“You’ll want to resume command at Settsted when we march, I presume?”
Pael paused to enjoy the look of relief that played across the big Lord’s face, before continuing.
“We have no horse strong enough to carry you into battle, nor any armor that will fit you. And obviously, you’ll be of no use here at the castle.”
Ellrich wasn’t shocked by the jibe. The comments about his weight didn’t rankle him in the least. He was too busy reveling in the hope that he might actually get to keep his head on his shoulders for a little while longer. He truly never expected to make it back to Settsted in one piece.
“If it pleases the King, I’ll leave immediately so that the troops needed can be given their new orders and set to march for Eastwatch as quickly as possible.” He gained his feet quickly, for a man of his size, and rested a hand on the scribe’s shoulder, hoping to have his own orders in writing before anyone could change their mind.
Pael looked over at Glendar. The boy was oblivious. He was back to his planning with Lord Brach. As if he were the King himself, Pael looked first to the scribe, and then to Lord Ellrich.
“It pleases the King.” His smile was wickedly powerful. “Make it so.”
As soon as the order was written, Pael pressed the King’s seal into the soft wax, and excused himself. Inkling, the imp, was scratching at the inside of his skull from up in the tower. A message bird had arrived, or something else was happening. Whatever it was, it was likely far more important than the farce happening here.
Pael made his way through the castle as quickly as he could without drawing attention to his haste. He could’ve flown to the tower like a bird, or teleported himself there had he not been so spell weary.
In the past few days, he had used his magic, and a chest full of kingdom gold, to influence hundreds of decisions, both here in the castle and afar. His time was coming he knew, and he was preparing for it well. The bloody events at Summer’s Day had not only served his ultimate purpose, but had also set the eastern kingdoms on each other like a pack of dogs fighting over a scrap of meat.
Already, King Broderick, the ruler of Valleya, was treating with his cousin, Queen Rachel of Seaward. Broderick wanted her to grant his army safe passage through her lands so that his attack upon Highwander could be carried out that much more swiftly. He wanted to punish Willa the Witch Queen for letting her Blackswords fall on the innocent people at Summer’s Day. Queen Rachel was not only willing to grant his men passage, she was contemplating joining him with troops of her own.
Her people though, wanted Westland blood. The tale of the death of Bludgeon, the Seaward Monster, had been embellished, and blown out of proportion. It was now a story of intentional murder, and riotous bloodshed, all brought upon by crazed Westlanders. According to Pael’s spies, Queen Rachel was going to decide where to send her army soon. The fact that she was going to send it somewhere seemed inevitable.
The Dakaneese nobles and merchants who had somehow managed to avoid getting involved in the blood- letting at the Festival, were now demanding that their leader, King Ra’Gren, do something about the massive amount of wager winnings that weren’t being paid to them. The Wildermont gambling houses who were supposed to back the wagers, wouldn’t even give people back their initial bets. King Jarrek, the old Redwolf himself, was trying to investigate the whole mess, but he couldn’t imagine that gold would be such an issue after so many innocent lives had been lost under the Spire.
All those people leaving the festival, the survivors, had to cross the Everflow River at High Crossing. A troop of King Jarrek’s men were there, interrogating everyone crossing the river. Only those foolish, or brave enough to cut through the Evermore Forest could avoid it.
A soothsayer from Kandor Keep, who had no love for anything but coins, had sent word to Pael that several battles had erupted right there on the bridge into Wildermont. The whole of the realm was in chaos, and Pael couldn’t be more pleased with himself for orchestrating it all.
As he stepped into his lift, Pael was thinking that it was probably only a bird returning with news from the sorceress Shaella that had Inkling so excited. He wondered if all he had done for her would go unnoticed. So much of what was happening was for her, and she had delivered much more than he had hoped possible. He found he was proud of her, and all that she had accomplished. He hoped she didn’t get greedy. It pained him to think it, but he told himself that if she got out of hand, he could eliminate her without pause. He could do that, and would, but only if she forced his hand.
As the lift rose up into the room full of squawking, little caged hawkling chicks, Pael saw that Inkling wasn’t there. He closed his eyes and warily probed for the imp.
Inkling was up on the floor above, in the room that held the Spectral Orb. Immediately, the wizard grew excited when he realized it wasn’t Inkling who had been trying to get his attention: it was the demon Shokin.
When Pael stepped off the lift this time, all of his exhaustion had been forgotten.
“Take down the lift,” he ordered Inkling, who was wiggling excitedly in his natural red devil form.
“Yesss,” the imp hissed, as he scampered to the lift.
Before the platform even cleared the floor, Pael began cranking down the orb. Before it was in place, a small square of floor off to the side lifted on creaking hinges. Inkling crawled up through the trapdoor, shivering with glee, and let it slam closed behind him.
Pael wasted no time getting his ritual chanting started. If it cost him all the energy he had left in him, he would hear what Shokin had to say. Never in all of the eighty-seven years that he had possessed the Spectral Orb, had it beckoned to him as it did now. The message to come must be one of great importance.
The huge crystal swirled and churned in its depths as Pael’s voice grew from a singular intonation into a ghastly chorus. The gathering misty cloud filled the orb, and pulsed a deep crimson.
“THE PACT HAS BEEN BROKEN!” Shokin’s voice ground through the air, like a slab of stone being dragged across gravel.
Pael noted the excited tone in the spectral demon’s voice. The sound of it sent Inkling skittering under a small wooden table.
“I had hoped as much,” Pael said calmly.
It was taxing his essence greatly to hold the powerful spell he used to communicate with the demon, but he didn’t show it.
“Already, you’re able to reach out of the blackness and summon me.”
“When will you open the seal?” Shokin asked harshly. “I have felt the power of the sword, wizard; you need me more than you know.”
Inkling rocked to and fro under the table. He was terrified. The air in the room was full of static energy and becoming hot. It was making him frantic.
It took a moment for the implication of what the demon had just said, to register in Pael’s tired mind.
“How can that be? King Balton’s only son is here and the sword is not.”
“There is another with Pavreal’s blood flowing through his veins,” The specter growled. “He has used the sword, and it has honored his lineage.”
“Where?” was all Pael could think to ask.
“Where the land of the giants begins, in the forest that feeds off of the Life Giver. That is where the sword was used. The seal, wizard! WHEN?”
“There is still the matter of the dragon to contend with,” Pael explained weakly.
He didn’t like the commanding and demanding tone of the mighty creature before him.
“Soon,” he went on. “Are you not strong enough to lend me aid?”
He asked the question to subtly remind Shokin of his helpless state, and of his need of help, if he ever wished to escape the Nethers.
For a few heart beats the room was deathly silent. Pael could feel the weight of the magic pushing in on him, as if he were at the bottom of the sea.
Suddenly, a jagged bolt of searing, yellow lightning shot forth from the crystal. It hit Inkling and the imp was engulfed by it. It held the trembling imp in its glowing grasp. The table he had been under was now nothing more than so much ash and smoke. The humming bolt slowly undulated through the air, like some wild electric snake.
The imp’s black eyes opened wide and filled with terror. His scaly skin bubbled, hissed, and swelled, as his shape shifted this way and that. The fist of magical energy that gripped him, slung him against the wall of the tower, smashing a hole the size of a large wagon cart that revealed the dim evening. From below, shouts of alarm, and pain rang out as blocks of bricks and broken stone rained down on the people from above.
