Heirs of the Gods

Ch 58: Callan the Cruel

Warnings: Blood, strong language, mentions of death and violence.

Change of POV chapter! Heads up to avoid confusion.

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It was often said that King Torin Eagan was the spitting image of his son, the deposed Prince Aedion.

It was easy to see why anyone would say that. Like all his sons, Aedion had inherited his father's ink spill hair and towering height, as well as the same strong build. But as far as Callan was concerned, that's where all similarities ended.

Where Aedion was all cunning smoothness and mischief, King Torin was flint. Eyes black like burning coal, shiny like blood on glass. He lacked the curiosity and fervour Aedion had, the deliberately unhurried nature of his moves. King Torin wasn't like his sly son; he was a barbarous man.

Torin the Vicious, they called him. Three brothers he'd taken down to rise to power, slaughtered them like lambs from limb to limb with his infamous sword, Kingmaker. He'd strung their bodies up like wreaths for weeks, skulls impaled on spears for all to gather round and see; there was a new King on the throne, and anyone who dared defy him would face his wrath.

Evidence of that savagery still decorated the man sat in front of Callan. From his fur-lined crimson robes, to the heavy gold circlet on his horned head, the crowning jewel was still his scar. A gruesome scar ran down the left side of his face, striking across his eyebrow, down his eye, marring the inner part of his cheek. He wore it proudly, the proof of his ruthlessness.

Torin's mouth turned up at the corners, a sharp sort of smile that didn't reach his eyes. "It's good to see you, my friend. How was the trip?"

"Uneventful," Callan answered blandly. Torin was not one for small talk, that was the only thing they could agree on. He would spare them both the tedious formalities. "I can't seem to say the same for you. You seem rather busy."

His long-winded ceremonial trip to the mountaintop palace was graced by a view of non-stop carts full of artillery, troops of men coming and going from the palace, a great movement of animals and people. Preparations for whatever Torin was planning were well underway.

"Indeed we are. Wintertime, arrangements for the colder months, you know how it is," he said flippantly, not even bothering to lie properly, as he snapped his fingers and a server came running to him. "Serve our guests first," he barked.

The thin wraith boy muttered his apologies and tottered over to the other side of the table, where Callan and Zella sat, flanked by their guards.

Callan raised a hand. "No, thank you. I'm here for business."

Torin tutted. "I forget you are too serious, old friend. There's nothing that can't be spoken over good dwarven wine." He inclined his head towards Zella, a wry grin on his scarred face. "And for the Lady?"

"No, thank you, Your Majesty. My priestess vows do not allow me to imbibe drink."

"Of course," Torin nodded blandly, much more interested in swirling his chalice full of wine. "The Gods don't allow for drink or for merriment. Such shame."

Zella said nothing. She remained placid, elegant hands folded on her lap, expression serene as ever.

"We are pleased to receive you, as always. Although, I must ask. You come speaking of business, you bring only your High Priestess. I would have thought Your Majesty would bring more courtiers. Generals, chancellors at least."

This was spoken by the man flanking King Torin on his right side. Crown Prince Ciaran.

Much like his father, his dark head of hair was topped by a simple golden circlet and viciously sharp horns that protruded from the sides of his skull. His gaze, dark like Torin's, was cold. detached. He barely seemed to breathe.