Chapter 12 (Part II): Raising Arms

A ruler may inspire fear because of his power over life and death. Normally, this means having the power to introduce the living to death. When a necromancer sits upon the throne, however, it means much more.

-          Magister Wallace, in his Nationalist book, The Reign of the Black Queen.

Back at the castle, the guards hauled Azraea inside the courtyard and dropped the portcullis, but left the gates open so the people at the front of the mob could see what was about to happen.

“Well go on then,” Azraea said, “Take me to my throne.”

Medes looked at her like she was mad. One of the guards grabbed his crotch in an obscene gesture, “She can sit on my throne,” he laughed.

“Captain, please take note," Azraea said, "the first order of business will be to have him thrown in the stocks in the market square. Without pants.”

 “I don’t know what idiot plan you’re working, girl,” Medes said, “but I’ll grant you, you do have the arrogance of a queen.”

“Well, I’m a singer, and life’s a stage,” Azraea explained, “I’ve learned you don’t get far in the business if you hide behind the curtains.”

“A singer?” Medes seemed skeptical, but some of the guardsmen said they’d seen her perform at the inn up the road, back at the beginning of the summer. They described her routine as especially rousing.

“Well, heh,” Medes smiled, “Her majesty said we could do with your nubile ebony body what we wished,” he ran his gloved hand down the curve of her back and slapped her backside, “And that entails some pretty obvious things, but this adds a little something different. I’ve never had a girl sing to me before I used her.”

“Really?” Azraea asked condescendingly, “With that sort of romantic charm? I’m shocked.”

Medes raised a hand to belt her across the face, but then remembered the dragon’s order to leave it untouched. Instead he knocked her to the ground with a strike of his steel-clad arm to her chest that left her groaning despite her resolve.

“I tell you what,” Medes said, “Sing for us, and I’ll only let my men do you one at a time.”

Azraea pulled herself up, “Every one of them?”

“Oh, aye. There’s not a man in this castle wouldn’t want to see you split on his cock.”

Azraea tried not to smile too viciously behind the white and black paint, “Well, I guess there’s no need to be gentle, is there?”

Surrounded by the mocking of Syliva’s personal guardsmen and some obnoxious Firebrands, Azraea staggered to her feet and caught her breath. She was still somewhat shaken by the blow Medes had given her, but she began to sing, as demanded.

Oh Kings of past and knights of old,

Whose deeds day and night were told,

Heroes, to the last, each and every one,

But betrayed all your work ‘twas undone.

She added in some strong incantations that sounded like nonsense filler to her audience, before dropping her voice from a low mournful tone to one of anger and resentment. Some of the guards were nodding their heads with the tune. It wasn’t the sort of performance they’d been wanting, but it was so good no one dared interrupt her.

Your lives lost, the dragon she did rob,

Your ladies lost, in grief they did sob;

Where went the merry men who brought us joy?

Where went the strong men who inspired each boy?

The guardsmen were now so enthralled by the sound of her passionate voice that most did not notice the faint green aurora in the air around them or the slight shudder in the ground.

Where went the brave men that kept us sound?

Where went the kings our gods crowned?

Where went the heroes that brought us peace?

How could the line of Caelus so sadly cease?

Azraea’s eyes glowed brightly green, as she began gesturing with her arms and hands.

Betrayed by his cousin that we cursed!

Failed by his people, so much worse!

We beg your forgiveness with this song,

Return from your grave and right what is wrong!

Dozens of apparitions rose from the ground and fell out of the stone walls. They reached out for the now horrified guards, clawing at them with incorporeal hands. Medes saw one of the apparitions claw its way into a guard who then began lashing out at his comrades, possessed by the vengeful spirit.

“Don’t let them touch you!” Medes cried as he drew his sword. His warning came too late, though. Within moments, many of the guardsmen were fighting for control of their own limbs, and those that weren’t were too terrified to clearly differentiate friend from foe. The guards began massacring each other. Several men fled into the main keep and barred the door behind them, trapping everyone in the courtyard.

