Two hours later, Matt followed Gorfeld through the largest doors he’d ever seen into a grand throne room.
Fortunately, he wasn’t still wearing the workout clothes he’d pulled on a few hours before. In the end, the servants had found a dark tunic and pants that both fit him and looked mildly like a military uniform. They’d matched it with a flowing black cape that he thought would give him a bit of a striking appearance. At the very least, it would be easier to dodge and run away than the heavy suit of armor, which would turn out better anyway if the other side was throwing fireballs.
The throne room didn’t look like it would be the site of a battle anytime soon, but it definitely wasn’t some kind of peaceful sanctuary, either. An arched ceiling stretched high enough that the tops of the dark stone pillars almost disappeared in the gloom above, while the red-stained glass windows reduced the daylight flooding in through them to a lurid, crimson glow. If the natural light hadn’t been augmented by the torches and candelabra scattered liberally through the room, Matt might have had a fairly hard time seeing everything.
Fortunately, he could see the attendees well enough. They had gathered into four groups, each waiting separately at the foot of the raised dais that housed the empty metal throne. All of them turned to look at him and Gorfeld as they strode through the doorway.
Matt refused to let them intimidate him, even though his fingers ached to feel his pistol again. Gorfeld had steadfastly refused to go fetch the weapon, saying that it wouldn’t be needed, but the way some of them were staring at him, he wasn’t nearly as confident. “Okay, Gorfeld, which are which?”
“To the right are your loyal nobles, sire. Braden the Red, Suluth the Dark, and Tek the Mad.”
Matt nodded. The names fit all too well, especially the giant, armored behemoth with spikes and a red tassel hanging off his helmet. Braden looked like he was ready for a fight already, though Matt thought his armor was just a bit too polished and too finely made to have seen much actual combat. Suluth was a Goblin, a menacing shadow with wicked knives strapped to her sides. She had dark leathery skin, though not as tough as an Imp’s scaled hide, and her face extended into a doglike snout. The final noble wore familiar wizardly robes and looked like an older, bluer version of Gorfeld. The so-called High Imp also had a fairly distracted air, as if he was studying something that Matt couldn’t see. “Tek isn’t actually mad, is he?”
“There is some debate on the subject.” Gorfeld nodded unobtrusively towards the next group, a huddled bunch that stood to the left of the nobles. “Your servants, who are here to submit to your control. They represent the Low Folk, in all their variety.”
Matt frowned a little. The second group was looking at him a little more fearfully, and none of them had as fine a set of clothing as the other groups. “No names for them?”
“Their leaders change frequently. They are of no importance. The loyalty of serfs is of symbolic importance, mostly.” Gorfeld’s flat tone gave no clue as to what the Low Imp thought of the statement. Instead of clarifying, he nodded to the third group, who stood distinctly apart from all the others. “They are more crucial. I believe those are the nobles who intend to immediately rebel.”
“Ah.” Matt studied them as he walked. There were four of them, two wearing slightly shabbier versions of the armor that Braden wore. “Those are Grufen and Teblas?”
“Of the Hard Scythe and Leaffall Orcs, yes. The one standing next to them is Itrelia, of the Frost Elves.” Gorfeld shivered a bit. “Very unpleasant.”
The woman seemed every bit as hostile as Gorfeld had predicted. Her pointed ears had jeweled earrings, and frost seemed to lace her hair. She studied Matt as if he were an insect. The fourth of their group seemed intent on avoiding Matt’s attention, however. “I thought you said the Gnomes were going to stay loyal.”
“Apparently Nuramesh felt otherwise.” A hint of surprise colored Gorfeld’s response, and Matt smirked a little. At least his new advisor couldn’t predict everything. That fact was almost as reassuring as it was frustrating.
Matt grunted. Then he looked at the final, much larger group. The variety there was shockingly ample, and he felt his heart beat faster at the looks directed at him. “And them?”
“They are the diplomats sent by our neighbors.” Gorfeld’s voice became more of a whisper. “Their responsibility will be to recognize your ascension to the throne and then renew their wars with us.”
“So you said. You didn’t say that there were fifty of them.”
“Only twenty three, sire.” Gorfeld paused. “The late Sorceress was…industrious when it came to the borders of our Realm.”
“Obviously.” Matt shook his head. “Okay, let’s get this over with.”
He accelerated his pace, forcing Gorfeld into something like a skipping jog beside him. The Imp muttered something under his breath, but Matt ignored him as he approached the group of loyalists, who were waiting for him with half-hostile expectation—except for Tek, of course, who seemed absorbed in his own musings.
