorleif interjected, "Send me! Send an officer, many of them are duelists."
"For sport," muttered Aeris. She was a tall, brown-haired woman, plain of face and broad of shoulders. Unlike the uniformed General, she wore a combination of leathers and dark-plated armor, a broadsword sheathed at her hip.
"To kill me would provoke war with Imperium," Elsa said almost absently, "Malekith is no fool. He's a king of warlords, and has remained such for forty-seven years."
"May I interlope, Your Grace?" Eugenides closed his notebook, addressing the High Queen.
"If you have an answer for me."
"Aghn ker is a sacred writ of political power. If a lowly foot soldier invokes the Aghn ker upon his Rhakshasa, Ashlord, and wins, he takes the Ashlord's position, and the Ashlord becomes a foot soldier. That is the most common use of the duel."
"And where might you be going with this?" General Thorleif, a man weathered by so many words that said so little, heaved a long sigh.
"Aghn ker has laws and sublaws, Your Grace. It's actually quite complex." As he spoke, Eugenides scrambled over a stack of books set aside in the tent's corner and flung open a fresh volume. Elsa caught his name engraved on the book's spine. "'The triumphant may do to the defeated whatever they like. The defeated must bend to the champion's will, or his honor will be tainted. Though death is often the result."
"The duel will decide whether or not Malekith goes to war or joins the Imperium." Elsa leaned back in her chair. A part of her knew this already, it made perfect sense, but she dared not make assumptions on the matter. Clarity, even if it came so little often, was refreshing.
Nobody else spoke for the moments that ensued. They could tangibly feel how deep in thought their High Queen was.
"He never gave me a time."
"Ah," Eugenides's nimble fingers thumbed a few pages, "An eccentric tradition. The challenger is required to stand in place until the duel begins. To meditate on their goddess, Atha."
Elsa blinked. "He's been standing in place this whole time?" It's been a little over forty minutes since she had returned to her military force.
"Almost definitely," confirmed Eugenides.
"He's a madman," breathed General Thorleif.
"On the contrary," Eugenides rose a skeletal finger, "Granting the challenger a long wait is considered a compliment. This gives more time for the challenger to meditate on his goddess."
"He's a madman," Thorleif pointedly repeated.
The stout man was beginning to test Elsa's patience today. Or perhaps it was this dreaded heat. Or the hard ground. The journey had been strenuous, and the day was sluggish and grueling.
Spoiled brat, Elsa cursed herself, inwardly scowling.
"I do believe this Aghn ker doubles as a sort of… test." Eugenides pondered. "As you know, Your Grace, the Vhagn respect strength and power above all else." He met her eyes for a moment. "Why should they swear fealty to a ruler who cannot fight?"
A moment to digest. Two moments.
"Very well," the High Queen rose, flattening the wrinkles in her skirts. "Let's get this over with."
"My Queen." If General Thorleif hadn't known better, he'd have snatched Elsa's wrist in protest. But he needn't, for she faced him, brow arched.
"I implore that you send a champion," he said, keeping his manner formal as possible, "You are the High Ruler of the wealthiest empire in the world. Upon your death there would be utter chaos."
"Do you doubt my abilities, General?" Aglint of wry amusement flickered behind her bright blue orbs.
"No, Your Grace." Thorleif was cautious not to stray over unwise words. "I say that the risk is simply too great."
"Eugenides," the High Queen addressed her scholar, who hadn't been paying any attention at all to Thorleif's pleas. He blinked from a reverie, and he ceased the absent-minded picking of the frayed ends of his book.
"Hm? Yes Your Grace?"
"What might happen should I send my own champion in the Aghn ker?"
"Oh I believe that such an insult is insurmountable in Vhaggish culture, Your Grace." The elderly man rubbed his nose. "You should know that the Vhagn are an incredibly direct people. To handle your business passively through another, mmmmmh." He clicked his tongue. "Cowards are burned like witches."
"This is the only way," Elsa concluded. She turned to make her leave, but was yet again stopped by her general.
