Nightlord: Shadows

by Garon Whited

  “Do you know who Bob is?”

  There was a pause. One of them asked if I meant the elf.

  “Yes, that’s him. The one who used to rule here as my viceroy. That one.”

  “Yes, Dread Lord.”

  “Good. Now, when I send him back here to rule as my viceroy, what will you do?”

  “Obey him in all things, Dread Lord.”

  “Also good. Now, find out what’s keeping that magician I summoned. Go.”

  They went, and I sat there, alone, on the throne of Vathula, thinking.

  “He was right,” she said. He said I was a fool. Who said that? And a fool in what way?

  I hoped worrying about it wouldn’t keep me up nights.

  On the other hand, maybe he was right. People have been trying to kill me, off and on, since I woke up. And I’ve been sitting in Karvalen, building up a kingdom, rather than hunting down the threat and destroying it. Could be that I am a fool.

  Maybe, Boss, Firebrand said, but anybody after you has to be more of a fool than you.

  “Thanks, Firebrand. But now… now I think I need to look into this. I have so much that I want to do, to accomplish—I don’t want to be involved in a whole new jihad against nightlords. I just want to build things and be left alone.”

  And, I thought, strangely, I don’t really feel the urge to go home anymore. Then again, considering what’s happened at home… I’d like to know more details, but…

  “Some idiot is being a jerk and dragging me into a fight, I think.”

  His problem. Not for long, I’d guess.

  “Hopefully.”

  I continued to think about things. The demon said something about his master, a shadow that stood behind his master, and how Keria was a pawn of… well, one or the other or both. Assuming, of course, that it was telling something at least close to the truth. It might have; it was holding out bait to preserve its life. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t listen to a word. Under those circumstances, however, the generalizations might be true; the demon was in the details, of course.

  The human lieutenant came in, prostrated himself in the middle of the room, and waited.

  “Speak!”

  “Dread Lord, the magician is gone. No one saw him leave. He must have departed through some spell.”

  “Where are the other three lieutenants?”

  “Spreading word of your victory and instructing your subjects to obey your servant, Bob.”

  “Bring them here. Now.”

  “At once, Dread Lord!”

  I heard horns. Very quickly, all four of them were in front of me again. I stepped down, picked up one of the orku, broke him over my knee, physically ripped him in half with my bare hands, then crushed his head like popping a balloon.

  It felt good. I hate that it did, but it did. Blood pumped from the crushed remains, streaming over to me, crawling up over my feet. That felt good, too.

  Actually being a Dread Lord is sometimes much too tempting.

  “Now,” I said, pleasantly, “let there be no confusion. I did not order you to spread any word; I ordered you to bring me a magician. Initiative in carrying out my orders is a fine thing, good and right and proper. Inventing your own is not. Do not think you can anticipate what I want done; that is for Bob and Bob alone. Are we clear?”

  There was a lot of agreement.

  “Now, show me to the magician’s laboratory.”

  We went down into the dungeons. I can’t call it a basement; a basement can be a pleasant place. This was a storage facility for people no one cared much about, and with a short shelf life.

  The magician certainly left in a hurry. One wall had the remains of a circular gate diagram, a one-shot spell, presumably for diving through. Another sign of a hurried departure was the way he left everything behind. There were a number of magical objects still lying about, most of which had to do with summoning and controlling various Things from Beyond. I especially disliked the summoning circle, seeing as it surrounded a sacrificial altar. There were chains, manacles, and suspicious-looking stains. The smell reminded me of burnt onions, burnt flesh, and old blood.

  I examined the remains of the gate spell. It was mostly burned away, obliterating any destination information. Reluctantly, I concluded that he made good his escape. Pity, that. I wanted to ask him some questions.

  Before leaving the dungeons, I checked to see if any of the occupants were still alive. I unbolted a door and looked in; the human male on the floor looked up at me. He wasn’t too emaciated, but he looked ill and badly beaten.

