Wicked words chatter from the mouths of serrated teeth. The Umbal await their coming feast, concealed in the depths of the darkest shadows. They are not creatures of flesh and bone, but demons forged from the very essence of the void. Their bodies swirl in a vortex of inky shadow, constantly shifting and reforming, a living smoke, dark as the abyss, writhing on the wind. From this swirling mass protrude razor-sharp claws, each like a polished obsidian butcher's blade capable of slicing through meat and shattering bone. The Umbal's eyes, pools of inky liquid darkness, hold no spark of life or intelligence, only a chilling emptiness. The Umbal move with an unnatural grace, gliding along walls and ceilings, leaving behind a faint trail of smoky black mist. They crawl and slither in the light-starved eaves, enveloped in a blanket of darkness, waiting in hungry anticipation.
intense gaze on the assembled Galtish lords. He stares down at the long table bathed in golden candlelight in the center of Castle Galt’s great hall. Madon holds the room’s attention with his low voice, which is calculated and powerful despite its soft tone. “Welcome, my lords. The time has come to honor your family’s sacred oaths.” His gaze lingers on each seated lord in an unspoken challenge, and tense anticipation hangs in the air.
“As it was, so it will be.” A chorus of approval from the seated lords echoes around the great hall.
Prince Madon takes a slow sip of wine, then licks his lips and sets the honed wine before him. “We have served the Thielian’s for too long, my lord's, forgetting our own great heritage. My lords, under my rule, we will reclaim all that is ours, by right, and restore the pride and freedom of Galt."
The assembled council murmurs their approval.
Madon’s rigid posture contrasts with their nervous shifting. “Make me king, and it will be done.” Prince Madon peers over the rim of his goblet. “Forgive me, honored lords. I forget the faces of the names I know so well.”
Candlelight flickers on the walls, casting long shadows that dance around the seated lords. His predatory eyes stare around the Galtish assembly with a carnivorous stare. The gathered lords lower their gazes and stare down at their goblets of untouched wine.
“My king,” Morana’s voice sings from behind a woven black lace beekeeper veil. “I see before you the loyal servants that are foretold.” Morana, draped in sleek black silks, whispers unheard words into his ear. Madon’s gaze softens as he rests his hand on Morana’s arm, then nods in silent approval.
Morana saunters towards the first lord on pendulum hips. “My king, Lord Allerdale.”
Lord Allerdale rises from his seat, the chair grating loudly against the stone floor. He executes a deep bow to Prince Madon, then rests his hands on his well-fed gut. “Allerdale is yours, my king.”
Madon returns the lord’s humble bow with a stony-faced nod. “Lord Allerdale, my queen has spoken highly of your unwavering loyalty.”
“It is your ancestral right, my king,” Lord Allerdale growls, his voice gruff, as he tugs on his ginger-ash beard. “We have suffered under a fool’s reign for long enough. Your father has made Galt weak.”
A cruel smile curls on Madon’s flat lips as a violent gust of wind whistles through Castle Galt’s great hall. The tapestries on the wall give off a heavy flutter, then fall still as a corpse.
“Allerdale remembers the old God. I stood by my father’s side on the day of your great birth. I swore an oath, which I hold to this day.” Lord Allerdale’s firm gaze sweeps across the table. “You would do well, my lords, to remember your own sacred oaths.”
An enchanting giggle flutters from Morana’s lips, behind her widow’s veil, her tempting eyes dance with amusement.
Lord Allerdale sits back down and takes a loud chug of mead.
Morana glides to her right. “My king, Lady Lochber.”
A disgruntled muttering buzzes throughout the hall as Lady Lochber stands, a tall figure crowned by uncut auburn hair that cascades freely to her waist. She wears the forest green robes of a lord.
“My king, I stand here in Lord Lochber’s stead,” she proclaims in a broad Galtish accent. “I support your claim. Lochber is yours.”
“No woman can represent her lord’s will and wishes,” Lord Gosen splutters, astonished.
"Silence." Madon’s voice cuts through the rumbling discord like a vicious blade. “Tell me, Lady Lochber, where is the Lord of Lochber?” Madon smirks with raised eyebrows, amused at the gathered lord’s discomfort.
"Dead." Lady Lochber shrugs nonchalantly, mischief dancing in her bold eyes. “The old cunt choked on a chicken bone.”
“Most unfortunate." Madon’s words carry the slightest hint of sarcasm. “Was the late lord a supporter of my claim?”
“Nah, he supported your father.”
“You defy your late lord’s command?” Madon raises a skeptical eyebrow.
