III
There were fourteen of them. Ten Imperial Elites: the best melee men that the Guard could offer, two Imperial Archers: among the most reliable marksmen in Pralgad, Commander Vlish: decorated Dervish and Imperial Bodyguard, and Hawthorne III himself: ruler of the Four Continents, High Monarch of the Empire. The Imperial Throne Room had been designed for private audiences, and being on the highest floor of the Tower, it was also the smallest major room in the complex. It could, however, fit all of them and then some with much comfort.
Hawthorne sat on his throne, facing the main doorway, which was currently sealed. Hawthorne was defended by a shield of magic, and enchantment by Garzahd, no doubt, which was supposed to render him immune to any form of attack. Vlish stood positioned next to him so as to prevent any standard form of attack to reach him nonetheless, and the archers flanked the two them like bishops in a live game of chess in order to prevent anyone from reaching Vlish, just in case. The Elites flanked the carpet that lead to the throne, five to a side.
The men were nervous; Vlish could sense it. They damn well had a right to be. Where the hell was Garzahd? Still dealing with Limoncelli? No, he wouldn't take that much of a risk. And where were the battle mages? Why the hell could no one find anyone? Oh, gods, the greatest security breach in history, and they had to defend the Emperor himself with no mages and only two archers.
This was asking for trouble. Simply asking for it.
Hawthorne cracked his knuckles. "Is this all, Commander?"
"It appears so, your Highness."
"Oh." The Emperor seemed somewhat disappointed.
"There is still a Gala going on downstairs, your Highness."
"Yes, I know. I simply thought that the more men we had up here, the sooner we could return to the party."
"Garzahd is coming from the rear, your Highness."
Hawthorne cracked his knuckles again, examining the magical shielding as its psychedelic color swirled around his hands.
"Permission to speak freely, your highness?" Oh, gods, Vlish, why did you just say that?
"Go ahead, Commander."
"You do realize that coming up here was entirely unnecessary?"
"I realize that the intruders came to meet me face to face. I shall not deny them that honor. I shall merely deny them the chance to tell anyone about it."
Vlish fought back the strong urge to tell the Emperor that he was making a huge tactical mistake; but one did not come to where he was by contradicting one's superiors. "If that is your will, your Majesty."
There was a stirring down the hall. A door opened. There were sounds of a scuffle, of blades clashing and metal tearing flesh.
Vlish drew his sword. Taking his cue, the Elite lining the entryway to the Great Throne Room drew their own weapons.
"Men, the objective is simple. No one comes near the Emperor. Period. Be ready."
The sounds of struggle in the hall abruptly stopped.
"Hold steady," Vlish commanded, waiting for the proverbial pin to drop.
THUD.
Someone was ramming the throne room double-doors.
THUD.
"Keep holding," Vlish said.
Hawthorne cracked his knuckles.
THUD.
"Phil!" Someone outside was calling someone's name.
THUD.
"Phil!" The person shouted again.
"What?" Phil, apparently, responded.
THUD.
"Maintain hold," Vlish ordered.
"They open out." The first speaker said.
"Oh. Yeah."
"Hold!" Vlish barked, noticing two of the men starting to waver.
One of the doors cracked open. "Yep, this is it," someone else said.
Eyes flew to Vlish. He kept his gaze on the doorway.
The doors flew open and a huge mass of shining armor charged straight through toward the throne.
"Now!"
The Elites fell into an organized two-line formation, effectively blocking off the large, bulking intruder's path to the Emperor. Which, apparently, was what the intruders wanted, because the Elites' flanks were immediately attacked with a combination of spells and missiles. Three other intruders fell into line behind the Juggernaut in armor: two women in plate mail and a man wearing mage robes.
And that was all.
Gods, there were indeed only four.
The mage threw a fireball over the heads of the Elites. Vlish positioned himself in front of the Emperor, but Hawthorne shoved Vlish aside.
"Out of the way, Commander! I'll handle this myself!" Hawthorne waved his hand and the fireball vanished. "Come, I shall teach you all respect!" he shouted above the ruckus of clinking armor and clashing blades. He summoned a fireball of his own and threw it over the shoulders of the Elites. The blast flew high, whistling through the doorway and setting carpet ablaze in the hallway. The mage appeared to take the Emperor's actions as a personal challenge, and sent a volley of flaming arrows back at them. Those that were actually a threat were easily blocked by Vlish's shield or absorbed into the Emperor's magical protection.