None of them appeared welcoming as he drew close. “Hello. My name is Matthew Irons.”
The nobles exchanged a look. Braden was the first to speak, his words echoing out from underneath his full helm. “Good day…sire.”
Matt heard the delay before his title, and he smiled. So it was going to be subtle politics, was it? “I certainly hope so. Lord Braden, right? I was told you were the leader of the Red Moon Orcs.” He paused. “Sorry, could you raise your helm? I like to see faces when I am talking to people.”
There was a pause. Braden’s stance grew uncertain, as if the request had thrown him off balance. Matt could see the Orc shift slightly, as if he was trying to find a reason to refuse, or to take offense. Then he slowly lifted the faceplate of the helmet, revealing a scarred face with two large, porcine tusks. Braden’s skin was a rusty, brownish red, and he had eyes that seemed to be completely black.
He smiled up at the Orc. “Thank you! I am glad to meet you, Braden. I hope we can work well together—though I hope you won’t feel like you need to wear that armor all the time. It must be heavy.”
The Orc stiffened, and he barely his teeth slightly. “I am strong, sire. I barely feel it.”
“All the same, it is good to be confident in the home of a friend, is it not?” Matt smiled. “You wouldn’t wear it at your own house, would you?”
The question seemed to catch Braden almost completely off guard. He glanced at Gorfeld, but the steward seemed just as baffled. “No, sire. It is dueling armor.”
As soon as the words left Braden’s mouth, the Orc’s face seized up. Matt saw the signs of regret as clearly on that face as he had on dozens of suspects. Apparently, as fearsome a warrior as Braden could be, he could still say things he hadn’t meant to. “I understand. It must be a strong tradition among your people to wear it during feasts and ceremonies.”
Braden nodded woodenly, and Matt let his smile show a little more teeth. “All the same, unless you actually mean to duel someone, let’s leave it at home next time.” He turned to Suluth before Braden could answer. “And you must be Lady Suluth. From what I hear, you are our eyes and ears.”
“And occasional claws, sire.” Suluth’s voice was a low, sibilant sound, one that reminded him of a blade on a whetstone. She tapped the handle of one of her blades and gave Braden a significant look. “You need only give the command, and your enemies will be hunted down and slaughtered.”
Matt ignored the muttered invective from Braden, who now lowered his faceplate with a snap. “Oh. I thought we would have used the Grim Hounds for that. Or did I kill the last of those along with the Red Sorceress?”
Suluth suddenly went tense. She turned her attention back to Matt with a wariness that made him regret leaving his gun at home for the thirtieth time that day. “I believe…that those were the last, yes. No more remain in our kingdom.”
“Just as well, I guess.” Matt shrugged. “They seemed hard to control. What good is a hunter when you can’t trust them to follow your orders, right?”
The Goblin’s eyes darted to Gorfeld, who shrank back from her glare. When she looked back to Matt, she slowly nodded. “You are correct, sire. We shall serve you better than they ever could.”
“I most certainly hope so. After all, they didn’t exactly do the Sorceress much good.” Matt again turned from her to the last noble and paused. Tek was no longer studying the air. Instead, the old Imp was staring straight at him, with a penetrating gaze that reminded him of his grandfather. It was not a fond memory. “Hello. You are called Tek?”
Tek smiled. It was a broad, blossoming grin that showed his wide, flat teeth. “Why yes, sire. That is what I am called.”
Matt picked up on the smug tone immediately. Yes, very much like Grandfather. The old man had been a shady sort, the kind of old farmer that no one really trusted. His father had always been clear on how to handle that sort. Keep them off balance and keep them guessing. “Of course, you wouldn’t be called anything else, would you?”
The Imp hesitated. His smile grew fixed. “I am not aware of anyone using other names for me, no.”
“Because they haven’t, or because there’s nobody left alive to know about the others?” Matt let the old Imp blink at him in confusion, and then laughed, loud and hard. He stepped in close and clapped the Imp on the shoulder, nearly staggering him. “Sorry, that’s just an old joke. Don’t think anything of it. It was good to meet you.”
He turned and left Tek in his wake, the old Imp still too dumbfounded to respond. Gorfeld caught up with him in a few strides, skipping along for a moment before he spoke up. “Sire, what was that?”
“They aren’t rebelling, but they probably wouldn’t hesitate if they got the chance to stab me to death and take the throne, right?” Matt smirked a little as he bore down on the second group. “Well, it’s to my advantage to keep them off balance and uncertain. If they aren’t sure what I know or what I’m doing, it’ll make it easier to steer them where I want them to go.”
