Mharoslav had to put up with the damned woman.

  He had gotten the worst of it.

  “Have you brought me back any spoils, my lord and master?” said Veljara, folding her arms. “Or shall we continue to live in poverty?”

  “I shall receive a share of the spoils,” said Mharoslav, a headache beginning in his temples. “Some kobold females. Sell them, kill them, roast and eat them, I care not.”

  “Kobold females!” said Veljara. “Such bounty! I don’t know what we shall do with this torrent of wealth.”

  Mharoslav let out a breath, his headache increasing, and looked at Veljara. She was, he conceded, quite attractive – her hips were wide, her bosom round, her skin green and clear, her tusks white, her hair long and black and hanging to the small of her back.

  But by the blood gods, the sound of her voice was like a knife scraping against stone.

  Nor did she ever shut up.

  “I am sure you will find a way to spend the money with little delay,” said Mharoslav.

  “Not that victory has brought you any cheer,” said Veljara. “You sit there with that usual stone-faced scowl upon your face. Not even victory can make you smile.”

  “You should be glad of the victory, my concubine,” said Mharoslav. “For if your brother had fallen in battle, my words with you would not be nearly so gentle.”

  “My brother’s magic is strong. Vhalzarok has given him great power,” said Veljara. Mharoslav resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “For that matter, he is a puissant man. He has many concubines and many more children.” She scoffed. “You have yet to have even a single child by me, my lord and master.”

  Mharoslav felt his irritation begin to spin out of control. He wanted to rip the mocking smirk from her face with a spell, or perhaps his fist, but if he mistreated her, Veljara would complain to her brother, which would give Rhalkaar an excuse to act against him.

  Still, there were ways he could make Veljara suffer. He had refused to give her any children, using his magic to ensure that he would not impregnate her. And one of a chief concubine’s traditional prerogatives was to rule over her lord’s other concubines. Mharoslav had taken no other women as his own. Let Veljara amuse herself by ruling over his tongueless slaves.

  “Summon the other slaves,” said Mharoslav when the two humans returned with his food and drink. “I shall eat and drink in a little while.”

  “Your and your games,” sneered Veljara.

  “Will you disobey me?” said Mharoslav. “Shall I tell the High Warlock that Rhalkaar has burdened me with an impudent and churlish woman?”

  Veljara’s eyes flashed with hatred, but she said nothing.

  All of Mharoslav’s slaves, about thirty of them, filled the great hall. Mharoslav rose, removed his robes and boots, and ordered Veljara out of her gown. The hate in her eyes kindled further, but she obeyed. He pushed her to the floor in front of the table, and took her then and there.

  Mharoslav considered his slaves to be furniture, nothing more, and didn’t care what they saw him do. For that matter, he had been on campaign many times and sharing a communal privy trench swiftly eroded one’s standards of privacy. But Veljara was proud enough that she absolutely hated for the slaves to see her unclad, and so Mharoslav always made sure at least two slaves were present when he decided to couple with her.

  For all the slaves to stand in a ring around them, watching, well…she hated that most of all.

  Mharoslav took his time, knowing that she loathed his touch. Once he finished, he rose from her without another word, dressed, and sat down to eat and drink. But he commanded Veljara to remain undressed and kneeling on the floor, the clothed slaves surrounding her. The petty humiliation pleased him.

  A pity he couldn’t see Rhalkaar’s face when she told him about it.

  “Not even that could draw a smile from you,” said Veljara with cold disdain. A faint glimmer of the orcish battle rage came into her black eyes. Mharoslav held her in contempt, but she truly hated him. “You are made of stone, my lord and master.”

  “When you bathe, you should wash yourself more thoroughly,” said Mharoslav. “If I was scowling, it was because I had to breathe in your stench.”

  Her eyes all but glowed red for a second, and he saw every muscle in her body clench with fury. That stirred his blood, and he considered taking her again but dismissed the thought. He had been away from his studies for too long, and the intricacies of dark magic were far more compelling than the pleasures of Veljara’s body.

