Chapter One: The Whip
The sun reflected vibrantly off of the glistening steel of Oedipus’ sword as he held it high over his head, the tense muscles in his arms shaking under the weight. The sound of the massive weapon slicing through the air echoed across the gardens behind the Castle of Thorn and came to a stop just inches from the massively scaled claw in front of him. Oedipus looked up at the dragon before him, standing nearly as high as the castle walls, its scales reflecting hues of oranges and reds as the clouds moved across the bright afternoon sun.
The dragon’s eyes were shut tightly, waiting for the pain of Oedipus’ mighty sword. He smiled coyly and swiftly sliced across the dragon’s scales, watching in amazement as the skin opened slightly and blood that glistened gold in the light trickled over onto the ground. The dragon flinched, pulling his claw back and opening his eyes sharply at Oedipus.
“Oh, don’t be such a swine, Holland. You know you will be healed within seconds,” Oedipus scorned, wiping the golden mixture from his sword. He looked up and watched wide-eyed as the wound slowly closed until no remnants of the afflicted area were noticeable. A deep laugh emanated from Oedipus’ belly, and he turned back toward the dragon, ready to fight again.
Holland, though large as a dragon, stood around six-feet tall in human form, with long, red hair, and approaching his nineteenth mark of birth. He was somewhat shy, and often fearful of the reign of terror that was sweeping Avalon, but he always stood strong with false confidence. Holland’s broad shoulders gave others the impression he was not to be messed with, though once he spoke, you could tell his heart was as golden as the color of his blood. For this reason, Oedipus required him to stay silent to all guests, merely using his girth and the others’ fear of the dragon’s wrath as leverage.
He serviced Oedipus as the assistant to the commander, a job his father had been forced into when Holland was just a boy. But his father had grown old and weary, and Holland traded his services to Oedipus in exchange for his father’s freedom. Though dragon shifters had been free for decades, Avalon still had their finger on the pulse of the shifter community and often forced them into servitude as penance for unpaid taxes. With the dwindling number of shifters on this side of Fortune, they feared rebelling would only kill off the last of their kind in the seven realms, so they accepted positions of protection with the king’s army.
Holland, feeling a bit of courage in his belly, stood up on his hind legs and stretched his wings as far as they would go. Oedipus chuckled and stepped back, admiring his impressive ability to overshadow anything around him. A rumble stirred, and a rubicund glow slowly burned in the pit of the dragon’s belly, turning Oedipus’ laughter to scowl as he crouched with his sword, ready to strike.
How dare you threaten me, boy?
Oedipus spoke in his mind to Holland, using the rare endowment of telepathy that dragons had adapted for humans. Holland glanced over at the villa overlooking the gardens where Leonetta was sitting, watching him inquisitively with a blush falling across her cheeks.
You have exactly two seconds to fix yourself, boy, or I will slice you so deep, the rivers will turn golden with your blood.
Holland snorted, smoke billowing from his inflamed nostrils, bringing his wings back into his body, and settling on all fours. He scooped his head low in obedience, too ashamed to meet Leonetta’s gaze once more.
My apologies, sir. I meant no threat by it. I was simply allowing you to show your valor to your lady, who is watching.
Oedipus stood, slowly bringing his sword back to his side and looking over at Leonetta, who had gotten to her feet, and upon her eyes meeting with his, turned with a flat look and walked out into the garden, her ladies in tow.
Well, though I am sure the lady was dazzled, I don’t need your weak and unimpressive show trying to woo any ladies for me. She is my wife-to-be that is written. I don’t need to impress her. Her hand, however, is new, and I wouldn’t mind a conversation in my chambers with her later. Arrange it.
Oedipus tossed his sword to the keeper next to him, a young boy no of more than fourteen marks, who simply stood by to catch whatever he tossed to the side.
Yes, Commander. I will see that it is done. The King’s Faith is walking toward us, sir.
The commander looked up at the stairs leading to the throne room and straightened his leather vest, the soft, thin fabric of his blouse blowing in the wind. The King’s Faith, a round man, bald, and wearing plain brown robes hurried along the pathway toward the commander. Obviously, he had news from the king; everyone moved quickly these days, when the king commanded something.
“Your Faith,” Oedipus greeted, slightly bowing but keeping eye contact with the man as he slowed his approach. He was fearful of dragons, and Oedipus glanced back angrily at Holland.
“Commander,” the King’s Faith, Ardontis, greeted, bowing slightly. “Shall we take a walk?”
Oedipus nodded and gave Holland word to shift and meet him in the throne room. The commander walked slowly next to Ardontis, waiting impatiently for him to speak. The King’s Faith was not only his religious attendant but his ears and eyes of the Kingdom as well. He was careful who he spoke in front of, and Oedipus found him to be untrustworthy in nature but understood he was to hear him out for the king.
“It is no secret that our resources are dwindling,” Ardontis spoke as they walked along the path to the gardens. “The king has raised the taxes, but let's be honest, you can’t take money, where there is none. We have gotten word that the other kings in the seven realms are planning a coup.”