Gorfeld’s answer was low and quiet. “It might also convince them they should rebel now, before you do something unexpected.”
“Then I had better keep moving before they make up their minds.”
The Imp made a slight grunting noise, but Matt ignored him. He saw the group of Low Folk stir as he approached, but he made a calming motion. “Hello, my name is Matthew Irons. You represent my people?”
His question didn’t exactly have the intended effect. The entire group dropped to one knee, bowing low. One of them, a Goblin, removed his hat and bowed a little further forward than the rest. “Sire, we swear ourselves to your service. We shall serve you until—”
“Wait, wait, wait. Just hold on.” The huddled representatives stiffened, and Matt quickly, hoping to not give them enough time to panic. “Please, stand up. I don’t need you to bow quite so low. You make me feel tall enough already.”
They exchanged looks between each other, and Matt watched them think the situation over. He could imagine what they were debating. They’d seen him speak with the leaders of the nation, and leave them worried and uncertain. It was obvious they expected a lot less leniency or respect. Given the way things were decorated, he wouldn’t have put it past previous rulers to start out with executions or other punishments.
Slowly, the group came to their feet. The Goblin who’d spoken held his hat before him with both hands. Matt tried not to notice they were shaking. “S-sire. We swear ourselves—”
Matt interrupted the poor man once more, keeping his voice even and calm. “I apologize, but before you start, one last thing. May I have your names?”
The Goblin blanched a little, his tough brown skin growing a little pale. “I am called Sapor, sire.”
Matt nodded. “Nice to meet you, Sapor. Can you do me a favor?” Sapor glanced up at him, astonishment on his face, and Matt smiled before the Goblin yanked his eyes down again. “I have a custom from my home that we follow when two people meet with good intentions. It would help me feel comfortable if we did it now. Would you help me?”
Sapor was shaking a little more now, but the Goblin nodded.
“Good. Now, reach out your right hand and grab mine…”
Matt talked them through the process of shaking hands, starting with Sapor. He showed them how to perform the gesture and told them how it meant a promise of peace. Gorfeld stood to the side as Matt shook each of their hands, asked each of them a question or two, and then moved to the next.
When he’d finished, he smiled at them again. “Again, thank you for your help. I will remember it.” A murmur of shocked acknowledgement came back from them, and he smiled wider. “We’re going to have a lot of work ahead, and I hope to meet with you again soon to discuss it. Until then.”
The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
They murmured again, and some of them bowed a second time before he turned away. He started toward the third group, with Gorfeld quickly at his heels. The little Imp was whispering before Matt was even sure they had cleared earshot of the Low Folk. “Sire, what are you doing? You left your loyalists uncertain and greeted serfs like friends! Now you go to face your rebels before you even take the throne?”
“Once I take the throne, they’re going to rebel. We haven’t hit that point yet.” Matt forced himself to shrug, though he felt a building tension inside him. The four nobles that faced him now were glaring at him, obviously impatient. “Maybe I can talk them out of it, maybe not. There’s no harm in trying.”
“Then you should have gone to them first! The Low Folk can’t do anything if the High Clans turn against you!”
“Can they? I think, one way or another, we’re going to find out” Matt glanced at Gorfeld, feeling a little burst of pleasure at the Imp’s disbelief. “We’d be better off with them solidly on our side than any number of nobles.”
Gorfeld blinked, his mouth falling open. He seemed about to protest, but he caught himself before he did. “Are you serious, sire?”
“As a heart attack.” Matt gave him another smile. This one was not as friendly as before. “I warned you that I was going to change things. If it makes you feel any better, I am following some old advice. Something I read in a book once.”
The Imp closed his mouth and shook his head slightly. “You would govern us out of a book?”
“I’m only keeping my bargain, Gorfeld. If you would rather I go home and turn it all over to you, just let me know.” He waited for a moment until the Imp’s shoulders slumped. “That’s what I thought. Now let’s get going. We’ve almost waited long enough.”
Matt caught a bit of confusion in Gorfeld’s eyes before he turned away, and he suppressed a smug grin. It wouldn’t have looked right to the people he was going to speak with, and they looked more than mad enough already.
He walked up to the soon-to-be-rebels with the same measured stride and then stopped in front of them. There was a moment of silence as they studied each other.
Then he nodded. “All right, I’m going to need you all to get to work.”
