Questing Sucks! Book II (3 page)

An instant later, the light returned, and Sehn saw the look of fear on the faces of everyone present. For the first time since Sehn had arrived, they feared something other than the Champion. Thinking of his minion, Sehn shot a quick glance at the Champion. Even
he
seemed thunderstruck by the uncanny display of power.

Sehn was the first to break the silence. “W-what…what have you all gone quiet for?” he asked, the sound of his voice now the only noise in the room. “I could do that too if I really wanted. You could as well, right, my minion?”

The Champion shook his head. “No, I don’t think I could d—”

Sehn stomped on the floor. “I said! You could do that too, right, Champion!”

“Yes,” the Champion whispered. “I could do that too.”

Fucking Saerina
!
Sehn growled in his mind.
Always trying to one-up me and my servants
.
I am going to get her back for this humiliation
.

With order restored, Patrick looked to Saerina, who bowed her head and motioned for him to continue. Patrick licked his upper lip. His usual regal confidence was replaced by uncertainty. Rather than speak, he left his chair and walked the distance to the Champion, standing beside Sehn. The rest of the room watched in silence as the prince stood toe to toe with the being who, only several hours prior, had engaged him in combat and humiliated him. It filled Sehn with such pride to recall how his minion had thrown around two princes as though they were mere things for his amusement.

“Ask it to answer my questions,” Patrick said. “I want to ask this Item a few questions of my own.”

Sehn shrugged. “Very well, then, but you’ll have to pay the—”

“This is no time for a question-answering tax! And may the Gods curse me for even knowing you’d say that.”

Sehn wanted to threaten the prince, but somehow he knew Cah’lia was burning a hole into the back of his head with her eyes. So instead he curled his nose and nodded. “Champion, answer this fool’s questions.”

“As you wish,” he whispered. “Ask away, human.”

Patrick inhaled. “Why do you now serve Sehn instead of your former master? Did you not serve the one who wears the Hawk mask before choosing to switch sides?”

“I did,” the Champion acknowledged. “But this elf”—he pointed to Sehn—“is similar to my former master. Those of his kind are able to command me.”

“And if you are again subdued by your former master, will you rejoin his side?”

“Yes.”

Patrick turned to Sehn. “Do you see now? You have to kill this thing.”

It took all of Sehn’s willpower not to strangle Patrick. How dare the prince tell him what he had to do? Saerina and Saerith attempted to join in, but the moment they stood up from their chairs. Patrick held out his palm. They hesitated a moment then returned to their seats.

“I can’t kill him,” Sehn said. “Rina wouldn’t have it.”

“Rina?” Patrick asked. “What does the slave-girl have to do with this?”

Sehn bit the corner of his lip. He didn’t like it when Patrick called Rina “the slave girl.” Not because he cared about her or anything; it was merely that he didn’t like the way the words sounded when arranged in that precise order.

“She has some weird type of ‘crush’ on my new minion.”

“Crush? But they couldn’t have known each other for very long.”

Sehn wasn’t quite sure what to make of things. Since the moment he returned to Hahl with his new servant, Rina had not left the Champion’s side. Oddly, mention of the girl brought something that almost resembled a smile to the Champion’s face. It looked out of place on what was otherwise a rough, scarred, and menacing visage.

“So let me get this straight,” Patrick said. “You need to put the life of both human and elven kind at risk because your little friend fancies this monster?”

“Patrick! Rina is my disciple. I consider this a gift from me to her.”

Patrick seemed taken aback. “Why does she even like it in the first place?”

“What kind of question is that, you fool? Do I look like a little girl to you? Do you think I understand what goes on in the mind of a brat? If anything,
you
should be the one to understand her affection.”

Patrick said nothing for a moment—which was good, because Sehn had yet to give him further permission to speak. After a while, he shifted his eyes to the Champion. “Will you serve us?” he asked him. “If you’re not killed, that is. Will you obey us?”

“If my master commands me so,” the Champion said. “Then yes.”

Patrick nodded. “Not what I wanted to hear, but that’s close enough.” He spun around and faced the table, where Cah’lia, Saerith, Saerina, and the kingdom officials stared back at him. “It seems we have a new ally.”

“This is a mistake,” Saerina said, heat in her voice.

“A grave one,” Duuhard added.

“But it seems there’s no other way, is there?” Patrick asked. “Everyone, I’m sorry, but Sehn has made his decision and I’m honoring it. Not because I want to, but because I need to.”

