The fight was short and brutal, the Royal Guards attacking fearlessly, hacking their way into the rib cages of each and every figure dressed in black. Some of the cylindrical creatures uttered their piercing scream as they were savagely wrenched from the chests of the fallen, thrown to the floor and smashed with swords, axes or booted feet under Fultard's shouted direction.
Dumar was rooted to the spot, revulsion and disgust mixed within himmaking it difficult for him to move voluntarily. It took a few seconds to realise he had drawn his side arm and had trained it unwaveringly at the figure on the floor who lay unmoving before the throne.
With ruthless efficiency the Royal Guards began dragging the corpses from the throne room. Dumar approached the man who lay in front of the raised dais with his pistol still aimed directly at his chest.
Grethron had already made his way to the man's side and knelt there, holding one of his hands and speaking to him gently. As the big man reached his side he became aware of their conversation.
"I simply cannot understand why you felt the need to seek out external help, Saruline," Grethron was saying in a quiet voice.
So this was the eldest prince who had attempted to take the throne by force. Dumar regarded his form, which lay in a small pool of blood from the chest wound, even though the slash appeared to be healing rapidly before his eyes. He studied the prince as the cleaning of bodies continued around them.
Saruline was a pale fleshed man, whether due to the shock of the injury or due to nature Dumar was unsure.
in contrast his shoulder length hair was black as a raven's feather. This fanned out around a sharp featured face, his panic filled eyes were such a pale shade of blue as to be almost completely white.
Pale, thin lips sat below a nose like a knife blade and above a jutting chin that sported a speckling of unshaven hairs. Lying in tatters to either side of his chest were the remains of his expensive looking shirt, which had originally been white and tailored with ruffles at collar and cuffs.
As Dumar noted the finer details of Saruline's attire, he bore witness to the prince's dying words.
"Grethron?" The voice that issued from the prostrate form was barely above a whisper, it cracked and broke with the pain, as if coming from a damaged speaker.
Saruline raised an unsteady hand towards the old man.
"How are you here?" His eyelids flickered as he attempted to remain focussed on the old necromancer.
"I came to deliver some unpleasant news to your mother," Grethron replied taking his hand. "What has occurred here?"
Saruline coughed a laugh.
"My greed and stupidity have finally caught up with me and I am now being punished for my... transgressions."
The prince grimaced and his breathing stopped for almost a minute before he opened his eyes once more.
"Listen, Grethron, I have no time left to me. It was Malthrom."
Grethron paled at this statement and almost drew his hand away.
"Dawa! Saruline, why?" The old necromancer's voice was a strained whisper.
The downed prince licked his dry lips with his dry tongue before replying.
"I received word about a year ago, carried by a gem merchant. The wording and knowledge contained in the message could have only come from him.
"It bade me wait until help arrived allowing me to gain my rightful position," a cough issued from the prince's rough throat. "So I waited, withdrawing myself from society as far as I could," a self-deprecating smile flickered across his face. "Mother must have been pleased.
"A short while back, a lone man managed to gain entrance to my private quarters. He told me he was the first of many who would arrive, who would assist me in gaining the throne and would also protect me from any reprisals. More came after. They knew exactly what to say in order to massage my ego."
Saruline broke off into a palsied fit, his head thrashed from side to side and he bit his own tongue and lips. Grethron looked askance at Dumar as the prince banged his head and threw his limbs against the marble floor. The old man threw himself across the prince in an attempt to stop him from hurting himself.
Dumar considered this dilemma briefly, if he aided the prince now, would he regret it when the cylindrical creature took command of his body and killed as many people as possible?
In that case, would Dumar even be able to intervene by ending this man's life? He had made a vow to himself never to kill. If Saruline were to rise and attack him or Grethron, would he break that vow to himself? Would Saruline even be alive? The other man had been so obviously dead Dumar had had no qualms over stopping it.
Thoughts whirled around in his head as he fell to his knees, trapping Saruline's head between his thighs to stop the endless drumming. Dumar slid his left hand beneath the prince's head to keep it from the marble.
His right hand still gripped his pistol.
Eventually the fitting subsided and Saruline was able to open his eyes again, although they remained unfocussed. His hand groped for Grethron once more as he continued.
"He promised me the throne," Saruline continued in his strained whisper. "And as stupidly greedy as I am, I believed him."
Grethron grasped at the prince's hand as he spoke and Dumar was surprised to see tears standing in the old man's eyes.
"I can feel it, you know," Saruline said as his eyes found Grethron's face. "Feel it inside me. I can hear it too, it speaks to me. Soon..." Saruline trailed off and Dumar stood once again.
Looking into Grethron's eyes, Dumar could see the pain and sadness etched into the old necromancer's face and wondered again what the old man had not said about himself.
A silence fell over the throne room, the sounds of servants and porters died away and Dumar turned to see three figures escorted by numerous Royal Guards.
Judging by their attire and bearing, Dumar assumed, this must be the royal family, or what remained of it.
The older woman of this new trio was pale skinned and round faced with a light dusting of freckles across her cheeks and nose. Red-auburn curls had been piled on top of her head and held in place with emerald encrusted golden combs.
Dressed in a floor length gown of deepest black with a simple string of pearls at her throat, it was her manner and demeanour that projected her royal status rather than her attire.
The ice blue eyes that looked out from her face missed nothing. Dumar followed her gaze as it flicked around her throne room, even as she made her way towards her dying son. Although this must have been an emotional moment for her, the queen remained stoically straight faced as she took in the scene before her throne.
"Grethron!" Saruline called to the old man, "Promise me... Promise me you will protect mother... Soon..." The prince trailed off, apparently oblivious to the presence of the queen.
"Be assured, Sar, that is the reason for my return," Grethron comforted in a quiet voice, "Be calm now."
Dumar could actually see the point at which the prince's consciousness was ripped away and the horror of the creature in his chest gained control. Saruline's eyes were half lidded, pain filled orbits one moment, changing into hate filled, and bloodshot orbs the next.