The King of the Vile (7 page)

“At last you arrive,” Roand said, his deep voice echoing through the room. “Though the fault is mine in thinking Cecil could perform his tasks in a suitable amount of time.”

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Tarlak chuckled, glad to know that he wasn’t the only one who couldn’t stand the idiot. As he stepped into the center of the room, he felt the effects of the voidsphere leaving him. It was a welcome feeling, though it wouldn’t help him much. He was surrounded by nine mages, each likely an even match with himself. The slightest attempt at a spell would result in him being burned, exploded, bled from the ears, or turned into a random animal. Possibly all at once, depending on how fast each of the mages reacted.

“Greetings, men and women of the Council,” Tarlak said as he slowly turned in a circle. None of the mages looked to be below middle age, and even the three women sported a few gray hairs in their carefully trimmed hair. Their faces were passive, guarded, perhaps even bored. Tarlak couldn’t guess if that was good or bad.

“Or should I say Grand Council?” he added before anyone corrected him. The full Council consisted of fifty members, whereas the Grand Council consisted of the nine most powerful. From what he’d learned from Madral, the Council met at regular intervals to decide mundane matters, with the Grand Council convening only for important decisions.

Decisions like whether or not to execute a troublesome wizard who had broken their rules.

“For now, you should say nothing,” Roand said. The fiery illusions cast upon his hair caused the colored flame to ripple through the strands. “You have many transgressions we must document, both against our towers as well as against Dezrel at large.”

“If you’d like I can get that started for you,” Tarlak said. “Let’s see, I killed my master Madral when I was eighteen, turned down your invitations at least six times, operated an enterprise with significant magical involvement, my Eschaton Mercenaries to be exact, despite no written permission from your council, defeated three different assassins you sent after me, turning one into a mudskipper, one into a rabbit, and one into a frog, and last but not least, I marched alongside King Antonil Copernus during his attempt to retake the east from the orcs. That final one I don’t quite understand the crime in, but since it resulted in the deaths of thousands of innocent men, I assume it’s an important one.”

Stunned silence greeted Tarlak when he finished. Unable to help himself, the swept an arm wide as he bowed low.

“Did I miss anything?” he asked.

“Yes,” said a dour looking woman with a pointed nose and long, dangling silver earrings. “You neglected to mention your complete lack of respect toward the Grand Council during your own trial.”

Tarlak smiled at her.

“That one seemed unnecessary, since you were all here to witness it.”

“Enough,” Roand said. A thin gold rod covered with red gems lay across his lap, and he waved it once toward Tarlak. Immediately, the air in Tarlak’s lungs seemed to grow sticky and hot, and when he tried to speak, it was like trying to vomit up stone. Pulse pounding in his neck, he breathed in and out, trying to relax. The strange discomfort only affected him when trying to talk, so he kept quiet.

Roand set the rod back down. “In this room, I am master. And you will show respect, Tarlak, whether you feel it deserved or not. Your entire life you’ve carried a cavalier attitude toward authority, but this is one moment where you need to acknowledge the gravity of your situation.”

“If he doesn’t understand that now, he never will,” said the dour woman. “Meaning this trial is over before it has already begun. He isn’t worthy of candidacy. Cut off his hands and cast him from the bridge so we might move on to more important matters.”

A portly man with a beard growing solely from his neck let out a half-hearted cheer in agreement.

“Let us not be so hasty,” said a thin man with a face more resembling a hawk than a human. “Respect may be learned, whereas innate magical talents cannot.”

Tarlak looked about, and he couldn’t believe what he saw. They were serious. He’d walked into this trial thinking it’d be a sham, but apparently they truly did wish to debate his merits as a potential member of the Council. Tarlak wasn’t sure if that meant they were less insane, or more. They’d brutally murdered his friend, Antonil, yet still thought he might be a productive member of their organization?

Tarlak opened his mouth to respond, felt his lungs harden and throat constrict. Roand saw and tapped his wand.