  “I am done with you for the day,” said Mharoslav, finishing his meal. “Do whatever you usually do. Watch the slaves scrub the floor, I imagine.”

  Veljara said nothing, but her eyes flashed red once more as she rose and began dressing.

  Mharoslav walked from the great hall and climbed the winding stairs to his tower. He disarmed the wards upon the door to the highest chamber and strode inside. His study was a round room, with windows of leaded glass overlooking the city and the Pyramid of Iron Skulls to the north. Books, scrolls, and clay tablets lined the shelves, and more covered the surface of his desk.

  He sat down and opened one of the volumes.

  It had come to him in a roundabout way. When the accursed Guardian Rhodruthain had opened his magical Gate between Aenesium and the city of Tarlion, the two human realms of Owyllain and Andomhaim were connected for the first time in their history. Trade was a common activity among all kindreds, and humans were no different. Soon merchants moved back and forth through the Guardian’s Gate, carrying silk and spices to Andomhaim and bringing back steel swords and horses to Owyllain.

  Books were among the trade goods.

  The histories of Andomhaim and Owyllain had diverged five centuries ago, and the men of Owyllain were more advanced in some crafts, the men of Andomhaim in others. For that matter, Andomhaim had its own histories and chronicles, and the learned men of Owyllain wished to read of them.

  Mharoslav had been with a band of warriors who had attacked a human trading caravan traveling from Aenesium to Xenorium. The guards and soldiers had slain, the women and children taken back to Vhalorast as slaves. The caravan had been loaded with steel swords, helmets, and cuirasses, and the warriors had taken them as spoils.

  But the chests of books had been more interesting to Mharoslav, and since he had been the only warlock accompanying the raiders, he had claimed them for his own.

  He found them fascinating. The books were mostly histories of Andomhaim in the five centuries since the founding of Owyllain. That was of interest, though only in an academic sense. What intrigued Mharoslav was the accounts of the wizards of Andomhaim – the Magistri. The archmage Ardrhythain of the high elves himself had taught the Magistri their magic and had provided the knights of Andomhaim with soulblades. They made for effective warriors – the Swordbearers had been instrumental in the final defeat of the Sovereign at Cathair Animus.

  But one book – well, one two-volume set – held the greatest potential.

  The History of the First Magistri.

  The volumes were the account of the First Magistri, the founders of the Order. Ardrhythain himself had trained them, and they had possessed powers beyond the reach of the modern Magistri. One of them had been a human woman named Niara. She had once been a slave of the urdmordar, the spider-devils who had ruled much of Andomhaim, but she had escaped when her magical talent manifested and become one of the First Magistri. After the urdmordar had been defeated, Niara had become convinced that the urdmordar who had enslaved her had gone in pursuit of an ancient relic called the Dragonskull, a relic that would give the urdmordar the power to defeat the Magistri and the Swordbearers.

  Niara had gone in pursuit of the relic and never been seen again.

  And that caught Mharoslav’s imagination.

  There were no urdmordar in Owyllain, but the spider-devils had been powerful. They had been so powerful, in fact, that even the dark elves feared them. The Sovereign had come to this continent to build his empire specifically to capture Cathair Animus and the Well of Storms to use as a weapon against the urdmordar. The histories made it clear that without the Swordbearers, Andomhaim would have fallen to the spider-devils.

  The urdmordar were mighty…and one of them had gone in pursuit of the Dragonskull, a relic that would make her even more powerful.

  What would that relic do in Mharoslav’s hands?

  He paged through his books, planning, seeking. Using the Guardian’s Gate was too risky. To reach Andomhaim, he would have to travel through the Deeps. That would require some years of preparation, but it would be doable. Then there would be the matter of locating the Dragonskull itself. The books said that Niara had left a chain of Waystones to show the path to the relic. Mharoslav needed to find a way to activate them, though the magic of the Waystones was likely inimical to his own chaos magic…

  Mharoslav found himself growing drowsy, and he fell asleep at his desk.