  “Why are you in here?” I asked.

  “I’m a captive,” he muttered, hoarsely.

  He didn’t sound like he was being a smartass. I guess he wasn’t in the best of shape.

  “I know you’re a captive,” I said, trying to be patient. “I know you’re a prisoner of Vathula. How were you captured, and why?”

  “I survived a raid by some human mercenaries. They dragged me back here.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Fair answer.” I turned to my escorts, picked one. “You. Bring all the prisoners to the throne room. Let no further harm come to them. I expect them in half an hour.”

  “At once, Dread Lord!” He scurried off and the rest of us went to examine the workrooms of the dead magicians. One of them was a blasted, burned ruin. A perfunctory effort had gone into removing burned furniture and such, but the charring and soot were still there. The faint smell of burned metal and burned flesh still lingered.

  Steel can be a good explosive, done right. Score one for me.

  The other magician’s workroom was pretty much bare. After some boring questioning, I found out his paraphernalia consisted of several chairs and some magical cords. They were very nice cords, apparently enchanted to allow other magic-workers to contribute power to someone who was casting a spell. By the looks of them, the contribution didn’t need to be voluntary, either.

  The magician in question was found dead in his central chair, a little after sunset. Aside from an expression of soul-devouring horror, he didn’t have a mark on him. And, yes, his name was Hagus.

  Back in the throne room, I examined the prisoners. Most of them were humans, captured in raids from surrounding lands. A few were orku or galgar that had managed to get attention in a bad way. According to my new lieutenants, they were all slated for use as sacrificial victims for demon-summoning, or as hosts for summoned entities, or just for amusements for Keria—much like mice can be amusements for cats, I gathered. Entertainment and then food. Dinner and a show.

  “Do we still have the mercenaries that captured them?”

  We did. The mercenary captain reported to the throne room and I gave orders to have the human prisoners transported to Karvalen. He looked as though he wanted to ask questions, but he took his cue from the way everyone else was behaving. I think their abject fear was catching; he recognized that anything these people held in unanimous terror was probably something worthy of terror. He agreed in unreserved terms, bowed, and backed away.

  I watched him do so. He seemed likely to do as he was told; nothing in his soul looked as though it was going to give me any trouble on this. He liked gold, he liked his work, and if he didn’t like some parts of his work, he got more gold to make up for it. Prisoner transport wasn’t entirely to his liking, but it was better than a lot of things he’d done in his career, or so he felt. He also seemed to think that being farther away from Vathula would be a very good thing.

  That would do.

  I spent the rest of the night sorting out what the lieutenants knew about Keria and the relationships with other realms and principalities. In short, she didn’t share much with her subordinates. She had a very authoritarian, dictatorial, even tyrannical style.

  What I gathered was that she had an alliance with Prince Parrin of Byrne. There were a lot of messengers, anyway, traveling to and from Byrne, and at least three ambassador visits from there every year. Of cours
e, the lieutenants weren’t too helpful with the frequency of magical communications, if any. Likewise, what agreements might have been made were a mystery. But they were ordered to treat any and all representatives or troops from Byrne with respect and courtesy.

  Think Bob will know anything more? I asked Firebrand.

  Maybe. He wasn’t a prisoner until recently. He’ll at least have more background, Boss.

  That’s what I was thinking. How’d you get so smart?

  Just naturally sharp, Boss.

  Ouch.

  Glad to see you got the point.

  Double ouch.

  Too many cutting remarks?

  You can stop now.

  Hey, I was in that case for a long time. I’ve got to draw blood somehow!

  I ignored this.

  I left orders to carry on as before, minus the raiding, and to await further instructions from Bob.

  “Any questions?”

  Sometimes, that’s the wrong thing to say. They wanted to know what to do with all the sickening people. Around a thousand troops were suffering terribly from some malady. It had not escaped their notice that everyone with this condition had been on the wall or rode out toward me not long ago.

  I gestured the three lieutenants closer, almost into a huddle.

