Ashkar the Darklord, Slayer of Legions, Scourge of Kings, Despoiler of Empires, stood in the lofty observation hall of the fortified tower, surveying the distant southern plains under his dominion. For almost an hour he had been gazing through the shifting grey-red swirls encircling the wall-mirror, watching his slaves toiling to bring him grain, oilseed, gold, timber and all the other riches he demanded from his overseers…
But the sight brought him no pleasure.
All he could feel was a stab of discontent, colder than the keening wind hissing in through the empty windows, stinging his face and tugging at his heavy red-black robes. The forced activity the mirror-vision revealed was small and petty. A pathetic echo of the overwhelming magnificence he was determined his future would one day hold. Amassing vast material wealth was merely the start of the real conquest, his ultimate goal––
Power.
He needed to regain the power and ruthless control that had once, briefly, been within his grasp––until he had been forced to watch everything he had built crumble and diminish, his very existence banished to obscurity. But now, at last, centuries of dark thoughts and evil deeds were once more forming the webs of alchemy he needed to build a new Empire.
But the preparation is taking far too long.
Even a brief, fleeting thought of this long delay was enough to bring a stab of pain to the bloody stumps of his ruined wings. Not for the first time, he considered releasing the poison-spell that prevented them from healing––
The reedy voice interrupted from behind him, echoing back and forth from the mirrored walls.
“My Lord, the Viceroy has arrived from his distant mission in the western kingdoms and…”
The sorcerer’s words faltered as Ashkar turned to face him with a furious scowl.”
“You disturb me for this? Tell him to wait.”
“I will of course, but I felt you should know that the signs are already visible… the wards within him are failing. I have done my best to restore them but it might help if you could add your own, excellent and powerful…” The sorcerer took a step back as Ashkar’s bloody wing-stumps twitched again. “My Lord, I mentioned yesterday that I could help you release the poison-spell––”
“No!” Ashkar knew only too well that once fully healed, his wings could never re-grow. Never unfurl to their former glory and strength. There had to be a way to get them back, somehow. The agony of their ruin was nothing compared to the thought of their permanent loss––nothing compared to his lust for vengeance against those who had ripped them from his body.
Pain would help him stay focused on his strategy.
“First, I need to know what news this useless Viceroy has brought from the western lands. The wretched man’s late arrival usually means he brings nothing but a list of failures.”
Ashkar elbowed the sorcerer out of his path and took the ten long paces to the top of the staircase, his dark robes rippling like liquid steel as he moved. The long, spiral descent to reach the Great Hall at the foot of the tower might calm his temper just enough to wring the information he needed from this failing deputy.
He entered the hall from the door behind the throne to see the Viceroy already waiting at the foot of the dais. A servant whose fervent promises of success were proving hollow and useless. There was little satisfaction to be had in noticing how nervous the visitor appeared. He was nothing but a trembling, corpulent pretender draped in a brocaded blood-red uniform with insignia he no longer deserved.
The Viceroy bowed low. “My humble greetings, your Eminence.”
“So? Cut the obsequious nonsense and get to the facts, before I have the truth dragged out of you by stronger means than my voice.”
Another nervous twitch distorted the Viceroy’s pudgy features. The Darklord fixed his subordinate with the penetrating stare of cold, pale eyes. The sorcerer had been right. Dark blotches and unsightly lumps pushing through the skin showed that the inner wards were indeed starting to fail.
Aided by too much fine living instead of hard work. We’ll see about that.
Ashkar knew precisely how terrifying his gaze could be and he always made sure to use it to best advantage.
The Viceroy licked dry lips and pushed back his carefully styled blond hair.
“Your Eminence… The military conflicts you so brilliantly planned and manipulated. They progressed extremely well. In the steaming swamplands of Rapathia, the Emperor Purmut and the Rapathian Elemental were both suitably corrupted by their close association. Their greed to acquire the rich wheatfields of western Annubia drove them to start a terrible war to claim those riches by force. A Rapathian victory would have brought ruin to Annubia, since the rest of the country is a scorching sand desert.” The Viceroy hesitated and hurriedly moved on to the next part of his account. “The invasion of the fertile pasturelands of Samaran to the north was an instant success…” Another hesitation. “All three countries are now weakened by fighting each other and are ripe for our conquest.” He glanced nervously around the Great Hall.
The Darklord watched him, keenly assessing his victim’s mental journey at each point where those nervous eyes rested. The smooth stone walls of the Great Hall were artfully warded to absorb form and light at the snap of a finger. An alchemical formula that allowed Ashkar to vanish at will, concealed by the dark red-black clothing that not only deflected blade and arrow but could also weave deceptive visuals when viewed against those walls. There was almost no need for the twenty heavily armed guards standing alert and ready between the tall pillars encircling the dais. All were focused on one aim. To protect their Overlord.
