TITLE: "Madness Takes Its Toll"

AUTHOR: Mearain

EMAIL: mearain@yahoo.com

RATING: PG

FANDOM: Mystic Knights of Tir-na-Nog

DISCLAIMER: The characters aren't mine, but the idea is. No infringement is intended.

TEASER: Torc is captured and taken to a far away realm, but he turns his imprisonment into an advantage.



MADNESS TAKES IT'S TOLL
By Mearain

I do not know how long I have been trapped in this realm. In this living hell, but one thing I do know, is that I am not alone. My jail mates are of all kinds, of all races, none the same, but all alike. All prisoners. Prisoners of the great demon Ahor-al. Though, I do not know this demon, he apparently knew me, for it was some time ago that I first met him.

“Yes, My Queen,” I said, my voice dripping with the sarcasm that I always had for her. Maeve, Queen of Temra, the woman who I pledged my allegiance to so many years ago.

“Take care of it, Torc,” she said, looking at me. I could see disgust in her eyes, hatred for me and my obvious failure as her general.

I nodded, ever so slowly, then departed her throneroom, making my way down the dark, dank halls of the Castle Temra. Sighing, I exited the stone halls, entering the bright sunlight of the morning. The sun felt good on my skin, even though I preferred the cloudy days.

A young lad brought my horse to me, his youthful face covered with the dirt and muck generally found on a stable boy. I did not know him, nor did I particularly care to. Gently, I took the reins from his filthy hand and mounted my steed. Without a second glance, I spurred my horse into a gallop and left behind the walls of the dark castle of Temra.

Once, many years before, I had loved that woman, the Queen of Temra, and she had loved me, but as her hatred for the Mystic Knights grew, so did her hatred for my failure. Though it was not my fault that I continued to fail at destroying those knights. No, it was hers. Her plans were terrible and frequently resulted in the death of my men.

I took a deep breath, enjoying the crispness of the morning. Sighing, I slowed my steed. I could see the knights in the distance, enjoying one of their mornings of peaceful lounging by the stream closest to Temra. My eyes narrowed as I watched them.

Rohan, the leader of the Mystic Knights, sat cross legged on the ground, laughing at something. I could not hear them, therefore I did not know what they were laughing about. How I wished at times that I could be alongside them, laughing, enjoying life. But alas, no, I made my choice.

The Princess stood and walked over, seating herself very near him. Ah, Princess Deirdre, how I longed for your father to see my interest for you. I swear the man must have been blind not see, but he did not. I watched for some moments, wishing I could be close enough to hear their conversation, when I heard a sound.

I stood tall and turned. The trees moved with the light breeze of the autumn morning, the grasses swayed back and forth, but I saw nothing else. Nothing until it was too late.

Before I could draw my weapon, the beast was upon me, its slavering maw opened, trying to grab my throat. I fell to the ground, covering my face, in the vain attempt to keep the beast from eating me alive. It’s breath, that I will never forget. It stank, stank of rotting flesh.

“Down boy,” a deep, hoarse voice said from somewhere behind the beast.

Obediently, as a dog would its master, the beast backed away and sat on its haunches, its piercing eyes trained on me.

Slowly, I pulled myself to my feet and looked at the man, no creature, that had calmed the beast. I say creature, for what I saw could not be classified as a man. It was tall, obviously male, so I shall address him so. His skin was a deep red, as red as congealed blood, and his eyes were deep and black, showing no pupil or iris.

“Who are you?” I asked, my voice bearing a fake courage.

“I am Ahor-al,” he said. Somewhere in his voice, I could hear the screams of the thousands that had died at his hands. But I did not know what I was hearing, not until much later.

“And how can I help you?”

The man smiled, baring his sharp, pointed teeth. Teeth which could, as easily as those of the beast he evidently called his pet, rip through my flesh. His dark eyes latched onto mine. I could feel the fear welling up inside me. I had felt fear in my days, but nothing like what I felt when I saw in his eyes my ultimate fate.

He reached out, in a move as swift as lightning and grabbed the front of my tunic, pulling me to him. I wanted to call out, call to the Mystic Knights for help. But I knew that they would come and be subjected to this...this man’s anger, or desire, whichever it was.

