romanstock
35 yr old virgin
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King Ninus sat brooding in his favourite southern parlour, a soft orange glow casting dancing shadows across his face. The green flames had disappeared, signalling the end of Oxyartes; and perhaps, by association, Ninus’ remaining male heir. The discovery had widened a hole within, a feeling of unfulfillment. The boy, the disappointment, had undoubtedly rushed the proceedings, robbing Ninus of his last opportunity for glory and vengeance. An old anger had stirred since then, a burning which had been too long pacified by the pernicious effects of monotony.
Letters had trickled down from Nineveh, relating of the events in Isadôria, without any elucidatory details. How could the boy have possibly defeated a black-cloak?
The last account confirmed that Tammuz had found Oxyartes, the missive arriving not long after the green flames had changed. Ninus had become embroiled with rage thereafter; had he gone instead, he would have been able to fulfill his life’s desire. Instead, he had sat idle, useless. And still he so sat, when the most farcical letter he had ever read arrived yesterday, signed by the Chief Priest Edwin.
The contents described a ludicrous conspiracy, declaring that Tammuz was in actuality the son of Oxyartes, that he had been indued with the Spirit of the Abyss, and that he was preparing an imminent assault on Silverkeep. It went on to adumbrate that the priests were responsible for unleashing the scourge on the world, an act performed based upon a misinterpretation of altered scripture, and that the sorcerers were the sons of the Spirit of the Abyss. Ninus had rejected the message as a hoax at first, but further readings made him wonder if the Chief Priest, in his senile state, had made some sort of confession: that the priests truly were behind the emergence of the new enemy, and perhaps were plotting to have him removed, to then emplace Tammuz as their spiritual puppet king. The boy had always been familiar with the clergy; Semiramis had commented on the matter many times.
The more he pondered, the more certain he grew. He had formed a similar conclusion eighteen years ago; why had he hesitated after confronting the High Priest? He could hardly remember. Clearly he had been a fool to show restraint.
Other factors proceeded to elude him: what purpose could be derived from claiming that Tammuz was preparing to assault Silverkeep? The idea was preposterous. A veiled caution, mayhap? Informing him where the assassination attempt would be made. Ninus eyed his drinking cup warily. The convolution seemed unnecessary. Why not say it outright?
The rest of the text remained obscure, resembling the ramblings of a madman. Ninus eventually settled on two decisions.
‘Retrieve Sir Braddon!’ He commanded the empty room.
A pattering of steps preceded a distant shout from the corridor beyond: ‘At once, Your Majesty!’
Sir Braddon soon arrived; a man of patrician cast, with wide eyes full of romantic dreams. ‘Your Majesty.’
‘Sir Braddon, I have a command for you: select four of your men to accompany you to Nineveh, and there take charge of the Chief Priest Edwin. Escort him back hither at best speed, by force if necessary. Failure will not be tolerated. Go now. Ride through the night.’ Ninus waved a hand of dismissal.
Sir Braddon hesitated. ‘Your Majesty, should I peradventure possess a writ with your seal to verify my command over one of such high station?’
Ninus grunted in annoyance. ‘Every person in Nineveh knows who you are! You are a leading member of my personal guard. You need no writ.’
‘It has been a long time since we were stationed in Nineveh, Your Majesty. I may no longer be recognised.’
‘My word is authority enough.’
Letters had trickled down from Nineveh, relating of the events in Isadôria, without any elucidatory details. How could the boy have possibly defeated a black-cloak?
The last account confirmed that Tammuz had found Oxyartes, the missive arriving not long after the green flames had changed. Ninus had become embroiled with rage thereafter; had he gone instead, he would have been able to fulfill his life’s desire. Instead, he had sat idle, useless. And still he so sat, when the most farcical letter he had ever read arrived yesterday, signed by the Chief Priest Edwin.
The contents described a ludicrous conspiracy, declaring that Tammuz was in actuality the son of Oxyartes, that he had been indued with the Spirit of the Abyss, and that he was preparing an imminent assault on Silverkeep. It went on to adumbrate that the priests were responsible for unleashing the scourge on the world, an act performed based upon a misinterpretation of altered scripture, and that the sorcerers were the sons of the Spirit of the Abyss. Ninus had rejected the message as a hoax at first, but further readings made him wonder if the Chief Priest, in his senile state, had made some sort of confession: that the priests truly were behind the emergence of the new enemy, and perhaps were plotting to have him removed, to then emplace Tammuz as their spiritual puppet king. The boy had always been familiar with the clergy; Semiramis had commented on the matter many times.
The more he pondered, the more certain he grew. He had formed a similar conclusion eighteen years ago; why had he hesitated after confronting the High Priest? He could hardly remember. Clearly he had been a fool to show restraint.
Other factors proceeded to elude him: what purpose could be derived from claiming that Tammuz was preparing to assault Silverkeep? The idea was preposterous. A veiled caution, mayhap? Informing him where the assassination attempt would be made. Ninus eyed his drinking cup warily. The convolution seemed unnecessary. Why not say it outright?
The rest of the text remained obscure, resembling the ramblings of a madman. Ninus eventually settled on two decisions.
‘Retrieve Sir Braddon!’ He commanded the empty room.
A pattering of steps preceded a distant shout from the corridor beyond: ‘At once, Your Majesty!’
Sir Braddon soon arrived; a man of patrician cast, with wide eyes full of romantic dreams. ‘Your Majesty.’
‘Sir Braddon, I have a command for you: select four of your men to accompany you to Nineveh, and there take charge of the Chief Priest Edwin. Escort him back hither at best speed, by force if necessary. Failure will not be tolerated. Go now. Ride through the night.’ Ninus waved a hand of dismissal.
Sir Braddon hesitated. ‘Your Majesty, should I peradventure possess a writ with your seal to verify my command over one of such high station?’
Ninus grunted in annoyance. ‘Every person in Nineveh knows who you are! You are a leading member of my personal guard. You need no writ.’
‘It has been a long time since we were stationed in Nineveh, Your Majesty. I may no longer be recognised.’
‘My word is authority enough.’