On pain of death.
Slowly, inevitably, the Viceroy’s anxious gaze turned back to focus on the Slayer of Legions. Tall, powerful, sharp-featured and threatening, the Darklord knew how intimidating his presence could be. He carefully activated his body-wards to enhance the fear he could project so effectively. The subtle shift of power meant enduring another stab of sickly pain lancing through the shattered stumps of his wings.
No matter. Inducing fear served his purpose well.
Except when fear forces these miserable worms to withhold facts they know I will dislike.
“So. Now tell me the rest of it. The events you have tried to conceal.”
“Well… Of course there are a few… ah, adaptations that still have to be made. But there is time for that, while your armies slaughter the defenders of Isandor who are blocking our military advance––”
The Viceroy blanched and took two steps back.
The Darklord could manifest powerful waves of anger that were more painful than any spear or arrow. He chose to use them now. The stubborn defenders of the lands on his western border were indeed blocking his way, putting up a determined fight to save their lives and their homes. Three of Ashkar’s military commanders had made the mistake of mentioning too many details about that hideous delay.
Those commanders had been replaced.
As this useless Viceroy will be. Soon.
“Tell me about these… necessary adaptations.”
The Viceroy took another step back.
“There were unforeseen complications. It appears that the Annubian dragon may have intervened to defeat the Rapathians and halt the invasion. They were savagely routed. And burned.”
“What?”
The Darklord could feel the fury building inside him, gnawing at his entrails, urging him to act. “You assured me that the Elemental Shailan Zandaraz has had no interest in the affairs of men for many centuries! Without a Dragonrider to persuade him, the great creature never leaves his place of power. When he loses access to the Vision Fire of Rahimar, his far-seeing ability fails, rendering him blind to anything beyond his immediate line of sight.”
“I know, your Eminence. That is how it has been with the dragon for many centuries. Your own personal scholar consulted the historical scrolls and confirmed it. Of course, I am working to discover what caused the change.”
Ashkar could see from the man’s face that there was more bad news to come. Slowly, purposefully, he descended the steps of the dais and glared at the guards surrounding him before moving his furious gaze to the Viceroy.
“Is that all you have to tell me?”
“Something strange also happened in the kingdom of Samaran. The Rapathian army navigated the sea crossing easily and marched swiftly inland to sack the capital from where they could loot gold and grain. But… it seems that the Samarian Elemental appeared, fighting alongside a powerful Mage-warrior…” The Viceroy hesitated again. “The stories from the survivors were fearful and confused, whispering about ice and steel. Of course there will be more details very soon. I have spent the intervening months setting spies in suitable places, equipped with your brilliant sorcerous devices. When I return to the western lands I will––”
The Viceroy’s speech cut off abruptly as the Darklord’s steel-gauntleted hand gripped his throat, pinning him to one of the stone pillars. Then the deadly grip released, letting the gasping victim drop to his knees on the polished floor.
Ashkar listened to the torrent of hoarse words pouring from the Viceroy’s mouth. It was not difficult to sift through the panic-driven lists and facts for any details that might still be of real use.
But, no.
Nothing there that could inform the next stage of this campaign.
“I have wasted too much time already waiting for your sluggish information sources to deliver what I need. As I warned you before, duplicates of the… thing I have made you into… do not work. I have experimented with creating more than one such creature at a time and they do not function well when both are present in the same realm.”
So there is only one way to accomplish a change of deputy, wasteful though it is.
The Darklord removed his gauntlets, revealing claw-like fingers tipped with razor-sharp nails. One hand slowly gripped the Viceroy’s shoulder and hauled him upright, the nails piercing through the crimson robes to dye them a shade darker with fresh blood.
A long pause, to take bitter satisfaction from the man’s helpless paralysis and fear-spiked silence. A silence that spoke so eloquently of knowing exactly what was about to happen.
Then the other claw ripped away the left side of the Viceroy’s once-grand garment, cutting through the fat and ribs of his chest, gripping his heart and tearing it out. There was a fleeting moment when something that might almost have been relief passed across the dying man’s face as his body collapsed in a limp heap on the floor and a pool of blood spread slowly outward.
The Darklord gripped the still-beating heart tighter, tighter, until it sundered and split apart. The guards flinched and covered their ears as the shifting walls echoed to a long, piercing scream that chilled a man’s very soul.
And the demon that had commanded the Viceroy was finally forced from its devastated nest.
It fled, shrieking and howling in rage and agony, back to the pit from whence it had come.
