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  Fighter

  MONSTER TAMER BOOK 5

  Isaac Hooke

  Copyright © 2019 by Isaac Hooke

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  www.IsaacHooke.com

  1

  Malem sat on his throne, the crown weighing heavily upon his troubled brow.

  “My emperor, are you listening?” Gregory asked.

  Malem glanced at the orak, who was dressed in a rich livery of red silks, the sleeves and collar outlined in purple ermine. Gregory’s face was green, like a gobling’s, though of the lighter shade most oraks possessed. His eyes were similar to a man’s, except the sclera were green, and the irises yellow. His nose was flat, all nostrils, and upper canines curved down from his open mouth, reaching to his chin. Only a few strands of white hair protruded from his scalp. All oraks had thin, white hair like that—it wasn’t an indication of age.

  Scars crisscrossed the orak’s face, a testament to Gregory’s former life as a soldier. According to eyewitnesses, he had fought bravely in the battle against Vorgon and Denfidal, saving many lives when he singlehandedly took down the biggest mini-Balor on the battlefield. Malem had rewarded Gregory with a new name, and an elevation in position to that of personal servant.

  Though the orak wasn’t currently bound to him, Malem had Broken Gregory at one point, so if the monster ever tried to attack him, it wouldn’t be very hard to Break Gregory again. Malem preferred monsters among his closest servants and advisors, versus men, because at least he could sense and control the former, whereas the latter were complete unknowns to him.

  Malem’s eyes drifted to the long scroll the orak held open in its hands, and shook his head. “Nope. What were we talking about?”

  Gregory frowned. “You have seemed exceedingly distracted of late. What is wrong?”

  “Nothing,” Malem said. “Got a lot on my mind.”

  “Well,” Gregory said. “I was simply proceeding through your agenda for the day.”

  “I know that,” Malem said. “I meant, what item were you reciting? Repeat it.”

  “Yes,” Gregory said. “Well, I was merely saying, after lunch with the ambassador from Fallow Gate, you have an appointment with the mayor of Redbridge. And then, in the afternoon, you’re scheduled to sit down with Aurora and Wendolin.”

  “Such a regimented day,” Malem mused. “How did I fall into this life?”

  “Mmm?” Gregory asked, confused.

  “Never mind,” Malem replied.

  “The palace was only finished two weeks ago, and already you’re getting antsy,” Gwen said from where she was seated beside him. “You are the emperor. You can change the schedule as you deem fit.”

  Malem glanced at her. The green-skinned half gobling had her hair down from her usual ponytail, and it draped across her bare shoulders. Below that, she wore a modest gown of white and blue that complemented her figure. She definitely looked good in a dress.

  She looked good in anything, in fact.

  As a courtesy, he allowed each of his companions to sit on the throne beside him; they alternated, so he had a new face seated beside him every hour. He did this to show them they were all equal in his eyes. They all dined with him for breakfast, lunch and dinner, of course. That was fair, in his eyes.

  They also alternated in his bed, with a different woman joining him every night.

  Variety. The spice of life.

  He had no complaints in the sexual department. None at all. But that could be expected of an emperor.

  Malem nodded, and returned his attention to Gregory. “Aurora and Wendolin, you say?” He rubbed his chin. “Is Wendolin making any progress with her?”

  So far, Aurora hadn’t been very forthcoming about how her powers worked, even when he applied his will and drained her of stamina. She was strong. He would have never Broken her without that magic collar, considering that she was human. So he had tasked Wendolin with befriending her, and learning the secrets of her, and the crystal sword. That weapon had allowed her to slay monsters in waves upon the battlefield, using the stamina it drained to rejuvenate Denfidal.

  Malem had tried to wield the sword himself, but could not. Nor could any of his companions. Brita, who had some skill in identifying items, hadn’t been able to get a read on it.

  Aurora, and her cooperation, were the key to understanding that weapon.