"Hait, Weaver," Vlish instructed the archers, "Aim for the robes." He watched the front line in amazement. It was working! It was actually working! The wall of Elites was quickly pushing the intruders back through the door into the hall!
One of the archers gasped in pain as he was impaled through the stomach, armor and all, by a two-foot long spike of ice. The other suddenly shrieked as frost began to flow up his legs from the very ground. Vlish barely managed to get his shield up in time to block a flaming arrow with his shield. The arrow exploded on impact, throwing Vlish to his knees. Hawthorne used the energy of the explosion to create another fireball, and hurled it at the woman with the bow and arrows. The archer took the blow fully in the chest, but somehow, somehow, the fire was absorbed into her armor.
Vlish suddenly realized that the withdrawal had not been caused by overwhelming force. The Juggernaut was now somehow single-handedly keeping the entire force of Elites at bay at the mouth of the hallway as the other three showered the room with missiles and spells. They promptly put the impaled archer out of his misery and rendered the other unconscious with a vicious wave of elemental attacks.
"Commander," Hawthorne had risen to stand in front of the throne. "I'll stay here. Get them."
What? No, no, "No, your Highness."
"Don't you understand? I'm invincible!"
"I do not leave your side, your Highness." Vlish yelled back, catching another arrow on his shield. "Keep it up, men!" He yelled forward. "We just have to hold them!"
There were shouts of alarm as a ball of glowing green and yellow flame flew over the line of Elites, some bad reaction of a misfired scroll with the already unstable magical energy in the air. Flying toward the most powerful source of magic in the room. Flying toward Hawthorne and his shield of energy.
Hawthorne had no chance to counterspell; Vlish lunged to take the blow for his monarch, but too late. The fireball collided with the Emperor at full force, throwing him through the back of the throne with a crash of splintering wood and the shriek of twisting metal.
Vlish landed on his stomach and sprang to his feet, sword at the ready. The Elites, who had all gone to ground at the formation of the fireball, leapt back into their defensive wall. The intruders, who had also dropped to the floor in alarm, renewed their attack with impressive fury; the mage having taken advantage of the lull to cast several Haste spells. Hawthorne pulled himself from the rubble of the Imperial Throne and stood, unscathed. The shielding had completely absorbed the blow.
"Is that all you can do?" The Emperor was laughing. "Is that really all you can-"
A single arrow flew past the side of a soldier in the front line, a miss.
Vlish could only watch as the arrow hit the side of the table and cartwheeled over it, over the remnants of the throne, and directly into the Emperor's gold-laced boot.
And Emperor Hawthorne exploded.
There was no other way to describe it; the magic barrier surrounding the Emperor destabilized from its rainbow shimmer to a bright white glare which promptly expanded, collapsed, and shattered in a spectrum of energy that consumed the Emperor, what was left of the throne, and part of the table with it.
And there was nothing left.
Nothing.
Vlish looked on, staring in shock at the blackened pile of dust that was his monarch, his charge, his duty.
A magic portal ripped open through the fabric of space in a corner of the room, tearing several soldiers apart in the process.
There was shouting and general chaos as the Juggernaut threw soldiers to the floor, plowing a path. Several loud thuds impacted around him. Thuds from fire that flew from behind the intruders. There was blood, blood, so much blood and loud pounding. Pounding, pounding, of the world closing in around him; of his own heartbeat beating accusingly at him.
You failed, Vlish. Failure. Traitor. Failure. Failure. You call yourself a soldier? Traitor.
There were new voices now, but Vlish could not understand them through the ringing in his ears.
Vlish charged the portal in blind fury and fear; screaming, so that he could block out the pounding. He joined the throng, focusing on the Archer, making her his target. It was her Arrow; she would suffer for the damage her Arrow had done. There were flashes of heat, of cold, of sharp ice, as the Mage protected his ally. The other woman, the Healer, shouted something and something hard caught Vlish in the soft of his gut, through his armor. Vlish fought it and slashed at them, taking no regard for the energy or the blood surrounding him.
There was a flash. Vlish and his companions were again thrown to the floor as raw energy rushed past them, cracking the imported marble floor and sealing the rip in reality.
Vlish blinked. The portal was gone. The intruders were gone.
There were those new voices again: hurried, upset voices. Several people were cursing and swearing, even in uniform.
"Commander?" A familiar, gravelly voice beckoned Vlish to concentrate.
Battered, and, he suddenly realized, bleeding from several wounds, Vlish forced himself to stand and face Garzahd. The Archwizard locked eyes with him, confirming and reinforcing the grim truth.
It was over. And Hawthorne had lost.