Epic Doom Metal

A tamed Thylacon flew through the night sky. The beast flapped its leathery wings, its crested head moving back and forth as it searched for threats. A saddle and bags stood out against its grey skin, which sported jagged blue and white markings. Its rider was a woman clad in metal and leather.

Behind her a bright moon floated. If you squinted, you could just make out the cables that connected it to the other moons that surrounded the world. The rest of the sky was dead black, except for a blue sphere that was only just visible over the horizon.

Ahead, the towers of the queen’s palace. They called it a palace, but it was just as much a fortress. The thing was the tallest structure in existence. Barracks for an army, facilities from which to run a government, ceremonial chambers, luxurious suites, the palace was a self-contained capital city and military base.

She directed her mount to one of the landing platforms that jutted out of the colossal structure. As she drew closer, she could start to make out the loopholes that hid archers and the scorpion turrets that sat on the tops of the towers.

She landed and dismounted. Walking the beast into the hangar, which was a strange word borrowed from a far-off land. It was an open space, with stables on the sides. A series of flaming caldrons provided light. Doors led to storehouses and guest rooms. Guards kept a close watch for airborne infiltrators.

The armored plates that adorned her body gleamed in the fire light. A thick belt that was lined with metal studs held up her loincloth and the scabbards that contained two short swords. A dagger was held in place by straps around her left thigh. Buskins adorned her feet, the leather straps twisting their way up to just below her knees. A spiked helmet sat on her head, a nose guard ran between her heavily shadowed eyes and chainmail hung off to the sides, her blonde hair flowed out from under the lip.

A man wearing immaculate robes and a conical hat walked over and greeted her, “Kyrie of Engle, welcome. Have you taken care of that problem for us?”

“Yes,” the word came out of Kyrie’s mouth like a well-aimed arrow.

The warrior dug around in one of the saddle bags, what she produced caused the man to put a hand over his mouth and take a step back, “High Queen Ver’da is in the throne room. She wishes to speak with you at once.”

Before leaving, Kyrie grabbed a weapon from its place on the saddle. It was a poleaxe, a variation of a normal axe that was designed to give its user several different options when it came to the art of killing. A stable boy trundled over to take care of the Thylacon, leading it to a place where it could rest and be fed.

The walk to the throne room was long. The palace was a seemingly endless maze of corridors. This was no doubt intentional, a way of overawing guests and confusing invaders. She carried her poleaxe in one hand, resting it on her shoulder; in the other she let the grim parcel hang low.

She entered the throne room, hundreds of guests were lounging on plush pillows and mats. Servants moved around the chamber, keeping glasses filled; dancers and jesters kept them entertained. The laughter and gossip mixed, forming an incessant den. All eyes fixed on her armored form as she made her way to the dais that held the queen’s seat. As the warrior approached, the queen studied her through the eye holes in her mask.

Despite High Queen Ver’da’s beauty and imposing aura, the mask was the first thing that those who beheld her noticed, and the thing that held their attention. A dress made of soft, white and lilac fabric ran up her body. Emeralds set in silver jewelry sparkled. The queen didn’t just sit on her thrown, she made a point of owning it, of dominating it. Slaves, each a living war trophy, were chained to the ornate chair. They were nude, save for a few precious jewels they were mockingly allowed to keep, and their golden collars.

General Grogblüd stood nearby. The orc was a mountain of green muscle. Cruel and hungry yet cunning eyes stared at her, before moving on to the legs of a noblewoman. He was the queen’s right hand, and other than the king of the orcs, he was the highest ranking of their people.

Kyrie of Engle reached the seat of the high queen. The barbarian warrior dumped the thing that she was holding at the monarch's feet. It was a bundle of recently severed heads, each of them belonging to an orc warlord. One of the slaves, a woman that had once been a pampered aristocrat, let out a little squeal and moved as far back as her chain would allow. The queen reached down, placing a reassuring hand on the poor girl’s head. Kyrie sank to one knee reverently.

From behind the smooth, pallid mask a graceful but imposing voice spoke, “Rise, my exulted champion.”

Kyrie rose. The room stared in awe. The queen tugged on the chain of one of the male slaves, whispering something to him. He obediently crawled forward and grabbed one of the heads, holding it aloft for the crowd to see. Many cheered wildly, others stared in wide eyed shock at the sight of such a powerful warlord’s head. Many eyes shot to Grogblüd, who was acting indifferent.

The cheers died down, the high queen spoke again, “When your chief told me that he only owed me two battalions instead of three, all because he would send you, well, I wondered if he was trying to spite me. But then I saw you, and I knew, I knew that you were just as valuable as a battalion, if not more.”

You sit on his throne, use his words and systems, how are you any different?

She wasn’t, the flags and seals were different, but she was as much the Mullah’s successor as his destroyer. But that distinction wasn’t even hers to take, at least not completely. If only he was still here, he would set things right again.

“I would offer you drink, food, and company, but there is another urgent matter that must be attended to.”

“Gaulrӓth’s wizard.”

“Yes. Ten days ago, he fled from the magick school on Korhak. I feel that he is seeking the Midlothian. I sent an HK team and a platoon of Yukikar after him, but they haven’t returned.”

“You shouldn’t have given him a second chance.”

“Few would dare to point out one of my mistakes. That is why I like you, you are willing to do what needs to be done,” she scanned the room with her unseen eyes, “How can I hope to meet my destiny when those that serve me are too cowardly to set me straight when I faulter?”

“My queen, they trust in your sight and defer to your title. To them you are not a mere woman, you are a heroine and their master.”

“And what am I to you, HK Gladiatrix?”

“My glorious leader. A leader who rules better than any other that I have known. A leader who is burdened with the flaws of any other person and the curse of the unblinking third eye.”

“Honest as always. Most would call it a gift, yet you identify it as a curse. The truth is somewhere in the middle, as it often is. Go to Korhak, huntress of the painted tribes, pick up the sorcerer’s trail.”

“And when I find him?”

Her next words became soaked with venom, “Correct my mistake.”

Kyrie bowed low, “It will be done, your highness,” with that she turned on one heel and marched out of the throne room. The walk back to the hangar felt much shorter than the trip to the throne room. She was glad to be back on the road. She hated the generals, viziers, and courtiers. They did not understand the ways of her people. Someone like her could never feel comfortable in the halls of the palace.

The warrior-huntress entered the hanger and requested a mount. As she waited, she thought about the journey ahead. The bridge to Korhak was a short flight to the south. From there, it was a three-day journey to the school. What she found there could take her far away, much furtherer that she had ever been.

A stable boy walked a new mount toward her, this one sporting red and orange slashes on its wings. She checked the provisions that had been loaded into the beast’s saddle bags, a sudden shout distracted her, “It’s the watcher!”

She looked toward the hangar’s opening. In the sky a swirling mass of glowing eyes had appeared. The stable boys and guards rushed to the entrance, joyfully saluting the sky and yelling, “Hail watcher!”

Kyrie smiled with pride, this was a good sign, for surly the watcher had appeared because of her. This meant that what had happened was truly important, and what was to come must also be so. She placed her hand above her heart before throwing her arm toward the cluster of eyes. “Hail watcher,” she said with awe.