Antagonizing the confusion, men on the parapets began dropping into the courtyard. Medes searched frantically for the threat above and finally spotted it. Some little halfling was dodging and darting along the wall striking with his tiny blade, while two archers covered him from the wall above Medes. Medes couldn’t reach the small assassin, but he grabbed a halberd from a panicked soldier and launched it at one of the archers. The younger of the two saw the projectile and shoved the older man out of the way, taking the weapon’s blade straight to the chest. The older man growled, pulled the polearm from his compatriot’s chest, and with surprising skill hopped down into the courtyard. He whirled the weapon in his hands.

“Schroeder,” Medes growled, “I figured you were still floating about in the sewer, with the rest of the old shits.”

“Turns out my friend knew a secret entrance into the castle,” Schroeder said. One of Medes’ possessed guardsmen ran past Schroeder, charging headlong into the stone wall, crushing his skull. “Though in retrospect, I think perhaps our presence may have been unnecessary.”

Medes searched for Azraea in the clamor, realizing that breaking her spell was more important than confronting his rival. He finally saw her walking across the courtyard, apparently indifferent to the fates of the wicked men butchering each other. He started to run after her, but Schroeder vaulted with the halberd and kicked Medes in the backs of the legs. They both tumbled to the ground, but Schroeder rolled over his halberd, and swung it low as his feet planted on the ground. Medes stabbed the point of his teardrop-shaped shield into the ground, providing enough leverage to hold against the impact. As soon as the halberd stopped, Medes pulled the shield up and slammed it into the ground, pinning the halberd’s head. With a roll he stepped on the haft near Schroeder’s grip, forcing it to the ground and pulling the weapon out of his hands. Still standing on the weapon, Medes raised his sword to kill Schroeder, only to have his swing intercepted by another blade. Jericho’s chest wound bled considerably, but the jeweled eye of the metal snake around his throat glowed brilliantly as the enchantment sustained him.

“Why don’t you take a break, old man?” Jericho said to Schroeder.

“Good idea!” Schroeder shouted from the ground; he lashed out with one of his boots and struck one of Medes’ armored knees from the side. There was a loud crack, and Medes tumbled to the ground. Jericho helped Schroeder to his feet as Medes dragged himself towards the gate. His men were regrouping. The spirits that had possessed many of them had either spent their energy or dissipated when their hosts died, and the mercenaries were recovering from their confusion. Verax was running at top speed around the wall dodging shots from a pair of soldiers that had grabbed bows.

“Azraea,” Jericho said, “We might have a problem.”  

Azraea had been standing at the locked doors of the keep still casting her spells, but now she turned and faced the courtyard to see the rallying soldiers.

“Worry not, ‘Sergeant Stone,’” Azraea winked and raised her hands, “Don't you have friends of your own?” The doors of the keep flew open behind her, and a pair of full plate armor suits marched out into the courtyard with the clang and clatter of hollow metal. The suits had once belonged to Caelus IV’s personal guard, and had stood silently in the hallway for two centuries as trophies of Syliva’s final victory over Caelus and his knights. The animated suits stepped around the necromancer and stomped towards Medes’ troops. 
Azraea kept singing. 

Oh great heroes who bring justice to these men,

Spare them, whose fate atonement may still mend,

But slay every one whose knee to evil does bend.

Another pair of ethereal knights tossed aside the men that had fled into the keep and stood aside as Azraea led her friends inside. The empty suits raised their bloodied swords in salute. Azraea sang, glancing back at Jericho,

I share not your blood or your bond, 
But I swear to avenge those who were wronged.

Azraea walked past heaps upon heaps of shining gold, giving it not so much as a glance, her eyes now trained upon her singular goal; the brilliant golden chair that sat as the centerpiece in the dragon’s hoard.

I swear to undo what the dragon has sewn,

By your grace I claim Caelus’s throne.

Azraea turned and sat in the seat of power.

If my worthiness you have seen,

Then on this bloody night... make me queen.

Azraea snapped her fingers, and the city quaked as a wave of brilliant green light flowed from her hand.