  “She has made some progress, yes,” Gregory said. “However, I believe you personally asked the tree elf the same question yesterday. And the day before. When Wendolin joined you on the throne…”

  “I suppose I did,” Malem said. “Remind me.” Why can’t I remember?

  “Aurora doesn’t try to leap at her and pull out all of the tree elf’s hair anymore,” Gregory said. “I suppose the wooden floor you installed helps: Wendolin has trained Aurora that attempting to jump her is not a wise move, not when the floor can come alive with wooden stakes that will either restrain or inflict pain. Speaking of the latter, Wendolin still hasn’t resorted to torture. If you like, I know a good orak I can recommend, who is skilled in such matters. This orak has all the tools of the trade—teeth pullers, eye clamps, you name it. If you supply a healer, my friend can fill her days with pain. She will break by the end of the week.”

  Malem shook his head. “Don’t you understand, she’s already Broken. She will resist you.”

  Gregory shrugged. “Few can resist what my friend can deliver.”

  “No,” Malem said. “I won’t resort to torture. I’m not the Defiler anymore.” Saying that name sent a shudder down his back. Gwen, too, trembled at the mention of it.

  “After you’re done speaking to Aurora and Wendolin, you’re to meet with the dwarven prospectors from Caverna,” Gregory continued.

  “Caverna…” Malem said. “Yes, that sounds familiar.”

  Gregory nodded. “Timlir told you of them last week, when you were discussing your treasury woes. He offered to send dwarves to contact them, and you agreed. The envoys returned last night with three willing prospectors in tow, and Timlir treated them to a typical dwarven welcome, replete with food, fine wine and mead. When I passed by the dwarven dining hall last night, the debauchery was in full swing.”

  “Yes, I could hear the singing,” Malem said. He frowned. Why couldn’t he remember what these prospectors were going to do for him?

  Seeing his confused expression, Gregory volunteered: “The dwarves are going to help us survey the land we have claimed from the monsters of the Midweald. According to Timlir, Caverna dwarves are the best prospectors in the business—if anyone can unearth the location of valuable mineral resources on our property, it is them. They’ve already told Timlir they expect to find either salt or copper deposits, since the region is known for both. No gold or silver, unfortunately, but there’s still good money to be made.”

  “Ah yes,” Malem said. “Did Timlir give you a hint on what their fees for this discovery service are going to be? Considering how low our treasury is at the moment.”

  “He did, in fact,” Gregory replied. “The dwarven prospectors are willing to offer their services for free, but they’ll be expecting ten percent of any revenues produced from the resultant mines. For life.”

  “Ten percent,” Malem said. “I’ll give them one percent. If that.”

  “That is for you to discuss at the meeting later,” Gregory said.

  “I suppose so,” Malem told the orak. If I remember.

  He listened distractedly as Gregory went through the remaining list of items, and was relieved when the orak saluted and left.


  Malem still had fifteen minutes until his first meeting of the day. He glanced at Gwen, who smiled at him supportively.

  Before she could say anything, he looked away. He gazed at this grand hall, the hall his monsters had built, creatures taken from Vorgon when he had broken free of the demon’s influence. The pillars were not made of fancy marble, but rather bricks and mortar. The Eldritch had created beautiful art and sculptures to decorate the walls, however, and those at least gave the place some semblance of the throne room appropriate to an emperor.

  Still, he was vastly lacking in basic resources. Clothing, for example. The silk that Gregory had worn? That was looted from a merchant caravan along the way home. Malem had realized what his oraks were doing too late, and he managed to intervene before the merchant was slain. Most of the oraks had vanished into the shadows at his arrival, so he wrote the aggrieved merchant a bank deed, postdated by six months, to repay the man. Hopefully by then Malem would have some sort of revenue generating system in place.

  He shook his head.

  It’s such a burden to be an emperor or king…

  He knew this going into the job. Which was why he so vehemently hadn’t wanted it.

  And yet it kind of fell into his lap.

