THE MACHINATIONS OF ULTO
During these exploits, the comrades have had little thought to spare for the vital role of Mathras in their assault. His howling missiles perpetually blast and paralyze defensive enchantments, and it is thanks to his magics that the Tower wards have not alerted the guardians on the outer wall to the comrades' invasion.
Mathras, while matching his intellect against the sophistication of Voua Azrain's defenses, finds himself at once thrilled and terrified by the intricacies of the arcane conflict; never before has he dared test his power against a sorcerer as exalted as Voua Azrain, and now, in one night—one night!—he has not only done so, but even stands to claim a wyvern's teeth, and has received from Glaneir a scroll, phials, and silver sphere from the trove of the sorcerer himself! These treasures wait behind him on an amber-wrought workbench, stowed in haste among beakers of radiant liquids, where fey gases hang reeking and whispering in the gloom.
Little does he suspect that Ulto, at this very moment, is entertaining thoughts that may lead to his demise. Ulto, striding toward the superheated gate through a ruin of tiger's blood and snow-white fur, is rejoicing in the victory of the comrades, wondering rapturously if these dupes might be strong enough to make this, her latest and boldest attempt on her master's life, a success at last… Yet it worries her that they slaughtered the tiger cavalry with none of the losses she anticipated, none of the wounds that she had supposed no mortal crew would have the savvy to avoid. If the comrades are too skillful, might they not possess the cunning to discover her true nature? Might they prove a threat? Well then… let there be some tragic loss. Let one of the more dangerous and cunning of their number find a touching end.
Cusáhn?
This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.
No, he is forthright—usable; he will not smell betrayal until it is too late.
Rokál?
But no, his blade and skills are needed, if Voua Azrain is to die.
Vivict…
Yes, Ulto is unnerved by the unexpected mettle of the pirate lad. Though Rokál and Cusáhn are more impressive with their bold words, high stature, and mystic blades, Ulto feels uneasy about Vivict's silence, and the cunning he displayed against the tigers. The high sea, she knows, is a world where many can sniff out treachery, because those who cannot are the first to be betrayed.
Ulto peers down through the branches of the jungle, searching for Vivict amid the dappled moonlight of the undergrowth. He is a slash of red in the shadows. The tiger he harpooned fell from the wall during battle, bringing the harpoon line down as well, and so Vivict is momentarily isolated from the others, focused on the task of coaxing the harpoon barbs from their lodging in tigers' flesh.
How fortuitous.
It is time, Ulto thinks, for the trials of these comrades to multiply sevenfold.
With a glance at Rokál to be sure his spell-seeing eyes are not upon her, Ulto casts her thoughts into the twisting cellars of Mathras' laboratory, and triggers the flesh-bound scroll. She sees, from afar, the amber desk behind the alchemist's back, hears the subtle sounds of corks popping out of jingling phials, senses the almost-physical chill of spirits racing through the air, as the trapped and tortured souls of thirty-thousand ghastly centipedes whisper free, ravenous for the infliction of psychic agonies.
Mathras cries out, whirling to face the invisible swarm, his panicked hands rising to invoke some desperate spell – and then the silver sphere melts away with a whispery sigh, and the alchemist is blinded by screaming lights inside his skull. He tries to flee, but finds that both his feet are fused, ankle-deep in the solid floor.