“I have been looking for you,” he hissed, his foul breath making my stomach turn in revulsion.

“And...” I gulped, trying to force the bile back down my throat. “...why would that be?”

He said nothing, only looked at me, those dark, fathomless eyes tearing into my soul. A portal appeared, just off to the side of me, somehow conjured by him. As if throwing a rag doll into the corner, I was tossed into the portal, leaving behind my home and the Queen I served.

I awoke sometime later. I do not know how long I was unconscious, but only that I was. Though, even once I opened my eyes, the darkness still surrounded me. I sighed, taking a deep breath, then immediately began to choke. The stench was astounding. I could have assumed that I was surrounded by death and decay, that I was locked in a windowless room with corpses. I did not find out until much later, that I was not. I was alone in the room.

Completely alone in my prison, a place that I would soon call home.

I could hear others, but I could not speak to them. I did not know if they were close to me, or far away. All I knew was that others had become prisoners to Ahor-al and his beastly pet.

I tried screaming to them, to let them know that there was another, but I received no response. At that moment, I resigned myself to my ultimate fate.

As I said, I do not know how long ago that was. Only that I have been in this room, without light of day or moonlit night. My beard is much longer now, reaching the middle of my chest. My hair as well, falling down my back, somewhere near my waist. By that measurement, I must have been here for at least a few years.

I tell this tale in my head, for I have nothing to write on. I only hope that my memory serves me well enough to scribe this once I am...shall I dare think that I will ever be free? Nonetheless, I want others to know of the evil of this demon, even if those others are only in my head.

****************

The small slot in the door opens and a tray is slipped in, baring the same cold gruel as usual. I have eaten nothing but this slop in the time I have been here. What I wouldn’t give for a piece of fresh fruit, or a slice of soft bread. I can only imagine those things and force myself to eat. I do not know what the gruel consists of, since I can not see it, but I do know what it tastes like. I would describe it as cold oatmeal, but yet with a metallic taste. Something else is hinted in its texture, though I do not wish to think of what that might be.

Sighing, I finish my unpalatable meal and slide the bowl across the floor, where it will be picked up later. I hear the grinding of metal against metal as the small door opens and the bowl is retrieved. Sometimes I wonder if it would be possible for a man to fit through that door, but then I remind myself that the bowl is no bigger than my fist.

********************

One day, some days later, the door to my cell opens. Torchlight pours in, blinding me upon first sight. I cover my eyes, but to no avail. My jailers grab me and drag me into the light, making it worse. My vision obscured, I can not see what is happening. I hear sounds, though, grating metal, screaming, pleading for mercy.

“What’s going on?” I ask, my voice hoarse from years of non-use.

“Nothing you need to worry about,” a voice returns, just as hoarse, though obviously human.

“Where are you taking me?” I ask, trying to determine what is going on.

“You’ll find out soon enough,” the voice hisses, very close to my ear.

My vision began to clear, slowly, spots dotting things here and there. I see where I am now. A large room, pillars reaching from floor to ceiling. The smooth stone floor stretches for as far as the eye can see. Torches line the walls, casting eerie shadows along the floors. I do not know where I am, only that I am not in that cell.

“Come forward,” a voice says, from the far end of the room.

I blink and look towards the direction of the voice, trying to see its owner, but can not. I see nothing, only darkness and wicked, flickering torchlight.

A hand shoves me roughly forward and I trip, falling painfully to my knees on the stone floor. My hands hit the floor, feeling its cold smoothness.

“Do not be too rough,” the voice says, chiding the one who pushed me.

I hear no response, only feel a hand grab my arm and pull me to my feet. I blink some more, trying to clear my vision further. The spots fade, leaving a dull yellow grain in its place. I see more, but not enough to determine what is happening to me.

Finally, my jailer pulls me to a stop and let’s go of my arm. I feel like, in those few minutes, that I have been walking for hours. Even though I pace my small cell, it is nothing like walking in an open space.

“You are Torc, General of the Temra armies.” the man says. I recognise his voice. He is the demon, Ahor-al, the one that brought me here.

I nod, still blinking, trying to clear my vision. “Yes, I am he.”