“We have heard these rumors for months, Ardontis,” Oedipus said, annoyance quivering in his voice. “What makes it any different now? They are rumors. Spread by the towns of Avalon to give these filthy peasants some sort of will to go on. I’d sooner slit their throats, but you can’t get money from a dead man.”
“True,” Ardontis said, choosing his words carefully, “but this rumor comes from higher up. One of our army shifters caught sight of training on the other side of Villager’s Pass, just beyond Gillian. They are preparing for battle, and their leader comes from your very place of birth.”
“Artus of Gillian,” Oedipus growled turning to Ardontis. “The king, he has knowledge of this?”
“Oh, no,” Ardontis gasped. “This news must come from his commander. I came straight to you.”
“Good work, Your Faith,” Oedipus said, putting one hand on the man’s shoulder and looking up at Holland, who stood outside of the throne room’s terraced doors. “Take these coins and spread them to the poorest. A false hope may buy their loyalty for a bit, something we may need in the coming days.”
“Yes, Commander,” Ardontis said bowing his head, taking the small leather pouch of coins and stepping to the side.
“Oh,” Oedipus said, turning back to Ardontis, “and make sure they are taxed double next cycle. We aren’t here for charity.”
Oedipus walked swiftly, running the news through his brain but blocking it from any shifter that may be listening. He made his way to the throne room and quietly stepped inside, standing next to the guards and watching the spectacle unfolding before him. It was the peasants’ day in the Kingdom, and the few that dared to breach the castle doors were standing and waiting to request the king’s favor in various issues.
King Osiris sat perched at the head of the throne room, heavy fur robes draped over his shoulders as a young servant girl stood scantily dressed while pouring wine into his outstretched cup. His face showed humor, especially since peasant days were only still observed for the king’s play more than anything else. Guards lined the walk to the throne, and a man dressed in tattered clothing, dirt covering his face and hands, knelt in front of the king, his hands clasped to mask his anxiety.
“Your Grace,” the man stuttered in fear, “we have no grain to plant. Without grain, we can grow no crops. Without crops, we cannot pay our taxes.”
The king popped a grape into his mouth and squeezed it between his front teeth, the juices squirting out and running down his thick, brown beard. He stood from the throne, his servants shuffling around quickly to clear a path for him and adjust his robes. He stretched and looked over at Oedipus, a look of mischief in his eye.
“If I remember correctly, peasant, we gave all of our subjects three barrels of seed at the beginning of last season. After last year’s harvest, I would say you should have an overabundance of seed harvested.” The king brushed the crumbs from his hands and looked down at the peasant.
“Yes, Your Majesty, but you see, with the frigid spring, the crops wilted, and we were unable to pay our taxes, so your soldiers burned our feed barn,” he said, shaking and staring at the smooth marble floor.
“Well,” the king said, thoughts brewing in his mind, “that doesn’t quite seem to be a fair punishment, does it?”
The man’s head shot up, a look of relief in his eyes. He shook his head feverishly, afraid to say any more as he might change the course of the conversation. However, the king and the peasant weren’t quite on the same train of thought.
“I run this Kingdom by your tax dollars, sir.” The king walked over to the guard standing next to Oedipus, giving a wink in the commander’s direction. “If you didn’t pay your taxes, you are depriving your king and your lord of food and water. It seems that my army is slacking in their duties.”
The king reached the belt of his guard, and his eyes glimmered as he slowly pulled a long leather whip used for horse training from his waist. He rolled the tail around his burly hands and waited patiently for a response from the peasant. Without realization of the course of the king’s thoughts, the peasant spoke.
“I would never want to deprive my lord his food and water,” the peasant said shamefully. The king turned toward the peasant, allowing the tails of the whip to slowly unravel at his side. A nefarious grin washed across Osiris as if he were possessed by something otherworldly. The reality was that his own power and greed were the possessions haunting him.
“Guards, if you would,” the king said, motioning to the man on the floor. He looked up, his relief turning to fear, and he struggled as the guards grabbed him under the arms and turned him so his back was facing the king. The other guards moved back into a pool, giving the king ample room to swing his whip at his leisure.
“Your Grace, please, I only meant I would always want to take care of my king,” the man begged.
“When we lack the ability to do our jobs, peasant, we must pay the penalty. I am a direct hand to God, so be blessed that he has chosen your punishment wisely,” the king said with a smirk. He shrugged his robes off and stood behind the man, his white shirt loosely buttoned but tucked into his leather pants. The buckles on his brown mule boots reflected the metal tips on the tail of the whip.
The king pulled back, swinging the leather device around his head, the ends of the leather straps snapping in the air. Every muscle in the peasant’s rawboned body tensed in anticipation of contact. With one large swoop, Osiris pulled the whip back and fluidly rolled his wrist, causing the tiny metal tips to slack against the back of the man. He went up on his tiptoes, screaming out in agony as Osiris threw the whip back and forward again.
