The banquet hall deep inside the palace roared with life. On one side of the feast Bohlkovian soldiers congregated and on the opposite side the company of sellswords. Despite the social segregation of the two forces, the mood was one of mirth and celebration. This night there was no shortage of fine wine or hearty food for all—after all one of the many benefits of sacking a city was raiding the food cellars. In the center of the chamber a bonfire made up of scavenged Enthamerean heraldry burned brightly. Where Enthamerean flags once hung, now rested Bohlkovian flags depicting the red flame.
High Chancellor Grimwald’s eyes smiled as he meticulously carved his auroch steak and blueclaw lobster into bite-sized morsels. He had become jubilation personified. Savoring every bite, Grimwald paid no mind to the soldiers celebrating below. Sitting across from him was the Divine Prophet Venyov. They sat alone on a mezzanine above the banquet hall.
A huge marble table was covered in the rarest and most expensive culinary delights the nation had to offer. Despite the bountiful feast before him, Venyov chose to eat only a single steamed potato. While Grimwald was a shriveled old man who looked like a child next to the huge table, Venyov’s massive frame, even unarmoured, towered over it.
Grimwald took a bite of lobster, then washed it down with some aged Halifaxi summer wine. When he put the goblet down he dabbed the corners of his lips with a fine embroidered napkin. “Are you sure there’s nothing more you desire, my lord? I can have the cooks make you anything you wish. Simply speak it and it will be yours.”
Venyov stared down at Grimwald expressionless as a statue, the red tattoo of the sun around his left eye almost seemed to glow in the torchlight. The long scar that ran from his eyebrow to his chin appeared especially discolored. “Food is for sustenance. I have no need for opulent sauces and exotic game.” He held the half eaten potato up. “Simple is best.”
“Suit yourself.” Shrugged Grimwald, dipping a tiny sliver of auroch meat into a thick onion gravy. Narrowing his beady eyes and setting the fork down, he looked Venyov in the eyes. “Surely, the lord of embers must be satisfied with our work here in these mountains? Might it be possible for me to visit my son soon, my lord?”
"You dare pretend to know the will of our god?”
“No, of course not, my lord. I know that only one of the purest bloodlines like yourself could ever share divine communion with our lord of embers. I just miss my son so much. I hoped my service might be rewarded?”
Venyov’s face contorted with anger. “When your work is done, you shall have your reward. Speak no more of your boy or you might just upset our lord. I’d hate to see something unfortunate happen to little Albie.”
Without warning a tall red haired man in a white suit dashed over and plopped down next to them. With a wink, he kicked his feet up onto the table. Two guards ran up flustered and out of breath, before bowing low. “I’m sorry, my lords! We tried to stop him but he’s a slippery devil.”
Grimwald’s face contorted like he ate something bitter. “Leave us.” He said dismissively, waving the guards away.” Without another word the two Bohlkovian soldiers disappeared down a hallway.
Venyov looked the surprise visitor up and down, but his face remained blank and unreadable. Grimwald set his gold fork and knife down with a clink. “Cyrus, what brings you here today without an invitation?”
Cyrus chuckled, tilting his head back and looking down his nose at Grimwald. “Since when do I need a cause to come spend some quality time with my good pal topside?”
His demeanor shifting, Grimwald fixed his eyes on Cyrus. “Has your final task been completed?”
“Always straight to business with you! Me, me, me, eh?” Cyrus said with a dry laugh. He pointed a long finger towards Grimwald. “You know, at times I’m a touch selfish too. When will I receive my payment?”
Venyov watched the interaction stoically, but the slightest flicker of interest flashed through his icy blue eyes. Grimwald sighed through his nose. “King Denethor is locked away safely in the dungeons. Once your assignment has been completed, you may kill him however you see fit.” Grimwald’s eyes shifted to the floor. “Just as promised. Now, what is the status of your assignment?”
Cyrus snatched a nectarine from a bowl on the table and took a bite, his face became expressionless like Venyov’s. He stood slowly and looked out at the feast below for a moment. Just then Cyrus spun around excitedly, grinning from ear to ear and throwing the nectarine out across the banquet hall. Gasping aloud and covering his mouth with his hand, Cyrus plopped back down in the chair. “My apologies for letting my enthusiasm show, gentlemen. You could say I’ve been looking forward to holding council with old Denethor for quite some time.”
The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
Grimwald snapped and shouted at the unstable man. “The assignment! When will it be completed?”
