156To Kiss A Killer
By: Converse Tennis Shoes
Prologue:
The Prices We Pay
Silence.
Complete, and utter silence. Almost eerie in nature, but powerful and unquestioned.
Neither party made a sound as the faced each other. A horse may stamp its foot or the sick may cough and wheeze, but other than that, even the wind seemed to have lost its voice.
The two small parties sent from each opposing army stood across from each other; analyzing, examining, and condemning their enemies standing not ten feet away. Each of the armies was now miles away, leaving their officers to come here and deal with the politics.
The war was over.
Both groups of men knew this, one shuffling their feet in defeat, the other haughty in victory. Now all that was left was a peace treaty and negotiations that were sure to go in the victorious army's favor.
The kings of the two combating nations were not present, for a king is as fit for a battlefield as a baby is fit to carry a sword to war. Instead, the two commanding generals would handle the business of negotiating and coming to an agreed cease-fire. That is why only the highest ranking officers of each army were allowed to this meeting, for they would set the outline of what was to become of a fifteen year war.
Peace was long overdue.
Enough blood had been spilt.
Enough lives had been taken.
The Darhowians shifted uncomfortably, knowing that they had finally lost this bloody, needless war. Their enemies, the Reilts, were a growing force that had devoured all other small countries that stood in their way. The Reilt king, Haslith Diragon the fourth, was a greedy man who used his powerful country to conquer all others. Small, but strong, Darhowa had fought for its freedom well. However, the proud country was no match for the mighty Reilts.
Though they were the last country to fall under Reilt dictatorship, it did not change the fact that they were now a conquered people.
One man, a tall stocky bear of a human being, confidently nudged his finely breed war-horse forward. Polik Tersod, Commanding General of the Reilt Army, was a haughty man indeed, boldly dressed in the bright crimson red and sun yellow of his country. He glared down at the small contingent of high ranking soldiers the Darhowa country had left. A snide smirk played on his lips.
He would soon make all these worthless Darhowian dogs crawl.
From the crowd of black and silver clad Darhowa warriors appeared another man on foot. He was not as big as General Polik and he rode no prized stallion, but the look in his eyes, the many silver stars worn on his uniform, and the wicked double long-swords on his back said he was just as deadly in combat as the Reilt General.
"General Verdian." Polik spit the voice out with contempt, "As you can see, Darhowa dogs are no match for the mighty Reilt Empire. This war is over. Victory is ours. We have come establish peace and arrange settlement of our negotiations."
Polik's mouth quirked up into another smirk, and he couldn't keep the arrogant sneer from his voice. He didn't even try to mask his superior attitude; Darhowa was now at his mercy after all.
Amen Verdian's eyes flashed in anger and his fists clenched. When he spoke, his unusually low voice was a calculated hiss, "You have come to assert your dominance over our country and turn us into slaves so do not try to cover your wickedness with honey coated words."
"As charming as ever, Verdian" Polik sneered. Both parties of men watched the two generals glare each other down. It was common knowledge that they hated each other, due to some unknown event that happened back when Darhowa and Reilt had been at peace.
Apparently Verdian won their silent staring contest because Polik scoffed and then spoke first, "My king has told me his conditions for accepting peace with the Darhowa people should you admit defeat and bow before me."
Verdian froze at these words.
Bow?
To Polik.
It made him sick just to think of the very idea. He glanced over his shoulder at his men; the proud few who had helped him command his army, his sons, his friends, and his brothers at arms. For fifteen years they had all stood by each other and kept the most deadly army to ever walk the earth at bay. Now it was all for nothing.
They were now at the mercy of the Reilt king. They had no choice.
Verdian's army was broken, a fraction of what it used to be. Most of their weapons were now old, broken and blunt. His mages were tired and could barely cast proper spells due to overuse. The men back at the camp were starving, their morale broken. Most of them had given up fighting, and they just wanted to go back home to their families and mend whatever fragments of their soul they had left.
It was hopeless.
They had lost.
It broke Amen's heart, but he nodded to his two captains, the broad shouldered, heavily scarred Jeriche Loki and beautiful, clever, and vicious Selene Morines. They knew what it meant. Slowly, the three grabbed their weapons and laid them carefully on the ground. Seeing their superiors disarm themselves, the rest of the Darhowian officers did the same.
Then, even slower, Amen nodded again and bent his upper half forward in a low bow, his soldiers kneeling behind him.
Polik laughed out loud at this, relishing the sight of the noble Darhowa General bowing so low before him. He was too busy gloating over his defeated prey that he did not see one soldier, in the far back, refuse to kneel.
The defiant person simply stood there under one of the magnolia trees, casually leaning against the rough bark. The soldier was unusually tall and lean, but covered in a thick black ground length robe, despite the exceptionally warm weather, with the hood pulled up so his face was hidden.
"Good. Good. You worthless dogs finally learned your place." Polik cooed, clearly enjoying himself.
"Tell us your conditions, General Polik, so this war can be over and we can all go home." Verdian blunt voice silenced Polik's laughter. "Or is your ego too big that your horse would be too burdened to get you even as far as the border?"
