The Dark Duke sat atop his black steed watching contently, a most diabolical grin upon his face. He wore the finest armor of the time underneath a black velvet robe that had been crafted specially for him.
Up on the platform before him stood the Duke of Renette, a wooden stool beneath his feet and a rope around his neck. Behind him sat the castle that once was his; an ironic backdrop for his last moments on this earth. A crowd had gathered round, waiting for the elder statesman to form his final words. The executioner, a black mask covering all but the gleam in his eye, stepped up close to him.
“Last words?”
The Duke of Renette brought his head up to meet the eyes of his conqueror. For a moment he simply glared out, angry and humiliated.
“May God have mercy on your soul,” he said.
“Uy,” sighed the Dark Duke, impatiently waving his hand. “Right. I’m evil, I’m the devil. Yes, yes, get on with it.”
The executioner kicked out the stool and all the villagers watched in horror as their duke struggled in futility. Courage and dignity became afterthoughts as he grasped helplessly at his neck, his expression growing in agony as his feet kicked at the air. Blue veins appeared upon his forehead, as his entire head turned red, then purple, then white - the body falling limp at last.
Their new leader, on the other hand, seemed not the slightest bit disturbed by the spectacle, and in fact appeared to rather enjoy it. Most of the villagers stepped away, but the Dark Duke remained till the very last breath had been taken, then stayed on still, watching as if the body might come to life once more, enabling them to do it all over again. He didn’t even notice as Rahavi approached him on horseback.
“A-he-hem,” Rahavi coughed. “News, Sire…”
“Speak it then,” said the Dark Duke, hardly bothering even a glance.
Rahavi pulled a scroll from his side.
“Five hundred dead, two hundred injured, three hundred captured, and four hundred fled.”
“And us?” the Dark Duke asked.
“Fifty-nine dead, seventy injured, Your Highness.”
The Dark Duke nodded.
“Work on it.”
Rahavi sighed.
“There’s more,” he said after a pause. “Monastero has opened its borders and is permitting any Sarburians wishing to enter to do so, including army men. They’ve added them to their own army and are using them to help protect their border…”
“Not a problem,” said the Dark Duke. “We can overcome it.”
Rahavi looked out over the town.
“I think we should wait,” he said.
The Dark Duke turned to him.
“Have I completely lost my mind,” he asked, “or are you under the assumption that your opinion matters?”
Rahavi didn’t say a word. Instead he turned away. He was thankful when the air was broken by the voice of a young soldier.
“Your Highness!” the man called out, causing the Dark Duke to spin round on his horse.
The young soldier approached on a gray and white steed, bowing slightly as he came before the Dark Duke.
“I’m afraid there’s trouble, Sire,” he said.
He paused momentarily, awaiting his king’s reaction. But there was only silence.
“What?” the Dark Duke snapped at last.
“Back at home…” the soldier reported, recovering his breath. “There’s been an uprising.”
“An uprising?” questioned Rahavi.
“Yes, sir,” confirmed the soldier. “A man named Miglene has led a band of about thirty men into rebelling. He’s killed six soldiers and seized a plot of land belonging to the Duke of Lonn.”
The Dark Duke thought out loud for a moment: “Miglene…Miglene…Where’ve I heard that name before…?”
“What should we do, Your Highness?”
The Dark Duke sighed.
“Very well,” he said, turning to Rahavi. “Postpone the attack on Monastero. We’ll have to head back to Belsden to crush this ‘rebellion,’ I suppose, before it gets out of hand.”
Chapter 13
A Short History