Tilting his head and pursing his lips together, Cyrus stared at Grimwald. “The what?” Then he roared with laughter and slapped his knees. “I’m only kidding!” Cyrus pulled out a golden pocket watch from inside his coat and watched it. “Yep, the fun should be getting started any moment now!”
With a wrinkled expression of confusion, Grimwald glared at Cyrus. “What do you mean any moment now? That wasn’t the agreement.”
“Oh hush! The end result will be the same, now pipe down or you’ll spoil the big moment!”
Suddenly, a sellsword feasting below cried out in utter agony. Then a second. Then a third. In mere moments, a chorus of anguish erupted from the half of the banquet hall where the sellswords were seated. The side where the Bohlkovian army sat jumped to their feet, looking around in confusion.
Grimwald’s eyes shot back and forth between the chaotic scene below and Cyrus watching his handiwork with glee. “You’re a lunatic!” Cyrus continued laughing.
The Bohlkovian soldiers attempted to flee the chamber but the doors were barred shut. They banged on the wooden doors, crying out in terror as the screaming sellswords began mutating. The sound of countless bones popping and snapping added to the terror the Bohlkovians felt. Sellswords fell to the ground, writhing in pain. Desperate fingers ripped and tore at their own flesh. Lesions bubbled up on the skin of the sellswords before exploding. Frenzied mercenaries clawed their own eyes out.
Watching the nightmarish scene unfold, Grimwald felt his stomach grow queasy and he vomited. Cyrus jumped up and down cheering and cackling like a hyena. The flailing sellswords bloated flesh began expanding uncontrollably. In no time at all, they had transformed into hulking and misshapen flesh golems.
Panicked Bohlkovian soldiers climbed on top of each other like rats trying to get away from the grotesque monstrosities. The banquet hall that had once smelled of grilled meat and the bonfire now reeked of burning chemicals.
Grimwald stumbled back to his feet, wiping his mouth with the cloth napkin. He motioned to his guards then pointed to Cyrus. “Guards take this madman and lock him away in the dungeons!”
Cyrus turned towards the frail old man flanked by spear-wielding guards, his face contorted with rage. “You pigeon livered gall! I will dance on your grave!”
The guards took a step forward. Cyrus shook his head and spit at Grimwald. Without a moment of hesitation Cyrus pulled a glass vial from his coat and threw it hard to the ground beneath his feet. The glass shattered and a cloud of concealing black smoke enveloped the mezzanine. The cries of terrified Bohlkovian soldiers and the whimpering moans of what the sellswords had become filled the hall.
When the thick smoke dissipated enough to restore visibility, Cyrus had vanished. Grimwald threw a temper tantrum, stomping his feet and screaming profanities at the guards. “Search the capital! Bring me that man dead or alive!”
Venyov watched the madness below like a hawk. The mutated sellswords became restless and set upon the Bohlkovian soldiers. With inhuman strength the flesh golems ripped soldiers apart with their disfigured hands. Swollen maws full of crooked teeth gnashed as the monstrosities bit into the flesh of the horrified soldiers.
When Venyov saw the fighting capabilities of his transformed brutes adequately demonstrated, he emptied the contents of a pouch into his open palm. Six small amethite crystals lay waiting in his massive and calloused hand.
The Divine Prophet Venyov closed his eyes and began reciting ancient scripture. Glowing violet and humming the six crystals levitated out of his hand and began spinning swiftly as if they were orbiting his palm. A cold breeze whipped suddenly through the banquet hall. The bonfire went out and the ash swirled up into the air like an ashen tornado. Grimwald dove to the rug beneath the table and cowered pitifully.
Venyov breathed in, sucking in a stream of flying ash and glowing embers from the hall. With a low guttural roar, he cried out, “Lord of Embers, use me as your vessel!”
His closed eyes shot open, revealing two radiant purple orbs pulsing with energy. At that exact moment the eyes of the mutated golems below burned purple and they ceased their bloodletting. All at once the army of flesh golems turned to face Venyov, dropped to the bloodstained floor and bowed low.
The Bohlkovian soldiers whispered amongst themselves. Eyes shifting from the bloodthirsty and disfigured sellswords to their leader, they began praying. Slowly they all faced Venyov, knelt down and bowed. The soldiers sang praises to their prophet and cried tears of joy. Before long they were all chanting his name fervently, “Venyov! Venyov! Venyov!”
Grimwald looked up from his hiding spot beneath the table at Venyov. His face was still as expressionless as ever, but Grimwald thought for a brief moment that he saw the corner of Venyov’s lips curl up into the subtlest of smirks.