Boriahs called upon his Master, both in mind and aloud. The undulating water began to churn, then bubble and froth. Putrid smoke rose from its surface and curled over the muddy earth. It was as if Ethoes herself knew who he conjured and fought against his vile presence.
Boriahs gritted his teeth and fought the ache in his head. The connection was a distant one, making it all the more difficult. Gradually, the water simmered down and smoothed out, the acrid smoke hissing against the ground. The puddle no longer resembled the muddy water it was composed of, but a window into another land, a cold, dark land. A face appeared out of the gloom, and Boriahs drew in a breath of relief. It was Cierryon, in his human form, not the demon god who controlled him. That meant Ciarrohn was at rest, and perhaps, he would avoid the god’s wrath today.
As the magic worked and the picture grew clearer, Boriahs took the time to study his king’s features. Golden brown hair, sprinkled with some gray, covered his head and fell to his shoulders. He looked to be approaching middle age, but the Crimson King’s servant knew better. Cierryon had stopped aging the day he’d struck that terrible bargain with the god of hatred. He had become immortal, a link, a puppet, for the god of death and despair. Without Cierryon’s consent, Ciarrohn would never have been able to consume him, to channel his vast power through the human king’s soul. Because of Cierryon’s greed and ambition, half the world had fallen to the dark god’s malice.
The water settled, and Boriahs shook himself free of his treasonous thoughts. If the Crimson King discovered how much his servant despised him, then Boriahs would be dead. Instead, he looked his Master in the eye, eyes that reflected the black pit where his soul used to be, the place where the demon god now lived.
“You have news for me, Boriahs,” the Tyrant said, his voice quiet, but resonant nonetheless.
It always made Boriahs shiver, for his king’s voice reflected everything he hid within. If anyone were to encounter Cierryon in his human form, they might not be able to discern just what he was if he remained silent. The moment he spoke, or the moment one looked him in the eye, however, would let them know what they dealt with. Boriahs had seen warrior elves and centaurs alike brought to their knees by a mere whisper from his Master’s lips.
Boriahs shook his head again and cleared his throat.
“I have,” he answered.
“Very well. You have kept me waiting long enough. I will hear what you have to report.”
And without any further delay, Boriahs told King Cierryon everything that had taken place since his last reporting. He told him of his attack and eradication of the dragon Hroombramantu and the interference of the dragon Jaax in the kidnapping of the human girl. He spoke of the corruption within the Coalition and his dealings with the dragon Shiroxx. He told him about the rumor that had been spread about the girl’s questionable heritage and how the same rumor had called the dragon Jaax’s competence into question. And reluctantly, he divulged how the girl and her dragon guardian had, once again, slipped through his fingers.
Boriahs finished his tale with his head bowed and his eyes closed, anticipating the blast of angry magic that would most assuredly come. He waited, and waited a few seconds longer, but there was no reaction. When he dared to open his eyes, what he saw terrified him to the point of utter speechlessness. The human face had changed, warping into the skeletal visage of a demon. Burning red eyes regarded him under a forest of wicked, black horns.
“You try my patience, slave,” Ciarrohn hissed, this voice deeper, harsher than Cierryon’s.
“Forgive me, my lord,” Boriahs rasped, lowering his gaze once again. “There are spies I know nothing of aiding the girl and the dragon. They were warned before I could move. My men and I were gathered around the outskirts of Lidien. A day more, two at the most, and we would have had them.”
The demon’s ire burned with rage, his slit nostrils flaring as black smoke poured from them. Boriahs felt his bare hands dig into the mud, his fingers curling into fists, trying to grab hold of something to keep from shaking. Frozen air drifted up from the puddle and curled around his body like a giant hand. The icy breath passed through his clothes and seeped into his skin, closing in on his heart. Boriahs gulped for breath and his heart sped up, fear and frost waging war on his senses.
“You are too valuable to me to kill,” Cierryon growled, the last traces of the demon god fading from his visage, “but do not think anything less than capturing the girl and that dragon will garner my forgiveness.”
Boriahs shook his head, his eyes wide with terror. “N-no, your Majesty. I would think not.”
Slowly, the ice receded only to be replaced with the prickling pain of warmth returning to his body.
“Do not report to me again until you have accomplished something worthy of my attention. That you did away with that bothersome dragon in Oescienne will grant you my peace for only so long, Boriahs,” the dark voice murmured as it faded away, the resonant tones echoing in Boriahs’ mind.
Gritting his teeth and taking deep, ragged breaths, the Tyrant’s slave fought against the intense nausea that resulted in these magical exchanges. He fought it, but lost out in the end. On wobbly legs, he stumbled over to a cluster of rocks and retched behind them. Once he was done with the unpleasant episode, Boriahs gathered some of the chilly water into his hands and cleaned his face. It would do him no good to return to his awaiting men looking like a beaten drunkard.
By the time he rejoined his small army in the wide meadow they’d camped in the night before, Boriahs was much more presentable. He had managed to scrape most of the mud from his uniform, and even his churning stomach and the pounding in his head had eased. Boriahs hesitated on announcing his return. Instead, he stood behind a screen of fir trees and simply observed the men below. All of them had pledged their souls to Ciarrohn and shared a level of combat skill which elevated them above the thousands of others who had joined under the Crimson King’s banner. But he was their high commander. He held power over all of them.
Boriahs almost snorted at the thought. Yes, he may be their superior, but it came at such a high price. Not one of them had any idea what it cost him to speak with their common Master. In fact, he envied them all, going about the morning in such a normal way: starting fires, brewing coffee and tea, cooking porridge and telling bawdy jokes. Some of them tended to the quahna, the fierce beasts they rode instead of horses. With the teeth of carnivores, sharp, cloven hooves and large, powerful bodies, these animals provided transportation as well as an aggressive edge over their equine cousins. It also meant they posed a danger to those who handled them as well.