With considerable satisfaction Lord Azanth contemplated on the merits of having gained a second star and Level 21. The most rewarding aspect of these achievements was that all his skills were now Level 5, including Telepathy. At Level 5, Telepathy allowed him to address up to five minds at once, provided they were within a range of 6 metres. Tedious it had proven, to repeat himself from person to person. Now this necessity could end. And more importantly, in a crisis, the ability to address his whole group at once might be decisive.

Absorbed as Lord Azanth was with his menus, it came as a shock to find himself on the move; yet his companion, Liam, was lying asleep on the bed provided by the inn they had chosen on their return to Pommerstein from the storm giants’ castle.

Who dares my case to steal! Lord Azanth gave the telepathic equivalent of a shout by using his new level to broadcast to everyone within six metres.

Be not alarmed, my lord, it is only your Chief of Spies.

Undetectable by mortal and demon crisp alike, his faithful assassin had evidently opened the window to the room, entered as silently as a shadow, and lifted his Tupperware case from around Liam’s neck. Out, to pure night and the gaze of a million stars. Far away, moonlight shone on the tops of the towers of the giants, just visible above the only cloud in the night sky.

Sitting on the tiles of the roof of the inn, beside the chimney, the Chief of Spies held him in her hands and he could sense her scrutiny.

What thoughts do you have, that such melancholy a sentiment do I detect as emanating from you?

It is not melancholy sire…

Say on.

It is something akin to maternal intimacy, insofar as I understand that emotion. Here in my hands is a slender, vulnerable, fried slice of potato. And yet, here too is the person who gives meaning and purpose to my life. What value have eight-four levels of Assassin except that I have enemies? And who should those enemies be, but those who have brought my lord down? My lord who ever honoured his words. Thus, I find myself cradling you in the quiet of the night: an infinitely precious being, once lost to me but now regained. I would protect you and revenge you.

Tender feelings in one so capable of murder. Yet I urge you, Chief of Spies, to recall the ancient words of the wise philosopher: every one of us dies deep in our affairs.

My lord?

The scholar is indicating that our ambitions make a labyrinth for ourselves into which we descend, hurrying along the corridors, busy with our plans and goals. And then we die, still in the depths of shadow. You would be better finding a goal in life other than that of being my poisoned blade.

And you, my lord, are you so detached that you can escape the labyrinth?

Lord Azanth chuckled. Not I. It is too late for me. Revenge is my north, south, east and west. Revenge, revenge, my blood-filled quest. All who betrayed me will die and return to the lowest rung of the ladder. And as their early levels do they strive to obtain, I will smite them down again and again. O, they will regret the day they chose to abandon their duty to me and let Earl Clarence throw me down.

Then sire, let us turn our thoughts to how to destroy the paladin and Lady Listeth. For my part, I believe the majority of the demon world would turn against Lady Liseth if it became known that it was she who collaborated with a paladin to unshackle Nuska, Syceus, and Chronos. And if you were return to the Seventh Plane of Wickedness, even in this lowly form, there would be many who would join your banner to unseat her from her throne.

Indeed? May your assessment be true. How then, do we convince the world of the misdeeds of those two?

Your proposal to confront Earl Clarence and Lady Listeth in the presence of the angel Mithelasin is most excellent. No one would disbelieve him. Moreover, the angel’s own wrath and indignation would impel him to bring them to justice for the misery they have caused.

This thought gave Lord Azanth hope. Yet how to persuade Mithelasin? What villain ever confesses their guilt?

One that believes the only listener is someone they wish to humiliate before killing them.

What other?

One that is so overcome with emotion that the confession escapes their lips uncontrolled.

What other?

If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

One that is sincerely regretful.

What other?

One that cannot deny the crime, for it is too evident.

What other?

No other.

Did any of these conditions apply to his enemies? Not the first, since to kill Lord Azanth would simply be to banish him permanently from the plane on which he died but no matter how often he died, he would always respawn again at Level 0 on the Seventh Plane of Wickedness, complete with all his memories.

The second scenario could perhaps arise, but to stake all upon the hope that his enemies would make an error, surely would be rash. There would be but one time that Earl Clarence and Lady Liseth would accept an invitation to meet Liam on the expectation of being able to smash Lord Azanth into fragments. If that encounter failed to provoke them into inadvertent confession, then there would not be another.

The third scenario – that the adulation-seeking Earl Clarence would be sincerely regretful – was inconceivable.

The final case is the one that must apply. Tell me, Chief of Spies, how we can confront the pair with overwhelming evidence of their guilt.