  His gaze drifted toward his personal guard—a group of ten elite orak troops who stood with their pikes resting against the stone floor. Only one of them wielded dark magic, an orak named Rathamias whom Malem had fought with before. Rathamias was really the only orak Malem trusted with magic in his presence. In theory, Rathamias and all of these oraks served directly beneath Ziatrice, as evidenced by the purple and red tunics they wore over their chest armor. In practice, they were his. Still…

  “Sometimes I wonder if they are guarding me,” Malem murmured. “Or keeping me imprisoned.”

  “You can Break them all, to the last orak,” Gwen said. “So it’s definitely not the latter.”

  His eyes moved to the open window on the far side of the hall beyond, where a songbird had alighted. He stared at that bird longingly, remembering earlier days.

  Gwen followed his gaze. “Maybe this life isn’t for you.” Her words were soft. She rested a comforting hand on his.

  “I should be happy,” Malem said. “And yet, why am I so miserable? I’m surrounded by luxury. Beautiful women who’ll have sex with me to my heart’s content. I have power over an army.” He sighed. “And yet, there are so many problems. The stress of wondering how I’m going to pay and feed the men. The stress of dealing with envoys from other realms. And then there’s this.” He waved at his surroundings. “I have to stay here all day, cooped up in a throne room.” He rubbed his forehead. “I miss the forest. The open steppe. Soaring above the clouds on dragon back, or even seeing it through the eyes of a bird.”

  “You were doing that last night, weren’t you?” she said. “On the balcony?”

  He nodded. “I Broke a thrush, sent it flying over the rooftops of the city. Until it was rudely shot down.”

  She shrugged. “Your army has to eat.”

  An orak servant came inside, and offered him a goblet of red wine.

  “Taste it,” Malem told the servant; he made a mental note of how much liquid was in the cup as he did so.

  The orak expected this, and lifted the drink to its lips. When the monster lowered the goblet, Malem noted that the liquid had gone down an appropriate amount.

  Malem accepted the chalice, and waited a few moments to confirm that the orak wasn’t poisoned, and then he took a sip.

  “That’s another stress,” Malem said. “Having to constantly worry about assassins. There could be an Eldritch in the room right now, waiting to strike.”

  “They have no reason to assassinate you, at the moment,” Gwen said. “You treat your men well.”

  “Yes, at the moment,” he told her. “And those are the key words. That changes when the treasury empties.”

  “It won’t,” she said. “The prospectors are going to find a mine. We’ll get through this. And if not, we’ll just have to conjure up a war to keep the men busy.”

  “You’re joking, I hope?” he said.

  She shrugged. “Kind of.”

  He took another sip. “Ziatrice is rubbing off on you.”

  “Maybe,” she said. “But I admit, I kind of like my position, even if you don’t. And I’d definitely hate to see someone else sitting on the throne of this kingdom you’ve carved out of the jungle for yourself.”

  “Even if that someone was appointed by me?” he asked.

  “Well that’s different,” she replied. “That I could handle. I guess I’m trying to say, I don’t want to lose you. I don’t care if you rule from a gilded chair in a room of brick and mortar, or from the seat of a dragon’s back on the open plains. As long as I’m at your side.”

  He smiled. “I appreciate the show of devotion.” He took another sip, and spilled some of the wine across his hands. He lowered the goblet, and was about to wipe the wine away, but he found himself fascinated by the substance. It looked almost like blood, how it flowed down his thumb, to his wrist.

  Spilled blood.

  And, then suddenly, he had the solution to all of his problems.

  Gwen was right. She wanted to manufacture a war? That was the best idea he’d heard all morning.

  Malem glanced at his royal guard. “Muster the dragons. We ride to Redbridge.”

  “Yes, Emperor!” the lead orak, Rathamias, said. He dispatched another orak, who promptly dashed from the room to relay his orders.

  “Redbridge?” Gwen said. “But the mayor is here. You’ll be talking to him this afternoon.”

