a little more juju

When Sturen Tollak exited the makeshift throne room, he was beaming with satisfaction. Not even the dank abandoned prison, once used to house and torture dissidents, could dampen his mood.

“Good news, then?” asked Martinu Gregers, his second-in-command, as he fell into step with Sturen. He’d been standing at attention outside the door for over an hour, but he didn’t seem too bothered by it. Very little bothered him.

Sturen’s eyes sparkled, which brought a chuckle to Gregers’ throat.

With all the tragedy the last day had brought the family, only something as wonderful as what just happened could elicit such a response.

“We need to start preparations,” Sturen ordered. “As quickly as possible. We don’t know how much time we’ll have.”

“How many shall I ready?” Gregers laced his fingers together behind his back. “Volunteers may be hard to come by.”

“Then perhaps they should not be given the option.” He could tell by Gregers’ smirk that this pleased him. His amorality had served Sturen well, as he could just give Gregers an objective and leave all ethical culpability with him.

“For Hakon,” said Gregers, bowing his head sharply and heading of toward the other end of the complex.

Sturen had been using this old prison as a base of sorts for nearly twenty years after he’d inherited leadership of the family, although the last time he’d personally set foot in it was the day after his youngest daughter’s birth, and she was seven now. Gregers had been the only constant resident, and the solitude had driven him somewhat mad. He’d never been fully sane, of course, but he was loyal and determined. He knew the twists and turns of the labyrinth prison better than anyone else, so whenever there was a need for a hideout, Sturen would turn to Gregers.

He looked to the ceiling as a droplet of condensation splatted on the stone floor. Above him was the water purification factory on the surface of Ust-Kurts, where his own father once worked. The old man had even died there, trying to fix one of the many faulty valves. In fact, Sturen had grown up less than five blocks away from the factory, right at the entrance of the slums, where a fence blocked the view of the businessmen, travelers, and wealthy visitors that were headed underground to where the elite resided. The underbelly of Ust-Kurts, oddly above ground, was his lifeblood, even if he now lived deep in the mountain, his house built into the rock in between two royals. After fifteen years of sending his children to the same schools, worshiping at the same temples, they still looked down on him, suspecting foul play on his part to achieve such success, and they were not entirely incorrect in doing so. Thus, he kept his distance, locking himself in one of the many insulated rooms in his house. It never felt like home, although he was more than appreciative of the luxuries that came with such a life.

For nearly six weeks, Sturen had avoided coming to the prison but had been issuing orders from his underground home, nearly a mile under the mountain. There had been some criminal activity in which he was not involved, and he didn’t necessarily want to be bothered by the dogged police, who would arrest him solely on suspicion of wrongdoing. But when he had heard of Hakon’s death, he knew he would have to take matters into his own hands. He was Sturen’s blood brother.

Sturen had to speak to her.

Although he had offered the woman – at least, he thought she was a woman – better habitation, she seemed charmed with the crumbling prison cafeteria, remarking on its open floor plan. She’d had him order his men to completely renovate the room at a breakneck pace, although none complained. None thought to do so. In fact, many volunteered for extra shifts, just to earn her praise. They feared her. He couldn’t remember when she had arrived, but a part of him knew that she hadn’t always been in Ust-Kurts. It mattered little, since she owned him, body and soul. Sturen was afraid of her, like his men, but also in awe. It was not a lust like he had for the many working girls he’d bedded or the admiration he held for his wife of twelve years. It wasn’t love, he didn’t think, but it was the closest word he could devise. He barely dared use her name: Hara. And when he had approached her earlier, it was with a bowed head.

“It’s a Legion,” he had said to her, unable to look directly at her golden eyes.

“You let this get out of hand, my dear Sturen,” she sang. He loved how she said his name, even more sweetly than his mistress.

“I know, my lady,” he had stammered, “but for me to correct it, I need more … of them.”

She giggled. “I’m not sure I can spare any others. After all, the Hakon was my strongest. If the Legion can defeat him, then what else can the others do?”

Sturen had allowed himself to glance up at Hara, who twirled her platinum blond hair around the palest finger he’d ever seen. Her dress, made of the finest gold silks in Ust-Kurts, draped over her thin frame, so fragile that he feared she might break.

“But my lady …”

“Hush yourself!” she shouted angrily, all of her frailty disappearing with a violent flash. “This brain of mine can’t think with your endless … prattling!”

Almost as quickly as she’d turned hostile, she stood and clasped her hands together in glee.

“Does this mean you’ll be sending more of your men my way?” She slid toward him and leaned to whisper in his car. “You won’t feel bad when they die, will you?”

Her breath on his neck sent shivers through his entire body.

“No, my lady. Hakon was …”

She grabbed his hair and yanked his head backward, keeping her voice just below a whisper.

“I know. He gave his life out of love for me.” She narrowed her eyes and smiled. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

“He was my brother, my lady,” begged Sturen. “The one who took him from me must pay.”

Hara released her grip on his hair and leaned her head back to laugh.

“It is the Legion’s mandate to destroy what is evil in this world.”

Hakon was not evil, thought Sturen. He just needed to come back to us. To you.

“But I need you and all of your senses,” Hara continued, running her fingers up her body. “And Hakon has left you wanting. So if it’s my permission you’re asking for, I’ll give it to you. But I’ll still need something in return.”

“Anything, my lady,” rasped Sturen. “Whatever you ask.”

“I’ll let you know.”

Hara grabbed his hand and stroked the side of her face with it, then slinked back toward her throne made of bones from the skeletons of long-dead prisoners, the ones she’d had his men dig up from the mass grave under the prison. “Don’t keep me waiting, my love.”