Of Blood and Throne []
January 1, 2793
It was when Etzan had written his report to the empire that the full implications of his victory hit him. While it would go down in the annals of history as a tactful––even masterful––conquest, what would be conveniently forgotten was that the battle had been waged without declaration. Worse, it had been waged without cause. The Tarkans and the Miperiors had entertained a cold but cordial relationship for the longest time; distance assured that there had been no reason for war, even in this day and age where the stars seemed to edge closer together.
The Battle for Miperiors has drawn to a close. The forces of your empire advanced upon the Miperian capital of Miperia and, taking full advantage of the dismembered deployment of its defenders and the celerity of your highness’ ships, defeated them in short order. Five thousand of their vessels drift, disemboweled, in the cold depths of space. Seven thousand have surrendered.
This is truly a magnificent victory, for it has cost us nothing: nine hundred ships, all of whom sacrificed themselves with honor for the glory of the realm.
My liege, I cannot be more proud to announce that the region of Miperiors is ours.
For the realm,
Etzan V’klor.
The words had tasted like bile when he dictated them.
In the moment, yes, he had reveled in the action, followed the campaign with exuberance, participated in it with decisiveness. And yet, it is always after the act that conscience settles in. Implications––both moral and physical in nature––only seem to surface in the aftermath, when beings have time to contemplate them. The fact that he had done it with such ease and with so little cost to himself only multiplied his guilt. Had the Miperiors posed a threat to him and punished him for his dishonor, it would have been an other matter. But they had not.
Etzan's conscious mind was a battleground as he sat in his quarters aboard the Isaav. His conflicting thoughts of honor, duty, logic, practicality, all clashed in a melee from which he could not extricate himself. The warrior and great Tarkan general had long since stopped struggling and sat there by the window, his mind numb and his gaze vague, staring out into space.
The real-world battlefield also troubled him. The Farengeto had escaped are are likely calling on their allies. He expected multiple declarations of war shortly. Though he was unwilling to admit it to himself, he had a feeling that even he could not hold off the entirety of Delcath, not to mention win against it. On top of that, the Mardor were late in contacting him. They should have taken Ku-Rokti and began the subjugation of the Aeoneonatrix Empire by now.
His turbulent thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door. "Enter," he growled, standing to face the new arrival.
It was Sirga, still dressed in her ring mail battle armor with jagged shoulders and a sash to indicate her rank. She flashed her fangs at him as she smiled. "You did it." said she, stepping into the room.
"So I did." Etzan moodily returned to his chair and faced outer space. He heard her stride behind him and felt her arms slide around his waist. Her the bottom of her chin found his shoulder. He remained stiff in her embrace, not acknowledging her signs of affection.
"Rumor has it that the Gran Beyvik will make you king of this place," she whispered softly into his ear.
That is the last thing he needed, but she was right. As the conqueror, the title was his by right. In fact, it was his duty to carry through with the occupation if the king ordained it.
"I do not want an empty title!" he snapped. "It is without honor!"
Sirga recoiled at his outburst with a snarl.
January 5, 2793
“You want me to what?!” Etzan breathed in astonishment.
He was kneeling under the high vaulted sealing of the Tarkan imperial throne room, dressed in the black and dark green of his new kingdom. A long dark green cloak bearing his crest as Graf Beyvik of Miperiors––the symbol of the house of Dishal above a horizontal line and four diamond shapes––was draped over his shoulders. He was alone with the emperor.
He had been recalled from Miperiors by the Gran Beyvik and left Abanan and Sirga––who was still not speaking to him since their interview––to care for his personal holdings. He had a feeling his lord father had something else than his coronation in mind. Given the situation, his being crowned could wait. This couldn't.
“The Dominatus have requested our presence on their front with the Drodo Empire.” his father was saying, “This is the perfect opportunity to––”
“Ten thousand ships?!” Etzan interrupted, utterly incredulous. “They want ten thousand ships?!”
“Yes. I want you to lead them.” said the monarch.
