The Last Bodyguard
1088 Words
Light returned, and a loud thud of a body crashing down beside him woke Dylan from his stupor. Blinking through the blood flowing into his eyes, he quickly assessed the situation. His fellow guards were dead, his Emperor turned to stone—defeated by the very foe he had planned to conquer—and Vackzilian now stood victorious in the middle of the room, gloating over his conquest.
Dylan blinked back tears.
There was nothing he could do.
All was lost.
No, Dylan thought. There is one thing I can do.
I must warn the Emperor's son.
With this thought in mind, his eyes sought out the throne room's hidden exit; nothing blocked his way. Dylan inched forward, intent on escaping, but as he moved, excruciating pain shot through him.
He looked down.
Rivulets of blood seeped from his side. A broken bone glowed white against the midnight black of his uniform. Apparently, the rib had pierced his skin when Vackzillian slammed him against the pillar and knocked him unconscious. With a wince, the bodyguard noted his left arm and right leg were also broken.
Dylan could live with those, but if he continued to bleed, he would be dead in a matter of minutes.
Placing his hand over the wound, Dylan cast a fire spell. As the flames cauterized his torn skin, the scent of burning flesh reached his nostrils, and it was all he could do not to cry out in anguish. Still, he pushed through the pain. No matter what, he would not let his brothers in arms' sacrifice be for nothing.
With the bleeding staunched, at last, Dylan placed his one uninjured hand on the cold marble floor, and inch by painful inch, the last surviving man of the Emperor’s elite bodyguard slowly crawled towards the side exit of the throne room.
As he dragged his broken body forward, he watched the events unfold out of the corner of his eyes.
The demilitarized High Lords formed a tight circle, waiting for Vackzilian’s next attack. Their body language spoke of defiance, but their eyes told a different story—fear and hopelessness mingled together in their depths.
Vackzilian glanced at the lone group of nobles, and with the swoosh of his dark blue robes, turned his back on them. Whistling a jaunty tune, he stepped over the bodies lying on the floor and strolled back to the now completely petrified Emperor.
“I think this statue will make a fine decoration,” he mocked.
He reached his hand forward, and a pillar rose out of the marble floor beside the throne. He then motioned with his other hand, and the statue that was once the Emperor lifted off the floor and floated across the room to land on the newly formed pillar.
A tear trickled down Dylan’s face as Vackzilian admired his handiwork. How is it possible for one man to be so powerful? he thought, his heart breaking within him.
Vackzilian smirked. Then, sauntering over to the seat of royalty, he plopped himself into the throne. His long, bony fingers caressed the head of the dragon, and his umber eyes flashed in satisfaction.
Forcing back his rage, Dylan continued to pull himself towards the hidden door.
At last, Vackzilian turned his eyes on the cowering nobles and proclaimed, “Bow before your new Emperor.”
Algerian’s face curled in disgust, and he spat on the floor. “I, Algerian Thattinan Ritilion the third of the House of Lirsdro, a pureblood noble, will never bow before a mongrel blood like you.”
A sharp hiss echoed in the throne room and Algerian went flying. A giant ice spike protruded from his stomach and pinned him to the far wall.
Dylan let out a muffled gasp.
The High Lords just stood there with their mouths agape. Algerian, or one of them, could have easily stopped the attack with a simple shield, but no one had seen it coming. One second, he was standing there, and the next, he was flying through the air, a giant ice spike sticking straight through him.
Vackzilian rose from the throne, his face white in anger, and made his way down the stairs to where Algerian hung. “Your father really should've punished you as a child," he hissed. "Maybe then you would not have spoken so foolishly.
“Now, because of your self-importance and pride, not only will you perish but also your entire family.”
Drawing a circle in the air with his hand, Vackzilian summoned an image of Algerian’s estate and the land surrounding it.
In horror, Dylan watched as a gigantic meteor encased in ice barreled out of the sky and slammed into Algerian's ancestral home.
The impact destroyed the castle as the ice shattered; then the meteor imploded, and all the surrounding land and buildings disintegrated as it sucked them into its fiery core.
With a soft hiss, the image zoomed out as the meteor exploded, and a massive ring of fire raced out. Blotting out the heavens, the expanding fire consumed the local town and barracks, leaving nothing but a fiery wasteland in its wake.
Vackzilian smirked in satisfaction as he watched the play of emotions running across the Lord's face as the man realized everything he'd owned or held dear was now gone.
Algerian stared at the image of his destroyed home, and the thump of his beating heart reverberated throughout the throne room. As if amplified by a spell, the sound of it increased as it beat faster and faster until, all at once, it stopped.
Vackzilian snapped his fingers, and the gruesome image and ice spike vanished into thin air.
Algerian Thattinan Ritilion the third, of the House of Lirsdro, fell to the ground, dead.
With a swish of his robes, the usurper turned his back on the lifeless High Lord, strolled back up the stairs to the throne, and sat down.
He rested his elbows on the armrests of the dragon throne, and steepling his fingers, he addressed the remaining High Lords.
“Does anyone else have something to contribute?”
None of them dared to speak.
“Good. Then bow.”
One by one, the five remaining High Lords slowly bowed to their new Emperor, and tears trickled down Dylan's cheeks as he finally reached the secret passage.
The empire had fallen.
“At last, all is as it should be,” Vackzilion purred and leaned back into his throne.
- Writer
