Stephen C. Satterly, II – Author, Researcher, School Safety Expert Witness

Year 10,231, circa 2022 Earth

Heros, one of two Kings of the Centauri, stood on the viewing stand, watching a platoon of the Royal Guards put through their paces. He was flanked by four members of the Guard, who served as protectors. Not that he needed it. He was large, even by Centauri standards. He stood eighteen hands tall, six feet tall at his withers, with hooves as large as serving platters, and chestnut fur midway up his upright abdomen. He had a full, dark-brown beard, golden eyes, and ears that swept up to a point.

Four lines of ten Royal Guards received random orders from their commander, who stood off to the side. They would turn one way, then the other. At one point, they stopped and began backing up. The exercise was called The Dance, in which they had to move together, with little thought. It emphasized teamwork as an art form.

Heros saw one of the troopers step out of line and pursed his lips. The commander barked an order, and the four lines halted. Another command brought the offending Centaur out of the line, to be replaced by one standing in formation near the commander. The offender stopped in front of the commander and bowed. The commander said something, then called over an older-looking Centaur. The Centaur nodded to the commander, slapped the offending Centaur’s rump, and followed the offender to an obstacle course.

Heros smiled at the older Centaur’s invective. Ah, the memories.

“How is our son doing?” a warm, feminine voice asked. Heros turned to see his wife, Reginae, approaching. She was a hand shorter than Heros, with piebald markings. Her silver hair and eyes marked her as a servant of Athena, as did her armor and mace. A golden laurel, matching Heros’, sat atop her plaited hair.

Heros held out his left hand to her, and she took it as she came alongside him. Heros tried to keep the pride from his voice as he replied, “He is proving he earns his position as Commander. He sees and hears all and instills great discipline in his troops. He knows when to do things himself and when to…” He trailed off as he saw his wife laughing.

Heros snorted and looked back at his son. “Yes… Well, he’s doing just fine.” He smiled, looking ruefully at Reginae. “I suppose I was about to gush.”

Still laughing, she wrapped her arm around his and rested her head on his shoulder. “My love, there was no ‘about to gush.’ It’s fine to be proud. He is a great warrior with his father’s ability to lead!”

They both watched for a while, and Heros grinned as the older centaur returned the now-sweaty Centaur. The younger centaur stood at attention and saluted. The commander called the unit to a halt, turned, and returned the salute. He stepped forward until his face was inches from his subordinate’s. He spoke to him for a moment, then reached up with his right hand, clasped the back of his subordinate’s head, and they touched foreheads. The commander stepped back, and the two saluted again. The subordinate trotted back to his mates, his upper back straight.

Heros saw the older centaur say something to the commander, who turned to look at him and the Queen. The commander reared on his hind legs, brought his right fist to his heart, and bellowed, “HAIL HEROS!” All the other centaurs did the same.

Heros returned the salute, then waved to them. The commander trotted toward them. Reginae stepped away from Heros and stood to his left, cradling her mace in the crook of her right arm. An official approached from Heros’s right, whispered in his ear, and held out a scroll. Heros took the scroll, frowned at its contents, handed it back, and said something to the official, who then left.

By then, the commander had approached Heros and Reginae. He was a hand shorter than his father and had broader shoulders but otherwise was a mirror image of him. He wore the armor of the Royal Guard, including a leather cuirass trimmed in crimson and ceramic-coated steel greaves painted red with deep green trim. He also wore a full-faced steel helm, similarly, coated and painted to match the greaves. An emerald-green crest of hair ran perpendicular to the helm’s midline.

The young Centaur saluted Heros, bowed to Reginae, and said, “Mikhail, my First, said it would be wise to come up to give you a report on the Royal Guard’s status. I concurred.”

Heros returned his salute and replied, “Mikhail is an astute First, Commander. How is the Guard?”

Reginae snorted in exasperation. “For Athena’s sake, Heros! Octavius! Come hug your mother!” Octavius smiled and stepped forward to do just that.

Afterward, he returned to his position before Heros and resumed his report. “We have four Guards with minor training injuries, but all are combat-ready. Two squads are on guard at the Temple of Athena, one in the sanctum and the other outside. Two are on active duty as your guards. Four squads, as you saw, are training, and two are on leave.”

Heros nodded. “So, twenty are on leave, and twenty are on guard at the temple. Recall all Royal Guards from leave and double the temple guard. I just learned that orcs have been seen outside the city walls.”

Octavius started. “Orcs? Just outside the walls? I will carry out your orders immediately!” He saluted, then galloped off toward Mikhail.

Reginae told Heros, “I must go to the Temple to inform my sisters.” Heros nodded, and Reginae galloped off.