Etzan was at a loss for words. It took several seconds for him to grapple with the massive implications this would have. “We don't have ten thousand ships!” he finally said. “Our reports say that the force massing to attack Miperiors already outnumbers us. How can you expect us to stave off their attack if you cripple us like this!”
“You should be concerning yourself with the situation on the Drodo front,” Dishal said flatly. “The defense of Miperiors will be handled by your subordinates, not by you.” The aged royal stood with difficulty and, helped by his decorated staff, began to walk towards the massive door to the council chamber. “Now come, we cannot keep the council waiting any longer. You will be crowned Graf Beyvik.”
“Stop!” Etzan was on his feet.
Dishal froze, his grip on his staff tightening with anger. “You will talk to me with respect, boy. I am––”
“Turn around.” Etzan said coldly.
The monarch's eyes widened, and he stood there in shock for several seconds. “No...” he finally whispered. “No, my son... You are not ready. You are not ready!”
“Turn around.” Etzan repeated, taking a step forward.
Dishal was trembling by this point. “Don't...”
“I said, TURN AROUND!” Etzan closed the distance between them, grabbed his father forcefully by the arm, and slid a dagger between his ribs.
Dishal staggered backwards and fell without grace, his staff clattering uselessly next to him. Black blood oozed from his wound and slowly dripped to the floor.
Etzan watched as the old man tried to formulate a few dying words, but all he could do was wheeze. After about a minute of this, Etzan moved forward and finished it.
The heir to the Tarkan throne was met with thundering applause when he mounted the Gran Beyvik's podium inside the council chamber. It had been carved out of a massive cavern ages ago and fashioned in the old style that contrasted sharply with the metallic appearance of the rest of the palace. Apart from the sunlight filtering through the jagged opening in the ceiling, torches lining the wall served as the only light source. They threw distorted shadows along the walls and gave the proceedings an eerie feeling.
The royal heir was perched high above the gathered representatives of the realm, and from there he could distinguish his political allies from his enemies by how genuinely they celebrated his appearance.
“My lords,” Etzan quieted them down after several moments. He was perfectly composed, still dressed in the dark green of the Kingdom of Miperiors. Only the black stains on his gloves hinted at what had just happened. “The Gran Beyvik is dead. As challenger and next in blood, I have inherited to the full power of the throne.”
Within seconds, he was assaulted by a cacophony of voices from below. Many Tarkans had stood up in protest and were waving their fists with animation as they yelled, but Etzan could not make out what they were saying. Others joined in, yelling in counter to what was being said. Out of the corner of his eye, Etzan saw two Tarkans grappling with one another. Arguments were quickly turning violent.
“We will––We will have order!” yelled Etzan. It was no use, he could not make himself heard. He turned to the guard behind him. “Sound the drum!”
The room was then suddenly rocked by the ear-splitting sound of the massive drum. The thundering noise echoed painfully from wall to wall and slowly faded away. When it finally died, all was quiet. Everyone held their palms to their ears.
Before Etzan could speak, Gorgan Kcrus, Beyvik of Soak, brandished an accusing fist at the heir apparent. “What proof do you have the succession was legal?!”
Etzan snarled at the implication. “He is in the throne chamber behind me. I have nothing to hide.”
“Send someone!” yelled the Beyvik. “Make certain!”
Under his direction, a group of Tarkan nobles left the chamber and made their way to the throne room. The atmosphere in the council chamber was tense until they reappeared behind Etzan. “All of his wounds were delivered from the front!"
There was silence then in the chamber. Nobody moved. Etzan began to falter.
Then Beyvik Viean Nek stood. "Then it is legal!" he bellowed. "All hail the Gran Beyvik!”
Etzan heart leapt with relief as his allies began to chant, their sonorous voices rising in a clamor.
"All hail the Gran Beyvik! All hail the Gran Beyvik!"
The room was swept away by the force of two hundred voices. Those Etzan considered enemies joined in as well, urged on by the emotion of the moment or the expectation that they should bow to their sovereign.
"ALL HAIL THE GRAN BEYVIK!"
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