  “Those who oppose me,” I said, almost whispering, “deserve to suffer before they die. Let them.”

  They thought they could manage that.

  In the meantime, they would make sure the change of command went smoothly—on pain of getting the same horrible disease that was slowly killing so many others. With that sort of visual aid, I figured things would be pretty seamless.

  With that sorted out, I walked out the Eastgate. It was actually kind of entertaining, watching everyone who came into line of sight go face-down until I passed. I sternly reminded myself that I was only playing the role of Dread Lord. But it sure can be fun when I’m in the right mood.

  Boss?

  “Yeah?”

  Thanks.

  “You already said that, Firebrand.”

  Yeah, but I mean it. Thank you.

  “Forget it. I go to great lengths for my friends. I’m just sorry I didn’t do this sooner. I thought you were down in the mountains hacking off heads and setting fire to rebels.”

  I was. It was great! Then Keria put me in a box. About the time you woke up, I think—I heard you, then something cut us off. I’m not sure, but that’s what I’m guessing.

  “As long as you’re guessing, guess about this. Was that too easy?”

  Huh?

  “I just waltzed in there and became Emperor of the Eastrange. Admittedly, I had to kill the former ruler, but everyone just sort of fell in line after that. It seems too easy.”

  Boss, I hate to tell you this, especially since you just did me a huge favor, but…

  “Go ahead,” I encouraged. Firebrand seemed to be thinking about a way to be tactful—possibly a first for it.

  Did it ever occur to you just how frightening you are?

  “Well, yeah. Sometimes. I usually have to work at it.”

  Work at—? Boss, I’ve heard these things thinking about you. They’re gut-wrenchingly afraid of you. Keria was a scary person and you’re her father. They sometimes confuse you with that other thing, the Father of Darkness. Remember him? And it’s no wonder! Did you see any of the guys who are dying? The ones too weak to crawl, with their skin coming off, and bleeding from every hole?

  I tried not to think about the pictures I’ve seen of acute radiation poisoning.

  “No, I didn’t.”

  You have a reputation. It scares people even when you’re not around. You brought a metal statue to life, Boss—not like a normal golem, but you made a living thing. You ate a dragon—and coughed a lot of it back up again, I admit—conquered Eastgate, brought down a church, held off a demon invasion, made a mountain walk, killed two of Keria’s magicians in magical combat, and cursed a thousand troops with a disease no one has ever seen and no one ever wants to see again. Then you not only killed Keria, the Empress of the Undermountains, but destroyed her with some sort of unholy black fire. You’ve even got a cult under the Eastrange that worships you as some sort of deathgod.

  These people don’t know what you do for a living, Boss, but they’re certain they want to be on your good side—if you have one! If you’d tried to ride up and force the issue of who was in charge, yeah, that would have been a problem; I don’t think Keria was intimidated by you, but I couldn’t read her very well. As it was, you made it past everyone and everything to the palace proper, right?

  “Yeah. How did you know that?”

  I hear things. My point is, I think Keria thought you were after her, not me, and she couldn’t depend on anybody to help her once you made it past the walls. And, once you killed her—getting into a fight on top of a tower, in full view of the gods and everyone, then destroying her in a screaming ball of black fire—

  “I didn’t do that,” I interrupted.

  Does it matter? People who saw it will think you did. Anyone in line of sight was going to bow down on the spot. After her magician bolted and her lieutenants wet themselves in terror, that was the end of it; the old power structure was wrecked. You may have a lot of work ahead of you in cementing your hold on the Undermountains, but Vathula is as much yours as your underwear. Anyone smart enough to breathe is smart enough to not argue.

  “Huh,” was my brilliant reply. I thought about it. “Maybe you’re right. I’m still getting used to the sudden switch. Most coups don’t go that smoothly.”

  Most coups don’t involve a legendary supernatural creature that provokes religious fear, mortal dread, and immortal awe in people, Firebrand countered. I had to admit, it had a point.