“I hold the sacred oath of my family above all else, even over the will of my lord. We have waited too long to restore the greatness of Galt.”
Madon grunts in approval. “Do you have an heir? A future Lord Lochber?”
“A few bastards, but none of old blood.” She chews on her bottom lip. “That miserable old bastard was a useless lover, and he was a better lover than he was a lord.”
The hall erupts in discord, filled with voices of disapproval.
"Silence" King Madon slices through the uneasy discontent. “You will remain as the Lady of Lochber until you have a suitable heir of age.” Madon’s hungry eyes stare into Lady Lochber’s wanting pools. In the silence, an unspoken moment of accord passes between them.
“As you command, my king,” Lady Lochber retakes her seat, holding her head high with defiant pride.
“My king,” Morana says, taking a graceful sidestep to the right, her enchanting voice singing. “Lord Luglow.”
The young Lord Luglow rises with a deep bow. “My father supported your claim, and it was his dying wish to see you on your rightful throne.”
“I regret not knowing your father, Lord Luglow. I am sorry for your recent loss.” Madon’s tone is almost genuine.
Lord Luglow doesn’t falter, resting his hand on the pommel of his polished broadsword. “My king, the Luglow forges are in dire need of repair. Your people toil day and night; the death toll rises every cycle.” The young lord’s copper hair glistens in the tranquil candlelight as his words flow like a raging tide. “We are but a shadow of my ancestors’ great land. We exchange bags of grain for gold ore. What madness is this?” He tuts in disbelief as a chorus of support swells in the hall. “Gold forged in the Luglow forges was once the pride of Galt. Now, we’re penned into our own lands like livestock.” His voice rises with heated conviction. “Galt was once rich and independent, and I have five thousand men willing to die for that honor.”
Lord Luglow looks Madon directly in the eyes. “Better to die for pride than to suffer another winter of Thielian scraps.” He gives a short, grim-faced bow, then sits and sips the honeyed wine. “Luglow is yours, my king. As it was, so it will be.”
Stern-faced, King Madon reclines into his seat. “Lord Luglow. I feel your suffering and share your shame.” Madon’s yellow orbs shine. “If only more men of Galt had the conviction to speak the truth. You will reclaim all that was once yours and much more.”
The young Lord gives a short, grim-faced bow of honored acceptance.
Goblets of mead knock down on the table in support. “As it was, so it will be.”
“Lord Stenness.” Morana’s voice rises like steam from a simmering pot.
“My king.” Lord Stenness’s gruff Galtish voice roars from his throat. “We miners ain’t weak like the Luglow lot,” he proclaims, glancing down at the young lord. “Nor are we like those soft cocks in Lochber,” he winks at Lady Lochber, “who have some pretty lass with big tits and a sweet cunt to tell ’em what to do.” He rests his ham-like hands on his massive gut and takes a slow chug of mead. “I hate to admit it,” he says, giving Lord Luglow an appreciative nod, “but the young Lord Luglow has it right. We ain’t free. We’re no better than slaves imprisoned in our own lands.”
He rests his two massive hands on the table and leans forward, spittle flying from his bearded mouth. Lady Lochber flinches as Lord Stenness slams his fist on the table, causing mead to spill from all the goblets. “We’re bred to make those Thielian cunts rich, and my ancestors are turning in their graves.” He growls, like a pit dog penned in a cage, and points his fat forefinger around the table at the other lords. “Where is King Eiden? I’ll tell you where he is. He’s balls deep in some Thielian slut, and mark my fecking words, there’ll be some half-blood runt popping from her mingy porridge hole.”
Lady Lochber holds in a mouthful of projectile wine.
Prince Madon smiles with gracious endeavor.
Lord Stenness looks Madon dead in the eyes. “Your father ain’t no king of mine. He’s a Thielian lacquey.” Lord Stenness casts a skeptical glance at Morana, trying to glimpse beneath her veil. “I pay no attention to this ancient prophecy goat’s shite this witch babbles.” He sniffles with a swinish snort. “I’ve got over twenty thousand men with hammers, shovels, and axes. I reckon they’ll be handy with a blade, too.” He sucks on a loose tooth. “Better to die fighting for freedom than digging to our deaths.” Lord Stenness runs his arthritic fingers through his long, graying hair. Specks of coal flecked with gold fall onto the table. “Stenness is yours, my king.”
“I know you seek vengeance, Lord Stenness, and do not doubt me for death, and I walk hand in hand.” Madon gives Lord Stenness a curt nod.
Morana swaggers to the opposite side of the long table, where Lord Gosen sits alone with empty chairs on either side of him. A provocative smirk lurks behind Morana’s veil. “My king, Lord Gosen.”
