“I tell you I belong to Admon Faye!” a lank character he didn’t recognize was shouting. The man wrestled to free himself from the sure grip of two of the slaver’s trusted comrades. Another stranger, a squat fellow who wore an expression of sheer disgust, no longer struggled against his captors. It was this short bandit who first noticed Admon Faye’s approach. The man seemed to sigh in resignation.
“You belong to me?” Admon Faye asked. The tall stranger twisted around to smile up at his hero. Pinter’s smile froze on his face at his first glimpse of the slaver’s monumental ugliness. Admon Faye let him stare a moment. Then he demanded, “Well?”
“Ah yes!” Pinter said with forced brightness. “That is, I long to be—”
“These two attacked us when we rode into the pass,” a wrinkled old slaver grunted. “Claimed they were members of your band and demanded tribute in your name.”
“I told you they were cutthroats,” Tibb whispered to his wildly grinning companion.
“And we meant it!” Pinter defended. “We have some tribute to offer you!”
“Dent ” Tibb snapped, trying to stop his cohort before Peter got the words out. Failing, he winced, sighed, then shook his head.
“Tribute?” Admon Faye asked. “Show me.” Pinter grinned proudly.
“Show him, Tibb.” Tibb’s expression of rueful disgust returned, as he jerked his arm free from one of his captors, reached into his shoulder pouch, and pulled out three copper coins. He held them out to the slaver.
Admon Faye gazed at Tibb’s palm. “That’s it?”
“That’s it,” Tibb muttered matter-of-factly. “We would have had more,” Pinter explained sheepishly, but somebody robbed us.”
Admon Faye still stared at the coins. “I could get more than that just by selling your bodies for tugolith fodder!”
“Didn’t I tell you?” Tibb sighed to his friend. “Please, Lord Faye!” Pinter begged, dropping to his knees at the slaver’s feet. “I realize we don’t appear very likely prospects for your band, but you’ve got to understand you’ve arrived at a difficult time for us. We’re actually much better outlaws than we appear!”
Admon Faye winked at his fellows. “Lord Faye. I like that”
We actually had a tidy sum accumulated to present to you. We were just outsmarted by a fiendish Mari free trader who got us so interested in one of his metal pots we didn’t notice when be took off with our bag of…
“I see.” Admon Faye nodded with mock gravity. “And you still have this pot?”
Pinter and Tibb exchanged pained expressions, then Tibb blurted out, “Actually, we sold it the next day to another trader for these three pence.” Tibb shrugged. “We’re not bad thieves, really. Just terrible businessmen.”
“But we can handle our swords,” Pinter inserted proudly.
Admon Faye raised a hairy eyebrow at his grizzled lieutenant. The man nodded. “They gave us a go before we overpowered them.”
The slaver glanced back at the two forlorn thieves, obviously amused.
“You want to join my band, yet battle with my warriors?”
“How were we to know they really belonged to you?” Tibb barked. “Just because they said so doesn’t make it so. We’re living proof!”
“Presently living,” the brutal slaver corrected. “With no guarantee that will continue.” Admon Faye stalked around the two would-be recruits, examining them as a horse trader inspects his livestock.
Finally he snorted and muttered, “Very well. You may present your swords to me.”
Pinter cleared his throat. “We would, however ”
“However what?”
“Your men took ’em away from us!” Tibb growled.
Admon Faye glanced at his warriors, and they quickly passed the two thieves their weapons. In a time-honored gesture the two knelt and held their blades out before them. They contrasted sharply. Lanky Pinter offered his polished sword proudly, a smile of victory lighting up his face. Barrel-shaped Tibb, on the other hand, still wore his look of disgust as he offered his bent and battered blade to his new master. Admon Faye noted the odd angle of Tibb’s weapon and chortled uncontrollably, slapping his companions, who also cackled at the sight.
Then the slaver clamed himself and asked in ritual fashion, “Your names?”
“I am Pinter,” Pinter said grandly.
“I’m Tibb,” his friend grunted.
“Very well. I accept your service… Pinter the proud, and Tibb the twisted…” Here he convulsed again with mirth, and couldn’t continue.
“Go on with you,” instructed Admon Faye’s wrinkled companion. “You know where the soup pot is Pinter and Tibb rose hurriedly then, and made their way up the pass to the spot where the slavers had pitched camp.
Admon Faye wiped the tears from his cheeks and grinned at his lieutenant. “Other than that, how did you find things here?”
“Undisturbed. The two bunglers had not discovered our cache of weapons—”
“Evidently!” Admon Faye cackled, still thinking of Tibb’s sword.
“Land all is ready for us to move, whenever you choose.”
Admon Faye nodded. “Very good. The young lady seems to be coming along well. If I can increase her combat confidence, I think she’ll be ready as well.”
“Who will you assign to build her confidence?”
“Who better than our new recruits?” Admon Faye snickered, and the other slaver laughed aloud. They slapped one another’s backs as they made their way to the soup pot.
Flayh’s hands trembled. He stared at the ornate page Spread before him, awed by the crystalline clarity of the words scratched upon it.
How many years had this book sat on a dusty shelf in this library?
Power unheard of, power beyond the imagination, hidden between these gilt-edged sheets, patiently enduring the passage of time! Surely Tohn had never read it. Tohn, the man of action, Flayh thought to himself as he winked contemptuously at the nickering candle. Tohn had probably never entered this room, much less plowed doggedly through its stacks of musty tomes to find the jewels of precious thought buried here. But Flayh had. The power shaper lifted his shaking arms in exultation. His ultimate victory was assured him, for he now owned a Copy of an ancient master’s spell-book!
No one had instructed Flayh in how to shape the powers. He’d learned everything he knew on his own, through hard work and ceaseless experimentation. His own library la Lamath had been worthless, for those volumes had been filled with religious garbage, more concerned with miracles magic. But this was Ngandib-Mar, land of wizards! its pages caked with choking dust, some of them Jding with age sat a teacher. And what a teacher!
Flayh’s old eyes rested upon the most spectacular spell of all. With this knowledge, added to that he already possessed, Flayh could bring a castle to life!
He rose and paced the tiny sliver of floor that was not clogged with still more books. “I’ll need the High Fortress of Ngandib, of course.
That’s a castle of substance, an unassailable citadel that will soon be able to defend itself from attack, leaving me free to concentrate on my craft without interference.” No longer would he concern himself with the unpredictable maneuvering of the Council of Elders. Oh, he would keep his hand in, of course, but with Admon Faye as his ally and this new found spell-book, the Council was no longer necessary to him. He would go to Ngandib and volunteer his services as court power shaper With this new ability he could quickly control Pahd and with his puppet Queen on the golden throne, he’d control two-thirds of the world!
“Then,” he muttered, “I can turn my attention to Lamath and Pelmen.”
He summoned Pezi to meet him in his apartments. Pezi entered Flayh’s room as he always did cringing, expecting a tongue-lashing, uncertain as ever about why. Flayh smiled sweetly, making Pezi even more anxious. “Have a seat, my boy!” said Flayh. Pezi obeyed. Flayh beamed. “How are you doing, nephew?”