I hear sounds, a shuffling. I wonder if it is my captor. His voice near to me, lets me know that it is he.

“I remember the day I found you, spying on some young people,” he says, reminiscing.

I nod, again. I had been spying on the Knights for Maeve. Suddenly, I wonder if she missed me or if she just found another to replace me. I frown.

“Do not frown,” the demon warned. I can smell his foul breath. As with the first time, I must force the bile down, less I spill my guts on his nicely polished floor.

“I seriously hope you do not expect me to be happy,” I mutter.

He laughs, a deep throaty laugh, something akin to what Maeve’s laughter had been like, though much more wicked.

“I do not expect you to feel anything,” he says and walks away.

I rub my eyes. My vision begins to return. I take in some more of the room. I see his throne, placed not far from me, against a large wall. It has been constructed of bones. Whether or not they are human, I do not know, but they are bones. The arm rests appear to be spines, topped off at the ends by skulls. Those skulls appear to be human in origin, though the teeth would say otherwise.

I look around some more, seeing the torches on the walls. It is then that I see more, something that freezes my lifeblood, sets my heart still. On the walls, under the torches are bodies, hanging from the walls in chains. Most are dead, but a few still writhe in agony, though they are silent. The living I do not recognise, nor do I recognise the dead. I turn and look, noticing the other wall is also decorated the same.

“You like?” his voice asks, once again very near me.

I turn, slowly, my eyes meeting his dark orbs. “No, I do not.”

He laughs, his deep wicked laughter echoing through out what I will now term as his throneroom. His hands fall on his red skinned stomach, his eyes close. He apparently enjoys my...what shall I call it? My company? My wit? My hatred for him?

No, none of that. I do not know what he enjoys, but something makes him laugh.

“I like you,” he says, walking away from me, seating himself on his bone throne.

“And why would that be?” I ask, hating him more and more.

“Because you speak your mind.” His eyes probe me, looking for what I do not know, some hint of fear maybe.

“I always speak my mind,” I tell him, my eyes only half open, hiding as much of my hatred for him as I can. I have no fear of him, not anymore. My fear of him was replaced by hatred some time ago. No, now I only hate him, despise him, wish for his demise. Or mine.

He nods, his eyes still looking into me, as if peering into my very soul. He wants something from me, but what I do not know, nor do I really care. I am happy to be out of that cell, if only long enough to be tormented by the sights around me.

His hand raises and he moves his finger, beckoning for something. I look in the direction in which his finger moves. I see a small figure, female perhaps, though I can not tell. The face is that of a creature, though not attractive in its appearance, attractive in its unusual nature. Her body is female, and scantily clad. At one time, my own body would have responded to such a sight, but now, I feel nothing, only an unusual interest.

“This is,” he motions to her as she approaches. “Cadryia.”

I nod to her. She curtsies before me, her strange yellow eyes looking me over. I still feel nothing, no interest in her for her body, only a strange desire to know what she is.

“Cadryia is my daughter, one of many,” he informs me.

I nod to him and look at her. “Pleasure to meet you,” I say.

She smiles, or at least I think she smiles. After a moment, she turns and leaves, heading the shadows from whence she came.

“Lovely girl,” I say, looking back at him.

He smiles at me, baring his sharp teeth. “She can be yours,” he offers.

I blink, my eyes looking at him. One brows raises. “And what must I do to gain such an honour?” I ask, choking out the last word.

“You,” he says, shifting in his throne, his hands laying on the skulls at the ends of the throne’s arms. “will be my general.”

I look at him, wondering what his mind holds. General, I think, once again, to serve another. Do I want that? Or do I want to go back to that cell in which I live?

“May I think about your offer?” I ask, not wanting to jump into anything without first consulting the voices that have been in my head.

He nods and hands grab me, turning me from him, taking me out of the throneroom and back to my dark cell. Though on the way, I can now see where I am. Thousands of doors, all around me, each housing a tormented soul. I stare, wondering if there are others in those cells, from Temra, or from Kells.

Roughly, I am shoved back into my cell. I turn just in time to see the door close, locking me once again in the darkness in which I live.