Whatever they had expected him to say, it hadn’t been that. The Gnome, still slinking around behind the larger beings, jumped a little, and both Orcs looked a little dumbfounded. The Frost Elf, however, lifted her chin in clear defiance. “We will not take orders from you, Matthew Irons. The Elves of Winterfast will stand alone.”
Matt laughed. He enjoyed a moment of shock and anger on Itrelia’s face, and then he shook his head. “I’m sure that sounds wonderful, my lady, but do you really expect it to work?”
The Frost Elf snarled at him, taking a step forward. “We do not fear you. The Red Sorceress might have commanded us, but her best now lie dead, and your threats are empty.” Her lips curved in a cruel smile. “From what I have seen, you’ll be dead within the year.”
“I’ll last longer than you. Unless you are proposing to set yourselves up together?”
“Don’t be a fool.” Itrelia waved at the Orcs. “Their homelands are far from our homes. Not that I would care to work with such scum, anyway.” The Frost Elf ignored the snarls from her fellow rebels, and continued in a clear voice. “Our forces are more than enough to handle whatever you have left. You’ll be too busy with your desperate wars of survival to retaliate.”
Matt raised his eyebrows. “Oh. You think I’m the one you need to worry about?”
Itrelia spread her hands wide. “Who else is there, dolt?”
“Wow. Haven’t heard that one in a while.” Matt shook his head again and then lowered his voice. “I still haven’t looked at all the maps yet, so enlighten me. How many of the ambassadors and messengers over there come from places that border your forest?”
The Frost Elf began another biting retort and then paused. Before she could answer, Matt turned to the others. “Grufen, Teblas, how many of them share a border with your tribes? And Nuramesh, do you think any of these three have any intention of helping you against either me or that pack of wolves over there?” He let the question hang for a moment, meeting each of their eyes in turn. When he came back to Itrelia, he caught her glancing in the direction of the messengers. Her expression was quite a bit less haughty than it had been a moment ago.
Grufen spoke up, his helm concealing his own expression effectively. “Some of those messengers might hold agreements for us. Assurances, in exchange for our help against you.”
“And you trust them?” Matt met the Orc’s eyes levelly. “Why would they keep their word once you are under their control? Even better, what would change for you then? Just the person who gives you the orders.”
Grufen grunted. It sounded a bit like laughter. “That’s already happening either way.”
“True. But at least with me, you’ll have proved yourselves loyal in a time of doubt. With them, you’ll be a turncoat—and once a turncoat, always a turncoat.” Matt shrugged. “You may have had a bad deal with the Red Sorceress, but you won’t with me. You betray me, and it will go badly for you, no matter what happens to me.”
Itrelia shook her head. “Meaningless promises. You won’t last long without our help. Even with it, they will crush you.”
Matt met her eyes and gave her a slow smile. “I bet we’ll surprise you. They may be looking for an easy war, but they’ll find a bit more than they bargained for. The only way your territory doesn’t get turned into a war zone is if you get your armies back to guarding the borders they should have been watching in the first place.”
Nuramesh piped up, still half-hidden by Grufen. “And if we have gone too far already? If the rebellion has already begun?”
Matt changed his attention to the Gnome, and the little guy cringed out of sheer reflex. “As far as I’m concerned, nothing’s started until I take the throne officially. Once I do, though, you’ll be dealing with King Matthew, not just Matthew Irons. At that point, my choices are going to be limited. If you still rebel, then I’ll have to destroy you.”
Teblas broke in, his voice harsh and unyielding, like grating stones. “Easy words. Hard work.”
Despite himself, Matt laughed again. “True, I suppose, but I have no other choice. A wise man once said, if you have an enemy, either destroy him or leave him alone. I’m not going to injure you a bit and leave you to keep plotting behind my back.” He looked around at all four of them, trying to gauge the effect of his words. “Any last thoughts before I head to the throne? I can wait a little longer if you need to talk amongst yourselves.”
Itrelia snorted. “As if there is much to discuss. We would be better served by asking for help from your other visitors.” She indicated the crowd of messengers with a contemptuous flick of her head.
Matt raised his eyebrows again. “Well, I’m sure you could try. After all, they seem so happy with you at the moment. Patient too.” He grinned a little—a diplomat was already stalking over to them, outrage clearly stamped on his features. Right on time.
“What is the meaning of this?”
