The coronation of young King Glendar went smoothly enough. The sadness of the past week was replaced by the hope for a greater future. The good people of Westland, for a few days at least, were led to believe that the days to come still held promise. The ladies and wives of the noble born and common folk alike were busy with their gossip. It appeared that Lady Zasha had caught the young King’s eye, and they all had a comment to make about the development.
“She’s such a beautiful girl.”
“What a wonderful queen she will make.”
“With fat Lord Ellrich as her father, what will the heir look like?”
“The daughter of the marsh lord has done well to draw his eye.”
Then there was Glendar himself. The whole of the nobility watched him, as he grimaced and clutched at his face and then finally broke into tears when his father’s crown was placed upon his head. The outcome pleased Pael immensely. The stupid boy had grinned as the crown was presented. Pael had had to act quickly. He sent an invisible, but sizzling hot particle of dust, into Glendar’s eye, which wiped the smile from his face, and caused all the flinching, and the grimacing, and then the tears. Yes, Pael mused, it had all gone extremely well. So well, in fact, that no one noticed that Ironspike was missing.
Even better, was the news Pael had received from Shaella. Summer’s Day had turned into a battlefield. The sacred Leif Greyn Valley had been thoroughly bloodied. He had intended to put the kingdoms against each other with his covert and indirect aggression, but a full scale battle was even better. In fact, it was perfect. And who would’ve thought that Lord Gregory would’ve been so inadvertently helpful, before he crawled off and died from Inkling’s poison dart.
Pael’s plans had gone so well that King Glendar’s present foolishness didn’t bother him at all. It didn’t matter how many heads the boy piked in the court yard, or whose heads they were. As a matter of fact, Pael welcomed any distraction that kept the new King’s mind off of his father’s sword.
Now that the news of the massacre at Summer’s Day was finally getting back to the Westland people, Lord Brach’s forceful recruitment of young, able bodied men didn’t seem so alarming to the common folk. The whole of Westland would soon be chomping at the bit to avenge to death of the well loved Lion Lord.
The latest rumors pinned the blame on Seaward and the Valleyans. The noble trading houses, and major land holders were already sending their extra men to join in the upcoming campaign. It wouldn’t be long before Pael could send the whole of the Westlander army, King Glendar included, off to war with the east.
The only piece he needed to complete his puzzle was Ironspike. He didn’t want the blade for Glendar to wield on his fool’s quest to conquer the eastern kingdoms though. Pael needed the sword for other reasons. One of which, was that its presence would solidify the claim of the one who would soon replace Glendar, as the ruler of the west. Another reason was that Ironspike’s great power was the only possible thing that could stop his plans from playing out.
Upon hearing the news of Lord Gregory’s death, Lady Zasha had pleaded with King Glendar to let her and her father, Lord Ellrich, be dismissed from court so that they might escort Lord Gregory’s wife, Lady Trella, back to her home at Lake Bottom Stronghold. Zasha wanted to help her through her troubled time of grief.
Lady Trella had come to Lakeside Castle for the King’s coronation, and to help Zasha woo the new King. The excitement of the times had flared like a bonfire inside of her. Little Zasha’s mother had died while birthing her, and Trella had always acted as a matronly figure for the girl. The fact that Trella had no children of her own, only made the bond stronger.
Lake Bottom Stronghold was only a few days’ carriage ride from Settsted Stronghold, where Lord Ellrich and Lady Zasha resided. Being that the two families were the most powerful in all of Southern Westland, they visited each other often. That Zasha would ask for Trella’s advice, and confide in her so much, was heartening. Lake Bottom Stronghold was the most boring of places when Lord Gregory and his men were away. It wasn’t much better when they were there. Lady Trella had reveled in the giddy excitement that women share when love is blossoming, and she had been proud when Zasha had asked her to act as her matron during the courtship. Trella’s blaze had been extinguished rather abruptly though. Like an entire keg full of water being dumped over a single candle flame, the news of her husband’s death snuffed all of her cheer instantly and sent her tumbling into darkness.
Lady Zasha could not, and would not, let the closest thing to a mother she had ever known go home, feeling so miserable and alone. The Stronghold at Lakebottom was a great and mighty place, but it was a lonely place. For each of its breathtaking balcony views, and high arched windows, there was an empty unused room, full of dust and gloom. It was not a place for grieving, Zasha knew. She had to do something that would help Trella cope with her loss. What that something was, she had no idea, but leaving the woman to mourn alone was out of the question.
King Glendar, in a show of kindness and understanding, had very publicly granted part of her request. Zasha was allowed to return to Lake Bottom with Lady Trella, but with all the trouble brewing in the east, her father could not be spared. War was most certainly on the horizon, and the commander of the Marsh Border Garrison would be needed.
Lord Ellrich sent a small attachment of his most trusted men, to accompany the two ladies on the journey around Lion’s Lake. He did his best to hide it, but he felt fairly certain that it would be the last time he saw his daughter. He secreted a letter to her, through one of his men, for her to read when she was finally out from under Glendar’s wickedly deceitful thumb. The letter pleaded with her to find a way to dissuade King Glendar from making her his Queen, and if she couldn’t manage that, he wanted her to kill him in his sleep, for the good of the people of Westland.
“Send Lord Able all the supplies he has requested,” Pael told the men seated at his end of the long glossed oak table in the council hall. “As a matter of fact, double the quantity of the supplies he wants. After all, more men are gathering at Eastwatch as we speak. This request is a week old. The four thousand men it speaks of will be doubled by the time the wagons get there.”
