Of the Lands of Ray and Hammer, Segment 9, "Pawn":
Returnert had still not been disposed of. The conference with the Dark One had gone well, but Returnert felt uneasy. The Dark One had not been angry, or at least, that was how it had seemed. He reflected on the meeting's proceedings with the Dark One:
Far below the plateau's surface, he made way into the room of the Dark One. The room was gloomy, illuminated only by the phosphorescence of small fungi that had precariously glued themselves to the walls. A great throne sat in the center of the oblong room. The seat of black granite, covered in grotesque and obscene carvings, faced away from Returnert.
He lowered his head in a small bow and said, “Master, I come with tidings.”
The chair in the room's center began to swivel around. No noise of grinding gears suggested it moved by machinery. Silence enclosed it. Upon the throne, a thing, that could have once been a man, sat. He was clothed in tattered black robes and chain mail armor. His skin was dark green. Legs up to the knees were swathed in leather and steel. His forearms were covered with steel-studded leather, but his hands were bare. The thing's face was decaying. The nose cartilage was gone. There was no hair on his head. The ears were deteriorated to almost nothing. Despite his diseased, sickly appearance, he was strong. Every part of his body rippled with muscles that could best the most stalwart mountain troll. Although most of his body was a rotting heap of former greatness, his eyes still held a deadly fire. Flames seemed to pulse from within, breaking from the barrier of his eyes' outer membrane ever so often. This was the Dark One.
The guttural speech of the Dark One proceeded from his sickle-toothed mouth, “Returnert, welcome. You come to bring news. Tell me of it.”
Returnert responded, “Master, the new Middel we recruited has failed in his attempt to bring us the old man. I dealt with him in the correct manner. He will not offer anything more.”
The Dark One quested, “What actions have you taken to secure the old man?”
Returnert related what he had told the remaining Middlers.
The Dark One leaned an elbow on the throne's arm, fingering his chin, and spoke again, “Good. The plan for the village men is sufficient, but I'll need another Middel. You should have asked me about picking that Middel.”
Is a judgment coming? thought Returnert with apprehension.
The Dark One fondled his chin a second more and then put his arm down, dispelling Returnert's fears as he began, “Four have always been sufficient for any task, and I know of one who will serve perfectly. The man's name is Sterk. Over the past months, he has discovered – or destroyed – over forty-seven villages between the north coast of Ray and the Spike Range. He has brought roughly 3,000 people to this city and killed about as many. He has shown himself best in the art of Kant, and above all, he has dabbled in the dark magic of Jord. He will lead the men of the old man's village.”
The Dark One closed his eyes and finished, “You will find him in the largest brothel in the Syndig region of the city plains. He will be there for the night.”
That was the end of the conversation. Returnert had left, and now he stood directly above the entrance to the Dark One's chamber. Someday he was going to be replaced, but when would that “someday” be? Maybe I should just work harder and forget about it. Blah! Don't think about it, Slange! He's your master. Everyone has feelings of doubt now and then. I must forget and make way to my work. Returnert began walking to the palace. Returnert would send out the Middlers to find the fellow Sterk.
He would never do something like that himself. He is my mouth. He is my commanding pawn, but the true workers are the Middlers. They never fail. As the Dark One deliberated, a sickish smile split his lips and his eyelids cracked open, letting the fire flow freely.
If you enjoyed this, check out Of the Lands of Ray and Hammer, Segment 1 (Topic 25233)!