With each touch of the man’s skin, blood curdled under his torn and tattered shirt until the cloth itself was nothing but blood-soaked shreds. The new holes revealed deep lacerations on the peasant’s skin, and with each blow, blood floated up in the air like a red mist, pieces of his flesh still caught in the strips of leather. Slowly, the man went limp in the arms of the guards, and the king took one last blow, sending blood splattering across the shiny steel of the sentinel’s armor.
The king dropped his arm to his side, the leather strips piling at his feet, and a mixture of blood and sweat covering his brow. He handed the whip to one of the servants and took a fresh, warm towel from their basket. Slowly, he wiped the remnants of the peasant off his hands, the meat and blood splattering on the floor at his feet.
“I want you to tell everyone–peasant–that this kingdom doesn’t stand for those who don’t play their part,” the king whispered in the man’s ear. “Guards, escort him back to his home and clean this mess up. I want that whip to be my new best friend, so get it all nice and oiled for me.”
Oedipus watched as the servants and guards scattered, doing the king’s bidding as quickly as possible. Osiris turned toward the commander, and they both put their arms up in greeting. Their embrace was short but warm, and the king’s furl turned to a pleasant look at the sight of his oldest friend.
“Oedipus!” he jollied. “Good to see you have returned unscathed. Let’s retreat to the dining hall. I am starving after all that physical exertion.” The king patted his expanding belly and looked sideways at Oedipus. “I gotta keep my young, handsome figure after all.”
“Your Grace,” the commander said with a laugh. “It’s good to be back. And you look as spry as you did when we were kids.”
“You shouldn’t bullshit the king, Oedipus,” he said with a deep, growling laugh.
The two men entered into the dining hall. The ceilings stretched high into the darkness, and chandeliers with lit candles dipped down over the tables, held up by strong iron chains. The smell of meat and spices filled the room, and it took a moment for Oedipus to adjust his eyes to the darkness since windows were scarce in that part of the castle. The two men sat opposite each other and watched as servants filled their cups with wine and bowed out of the room nervously.
“So,” the king said as he picked up a large turkey leg and ripped the meat off the bone with his teeth, “how did the excursion go? Did you make contact with the wild dragons?”
“Well,” the commander stated as his thoughts flooded with images of the gory confrontation that ensued, “they weren’t quite ready to hear our shifters. We lost over three hundred men.”
“I told you, Oedipus,” the king spattered as he chewed his food ungraciously, “we are not in the business of holding their fucking paws or whatever you call it. If you need them, you take them. Period.”
“Absolutely, Your Grace,” Oedipus answered wishing the king had been there to see men burning alive and their limbs being torn from their bodies. There was not much anyone could do at the end, and the commander had simply dumped the pieces of the army in a pile and set them ablaze. He comforted himself in thinking that it was an honorable way to be disposed of. Though the smell of burning flesh was permanently pressed into his nostrils.
“Your Grace,” Oedipus said, picking at the meat on his plate and thinking about Artus, a man that had been on his radar for years. He was a fool who believed that slave-less nations and free shifters were the future. The demise of his friendship with Oedipus and Osiris had started when they were young and had developed into a lifelong feud that Oedipus knew would end with someone’s head on a stake.
“There is a situation that is in dire need of attention. We have tapped Avalon. There is no question that we need to start thinking of moving outward. You are the King of Kings; everyone knows this, and your bounty should be greater than just some torched realm with seedless soils.”
Oedipus’ blood began to boil as he thought about taking over Avalon as king, the other rulers looking down upon him from their high towers. The king sat quietly, mulling the commander’s words over in his head. Steam brewed in Oedipus’ chest as he thought about Artus and his dragons training at that very moment.
“Artus,” Oedipus continued, “has gathered forces, and they are preparing. The word in the mouths of Whisperers is a coup.”
The king looked angrily up at Oedipus, slamming his spoon on his plate and wiping his mouth on his sleeve. The commander sat still, watching as the fire from the candles reflected off his eyes. Though Oedipus had vowed to be the demise of Artus long ago, promising to present his head to the king, Osiris, in his dream world inside the castle walls, thought it foolish to chase the man. He felt Artus was just a distraction that would meet his own demise soon enough.
“Enough!” the King shouted, slamming his fists on the table and rattling the metal plates and chalices. “I have told you time and time again that Artus is no more than some weaseling imbecile, who will drag you down with him. Leave him be!”
Oedipus sat expressionless, irritated by the king’s dismissal. He was far removed from the world that had decayed outside of Thorn, and Oedipus feared that the gold and the power were beginning to draw him off course.
“As far as the issue of territory,” the king stated softly, but with feeling, “we will discuss that today at the High Council meeting. I expect you will be there.”
“Of course, My Lord,” the commander, said gritting his teeth.
“Well, then,” the king said, holding his cup up to the girl attending him. He wiped his greasy beard once again on his sleeve and licked his lips, his eyes searching the young servant. “Go arrest or torture someone. I am going to take a nap.”
He reached out and smacked the dark-haired girl on the ass. “You, slave girl, come with me to my chambers.”
Oedipus laughed as she scurried along behind him, her head down and cheeks bright red.
Oh, to be king.