The uproar from Ashe, Arne, and Coara was only matched by the hush that fell over the hall as everyone present decided to try to listen in on what was happening with the King and his counselors up on the dais. Most of the guards scattered about the great hall gripped their spears more tightly as they adjusted their stances to have a better field of view, the better to see what new threat would be raising its horror-soaked head into this room filled with the unarmed, the wounded, and the terminally royal.

Myrl sighed, and reached out to the small table that sat next to his throne, his hand seeking the large, rough mug that he preferred his tea served in. The kitchen servant set to attend him had brought the unstylishly oversized mug, originally a tankard from the enlisted mess hall in Jibiril Keep where he had lived for so long. It had sat on a tray she had gracefully glided forward with while Doctor Kaule had been attending to his leg.

The presence of the mug had been his indication that his personal chef, and one of his three closest friends and one of his most trusted personal advisors , Master Sergeant Donchaminar Kammick Nit’Sammish of the Cloven Peaks’ Clan, who he sometimes affectionately called “Donk,'' was on duty in the kitchens and seeing to the welfare of the palace inhabitants and their stomachs. Donk always said that to cure any illness, one merely needed a good meal. Myrl thought there was more to recovery from illness and injury than simply a full belly, but he knew there was some truth to it that a full belly could bring great comfort.

Looking more closely at the tray where it sat on his little side table, Myrl saw a small covered bowl with a note resting in front of it that read in orcish script “Eat this while it’s still hot, please, Sire.” He reached past that bowl to a small, tightly wrapped cloth bundle. When he lifted it, another note had been tied to the bundle with kitchen twine.

It read: “The soup first, Sire.”

As he had begun to laugh, Ashe, Arne Caora, and Doctor Kaule who had joined them in their argument all ceased their fight, turning their heads to the laughing king. Myrl put the package of ginger cakes down, and picked up the covered bowl. Ignoring the delicate spoon beside it, he lifted the lid, seeing the steam race for the far off ceiling, he then lifted the bowl to take a deep sniff of the savory soup. It was a thickened broth heavy with cabbage and root vegetables.

More confidently and with a smooth grace that belied his fatigue and pain, Myrl lifted the steaming bowl to his lips and noisily slurped the entire bowl down. Feeling the heat of the soup move rapidly down his throat, landing noisily in his waiting stomach, and from there the warmth radiated out from his core to his furthest extremities. Donk called it Brot Beinne, or Mountain Soup, and there were nettles and some little yellow flowers that most gardeners called pufwoad. Gardeners hated the rampant weed, but Donk dried pounds of it every Spring to put in soups and breads throughout the year, saying it held the warmth of the Spring sun, and carried that warmth to those who ate it in the colder months.

Myrl didn’t know how true that was either, but Donk’s Mountain Soup was the best he had ever had. And just here and now, felt like it was rejuvenating the young king almost as well as a night’s sleep.

He could feel the combined irritation of the four older people near him, and so forestalled their rebukes and their anticipated disputes they might voice for his plan to confront the twisted nightmares that now wandered the palace, by holding up his left palm in a halting gesture as he stood up, bringing the tankard of hot tea to his lips as he did so.

Standing now, and subtly testing the solidity of his wounded leg, Myrl held his palm outward still, making certain they all knew he did not give them permission to speak. He stood like that, noisily and obnoxiously finishing his tea for another two minutes.

The exasperation was rolling off of Arne, Caora and Doctor Kaule in hard waves that made the ring on his finger, which was still wrapped around his scepter, ache and throb. Ashe, however, was completely opaque to the senses of the magical ring passed down to him from his ancestors.

But the darkly dressed man stood silently with a stoic expression on his gray face. He would not gainsay his king in public. Later, in his study, if they lived, Ashe would let him know in great detail how much he disagreed with Myrl’s choices, and they would go over all of the issues that Ashe saw Myrl mishandling. It was a routine from his Princely days that had bled over into these last several months as monarch.

It was vexing, but his tutor missed little, and had a good head for such things. Myrl would consider himself dimwitted for employing an advisor whose advice he refused to listen to. He might not actually TAKE all of the advice he was given, but he would make a point of listening. That was how, Myrl thought, it was supposed to work. One took in all of the available information, and then one made choices and plans of action based upon all of it… not just the advice one LIKED…

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Myrl had come to know several nobles over these recent months who employed advisors who they rarely listened to. Myrl thought they were using swords to try to drive nails for all the good it did them.