  “Fuck the mayor,” Malem said. “Fuck them all. We’re going to loot their city, and distribute the spoils among the men. We don’t need mines.”

  The nearby oraks exchanged excited, avarice-filled glances.

  “But you just said—” she pressed.

  “Forget what I said,” he told her. “This solves everything. The treasury problem. My restlessness. The army’s restlessness. You were right to suggest war.”

  “But what about all the innocents who will die?” Gwen said. “Redbridge never really recovered from the toll the war took upon its young men. They won’t be able to defend themselves.”

  “All the easier for me to conquer it,” Malem said. “I’ll tell my troops to be lenient. Those who give up their belongings willingly will be spared. And once the city is sacked, Redbridge will be absorbed into my empire.”

  Gwen rubbed the sides of her temples with both hands. “This can’t be happening. I thought the Defiler is gone?”

  “He is gone,” Malem said. “This is all me.”

  An orak courier dashed into the room. “The dragons are ready!”

  “That was fast,” Malem said. The daily training sessions Solan was putting them through were paying off, then. “And their designated riders?”

  “Loading up as we speak!” the courier said.

  “Good.” He stood, and glanced at Gwen, who remained seated. “Well, are you coming?”

  “Not for this,” she said.

  He shrugged, and hurried from the room.

  He didn’t bother to invite any of his other companions. When their inquiries came, he muted them. He didn’t need them to talk him out of this. The Metals were out hunting for breakfast somewhere. Probably a good thing.

  When he arrived at Breaker Square, the wide plaza in front of the palace was filled with the dragons who had gathered with their riders. A sizable number were missing—presumably hunting, like the Metals. That explained why they had mustered so quickly. Still, there were at least fifty of them. More than good enough for his needs.

  Ziatrice was already there, waiting next to Nemertes. The blue-skinned woman was dressed for battle: magical green and blue corset, skirt of black blades, and her halberd Wither resting over one shoulder. The queen of the night elves wore her hair in a tight ponytail, all the better to reveal her pretty features.

  “
Get back, I’m going to war,” he told Ziatrice darkly. “And I won’t be talked out of it. Tonight, I’ll be having dinner in the main hall of Redbridge, where I’ll be crowned its king.”

  Her face lit up. “Yes! I was wondering when you’d come around. I’m coming with you, of course. I ride with you.”

  He smiled at her. “Finally, someone who can appreciate a bold move, and the rewards that come with it.”

  “Oh, I always appreciate boldness,” she said, her voice taking on a deep, seductive rasp. “And just wait until you see the rewards I’m going to offer you between the sheets tonight.”

  “Can’t wait.” He clambered up the wing of Nemertes.

  “What’s this about war?” the great blue dragon asked. “I’m getting too old for this.”

  “Come on, Big Girl,” Malem told her. “You’re never going to tire of pillaging. You’re a dragon! You live for loot and the thrill of adding to your hoard.”

  “Well, sure,” she said. “But you’re just going to take the spoils of war and distribute them to your men, like you always do. And don’t call me Big Girl.”

  “I give a fair portion to you and the dragons,” Malem said. “While I don’t know where you keep your stashes in the forest, I know you have them.”

  “And you’re not going to find out where!” Nemertes said.

  He sat in the saddle on her back and strapped himself in. Ziatrice joined him, squatting in the spare seat.

  The mayor rushed out onto the square, joined by Xaxia and Wendolin. The bandit and the tree elf wore worried expressions.

  “Rise!” Malem said, before any of them could shout up at him. “Spread the word!”

  Nemertes rose, and barked his orders to the Blues and Blacks in the square with her.

  He felt Wendolin struggling against his will, trying to break through the mental block he’d put on their communications, but she was unable to penetrate.

  He smiled. Weak-minded girl.

  He Broke the Blue Dragon so that he could communicate mentally with her. Even though he had Broken Nemertes many times before, and she ceded willingly, he still felt a drain, given how powerful she was. It wasn’t nearly as bad as it had been the first time, of course.