Telemachus, Heros’s aide, approached. “Will His Majesty need his armor?”

Heros shook his head. “No, but I will want my sword for now.” Telemachus nodded, left, and returned with it.

He buckled the sword onto Heros’s torso. “I hope Your Majesty won’t need it.”

Heros smiled grimly. “Ares seems to be calling for blood today!”

#

It was mostly silent now, which suited Medrawd. He enjoyed the sound of screaming as much as anyone, but even he had his limits. He admired its stamina, but he had research to do, and its screams were starting to distract him.

Medrawd was tall and muscular. His long black hair framed a slender, handsome face with an aquiline nose, a square chin, and a constant shadow along his jawline. His pale skin made his blue eyes seem to glow.

It floated in the air in front of him. It was inverted and naked, with its upper back facing him and its feet pointing up and away from him. The skin and muscles along its spine had been peeled back with his magic, and his skill was such that there was little blood. Cutting the backs of the vertebrae off took even more skill, as he didn’t want to damage the spinal cord, the object of his research.

He would find an unsuspecting person, usually a woman, expose its spinal cord, and map the nerves. The lack of anesthesia didn’t bother him. He loved a little screaming, and it usually passed out for long periods.

This one was different, which annoyed him. It had passed out again, letting him finally map its nerves. He used a thin metal probe to touch a section of its spine and observe the results. Once it died or he was finished, he drained its life force and dumped it in some out-of-the-way place. He currently had a string of forty victims. This time around, an enterprising journalist dubbed him the “Spinal Tap Killer”. Medrawd was sufficiently annoyed that the journalist became part of his research.

The Behavioral Analysis Unit labeled him as a “highly organized, skilled, psycho-sadist. The truth was, Medrawd was all that, and more.

Fourteen hundred years ago, when he began hunting the progeny of Arthur and his wife, Gwenhyfar, he only killed. He discovered he was thrilled by the hunt, and he learned that the anticipation of the final event was as fulfilling as the killing itself. As the royal descendants went to ground, and thus harder to find, he turned his attention to others.

He would stalk, capture, rape, and kill, drain them of their life force, then cast their bodies aside. That became boring in short order, so he began using physical and psychological torture before killing them. He became very good at it, and at hiding his tracks. A decade earlier, bored with centuries of the hunt, he came up with the idea of conducting experiments on his victims to map the human nervous system. He was very thorough in his research, with extensive notes and a detailed map showing which nerves controlled which muscle groups or sensory inputs.

He thought his efforts were worthy of the Nobel Peace Prize, as if he truly cared for such things.

He leaned forward, pressing the probe against its spine. He glanced at its legs and noticed the telltale twitch. Turning away, he jotted a note in his notebook. When he looked back, he saw it was stirring again, and then he felt a sensation he hadn’t felt in over three hundred years.

The air around him dropped by 60 degrees. His breath clouded in visible steam, and he noticed his victim’s skin tighten and break out in pimples. The back of his neck tingled, and he saw a black line appear in the air to the right of his suspended victim.

What happened next always unsettled him, yet excited him. The black line pulsed, and a glob of black bulged from it. It writhed and stretched, making Medrawd nauseated. It started to look reptilian, with wings spreading behind it, but then began to take the form of a woman. Medrawd steeled himself for what would come next. The woman’s form sharpened, and she was there.

She was as tall as Medrawd. Her skin was pale green, mottled with black. Her hair and eyes were black. Her teeth were pointed, like a shark’s, yet her face and body radiated a stark beauty that always stirred Medrawd. She wore a gossamer dress with moving, opaque patches that both revealed and concealed everything. He felt his manhood harden, and he hated himself for it. He wanted her, hated himself, hated her for making him feel that way, and was hopelessly enthralled by her.

He took a deep breath, and with the cold searing his lungs, he rasped, “Mab, my Queen. How may I serve you?” The black line behind Mab vanished, letting the air warm a little.

Queen Mab looked Medrawd up and down, lingering on his erection. She looked up at him, a cruel smile on her face, and said, “Someday I’ll have to do something about that.”

Medrawd shuddered, recalling what had happened centuries earlier, the last time she’d “done something about it.” He remembered overwhelming sensations of revulsion, pain, and intense pleasure. He dreamed of it every night, which was why he stopped raping people. He kept trying to recreate that moment. He couldn’t, so he gave up.

The words came unbidden from his mouth, followed by a wave of self-loathing. “W-w-why not n-n-now, my Qu-qu-queen?”

Mab leaned her head back and laughed. Waves of cold radiated from her, heightening Medrawd’s revulsion and desire. Mab laughed and came close to him. She ran a finger along his manhood as a forked tongue licked his chin. “Have you found all of Arthur and Gwenhyfar’s progeny, my pet?”