Idiots.

“My Lord Ashe, if you please, I have a job I feel only you will accomplish. Please consult with High Priestess Ord, and find out all you may about the Artifact the mage is using. You will need everything she has to remove him, and that Artifact, from the board. While I take a contingent of the Guard with me, I need you to remove the mage. Just that. Reclaim the Artifact if you can, but remove that mage.”

Myrl watched as a tightlipped Ashe turned to Caora and led the angular, elderly priestess from the stage to ask for the details he needed that she might have. Priestess Ord did not look happy. From his ring, he could feel the mild surprise coming from the High Priest Arne Roah, however. The short, heavy shouldered man looked like he was reluctantly approving of Myrl’s directions.

Another BOOM! moved through the walls of the palace, rattling both the teeth and the nerves of everyone present. A moment after the last vibrations of impact worked their way through the hall, another great crashing noise moved through the palace.

A wall, maybe one of the towers, had just given way to the pounding it had been taking, and surrendered to gravity.

From the set of doors leading to the East Wing of the palace, a shuddering motion shook the large iron bound doors as grit laden wind, like the breath of a sand demon, was expelled from the hallway around the edges of the doors. The guards manning those doors looked panicked, as they turned to the doors, spears gripped tightly in nervous hands.

Grinning, and suppressing the grimace of pain that threatened to crawl across his features, Myrl strode toward those doors, and walked with as confident a stride as he could manage. Now was no time to let the people see how much his leg was hurting him. The bandages were tight, and unmoving against the stitches the elderly doctor had sewn up his torn flesh with.

As he moved through the hall, “I need four guards. We have some pests to remove from Our halls.” He paused for a moment, and pointed at one of the guards whose name he knew for certain. “Sergeant Ruaraidh! Are you fit for duty?”

The man stood out from his fellow guardsmen in height, and loomed over most people around him. Myrl thought his long arms and sturdy build might deliver extra reach and a solid immobility that he felt would be needed. The man stood slightly straighter when addressed, and nodded to his king, while simply saying “Sire!”

With long, loping strides he fell in behind Myrl as he moved through the room towards the Eastern doors. He could hear the sound of several other guards filing in behind him.

As they approached the doors, Myrl gestured at the guards at those doors, who had been anticipating the command, and swung the giant doors open. Myrl, trailing his line of spearmen like the tail of a comet, strode from the hall, telling the door guards to bar the doors again after they leave.

He knew where one of the things was trapped, and with Ashe’s demonstration, he now knew how to tie off his spell, to trap others. He had a plan.

Myrl would acknowledge that it may not be the best plan, but it was the one he had. He swung his mace-like scepter up to his shoulder, and turned back to the guards following behind.

More than four had followed him. At a rough count, it was ten.

“Gentlemen,” he began. “And ladies. Thank you for your faith in me. I will be your shield when I can, and your sword. We are going to hunt these creatures down, one at a time if we can. And we will kill them.”

They stood, watching him.

“My Lord Ashe is going to hunt the mage who is controlling these creatures. With his victory, no more of them will be made. With our victory, the monsters set amongst us will be stopped.”

A voice, older and deeper than one he thought should be coming from these soldiers, spoke up from the back of the column of spearmen.

“Your majesty. I am here to help you. Lord Ashe and High Priestess Ord agreed I should accompany you and your guards.” Slowly, as he spoke, Arne Roah, High Priest of the Sun Goddess, chief cleric in the kingdom, slowly made his way from the back of the line of guards. He smiled serenely as he approached. His robes looked both cleaner, and more voluminous as he walked gracefully forward. Somewhere the stout man had picked up one of the spears used by the palace guards.

It was then that Myrl noticed the shifting light in the corridor that moved with the muscular little priest. The head of his spear had become gold, and shed light like one of the palace windows on a clear day at noon.

As Myrl smiled at the High Priest, a cheer went up from his contingent of guards.

The king spun on his heel, and began marching down the hall, his priest, and ten guards marched in time with him.