Victory's Price

Mollen (Part Seventy - Two)

A.N. It is a happy day today - this tale is complete! 139,209 words, all done. I'll be updating daily for the next week or so until everything is edited and online :D :D :D

 Chapter 72

It was time, beyond time in fact, and a deep terror clutched at Moll's heart. Six days had passed. It had seen him enough armour and as many swords as he could have dared hope, enough to supply the full extent of his army and more.

But only because his army was so much less than he needed.

And still he knew. Before Azra spoke, before the man gave him the words that were both the object of his longing and his deepest nightmare, Moll knew.

"One more day." The old politician whispered. "And then we must do something with these men of ours."

Slowly, silently, Moll nodded.

This fear could not be allowed to spread. Kings did not have the right to doubt.

"I want my Phoenix and I want my Wolf." Though he tried his hardest, Moll croaked.

"And then?"

Azra was always pushing him, forcing him into the decisions he wasn't brave enough to make.

"And then we go to war." Moll muttered, waving him from the room.

Oh gods, he couldn't do this. He wasn't strong enough.

The door clicked quietly shut behind Azra's departing form, rendering Moll alone.

He walked to the window and even the very air seemed thicker, more traitorous. Resting his arms on the sill, Moll stared vacantly out over Eyrr.

The birds screamed on the ocean winds, friendly voices drifted up through the floorboards, metal clashed in the distance. It was all the same, the same as it had been since the day he had arrived.

But still Moll knew. He could taste it.

One day, one more day.

And then gods knew how many men he would be murdering.

For they were all his, every man jack of them, and he would be leading them to their demise.

But what else could he do?

Moll had made promises, he had taken responsibilities. He owned this world, his will was free, but it would not be handed to him on a silver platter. Moll was owed a keep, he was owed a throne.

And he was going to have to fight tooth and nail for it.

His people deserved better.

They had lived good lives, gods knew they were better than his. He could not allow them to continue living in gutters.

And so, with fifteen thousand men, he was going to take on a real army. An army that knew what it was doing, an army that longed for Mother-blood.

The order was inferred, his message clear. By now, already, Azra would be sending daring messengers into the enemy's heaving stomach, searching for the only two that had given him any kind of hope.

The Phoenix would not save them.

And the Wolf could not.

Oh gods, it was over.

Moll had always considered himself strong; he had Sante blood, his grandfather was a war hero.

But a war hero meant something completely different when the sickening taint of battle hung, saccharine and vehement, on the morning air.