I spend the next several days in my cell, talking to myself, aloud or in silence, it does not matter. No hears me, no one cares. The voices in my head become louder. Some shouting at me, telling me to take his offer. Others stay quiet, mumbling that I should die in this cell, alone and forgotten. Still others, tell me to ignore him, to stay my own man, even if I am a prisoner.

My cell door opens, while I am in the middle of a heated debate with the voices. I turn and look, seeing one of the demon jailers. He looks at me, expecting me to exit my cell. I sigh and do, following another, short, stout demon to the throneroom, where I must make my decision.

Some say that madness comes in many forms. Forms of which, you never know until it is too late. But I fear I know that madness, for I am mad. And that madness shall be proven, only I must wait. Wait for the moment in which to strike.

Ahor-al sits on his throne, one leg hooked over a bony arm. I wonder, briefly, how he can sit like that.

“Ah, Torc, my friend,” he says.

My brow raises at his term for me. I do not consider him more than my captor, but yet he deems me his friend. I want to laugh, but I stay silent. In a bold move, I bow before him, my long hair falling over my shoulder, my beard trailing the stone floor.

I pull myself up, my eyes meeting his.

“I see you have decided to accept my offer,” he says, reading my thoughts. No, he can not read them. I must assume that it is from my action.

I nod. “Yes, I have decided to accept.”

He smiles and gestures. Cadryia steps from the shadows, her yellow eyes glinting in the torchlight. I nod to her, still feeling nothing. I must assume that it is her unusual appearance that keeps my interest at bay. I have seen far more repulsive woman and still felt that stirring inside, but with her, a woman whose body is almost perfect in its proportions. It must be her face, I assume.

“I do not require your daughter,” I state.

Ahor-al looks at me, his brow raises, his eyes meet mine. “And why not?” he asks, standing from his throne and approaching me.

Not wishing to anger the man that was to become my master, I simply state. “I am not in the mood.”

He chuckles and nods. “That I can understand,” he says, gesturing for her to leave. He turns slowly, heading back for his throne. “Though should you find yourself...” he glances at me over his shoulder. “...desiring, please let me know.”

I nod, watching him sit, wondering where my position would be.

“Now, that you have accepted my offer, you shall be fitted with the best equipment.” His eyes look me over. “And you shall need to bathe,” he added.

Involuntarily, I smirk. I do know of my personal stench and that I must look an utter mess, but I have never cared before. Before, I did nothing but sit and rot in my cell. Now, I have a life again, and a master to serve.

******************

I stand now in front of a large floor length mirror admiring my new appearance. A smile forms on my lips, now soft from various moisture restoring agents, instead of being dry and cracked as they were before. My hair is now short, in a close cropped cut. I must say that I like the way my hair is now, as compared to the way it was before. My skin is soft and shaven, having abdicated the beard for a nicer, more...stately look.

I am older. I can see the wrinkles around my eyes and the corners of my mouth. Though they are not from laughter, at least not laughter that would denote happiness. No, those lines are from the maniacal laughter I emanated when locked away.

The voices have calmed now, only coming up once in a while. Telling me what I should or should not say, how I should act or walk. I do not listen. Well, not most of the time.

Slowly, I take one more look at myself before I leave the rooms that are now mine. They are luxurious rooms, much beyond my tastes. In reality, I prefer the rooms that I had at Temra Castle, small, cold, stone. Much like my cell, except I had windows and a bed. Here, I have several rooms in which I call my own, a large bedroom, a small study, a bathing room, a sitting room, and a small entry room, which I believe they call a foyer.

A man waits for me outside the foyer door. He nods and bids me follow, so I do. Today, I receive my equipment. Armour and weapons befitting the general of a demon. I smile, picturing what they could be.

The man leads me into a large room filled with weapons and armour, the likes of some I have never seen. Much of it is plain, being leather or steel. Some is extravagantly crafted. My eyes take in all that it is here, wondering which would be bestowed upon me.

“I see you are pleased,” a voice says from behind me.

I turn, slowly, still taking in as much as I can. Ahor-al stands behind me, armoured in glittering red and black, a great black bladed sword at his side.

I nod, my head bobbing up and down. “It is magnificent.”

