Mad Queen, page 16
Strix's expression shifted again, from grief to sharp tactical attention. "The agreement is void? Shall I assemble assault flights to recover Falias and Avalyeth then, Your Majesty?”
“As a show of mercy, I granted them six months to prepare for resumed hostilities."
Strix was quiet for several moments, his tactical mind working through rapid calculations. "Your Majesty, six months won't provide sufficient time to significantly expand our forces. We can redistribute existing assets and perhaps accelerate some construction projects, but any meaningful increase in our capabilities would require at least a year."
“Whatever plans you had made to increase our capabilities, scale them back,” Morgana replied. “We have what we need to retake Avalyeth and Falias, and whatever meager worlds or stations the Daeardrayke manages to liberate in that time. Most of them don’t even have proper warships, and with no time to build them, there’s nothing they can do to challenge our forces.”
"Agreed, Your Majesty.”
They had reached the intersection that led toward her personal chambers. Morgana paused, considering the additional measures that would be necessary to restore absolute control over her forces.
"There are other matters we need to address immediately," she said, fixing Strix with her penetrating gaze. "I want news of Turquine's death spread throughout the fleet as quickly as possible. Every captain, every crew member, every support personnel should know that his rebellion has been crushed and his promises of evolution revealed as lies."
"Of course, Your Majesty. That will help stabilize any remaining loyalties that might have been wavering."
"More than that," Morgana continued, her voice taking on a dangerous edge. "I want every officer and soldier who showed even the slightest sympathy for Turquine's cause identified and executed. There will be no more dissent in my military, no matter how minor it might seem."
Strix nodded grimly, recognizing the necessity of such harsh measures even if they would prove distasteful to implement. "I'll have Intelligence compile a comprehensive list within the week. Anyone who expressed support for Turquine's ideology will be dealt with."
"Good." Morgana resumed walking, her mind already moving to the next item on her list of priorities. "I also want increased security protocols for all senior staff. Make it clear that betrayal will be detected and punished without mercy."
"Understood. Is there anything else?"
Morgana paused, a new thought crystallizing as she considered the broader implications of recent events. Her expression darkened as she contemplated the role that magic had played in her losses.
"Actually, yes," she said slowly, her voice carrying a note of cold calculation that made Strix tense. "I want every remaining magical academy across the empire identified and burned to the ground—their teachers executed, their students disbanded, their libraries destroyed completely."
The declaration drew visible shock from Strix, his scarred features showing confusion mixed with concern. "Your Majesty? I know you’ve always wished to diminish magic in the galaxy, but perhaps that may be a little too extreme? There are still benefits to be derived from—”
"No." The single word carried absolute finality. "I want nothing more to do with magic or those who practice it. Magic killed my son, Strix. It also gave that boy the power to destroy everything I held dear."
She noticed a slight twitch in Strix’s snout and wondered if the thought had crossed his mind that she would keep her own magic while destroying all others. Halvy only held so much power because of the nanites she had driven Trilthan to create. The boy was her creation. It was one of the reasons she had thought perhaps to claim him as her son, now that Mordred was gone.
"I would gladly return to the Wastes and obliterate the source of all magic if I could," she added quietly.
"Your Majesty, you do have the coordinates from your recent journey," Strix pointed out. "The navigation data could be used to—"
Morgana's bitter laugh cut him off once more. "Those coordinates were good for exactly one transit, and Nimue certainly won't provide new ones now that she's gotten what she wanted from me."
"What she wanted?"
"My participation in Klingsor's defeat," Morgana explained. "Nimue manipulated me into joining that alliance just as surely as she manipulated Arthur into creating his precious Round Table. The witch plays games that span centuries, and I was merely another piece moved across her board."
Strix absorbed this revelation in thoughtful silence before nodding. "I'll begin implementing your orders immediately."
"See that you do. I want everything ready within the month." She turned toward her personal chambers, her mind already shifting to the private preparations she would need to make. "Handle the executions personally, General. I want no doubt about the consequences of disloyalty."
"Of course, Your Majesty.”
"I'll be in my suite," she replied, already moving away. "I have my own preparations to make."
The journey to her quarters also felt longer than usual, familiar corridors stretching endlessly as her mind processed everything that had transpired. Palace staff knelt and turned their throats to her as she passed, showing the reverence and fear that her presence always commanded.
When the doors to her suite finally opened, she was greeted by the devastation she had left behind in her grief-stricken rage. Furniture lay overturned and splintered, crystal decorations had been reduced to glittering fragments across the floor, and the carefully maintained elegance that had once defined her private space had been replaced by chaos that perfectly reflected her inner turmoil.
She stood in the doorway for a moment, taking in the scope of destruction. It looked exactly like she felt inside—broken, shattered, irreparably damaged.
"Servants," she called, her voice echoing into the corridors.
Within moments, a small group of Ursan staff appeared at the entrance, their faces carefully blank as they processed the magnitude of destruction before them. She could smell their fear as they waited for her commands.