Duuhard shook a finger at Patrick in disbelief. “I apologize for the disrespect, my prince, but are you really heeding the wishes of an elven servant? Will you put all our lives at risk because some foolish—”

“Remmos Salas!” Sehn shouted. He watched with glee as a fireball left the palm of his right hand, casting an orange glow as it streaked across the room and then over the table; documents burst into flame as continued on its way until, eventually, it struck the annoying commander dead center in the chest. His body was thrown back by the impact, and he squealed like a pig as his chair toppled over with him still in it. With a crash, he cried out for assistance and vengeance.

Guards stationed around the room drew their blades while several of the younger lieutenants ducked beneath the table for cover. Lira and Cah’lia ran to the Commander Duuhard’s aid, and Alan barked laughter until Saerina slapped him on the shoulder.

Patrick moaned. “Why can’t we go five minutes without this kind of chaos breaking loose? This has never happened to me before. Not until I met
you
, Sehn.”

Sehn crossed his arms and lifted his chin at the prince. “Good! Your pain serves as food for me. I thrive on it. Later you shall fetch a harp and play a melody for me. I’ve always wanted to make royalty sing in my presence.”

With the meeting as close to resolved as it was likely to get, Sehn turned on his heels and marched out of the room, exiting through the convenient hole he’d created. The Champion followed him out, and Sehn paused for a moment.

“Oh, and Patrick,” he called over his shoulder.

“What is it now, Sehn?”

“Thanks.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Thanks,” Sehn repeated. “For not ordering my minion’s death.”

Patrick gave Sehn the dumbest look he’d ever seen on the man. “Y-you’re welcome.”

Not long after the meeting had concluded, Patrick found himself once again knee deep in trouble that Sehn had caused for him—trouble that saw him now shouting angrily at a young soldier, a boy, really, who trembled as he continued to raise his voice. A part of him felt sorry for the recruit, as Patrick knew this wasn’t really his fault. Still, he couldn’t resist giving the boy an earful. Someone had to bear the brunt of his temper, and the Gods knew Sehn wouldn’t.

“How could you let this happen? You know better than to let him out of your sight.”

The soldier—barely old enough to shave, let alone stop a lunatic like Sehn—bowed deeply in apology. “Forgive me, my Prince,” he said. “It’s just that he…he said he’d…he told me if I didn’t allow him to pass, then the Kingdom of the Seven Pillars would become the Kingdom of the Six Pillars, because he’d break a pillar free and shove it up my arse.”

Patrick ignored the boy and brushed him aside, marching past the courtyard where the sick and injured were being tended to. The courtyard had been temporarily divided into three sections: the dead, the dying, and the wounded. There were far too many in the former two categories for Patrick’s liking. Then again, even a single dead or dying Kingdom Soldier weighed on Patrick’s heart.

Patrick moved quickly and headed to the training field beyond the courtyard where the captive invaders were behind held. Two burly guards lowered their spears as he approached. They bowed and allowed him to pass. He then made his way through the mass of soldiers guarding the scores of black-armored prisoners. A part of Patrick hoped, no,
prayed
his latest reports were false or had simply been exaggerated. He desperately wanted to arrive and see everything neat and in order. Yet he knew that, when it came to Sehn, he’d have no such luck. No, the Gods-cursed elf would never make his life that easy. Thus, it came as no real surprise to him when he heard the unmistakable shout of that idiot’s voice in the distance. He was up to his nonsense again, as always.

“This one is to be executed!” Sehn proclaimed. “The Great Sehn has chosen.”

A man, who under normal conditions would’ve appeared hardy and fearsome, now wept openly as the executioner forced him to his knees, bending him over with his mouth mere inches from kissing the grass. The executioner raised his mighty axe and prepared to behead the prisoner.

What is that idiot up to now
?
Patrick wondered.
I know he won’t go through with it
.
What’s he doing
?

“P-p-please, spare me!” the man cried. “I’ll try again. I’ll try again!”

Sehn stood next to the executioner with his arms folded and a look of arrogant contempt on his face. To his immediate left were four stacks of papers piled almost as tall as the elf himself. To Sehn’s right, the executioner gave the elf a questioning look, and Sehn nodded. Why in all known hells were Patrick’s men obeying Sehn in the first place? His question was soon answered. Behind Sehn, Alan also nodded, and then the executioner lowered his weapon.

“Very well,” Sehn agreed. “You shall be given one last chance to please me. You!” Sehn shouted, pointing to a nearby soldier. The Soldier in turn pointed to his own self with a trembling finger. “Yes, you.”