The question rang through the throne room, and Matt turned with deliberate slowness to face the man. If he hadn’t looked closely, he might have thought it was a human. Looking closer, however, he saw the same strange eyes that the Red Sorceress and her would-be victims had the night before. His features were slightly sharper than a human’s, with a strange tendency to move in quick, nervous jerks. The two that Matt had met in the storage facility must have looked similar out of the rain.
Of course, they had been wearing robes, not a full set of plate armor. Gorfeld had referred to them as two sides of the same coin. The robe and staff types were called Wizards and were experts in magic. There were quite a few of them among the crowd of diplomats.
The ones with armor, though, were called Knights. They kept their magic inside, using it to fortify their bodies. Apparently, just one Knight had the strength of several other people, depending on their power. This one, who was still staring at him with barely contained contempt and indignation, might have been able to contain quite a bit of magic in his generous potbelly.
He nodded to the Knight and kept his voice calm. “My name is Matthew Irons. Who are you?”
The man drew himself up, swishing his red and purple cloak around himself with a practiced gesture. He was shorter than Matt by a full head, but the Knight still seemed to manage to stare down his nose at him. “I am Sir Hethwellow Durest, of the Knights of Griffon. I—”
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Sir Hethwellow, but at the moment, I am speaking with some of my people. You can wait until I am done.” Matt spoke in that same firm, even voice despite the sudden shock that spread over Hethwellow’s features. He turned back to the four nobles, all of whom were eyeing him in surprise. “Now, where were we?”
Hethwellow came in right on cue. “I demand you take your throne so that we can be on with things! Your mutterings with these creatures has been a waste of everyone’s time.”
Matt looked back at the Knight and let a bit of steel into his voice. “Your demands are noted. I will take the throne in a moment, but not before I finish my conversation.”
The Knight seemed to swell with indignation. “Your conversation is not worth one more minute of my time. Whatever bargains you may be trying to reach with these fools does not matter. Take the throne so I can place our defiance before you and be done with this place.”
By the end of his outburst, Hethwellow looked so smug that he could have practically floated away on the buoyancy of his own ego alone. Matt glanced back at him again, and then looked at the rebels. “So you’re saying that these people matter more to me than they ever will to any of you, Sir Hethwellow?”
Hethwellow chuckled, a surprisingly arrogant sound. “Of course. Why should I care about your petty minions?”
Matt risked a quick look at Gorfeld, who was staring at him in openmouthed astonishment. Then he grinned at the rebels, who were staring in turn at the Knight. “From the mouths of fools, my friends. You have until I reach the throne to decide.”
He turned and walked toward the throne, taking careful, measured steps. The idea was to give the rebels just enough time to panic, but not enough to reassure themselves. It would be a bad idea to rush them, too; if he got too close to the throne, they might decide that they had waited too long.
Matt had taken four steps before he heard Teblas bark something in surprise. He risked a quick look back and saw Nuramesh scurrying across the floor towards the group of loyalists. To his gratification, Grufen was striding along behind him, with a bit more dignity, but with no less determination. Braden, Suluth, and Tek were all watching their would-be deserters approach with clear surprise. Suluth even reached for one of her blades before a whisper from Tek stopped her.
Two out of four, then. Not bad. Now he had one last thing to do before the day was done.
He made sure that his pace gave both former rebels enough time to stand with their supposedly more-loyal friends before he reached the dais. Then he started up the steps, taking them one at a time as he climbed towards the throne itself.
It was made of black iron, or some kind of metal. The surface shone with the red light of the stained glass, and Matt suppressed a shiver. He knew that Gorfeld had already gone over the thing, and the Imp had been relatively certain that no magical surprises were waiting for him when he sat down, but it was still making him nervous.
He paused beside the throne and turned back to the crowd of messengers. “When I take this throne, I will be assuming the rule of this kingdom. Once I do, there will be nothing that I will not do to make this place a safe and stable home for all the peoples of my realm.” Matt paused, noting that some of the messengers looked more agitated now. One of them was outright glaring at Hethwellow. Perhaps the ones who had been making promises to Grufen and Nuramesh? “I understand that many of you have come bearing declarations of war against us. I ask you, why?”
The question suddenly brought stillness to the crowd, as if it surprised them. He continued before any of them could answer. The last thing he wanted was for Hethwellow or somebody like him to pull the conversation into a shouting match. “You may have had your disagreements with the Red Sorceress, but I am not her. In fact, I’m the one who killed her for you. Why would you declare war on me for that act?”
One of the Wizards stepped forward, his deep green robes swirling about him. His too-large eyes and expression seemed serious, and his voice was a deep, solemn sound. “While you may not be her, your people were once her servants. Her death does not excuse their crimes against their neighbors. Their actions cry out for punishment.”