"It's not," the stout man straightened his already impressively erect spine, "We could march against the Blights. Show them the strength and power of Imperium. Our forces are twenty times the size of theirs. It would be like schooling a runt."
At that, High Queen Elsa turned to the general with a briskness that would terrify any man, "Hellbent on war, are you?"
"Just stating my viewpoint, Your Grace," General Thorleif was forced to avoid those eyes.
"Henceforth, idiotic viewpoints will be swallowed," Elsa said. Her glare was unchallenged by the General, and so her eyes shifted passed him to the towering Commanding Officer Aeris, who stood in place with an air of indifference.
"You have been typically silent, Commanding Officer. What say you?"
Aeris seemed to roll the question about in her mind for a bit, hand resting on the pommel of her sheathed broadsword.
"Go for the legs, Your Grace."
Thorleif sputtered in befuddled indignation, but Elsa fought a smile. It had been the first time she had heard the Commanding Officer's voice in years, forgetting how closely it resembled a lioness's low purr.
"Sound advice, Commanding Officer Aeris."
. . .
So still did the Ashlord stand that he resembled some stoic statue, carved crudely from stone.
"You accept, then," it was not a question he addressed her with.
Elsa had arrived in the same attire as before, a midnight-blue dress, bejeweled at the corset and skirts by star-like diamonds. Certainly not the attire for a warrior. Or for a traveler.
"How do you know?" She dismounted Nix and shooed the mare further away, clear of danger. The varda was nowhere to be seen.
"You would have not returned, Nustaverdn." The corners of those dark eyes crinkled.
Like a black-bearded and bearish St. Nicholas, mused Elsa.
"I have studied the laws of your Aghn ker," she said, "and I recognize that war may very well come out the other side."
The Ashlord shrugged his gargantuan shoulders. "Atha will guide the champion's blade to victory. She may favor me, she may favor you. Her ways are skaad to us. If Atha wants war, there will be war. If she wants me to bow to the far and wide reaching Imperium, I will."
Elsa could use such faith.
The axe she had cast to the ground was lifted by the Ashlord. She watched the dark blade glint in the daylight, her heart skipping in anxiety of a fight.
"You have come unarmed," Malekith remarked, spinning the weapon in his palm.
"I am never unarmed, Malekith," Elsa's smile was sweet, then she summoned the Winter.
A sword wouldn't do. Her opponent had the advantage of height and strength. A spear, then. Holding out both hands, amid the swirling blue light, a haft grew. At the end of the haft sprouted the keen tip of a spear. Her dress transformed, a slit running up her skirt to reveal an armored leg. Her right arm became entirely encased in ice places, and in her left hand, a round shield grew from her fingertips. The subtle circlet she wore around her brow expanded and warped until she wore a winged helmet. All armor and weapons were made entirely from ice.
It took a noticeable effort for Malekith to not gawk. To him she must have resembled some goddess of war and winter, although she would not have been pleased at all if he had told her such.
With a dancer's elegance, Elsa twirled her spear between deft fingers. She had trained for a decade under the renowned sworddancer Tulio Luccio, having faced many battles of her own. But she knew that her experience on the battlefield was pale in comparison to the wars that sat under the Ashlord's snakeskin belt.
Never strike first, Tulio's voice relayed in her head as she hefted her five-foot spear, raising her shield. Striking first is like kissing a woman who doesn't fancy you.
The Ashlord and the Ice Queen circled.
As Elsa sought an exploit in Malekith's defenses, she knew he did the same. With a viper's speed, Malekith suddenly stepped towards Elsa, breaking the cycle.
Elsa drew back, inhaling sharply through her nose and raising her shield, knees bracing for a blow that never came.
He was testing her, seeing how she'd react to an attack.
Stupid, she cursed her idiocy, stupid stupid. She was making novice mistakes, mistakes that could cost her lives. Many many lives. Relax your joints, flow with the blows.
Malekith started again. She remained in her defensive stance, denying him the satisfaction of another flinch.
She could freeze him solid where he stood. Incase him in unbreakable ice for as long she wished. End the duel in an instant. But if she won that way, would he and the Blightlanders who followed him truly be hers? These men respond to prowess in battle, not magic.