“H-how may I assist you, oh great lord of all that is wonderful and supreme and divine and good-looking and better than Cah’lia and Patrick?”

Patrick gritted his teeth so hard that he heard them grinding in his ears. How dare Sehn demand his troops to use such a disgustingly prestigious and insulting title?

“Bring me more paper. At once!”

The soldier ran as if his life was on the line, and he returned a moment later with a bundle of paper, a quill, and an inkpot. He tried to hand it to Sehn, but the elf shook his fist at the soldier.

“Give it to the prisoner, you fool.”

“S-sorry, oh great lord of all that is wonderful and supreme and divine and good-looking and better than Cah’lia and Patrick!”

Sehn laughed. “You may call me ‘Ogloatiwasadaglabtcap’ if you’d like, though it will result in the name-abbreviation tax.”

The prisoner, with shaking, unsteady hands, looked up at Sehn. “Please tell me what you’d like me to do, because I just don’t understand.”

Sehn lowered his head and sneered down at the man. “Well then, you’d better figure it out quickly, peasant, because if I have to reject one more piece of your poetry, you will be executed.”

Patrick marched over to Sehn, who made no attempt to stop what he was doing or even acknowledge his presence. He continued to lecture several more of the black-armored men on how to “properly” construct their “required poetry assignments.”

Before Patrick’s eyes, these fierce invaders, who were no longer wearing their helmets, walked meekly up to Sehn one at a time. Sehn would then do one of two things: he’d order their life to be spared—and contribute to his growing collection of poems—or send them back to work under the threat of death.

“Sehn!” Patrick yelled, tired of being ignored. “What is the meaning of this?”

“The meaning is whatever I say it is!” Sehn yelled back to him. “This is my Kingdom, and I am in charge of who lives and dies.”

“
Your
kingdom?” Patrick whispered. “
Your
Kingdom!” he screamed. Just when Sehn had finally seemed to show some basic courtesy—even going so far as to thank Patrick for ordering his “minion’s” life to be spared—he’d returned to his typical self in full force.

Sehn let out a hearty laugh and motioned around him. “Everything is mine, Patrick. Even the air you breathe. Everything belongs to me. Even the stars, which you are no longer permitted to look at. I’m not jesting about that, either. Should you disobey me and admire the stars, I will cause the planet to explode. Do not tempt me.”

Patrick couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Wait, time out, Sehn. Did you just…did you just ban me from looking at the stars at night?”

“Yes.”

Patrick felt a heat enter his face. It was as though he were boiling on the inside. “I’ve had enough of this! From now on, I—”

“Shh,” Alan whispered. Patrick was momentarily startled—he hadn’t realized the commander had sneaked behind him. “Just let him do what he’s doing. Back away and I’ll explain.”

Begrudgingly, Patrick left Sehn to his own foolish devices. He forced himself not to watch as servants shuffled back and forth with more paper and ink, while dozens of Kingdom Soldiers brought more of the prisoners over to be “judged.” Patrick didn’t think Sehn would actually execute any of them; all he seemed to be doing was wasting precious paper and ink from Hahl’s only storehouse for such materials.

When Sehn was out of earshot, Patrick asked, “What is going on here, Alan? Why are you allowing this?”

Alan grinned. Not his usual, foolish grin, but the one he wore when he was being tactical, shrewd, and had something up his sleeve. “Do you see the men bringing the prisoners back and forth to the executioner? These are all men I personally selected to serve the Great Sehn.”

“But why?” Patrick asked. “For what possible reason would you be willing to go along with this?”

“Because to the prisoners, Sehn is a lunatic of the highest order.”

Against his own volition, Patrick chuckled. “Trust me, it’s not just the prisoners. He’s a lunatic to everyone.”

“Exactly,” Alan said. “Now, imagine for a second that you’re a prisoner of war and there’s a maniac threatening to slaughter you—not over your war crimes, but over a poorly written piece of poetry.”

Patrick narrowed his eyes. “Where are you going with this, Commander Marshall?”

Alan rubbed his hands together, an expression of delight on his face. “These men are so much more willing to talk now that they’ve encountered a maniac like Sehn. I’ve let it slip that if they provide our boys with some useful information, the bloodthirsty elf could be persuaded to…spare their lives.”

“You can’t be serious,” Patrick said.

“Oh, I’m serious. These men aren’t even talking—they’re
singing
to us. No torture we could ever devise would work as well as the Great Sehn.”