For the moment, Pael was leaving the actual planning of the battle to King Glendar and Lord Brach. The two of them were at the other end of the table, hovering over a sprawl of maps and charts, conferring to themselves, and oblivious to Pael and the others. The Order Pael had just given, was written up quickly, by a thin-haired old scribe, and then it was passed to the wizard. He blobbed it with wax, and then put the King’s Seal on it, without even batting an eye at Glendar. Pael was in sole charge of the preparations, a duty he chose to perform himself, so that he wouldn’t come across any surprises when he took over the rest of the campaign.
“Lord Ellrich, it says here that you’re only able to supply your new King with two thousand men. Is that correct?” Pael asked rather loudly.
“High Wizard Pael,” Lord Ellrich started diplomatically, as he leaned back and rested his meaty arms across his huge belly. His bulk caused the chair to groan in protest. “As you know, the garrison at Settsted is our great kingdom’s only protection in the south. If men are not left there to guard the border, then the creatures of the marshes will slither right into Westland.”
Pael harrumphed loudly, and stood, making sure that the scraping of his chair legs, and the swiftness of his movement caught the attention of everyone in the room. He waited until he was sure that King Glendar was listening, and then he spoke harshly, while throwing up his arms in exasperation.
“Marsh creatures, m’lord, are you serious?”
The men sitting at Pael’s end of the table blanched, as if some wild magic was going to come flashing forth from the wizard’s hands. Lord Ellrich though, didn’t even bat an eye. He held Pael’s gaze steadily.
“We are about to wage war on the east!” Pael ranted. “They have butchered our people, innocent people, and in cold blood. One of our peers, Lord Gregory, lies dead at their hands. How many men does it take to fend off snakes and lizards?” Pael turned toward the King. “Can’t the farmers fend for themselves for a while?”
“May I?” Lord Brach asked the King respectfully.
Glendar nodded. He was interested and amused by the argument.
“How many men are left at Settsted?” Lord Brach asked.
He had been to the marshes and understood that Lord Ellrich had a valid concern here. Some of the creatures of that area were far more formidable than just snakes and lizards.
“Some two thousand men would remain,” the big lord answered.
He had never liked Lord Brach, but he could tell that the boot-licker was going to back him here. The man understood the dangers hidden within the swampy lands along Westland’s southern border.
“They are spread along the river, in the outposts from Depin all the way up to Locar. The rest are manning the garrison at Settsted that supplies the outposts.”
“We need those men, Lord Ellrich,” Brach said flatly. “Half of them anyway.” He turned to King Glendar, and spoke with just a hint of sarcasm in his voice. “A thousand soldiers should be able to keep the denizens of the swamp from taking over Westland while we are at war.”
Pael snorted contemptuously at Brach. The Lord of the North had over-stepped his bounds.
“Two hundred men should be able to manage that task, your Highness,” Pael snapped. “Not in a hundred years has a viable threat come out of those marshes.”
The room was silent then. All eyes fell on King Glendar. He seemed to be relishing the moment. It was one of the few times that Pael had left an important decision open for him to make. The intensity of the wizard’s glare wasn’t lost on him as he pondered his response. Pael was right, he decided. A few hundred men should be able to fend the snakes away. He didn’t want to offend his friend Lord Brach though. He thought it might be wise not to offend Lord Ellrich either, at least not until after he and Zasha were wed. If it weren’t for her, Ellrich’s fat jelly head would already be decorating one of the pikes by the gate. Ellrich was a greedy, sneaky man. Pael though, was probably just mad at being argued with.
“Five hundred should do on the marsh border,” Glendar said. “Leave two hundred more men at Settsted to supply the outposts.”
He glanced at Pael who looked no less angry at the decision than he had before. The wizard finally nodded to the scribe to make the order and sat back down.
The King went back to his maps, mildly gloating over his own diplomacy. The fact that the scribe had waited for Pael’s nod went over his head, but it wasn’t lost to Lord Ellrich, or Lord Brach.
Pael was furious, not at the King’s decision, but at himself, for letting the issue slip out of his control. To quell his rage, he shot a verbal blow at Ellrich.
“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.
Pael shuddered and collapsed. It was no longer his power holding the spell; it was the demon’s power. It was all the wizard could do to keep his eyes open to see what was happening to his familiar.
It was no quick process. The imp stretched, swelled, and screamed horribly into the night as the demon reshaped him. His body grew long and feline, like a giant warhorse-sized panther, whose tail was barbed and as long as a whip. The imp’s wings elongated and spread wide, like those of a wyvern, or a great dactyl. His claws grew long and razor sharp, and every inch of his body became as dark as the deepest night. Teeth, eyes, claws, fur and scales were all nearly indistinguishable, for the quality of their blackness.
The brilliant kinetic display ended abruptly, leaving the menacing looking result flapping its huge wings in a hover, just outside the gaping hole in Pael’s tower.
“Use this gift wisely Pael, for this is your familiar now,” the fading, yet still powerful voice of the spectral demon commanded. “Open the seal for me, and do it soon!”
With that the voice, and the ozonic power that it radiated, disappeared with a sharp pop.
Pael felt, as much as heard, the sound of the demon’s departure, and he was more than relieved by it.
Apparently, he had underestimated the spectral demon’s power. This alarmed him. The demon did need him though, that was obvious. He would just have to make sure that when he opened the doorway to the Nethers, that he had a way to bind Shokin to his service. That was a dilemma for another day though. He needed rest.
Almost as an afterthought, he turned towards the hellcat waiting outside his tower. He could still feel the familial bond with the creature, but he knew that it was no longer Inkling.
“Kill the one that wields Pavreal’s blade, and bring the sword to me!” Pael rasped the order, then closed his eyes and crumpled to the floor.