The Last Battle: Apex 1, Part 1, Draft 1

Like most story blogs I've read, it seems this one will have multiple stories going on at once. I'm not completely sure what happens next in "Sea of Unicorns." The only ideas I have seem boring, and if I think they are, I doubt you'll find them much fun, dear reader. So I'm putting it on hold until I come up with something or people start saying they really want to see it back. (Semi-shameless fishing for compliments.)

So what's this you're about to read? Well, talk about something I need to get off my chest. I think this story is about 10 years old and the roots of it are even older. Since its inception, I've tried several times to write it, with little to no success. I'm starting in the middle on this one. The title is more than likely temporary, as is the name of Santok's native tongue. "Apex 1" refers to the fact that this is the first of two major events in the story, and the fact that I don't know how many part I'll write before or after. Santok is a minotaur, by the way, which should help you visualize him more clearly and but some of his thoughts into context.

It gets a little violent partway in, so be forewarned.

Santok knew well before he saw her that Cyra had arrived. His troops were noisy, following her through the hallways with shrieks and jeers. Were it anyone else who he wished to make it to his throne room unharmed, he would have gone out there himself to make certain nothing happened. But with Cyra, he did not need to be concerned. Even if she had heeded his request, they would not touch her, between their fear of her and their fear of him. The din continued, growing closer as the subject of his guards' taunts drew nearer to Santok's door. Then suddenly, it faded, until the hallway outside was silent. They were brave enough in the hallways, but they were not about to risk his wrath if he thought their teasing went too far.

The enormous door slowly began to open. Santok himself could open it with relative ease, but most humans couldn't budge it and needed his guards to open it for them. Cyra however, pushed one of the heavy doors open without aid. Santok regarded this without the slightest change of expression. He expected no less on the Dragon's first time in his castle.

Santok realized that he had not actually seen Cyra in a very long time. In most instances when their paths crossed, their blades crossed as well. His impressions of her were mostly blurred flashes intermingled with blazing light reflected off that hated sword. Santok was quite certain he had never seen Cyra this close before when he wasn't trying to at least put a sizable crack in her armor.

Cyra was smaller than he'd expected. This was his assessment of most humans, but she seemed short, even for a human. There was still no doubt that she was strong; even with her armor on she was visibly muscular. The armor he had seen before, decorated with various patterns and figures of dragons, but still quite effective. She had on a deep blue cape which Santok hadn't seen before. Likely she didn't wear it into large battles where it might hinder her movement. She was pale skinned with near white hair. No one seemed to know if this was how she had always looked or the result of some unthinkable horror she had suffered in the past. Her face was grim as she finished pushing the door to the point where it would allow her through. Showing no fatigue from the effort, she strode up the lengthy carpet toward Santok's throne. Her anger did not bother Santok in the least. Seeing the normally confident Dragon angry and - if everything had gone according to plan - unable to do anything about it was actually putting him at ease.

"Your majesty," he said, inclining his head with only the slightest hint of condescension in his voice. "You do me honor in my castle."

She met his gaze without hesitation, her eyes burning with a fury she was holding back for now. Without looking down, she dropped down her to knees, pressing her right hand to the floor while raising the palm of her left to Santok.

"Lord Santok," she said simply, in perfect Kletrak. It was a mixed gesture. The bow and the use of his native tongue were concessions to Santok. But her constant glare and unembellished acknowledgement of his presence were just shy of a challenge. Cyra knew well that she couldn't afford to risk Santok's full wrath. But she was not so beaten yet as to throw herself at his feet and beg his mercy. Again, Santok expected no less.

"I trust," Santok said, straightening in his throne to mark the end of the pleasantries, "that you have chosen to meet my terms?"

Wordlessly, Cyra reached to her side and pulled the hated sword free of her belt. Deslordian remained in its sheath and Santok could see the chains wrapped around its hilt. Cyra held the sword in front of her and gave a few tugs at the hilt to show that the chains held it fast in the scabbard. At this short distance, Santok could feel Deslordian's seething anger, though he wasn't certain if it was more furious at being unable to protect its bearer or being unable to kill him.

"You can test it yourself, if you'd like," Cyra suggested, holding the blade out to him. They both knew that this would not happen. Santok had once put a hand on Deslordian for a mere second. The experience had left him without the use of that arm for months. The sword's nature, the fact that it seemed to have a rudimentary soul within it, puzzled Santok. His own axe, though it was supposed to be the counterpart to Deslordian, only seemed to pulse with the energies of battle. It was yet another reminder of his constant struggle against Cyra, but nothing more than that. Deslordian, meanwhile, had changed its aura to a more alluring one, trying to tempt him to reach out and take it. Santok shook his head, feeling discomfort for the first time. He wished he'd been able to ask her to come without the sword, but he needed to be mindful of the prophecy.

"No," he answered. "Just keep it under control." The sword grew quiet, but still rumbled with a low fury. Cyra was now standing before him, fixing the scabbard to her belt once more.

"Where is Rayna?" she asked.

If Santok had not been searching for something like it, he likely would have missed the slight tremble in Cyra's voice as she said her daughter's name. She still stood with utter confidence and her eyes did not waver even slightly. But that little shake in her voice was the first sign to Santok of the anguish he had no doubt put his enemy through. He was pleased.

