20. Rholker
“Where the fuck is my personal log?” Rholker demands as he shifts books and papers around his large, mahogany desk.
“My King, please. This is serious. There were seventeen deaths and more than a hundred casualties,” Regent Uvog says from the other side of the table.
He is still wearing the ceremonial garb from the coronation, though his hair is now unbound, and there are bloodstains over his blue doublet. Displeasure radiates off him in waves.
“Fine.” Rholker sits back and rubs his left eyebrow, pressing into his eye socket. “How many giants?”
“Eight, but the?—”
“How many of them were high-ranking officials?” Rholker’s words are short and clipped.
Regent Uvog’s hand falls from his face, and he grits his teeth as his eyes pass from Rholker’s blood spattered shoes to his stained white shirt. “Two were minor lords, and six were warriors.”
Rholker lifts off his chair. His hands flex under Uvog’s scrutiny, but his shoulders remain shoved back as he holds his head high.
“And what of Lord Fektir?”
“He is furious about his daughter’s arm,” the regent replies.
Rholker clasps his hands behind his back and begins to pace back and forth.
“It’s a broken fucking arm. It’s not like she was in any real danger.”
“Your Majesty, some say it was you who shoved her on the ground when the Elf King tried to stab one of your witches,” Uvog says.
Rholker is silent.
The only sounds are the crackling fire in the corner and the feet shuffling outside the office door as slaves clean up Rholker’s mistakes.
“Look, the individuals of substantial meaning are fine. Arion, Fektir, the Shaman Ogre King, I don’t understand why you are?—”
“The ogres lost more than any other. I’ve given you dozens of chances to speak plainly with them. You have refused to forge a relationship at every turn,” Uvog practically shouts, slamming his fist on the desk.
“They are our distant blood kin. We do not need to play diplomacy!” Rholker shouts back.
Uvog shakes his head. “For Khuohr’s sake. I believed in you when you proved your prowess by overthrowing your father.”
Rholker’s eyes narrow. “I would be very careful with what you intend to say next. I am still your king, and you have already promised to march upon the Enduar caves.”
“You are worried about the Enduares right now?” Uvog starts to laugh. Then he straightens, looking directly at Rholker. “Tell me, did you know that your comfort woman took a whole quarter of the breeding pen when she escaped?”
Rholker’s throat bobs.
“Yes,” he grits out.
“You thought that keeping her separate would prevent her from poisoning the well, but you were wrong. Tales of the Enduares are spreading through the ranks like a disease. Now that a few dozen are gone, you can expect a rebellion,” Uvog seethes.
“That’s an easy fix—I punish those who try, and we fortify the guards,” Rholker says simply.
Uvog shakes his head. “That won’t help. A diseased limb must be cut out.”
Rholker’s head cocks to the side. “How?”
“You are the sovereign. Why don’t you tell me?” Uvog says through gritted teeth.
Rholker stares down at the map strewn across his desk.
So many plans… they all swirl before his eyes. Riches, power, land. Everything was working.
He needed more slaves, not less. And yet, he also needed the support of his court.
“Culling the population will be the first step,” Rholker says quietly.
“Precisely.” Uvog displays the first modicum of agreement since entering the room. “We can poison food supplies, execute those that speak openly of revolt, and burn slave pens.”
Rholker pauses.
“Would it not be more effective to bring back Estela? Surely, seeing her plan thwarted would squash any hopes. We’d show them there is no true escape.”
Uvog’s face drops, his eyes darkening as his fists clench.
“Enough of that woman,” he growls. “Lord Fektir thought you stole her to gain an advantage over the Enduares. You assured all of us that was the case. You made promises. Now… Gods.”
Rholker looks up as Uvog shakes his head.
“You are a love-sick fool starting a war over a woman. How many people have died and will die for one bitch?”
Rholker snaps. He strikes Uvog across the face.
“She belongs to me. Don’t think I don’t know the lengths you’ve gone to secure the prizes in your pleasure house, you filthy hypocrite.”
“I’ve never started a war.” Uvog steps back, wiping blood dripping from his mouth. “Is that why you are working with the witches? Did they give you the power you wanted to get her back? Rholker, tell me that you aren’t that idiotic. There was a reason your father never deigned to work with them beyond minor memory altering.”
“You know nothing of their power,” Rholker growls.
“They own you now, don’t they?” Uvog sneers.
Rholker’s eyes are burning, but he doesn’t respond.
“Tell me, My King, what did you agree to?” Uvog says.
“That is between me and them,” Rholker says with finality. “I suggest you don’t pry if you want to leave here alive.”
The tall, burly giant swipes his arm across the table, spilling ink wells and ruining paper.
“You would threaten your regent?” Uvog shouts. “Is this what you think will work, Rholker? That you can just kill everyone in your way? Soon, you will find no one is left to manage your kingdom.”
“I killed my brother and father, and now I am king. Eventually, the others will learn to fear me.”
“You lied to us when you said you bested them in a fight,” Uvog pushes. “You used filthy power. Khuohr would not be pleased with such blasphemy. He is a jealous god.”
Rholker pulls a knife out of his waistband.
Uvog’s eyes glint, and he mirrors the action by pulling out his weapon.
“Your pretty human has quite an impressive power, just like her mother. Did you promise to give her to the witches?” Uvog searches his face, angling the knife at his throat.
“I am your king. As regent, your job is to advise me. If you cannot do that, I suggest you step down.”
Rholker is practiced with a blade, as was his brother.Those years of training have made him skilled at murder.