Malekith stepped in closer with his next feint, but Elsa closed in to meet him. His blow to her shield was weaker than it could have been if he were truly attacking, and as she knocked the axe open, Elsa jabbed her spear for his ribs.
His recovery was swift, arm coming down to swat her spear aside and axe swinging for a true attack. Elsa avoided it, doing her damndest to say just under his offense, and thrusted this time for his knee. The Ashlord stepped back and parried in one motion.
This all occurred in under two seconds.
They circled again. Elsa thrusted, Malekith parried. She went for the legs, he slapped her spear's end aside.
He was a precise attacker, she noticed. All of his advances had been deliberate and calculated. He knew that connection was necessary for him; he was too large to lunge and pivot like a dancer. Such was evident in the blood dripping from his knuckles, the hand he used to slap away her spear.
"I do not know much about ice," growled Malekith, "But I do know that it is brittle. How do you make it so strong?"
"Bend the knee and I'll tell you."
"You have yet to defeat me."
"You have yet to touch me."
She had hoped that the taunt would instigate emotion from the Ashlord, making him brash in his actions, but he remained as serene as though he still meditated.
An exchange of parries, followed by Elsa's graceful pivot. A mistake, for as she righted herself the Ashlord had ceased that microscopic window of opportunity.
He was upon her, grunting like the bear he resembled, hands grasping her weapons. Elsa bit back her cry of surprise. She know she could not match this man in strength, and he had overcome her weapons.
Elsa released her spear and shield, pulling back to avoid any oncoming blow, and a perfect copy of her weapons burst to life in her hands. Her old pair melted in Malekith's grip.
They were thirty seconds into the fight, neither one of them gaining the upper hand.
Time for a change of pace.
The snowball slapped into the direct center of his face. Malekith's head snapped half an inch back in surprise, the cold, packed snow dribbling down his face.
"What-,"
Another snowball interrupted him. He took a halting step back, flummoxed and disoriented. By the time he managed to wipe the snow from his eyes, the edge of Elsa's shield greeted his face violently.
She had put all her weight behind the blow, and it still wasn't enough to topple the giant. He merely took two steps back, arching his axe blindly and defensively, senses jumbled from her blow.
The blow caught her shoulder and bit into the ice plates that protected her arm. While the armor could withstand the keen blade, she knew that the kinetic power of the attack had dislocated her shoulder. Her spear clattered to the ground.
It hurt like hell.
One arm useless, and the Ashlord was only dazed. Piece of cake, Elsa thought sardonically. Saving Attolia with just my shield. What the hell.
Malekith pressed his advantage, as expected. Elsa never blocked the full force of the blows he threw at here, merely redirecting them with angled shoves of her shield. She feared that if she kept retreating like this, she would surely trip and impale herself on the rugged terrain.
The Ashlord ceased his attacks, allowing Elsa to stumble back a few steps. The High Queen was sweating. One arm limp, thin lines of blood decorating the other from the many close encounters with Malekith's blade.
"You fought well," the warlord hadn't even lost his breath. There was still snow in his braided beard. "I need not slay the queen of an empire that could crush my people. Yield, and this will be over."
"Scared?" Elsa's smile was almost lopsided.
The Ashlord heaved a grim sigh, setting his jaw. "Very well."
Two things happened at once. Malekith stepped in close, swiping his blade horizontally so to behead the High Queen, and have it mercifully over with. Elsa leaned back as he did this, acting in unison with the Ashlord as she rose her hand in a pushing motion. The only thing that moved faster than them was the pillar of ice that sprung from the ground and drove itself into Malekith's stomach.
All the breath was abruptly squeezed from his lungs. He leaned against and over the ice pillar that had rammed into him like a piston. A wheeze and a cough before the Ashlord vomited onto the plateau.
Elsa grimaced. She honestly hadn't meant to hit him that hard. She forgot to take his momentum into account. His momentum and the velocity of her pillar combined is what had incapacitated the Ashlord.