Turning his attention from Cyra for a moment, he called for one of his guards. The stick-thin creature with a face in a permanent sneer came running in from the back of the throne room. No doubt he'd been waiting as close to the door as he dared until he was summoned. He trotted up to the throne and looked scornfully in Cyra's direction. He seemed to consider doing more, but a quick look from Santok made him reconsider. He hopped up to Santok's side and Santok leaned very close to him. Speaking in Kletrak wasn't going to conceal their conversation, so he would have to keep his voice low.

"Bring the girl up now. If the lookouts spot any dragons, I will send them to find you and you may cut her hand off. Otherwise, she is not to be harmed while you bring her here. Understood?"

The guard nodded and left through the back door. Time passed awkwardly. None of the lookouts came down to report a sighting. Santok and Cyra eyed each other, but neither spoke. What was there to say?

The back door opened again and Cyra tensed. Even Santok was a little nervous as his guard shoved Rayna into the throne room in front of him. Santok hadn't seen her in full light since she'd first been brought to his castle. Her injuries looked far worse now that he could see her more clearly. The guard had tied her hands in front of her with coarse rope, which wasn't it making any easier for her to walk steadily. Her head was down; she wasn't ready to face her mother yet. Santok turned his attention back to Cyra, half expecting her to be ready to kill him with her bare hands. Instead, Cyra was completely focused on her daughter, unable to hold back a pained expression. Halfway to the throne, Rayna tripped and fell roughly to her knees. The guard let out a nasty chuckle and Cyra fixed her fierce gaze on him, looking even more furious than she had with Santok. The guard feel silent, dropped his end of the rope, and fled from the room. Cyra rushed to her daughter's side, knelt on the floor in front of her, and began tearing at the rope.

This was the moment. Santok rose slowly from his throne, carefully watching for the slightest sign that Cyra was aware of him doing it. There was none. He took a cautious step in Cyra's direction. Nothing. Another. Still nothing. It seemed the palace could have been collapsing around them and Cyra would have never known it. Her back was to him and her attentions were entirely fixed on Rayna. He advanced slowly, not wanting to test the limits of Cyra's preoccupation/ Soon enough, he was standing right behind his foe. She and Rayna were talking, but he couldn't make out any of it. The steady drumbeat of his axe had grown increasingly faster and louder. One strike was all it would take. She couldn't fight back, couldn't even defend herself. One strike and the Dragon would be dead. He raised his axe. Just one strike.

Never could he have dreamed of what happened next being even a possibility. Rayna was hurt and half-starved, barely able to walk a few steps without stumbling. From everything he had heard, she did not have her mother's strength or any of her experience with the worst of war and physical pain. Shame had kept her from looking up, even at her mother. So how had she seen it coming? From where could she have possibly summoned the strength to push her mother - the legendary Dragon, no less - out of the way of that perfect killing blow?

There were some who came to believe that the next thing was an accident; that nobody had enough time to react to Rayna pushing her mother out of harm's way. This was not true. Time seemed to slow for Santok, until that one moment could have lasted forever. His true enemy was no longer there and now the only thing in range of his axe's swing was Rayna's unprotected back. He could have stopped his axe mid-swing. He could have left Rayna and turned on the no doubt stunned Cyra and killed her before she even knew what was happening. But he remembered. He remembered seeing his father's shield resting on top of his covered remains, so battered that it's original shape was almost lost. He remembered standing by his mother's body as funeral preparations went on. He still wasn't sure if the rumor that her missing hand hung in Cyra's banquet hall as a trophy was true or not. He remembered everyone he had cared for who left him to fight against Cyra and came back dead by her hand. He thought of all the loss Cyra had caused him and chose to give her a taste of it. The axe was in his complete control every second, as it tore open Rayna's back, shattered her spine, ripped through her heart, and smashed through her ribs on the other side. He relished it, anticipating the release from his grief as he passed it on to his enemy.

And then, it was over. The pulsing beat of the axe slowly faded. As Santok's own breathing slowed, he realized that the joy he'd felt at killing Rayna was gone. Even before he had looked at Cyra, he knew that the pain he had caused her was not going to alleviate his own. He had done nothing but wasted the element of surprise. He looked down at his axe and saw that Rayna's body still hung limply from the blade. Disgusted, Santok gave the axe a shake and Rayna fell lifeless to the stone floor. Santok wiped some of the blood from the axe blade with the edge of his cape, then looked to Cyra.

Cyra had been thrown onto her back when her daughter pushed her free of the axe's swing. Now she was on her side facing Santok, though she didn't even seem to notice him. If she had been pale before, she was now ghost-white. Her mouth hung open and her eyes were wide with total horror. Her breathing had been reduced to strangled gasps, as if she just couldn't force enough air into her lungs. She was making a barely audible noise, high and thin and mostly air. It took Santok a moment to realize what it was. Cyra's voice was failing her, but she was screaming.

Santok circled around behind Cyra. Such untempered grief was hard to look at, even when the one suffering it was someone who richly deserved it. Cyra's only reaction was to weakly pull herself a little closer to her daughter's body. Santok realized that his chance to kill Cyra might not be gone after all. She was far too distraught to even think of fighting back. Even if she saw him coming, she might not move to stop him. He could still end this.

He would have, if she had not arrived.

She who? Well I'm still working on stuff like a new name for her and her coming in won't make much sense until I write what happened before it. So you're just gonna have to wait.