040 – Audience
***
After attracting Zambulon’s ire yet again, I worried the senior disciple might beat me to a bloody pulp, but that did not come to pass. He broke no bones and blackened neither of my eyes. He didn’t have to. It turned out he something worse in store for me.
Maybe his week instructing the novices had revived his enthusiasm for teaching, because Zambulon took a personal interest in my training. We sparred every day. I did not win many of those matches. At the end of the sparring sessions he left me crawling on the floor in pain, gasping for air, although never bloodied.
Swordsmen didn’t have to resort to breaking bones to inflict pain, especially swordsmen focused on projection. Instead of physical force, they could deliver wicked blows straight to their opponent’s soul. Zambulon only tapped me lightly with his singlestick, but unleashed a wave of invisible fire into me. This caused an inordinate amount of pain while barely leaving a visible mark.
“Strike! You lose again, Strythe.”
I fell to my knees, clutching my side. He had already struck me in both legs, knees, arms, left hand, neck, and tailbone. My whole body throbbed with pain. A white haze intruded on the edge of my vision.
“You intend to learn projection, junior, but have not yet learned how to defend yourself from it. Enhancement allows you to harden your soul and resist magic attacks. Without that, you’ll be cut up like a lump of cheese. On your feet. You can go another round.”
“Yes, senior disciple.”
For some reason, all my teachers used exclusively sadistic means. I wondered if there was a masochism technique that let one learn more quickly from painful experiences. If so, I refused to take it out of principal. I wanted books, not torture.
Zambulon was too tight-laced to be a typical bully. He liked following the rules too much. And he didn’t want to cause another incident during the arrival of the dark lord. So he unleashed his anger in sanctioned sparring matches. Because of his upcoming promotion, he wanted to squeeze in as many matches as he could while still a senior disciple.
I put up with it. He would be sent away on a mission soon and then graduate to being an officer. I just had to tough it out without showing weakness. I climbed back to my feet. My singlestick trembled in my hand.
“Zambulon,” Yurk said. The other disciple sat at the edge of the training mat observing the fight. He rarely spoke, so a vocal objection from Yurk meant Zambulon had gone way too far with his helpful training. Yurk’s body language plainly showed his discomfort watching this torture session.
“Fine then. Strythe, clean yourself up. The officers meet with the dark lord this evening. We’ll attend with Fightmaster Putrizio. Be ready to go in an hour.”
I practically crawled to the bathroom. Sweat drenched my clothes. Taking off my shirt revealed red welts all over my torso. Due to my magical healing rate, the marks would disappear by the time we left the Hall of Discipline. My soul was still bruised. I turned up the heat of my fire to recover, burning off some stored mana. Zambulon’s basic attacks weren’t like Malisent’s cursed blade technique, so they inflicted no lingering conditions or injuries.
I changed and put on a clean mask. Fightmaster Putrizio was at his desk when I came out to the main room.
“Strythe. Get ready for the meeting. This is no time for fixing your make up.”
“Yes, fightmaster.”
Putrizio reminded us of the protocol for attending the dark lord’s court. The disciples were to stay behind the fightmaster. We gave the same kneeling salute with the others at the start—down on one knee only, since we were willing vassals, not conquered subjects, and saluting with our left fist, because a swordsman always kept their right hand free and unencumbered. When the officers rose, we stayed kneeling and waited until the end of the meeting. We never spoke unless ordered to or asked a question. Basically, disciples had to shut up and keep out of sight. Our job was to learn and prepare for the day when we received a higher office in the Void Phantoms.
The dark lord claimed the whole top floor and several sub-buildings. Newly erected stone walls blocked off several of the corridors and ramps so that only one major gate connected his penthouse to the rest of the citadel. It would keep people from wandering in, but no guards had been stationed at the gate yet. Also, the elevator shafts were still open, and had not yet become functioning stairwells. So the place was not that secure.
The throne room occupied what had once been the receiving bay, the very first room I entered when first visiting Power Station Thirteen. That seemed like thousands of years ago—and it actually was. The large hole in the ceiling for the cargo elevator now let in daylight through a grid of iron bars. The devil-birds screeched loudly on the roof, and their shadows sometimes passed over the skylight, darkening the room for a moment. Hrolzek sat in a black throne of polished ebony under a ragged black banner. His tastes in interior decorating were more in line with Malisent’s. The place was sparsely furnished.
The cursed idol from the settlement was here, and Hrolzek gazed deeply upon it. The layer of enamel and paint had been scraped away from the obsidian, leaving a glistening black statue. I felt keeping the golem’s brain in my workshop violated safety rules, but this thing was far worse. It might spew out specters to wipe out the whole citadel. An undead goddess did not make for a great centerpiece.