The mountainous man's head bobbed for a few seconds as he fought unconsciousness. He won, righting himself, still obviously light-headed. Malekith bent over at the waist, coughing before he let out a lingering groan.
"That was planned?" He asked, still leaning over.
"Yes," Elsa lied.
Long spikes of ice rose from the ground, surrounding the Ashlord, who made no move to avoid them. He stood straight as the spikes ceased growth half an inch from his head and face in all directions.
"Malekith, I have won the Aghn ker. Now, bend the knee." Even with her dislocated shoulder, smudged in soot and blood, the High Queen was a terrifying and wonderful vision.
"You have not won yet, Nustaverdn," His hand rose to hold one of the spikes that threatened to impale his face. He let go shortly, the frigid element alien to him. "A Vhagn has not yielded in centuries."
"You prove yourself already to be excellent at breaking tradition, Ashlord Malekith."
Malekith beheld the High Queen.
She was taking deep, controlled breaths, still holding that shield. Her helmet had fallen during one of their exchanges, and so her frayed snowy hair hung in a tangled mass of curls, barely held together by her braid. Bloody, dirty, pissed, and beautiful, she awaited an answer from the trapped king.
There was no cruelty in that woman. Malekith mused if whether or not that was a weakness.
"Honey." He said.
Elsa rose her brows, "Excuse me?"
"I will yield," He replied, absolutely serious, "If my people will have honey."
"How much honey?" Elsa was incredulous.
"How much honey is there?"
"This is ridiculous."
"Too high a demand?"
"Yes. No! I mean-... " The High Queen forced herself to take a breath. Three seconds inhale, three seconds exhale. How had the Ashlord become so chatty?
"And we want to learn the recipe for honey," continued the Ashlord.
"The recipe for… you do know what honey comes from, right?"
A pause. "... sugar?"
"No."
"Damn it."
"Bees."
"Bees?"
"They come from bees," Elsa explained, forgetting herself.
"Bees," mused Malekith, emphasizing with a 'z' sound at the end. He seemed to have disregarded the fact that he was less than half an inch from death altogether. "That's a stupid name. The Vhagn will invent another."
"You can't invent another name for-," She took in a brisk breath, closed her eyes, and counted again. "You're not in a position for demands, Malekith."
"And what would you do?" He met her gaze, black hues burrowing, "Would you kill me, High Queen Elsa?"
She gave no answer, for it was not necessary. Between them there was a clear understanding of who was the killer, and who was not.
"Atha has made her word known, Nustavardn," the Ashlord said. She couldn't decipher his expression, which seemed neither pleased nor displeased. Simply there, adapting without complaint. Like the face of a cliff.
"I yield. The Aghn ker is yours."
That was it, then. No political baggage, no month-long debates. No betrayal, no deceit. Painstakingly simple, yet endlessly complex. Elsa had won. She did it.
No war would come.
She laughed. It was a rising, nearly mad giggling that transformed to a bellyaching fit of glee. Some would say this reaction was unbefitting of a queen, much less an empress of kingdoms. But the days have grown longer as each gone by. The heat, the bugs, and the ash had pelted her nonstop. It was not over; she had yet to make the journey back to Attolia, which neighbored the Blightlands. But at that moment, there as the ash fell and hot steam exploded into the air, the High Queen Elsa of Imperium laughed like a woman succumbing to a lover's tickle.
"All the honey you want!" Elsa cried, joyous, "Ashlord Malekith of the Blightlands, the Vhagn will have all the honey you want!"
. . .
Chapter's Index
Aghn ker ( aw-kk-n kir ) - Aghn translating as "Brawl" and ker translating as "of blood" (root word: ke) to invoke Aghn ker is to challenge a peer or superior to a duel. It is a common tool in Blightland politics. Aghn ker is often to the death.
Atha ( Ah-th-ah ) - The Blightland goddess of fire and justice. Vhagn believe that she is bound to the Ashpeaks, entrapped by dark gods. Others believe she is the very land of the Blight, which is how she allows them to live there.