“You may speak,” the Lord of the Council said. “And I pray you use a more appropriate tone.”

His lungs loosened, and Tarlak slowly breathed out with relief. So there still might be a chance to save his life? Bizarre, but expecting sanity from this group was probably a mistake.

“I have performed many petty insults against you,” he said, carefully weighing every word. “But given how long you’ve ignored me, I know most are not worthy of your attention. So I ask, please tell me what crime I committed against you worthy of death so I might defend myself.”

“There is no single crime,” the dour woman. “Only a repeated history of insult that must finally be stopped.”

Tarlak turned to face her.

“If I might have the pleasure of your name, milady?” he asked.

The woman drummed her fingers across the arm of her chair, the slight movement traveling up her ramrod spine to cause her long earrings to sway.

“Anora,” she said as if she were giving her name to a rodent.

“Well, Anora, I dare say every man alive may be hung until death for the total sins of their lifetime, but that’s not quite how this works, is it? A punishment fitting the crime, for each crime, is that not correct? So if you want to chop off my hands and dump me into the river, I’d love to hear a good reason that may stand on its own.”

“You refused us,” said the hawk-faced man. “Practicing arcane magic without our approval is an executable offense in the eyes of the Council.”

There it was. Tarlak had repeatedly spurned them, and it looked like they were still sore from his refusals. Well, if that’s what they were upset about...

“Is that what bothers you?” Tarlak asked, and he spun about to face all nine of the Grand Council. “That I flung a few fireballs without your permission? Or that I did it for coin you received no cut of?”

“A bit of both, truthfully,” said Roand, and he sounded strangely amused.

Tarlak hated what he was about to say, but he saw no other way out. Dropping handless into the freezing Rigon River was not how he wished to die.

“By killing Madral, I earned myself a spot on your Council,” he said. “That’s the rule, right? Fifty spots, with each spot taken only by defeating a holder in a duel. Then let me claim the position I earned years ago. Would any of you doubt my skill? My knowledge? I’ve dueled a god, some demons, even a daughter of balance. My abilities are beyond questioning, so let me end this farce and become one of your members like I should have always been.”

The nine fell silent. Tarlak tried to read their faces. Were they surprised by his audacity? Insulted by it? Perhaps, but Roand’s comment at the start had clued Tarlak into realizing the meeting wasn’t truly about his execution. Joining the Council was. Execution was an unfortunate side effect if he happened to be denied.

“You might be powerful,” Anora said, “but it is coupled with recklessness and crass humor. I see no reason to admit you, for what value do you bring to our community?”

The hawk-faced man cleared his throat.

“Given his involvement in the second Gods’ War, his many travels with the angels, and his role in Mordan’s reconstruction, his extensive experience alone might be invaluable,” he said.

Tarlak didn’t know his name but decided he liked him already.

“What new knowledge could we possibly learn about the angels?” asked neck-beard. “Just dump the bastard in the river so we can move on to the business with Avlimar’s collapse.”

Avlimar’s collapse?

Tarlak kept his face passive, though it took great effort to do so. The floating city of the angels had fallen? But how? And why? What in blazes was going on in Mordeina during his absence?

Roand rose to his feet, scepter in hand.

“If you were to join us, you must obey all our laws,” he said, taking a step toward him. “You will accept a position in the tower, along with all its responsibilities, and perform them without fail or refusal. You will forfeit all remnants of the life you once led, and grant the Grand Council total control over you future upon this mortal plane. Before we vote on the matter, do you accept such conditions, and vow to keep them all to the best of your abilities?”

In many ways it was a death sentence no different than the one that awaited him should they reject his offer. But at least this way he’d get to keep his hands. He swallowed down a stream of bile.

“I accept.”

The Lord of the Council looked to the others and nodded.

“We are all aware of Tarlak Eschaton’s accomplishments,” he said, “as are we his faults and crimes committed against us. By accepting him as a member of the Council, all insults shall be forgotten, all his crimes forgiven. He will be one of us, given a new standard to follow, and a new life to lead. If you believe he is a worthy addition, and his defeating of Madral an appropriate approximation of a duel, then lift your hand now.”

