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A/N: A story written with the theme 'villain's point of view' in mind. Plot was written with the possibility of expanding it. My first story on WF!
The Satan's King
The moon shone like a beacon in the centre of a blacken sea, observing the nighted city of Havendusk from the heavens above. Torches lined the battlements, hundreds more flickered in the city’s streets and alleyways. Polished granite and elaborated stonework decorated the lavish west quarter of the city and the grand palace: The King’s Yard, home of the wealthy and regality of Havendusk. Towards the south lay the market squares, merchant pavilions, the river canal and military barracks. An average citizen would have to content with an honest dwelling within the city walls. The less fortunate, meanwhile, were forced to refuge in camps scattered around the nation’s capital.
In one of these crudely constructed residencies, Zyric sat kneeling beside his mother Talia, caressing her fragile hand with both his hands. A dirty woven rug was the only luxury he could provide his mother with, a testament to the poverty that plagued them since his father abandoned them. Zyric did not know who the wretched man was, for he left before Zyric was born, and despite numerous inquisitions, his mother would not divulge this particular information. As he watched his mother shiver under a thin blanket against the cold, he wanted nothing more than to gut that son of a bitch.
Removing his own tattered cloak, Zyric slipped it over his mother, shielding her body and legs from the cold. The piercing chill attacked him almost immediately.
“Zyric,” murmured Talia. “Zyric, my child, you will freeze.”
“I’m fine, mother. ‘Tis yourself you should concern more about.”
Talia chuckled, her voice hoarse and painful. The illness had clearly came out victorious, but Zyric refused to accept it. A sad smile crept into Talia’s expression as she saw her son’s downcast gaze. “I've lived a good life, child. Do not mourn my going so deeply. My debt to the Lord has to be repaid, for He has given me the gift of life and a loving son. This is more than I could have ever wished for. I have accepted this and you should too.”
Hearing those words made Zyric’s eyes sting. “The Lord can bloody-hell wait. I still need you, Mother.”
True. She has yet to name the man responsible for—all this. Ask her, Zyric. Ask her for the name you so truly want to know.
The words slithered into his mind. It had the tone of a mischievous mistress and aroused the urge of asking the question which has hounded him ever since. Zyric knew very well the seductive coercion of the devil and was confident he will not succumb to its needs. The demoness was but a means to an end, and only an end of his choosing.
“Oh, my dear Zyric. Only the Lord knows what is best for us. Even when we do not understand.”
He shall atone for his mistake. He shall know what it is to suffer.
“Mother, I want to know who my father is.”
A tired sigh escaped Talia. “Trust me, child. It is for the better if I don’t tell you. He is a bad and dangerous man.”
Justice is what you desire, is it not? Confronting the man who abandoned your mother is the only way to achieve it.
“I must make it right, Mother,” persuaded Zyric. “It is important that you tell his name. Release yourself from this unnecessary burden of secrecy.”
Talia struggled to form the words as she pleaded to her son. “Please, Zyric. It will only bring you suffering to harbour such knowledge. Leave it be.”
“I can’t, Mother,” he replied, but his voice was no longer alone. Zyric continued, oblivious to the satanic echo that accompanied his every word. “Ignorance will torture me, not the truth. I can only accept peace when I know the bastard who did this to us. For the last time, Mother, tell me!”
Zyric shouted without realising it, his sudden fury bemusing him for a moment. But the devil’s whispers wiped away any hesitations and crushed any lingering doubts that sprouted. Talia stared unblinkingly at her son— no, not at Zyric, but the space above his right shoulder. She held her stare for a long minute, both mother and son held stock-still by an unknown force, until a name was mentioned.
“Prion Grimrodic.”
Faint, but Zyric caught every syllable. Every gut-wrenching syllable. “The King?” he asked, astonished by the revelation. It lasted only a second longer. As the initial shock began to slip away, it gave rise to an ugly, escalating rage.
“Yes,” murmured Talia, exhaling her final word. Her head limped sideways, the life sucked dry from her mortal vessel as she lay with eyes still staring into nothingness and a mouth hung ajar.
Zyric fell back into a sitting position, his breathing laboured by the grief swelling in his chest and the resentment which he struggled to keep in toe. He shivered as a cold pair of hands snaked around his chest, clutching him. Zyric offered no resistance and winced as its fingers curled in, nails piercing his flesh, drawing blood which trickled down his waist in creeks of red. Like a passionate lover, the arms pulled him back into a lulling embrace and enveloped him in shadow.
The darkness overpowered his senses, nullifying them till a silent abyss was all he could percept. A whisper ran hot on his neck, carrying the burn of a familiar feminine tone.
The shroud has lifted itself, revealing a glorious path of power that has been kept from you. Will you traverse down its road and seize what destiny has intended for you? Answer me, Zyric.
Zyric turned to face the demoness. “I will, Uth’mara. He shall know the wrath of retribution.”
Her lips curled into a grin. Then allow me to grant you your retribution.
*****
His drakeskin boots clapped the palace’s lustrous marble floor as he strode forward. Dressed in an attire more sumptuous than norm, Zyric donned an elaborate jerkin and breeches under a knee length coat. His hair, usually unkept and wild, was pulled back into a more sophisticated look. Uth’mara marched at his side. Her black hood, sewn with golden embroidery along the edge, revealed only the lower region of her face. Her lips formed a satisfied grin, her fangs peeping out from behind her blossom lips.