Matt fixed him with a stare. “And your crimes, are they not equally serious? Or do you pretend to not have committed any against the people of these lands?” He held up a hand as the messenger started to speak again. “Yes, I’m sure that you were doing only what was necessary. It is an excuse that I’ve heard many times before. Do you think my people did not have a similar belief in their wars against you? And did they even have a choice, with the Red Sorceress at their head?”
The question brought a sudden silence, and the green cloaked Wizard seemed troubled. Hethwellow stepped forward and helpfully filled the silence. “It does not matter what reasoning you throw at us. We have been charged to declare war against you and your barbaric creatures, and we shall. It is our duty to those we serve.”
“And will your liege lords thank you for serving them so blindly?” Matt shook his head. “I do not wish to see us fight any of you. Enough blood has probably already been shed. At the same time, do not deceive yourselves into thinking that a fight against us will be easy.”
Hethwellow snorted. “With what forces? Your creatures will be ripe for defeat without their Sorceress to shield them.”
“Even with the one who killed her leading them?” Matt let a silence follow. He watched the confidence drain from the faces of some of the messengers. Hethwellow looked around, his own expression becoming even more irritated as he read the sudden doubts on his allies’ faces. “If you come to fight, we will fight. You may feel certain of victory now, but are you absolutely sure you are right? War can change fortunes so quickly.” He paused again, and let a slow smile grow on his lips. “There is a wise saying in my world. Wars begin when you want, but they do not end when you wish. Think on that, before you commit your people to a course that may lead to disaster.”
More of the messengers looked uneasy now, and some of them were stepping aside to mutter amongst themselves. Matt could see the shape of some alliances, some of whom had looked distressed when Nuramesh and Grufen had turned loyalist. He might not have stopped the wars, but maybe he had discouraged enough of them to slow things down.
He nodded. “Well, I’ve said what I needed to say. It is time.”
When he turned, he saw Gorfeld standing beside the throne. There was a thin metal band in his hand, a crown made of the same dark metal as the throne. It looked like it had been crudely worked, and something about the craftmanship suggested an age that made the rest of the throne room seem newly made. Gorfeld offered the crown to him, and Matt took it carefully. He turned to face the assembly and raised it in the air.
“By right of conquest, I claim the throne of the Crimson Peaks, now to be known as the Kingdom of Iron. I claim the mastery over the realm, the fealty of the nobles, and the obedience of their peoples.” The words had been drilled into him by Gorfeld, who had insisted that the ceremony was more than a mere show. Given the way magic seemed to permeate everything in the place, Matt had trusted him.
At least, he trusted the Imp up to a certain point. The normal ceremony had him demanding that they serve him until the end of his days. It was a bit much to ask from a boy raised in Wyoming, though. Just a step too far.
“I will serve them and justify their trust for all the days of my reign.” He heard Gorfeld suck in a sudden breath. The nobles and messengers below went still in shock. “I will keep the law and defend their rights. To those who abuse them, I will bring war. With those who support them, I will build peace and prosperity. Let this be the start of a new day.”
With those words, he shoved the crown down onto his head. The instant the metal touched his brow, a sudden clap of lightning tore the air outside. Then another. Two more. Yet another. Another two more almost on top of that. The bolts began striking so fast and strong that the glass of the windows began to shiver. Overlapping thunder swallowed the alarmed shouts of the assembly.
Yet Matt barely heard or saw any of it. Power—impossible to describe with any other word—filled him. Energy crackled along his limbs, and he twitched in surprise as every hair on his body seemed to stand on end. He went up on his toes and gaped with alarm as he felt his feet begin to drift up from the floor. What had to be magic coursed through him, while the sky roared in fury outside.
Then there was a triple flash of lightning, so close it cast the whole throne room in lurid, blinding light. The boom cracked every single window, and the roar of super-heated air seemed to last forever.
Then the power fled, and Matt collapsed to one knee. He shook his head, dazed by the energy that had rushed through him. A faint scent of burnt hair wafted past his nose, and he coughed a little. When he brought his hand away from his mouth, he could taste a bit of blood. Every muscle of his body ached, as if he had done some weightlifting and run a marathon back to back.
All the same, he forced himself to stand. If he seemed as unsteady as he felt, the wide-eyed people that stared up at him didn’t seem to notice it. Matt stared back at each of them, sweeping his gaze across all of them in turn.
Then he smiled. “All right. Let’s begin.”