The citadel loomed over the city of
Banjul oppressive and foreboding. Its
stone structure’s spires seemed to stab into a dark sky with its arch carved
towers keeping a watchful eye for the possible invasion of enemies and
enemies of the unseen world as well. Walls
built of volcanic stones and boulders rose up to great heights surrounding the
place that was once the sanctuary of its people; now only vacant structures and
pathways with the occasional stray goat stood witness to the abuse of power as its
population fled their homes, some in exile and others thrown into the citadel’s
dungeons for minor infractions of the law, or worse accused of manipulating the
forces of nature and put to death. Only the king was permitted the use of the
occult. Those condemned had their
essence extracted to be used in spells to vanquish enemies of the petty
conqueror that oppressed them now.
Deceit and treachery from those
thought to be loyal instigated political turmoil and in-house fighting among
the ranking patriarchs. Conflict of foreign
policies and a lack of alliances became an open invitation to over throw
Banjul’s ruler emperor Lagolas. Chaos
and uncertainty ripped away at his being as he watched his kingdom slip from
his grasp as his sons died one by one engaged in battles that possessed no
strategic value nor rhyme nor reason only that false accusations made stated that the bordering kingdom’s
long standing treaty between neighboring lands had been violated there by invoking
an act of war. Lagolas
had long suspected Mazula’s treacherous deeds played a part in the events
unfolding with his obsession for the sacred essence; an ancient magic that
proved to be neither true nor false only a mystery shrouded in darkness. Many perished in search of it’s the sacred
essence; an opiate with many attributes to open doors to the spirit world and
summon its occupants to do one’s bidding, or change one’s physical appearance. It was the key to overcoming death to live as
a god, to turn lead to gold possessing
more riches than one could imagine. And
last but not least having sway over the forces of nature. Many have died for this quest that remains
elusive leaving behind blood soaked lands whose spirits can never find peace.
In the throne room sat the embodiment of
barbarity king Mazula referred to as the man-beast cursed by his ancestors a
war oriented soul who lived for the sake of battle. Blood filled dreams afforded him no peace as
restlessness fed his appetite for cruelty.
He would never be afforded the simplest pleasantries of life; the scent
of jasmine, the sweetness of honey would evade him as bitterness and the stench
of death would remain his closest companion.
Losing his son in battle his heart pounded
with rage as he inhaled and exhaled. An unquenchable thirst for carnage rose up
in him with anger flowing through his veins as if it were blood as he denied an
unimaginable truth. The unholy
conception of his son was an abomination before nature itself. That one fateful night a witch an enemy of
his ancestors deceived him sending him one where death had embodied her. In his time of weakness ignoring the faint
stench of death that hung over her accompanied by her cold embrace he indulged
his urges. The attempts of his ancestors
to return her back to the kingdom of the dead were futile as he did the
unthinkable and banished his ancestors, a fate worse than death itself. But the powerful spirits would not be denied
revenge of such sacrilege. Propelled by
fury an unrelenting curse fell upon him never would he know peace again or of
life’s pleasantries as he fell prey to lowest of bestial natures. His thoughts would be of confusion creating
his reality around him with a twisted and dark mind that only viewed the world
around him as his enemy suspicious of everyone. Uncontrollable fits of anger
often led to someone’s execution. Afterwards when the anger faded he claimed it
as the will of the gods. It was often
whispered that the king engaged in human sacrifice to sooth the raging beast
inside of him by eating the hearts of his victims; thus the reason for his
rather un-nerving appearance. The sharpened
teeth with nails black as slate was reason enough to fear Mazula. His blood lust nature draped his spirit as if
it were a robe, obsessed with power the tyrannical beast ordered those with
loyalties to the previous ruler to be singled out for banishment or death
according to their rank or status, or more importantly his mood for the time
being. Empowering those from his inner circle he
quickly replaced the generals of the old king whom he despised, and replaced them
with individuals lacking the ability to think for themselves and would agree to
anything to simply appease the twisted notions of the war mongering tyrant. From such like minded individuals he formed
his own political and judicial council to execute his bidding.
*
Dozens of Torches lit the circular chamber as
shadows danced about free of a physical counterpart against the grey stone
walls. Evil had been birthed; taking up
residence where justice once dominated. Zaire
stood before the war council scarred and battle hardened exposed like a raw
nerve beneath the chain-mail armor as he felt resentment for accusations made
against him at the battle of Zokarius defending Banjul against her enemies. A place where war raged for as long as anyone
could remember, in fact it was completely lost as to why the fighting continued
some say it was over unclaimed riches of sacred essence, others say it was over land and what was buried deep within the earth. Many reasons were given as to why countless
wars reigned with its casualties populating the ether.
Surrounded by political enemies his
jaw clenched as he gazed out at the faces that gloated over his perceived defeat.
“Mazula’s
lackeys… I knew the time would come when honor would be replaced with decadence
of heart where cowards who had never held a sword would determine a warrior’s
fate,” he thought. The council knew
they could never persuade him to their political view or control him. “It is
much safer to annihilate what cannot be controlled,” they thought.
The men seated before him in
positions of perceived authority formed the council of law most of which were
politically corrupt and immoral void of integrity seething with hatred. Old
and bitter envious of Zaire’s strength, and courage they sought to judge the
warrior standing before them. Battle
wounds marked his body like badges of honor.