We entered and took our places at the edge of the throne room. Besides our fightmaster, the witches also attended, as did Korkso, chief of the Goadsmen, and Luniquial the spymaster. A bird rested on Luniquial’s right shoulder, which looked like a cross between an eagle and parrot. It combined the huge body of a crowned eagle with the bright feathers of a scarlet macaw. This was the spymaster’s messenger bird which delivered long range communications. Not at as fast as a telephone call or radio signal, but quicker than walking with a written letter.
Besides the six swordsmen, a huge monster lounged at the far end of the throne room. Like so many monsters, this one was an amalgam of parts from different animals. It had ram’s horns, a lion’s mane, a bear’s snout, a gorilla’s body, and giant claws. The monster covered itself with a loincloth and wore a leather harness with an iron boss over its chest. Presumably, it had a sense of shame and some degree of intelligence—at least matching that of the trolls.
None of the other far flung Void Phantoms made it to this first meeting. Luniquial would have to track them all down, send them messages, and then wait for them to arrive by sailing ship. The other officers would drift in one by one as time passed.
“Phantoms. What have you to report?” Dark Lord Hrolzek asked his vassals. The kneeling officers rose to their feet. “Chief Korkso. How goes your army?”
“We Goadsmen have collared a hundred and fifty of the local trolls and broken their spirits with whips and green gruel. But they’re no Warcreeps yet. It will take a quarter of a year or more to beat them into shape. We’ve had a hell of a time keeping them all fed. Supplies are slow coming up the river. Because of that, we’ve postponed rounding up any more. This first batch’ll be trained for slave raiding. Later on, once we’ve got fodder for an army, these trolls will help swell our numbers by capturing the wild tribes to the north.”
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
“And what of the devil-birds?” The dark lord gestured to the skylight. He probably wanted to do something about the racket.
“Devil-birds are powerful beasts. They’ve got daemonic magic that stirs the winds. Normal training ain’t no good for their likes. Only a witch can tame them,” Korkso reluctantly admitted. “But the birds are smart as people. They screech their own language and understand ours. We can make them understand that an attack on our people will bring a retaliation on their fragile eggs or vulnerable hatchlings. Those overgrown birds value the safety of their chicks more than the taste of human flesh. They won’t be our servants, but they won’t be threats either.”
“Are these devil-birds mighty enough to attract a witch?”
“I believe so, my lord. But that’s not hardly my area of expertness.”
Korkso didn’t mention the local goblin tribe, and the dark lord didn’t ask. The goblins were beneath their notice, like rats. They were too weak and useless for warfare.
“Gritha.”
“All proceeds as planned, my lord,” Gritha said “although at a slower rate than necessary. Your major domo’s death at the hands of the Paladins has left our workforce in a state of disorder. Without a new officer to take charge as a steward and administrator, the cult will struggles with organization. While I have experience leading troops into battle, running a household of servants has proven to be a quite different affair; the common rabble’s fear of witches helps motivate soldiers to excellence but has the opposite effect on carpenters and masons. And splitting our forces between the citadel and the coastal settlement causes many problems with communication. My recommendation is for Luniquial to stay here at the citadel and manage affairs as we settle in.”
Luniquial interjected. “Impossible! I have matters to attend to on the peninsula. Building our spy network takes precedence over hanging paintings and delivering groceries. Infiltrating Sandgrave requires my immediate presence, not merely messages and letters via bird. Even this short trip to the citadel could cause me unforeseen troubles.” Luniquial objected so strongly that he must have feared the dark lord might actually follow Gritha’s suggestion to reassign him as the citadel’s major domo. He didn’t want to get stuck with twice the work.
“If not you, Luniquial, then you should call back one of our officers to take over the job. The citadel is in disarray, and it will get worse as more people arrive,” Gritha insisted.
The two officers gave each other disapproving looks. They restrained themselves in the presence of Dark Lord Hrolzek and didn’t break out into bickering, although the friction between them was obvious. Hrolzek waved his hand.
“Gritha. There is no emergency at the citadel. Your services will suffice for now. Luniquial must stay in the capital to watch over the unfolding political situation. At the first opportunity, he will recruit a new major domo to relieve you.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“What other news have you?”
“We have opened up the citadel’s underground levels and secured it for our workers to renovate. We three witches jointly defeated the Ancient golem that guarded the labyrinth…”
“Ahem.” Malisent cleared her throat and was about to cut Gritha off. But then Gritha cut off her cutting off before she could speak.