“I have spent much time gathering this armour,” he says, stepping forward, his arm sweeping out, gesturing over the entire room. “Many centuries, even millennia. From kingdoms near and far, existing and not.”

I can not fathom the words he is saying, for I only know of two kingdoms, Kells and Temra, which I fear I will never see again.

“Choose,” he says, simply.

I look at him, his dark eyes study me. I nod and look around. I see armour of leather and steel, chain and copper, bronze and jewelled. Armour of black, of red, of white. I do not know what to choose. I am overwhelmed by the amount of it. But, finally, I see it. My gaze settles on the armour that I know is to be mine.

On a form, in the far corner of the room, is what I am destined to wear. It is black, but appears to be leather. Moulded, the forms of duelling dragons on the breast, the legs and the vambraces. The spauldrons are wide and spiked, made of the same leather. I approach it, my hands reaching to touch it, to trace the smooth lines. A smile creeps across my lips.

“I wish this,” I say, simply, my eyes never leaving the suit in front of me.

“A good choice,” I hear him say, his voice close to me. I never hear him move, but he is always near. “It is yours.”

I smile, nodding in satisfaction.

“Now for your weapon.”

I turn and scour the room, searching for the perfect compliment to the blackened armour I have chosen. I battle in my mind. Some of the voices say sword, others shout axe, and yet others are uncaring. Glancing back at the armour, I decide on a sword, since it was always my main wield.

I walk around, looking through the weapons, seeing what there is. I must admit that this man, this demon, has gathered a mass amount of weapons; pikes, swords, axes, bows, daggers, anything that you could imagine. I sigh, unsure of what to choose. I see many a sword that would do justice to the armour I have chosen, but nothing that really catches my eye.

“Find nothing?” he asks, his voice amused.

I turn and look at him. “Nothing yet,” I state, my eyes continuing their search of the room.

I see it then, on the wall, above a great hearth. A weapon worthy of a warrior of rank. Though I would not consider myself such. Yet. I reach up and take it. It is heavy, but glorious. A long, razor sharp, steel blade set into a crossguard of twisted red and black metals. A large gem, the size of a child’s fist gleamed back at me from the centre of the crossguard, its red light glittering about the room. The handle is covered in black leather and wrapped with blood red cord. I smile, hefting the sword in my hands.

“A sword fit for a mighty warrior,” he states, some distance away from me.

I nod and smile, spinning the weapon in my hand. I notice the pommel then, its glistening black jewel dark in its setting.

“This is the weapon I choose,” I say, my voice dark. I am prepared. I am willing. I am able.

*******************

I serve him, day and night, asleep and awake. No matter what I do, I am serving him. It has been a few months now, since I took my pledge to serve the demon Ahor-al. I am weary. I want to rest. But he does not let me. No, I must work. I must gather more servants for him, willing and unwilling alike.

I yawn, trying to announce that I am tired. He does not notice. He is more interested with his newest play thing. A young woman, Oriental by birth, a beauty. But she does not want him. She screams, pleads, begs for her release. He does not listen. Her screams grate on my nerves. I want to slit her throat, end her screaming, but I do not. Can not.

“Torc, come here,” he says, his eyes never leaving the face of the young woman.

I approach. “Yes, my lord,” I say, bowing to him, taking the opportunity to close my eyes for a moment. Slowly, I stand tall, my eyes opening, locking on his face.

“Teach her the appropriate courtesies,” he says, shoving her at me.

I catch her, but just barely. I nod. “Yes, my lord.” I take her out of the throneroom, ignoring her pleas for release.

My free hand falls on my dagger. Her voice is annoying. I pull my dagger and throw her against a nearby wall. She yelps, tears fall down her cheeks. My eyes fall on her tear stained face. Sighing, I replace my dagger.

“Go,” I say, pointing down the hall.

She looks at me, her eyes wide. She bolts. I watch, caring not. Slowly, I turn and make my way back to the throneroom.

“Did she understand?” he asks.

I look at him, approaching him. I want to tell him that she is dead, that she ignored my teachings, but instead I am quiet. The door on the far side of the throneroom opens. I look. He looks. I do not have to say anything, only watch.