Restrained by the kings guard’s with heavy chains securing him was the
only reason why the council felt so compelled to express such condescending and
arrogant overtones laced with complete disrespect when referring to the warrior
before them. Only the privileged
witnessed the many sessions of innocents on trial for fabricated accusations
falsely lodged against them with no recourse.
“You are hereby accused of a most
heinous act… resulting in the death of your captain… the king’s son Mazula the
II heir to the throne of Banjul…by the use of the forbidden knowledge of the
dark arts….no commoner should have access or knowledge of the occult or
conspire with demons or the dead. Should
I go on,” the voice bellowed out condemning Zaire to doom in just a few
short words.
“If you must to confirm your self appointed importance,” Zaire shot back angering the council that
sought to dis-credit him and tarnish his character and reputation like so many
that fell before the hateful and vindictive council of Mazula’s political Hench
men.
“I was ordered to slaughter those
who posed no threat to anyone…women and children, the old and sickly after the
battle was won, despite our captain fleeing at the height of the battle… it is
where he met his demise. He was cruel
and cowardly he showed more cruelty to his men than the opposing forces we
battled across our blood soaked lands,” he declared as his memories slipped
back in time to the raging battle taking place in his memory vivid and clear as
the events played over in his mind’s eye.
The sound of clashing steel rung out as armor was splashed with blood. His ears filled with the screaming of dying
men as they fell; some with limbs sheared off.
Others fought on with blood streaming down their faces some even with
protrusions of the enemy’s weapon still embedded in their bodies. He remembered the many times the swift breeze
of the enemy’s battle ax whizzing by his head missing him narrowly because of the
assistance of the powerful amulet and precious gems that adorned the breast
plate that covered the massive chest. Painted with his enemies’ blood concealing it;
it blessed its wearer with power and strength making him nearly god-like, and
victorious in battle like his father before him and his father before him. The amulet’s great power protected them while
all others perished in the heat of the battle. No one ever knew where the amulets came
from. Some speculated that the amulet
birthed itself into existence in the far reaches of another realm and was only
attainable by those whose bloodline was worthy.
Others say it was cursed as it condemned all others around it to befall
a most violent death while engaged in battle as it fed off of the blood lust of
war, but no one knew for sure. So many thoughts had run rapid in Zaire’s mind
he couldn’t help but to wonder if he
himself were not cursed, but quickly shook the thought from his mind; for there
was no room for doubts or fear as he was jolted back to the present.
“How do you plead,” the words thundered.
“What difference does it make to
those of no moral standing…it is of no consequence how one pleads when the
outcome is predetermined by the ill deeds of those who abuse their authority in
such ways,” the warrior stated defiantly.
“Then
so be it you have here by been found guilty of the black craft and here by
sentenced to death Zaire of Banjul son of Jakuta. Have you any last words?”
“Yes I do…How did the war council
come to this conclusion? What proof do you have? Where are your witnesses? I have the right to face my accusers.”
Then suddenly the room seemed to
have chilled and dimmed with the torches’ flames flickering as dread made its
presence felt,” what proof do I have…my son is dead and you are still
breathing,” the king said circling Zaire sizing him up as if he were to be
devoured at a feast. “He was a most
skilled swordsman trained by only the best since he was a boy,” he snapped
breathing heavily with gritted teeth; teeth that were filed down to a
point. The overly large hands that hung
by his side baring black nails became clenched fist. Standing before Zaire seething with hate and
loathing for a man who had survived a battle that had taken his ill conceived
son enraged him.
“Sire…your hands,” a voice said
gesturing to the droplets of blood that were trickling down to the floor
forming a small puddle that darkened and then fouled the air. Mazula
glanced down momentarily un-phased by his blood he’d drawn from himself by his
unrelenting anger. “This dog before me
dares to ask for proof I am the king and I need no proof. You asked to face your accuser…here I am,” he
growled only inches away from Zaire’s face ranting insults inciting the warrior
to challenge him. Zaire turned his face
away from the hate filled words only to have an unbearable strong hand grab him
by the jaw as black nails dug into his skin drawing blood, “what does the dog
have to say,” the king said pushing his
face away leaving angry wounds that bled down his neck. The horrific odor nearly took Zaire’s breath
away. Anger began to rise up swelling
the warrior’s chest flaring his nostrils that took in the putrid air that seemed
to add to the agitation of his spirit.
The insults and blatant disrespect he received after serving his kingdom
perturbed his spirit. To be rewarded with abuses from those whose
quality of life had been greatly improved 100 times built a fire of rage he
struggled to silence, but it would not be denied. From deep within his spirit he felt the surge
of truth bursting forth,” the demon seed you spawned dealt his men nothing but
tyranny and misery gaining him many enemies.
His abuses of his office and authority granted him nothing but
hate. On the battle field he cowered
behind sending good men to die in ill conceived battle strategies of poor
planning…because they were expendable…and his father was the king. The general’s advice was ignored because his
father was the king. He was arrogant
ignorant and stupid filled with self importance like the rest of your
lackeys. What got your son killed was
not magic or the dark arts or demons it was him fleeing from the heat of the
battle as it threatened to overtake our position. We pushed the enemy back
while your precious captain ran like a whipped dog…you can not blame magic for
his cowardly demise. And since I am to
die my words will forever haunt you,” Zaire said with great satisfaction. Suddenly an ear piercing howl rang out from
Mazula somewhere between human and bestial shocking everyone except Zaire who
saw the king for what he was.
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