Chapter 24 Skell King
SKELL KING
HALLOW LAND
A blinding flash sliced through the throne room. The walls illuminated, revealing all the polished bones that decorated the room from ceiling to floor. A murderous boom followed, rippling across the dark tiles like thunder rolling through a grave with enough might to resurrect the dead.
Vertebrae from thousands of spines arched above the entrance like a gateway to damnation.
What were once white had long since yellowed, stained by time and rotted by the nightmares they’d witnessed.
Every bone in the room served a meticulous purpose.
Not one victim wasted—their sacrifices now adorning the royal space.
Teeth arranged in elaborate patterns lined the walls like grim mosaics, depicting scenes from a decrepit past. Carpal bones hung from wrought-iron chandeliers, molded into elegant candelabras that rocked gently, as if the room were breathing.
It wasn’t just a throne room, but a shrine of ruin.
Where Death was not mourned but worshipped.
The Skell King sat motionless on a seat of skulls, his head bowed into his hands. To most, it looked like grief. But the Skell guards lining the chamber’s edge knew better.
The air around him thickened, something ancient and wicked brewing. It was a force that could crush lungs, stop hearts, even break the will of the strongest warriors.
He was not mourning. He was enraged.
A Skell guard approached. Each step echoed like the beat of a drum in a tomb. Perhaps he wondered if it were a foreshadow of his own.
“They’re bringing him, my King,” he said in a deep, murderous voice.
The Skell King raised his head. Splintered pieces of the Dullahan’s whip laid in his hands, like a shattered memory he held dearly.
Around him, shadows shifted. No longer still, no longer silent, they’d begun to wake.
“Years of searching. Years of sending out beast after beast.” His pale, concave face tightened, darkness pulling inward. “The child’s alive. My heir is alive.” Dread’s mirror image flashed over his features.
An arm drifted to the femur armrest. Long, putrid nails tapped bone in slow, deliberate thought.
His heir’s scent had vanished long ago, only to resurface. How had it been so gravely hidden from him?
“Betrayal,” he hissed. “Rot in my own blood!” The words dripped like venom. “Or perhaps, pathetic incompetence.”
They would pay. They would all pay in blood.
Like cracking ribs, the throne creaked beneath him as he abruptly leaned forward.
The Skell stood firm. Harsh whistling sounded from his nasal cavity, a nose long-devoured, only a gaping hollow hole left behind.
“We don’t know, my liege,” he rasped, as his monstrous face returned to a deadly calm.
Suddenly, the great doors slammed open with a crash. Cold, stale air spilled into the throne room as multiple Skell men dragged a long, thin figure.
They dropped the body at the base of the throne like a pitiful offering. The man crumpled forward. Bright orange hair, matted with dark patches of dried blood, clung to his pale skin.
Slowly, he sat up. A blood-drained face lifted, stitched from mouth to cheek in a cruel, smiling wound. A single bead of fresh blood slipped down as the maniacal grin widened.
Long arms flung out in a dramatic sweep, head bowing low.
“My King! What an honor this is! They call me Happy Jack. The Poisoner, the—” His melodically mocking voice cleaved in two as the Skell guard slammed a heel into his back. The force sent him splattering forward in a vicious thud.
“You will not speak to the King unless spoken to!” the Skell growled.
A laugh bubbled up, soft at first, then built into a sharp, feral cackle. It echoed through the bone-riddled chamber. Still trembling with laughter, he pushed his thin frame upward, rising from the ground in slow defiance.
“Aemon.” The name was a threat, drawn out on the Skell King’s tongue like a hex.
Happy Jack—infamous for his crafted toxins and for leading a rebellion—went silent, flinching at the use of his true name.
“Unless you want me to feast on your insides while your heart still beats, listen closely.” The King bared his teeth in a sinister smile as he bent closer.
“Give it to him,” the King commanded.
Two Skell guards moved at once. One pinned Happy Jack’s arms back, the other forced a dark-glass vial against his lips. The liquid slid down with a choking gasp.
“Compliments to your latest creation,” the Skell King murmured, taunting. “I think I’ll call it—the Laughing Leash.”
Happy Jack’s limbs jerked violently, muscles locking tight in grotesque spasms. Strained gurgles slipped past his lips as white bubbling froth spilled out.
The Skell King smirked, satisfied in witnessing the famous poisoner choke on his own brew. Petrifying joy curled his lips as the Laughing Leash began its cruel work—binding body and soul.
Slowly, the tension eased from Happy Jack’s body. He sagged back on his heels, shuddering.
“What is that saying?” he wheezed, voice trembling. “A taste . . . of my own medicine . . .” His cheek twitched.
The Skell King growled, knuckles cracking as he gripped the bone-wrought throne.
“First,” the Skell King seethed, “you will finally tell me where your Scarecrow Rebels are.” His tar-black tongue clicked against his teeth. “Then, by whatever means necessary—you will bring her to me. Alive.”
Happy Jack grinned wildly, breath still unsteady.
Bowing low, he lifted his eyes to the throne.
“As you wish, my King.”