Sample

Prologue

Through ancient stained-glass windows, insipid green shafts of light gave the Murkmyrian Royal High Command’s court-room meagre illumination. It was the most you could expect from Glöamgasp - planet Murkmyre’s faint, apathetic sun. Jade and black banners carrying the Empire’s ancient insignia - a wasp-headed dragon - hung from immense columns of Gravelosian stone that rose from the marbled floor like rough-hewn mountains, their peaks forming spires so high they were almost beyond sight.
   The clacking of heels and thud of heavier feet could be heard approaching the lofty, cathedral-like hall by those assembled within it, followed by the thud-and-creak of hefty doors being heaved open. High above, Vorpidian screechvultures hopped and fought with each other between the majestic court-room’s rafters, nonchalantly watching the events unfurl and occasionally dropping their foul waste on to those gathered and standing below. Burly Heklan security guards ushered the prisoner into this dank, gothic chamber to hear his sentence; their charred, crust-like skins flaking ash on to the stone floor.
   Supreme Galactic Empress Neurosia chaired the proceedings, solemn and expressionless. Above her, an immense sculpture of Groboth-Grippa - the Murkmyrians’ god of taking from others - floated in mid-air, thanks to seventy gravitron pod supports keeping it airborne. The claws of the deity-sculpture held two enormous spheres firmly in their grasp; it was a potent symbol of Murkmyre’s grip on the people of the galaxy. Such effigies could be found in every city on every habitable planet; unnecessary reminders of the Empire’s dominance over the inhabited planets’ subjects.
   To the Supreme Galactic Empress’s right, on a slightly lower throne, sat her husband - Galactic Emperor Pusillanima. Both he and the Empress wore gravity-defying coronets and identical black, hand-spun silk robes - made from the webs of deadly Nocturnian eekbugs.
   A pair of snakedrakes - indigenous to planet Murkmyre - were perched to their right; vicious, flying reptiles that the monarchy used on their mire-hunts. Below the Galactic rulers were row after row of Pleetaygian clerks and officials - priggish little bureaucrats consumed with the need to record all that transpired. They bustled and busied themselves with their forms, documentation and paperwork.
   In her hand the Empress carried a staff topped with a replica of the fabled Darkstar of Glümdyyk gemstone - the absence of the original was one of the reasons she was about to pass judgement on the prisoner. The other reason had made all those gathered nauseous throughout the hearing of evidence; opposite sat many members of the Murkmyrian, Vespirian and Venomosian royal families. At least, those that had survived the other reason. The Supreme Galactic Empress wasted no time in delivering judgement.
   ‘Voltron Subterfugius Murkmyre XXI; Black Prince of Murkmyria, ShadowLord of Morassos, Doomslayer of Detritia, Fate-Raven of Repugnox. Fourth in line to the Murkmyrian throne. My son. I have found you guilty of being responsible for The Apocrita Debacle.’
   She paused to allow the assembled to groan when she said those last three words. Many of the assembled royals beat at their heads and wrung their hands in dismay. There were even some screams and wails before she continued.
   ‘And I have found you guilty of the treacherous theft of the legendary Darkstar of Glümdyyk. My Darkstar of Glümdyyk. Guilty. Guilty. Guilty!’ Murmurs of appreciation were audible amongst the court-room throng at the Empress’s verdict.
   Prince Voltron’s personal slave - simply named Plip - was also there. A female Feeboid, she had served her master all her life - and mostly without his gratitude. The underling had managed to slip into the High Command’s court-room to hear the sentence being passed. Plip knew her fate was tied to his; she knew she wouldn’t be able to understand all that was being said, but also knew it’d be best to be there. She skulked in the shadows, behind one of the enormous stone columns, listening as best she could. The Empress continued to address her son, her voice in no need of amplification as it boomed and echoed around the hall. 
   ‘... As full well you know, I casually issue the death penalty for any crime against the Murkmyrian Empire. In your case, Voltron, many in this room would find death too light a punishment - such has been our great family’s suffering. Our lesser cousins from the worlds of Vespiria and Venomos have also endured much pain because of your actions.’
   The Prince sighed and rolled his eyes as the Supreme Galactic Empress rose from her throne before continuing. She was getting into ‘full-flow’ now, he noticed; ‘working the audience’ with theatrical hand gestures and well-timed delivery of her lines. Her voice danced and skipped over each phrase; one moment she would boom, sounding majestic and terrible, the next she would squeak with the cutesy-treacly voice of a spoilt child. From the slight wobble in her walk, Voltron also suspected she’d been drinking distilled paste-slug juice again. One thing he and most of the others assembled were absolutely certain of was her utter insanity.
   ‘... However, I am Empress of the known galaxy, which means I can pretty much do whatever I want. And Voltron, you are my child ...’ She walked up to him and curled her lengthy claw-like hands around his jaw, before giving it a playful slap.