  “You have a point,” I admitted. “It still feels… I don’t know. Too simple. I mean, Keria shouldn’t have come up that tower to kill me. She should have worked with her magician—”

  Rakal.

  “—her magician, Rakal, to at least get some defensive spells, or conjure a dozen demons, or something.”

  Well, nobody said she was all that rational, Boss. Her head’s been all cracks and shards ever since she died as a mortal. It just got worse over time. I’ve heard her arguing with herself inside her head; that’s not fun to overhear, by the way. She was like two people, and neither of them nice.

  Besides, who would bother to summon a demon or thirty to try and kill you? You killed over a thousand of them in a single fight at the Edge. People know that won’t work.

  “Oh. I didn’t know that.”

  Live and learn. Well, exist and learn, in your case, Boss.

  I walked along, still thinking. Firebrand might be right about everything. Keria did have that red glow in her eyes and a shrieking fit of temper. Maybe vampires get… I don’t know… less rational, more animalistic, instinctive, if they die during the day. When all that’s left is darkness, do we lose touch with living? Do we just give in to being things that go chomp in the night?

  Bronze thundered up to us, alone. She greeted Firebrand by breathing fire on it, much to Firebrand’s delight. I mounted and we went back to Karvalen.

  Sunday, July 11th

  Tort had already taken Bob in hand. She saw to it that he ate as much as he could hold, then put him to bed with healing spells to encourage his body to recover. When I got there, he was sleeping comfortably. I let him stay that way and got the wizard on night duty—Kelvin has some schedule for the watches and guard rotations; I don’t know it, I don’t need to know it, and I don’t really care. I trust him to handle it—to make sure I was notified the moment Bob woke up.

  Firebrand went into the forge. The shop was in full swing; Kavel has enough guys and enough projects that it runs constantly. Firebrand was immensely happy, so I left it there; sunrise wasn’t far off.

  I hurried to have a brief conversation with the mountain. I wanted to be clear on the stairs in the walls of the deeper canal areas, and I wanted to g
ive it the basic idea for adding four more entry points to the undercity. I could have just given it instructions in a spell, but I also wanted its feedback on the idea. It got the plan and felt that it could do everything without much rearranging. I was pleased, let it know, and hurriedly dashed to my chambers.

  After my waterfall, I got a call from Amber. I went down to the communications room and sat down in front of the mirror. She smiled at me and told me about a dozen big, boxy wagons that pulled into Mochara just before dawn. The occupants wanted to talk to me.

  “Did they say why?” I asked. I have a lot of people, now, acting as filters. Most injuries don’t make it to me; most civic duties don’t either. There are very few things that actually require my attention, mainly because they can get solved or fixed by people whose job it is to do so. This lets me get on with my own stuff.

  “Yes,” she told me. “They claim you have a deal with them.”

  “Who are they?”

  “I’m not sure what tribe or family or whatever they are, but they’re a bunch of gata.”

  “Ah. Well, then, yes, I probably do have a deal with them.”

  “You do?” Amber seemed surprised.

  “The gata have an old tradition of… hmm. They don’t fear nightlords like most people do. They’ve had a long history with them, stretching back into ancient tradition. They were once families of servants to the Lords of Night, highly regarded and favored. This caused them to be ostracized when others started a campaign against the Lords of Night…” I trailed off. I hadn’t known that. Or, rather, I knew it, but I hadn’t known I knew it until the digested memory was triggered. At least it didn’t give me a headache.

  “I see,” Amber said, faintly. “What should I do with them?”

  “Feed them, please, then send them on to Karvalen,” I said. “It’ll take them a couple of days, but that’s not a bad thing; I’ve got things to chase down and kill.”

  “Oh?”

  I related to her what happened in Vathula. She didn’t seem surprised.

  “So, now you control both of the passages through the Eastrange?”

  “Looks like. As soon as I give Bob a hand or two, I intend to put him in charge of the place. Unless you’d rather have it?”