“Fit for a king. Do you not think so?” Uth’mara had asked the merchant as she evaluated Zyric’s new wardrobe from top to bottom. The merchant nodded, lacking any enthusiasm . “It is most generous of you to present us with such gifts.” The poor sod was either really drunk or Uth’mara had succesfully weaved her way into the person’s sense of judgement, for he blindly agreed with everything the demoness purposed.
Two soldiers noticed their approached. Zyric saw their hands immediately falling to the grip of their swords. “Halt! You’re not allowed in here,” one of them shouted.
Deal with them as you please.
Zyric raised a hand. A massive outwards force erupted from where the two guards stood, catapulting them into air. Gravity hauled them back down and the guards landed heavily on the marble floor. The sound of their broken bones and outcry fell on unconcerned ears as Zyric and Uth’mara walked by them with not even a grain of pity.
The double doors leading into the King’s chamber lay straight ahead, majestically bigger than it was practical. A lively ambience radiated from the chamber, the voice of a hundred or so delegates from nearby states and other government officials. Their presence shall prove useful.
The king always has two spellcasters by his side. Kill them, and I’ll handle the rest of the guards.
“Are they strong?” asked Zyric.
Compared to us? You’ll crush them like ants.
Zyric smirked at her. “Am I truly that powerful?”
Only one way to figure out.
The hinges cracked as the doors blasted opened, attracting every pair of eyes inside the chamber. Zyric moved quickly and swiftly, his body augmented by magic. Driven by instinct, he knew exactly where the two spellcasters were before his eyes sighted them. Zyric launched himself off the ground, making up the distance between him and his victims with inhumane strength, and landed on the dais that housed the throne. He decapitated one of them with a brandish of his sword. The second barely had time to register the shock before his own head rolled for his shoulder. Zyric completed his spin and rested his blade on the third’s neck.
“Hello, Father,” said Zyric, greeting the man with a healthy dose of venom.
Prion froze, watching horrorstricken at both Zyric and the blade that hovered beneath his chin. The old man did not respond, probably shocked by the suddenness and abruptness of the situation. Zyric took a breather to survey his surroundings. The guards stood straight and rigid, their eyes darting around madly in their sockets. The whole chamber stood quietly, but it felt pressed, forced. Magic was sustaining the involuntary silence. Uth’mara sauntered towards the middle of the chamber and gave Zyric a nod of encouragement.
Zyric turned back to Prion. The man seemed to have recovered from his earlier shock as his tongue began to loosen. “Father?” questioned Prion, his confusion blatantly clear. “Who are you?”
His respond felt like a punch to the gut. “Who am I?” Zyric repeated, his eyes narrowing dangerously. “I’m the son you tossed to the wolves!”
Slam! Zyric punched the hilt of his sword into the old man’s temple with a satisfying crack.
Prion tumbled off the throne, blood oozing from wound on his head. He struggled back, dragging his aged arse across the floor in a futile attempt to clamber away from Zyric’s imposing form. “Please, have mercy!” he cried.
Zyric laughed bitterly. “Mercy? What about Talia? Did you show her mercy?”
“Talia? She...she bore my son? I didn’t know, I swear. If I had known—”
“It doesn’t matter now,” interrupted Zyric, waving the old man’s excuses aside. “Your little scandal costed my mother her life. You did not even bother to find out what befell her when she was exiled by your queen. Praise the Lord that bitch isn’t here. I would have ensured her passing to be one that was agonisingly dreadful.”
“I’m sorry!” pleaded Prion. “I was young and foolish back then, I—”
“As I said, it doesn’t matter,” said Zyric, twisting the sword into the old man’s abdominal. “Your fate has already been sealed.”
“Father!”
Something hot and sharp grazed just above Zyric’s left eyebrow, his vision exploding in a flash of whiteness. The cut was not deep, but the blood that cascaded down into his eye blinded his left side. Whirling, Zyric saw a woman in robes standing between the double doors, webs of lightning crackling from her fingers. However, before Zyric could muster the energy to retaliate, a man jumped out behind her, dragging the mage woman away.
“No, Bethany. Don’t! We have to run!” Zyric heard the man say, who eyed Zyric with a look he knew well. A look that promised revenge. The woman quickly came to her senses and hastily, the couple disappeared to the right, down the corridor that lead towards the gates.
Uth’mara shifted, ready to give chase, but Zyric waved a dismissive hand. “Let them run. They are a problem for another time.” Reluctantly, Uth’mara obeyed.
Grabbing his sword from the blood stained floor, Zyric returned his attention to Prion. The old man muttered in a chant-like manner, his face drain of colour from the blood loss.
“Bethany... Marcus... Bethany... Marcus...”
“Your children, I assume,” spat Zyric, wiping the blood from his eye with the sleeve of his coat. He then bent low and whispered into the old man’s ear. “I will make sure that they suffer through the rest of their lives.”
Prion moved his head slightly, so that he could look directly into Zyric’s eyes as he said it. “You’re an evil, soulless person.”
“I know,” replied Zyric, plunging his sword in for the deathblow. “Like father, like son.”
The End
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