Medrawd swallowed. “N-no, m-my Queen.”

Mab’s talons sank into his manhood, causing Medrawd to gasp in pain and sweat to break out on his face. “Then why are you wasting time playing with non-related prey?” She hissed. “For centuries you’ve hunted their line to near extinction. I found your methods inefficient, but since you were useful in other ways, I let you continue to hunt. But you became distracted, and you made mistakes.”

She leaned in and hissed, “Even as we speak, armed men are outside this place, preparing to burst in and capture you. I would normally enjoy watching your pathetic efforts to handle the situation, but you and I have business in Byd Hud.”

His eyes widened. “You’re taking me there? Yes, my Queen! Of course!” He opened his mouth to say more, but at that moment, the door to the house cracked open, and a canister was tossed inside. The irritated look on his face amused Mab, and her laughter only made him angrier.

With his right hand, he siphoned the life force from his experiment, killing her and causing her body to shrivel. He made a motion with his left hand, freezing the flash-bang grenade mid-explosion.

Six FBI agents in tactical gear entered through three separate doors. Medrawd made the same motion, and all six agents froze. Medrawd bowed to Mab, then approached the nearest agent. The agent’s eyes widened in fear, and they followed Medrawd as he drew near. Medrawd met the agent’s gaze, shook his head, and turned away. As he did, he snapped his right fingers, and the agent’s body vaporized into a red, clumpy mist that hung in the air. He moved through the room, approaching each agent and repeating the process until five clouds of red, meaty mist hovered near each door.

He reached the surviving agent and saw ‘Murphy’ on a nametape beneath his body armor. When he looked into the last agent’s eyes, he saw no fear, only rage. He smiled and whispered, “Good, Murphy. It’s always good to find a warrior among the sheep. You, I’ll let live. You’ll tell people what happened here, and they won’t believe you. They might hospitalize you or put you in prison. Anything but believe the crazy shit you’ll describe. All they’ll know, Murphy, is that your team died gruesome, terrible deaths. You didn’t rescue the victim; you alone survived, and you let the Spinal Tap Killer get away.”

The agent’s fury intensified, and his right hand twitched. Medrawd saw it and said, “Impressive! I’ve only seen one other person with such willpower! I killed him and his wife. You’ll survive, kind of.” He turned and saw Mab run her finger down the back of a leg of his victim. Her nail split the skin, drawing a trickle of blood.

Medrawd sighed and said, “My Queen, playing with your food is beneath you.”

Mab hissed, “No, it’s not.” She used her fingernail to slice a strip of flesh from the dead victim’s thigh and began to eat it as the black line reappeared beside her. She placed one shapely leg into the line, then held out her hand.

Medrawd took her hand and stepped into the blackness. The black line vanished, and five clouds of chunky, red mist splashed across the floor. The woman’s lifeless body collapsed to the ground. The remaining agent dropped to his knees, taking in the chaos.

He raised his clenched fists to the ceiling and yelled, “Mother fuuuuuuuuuuck!”

#

Octavius galloped back to the training ground. Mikhail saw him, sensed the urgency in his gallop, and called for the Guards to form up. They were already in formation when Octavius arrived. They wore light leather armor, carried composite shields emblazoned with a Lambda, wielded longswords, and bore three spears. Each wore a helm with crimson hair along the midline. Octavius briefed Mikhail on what he had learned and what was needed.

Mikhail turned and bellowed, “First-rank Leader, take the first and second squads to the Temple, one squad in the sanctum, the other at the entrance. No one gets in!”

At the right end of the first line, the centaur struck his spear against his shield and shouted, “Follow me!” He galloped toward the Temple of Athena. The rest of the line moved in unison, turning right to follow him.

As they passed Octavius, he said, “We are the spearpoint!”

The Centauri, both those who left and those who stayed behind, yelled in unison, “Ares!”

Octavius turned to Mikhail. “Recall all Centauri from leave. Once assembled, have their Leader take them to the Palace and post them there. Make sure it’s clear that they prevent anyone from entering except the King and the Queen. I’ll join those two squads to guard the Temple entrance. Any questions, First?”

Mikhail saluted. “None, Commander!” He started to turn, then stopped. He called out to Octavius. “Hey, Octavius!”

Octavius turned to him. “Yes, First?”

Mikhail’s grin was feral. “Don’t get dead, boy! Your daddy would gut me!”

Octavius’ grin mirrored Mikhail’s. “Old man, if I get killed, I’ll gut you for training me so poorly!” He turned and galloped toward the Temple. Mikhail’s laughter followed him as a series of three horn blasts sounded, recalling the Centauri from leave.