Some of his other warriors enter, approach and bow. They give report. I lean against the bone throne, watching the back of his head, tempted, ever so tempted to plunge my sword in the back of his neck. I hate him, abhor him, loathe him. He is my saviour and my captor. He will be my death.

I watch as the warriors turn and leave. Ahor-al appears to be lost in thought. I smile and see my chance. Deftly and soundlessly, I lift the blade, his blade from its resting place near the throne. I lift it over my head and plunge it down. The black blade enters his neck, just at the base, and plunges out through his heart.

The demon man leaps to his feet and spins around, his eyes fixing on me. I do nothing but stare at him. My eyes are empty, dead, as is my heart. I hear the voices in my head, they laugh, they cheer, they hiss. Black blood seaps from his heart, his mouth, his ears, his eyes. He is dying before my eyes. I do not care.

He falls, silently, to the floor of his throneroom. No, it is mine now. I destroyed him. I watch as his body turns to dust and flutters away in an unseen breeze. I move and sit on the throne, a wicked smile crossing my face.

*****************

Days later, they all know, prisoners, demons, warriors, courtesans. They all know. Ahor-al is dead, gone, nothing more than a memory. I am their, shall I say King? I rule them, I direct them, I punish them.

A smile spreads across my face as I walk the long, dark halls of his castle. I am looking for something. Something which I know is hidden far from view. I saw him once, taking a drink from a silver chalice, which he dipped in a fountain. That is what I am looking for. I believe that is where he gets his power.

I see it. The door. Large and golden, inlaid with gems of all colours, sizes and shapes. That door would make any wonder what lay beyond. But I know. I know what lays beyond.

My hands reach out, touch its smooth golden surface. A gentle push is all it takes. The door swings open. I see it then, the fountain. Tall and glittering in a natural light of some sort, yet I know not where it comes from. The water sparkles, its clarity amazing. The chalice sits on the edge of the silver pool which holds the overflow.

Lifting the chalice in my hands, I can almost feel the power. My eyes close. Just holding the chalice is awe-inspiring. Now I know how it must have felt for Maeve when I gave her the silver chalice from Acre.

Slowly, I open my eyes and look at the fountain. My skin is sprayed with droplets of its clear water as I reach out. The chalice gathers the water. I draw back. Gently, making sure to drop none of the water, I raise it to my lips. The water is sweet and pure. Much like the nectar I had tasted once at a great feast in honour of my dear Princess’ birth.

I smile, swallowing the water, letting it slide coolly down my throat. Then I feel it, the power coursing through my body.

“You are reborn,” I hear a voice say. I look, but see nothing, see no one. I am alone in that chamber. But I know that I heard the voice.

Pulling my dagger, I hold it in my hand. A voice in my head tells me to slice my skin, to let the lifeblood flow, to mark myself. I listen. Ever so carefully, I gash my arm, laughing as the blood flows from my limb.

A strange sensation fills me and I look down. The wound, which I had made only moments before, closes. I stare.

“I am immortal,” I whisper in awe. “I am immortal!” I shout, laughing.

***********************

“Ahor-al had warriors,” I say to myself. “I shall have warriors.”

One of the men nods, not really listening to me, that much I can tell.

“Open the cells, pull all of the prisoners into the light. I wish to choose,” I command.

The man nods once again and leaves, the others following him.

I sit back on the bone throne, which is now mine and wait. My mind wanders, thinking back. The Mystic Knights enter my thoughts. By now the King of Kells would be gone, his dear daughter reigning over the land. Who would rule Temra, I wonder.

“They are prepared, my king,” a voice pulls me from my thoughts.

I nod and stand, making my way out of the throneroom. I come to stop, minutes later, looking around me. The cells are all open, the prisoners standing outside their small, dark homes, blinking in the torchlight, much as I did when I was first released. Thousands of them stand, wondering, what their fate would be.

“Horsemen,” I hear in my head. The voices again, always talking now, in unison, or separate, but never silent. Those voices command me, give me direction, give me comfort, make me mad.

I smile. Horsemen. I like that. I will have horsemen. Four.

I spend hours looking over the prisoners, wondering where some of them are from, why they are here, what they did to deserve such torment. Then again, I did not know why I was here. I did not ask.