Nustaverdn ( N-oo-stah-vair-dn ) - Roughly translates as "high lady", an expression of respect for women in power. It's also another word for goddess.
Nrushtrastn ( Nroo-shtrah-stn) - Roughly translates as "Lady's Land". It is the Vhaggish word for their homeland.
Urgish eghn mul ( erg-ish ay-hn m-ool ) - A profanity scholars believe refers to one's idiocy.
Uudn ( oo-dn ) - Vhaggish word for 3 years.
Rhakshasa ( Rahk-shaw-sah ) - Vhaggish word for fire demon and Ashlord ( Root words: Rhak is fire, Shasa is demon )
Skaad ( Skah-d ) - Vhaggish word for "Hidden".
The Vhagn ( Vah-gn ) - An ancient and unyielding warrior race of people who value honor and prowess in battle above all else. Their skin, eyes, and hair are dark, which is a complete contrast to the fair-skinned folk of Imperium. The Vhagn gain their savage reputation from the long-lasting war with the desert-people to the Blightland's east.
Imperium Geography
Attolia ( at-oh-lee-uh ) - The easternmost province of Imperium. It is a Greek-style kingdom, ruled by the foreign King Eddis. Attolia is the center of trade for silks, wine, exotic fruits, and medicines, and is home to the most provincial scholars in the world.
Arendelle - The northernmost state of Imperium, Arendelle is a cold and humble land, whose mountains have protected its occupants for generations. It is the birthplace of High Queen Elsa, where Queen Anna now rules with a kind hand.
The Blightlands - Also known as Nrushtrastn by its natives, the Blightlands is a barren plateau of brimstone and molten rock. It constantly snows ash from the Ashpeaks, a chain of small active volcanoes. It's only human inhabitants are the Blightlanders, or Vhagn, as they preferred to be called, who have risen a civilization amid the burning and broken rocks. But the Vhagn now seek other, softer places to live.
Blys ( bliss ) - The capital of Imperium, where cultures and religions are wide in variety. People from the five kingdoms and further come to live in her streets. This is also where the Winter Throne stands, upon which rules High Queen Elsa.
Corona - While Imperium and Corona have steady relationships in trade, Corona has not yet joined the five kingdoms. Its rulers, Queen Rapunzel and King Eugene, are cautious of the global superpower (rightfully so).
The North Beacons - A line of four massive spires in the icy North Sea, manned by the ever vigilant Mistwatch, a vanguard of soldiers sworn to "watch the mist". They are tasked to protect the mainland from creatures that step onto the earth's edge, but now the tales are seen as silly, and the Mistwatch are made out to be men playing soldiers on their towers in the mist.
The Southern Isles - The first kingdom to come under Imperium's rule, and the only kingdom to be conquered with force.
Imperium - An empire originating from Arendelle, ruled by High Queen Elsa. Imperium has its own city capital based between the five kingdoms under Elsa's reign, which is where the High Queen and Her Grace's Court resides.
Trost ( traw-st ) - Mountainfolk are rarely ever welcomed down to the plains and plateaus of Imperium, for the people of Imperium know very well what they are. Druids, worshippers of forgotten, sleeping gods. Witches, who snatch children from their beds to raise them and nurture them into becoming witches themselves. Of course, this could very well merely be tales woven by storytellers who claim to have been. The Trost Mountainfolk are a secluded people, but word has it that young king Eddis hails from the cursed peaks. What a Trost might do with a throne under his hand, no one can be certain.
Walpurgisnacht ( wall-per-g-is-nah-kt ) - Also known as the Highlands, Walpurgisnacht is the cliffland province just southwest of Arendelle, boarding the Fog Sea. Once ruled by four barbarian factions, Sealord Cheif Fergison claimed rule over Walpurgisnacht after ending a centuries-long civil war amongst brothers. After uniting the four factions, Fergison bent the knee to High Queen Elsa, granting Imperium the greatest navy fleet in the world. Highlanders are a hardy people, and many families have migrated to live in the other kingdoms to work as successful fishers. Back in Walpurgisnacht, war-lusting Houses have broken from their chief to form bands of barbarians, who now attack merchant caravans further inland.
