The guard looked to Dieredon and Tarlak.
“Will you put away your weapons, and come peaceably?” he asked.
Dieredon said nothing, but Tarlak shrugged.
“Eh, why not. At least we get to talk to someone, right?”
The elf slung his bow across his back.
“So be it,” he said. “Lead us on, but do not lay a hand upon my person. I am no prisoner.”
The older guard relaxed, but only slightly. He gestured to the groups, ordering them to part. The Eschaton walked between them, but as they passed through the rows of men, Tarlak paused.
“Oh, one moment,” he said, reaching into a pouch at his belt. “I almost forgot this.”
He flung a handful of dust into the air, and before anyone could react, he shouted a single word.
“SLEEP!”
Every guard fell limp, their eyelids drooping heavily. Lathaar fell as well, fighting the deep magic. Only Dieredon stood unaffected, a bewildered look on his face.
“I thought we were to talk to this Lord Penwick,” he asked as he helped Lathaar back to his feet.
“Yeah, but I’d rather find out what the Abyss is going on with their beloved king,” Tarlak said. “And if he is troubled, or ill, perhaps our paladin friend here can aid him.”
Tarlak tilted his head to one side as Lathaar collapsed back to his knees and snored loudly.
“Once he’s awake, of course,” Tarlak muttered. He snapped his fingers in front of the paladin’s nose, whispering a word of counter-magic. Lathaar startled awake instantly and reached for his swords.
“Relax,” the wizard said. “Get up. We have a king to talk to.”
Without ceremony, they pushed open the double doors and stepped into the spacious chambers. Dressers lined the walls. Thick, green curtains surrounded the bed. When Dieredon pulled them aside, they found clean bed sheets, unused.
“The king does not sleep here,” the elf said, sounding very much confused. “But these are certainly his chambers.”
“They are,” said an elderly man striding into the room. There were two different entrances to the bedchambers, and he came from the one opposite their own. He wore fancy silks embroidered with gold, crimson slippers, and a thick scarf wrapped around his neck. His beard was long and neatly-trimmed. His green eyes showed no fear of the three intruders.
“And who are you?” Tarlak asked.
“Lord Penwick,” the old man said, not bothering to bow. “I dare say you were on your way to meet me when you put down my guards.”
“They’re just sleeping,” Lathaar said. “We are no murderers. We come with message to the king, one he has so far refused to hear.”
“That is because there is no king to hear it,” Lord Penwick said. “Surely you have guessed that by now.”
“Obviously,” Tarlak lied. “Though the reason seems a little vague to us foreigners. Care to explain?”
“Figures the barons would send foreigners to do their dirty work,” Lord Penwick said as he sat on the bed.
“Barons?” said Tarlak. “We’re refugees from Veldaren, and while we’re not above doing some dirty work, we need to get paid for it. Trust me; we’re here for purely noble reasons.”
“And those would be?” asked the old man.
“Veldaren has been destroyed. An army of winged soldiers flies this way, accompanied by a legion of undead. You need to muster as many solders as you can to protect your people! Those who cannot fight should flee west, where they have a chance to survive.”
Lord Penwick shook his head.
“I fear you come at an ill time. How long until my guards wake up?”
“About half an hour,” Tarlak said.
“Good, then tell me your tale, and I will tell you mine.”
Tarlak started first, telling of how the creatures of the Vile Wedge had crossed into Neldar. He described their attack upon the walls, of the orcs' vicious assault upon the gates, and Velixar’s magical aid. Penwick’s face darkened with every word, and his shoulders drooped lower.
Then it came time to describe the war demons and the portal behind the throne. Tarlak left Qurrah’s involvement out of it, placing all the blame on Velixar. He told of Mira’s portal to the elves, and of their narrow escape. Last he told of their plans to flee west.
“A horrific tale, if told truthfully,” the old man said when Tarlak was done. “Most of my people are doomed if what you say is true, and I wonder if any action on my part will change that.”
“You must try,” Lathaar said. “Now, tell us what happened to your king.”
Lord Penwick spoke with a gravelly voice, steady but weary. King Stephen had been a kind but ineffective king. The surrounding barons of Ker had threatened revolt, but Lord Penwick had managed to broker an unsteady peace. King Stephen had no legitimate heir, for he had never married. The barons would let Stephen reign until his death, but afterward, the barons would appoint amongst themselves a new king.
Originally the choice had been obvious, a powerful baron named Gregor White. However, he had died the previous winter, leaving two sons to squabble over their inheritance.
“How long has the king been dead?” Tarlak asked, interrupting.
“Three weeks,” Penwick said. “The barons will tear Ker asunder fighting over the throne. I had hoped to prolong the charade long as possible, praying that one might prove himself a clear heir. So far, that is not the case. I cannot muster troops, for the moment I do the barons will think I am making a play for the throne.”
“Do you desire the throne?” Lathaar asked.
“Of course I do,” Lord Penwick said. “But I’ll die if I try for it, and those foolish barons will darken our soil with blood. And now comes an army. What am I to do? Amid evil times you have come, Tarlak Eschaton, and evil tidings you bring.”
Tarlak glanced back at the doors, where the soldiers were starting to stir.
“I think it’s time to go,” he said. “And as for your situation, Lord Penwick… I think it’s all irrelevant. Kinamn does not have the forces to stand against the army that approaches, not even if all the troops of Ker were mustered. Tell everyone to flee, whether they believe you or not. We’ll be in the streets of your city, telling the same tale.”
“You will not be believed,” the old man said. “And I will be mocked.”
“We have to try, damn it,” Tarlak shouted. “Can you not at least concede me that?”
A bitter smile lit up Lord Penwick’s face. “You’re right. Let us try. Good night, gentlemen. I need my rest. Come the morning, I will issue a decree that will mean the end of my tenuous hold over the city.”
He turned and exited the door. Closing his eyes, Tarlak envisioned their room at the inn and summoned a portal home. The Eschaton leaped through, and with a hiss of air, the portal closed.
“Do you think he will?” asked Lathaar when they were safely in their room.
“Not a chance,” Tarlak said, shaking his head. “What proof do we have? He told us what we wanted to know, and made a weak promise he will not honor. This city is doomed, and there appears little we can do about it.”
“Will we do as you said?” Dieredon asked. “Shall we shout from the rooftops that an army comes?”
“Until Harruq and the others return, we’ll cry out warning,” Tarlak said. “Hope for a miracle, friends. That’s what it’d take to save the people of this city.”
“I fear the time for miracles is ended,” Lathaar said.
“That’s no way for a paladin to talk,” the wizard said, slapping him on the shoulder. “The world’s coming to an end. If there’s a time for a miracle, it’s now.”
S eleven drifted lower as Kinamn came into view. Harruq stretched and used his fists to pop his back.
“Can’t wait to walk on solid ground again,” he shouted.
“Don’t get used to it,” Aurelia shouted back.
They swung about, angling toward the main entrance on the southern wall. With a swoosh of feathers and flying clumps of dirt, they landed. Harruq leaped off first, catching Aurelia when she followed. Haern patted Seleven on the neck before dismounting.
“Think they’ll let us through the door?” the assassin asked.
“We’ve made doors through walls before,” Aurelia said. “Does it really matter what they say?”