“What do you ask of me, nephew?” Lord Gosen does not rise.
“Uncle,” Madon stands, imposing, and spreads his hands on the table. “Do your duty and serve Galt.”
“Duty?” Lord Gosen chews the word around his mouth. “You ask me to forsake my brother? Your father? You call this duty?” His words spit with contempt from behind his bushy ginger beard.
A dark shadow descends on the great hall as Madon’s sadistic eyes smolder. “Uncle, you command the armies of Galt, ten thousand men, with the duty of serving the king. You govern the kingdom in his stead. There are ten thousand soldiers who sit idle behind your walls. You have witnessed the fealty of the Accession Lord's. You would be wise to serve me.”
“Serve you?” Lord Gosen rises to his feet in defiance. “You sit in your father’s seat, yet you are no king of mine. Your father kept you caged in the tower for a reason. You are nothing but treachery, and you are now treason. A child born from wicked sorcery. Your father doesn’t believe me, but I know the truth of your wicked birth. You and this meddling witch. My brother, should have heeded my words and had you both put down!"
“Enough!” Madon slams his fists on the table, and the hall falls into a sudden half-light. The candlelight wains, dimming in the mounting tension, and through the veiled darkness, a shadow of a pitch-black dragon spreads its umbra wings on the walls of the great hall. “You dispute my claim in my rightful domain?” Madon’s words rumble like slow grinding stones.
Chitters, chatters, and vile squelches spit from the Umbal skulking above the lords in the eaves.
King Madon’s voice is low and calculated. “You challenge my power." A frigid wind whips through the great hall as Madon’s vicious voice swings like a mace to the face. “I am Ana, The God of Old, Primordial Father, and The Great Architect of all you see.”
As Madon speaks, his uncle rises in the air, levitating above the table. Lord Gosen’s arms splay wide open, ankles tied together, dangling in crucifixion. “You and my father are so alike,” Madon’s ruthless voice spits from behind gritted teeth. Lord Gosen’s arms snap at right angles, and a trickle of blood runs down the lord’s suspended body, dripping onto the table. "You are so righteous in your ambition for peace.” The lord’s legs snap at the kneecaps with an agonizing scream. "These are my lands, which I created at the beginning of all time." In a horrific squelching crunch, Lord Gosen’s neck snaps and spins backward, his shaggy gray hair tumbling over his chest.
“Never doubt me." Madon’s voice remains unnervingly calm as a long creaking groan erupts, followed by a gut-wrenching snap. Lord Gosen’s torso breaks, spinning in the opposite direction and showering the table with a fine spray of blood from protruding bones. His uncle crunches onto the great hall table, his face planting into the ancient wood. His limbs contorted at impossible angles beneath his robes, bones puncture through flesh, and a dark puddle of blood seeps from the crumpled pile of disjointed gore.
The lords sit stunned in fearful silence, cupping their mouths like frozen statues, their faces pale and drawn. Hands tremble as they reach for goblets of wine, their eyes wide and glassy, unable to tear their eyes away from the mangled mess before them. Their bodies, taut like bowstrings, ready to spring at the slightest movement. They jump from their seats in fear as the great hall erupts in an explosion of whirling black shadows.
Tornadoes of shrieking Umbal swarm among the seated lords, then engulf the broken body of Lord Gosen. Their oppressive black tendrils of inky shadow seep into his eyes and nose, then slither into his gaping mouth. The Umbal rises, pulling the contorted body into the air above the table.
The lords stare in horror as Lord Gosen’s body hangs, a bloodied rag doll in a whirlwind of shadow. A wild roar of tormenting agony wails from Lord Gosen.
“He’s still alive." A frantic whisper falls from Lady Lochber’s trembling lips, her knuckles white as she grips the arms of the chair.
“My lords,” a soft demeanor falls on King Madon as he addresses the table. “It was foretold that I would rise and lead Galt to victory.” His smoldering molten pools flicker with power. “Do not doubt that it is I, Ana, as foretold.”
The slack-jawed lords look upon their new king with wide-eyed terror. A deathly silence falls upon the great hall.
Thud.
The body of Lord Gosen crashes down onto the table. His body is as deep black as the mines of Stenness, set as hard as ancient stone. The warped body lays corrected, human in form. Lord Gosen’s grotesque, inky face is almost featureless, with his nose removed, eyelids missing, and his lips torn away. The brutal black body gives an unearthly crack as it sits upright. His chilling pupils, oily black, stare hollow, straight ahead as he rises to one knee. He limbers his neck and shoulders with a violent crack. The creaking stops as he bows to King Madon. “How may I serve, my king?” Lord Gosen’s lofty voice comes from a mouth of serrated, needle-sharp teeth.