No response was immediately forthcoming and, in truth, had the answer been ready at hand, Lord Azanth would have known it. Nearby, a tall poplar tree swayed in a light breeze, creating a soft murmur. From the direction of the lamplights of the town’s citadel a bell rang out, twice. Then another, deeper bell chimed, with a call that overlapped that of two more. Once their chimes died away the night was quiet again.

To unchain a Titan is no easy deed.

True.

The Chief of Spies shifted her balance a little. Let us imagine the steps that Earl Clarence and Lady Liseth must have had to take and consider whether any of them could be incriminating.

Go on.

They journey to the realm in question, shall we take that of Nuska?

We shall.

They descend the tunnels beneath Mount Hartstone until arriving at a walled-up section, on which a warning and a magic seal has been placed. Removing the bricks is no effort: a few swings of their magic weapons. Then, however, they encounter a Forcewall. A permanent Forcewall can only be dispelled when touched by the particular alchemical substance to which it has been keyed, let us say gold. Our enemies have discovered which one is needed here and continue unhindered.

Down and down they journey, to the vast cavern that contains the titan. There they see a magical circle of containment, created with enchantments of particular nature to hold Nuska. They also see Nuska: a tremendous humanoid figure of molten lava, mostly quiescent and ash-skinned but still exhaling fire as she lies on the ground, magical shackles on her wrists and ankles. Now must they breach the circle that has been etched into the stone. Then, they must break the shackles.

The circle can be considered akin to a weaving of two strands of twine. It can only be unwoven by both demon and paladin setting out in opposite directions. One takes a step and erases the symbol beneath them with a Staff of Binding. That is as much as they can achieve until the other does the same. Then the first may progress again. A step at a time, the magic is unwoven. The ring is so wide it takes them over an hour. At last they meet again at the far side of the circle, which dissolves entirely when they trace the final symbol.

Now, brute force is required: that and a magical weapon of sufficient potency to chip away at the shackles. Our enemies must overcome fire resistance and twenty points damage resistance to harm these chains. Not every blow will do this, but there is nothing to stop the gradual attrition of a shackle until a hundred points of damage has been delivered and it shatters.

Nuska awake, the world above the chamber trembles and everywhere volcanoes once dormant begin to rumble again. Unbearable heat surrounds our enemies: they must have prepared magical protection against it. And when the final shackle breaks they must flee the melting rock of the chamber itself.

Such a scene of fire and heat could Lord Azanth imagine. What folly! What recklessness! What vanity. The place of Nuska’s binding would have been turned to lava in which the titan was in its element. Any evidence that could be found of the misdeeds of Earl Clarence and Lady Liseth would melt, nor could any magical divination be able to recall their actions so thoroughly would the scene of the crime have been destroyed. There was, however, one aspect to the story that prevented Lord Azanth from becoming despondent.

They both must have held a Staff of Binding?

The Chief of Spies nodded.

There are not so many of these in the fifteen planes. Not more than a dozen.

Indeed not, sire. More like eight.

If all these staffs we can locate, there may be one whose story will incriminate.

That is an interesting thought and not too great a challenge. The Blue Magicians’ Guild on the Fifth Plane of Virtue is known to have a Staff of Binding, as does the Warden of Grendwrack Castle. The paladin Lady Pulcharia possesses a staff. The demon lord, Thyxox is known to have taken one from a mage who attempted to force him into service. I would have to make enquiries about the others.

With our additional levels, the giants fall to us without danger. Let you go and find what you can about all the known locations for every Staff of Binding. I will remain here until the young monk has obtained his twentieth level. Then we will rest at this inn until your return.

Understood my lord. I will be swift.

As ever.

Lord Azanth felt himself being carried once more as the Chief of Spies re-entered the inn and restored him to Liam, without the human mage even stirring in his sleep. Not for the first time did Lord Azanth admire the stealth skills of the Chief of Spies.

Fare well my lord.

Fare well my most loyal of followers.

And she was gone. Though only Level 21 was he, and Level 84 was she, yet the majesty of a prince did her loyalty confer up Lord Azanth. And what about the reverse? What could the prince-in-ambition-only confer upon her. No land and castles did he have, or he would certainly have made her mistress of whatever she wanted. All Lord Azanth had was enemies and a goal: revenge. Yet the Chief of Spies had spoken well in explaining that she needed a purpose, without which her skills were wasted. He may only be a crisp but Lord Azanth at least had a purpose and this, it seemed, was sufficient to treat him with a respect that the differential in levels did not warrant.