The nine voted, and Tarlak was surprised to see Roand raise his right hand in favor. Five others did as well, with only Anora, neck-beard, and a dark-skinned man with an elaborate mustache and beard choosing to deny him.

Unable to help himself, Tarlak lifted his own right hand, and he grinned.

“Well,” he said. “That was unexpected.”

Roand tapped his scepter with his hand.

“I do not yet trust you, Tarlak Eschaton, so know that certain protective measures will be enacted until we are more certain of your loyalties. I’m sure you understand.”

“Perfectly,” he said.

“Fine and good,” said neck-beard. “Now can we move on? With Kevin Maryll’s coup a colossal failure, we must forge a new plan, one that can handle the half-orc’s interference.”

“And his wife’s,” added Anora.

Tarlak’s eyes widened.
Dear Ashhur, what is going on over there?

“In time,” Roand said. “For now, we have a new member who must be accommodated. Tarlak, have Cecil show you to Madral’s old room, as well as the supply closet so you might obtain a proper set of robes. Once this meeting is over, I’ll send for another master to begin integrating you into the tower’s routine.”

“As you wish,” Tarlak said, maddened that he couldn’t stay to listen but knowing he was already pushing his luck. He spun about, opened the door, and grinned at Cecil Towerborn, who waited patiently on the other side.

“Judgment reached,” Tarlak said. “I’m now a member. Apparently you’re to show me to Madral’s old room. My guess is that it’s about to become mine.”

Cecil’s eyes widened, and his nostril’s flared as if he were a bull about to charge.

“Follow me,” the apprentice said through clenched teeth.

Tarlak chuckled as they descended the stairs.

“Who’d have thought they’d make me a permanent member?” Tarlak said while Cecil seethed. “Hey, come to think of it, since you’re still an apprentice, that gives me authority over you, right? How incredibly amusing, don’t you think?”

6

H
arruq sat at the foot of the bed, scratching his chin.

“Hey Aurelia, if I abdicate my position, does that put you in charge?”

Aurelia hoisted Aubrienna up onto a footstool before the large oval mirror in their bedroom, letting their little girl stare at herself while her mother brushed her hair.

“An elven woman ruling from a human throne?” Aurelia said. “I think we have enough riots as it is. Let’s try not to add more.”

“Worth a shot,” he sighed.

“Not really.”

Harruq chuckled as he watched his wife loop yellow ribbons through Aubby’s hair, tying them into neat bows to hold together the various curls. Harruq looked at his own beefy hands and frowned. He could hack a god to death with his swords, but those little bows would always be beyond him. It was strange how skilled he could be in one thing, and totally inept in another. Just like he could lead men to victory in battle but fail so spectacularly when he had to lead those same men with his ass stuck to a cushion in the middle of an ornate throne room.

“If I can’t swing my sword, I’m useless,” he mumbled. “Some great hero I am.”

He caught Aurelia staring at him in the mirror, and his neck flushed.

“Sorry,” he said. “Feeling a little morbid today.”

“Morbid?” Aubrienna asked. Her auburn curls bounced when she turned her head. She wore a green dress with golden trim, and it made her look much older than her five years.

“It means daddy is feeling stressed and sad,” Aurelia said, kissing the top of her head. “Go give him a hug and kiss. It’ll make him feel better.”

 Aubrienna hopped down from the stool, ran the five steps to the bed, and flung herself at Harruq as if her life depended upon it. Harruq smiled as he scooped her up, grunting as if she weighed a thousand times more than her actual weight.

“Such a big girl,” he said as he pulled her close.

“You’re the best daddy,” Aubrienna told him. “The very best, so don’t be sad.”

She kissed his cheek, and sure enough, it did help ease his grumpiness. Kissing her back, he put her down and stood.