“We jointly defeated the golem! Our combined efforts weakened the monster. However Malisent faced it in combat and delivered the killing strike.”
Malisent had a smug expression on her face. Forcing Gritha to praise her was even more pleasing than bragging.
“Malisent. How is it that you killed the guardian when it drove back three of you before?”
“My lord. The golem’s body was nearly invulnerable. Yet it cautiously passed through low doors and hallways. I correctly deduced that the pair of long horns atop its head must have been exceptionally fragile. After I identified the monster’s weak point, defeating it became no trouble at all.” She snapped her fingers. “I floored it with one hit.”
“And what of your idea to control the wonder?”
“The daemon is banished, but the golem’s body is whole and sound. Should a more pliable spirit take possession of the Ancient wonder, it is possible the golem would rise to serve us. But that is merely a theory. For now, the golem is an immovable chunk of stone, of no use to anyone, but also presenting no further danger.”
Gritha continued, “Our victory over the golem has doubled the space available in the citadel. Chief Korkso and his Goadsmen can now construct a proper training pit for the monsters in the dungeon. The workers can set up permanent forges and smithies for equipping the armies. And of course, the labyrinth has endless halls for crypts and vaults.”
The dark lord asked a few more questions of Gritha pertaining to the improvements of the citadel. After that Putrizio stepped forward. The fightmaster didn’t always have reports to give because his duties were so routine—and also, he didn’t actually spend much time doing his duties. On this occasion, he took his turn to speak.
“My lord. Our two oldest disciples, Zambulon and Yurk, have advanced in their studies to a satisfactory degree. They are ready to fulfill minor roles in your court. I recommend them for the next available mission as a final test of their competence.”
The dark lord gestured to his spymaster. “Luniquial?”
“Absolutely,” said Luniquial, and his messenger bird repeated ‘absolutely’ in his voice. He shushed the bird. “I have a superabundance of tasks, ranging from simple to the utterly intractable. Plenty of them are appropriate for fresh swordsmen. If your disciples are ready at once, they can accompany me when I return to Sandgrave.”
“Thank you, Master Luniquial. I hope my students bring glory to the Phantoms. My lord.” Putrizio bowed and returned to his position near us. He stood right in front of me with his sequined cloak in my face, so I had to quietly scoot to the side while still kneeling.
“Famigrist. Do you have anything to add?” Hrolzek casually asked the gigantic beast resting in the shadows.
The monster growled and sputtered for a moment. At first I assumed that he spoke some other tongue, as did the trolls and goblins and devil-birds, but then I realized he was speaking a human language. The monster did not have a human mouth or the messenger bird’s gift for mimicry. His lips and sharp teeth could not precisely shape human sounds. All his words came out distorted. My spot at the far end of the throne room didn’t help me understand him.
“Excellent, Famigrist. Have Veylien or Malisent accompany you into the valley on your hunting trips. They can ink the maps on your behalf.”
Our audience with the lord concluded, we filed out of the throne room. The disciples exited first, as we were the junior members and the closest to the door. The meeting was not what I expected.
First, the dark lord did not seem all that dark to me. I expected a cruel, fiery psychopath, a hundred times worse than the witches, but he was not that. He had placid, almost languid, demeanor when speaking. The dark lord acted as if he had just been roused from a long nap and was still a little sleepy. He spent most of the time staring longingly at his new statue.
Our laid-back overlord hardly asked any questions of his officers, and he accepted the most cursory reports as sufficient. I understood that a high ranking leader might want to focus on strategic goals rather than details, but this went into absurdity. He didn’t ask about the current number of people living in the citadel, how we were feeding those people, delivery schedules, the cult’s resources and money, plans for development, the location of his scattered ships, or anything. Hrolzek didn’t inquire about security, despite this era’s obsession with war and murder. The citadel didn’t have locks on the front door, and any swordsmaniacs could walk right in. No wonder the Void Cult’s last temple got crushed.
From the sound of it, Lord Hrolzek earlier had a larger staff that took care of everything for him. His former major domo handled all the pesky little problems like paying the workers and assigning guards to the front gate. His witches served as captains of his troops in battle. His spy master handled all the shadowy business of recruiting new members and eliminating enemies. Meanwhile, our leader didn’t do much leading. He mostly lounged around his throne room all day thinking about ghosts.
This cult was in worse shape than I suspected. On the one hand, the lack of active leadership let me get away with things like building my own workshop without anyone noticing, but on the other hand, it let other people get away with their own devious projects at odds with the Phantom’s goals. Who knew what devious activities were going on in this place.