Fiction:Blood of my Blood

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Of Blood and Throne chronicles the events that unfolded within the Grand Tarkan Empire immediately after the Fall of Miperiors.

Blood of my Blood
The massive vaulted ceiling of the Tarkan throne room was alive, a battleground for writhing shadows. On the floor below, a wooden pyre cast an erie orange light on the surroundings and filled the room with acrid smoke. The chamber was packed full of Tarkans––courtiers and lords alike––squeezed between the thick pillars that lined its circumference. The center had been reserved for the fire and the chanting blood priests who danced around it.

Gran Beyvik Etzan V'klor was seated atop the Tarkan throne. His every muscle was tense, his eyes stung, his jaw was clenched, his throat was dry, his fingers gripped the jagged armrests of his throne. Black blood trickled down the insides of his palms. They had been there for seven hours.

Etzan was no longer able to think, reduced to a state of dulled awareness, just waiting for the next…

Sirga screamed again. It was an ear shattering wail of pain that reverberated loudly within the chamber.

Instantly, every Tarkan bellowed, joining their voices to hers. She was lost in the cacophony that ensued. When it subsided, no other noise could be heard than the crackle of the brazier and the mutterings of the priests. Etzan's throat burned.

Nobody moved.

Finally, footsteps were heard echoing through the hall. A priest veiled in shadow stepped up to the burning pyre and faced Etzan. He held something in his arms.

"It is male," the priest proclaimed.

Etzan was met with thundering shouts of approval as he descended the steps to the chamber floor. His legs felt unsure, as if they were going to give way under him any moment. They had not been made to remain immobile for hours on end. He looked at the dimly lit faces of his subjects and could marks of pain on some of their faces. Etzan steeled himself, remembering that he had been allowed to sit. They had stood through the entire ceremony.

The room grew suddenly quiet again as Etzan faced the priest. Between them was a large black basin encrusted with precious red stones, a sacred artifact used by Tarkan kings and emperors since time immemorial. Etzan let fall his massive fur cloak, the raiment of an emperor, and wrapped his fingers around a jagged red blade at his belt. He drew it and took a moment to examine it under the light of the brazier. It was curved, sharp, simple; a relic of another age.

A pair of palace servants advanced from the crowd to draw back the sleeves of Etzan's left arm, baring it for all to see. The Emperor of the Tarkans deliberately lifted his arm over the basin, and pressed the dagger into his flesh. Black blood oozed from the wound, slowly dripping into the receptacle. All looked on expectantly from the shadows. The amount of blood that was needed from him was great, but Etzan was no stranger to pain. As seconds bled into minutes, his vision began to falter and blacken, but he held on.

Finally, it was done. The bleeding stopped.

Wordlessly, the red priest lowered the Tarkan infant into the basin, submerging him in his father's blood. The priests around the brazier began to chant again, building in volume as seconds passed. Etzan remained perfectly still. The infant struggled weakly against the priest's hands, but could not wrench free.

After what seemed an eternity, the chanting reached a climax. With a loud yell, the priest lifted the child from the basin and held him up for all to see. It gasped for air.

"Blood of my blood!" Etzan proclaimed proudly.

"Blood of our blood," the red priest answered. "What is his name, O Gran Beyvik?"

"Lhasa. Lhasa V'klor." Etzan could barely keep his eyes open.

"Lhasa V'klor," the priest agreed. "Blood of our blood!"

The chant was picked up by the other priests. Soon, everyone in the throne room was yelling it ever louder. Among them were sixty chosen warriors handpicked to serve and protect Lhasa until their deaths. The rest, the staunchest of Etzan's allies, had come to renew their loyalty to their emperor, and to pledge their support to his successor. This they did by taking the blood oath. The chant grew in volume and size, aspiring to the sky, each warrior defying his gods to keep him to the promise.

"Blood of our blood! Blood of our blood!

"BLOOD OF OUR BLOOD!"