Characters
Eugenides ( yoo-jen-ih-dees ) - A respected scholar and eccentric inventor who was personally elected by Elsa to become her advisor and expert on anything and everything. He is brought along to meetings with foreign rulers and dignitaries, often to translate languages and explain customs. He is paid generously, and back home in the city of Blys he personally funds a project to invent a contraption called the "telescope" for his need to closer view the stars. Eugenides is one of the only members of Her Grace's Court to be called a friend of the High Queen, who calls him Gen when they're in privacy. Eugenides exhibits an energy and wonder that belays his old age, his wit and fearless nature charming those around into liking him almost instantly.
Commanding Officer Aeris ( ay-ris ) - Hailing from Attolia, Aeris is the first woman to reach such a high-ranking position in any military. She is a formidable warrior and a stoic character, but her most noticeable aspect is her height. Aeris is six foot five inches.
General Thorleif ( Thor-leaf ) - A short and stout man, Thorleif has seen his fair share of war, and he is ceaselessly impressed (and irked) by how well Elsa has evaded it. A strongly strategic mind, he commands the Imperial Military, and harbors a deep attraction for his High Queen.
King Eddis of Attolia ( Eh-d-iss ) - The whimsical and enigmatic king of lavish kingdom Attolia, Eddis had not gained the throne by right of birth. Rather, he married into the throne with Athenia, the former fair queen, who was famous for her long raven hair. Word has it that King Eddis hails from Trost, a civilization in the mountains. He is a young man, slight of height and stature, but one can sense a stigmatic secrecy in the way he talks. One would be wise not to trust him.
Elsa's Personal Hand Servant - A bumbling young oaf, this nameless servant is often seen carrying the High Queen's packages, holding shade above her head, and bringing her iced beverages. He is what people call an idiot, and goes on hardly noticed at all.
High Queen Elsa Frode - Inexplicably born with the powers of Winter, Elsa hails from the humble and frigid kingdom of Arendelle, where on the day of her coronation, she froze summer. Since that day, she reigned as sovereign over the small kingdom until agents of the Southern Isles attempted to take her sister's life. Enraged, Elsa unleashed her wrath upon the Isles, claiming it. On her journey to conquer the Southern Isles, Elsa witnessed poverty, drought, organized crime, and corruption throughout neighboring kingdoms, and so was born a dream to raise a paradise from the ground, where all her people would be safe and bellies would be full. Over the ten years of building her Imperium, the now High Queen has amassed an unfathomable wealth, easily making her the most powerful ruler in the land.
Ashlord Malekith of the Blightlands ( Mal-eh-kith ) - A widely feared warlord, most would be shocked to find that the Ashlord has a surprisingly cautious nature. This is viewed as a weakness by arrogant warriors of the Vhagn, but none can match his prowess in a fight, leaving him to be the true ruler of his people. The Vhagn are trapped in centuries-old tradition, but Malekith believes progress for his people is necessary, beginning with leaving behind the Blightlands. He has taken seven wives and seeded six sons, hardly ever interacting with his wives any longer.
Nix ( Nih-ks ) - Her name latin for "Snow", Nix is a wintry creation of High Queen Elsa. The mightiest horse in all the land with a bottomless reservoir of stamina, the mare's coat of snow is so soft that it resembles a true horse hide. Elsa is certain that the horse can speak like all her other creations, but for some unknown reason, Nix acts just like a horse should. She even eats.
Tulio Luccio ( too-lee-oh loo-chee-oh ) - A sword-dancer from the far east, beyond the Blightlands, where the people's skin are dark and their land rolling mounds of sand. Tulio was a wandering duelist with a bounce in his step and a jovial tune at his lips, until he saved the life of Eugenides the Scholar from a band of Highland barbarians. Eugenides, with the High Queen's eager permissions, begged the sword dancer to stay in the Blys Citadel for as long as he liked. He offered to train the High Queen in Eluniosi, a long forgotten fighting art. Paid handsomely for each lesson, Tulio now lives contentedly in Blys, having married a gentle baker.