A collective gasp escapes from the half-seated lords, and with loud puffs, the extinguished candles reignite, bringing amber light back to the great hall.
“My lords,” King Madon’s calming voice weaves across the table, “have no fear. Arise, general,” Lord Gosen, The Black General, rises from one knee onto his feet, causing the table to groan under his weight. He stands at least two heads taller than any man, his body chiseled with layers of stony muscle.
“Feck me,” the whisper rolls from the lips of stunned Lord Stenness.
The Black General glances down at the old lord, who slinks back into the depths of his seat with a shudder.
King Madon addresses the fearful lords. “I see my most loyal servants before me,” he says, lingering on his words. “Obedient to my every command.”
“As it was, so it will be.” The lords bow, swayed by fear, muttering their fathers’ oaths.
“Yet only four of the seven come to honor my birthright.” King Madon casts a fiendish look of contempt upon the four cowering lords. “General,” Madon barks.
“My king,” The Black General’s lordly voice scrapes from a mouthful of serrated fangs dripping with shadow.
“Hunt down the absent lords and remove their taint. Wipe out their treacherous bloodlines and bring me their heads. Start with Lord Aiseld.” King Madon takes a slow sip of mead. “Too long has that pompous fool stood for my father. Offer his people land and wealth as a just reward for their fealty. Ensure that those who remain loyal are treated well. Kill all who stand against me.”
A screeching howl of approval echoes from the Umbal. “General, lead the Umbal. Gather them from the moors, for they run wild and unchecked. Bring order to their ranks and do not fail me.”
“As you command, my king.” In a single enormous step, The Black General descends from the center of the table, stepping between Lady Lochber and Stenness. They shudder beneath his vacant glare.
“General, hold.” The king stands, commanding, and strides to his queen’s side, and Morana links her arm with his. “There was one among you who doubted the old power." Madon holds his challenging gaze on the four cowering lords. “One who called our queen a witch?” King Madon breaks into hearty laughter. The lords give in to nervous laughter. “A goddess, the Blessed Mother!” Madon screams his words, and the great hall falls back into sweating silence. “Do you not stare in wonderment at her star throne in the sky?”
“Forgive me, my king." Lord Stenness grunts, rises from his sear and stares at the floor in terrified shame. “I did not mean—.”
“Silence!” King Madon’s glimmering eyes glow like a smith’s forge. “Kneel.” His merciless words cut like a butcher’s knife.
“My king, I spoke only my mind.” The words tumble from the lord’s lips. Lord Stenness’s pleas fall on deaf ears as the Black General’s foot crunches down on his left leg, forcing him to his knees. His quivering lips tremble as he desperately tries to explain himself. “I did not mean disrespect,” he stammers.
“Hush now, good lord.” Queen Morana slinks forward, leaving the king’s side to approach her prey. She lifts her veil, places a delicate kiss on Lord Stenness’s left cheek, and licks her lips, a disdainful leer forming on her face. “You taste of swine,” she sneers. “You are little more than a pig in a man’s putrid hide.”
Lord Stenness struggles in vain to free himself from The Black General’s iron grip. “Make it quick, witch,” he spits his words, his mouth filled with salty sweat. “I do not fear death, only what you forge from it.” He stares, wide-eyed, up at the towering figure of the cruel, demonic stone behind him. “That abomination. Give me a clean death.”
“Come now, my lord. Death? We are not monsters.” Morana runs her finger across his pudgy face, tracing a path over his ploughed brow and into his clumpy hair. “We have far greater plans for you.” Her infectious laughter rings out, sweet as the honeyed wine. “You will lead an army of fifty thousand, wielding the hammer of war. You will have your revenge, my lord.”
Lord Stenness slumps forward, sighing in relief.
A single Umbal slithers down the wall and crawls on four shadowy limbs towards Lord Stenness. Panic sets in as he desperately tries to free himself from the grip of The Black General. The Umbal's forked tongue slithers from a serrated jaw and licks his tormented face, its wicked black tendrils, like rising morning mists, seeping into his nose and sobbing mouth.
Lord Stenness's pleas turn into chocking screams as the Umbal searches and digs deeper, soaking into his being and crawling through his body. A pig in a slaughterhouse, Lord Stenness oinks in wild shrieks as the Umbal infests his body from the inside and out. His body contorts and stretches as his eyes turn black as oil wells as the suffocating darkness consumes his life.