At least there’s something he’s good for
.

“So, what have you learned?”

Before responding, Alan tugged on Patrick’s sleeve and then pointed in the direction of three of the black-armored soldiers held captive in the constantly growing “life-sparing” group, or so Sehn had named them. With their all-concealing helmets now off, Patrick could easily discern their nation of origin. For a long time, the invaders had been a mystery. Now, Patrick could see that they were a mix of Free-Mountain Drashians, Sons of Frith, and even a few elves thrown into the fray. Yet despite the melting-pot nature of the assembled army, the Free-Mountain Drashians made up the overwhelming majority of the force, which was odd. For there to be so many of them, it was unlikely they were merely slaves or mercenaries. No, they were organized—trained, even.

“Have the Free-Mountain Drashians declared war on us?” Patrick asked. “After so many years of peace, why would they resort to something like this? There’s too many of them for this to be anything other than an organized effort on behalf of King Raygor.”

“That’s what I thought at first,” Alan said. “But it turns out that’s not the case.” He inclined his head at one of the black-armored men, who cautiously stood to his feet. “Let him go,” Alan ordered the nearby guard.

The black-armored Drashian made his way over and saluted. “My name is Corporal Meelor, good sirs. It was an honor facing you in combat. My life is in your hands.”

Alan laughed. “Always so honor-bound, you Drashians.”

“It’s in our blood, sir,” the corporal responded.

“Tell my Prince why you have invaded our land.”

Meelor answered without hesitating. “It’s the man with the Hawk mask. He has our blood.”

“Your blood?” Patrick asked. “What does that mean?”

The corporal’s face turned pale. Until this point, there had been no terror in his eyes. Yet as he continued to speak, his face became flooded with it. “That man has…he’s killed our king and taken our heir.”

Patrick felt his knees go weak, and to his shame, he leaned on Alan for support. “King Raygor is dead?” he whispered. “How? When? Why?”

“I don’t know, sir,” Meelor answered in the same whisper. “All I know is that unless we serve, the Hawk will slaughter our heir and kill off the last of our royal bloodline.”

Patrick’s emotions were a mix between sympathy and anger. “And for this reason, you declare war on us?”

“I suppose the simple answer is yes, Prince Patrick. Though in all honesty, this is not so much a declaration of war on behalf of my country as it is from the Hawk. We did not want this, I assure you. This is not our idea of a good time.”

At the man’s words, Patrick’s anger increased tenfold. He resisted the urge to draw his weapon and slice his head off. It was one thing to declare war on his people, and another to mercilessly slaughter them.

“Where is your Drashian honor? If you wanted war with my people, why do you not attack like men? Why march through our villages and slaughter our young? Why slay our innocent?”

“We have done none of that!” Meelor shouted. Patrick was taken aback by the ferocity in the man’s words. Soon after, Meelor averted his eyes, and his voice softened somewhat.

“Do not confuse us with the Hawk’s scouting parties. The ones who’ve done as you say are his own personal men, and they have nothing to do with this effort. It is true that we have come to Hahl to end the lives of all those in the city, but we marched slowly enough for your own scouts to see our arrival, thus giving you time to evacuate your citizens. Drashians do not murder civilians. We never have, and we never will. Order my death for this disrespect if you must, but I will not stand here and listen to these accusations. My men have fought and died here today with honor. And not a single one of us has brought any harm to any village of any sort.”

Patrick’s breath caught in his chest at the corporal’s words. Instinctively, he believed them. It rang true from what he knew of the Drashian code of honor.

“So then…”

“Yes,” Alan said, speaking for the first time in several minutes. “These men are not the war criminals you think they are. That mage boy, Kellar, he dealt with those types of men when he led the farmers against the scouts. They’re all dead, as far as I know.”

“Kellar?” Meelor said. “That’s a Drashian name, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Patrick agreed. “But that’s none of your concern.”

Patrick wanted to question the man further, but he couldn’t hear himself think, let alone speak over the annoying laughter now coming from Sehn. Not just Sehn, but four of the black-armored soldiers surrounding him.

“What’s going on over there?” Patrick asked.

Alan shrugged. “I don’t know, but there’s only one way to find out.”

The two hurried over to Sehn. Four Drashian men who were previously pleading for mercy now laughed together with the elf as a fifth black-armored soldier covered his eyes in shame. He was a son of Frith, a barbarian from the north. “Please, just stop it,” the Frithian said. “
Me
has never been very good with this kind of thing.”