Polik's faced screwed up into a grimace, his eyes flashing in hatred.
"Fine. My lord demands three things. He is a busy man so he will let you keep your former king and government. However, they must obey any and every command he gives them, submitting themselves fully under Reiltian rule. That is the first condition. Second, Darhowa has the biggest trading posts in the world. My liege wants you to grant free, unlimited access of your trade posts to Reilt merchants. And third," Polik gave a sinister grin that made Verdian's skin crawl, "You must hand over the man by the name of Tyrren Ayehlon, or more commonly know as… the Blood Reaper."
The gasp emitted by the Darhowa officers was uncontrollable.
The Reaper.
No. The Reilt King could not even think –
"The Reaper will not be a Darhowa prisoner of war." Polik continued as if he had not heard the gasp, "No, he will be a Reilt personal slave to the king himself."
Was the king mad?!
The name and reputation of the Reaper was well known throughout the world.
He was a Darhowian mage, a soldier.
A killer.
Nobody quite knew the about the Reaper's true origins or history. All they knew was that he was found as a boy by the Darhowa Mage Academy, just like any other child with magical talent, and was trained in magic and combat.
However, the Reaper was different. He was powerful; more powerful than most of his teachers.
Graduating early from the academy and immediately sent to war, he turned into a legend.
His battle prowess, along with his vicious demeanor and uncanny magical skill earned him the name of the Blood Reaper. He was known to kill hundreds of Reilt soldiers every day as if it were nothing. Some said he could kill twenty men with one spell while other mages struggled to get five kills at most.
The Reaper was also known to turn on his own fellow soldiers. Once, it was rumored that he killed three Darhowian soldiers for looking at him funny.
He was uncontrollable, unpredictable, and untamable.
The only reason the Darhowian government didn't kill him or lock him up in an insane asylum was because the Reaper was the only reason the Darhowians had been able to survive for so long. He was the unbreakable backbone of their army.
And now the Reilt king wanted him for a pet.
Verdian turned around and scanned the men behind him quickly. Apparently he didn't find what he was looking for because he turned back towards Polik and licked his lips nervously.
"I'm afraid the last condition will be impossible, General Polik, as both you and your king know."
"Fine" Polik bit harshly, "Forget the peace agreement. We'll slaughter you and your men and rape your women and feed your children to-"
"You will do no such thing." A smooth, deadly voice sounded. Verdian, recognizing the voice, closed his eyes and winced.
Polik watched as a tall soldier standing in the very back under the shade of a large magnolia stepped –no, glided- forward. The Darhowians all fell silent and watched, each one holding their breath.
"Who are you?" Polik sneered, "I don't wish to converse with more Darhowa scum. General Verdian is enough as it is."
"Oh, I think you'll talk to me." The robed figure whispered again, its voice sending shivers down Polik's spine.
Polik frowned, "Identify yourself." he demanded.
Slowly, deliberately, the robed figure pushed back his hood, now earning a gasp from the Reilt army officers as they started to shift uncomfortably.
The Reaper.
There was no mistaking it.
Everyone, even those who had never even seen the Reaper before knew that signature red hair. Like golden orange fire, it was straight as a freshly starched sheet and hanging down to his backside. And those eyes.
Clear, white eyes. Nothing but grey rings surrounding the irises and then bottomless black pupils.
Polik nearly fell off his horse.
"YOU!" He hissed, pushing his horse forward once he had recovered from his shock. Polik could barely contain his fury as he stared at the Reaper. This creature was the reason so many of his men never made it home.
Polik wanted nothing more than to pull his sword and hack off that head right then and there.
The Reilt General contained himself though and dismounted his horse. Snapping his fingers, a few mages from his group of Reiltian officers, one of them cradling something in his arms, stepped forward.
Polik planted himself firmly in front of the Reaper, staring boldly into those emotionless white eyes, and examined his greatest foe. Polik had to admit that he never thought that the Reaper would be so…pretty. Pretty was not normally a word used to describe men, but handsome just wasn't the word for it.
Tyrren Ayehlon was pretty. Breathtakingly beautiful.
And extremely young; Polik judged him to be no more than in his early to mid twenties, just barely a man considering mages could live for over five hundred years. Not only that, Rumors about the Blood Reaper dated as far back as eight years ago. This demon had been fighting since his was a barely a teenager!
"Kosdune." Polik snapped. One of the mages that had come forward earlier, the one cradling something in his arms, quietly walked forward and came to stand next to Polik. The Reilt mage handed the General a thick circle of metal he had been holding. Polik took the large circle of metal, held it up so everyone could identify it as Dampener.
With an evil grin, Polik thrust the Dampener forward, offering it to the Reaper.
The Reaper stared at Polik for a second, but his strange eyes then came to rest on the object the Reilt General was offering. Dampeners were magical collars that prevented any and all spell-casting. They were very rare and hard to make, but once made and activated by an offering of blood, they could capture even the most powerful mages magic. Once around the Reaper's neck, he would never be allowed to cast magic again unless the person whose blood activated the collar set him free.
