Of Gods and Warriors ✓

Chapter 39

Whose was the guilt he was trying to lessen? The king's, or his own?

You leave me no other choice. His own words, which he had thrown at Pertheran but moments ago, rang back to him. That young man always managed to push his limits until his temper would snap.

His finger distractedly fumbled with his ring as he watched the king's servants help arrange the dead bodies neatly around the Royal Sorceress. He loathed himself for using the ring, for making the private relive the moment of his death over and over.

But what was he supposed to do?

When the Midaelians left the him to rot on the shore, it had been Emric who carried him in his arms. He had been the one to seek out the sorceress and bring him back from the dead-- gift him with a new life. It had been Emric who took full responsibility of his sister's education when he came to know he could not afford it-- be it out of guilt rather than generosity. What more should he have done?

And yet, he looked at the captain with only fear and disdain in his eyes, refusing to obey his commands. But showing concern for the Midaelian captive had been the last straw.

Pertheran left him no choice but to become the monster they all feared.

Yes, it was all Pertheran's fault-- his and of the vile man now seated high on the throne before him. King Krugmann, the benevolent and generous ruler the Gods had bestowed to Drisia-- and the one who destroyed his home.

May your reign never end, Your Majesty.

A sick grin spread across his face as the king laughed at something one of his courtiers pointed out. Rejoice while you still can, my king.

Emric schooled his expression to a polite smile soon as his gaze swung to him again.

"You know, Captain, weren't it for you, this would never be possible. For you, I today now have the power of Ancient Sorcery at my side, an invincible army at my disposal. These... drunkards--" he waved unimpressedly at the bodies, "--may call themselves heroes of the land. But me? I would give that title to you any day."

His lips stretched into a tight smile. "His Majesty is too kind."

King Krugmann drunkenly cut him off. "Hush, you, do not interrupt when your king is speaking. From the day I found you at Larton, I knew you had it in you to achieve greatness. Ah, this sure brings back memories."

Memories of crumbling houses and burning flesh. Pleasant indeed. Pleasant for the conqueror, no doubt.

But what of the ones conquered?

King Krugmann laughed, refilling his goblet.

Emric's head was spinning. A knot of pain twisted behind his eyes, rising to a brain-racking headache. He didn't know how long he would be able to keep his composure. Anyone would be glad to be in his place, to have won King Krugmann's favor. Not this Captain Reylan-- or rather, Emric Shafforn, who had lost his home at Larton. Who had his childhood snatched away. Who was conscripted into the enemy forces-- all because the king had taken a liking to him.

Calm your nerves. He'll be dancing at your will in just a few days. Why ruin the fun so soon?

He planned to cherish that moment, to slide his blade slowly into the man's heart and watch the life drain from his eyes, to hold him above roaring flames and hear his screams like music. The last thing he wanted was for it to turn into a murder sloppily committed in a rage. Emric was a patient man. He had waited decades, building his stage brick by brick, and he could surely wait a few days more.