“With such a blessing, how can I not conquer all who oppose me?” he asked. Aurelia winked at him as she adjusted her matching green and gold dress.

“I’m taking her and Gregory to the market,” she said. “I think it’ll do some good for the people to see him out and about.” She turned while still in the process of putting in a long, dangling gold earring. “It might do some good for them to see
you
enjoying yourself as well. There’s far too much fear in the populace, even if they don’t know what they’re afraid of.”

“They know exactly what they’re afraid of,” Harruq said as he opened the door to his room. “And it’s flying above them with big white wings.”

Harruq shut the door, breathed in, breathed out.
You can do this,
he thought.
You defeated waves of demons. You killed a god. This? This is nothing.

He traversed the halls to the large throne room. Only a few soldiers were inside. He heard the commotion of the people waiting to see him beyond the doors. The sound took his breath away, made his head feel light. Harruq recognized the signs of panic, but what could he do? This wasn’t a battle where he could clang his swords together and drive his doubt away.

Sir Wess, captain of the guard and the man responsible for helping Harruq keep the peace, waited patiently beside the throne, his armor shining, his tabard clean and white. His role had been created upon Antonil’s departure, with no intention of it being permanent, but with Antonil’s death, Sir Wess had stepped up admirably.

“You look well today,” Sir Wess said. He was an older man, his mustache sprinkled with gray and his eyes surrounded by wrinkles. A surly man by any definition, but he’d steadily warmed to Harruq over time.

Harruq forced a grin and plopped down on the throne.

“That’s a lie and we both know it,” he said. “How many are waiting for me out there?”

The knight’s face twitched.

“Over one hundred,” the knight said. “Most have come to plead for mercy for those currently awaiting execution in our dungeons.”

Harruq winced.

“Thieves caught trying to steal from Avlimar’s ruins?” he guessed.

“Or from Devlimar,” Sir Wess added. “The angels complain to me daily about the difficulty of building their earthbound city. I’ve grown quite good at ignoring them, but given the new law demanding punishment for such crimes, keeping a deaf ear has become rather difficult.”

Harruq slumped in the throne, rubbing his eyes. Damn it, must it start already? Why could no one leave the angels be as they used the remnants of their former home to build a new one in the fields outside Mordeina?

“If that’s it, send them on their way,” Harruq said. “I won’t listen to their pleadings. They all knew the law. It’s their own damn fault for ignoring it.”

The knight glanced to the floor, and he cleared his throat before speaking.

“Steward, I am not certain that is wise,” he said.

“It is very wise,” said a familiar voice from up above. Harruq turned to see Azariah flying in from one of the enormous windows by the ceiling. His robe fluttered as he landed, wings shaking a brief moment before folding in around his shoulders.

“The people are ready to riot,” Sir Wess argued. “If we carry out these executions, I can make no guarantee to Devlimar’s safety.”

“The people will learn to accept our place in this world,” Azariah said. “Stealing from us and pretending it is no crime only shows we are viewed as less than human in their eyes. This cannot be allowed. Until the greater population understands this, then we all must suffer growing pains.”

Harruq rolled his eyes. Deep in the pit of his stomach he knew Azariah was wrong, but damned if he knew any way to articulate it, especially compared to the angel’s convincing argument.

“Increase the amount of guards surrounding Devlimar,” Harruq told Sir Wess. “I don’t want a riot, so make sure we don’t have one. We’ve all more important things to deal with.”

“Speaking of...” Azariah pulled out a scroll from within his robe and held it out to Harruq. “New laws and regulations. Our kind have voted upon them and now seek your approval.”

Harruq felt his jaw drop slightly, and he shook his head to banish his surprise.

“I meant the beast-men invasion of the North,” he said. “Do you really think
now
is a good time to discuss new laws?”

The angel looked taken aback.

“We are attempting reform that will bring about the salvation of mankind,” Azariah said. “It is always the proper time.”

Harruq groaned.

