Dethroned
Cadel walked through the temple entrance with the gentle grace of someone who is well trained in combat and confident in their skill. The rod he held aloft to his side, his ‘sword’ was the standard weapon of the Wardens. Though they appeared to be a rod of metallic black or glistening silver, it was enchanted to perform as if it bore an unbreakable sharp edge, and if the Warden willed it, the properties of intense heat or bitter cold.
Cadel was part of the highest order of Wardens, a veteran of thousands of assignments and two wars. Everyone in the temple knew this. Most were too concerned fighting the others to notice him advance through the battle. The few that did challenge him, were eviscerated with barely a flick of the wrist, without a break in his stride. His attention remained wholly focused on King Concatherra
The King saw him coming. His sword traced the ground as he ran for Cadel, heavy black cloak whipping behind him. Cadel ran as well and barrelled in the air to meet the King’s sword. The clash when one Warden sword hit’s another resounds like a sonic boom, unlike a normal swords metallic clang. The reaction of magic infused weaponry ripping apart the fabric of reality. The combatants that could spare a glance were awed at the sight. Years of training and battle hardened precision were demonstrated in each deflection and parry.
The two twirled out of the way of slashes and walked on air as if it were solid. Each blow carried onto another like the gentle finesse of trickling water, balanced with strikes the force of which would cut stone in half. The King looked to have the upper hand. He swung out before him to slash Cadel’s chest, but he leaned back horizontal to the ground and let the sword pass over him. The King was furious. He let out a magic reinforced kick as Cadel straightened up, and it sent him flying. Cadel recovered mid-air and landed on his feet, and maintaining awareness, flip dodged backwards a split second later as the King fell from the sky, imbedding his sword to the hilt, in the stone where Cadel just stood. He pulled the sword from the stone and continued the battle. Cadel, on the defensive, met each strike, awaiting his chance. The King changed footing, a change Cadel noticed, which made him aware of his next move. The King’s sword took to flame and he unleashed it forward to impale his enemy, but Cadel, a half second ahead of him, parried to one side and separated the Kings head from his body.
A mighty foe, and now a dead one.
The body of King Concatherra sank to its knees. As it fell forward on to the stone, Cadel brought his hand to what was left of the King’s nape, whipping off the blood stained cloak long adorned by those in power. All watched as he turned on the spot and draped it over his shoulders. He placed his sword in front of him, rested both hands on the pommel and looked out at his subjects. One by one they went down on one knee, heads bowed.
Cadel spoke. “High Warden Malrissian”
A bearded middle aged man stood and walked forward “Yes sir?”
“I lay my claim to the throne and sanction the immediate instatement of martial law. Close the city boarders. Round up anyone who puts up a fight and slaughter them publicly. Make the announcement”
High Warden Malrissian bowed his head and started on his way.
The King addressed the kneeling pawns. “My fellows, High Warden Malrissian will need your assistance tonight.” No one moved. Perhaps he wasn’t clear enough. He drew in a breath, the familiar invigoration of magic seeped into his body powering his lungs. “OUT!” he bellowed at an ear splitting volume. The room seemed to shake. Dozens were knocked to the ground and then quickly stood and rushed towards the entrance doors.
King Cadel turned on the spot and walked towards the central stairs, trailing the late King’s blood in his footsteps - staining the stone.