Chapter 120: Death Of A King

Narrator

Back on the battlefield, Varek tore the heavy iron shoulder plate off King Alaric’s chest. He lunged forward, using his bare, clawed fingers to rip through the king’s padded tunic, digging his nails deep into Alaric’s chest and neck.

King Alaric let out a guttural scream as Varek clawed deep lines into his flesh, dark blood spurting over the trampled grass. Alaric coughed violently, his vision swimming as he looked over to where King Theron lay completely still in the mud, his eyes black and lifeless.

Varek stood over the bleeding king, wiping his bloody hand across his chest. He looked up at the sky, laughing aloud. "Thank you, sister!"

King Alaric, coughing blood, desperately tried to reach for his dropped sword lying a few feet away. His fingers brushed the hilt, but Varek stepped heavily on his wrist, pinning his arm to the ground.

Varek picked up King Alaric’s own golden-hilted broadsword from the dirt, weighing it in his hand. He looked down at the defeated king, a cold, mocking smirk on his face.

"Look at you," Varek sneered, leaning down close. "The great King Alaric... bleeding out in the dirt like a stray dog. Where is your grand throne now?"

Alaric glared up at him, spitting blood onto Varek’s boot. "You... will never... rule..."

"I already am," Varek growled.

With a single, powerful swing, Varek brought King Alaric’s own blade down across his neck.

Silence fell over the immediate area as Varek reached down, grabbed the severed head by its hair, and lifted it high into the air for the entire battlefield to see. Varek felt great joy spread across his body, holding the head of a king up in the air.

"YOUR KING IS DEAD!" Varek’s voice boomed across the plain, echoing over the sound of clashing steel. The fighting instantly ground to a halt. Royal soldiers froze in horror, staring at the gory sight of their king’s head held aloft.

A wild, manic energy swept through the rogue army. They let out bloodcurdling howls, fanning out with renewed savagery as they drove their weapons into the demoralized royal ranks.

"Your freedom is here, rogues!" Varek roared, holding the dripping head higher. "No more being at the feet of these scum royals and their precious packs! It is your turn to rule!"

The remaining royal army broke formation, fleeing in sheer panic back toward the trees as the rogues pursued them, slaughtering any soldier who fell behind.

Suddenly, a quiet whistle cut through the air. A lone, black-feathered arrow sped straight toward the back of Varek’s exposed neck.

Varek turned his head at the last second, but before the arrowhead could pierce his skin, the arrow froze dead in mid-air an inch from his throat. It hovered for a fraction of a second before flipping around completely and falling harmlessly into the mud.

Varek chuckled, looking up toward the distant hill. "Thank you again, sister."

The battle was over. The royal forces were completely wiped out or scattered into the woods. Dozens of surviving royal guards were thrown onto their knees, their arms bound behind their backs as the rogues collected their spoils.

A group of three rogues dragged a bloodied general through the dirt, throwing him violently at Varek’s feet.

"Rogue King," one of the fighters said, grinning through broken teeth. "We caught this one trying to slip away. Should we slit his throat?" The general spat blood straight onto Varek’s leather boot, glaring up at him with pure hatred.

Varek raised his blade. "I’ll do it myself."

"No," a smooth, heavy voice called out from the edge of the clearing.

Akara walked slowly through the battle field, her long robes trailing through the bloody mud. She stepped into the circle of rogues, looking down at the kneeling captain with a cold, distant gaze.

"Do not kill him," Akara said in her thick accent. "Let him deliver the message that his kings are dead and that we have won."

She gestured toward a servant standing nearby, who carried a polished wooden box bound in iron straps. The servant stepped forward and handed the box to Akara. She held it out, dropping it heavily onto the dirt right in front of the general’s face.

"Here," Akara said smoothly. "A small gift for your remaining court. I know there are other kings sitting on their high chairs back in the capital, two more, yes? Tell them I will soon have their heads, too."

The general stared at the box, his hands trembling as he realized what was packed inside it.

"Go," Akara commanded, leaning down close to his ear. "Tell them they have lost. Tell them we do not wish to waste any more time fighting their little soldiers. We just want what is rightfully ours."

Varek stepped up beside his sister, crossing his arms over his chest. "And tell them we are taking the southern packs immediately. We expect no resistance from the remaining pack Alpha’s, and no further interference from the crown. If your remaining court wants to keep their heads..." Varek paused, a sharp, cruel smile spreading across his face. "...and if they do not want us to march straight to the northern packs next, then I suggest they hand over Princess Molly in terms of a royal marriage."

The general’s eyes snapped wide in absolute shock. "What?!"

Even Akara whipped her head toward her brother, her eyebrows drawing together in surprise. "What?" she whispered under her breath.

Varek kept his face steady, staring down at the general with authority. "You heard me. The Princess for the North’s safety. That is my offer."

Akara quickly recovered her composure, smoothing down her robes as she glared at the stunned captain. "You have heard him. Go... before my brother changes his mind and decides to feed your heart to the wolves."

The general didn’t wait for another warning. He scrambled to his feet, snatched the heavy wooden box from the dirt, and ran blindly into the woods as fast as his bleeding legs could carry him.