"Clean this up," she said, settling into the one chair that had survived her rampage. "All of it. I want every fragment removed, every piece of furniture replaced, every surface restored to perfection."
"Yes, Your Majesty," the head servant replied, a middle-aged Ursan woman whose hands and voice trembled as she spoke. "We'll begin immediately."
Morgana watched them work with growing disdain, her contempt for non-Draconite species intensifying with each passing minute. They scurried about like insects—weak, pathetic creatures who existed only to serve their betters—desperate to avoid drawing her attention while they restored order to the chaos she had created. Their very existence irritated her.
Once, she might have felt some measure of sympathy for their plight. Mordred had often reminded her that they too were half-Ursan, while arguing that effective rule required a certain degree of benevolence toward one's subjects. Not mercy, exactly. Rather, a measure of patience. But now that Mordred was gone, and with him any reason to restrain the darker impulses that had always lurked beneath her imperial facade.
The cleaning proceeded, the servants working in silence, communicating through gestures and fearful glances rather than risk drawing her ire with unnecessary noise. They swept broken crystal into disposal containers, moved furniture from different rooms throughout the palace, and damaged surfaces were polished with fearful efficiency until her quarters gleamed like new.
When the last of them finally departed, Morgana rose from her chair and moved toward the massive windows that overlooked Hreth's cityscape that spread across the mountains. Her domain. Her empire. Everything she had spent a century building through conquest, intimidation, and ruthless pragmatism.
The sight should have brought satisfaction, should have reminded her of the power she still wielded despite recent losses. Instead, it only emphasized the emptiness that Mordred's destruction had carved into her heart. All this magnificence, all this authority, and for what? Who would inherit it when she finally passed into death? Who would carry on the legacy she had forged through decades of struggle?
The questions brought fresh waves of pain that she tried to suppress, but alone in her chambers with no meaningful reason to maintain her composure, the grief finally broke through her carefully constructed barriers. Tears flowed freely down her scaled cheeks while her shoulders shook with the force of sobs that carried all the anguish she refused to show publicly.
For long minutes, she allowed herself to feel the full weight of her loss, but even as grief consumed her, another emotion burned alongside it with equal intensity. Rage. Pure hatred for those responsible for her suffering. The Daeardrayke who had failed to protect her son despite his promises of alliance. The boy wizard who had deliberately destroyed everything precious in her life. The galaxy itself that had conspired to take away the only being she had ever truly loved. They would all pay. Every single one of them would suffer as she suffered now, their hopes crushed as thoroughly as hers had been.
As her tears gradually subsided, Morgana finally straightened and wiped her eyes with deliberate care. Her moment of weakness was over, banished as completely as she could manage. What remained was purpose, cold and implacable as the darkness between stars.
She wasn't the same woman who had ruled through calculated mercy for over a century. Losing Mordred had changed something fundamental in her nature, stripping away the last vestiges of compassion that had once tempered her. What emerged from that transformation was something harder, more ruthless, and more determined than ever to maintain control over everything she had built.
The Daeardrayke thought six months would give him time to build a coalition capable of challenging her forces. He was about to discover just how wrong that assumption was.
Her eyes blazed with renewed intensity as an idea took shape, growing from vague impulse into actionable strategy. She had promised Sir Dragon six months.
But her promise began and more importantly ended with him.
CHAPTER 18
Sir Ironside’s shuttle emerged from burst space into Alorion's gravity well, starlight painting the hull in silver strokes as the small world ahead resolved into detail. Ironside studied the planet through the viewscreen—the geometric sparkle of cities against continents of green and brown and the thin tracery of orbital installations catching sunlight like tiny stars—all familiar patterns of an inhabited world.
It was exactly as he'd expected. A modest world with the blue-white atmosphere of a planet that had maintained its water and oxygen for millions of years. The population centers clustered near major rivers and coastal regions, connected by the faint lines of transportation networks, spoke of a well-established Ursan civilization.
Closer to him, standard commercial orbital lanes guided vessels to ground-based spaceports, while a handful of defense platforms maintained lazy patrols around the planet's equator. Nothing impressive, but enough to enforce authority.
The sensor display showed approximately two dozen vessels—cargo haulers, passenger transports, and a few small, private craft—around him. A single Draconite warship maintained station near the largest orbital defense platform, its bulk sufficient to discourage any thoughts of unauthorized departure among the civilian population.
Ironside waited for the inevitable hail from orbital control, preparing plausible explanations for his presence. Merchant captain seeking cargo opportunities. Private courier delivering sensitive communications. Passenger transport requiring refueling and maintenance. Each story came with its own risks and complications, but any would serve better than admitting his true identity or circumstances.
Minutes passed. The shuttle continued its approach, crossing the boundary where any competent traffic control system would demand identification and flight authorization.
Still nothing.
He checked the comms, confirming they were operational. Yet they remained silent.
Strange.
The shuttle crossed into the upper atmosphere, jostled a little by thin winds as it descended uncontested toward the primary spaceport. Ironside adjusted his heading to follow the designated approach vector, still expecting challenge or inquiry from ground control. The radio crackled with automated landing instructions, beacon frequencies, and weather updates, but no direct communication addressed his particular vessel.