  ###

  His eyes flickered open.

  It had been noon when he had drifted off, but now it was nighttime. Greenish-blue light leaked through his windows, coming from the five moons that were out tonight. Mharoslav’s limbs felt heavy, his eyes leaden. It took a moment for his brain to come to the right conclusion.

  Poison.

  He had been poisoned.

  Fury rose at the realization. It had to be the work of Veljara. With Rhalkaar’s assistance, no doubt. Well, they would regret it. The magic would burn the poison from his blood, though it would be painful, and then he would make Veljara regret…

  Bronze flashed in the moonlight, and the dagger plunged into Mharoslav’s chest.

  The blow was expertly aimed and slid between his iron ribs. Mharoslav jerked in the chair, his boot heels drumming against the floor. All the strength drained from his body, and he managed to turn his head to see Veljara standing over him, smirking.

  Rhalkaar stood next to his sister, an identical smirk upon his face.

  Veljara ripped the dagger free from his chest and tossed it to the floor. It clattered against the stonework, and Mharoslav saw a dead kobold lying at Rhalkaar’s feet.

  “So tragic, my lord and master,” said Veljara. “You were hard at work at your studies, and a kobold struck you down with a poisoned dagger.”

  Mharoslav snarled. Or he tried to. Blood flew from his lips. He tried to draw magic through his mind, but he was in too much pain to focus.

  “Yes,” said Rhalkaar. “Killed by one of your kobold slaves. A tragedy and a loss for the Council of Masters.”

  Brother and sister looked at one another and laughed, loud and mocking.

  “Look at his face,” said Veljara. “He’s furious…but he looks as he always does.” She laughed again. “Like he just took a bite of something rotten.”

  “Come, sister,” said Rhalkaar. “We shall dine in the great hall. After a suitable interval, you will send for your lord and master…and we shall discover that he was slain at his desk. Though he killed his attacker in his final death throes.”

  Veljara laughed once more. “Yes, a kobold. The mighty master warlock, slain by a kobold. Perhaps the bards shall sing a saga of his glorious final victory.”

  Still chuckling, Rhalkaar and Veljara departing, leaving Mharoslav to die.

  Once again, he tried to call magic, but he could not focus. Not that it would have done much. The chaos magic could burn the poison from his blood, but it couldn’t do anything about the mortal wound in his chest. The front of his robes were wet with blood, and it was getting harder and harder to breathe. Another few moments and he would choke in his own blood.

  No. He would not die like this. He would not!

  Mharoslav heaved himself out of his chair, only to fall to the floor. He landed on his left side, which jostled his injured chest, and blood sprayed from his lips. The pain was blinding, and for a second, he could not move. Yet the same willpower that let him wield the furious strength of chaos magic, that had let him endure the agony of the transformation as his bones turned to iron, refused to let him die.

  He dragged himself across the floor inch by inch, leaving a trail of green blood in his wake.

  Mharoslav crawled closer to one of his bookshelves. Tomes filled the shelves, both books recording the ancient lore of Vhalorast but also volumes from Andomhaim. Some relics occupied the shelves, a few magical, others curiosities he had collected over the years.

  One of them was most certainly not a curiosity, but he had never dared to use it.

  Or been desperate enough.

  It sat on the bottom shelf, a tablet of white stone carved with dark elven characters. The front of the tablet had been shaped in the image of a hooded man draped in heavy robes, hands tucked into the sleeves, face shadowed beneath the cowl. It was an artist’s representation of a Maledictus, one of the deadly sorcerer-priests who had served the Sovereign at the height of his power.

  Mharoslav’s vision started to go black, and he could not get a breath down.

  With a final effort, he seized the tablet and sent his will into it.

  For a terrible instant, nothing happened, but the symbols upon the stone flared with ghostly blue light. Mharoslav felt a magical link form between him and the tablet.

  A second after that, power poured through the link.