I stop, looking at a woman. She stands tall, as tall as me, her eyes are soft, brown in colour, her hair red, or at least will be after cleaned.

“Do you remember your name?” I ask, my voice gentle. I do not want her to be frightened of me, nor hateful, but I feel like it will happen.

She turns her head to look at me. “I am Sydok, of Caledonia,” she says, her voice like a melodious song.

I smile and turn to the demon following me. “Take her to be bathed,” I say, looking back at her. I do not expect a smile or a thank you, and I see none. Her eyes show no emotion.

I continue, looking for three more warriors. I do not know why she interested me. Maybe I will know at a later date. I walk, searching the faces of those who are now my prisoners.

Minutes pass, turning into hours, before I find the next of the four I will ultimately choose. A man, average in height, muscular in build. He is not as dirty as most, therefore I assume that he has not been here as long.

“Your name?” I ask, my eyes studying his dark features. I have seen none like him.

“I am Ximun, of Andorra,” he says, a thick accent covering his words.

I nod to the man following me. They take him to be bathed and dressed, as with the first. He will make a good warrior, I will see to that.

Next, only doors down from him, do I find the next of my warriors. Another woman, small in stature, slim, pretty, her dark hair hanging in a tangled mass down her back, her dark eyes looking ahead.

“And you?” I ask.

She looks at me, her eyes studying my face. I can not read her emotions. She is hard, yet soft. A worthy warrior.

“Zhen-Li,” she says, her voice delicate but firm.

I nod. A man takes her arm, leading her away. Her eyes do not leave mine. I like her. She is already a warrior, one without conscience.

Hours pass, I fear I will not find the fourth of my warriors, when I see her. A tall woman, only slightly taller than me. Her ice blond hair short, cropped close to her face, blue eyes the colour of the purest gem, skin pale, like fresh milk. I feel my heart move, my eyes study her. She shall be the last.

“You,” I say, stopping to stand before her. “Your name?”

She looks down at me, but not by much, for she is only a finger’s width taller than I. “I am Svana of Vinland.”

I smile and nod. The last man takes her away. I wave my hand and the prisoners are put back into their cells, many protest, some beg, but I do not hear them. I can not return them to their homes. I do not know how.

I return to my throneroom to seat myself on my throne and wait for the warriors I have chosen. I smile to myself, believing that I have made good choices. I close my eyes, hearing the voices speak to me, telling me what to do, how to assign my warriors, but I have made my choices, and I will assign them as I please.

“My King,” a voice says.

I open my eyes and look at him. “They are bathed and dressed. They await your call,” he says, bowing.

I nod. “Send them in.”

He waves his hand. The doors to the side of the throneroom open and in walk the four warriors I have chosen. They all stop to stand in front of me. I smile at them, my eyes stopping on the beauty of the Caledonian woman. I feel a stirring in my soul, something which I have not felt for years.

She returns my gaze, her eyes soft, and still. I can see she feels that same.

I stand and look at them. “I have chosen you, warriors from lands other than my own, to serve me, to be my Horsemen,” I say, gazing upon their faces. I see no emotion, no caring, nothing. I smile.

“You,” I say, stepping from the small stone dais where my throne sat. I stop to stand in front of the man. “Ximun.”

He nods and bows his head to me. His dark eyes returning to my face.

“You shall be the Horseman known as Doom.”

He smiles ever so slightly. I see he is pleased.

Silently, I step to the next. “Zhen-Li.” She looks up at me, her eyes locking onto mine. She does not bow, nor show proper respect. I smirk. “You shall be the Horseman known as Death.” This brings a smile to her face. She bows her head. I nod to her.

Next, I step in front of the tall woman of Vinland, her icy hair matching her icy blue eyes. “You, Svana, you shall be the Horseman known as Despair.” A sly smile crosses her pale lips. She nods to me, obviously enjoying her new title.

“And you,” I say, stopping to stand in front of the Caledonian beauty. She looks up at me, her soft eyes betraying the warrior underneath. “Sydok, shall be Destiny.” Her eyes smile at me, even though her face does not.

I take a step back, returning to stand in front of my throne. “You are the Horsemen of Reckoning,” my voice echoes throughout the stillness of the throneroom. I am pleased.



end