Uvog doesn’t back down.
Before either of them can lunge, the door bursts open, revealing Lord Fektir.
He strides in, fuming, with several guards behind him.
Rholker attempts to straighten, but Fektir grabs him by his collar and throws him onto the ground.
The hot fire in Fektir’s eyes doesn’t match the cold expression on the rest of his face.
“You have some nerve,” Fektir says down at him.
Rholker scrambles to his feet. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“The only reason you are still alive is because you made my daughter a queen,” Fektir spits.
“A woman will never hold the throne by herself,” Rholker bites back. “Divine decree has appointed my blood. That is untouchable.”
“Precisely, which is why you will give her a son. If you have not rectified your sins before then, then our land will welcome the rule of a babe,” Fektir says.
His ambition lights up the room, seeping out of every pore. He wants the crown and all the riches that he was denied as a simple lord.
Rholker shakes his head. “I won’t touch your disgusting daughter.”
Fektir grabs him again, this time pushing him into the wall.
“You will, and I will make sure. When her arm is healed, you will visit her bed every night for three months.”
Rholker opens his mouth, only for Fektir to slap it closed.
“I will be there. I will ensure you properly plant your seeds and water her garden until a new sprout begins to grow.”
For the first time, Rholker’s haughty expression fades. He has no plan and no great supporters in this room.
Fektir pounds the king’s back against the wall once more. “Do you understand?”
Rholker looks into his eyes, full of hatred for those who think they can bend him to their wills. “Yes.”
Uvog watches the exchange from the desk, chest heaving and mouth still bleeding.
“What is your plan? And I swear on the god of war, if you mention that damned woman, I will kill you right now and harvest your seed from your lifeless corpse,” Fektir shouts.
Rholker refuses to appear weak any longer.
He fights back, pushing off Fektir.
“We are going to begin the process of culling the slaves and visit the Ogre King. I will go to the Elf King in the morning.”
Fektir steps back. “I will go with you.”
Rholker begins to protest, but Fektir shakes his head. “No. I won’t let you ruin this, too.”
Uvog nods once.
“I shall come, too.”
Fektir nods tightly. “Excellent. Shall I call a slave to straighten your appearance, or do you wish to leave now?”
Rholker seethes at him. As if giving him such a meager choice could make up for the humiliation.
“We will go now,” he says.
The three exit the door, push past the ruins of the great hall, and then head to the rooms for the ogres.
When they reach the door, the metallic scent of blood is everywhere. Two giants lay dead at the entrance.
Pushing the door hanging on its bent hinges, they step inside. In the middle of the room, four slaughtered giant warriors are propped up against the chair. The careful precision of the ogres’ blades is haunting.
The stacked bodies can only mean one thing; the ogres have made enemies of the giants.
Fektir lets out a garbled sound. “If I could kill you and take your throne right this second, I would.”
Rholker takes in the gore of the room, utterly helpless. “I can fix this.”
Uvog laughs, but Fektir says, “No, I will fix this through you.”
Rholker turns to him.
“I am your king,” he insists with the same fervor as always.
“You are a fool.”
Fektir spits the burning words as black mist begins to pour into the room.
“You will not touch that which we protect,” the hissing voices of The Six, the human witches, declare.
The two giants appear worried as they watch the entrance of the women.
“Rholker made a deal with us, an irreversible one. We are the only ones that can stop his heart,” they say in unison, adding to the cold blackness with every second.
Uvog looks at Rholker, who watches smugly.
“You have ruined us,” the regent laments.
Rholker shakes his head, and the mask on his face begins to fall. The fear in his eyes, the helplessness, the worry, it all fades into something dangerous.
“No, I will bring glory to our people.” He steps forward, unbothered by the ominous black power.
“Your advice was welcome, Uvog. Fear not. I will indeed cull the slaves and rescue our alliances. I’m sure that your successor will be pleased.” Rhokler pulls out his knife stabs Uvog in the gut.
The man makes a garbled sound and then sinks to his knees.
Fektir watches in horror.
“Would you like to add something, Fektir? I wouldn’t like to lose you and your advice as well,” Rholker says, entirely unbothered as he wipes the bloody knife on Uvog’s blood-stained shirt.
Fektir grits his teeth.
“And what you said about Aska? I won’t sire a child with her, not ever.” Rholker continues.
Fektir lets out a roar, which echoes off the walls of the room, stinking of death.
“I won’t support this. I’ll go to the other lords,” Fektir threatens.
“No, you will not. You will uphold the deal inked in magic the night I married your daughter,” Rholker says with a grin, and his eyes glow red for a moment.
Fektir staggers back.
“That—that wasn’t magic.”
Rholker smiles as the witches flank him.
“Oh, but it was. Who do you think etched our marriage tattoos?” He holds up his hands with the black ink scrawling across his knuckles.
“I won’t support a march on the Enduares until you fix all your other messes.” Fektir bolsters his strength.
Rholker tilts his head to the side.
“Very well. Tomorrow, we will hold a meeting and invite the Elf King.” He straightens his neck. “Never say that I haven’t done you a favor.”
Fektir gazes at the dark magic swirling in the room, the yellow-red eyes of Rholker, and hateful stares of the witches. All the while Uvog’s words about ruination echo through the room.
“You have tricked me, Rholker. Do not forget just how many of the lords I control,” Fektir says.
Rholker smiles.
“Never. But do not forget how I can control you. What good is power if you are dead?”