Perhaps they recognized Turquine's shuttle and chose discretion over confrontation. The enhanced Draconite's reputation for violence was well-established throughout the galaxy. Local garrison commanders might prefer to avoid unwanted attention from someone of his stature. It was a reasonable explanation, though one that created new complications for Ironside's plans.
A shuttle this distinctive would be impossible to trade or sell without raising awkward questions. The hull configuration alone would identify it to anyone with knowledge of Draconite military design, the modifications possibly linking it directly to Turquine. He would need to abandon the vessel entirely, forfeiting any value it might have provided to help him reach his goals.
The spaceport spread below him like a metallic flower, landing pads arranged in concentric circles around a central tower that coordinated traffic and services. Ironside selected an empty pad near the facility's base, hoping to minimize exposure to curious observers while he gathered information about local conditions and opportunities.
The landing was uneventful. Magnetic clamps engaged with a metallic thunk that resonated through the shuttle's frame, while status lights confirmed successful docking. Ironside powered down the shuttle's systems and prepared to disembark. He had escaped Kheir-Lossan with nothing but Lancelot’s skin, armor, and sword, though it lacked whatever gem was normally mounted in the handle. A soul stone, he assumed. He had gathered a few things from the ship he believed might be worth a few gold pieces, but he’d originally hoped to barter the ship itself. He chided himself for that line of thinking. Hope wasn’t a strategy. Lancelot’s consciousness perhaps trying again to sneak through his will.
He activated the airlock and approached the hatch, cycling it open. Alorion's afternoon sunlight greeted him, leaving him momentarily blinded as his vision adjusted to the natural illumination.
“Sir Turquine!” a sharp voice called out. “My Lord. You honor us with your arrival. Have you come to lead us to perfect evolution?”
Ironside realized the six Draconite soldiers—from their simple armor likely to be part of the planet’s garrison—waiting to greet Turquine had yet to make out that he wasn’t Turquine at all. They were looking up at him from the base of the shuttle’s ramp, the bright light shining directly in their eyes. They were forced to squint, all of them shading their eyes with their hands.
Strangely, their sidearms were holstered, not to mention they had greeted him with adoration. Why would they admire an oath-breaker? A traitor?
He started down the ramp, his hand resting on the grip of Lancelot’s sword. He could sense the Arthurian knight’s ready vigilance within their shared body. For once, he and the ancient knight agreed on something.
These beings were the enemy.
Their leader—a sergeant with bronze scales and ritual scarification marking his left cheek—watched him, his vertical pupils narrowing as he finally recognized the face of Ironside's acquired body. "You’re not...that's Sir Lancelot!"
The other soldiers froze for a crucial heartbeat, their minds struggling to process the impossibility of seeing Arthur's most legendary knight emerging from Turquine’s shuttle. Confusion rippled through their formation as they tried to reconcile what they were seeing.
"Kill him!" the sergeant roared, his hand snapping toward his holstered weapon.
Energy weapons whined to life as the squad responded to their leader's command, but their movements carried the clumsy urgency of soldiers caught completely off-guard. Hands fumbled for weapon grips while perplexed looks darted between one another, showing uncertainty of how to proceed against the legendary knight.
Ironside didn't slow. Didn't seek cover behind the shuttle's bulk or landing gear. Instead, he drew his sword, the blade singing as it cleared its sheath in one fluid motion.
The first soldier's weapon had barely cleared its holster when Ironside reached him, the sword's edge opening his throat in a spray of dark blood. The Draconite collapsed backward, his unfired weapon clattering across the landing pad as his scaled hands clutched at the gushing wound.
The second soldier managed to raise his energy rifle, but his shot went wide as panic destroyed his aim. Ironside's blade sank into his chest, punching through armor plating to find the beating heart beneath. He died before he could pull his weapon’s trigger a second time.
The remaining four soldiers instinctively spread out, trying to create distance and establish overlapping fields of fire. Their movements were predictable, textbook responses that Ironside had countered countless times in previous conflicts. Worse, their shots continued to miss as intimidation overwhelmed training.
They were facing Sir Lancelot in close combat, or what appeared to be Sir Lancelot, the legendary knight whose sword work had inspired songs and stories throughout the galaxy. The warrior had stood at Arthur's side during the empire's golden age. Their conscious minds knew he was an enemy, but deeper instincts whispered that challenging such a figure was madness.
“Cowards!” Ironside roared. “You choose guns over swords? You have no honor! You deserve to die!”
The third soldier's energy bolt seared off Ironside’s armor at the shoulder, leaving nothing more than a mark on his armor. The shooter's hands shook, his breathing rapid and shallow as fear contaminated his motor control. Ironside's sword slit his throat before he could steady his aim.
Two of the last three soldiers standing fired simultaneously. Their shots converged on empty space as Ironside danced between the energy bolts, each one telegraphed seconds before execution. Lancelot's enhanced reflexes made their attacks seem sluggish.