   ‘... Which means I can pretty much do whatever I want to you.’
   Voltron yawned in her face; his mother did have a sense of the melodramatic. Anytime this millennia she may actually get round to finishing her monologue, dishing out the penalty and finally shutting up. He squirmed a little in his seat; the ‘affliction’ he’d recently acquired was giving him considerable grief again, but he wasn’t about to let his mother know he was anything but the epitome of composure.
   Far above them, some of the screechvultures skulking about the rafters were getting a little fractious, as they were known to do. They skipped from beam to beam, pecking and snapping at each other over scraps of food. Their aggression was starting to have an unwanted effect on the royal throng below; the volume of their droppings was increasing rapidly, splattering on to the many resplendent fedoras and gowns worn by the assembled, and slipping down generous cleavages or into the eyes of the unfortunate. Oblivious to the bombing campaign from above, the Empress continued with her diatribe.
   ‘... So, I’m not going to have you killed, Voltron. Besides, I’ll never get the Darkstar back that way.’ She lunged toward him, pressing her nose against his, and hissed in his face; ‘And I want it.’
   Voltron raised an unimpressed eyebrow in response. It didn’t stop her monologue.
   ‘Therefore... in light of your heinous actions against myself and my Empire’s citizens, I waste no further time in sentencing you...’
   She paused again for dramatic effect, stroking her chin as if pondering what punishment to concoct. The audience, and Plip, leaned forward in anticipation before her announcement.
   ‘... To travel via antique transportation to the ice world of Glak. Ha! And I say again ... Ha!’
   The Empress pulled back from her close proximity to the Prince, and turned to wallow in the appreciation from her subjects. After a few seconds of bewildered silence, the crowd’s murmurs were this time tinged with disappointment, but no-one would dare voice discontent in the presence of the tyrannical Supreme Galactic Empress. Under the watchful glare of the Heklan security guards, scattered, uncertain applause grew quickly into a more rapturous response, for fear of being seen as insufficient. Voltron continued to feign utter disinterest in his mother and her sycophantic crowd, rubbing dust from the wooden cubicle he was sat in, as well as a white splatter on his lapel from the squabbling creatures high above. Unsurprisingly, she continued to address him.
   ‘A strange choice, you might think. But, as you know, antique transportation is ridiculously, painfully, slow­ - and only suitable for the lesser races. Your journey will take at least seventy-four years. Knowing your love of fast-living, debauchery, gambling, thievery, and slithering around the Royal Court’s bedchambers I can think of no better punishment than to make you endure the mundanity of life on a backwater slowboat to nowhere, with nothing better than lesser-being riff-raff for company. Now - practicalities.’
   She strode off - circling the Royal Court and throwing off her instructions to Voltron as if he were a schoolboy about to go on a camping expedition with the Murkmyria Youth brigade.
   ‘... If you forget to take perpetua cream with you, the chances are you will die before arriving at the Glakkan space-port of Frigidos. If you attempt to disembark or cause the craft to deviate from its destination, your bindatron shackles will know this, and will explode - tearing off your hands and feet. In the unlikely event you survive such an explosion and escape, you will be hunted down by my Murkmyrian starfrigates. If you are captured alive you will be brought back here, where I shall have your genitals sliced, fricaséed, served with a crescent of crisps and fed back to you. I will then make you  repeat your penance. Twice. Ha.’
   Throughout his mother’s relentless waffle, Voltron had been observing his other relatives’ reactions. His father, Galactic Emperor Pusillanima sat slumped on his throne, as lifeless and impotent as ever. Well, as impotent as he became, after his wife discovered his seven hundred and first illegitimate child had been conceived to one of his many courtesan-concubines. It had been one bastard too many for Her Majesty. His sister - Pestilencia - was sitting off to the left of his parents, feigning disinterest in the proceedings. She was lightly veiled and he could see she was carrying an inexpressive demeanour, yet few knew her like he did.
   Devious little cow, the Prince thought to himself. You’re behind all this. His focus returned to his mother. Oh gods, she was still talking.
   ‘... Despite the aforementioned theft and The Apocrita Debacle,’ (she paused for more audience groans at this point), ‘not to mention your previous piratical activities, I feel obliged to show some leniency, based on your war record and your achievements in suppressing the other races of my galaxy. Therefore, upon your arrival on Glak you will be deemed a free Murkmyrian once more.’
   The Empress allowed herself a slight smile and cackle before continuing. ‘Well, reasonably free. You will be met by my security and returned here immediately. I may then have some use for you in an administrative role on one of my lesser worlds. Take him away!’

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