Read Online The Manticore Ascension: A Short Story in the Arena Mode Universe by Blake Northcott - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Blake Northcott
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from mine and stepped off the rock, wading several steps into the shallow water. She didn’t bother to lift the hem of her dress as the river rose past her knees. “He’s coming,” she said without turning to face me. “Right now. I can feel his presence nearing...the humans have a minute. Maybe less.”
I tumbled back to reality, eyes fluttering open. I rubbed them feverishly and stumbled around the interrogation room, disoriented from the journey. “Guys, you need to prepare –” is all I had a chance to say. A shockwave hit the castle, so powerful that the room trembled.
“What the fudge?” Drake shouted, craning his neck towards the ceiling.
“He’s here,” I shouted. “Taktarov is inside.”
Chapter Nine
By the time we arrived in the throne room it had been occupied by a small army. Soldiers in crimson armor with inky black visors stood in perfect formation, spanning the width of the expansive hall. They’d blasted their way in through the roof; five stories above us the night sky was visible though the gaping wound, still raining bricks and panes of glass from the ragged edges.
In front of the red army stood their leader. I’d seen him less than a day ago, but the man before me had aged three decades. Sergei Taktarov was still impossibly lean and muscular, the contours of his heavily–muscled frame visible through his body suit. That much hadn’t changed, and neither had his fashion sense: flowing white cape, the grey and white outfit, matching boots and gloves – he still looked as iconic as he had the moment Arena Mode began. But his wave of blond hair was now cropped and streaked with grey, his beard peppered with silver.
“This kingdom,” Taktarov declared, his thick Russian accent booming throughout the chamber, “can celebrate a new King.”
“Never,” Drake screamed, raising his sword in challenge from across the room. “He’ll never bend the knee to one of you filthy, lowborn animals.” We were in the threshold of a doorway probably two hundred feet away, and – at least for the moment – out of harm’s reach.
Drake stepped forward as if he were about to break into a sprint and Dawson reached out, clutching his shoulder. We were outnumbered at least thirty to one, and that wasn’t counting Taktarov, who, most likely, was more powerful than the entire Manticore Uprising put together.
“Won’t bend the knee?” Taktarov sneered, turning towards his army with hands spread wide. A chorus of laughs roared throughout his followers. “I think we can convince him.”
The throne room’s main entrance slid open to reveal King Lehmann, battered and bloodied, being dragged by two red soldiers. They dropped him at Taktarov’s boots.
“On your feet,” Taktarov shouted, yanking the King by his bathrobe. “I want you kneeling to signify your surrender, not because you are too weak to stand.”
“Never,” the King coughed, barking a spatter of blood into his palm.
“We are not here for a slaughter,” Taktarov announced. “We are here because you’ve taken something from us. Return it and no one needs to die.”
“This kingdom was never yours,” the King replied wearily.
The Russian clutched Lehmann by the jaw, lifting him until he stood on his toes. “Don’t be coy, ‘King’. You know I am not talking about your precious kingdom. You know exactly what I’m searching for.”
“The vial,” I whispered. “He wants the blood.”
Taktarov’s head snapped to the side, eyes locked on mine from across the room. His may have aged, but his hearing, apparently, was just as super as ever. “What do you know of it?” he thundered.
I couldn’t let this continue. “I think they have it.”
“Shut your mouth, wench!” the King shouted, still being elevated by Taktarov.
I grabbed two fistfuls of my hair and bent at the waist, screaming out in frustration. “Argh! What is it with all this ‘wench’ crap? I’m trying to save your life here –
I tumbled back to reality, eyes fluttering open. I rubbed them feverishly and stumbled around the interrogation room, disoriented from the journey. “Guys, you need to prepare –” is all I had a chance to say. A shockwave hit the castle, so powerful that the room trembled.
“What the fudge?” Drake shouted, craning his neck towards the ceiling.
“He’s here,” I shouted. “Taktarov is inside.”
Chapter Nine
By the time we arrived in the throne room it had been occupied by a small army. Soldiers in crimson armor with inky black visors stood in perfect formation, spanning the width of the expansive hall. They’d blasted their way in through the roof; five stories above us the night sky was visible though the gaping wound, still raining bricks and panes of glass from the ragged edges.
In front of the red army stood their leader. I’d seen him less than a day ago, but the man before me had aged three decades. Sergei Taktarov was still impossibly lean and muscular, the contours of his heavily–muscled frame visible through his body suit. That much hadn’t changed, and neither had his fashion sense: flowing white cape, the grey and white outfit, matching boots and gloves – he still looked as iconic as he had the moment Arena Mode began. But his wave of blond hair was now cropped and streaked with grey, his beard peppered with silver.
“This kingdom,” Taktarov declared, his thick Russian accent booming throughout the chamber, “can celebrate a new King.”
“Never,” Drake screamed, raising his sword in challenge from across the room. “He’ll never bend the knee to one of you filthy, lowborn animals.” We were in the threshold of a doorway probably two hundred feet away, and – at least for the moment – out of harm’s reach.
Drake stepped forward as if he were about to break into a sprint and Dawson reached out, clutching his shoulder. We were outnumbered at least thirty to one, and that wasn’t counting Taktarov, who, most likely, was more powerful than the entire Manticore Uprising put together.
“Won’t bend the knee?” Taktarov sneered, turning towards his army with hands spread wide. A chorus of laughs roared throughout his followers. “I think we can convince him.”
The throne room’s main entrance slid open to reveal King Lehmann, battered and bloodied, being dragged by two red soldiers. They dropped him at Taktarov’s boots.
“On your feet,” Taktarov shouted, yanking the King by his bathrobe. “I want you kneeling to signify your surrender, not because you are too weak to stand.”
“Never,” the King coughed, barking a spatter of blood into his palm.
“We are not here for a slaughter,” Taktarov announced. “We are here because you’ve taken something from us. Return it and no one needs to die.”
“This kingdom was never yours,” the King replied wearily.
The Russian clutched Lehmann by the jaw, lifting him until he stood on his toes. “Don’t be coy, ‘King’. You know I am not talking about your precious kingdom. You know exactly what I’m searching for.”
“The vial,” I whispered. “He wants the blood.”
Taktarov’s head snapped to the side, eyes locked on mine from across the room. His may have aged, but his hearing, apparently, was just as super as ever. “What do you know of it?” he thundered.
I couldn’t let this continue. “I think they have it.”
“Shut your mouth, wench!” the King shouted, still being elevated by Taktarov.
I grabbed two fistfuls of my hair and bent at the waist, screaming out in frustration. “Argh! What is it with all this ‘wench’ crap? I’m trying to save your life here –
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