Upon his return with the Wyvern Guard he had been ushered back to the Tower of Magisters by two Raven Knights sent specifically for the task. Waylian had expected Magistra Gelredida to be waiting for him, but of her there was no sign. Instead he had been guided to a chamber, given food and wine — wine, oh how he had loved the wine — and a bath hastily filled with steaming water. There was even perfumed soap.
As he lay there in the water, now murky from the filth of his body, he began to think how easily he could get used to this. Maybe his perilous mission had been worthwhile after all. Maybe he should ask for similar tasks, with ever greater rewards.
Then again, maybe not.
The memory of that cold mountain range gave him the shivers. Just thinking about his close encounter with the jaws of some savage beast made his arse clench in terror. As it turned out, being rescued in such a timely fashion hadn’t been the end of his woes, either.
The knight who had saved his life had led him through the snows to a place they called Wyvern Keep. Waylian later discovered the knight’s name was Cormach Whoreson, and at the time he had wondered why a knight of such a fabled and noble order would have such an ignominious title. It wasn’t until he entered the keep that he learned the Wyvern Guard weren’t exactly the heroes of legend they were made out to be.
They were disciplined all right. Constantly training and honing themselves for a war they were eager to fight. But they were also mean-eyed and haughty, staring at Waylian with scarcely masked contempt. They brooked no weakness, either in themselves or others, and they didn’t come much weaker than Waylian Grimm.
After what seemed like an age of him waving around his sealed missive and asking to see the man in charge, he got the attention of the Lord Marshal. If Waylian had been expecting any more understanding from him than from the rest of the knights he was sorely disappointed. The Lord Marshal totally disregarded Waylian though he read the letter with interest. When he announced to his men that they would ride to war, the news was greeted with enthusiasm, but Waylian got the impression they were looking forward more to the fighting than saving the Free States.
Waylian received not a word of thanks for risking his life to bring the message. He was all but ignored as the Wyvern Guard prepared to travel the long road south, and he was reduced to begging for food and drink when none was offered. And what he received wasn’t fit for a dog — food was in extremely short supply up in the mountains. Such short supply that the Lord Marshal had felt the need to slaughter his prized goats to bolster provisions for the journey to Steelhaven.
The Wyvern Guard went about their preparations as though Waylian wasn’t there. He would most likely have been left behind in the empty keep, in the middle of the freezing mountains, had he not insisted to the Lord Marshal that he be conveyed back to the city.
Begrudgingly they had allowed him to accompany them, though on the mangiest horse they had. It was an angry and unpredictable beast, nipping at Waylian when he least expected it. Perhaps it was just animals in general that didn’t like him. Perhaps he was just unlucky.
Either way, the journey back to the city had been almost as traumatic as the journey to the mountains, but he survived it. He had endured and come through the other side, and here he was enjoying the rich rewards.
The Wyvern Guard had arrived in the city — surely Steelhaven’s troubles were over? Surely Amon Tugha and his hordes would not stand a chance now? Maybe they’d even call off their attack once word spread they would have to face these fabled warriors of renown.
Waylian guessed he was clutching at straws there. Deep down he knew this was only the beginning. That this bath might well be the last bit of respite, his one last piece of luxury, before the butchery began.
In that case he was determined to get the most from it. Closing his eyes, he sank down into the water, allowing it to come up to his nose, allowing the warmth to consume him.
This was truly the life.
The door to the chamber opened.
Magistra Gelredida walked in and stared at him as he lay there in the bath. Waylian thanked the gods that the filth on his body had rendered the water too murky for her to see his privates — not that she’d have been in the slightest bit interested in seeing those.
‘So, you survived.’ she said. He nodded, his mouth still beneath the surface of the water. ‘I can’t begin to tell you how much that fills me with joy.’
To be frank, she didn’t look very joyous, but then she never did. Not that Waylian cared either way. She’d sent him on a perilous mission. He’d almost died … more than once. On several occasions he’d cursed her to the hells, and worse.
‘Anyway, well done, Waylian. I’m proud of you.’
Oh well, that’s all right then. That more than makes up for me nearly being eaten, and having to suffer the company of fierce warriors who would have left me to perish in the elements if I hadn’t begged them for help.
‘Thank you, Magistra,’ he said, his lips barely breaking the surface of the water.
‘Don’t lie there all day; you’ll only go wrinkly. Besides, there is still much work to do and I require your help.’
‘Yes, Magistra. I’ll be with you presently, Magistra.’
She nodded before leaving him alone in the bath.
He wanted to ignore her, to throw a foul gesture in her wake, to tell her, albeit under his breath, to go and fuck herself for what she’d put him through.
Instead he eased himself out of the water, feeling the chill of the room despite the fire in one corner. He dried himself quickly and donned the fresh robe that had been left for him beside the bath.
You’re a mug, Waylian Grimm. Chasing after that woman like a little lapdog. Craving her approval. Licking at her heels until she throws you a bone of appreciation.
He regarded himself in the mirror for a moment. It had been a long time since he’d looked in a mirror and some of what he saw he rather liked. His hair had grown longer — well, there was nothing to cut it with on the trail northwards — and he liked the way it framed his face. His chin and top lip had developed a subtle growth of stubble. He was leaner, his jawline more prominent. Might some say he was even growing handsome?
Not bloody likely.
No, despite what he’d been through he was still the same old Waylian. Still pretty useless. Maybe that was why she’d sent him. Because he was expendable. Because if he’d died up there in the mountains no one would have missed him.
He was inconsequential. Surplus to requirements.
Yes, the Magistra made noises about needing him by her side, but who didn’t need a faithful companion? What witch didn’t have her familiar?
Waylian shook his head at that reflection.
‘You’re a waste of space,’ he said to himself, before leaving the room.
He didn’t have to go far to find his mistress; she was waiting for him at the end of the corridor. Like a needy pup he followed her as she trudged her way up through the Tower of Magisters. It wasn’t until they made it all the way to the magnificent hallway at the tower’s summit that Waylian realised they were in store for another audience in the Crucible Chamber.
‘I have no doubt that this will be yet another waste of our time,’ said Gelredida as two Raven Knights secured the strange bracelets around her wrists that would nullify her powers. ‘But we have to try.’
The great doors were pulled open and Waylian followed her inside. It was as though nothing had changed. Each of the five pulpits loomed like ancient standing stones, and behind them awaited the five Archmasters.