  Pain accompanied it.

  Mharoslav would have screamed, but he had neither strength nor breath left, and everything went black.

  He awoke a second later, shuddering.

  The pain was gone. Mharoslav rolled to his feet and felt his chest. The wound was still there, though the blood had clotted, and it was still difficult to breathe. But the pain had vanished, and he had some strength. His gambit had worked. A long-dead Maledicti priest had created and enspelled the tablet, charging it with stolen life force. That stolen energy was now keeping Mharoslav alive, holding death at bay.

  He had gained himself some time.

  But not much time. He didn’t know how long the tablet would hold back his mortal wound. For that matter, Rhalkaar and Veljara were bound to check on him before much longer. Once they did, he was finished. In his weakened state, Mharoslav was not strong enough to overcome his rival. In fact, Veljara could likely beat him to death with one of her cooking pots. The blood gods knew she would relish the prospect.

  Mharoslav had to act now.

  There was only one course of action left to him.

  His eyes turned towards the Pyramid of Iron Skulls, its dark mass blotting out the light of the moons and the stars as if it had been made out of something darker than mere stone. A shiver went through him at the sight.

  There was no other choice.

  Mharoslav worked a spell of chaos magic, one designed to corrupt the flow of gravity around him. He opened one of the windows and stepped into the night. The fall from his tower should have killed him, but instead, Mharoslav drifted down like a bird gliding upon the air. His descent carried him over his courtyard, and he drifted to the forum before the Pyramid before releasing his spell. A wave of fatigue went through him – the magic had taken more effort than he had expected.

  He ignored the weakness and strode towards the Pyramid.

  The entrance to the catacombs yawned in the base of the lowest tier, a dark archway that opened onto a broad flight of stairs that descended into the earth. There were no guards at the gate to the catacombs.

  There was no need.

  Any resident of Vhalorast – whether master warlock, acolyte, headman, warrior, free, or slave – could enter the catacombs and seek the counsel of the ancient warlocks at any time.

  In fact, sometimes an annoyed master would force a disobedient slave to enter the catacombs.

  Because those who disturbed the shadows beneath the Pyramid of Iron Skulls rarely returned.

  Mharoslav had, once before, during his trial to rise to the rank of master warlock. Only bits and pieces of that ordeal remained in his memory.

  The dark passageways that changed direction even as he looked at them.

  The mutated, twisted things that shuffled down the corridors, seeking to slake their endless hunger.

  And the chambers lined with the iron skulls of long-dead master warlocks whispering words of madness in the shadows.

  He didn’t want to go back.

  But he didn’t want to die, either, especially not at the hand of his traitorous concubine and his hated rival, and he forced himself onward, descending the stairs to the highest gallery of the catacombs.

  The darkness swallowed him whole.

  Mharoslav worked another simple spell, conjuring a sphere of light that gave off a bloody glow, and set off for the chamber that housed the skulls of the ancient warlocks.

  Time passed.

  He could not have said how much.

  There was no map of the catacombs. There was no point. The corridors changed constantly, though Mharoslav could feel the concentration of dark power at the heart of the maze. When the path branched, Mharoslav always chose the way that led closer to that malevolent power.

  The corridors themselves had been built of black stone, the walls rising in corbeled tiers until they met overhead. Sometimes the stone seemed dark and lusterless. Other times Mharoslav glimpsed his reflection in the wall. He looked haggard, his robes wet with blood.

  Or the reflection was distorted, his laughing visage glaring at him.

  Several times he came under attack from the creatures that wandered the catacombs. The beasts were twisted things that had once been acolytes come to seek the wisdom of the masters. They had been orcish men like Mharoslav, but now they were misshapen horrors that looked like spiders stitched together from orcish bodies – green legs jutting from their sides, eyes scattered almost at random over their forms, a dozen mouths open and screaming curses at him. The beasts were vulnerable to chaos magic, and Mharoslav’s spells scythed through them, ending their miserable existences.

 

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