“Fine. Sure. But I can’t handle this right now, Azariah. Soldiers are gathering from all corners of Mordan, and that’s going to take time, time the people in the North may not have. Why haven’t the angels flown to their aid?”

Azariah stood up straight, and somehow he managed to look both indignant and condescending at the same time.

“We are convening another meeting tonight to discuss such measures,” he said. “To engage this invading force will risk many lives, and involve abandoning all posts throughout Mordan. We will not do such a thing lightly, nor recklessly. Undue haste will cost more lives than it saves.”

“Undue haste?” Harruq asked. “Villages are being overwhelmed, and you’re worried about undue haste?”

“I do not expect you to always understand,” Azariah said. “But I assure you, we have not abandoned the people.” He took his rolled scroll and slid it back into a hidden pocket of his robe. “If you are not ready to read our new proposals, I will delay them for now and focus on the building of Devlimar. Good day to you Harruq.”

He bowed, spread his wings, and flew back out the high window.

“He cares more about rebuilding his home than protecting people in danger,” Sir Wess said after the angel’s departure, and Harruq had a hard time disagreeing.

“I’m not going to pretend to understand them,” he said. “We just have to remember all the good they’ve done for us, and trust them.”

The knight let out a snort.

“Yes,” he said. “The good they’ve done. Forgive me, Steward, but my trust was worn thin when they killed hundreds in the name of justice.”

Harruq winced. That same night, they’d sent angels into the nation of Ker in hopes of killing Qurrah. Sir Wess was right. Trust in the angels was hard to come by, not just in Mordan, but all of Dezrel. Still, this didn’t feel right. Drumming his fingers on the arm of the chair, he pondered, then realized Sir Wess was staring at him, waiting.

“Don’t you have things to do?” he asked. “People outside my door to dismiss, perhaps?”

The knight cleared his throat again.

“I have one other matter I wished to address first,” he said. “Something I preferred not to mention while in the presence of one of Ashhur’s angels.”

Fantastic,
thought Harruq.

“Go ahead,” he said, slumping even further into his chair. “What is it now?”

The knight saluted.

“Earlier this morning a man came to the castle claiming to have found the individual responsible for Avlimar’s collapse.”

Harruq lifted an eyebrow.

“Someone found Deathmask?” he said.

“Well, he says he did,” Sir Wess continued. “He desired a reward for this knowledge, of course. Supposedly he saw Deathmask hiding in the ruins of Avlimar, beyond the protective circle of our guards.”

The ruins of Avlimar? An interesting place to choose to hide.

“The ruins? What was our witness doing there, trying to steal some souvenirs for himself?”

Sir Wess shrugged.

“What did you do with him?” muttered Harruq

“I have him in solitary confinement in one of our cells, just in case we discover him to be lying.”

Harruq chuckled. “Gods, you’re a cold bastard. Pay the man his a reward and then let him go under strict orders he tell no one else.”

“Very good. And who shall seek out Deathmask?”

Harruq tapped the swords at his sides, thinking of his earlier frustration. Perhaps it was time to go back to doing what he did best...

“I’ll handle this personally,” he said.

Sir Wess hardly looked happy about it, but he bowed low anyway.

“As you wish.”

As the knight marched out of the room to disperse the many gathered people, Harruq glanced at the window high above him. Everything about the angels felt off, and despite damning evidence, he still couldn’t believe Deathmask brought the floating city crashing to the ground. Something else was afoot, and it was high time he did something about it.

Like hearing the truth from Deathmask’s own lips.

An evenly spaced barricade of soldiers surrounded Avlimar’s ruins, some holding torches, others with small fires burning near their feet. The night was young, and the soldiers were on edge. Harruq couldn’t blame them. Two dozen men and women had either slipped past or bribed their way into the ruins, and now two dozen men and women were set to die by beheading. Harruq had stalled the executions, claiming he wanted to wait until a calmer time, but truthfully he didn’t have the stomach for it. Part of him hoped he might pardon them a week or two later, sparing everyone the distasteful deed.