"It's the king's blood who activated it, if you wondering, Reaper." Polik said, "Can you be a slave to your enemy's king?"
The Reaper's white eyes snapped back up to Polik's face. The Reilt General saw, for the briefest moments, a flicker of uncertainty in those blank white eyes.
"Surely, there must be something else." Verdian cut in, stepping up next to the Reaper. Polik noticed the way Verdian subconsciously started to reach out and grab the Reaper's shoulder, but then pulled away.
"No. My king gave specific instructions that this particular part of our peace settlement was not up for negotiation." Polik spat out rudely. The impatient General then shook his hand at the Reaper, gesturing for him to take the collar. "Just take the damn collar. And don't even think about attacking us and running, I have this place surrounded and ten of my most powerful mages are standing right behind me."
Once again, uncomfortable silence settled over the two parties. Everyone seemed to be holding there breathe as they watched on in mixed horror and fascination. For a mage, having a Dampener placed on them was a fate almost worse than death itself. Mages came to rely and cherish their power, using magic became as second nature to them as breathing. Some mages went crazy if they were unable to use their magic and a large percent of collared mages eventually killed either their masters or themselves.
To be cut from their power was indeed cruel, but Dampeners were the only way to control a mage.
Ever so slowly, the Reaper reached out and took the offered collar from Polik's hand.
"No!" Verdian whispered urgently to his fellow soldier. "Don't do this."
"I have no choice." The Reaper's tenor voice was monotone, but Verdian could faintly detect the tremor that shook the 'choice.'
Without so much as a slight pause, the Reaper opened the collar up and gracefully went to put it around his neck.
"Tyrren!" Verdian was now starting to sound desperate.
The Reaper simply stared at his General, collar still open and arms poised to put it on. Verdian searched the Reaper's face, trying to find something written there as well as come up with his own plan to get his best mage out of such a horrible situation.
Verdian found nothing.
The look on Tyrren's face clearly spelt, "This is what needs to be done. I am not afraid."
Sighing in defeat, Verdian let go of the Reaper's arm and stepped backwards, nodding his head slightly. The mage in question watched Verdian for a second, and then nodded his head back politely.
Tyrren brought the collar up to his neck and, after shifting his ponytail out of the way, closed the thick metal ring with an audible click. A few moments passed before suddenly, the powerful mage doubled over, clutching madly at the collar. His face lost whatever color it had to begin with as horrible gagging noises emanated from the Reaper's open mouth.
"It's choking him!" Verdian shouted, moving forward and placing a hand on Tyrren's back. Other than that, he was helpless on what to do.
"Happens every time." Polik muttered, clearly bored, "And I don't think it will choke near enough to pay for what he's done to the Reilt Empire."
Verdian gave a disgusted sound of disapproval, but it was lost among the Reaper's gags and the loud thump as the redheaded mage dropped heavily onto all fours. Finally, after what seemed like hours, the gags turned into coughing and heavy breathing as the collar let its captive breathe.
"Tyrren!" Verdian knelt beside the mage, along with few other fellow soldiers that had come forward. The mage simply fell onto his side in the grass, chest heaving as he desperately tried to get a steady air supply to his deprived body.
But before the Reaper could even see straight, Polik had gestured to the mages that had come forward, Kosdune included, to pick him up and drag him away. Verdian watched the whole scene with unveiled anger and hated burning in his eyes, but he said nothing.
"So, General Verdian, since Darhowa complies to our three terms, we are glad to make peace with the Darhowians and have them become a part of the mighty Reiltian Empire." Polik pulled out a piece of parchment and unrolled it. Verdian scanned what was already written on the paper, the terms to which peace would be reached, and noticed Polik's signature and bloody thumbprint at the bottom.
"Sign." Polik ordered. Verdian's scribe immediately stepped forward and gave his General a quill and ink. Verdian furiously scrawled his signature, not caring that he splattered ink everywhere, and then nicked his thumb with his dagger.
"One day, I hope the Reilt Empire gets what it deserves," Verdian hissed as he pressed his thumb sloppily against the parchment.
Polik just scoffed. "I doubt that Amen, but you were always a dreamer."
Polik then turned and sauntered back up to his horse and mounted. Before he turned away, Polik saluted smartly.
"Meanwhile, we have a mage at our disposal that doesn't have to be presented to the king for another two days. Fifteen years of payback. Oh what fun me and my men will have with him. Ja!"
With a deep guttural laugh, Polik kicked his horse and shot off towards his encampment, his men following closely behind him.
As they left, Verdian slowly sank to his knees in the flowing glass as it whipped around wildly in the wind. The proud General's voice almost cracked as he whispered into the wind.
"I'm sorry Tyrren, I truly am. May you be the one to exact revenge upon this tyranny that has enslaved the world and bring justice to those who deserve it. May you be the one…"
Aww... tear tear. I don't really know all that I'm going to do with this story. It's still a fresh and new idea.
Review or I'll take off the Reaper's collar and set him on you! ... j/k
much luv
shoes