“I don’t even know what the dreadnaught is.”
Another voice said, “Nor do I.”
Looking up, Rol saw a tall, thin man walking on the ceiling. He was wearing the functional beige clothing of one of Urik’s sirdars, and was surrounded by a glow that Rol just knew indicated magic.
Ah, one of the wizards of this realm comes forth to greet me.
“I am Drahar, the chamberlain of Urik.”
“So you’re the bastard who took me from my friend.”
Drahar regarded Rol for a moment, then turned to the monster. “Fascinating. It seems that you are both occupying this mind, and that you-” he pointed at the gray monster “-are the source of the strength and power that I sensed in Rol Mandred.”
I am much more than that. This little human that you refer to as “Rol Mandred” is but the first to become a dreadnaught in my service.
“You say ‘my’ service-whose service is that, exactly?”
Rol stared at Drahar, but he also realized that he wanted the answer to that question too.
I am the Voidharrow, and I work in service with Tharizdun.
“I do not know that name.”
He is a great and powerful god, but not from this world of sand and sun. Through me, his will shall be done.
Rol continued to stare at Drahar. “You don’t believe this nonsense, do you, sirdar?”
Drahar gave Rol a look that only a noble-born ass could give to a person of lower station. The aristocracy had it bred in them. Even as he gave the look, the colors changed, each shade becoming noticeably darker, the pink spots becoming bloodred. “I believe what I am presented with, Rol Mandred-this creature certainly has a power that could be called godly.”
What this foolish little human believes is of little consequence.
“But what I believe is quite critical,” Drahar said. “At the moment, my psionists are controlling your movements and keeping you restrained. That will remain the case unless you cooperate.”
So you are the one who ordered me sedated?
“Yes. And I will do so permanently unless you-”
Cooperate, yes. How would I cooperate with the likes of you?
“Oh,” Rol said with a laugh, “he’s a chamberlain in King Hamanu’s court. Trust me, dreadnaught, this is who you want to get in bed with if you want to serve this ‘Thor’s done’ person.” The colors all brightened, and the purple became bright red, with the spots becoming green.
It’s Tharizdun, and your advice is unnecessary.
“Yes,” Drahar said dismissively, “it’s obvious that your active participation in this endeavor has come to an end. It’s a testament to the power of your will that you can even participate in this conversation. But that is the extent of your influence, Mandred.” Drahar turned to the dreadnaught. “However, he is correct about one thing-it would behoove you to cultivate me as a friend. I have the ear of the most powerful king in the world.”
Rol muttered, “Yeah, he keeps it in a jar on his shelf.”
Drahar continued as if Rol hadn’t spoken. “King Hamanu desires to rule all of Athas. All that stands between him and that desire is the power necessary. You have the means to grant us that power.”
Interesting.
“Is that all you have to say?”
For now. Go away, while we consider your offer.
The monster gestured with one hand, and suddenly, Drahar was gone.
Rol hoped that the departure was painful for the wizard.
Then Rol was back in the dungeon where he had been. With Drahar gone, so was the strange plane-which was kind of too bad, as he missed the spots.
He also had again lost control. However, he wondered if that was because the Voidharrow had taken that control-or because Drahar did. He said that his psionists were keeping physical control of him.
Drahar had also expressed surprise that Rol had any kind of presence. He wondered if the Voidharrow was truly as strong as it claimed to be.
Outside the cell, he could hear voices.
“Are you all right, Lord Chamberlain?”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Forgive me, Lord Chamberlain, but that doesn’t answer the question.”
“Yes, it does. Is the creature being held?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Good.”
Odd, isn’t it, little human, that the desires of the king as expressed by Drahar are exactly the same as the desires of Drahar?
“Not odd at all,” Rol muttered. “Drahar’s the chamberlain. His desire is to keep the king happy by whatever means necessary. Kind of like you and this Tharizdun.”
Perhaps. He does not wish to bargain, but to force us.
“I’d think you’d like that.”
You are wise, little human. A pity you will die.
“If I die, who gets to be your dreadnaught?”
I speak of your mind, not your body.
“Joy.”
Rol said nothing further. He knew he retained at least some sliver of himself. He needed to make use of that.
He just wished he knew how …
CHAPTER TWELVE
Sasker hated his job.
Not that there was anything especially bad about it. It was better than digging in the mines or shoveling manure in the orchards or any number of other jobs that would’ve been a great deal less pleasant than watching over a bunch of slaves between fights.
But he really wanted to be a soldier.
Like everyone in Urik, Sasker was tested by the templars as a child, and his aptitude was for soldiering.
So he volunteered for the Imperial Guard.
At first, everything was fine. He went through the training, just like everyone else. In fact, he excelled at it, which was more than he could say for his bunkmate, Torvald.
Torvald didn’t like to do all the work. He didn’t put a full effort into his training, always lagging behind everyone else-or taking shortcuts that required less effort.
What amazed Sasker was that the drill sergeant didn’t seem to notice when Torvald slacked off. That wouldn’t have bothered Sasker so much, except the sergeant noticed it for everyone else. Even the ones who weren’t actually slacking off. One time, Sasker had been the first one to finish doing pull-ups, and the sergeant yelled at him for making the others look bad-then he yelled at Jonas, who was the last one done.
But Torvald, who only did half the required pull-ups, got off with nothing. Again.
Eventually, Sasker grew tired of it and complained to the sergeant.
Actually, he did more than complain. Sasker carried on for five minutes, enumerating everything that was wrong with Torvald and why he’d make a terrible soldier and why was the sergeant, whaddayacall, letting him off so easily?
The next morning, a lieutenant came into the barracks with two soldiers and told him to pack his things. He was kicked out of the Guard.
On the way out of the barracks, the lieutenant said, “And don’t expect much by way of job prospects after this, Sasker. At least, not as long as Lord Torvald’s alive.”
Sasker winced as they literally pushed him out the door. Torvald was the son of a sirdar.
Somebody could have told him.
The lieutenant had been right about the lack of job prospects. He spent his days failing to find work and his nights drinking in taverns and running up bar tabs he couldn’t afford to pay. It took a great deal to get him drunk, as Sasker had always had a high tolerance for that kind of thing, so he drank a lot.
Finally, someone at one of the taverns-the third he’d been frequenting since being kicked out of the Guard, after the first two refused him service until he paid his rather large bill-mentioned that the Pit of Black Death was looking for guards.