Meanwhile, back in Wyndham Wood…

‘Wait!’ Cherry held up a hand. ‘Where did the delicious little morsel go?’

Eli paused, mid-rant, and glanced around him. Robin was nowhere to be seen. The priest was alone with the dryad.

What? Eli’s hand reflexively tightened on the end of the charm he was gripping as if his life depended on it. The string, already strung quite tight, was no match for this added pressure and snapped. A cascade of twigs burst from Eli’s hand, among them a small flutter of something white.

The whole clearing froze in surprise.

Eli snatched up the slip of parchment amongst the twigs. There was writing on it. It was a note! One eye still on Cherry, he quickly scanned the words.

Dear Eli,

If you’re reading this then you’ve discovered this charm is a fake. Unlike the one I gave you. Guess you should have trusted me! Better luck next time. Oh, and give my love to Cherry, would you?

Yours in Pwnage,

Robin

xoxo

A strangled, desperate laugh leapt from Eli’s throat. Hoist with his own petard! Part of him admired Robin’s cleverness. The other part of him was busily screaming that he now had no defence against Cherry and her magics.

…

Fuck.

***

…and at the Keep that overlooked the Borderlands…

Gis winced as the sound of stone crashing to the floor reverberated through the chapel. Workmen were busily redecorating since he’d assumed control of the place when Basgar seized the Keep.

‘Careful you idiots,’ the priest snapped.

He wasn’t concerned with the shattering stone. No. The bit that had fallen was a statue of the former deity this place had been dedicated to, some weak and snivelling elvish power. He was having the chapel rededicated to Urkhan, but before he could do that properly, the proper ambiance needed to be in place.

His god was most exacting in his expectations.

Sssomething troublesss you.

The hissing whispers in his mind came from Ghen, the serpent that lived with and within him. A gift from his Lord and Master, Ghen was similar to a wizard’s familiar, yet so much more. Sometimes Gis’s dreams burned with the divine fire that Ghen channeled to him from mighty Urkhan himself.

‘Too much rebellion lurks in the hearts of the denizens of this Keep. Lord Basgar was able to seize control, yes, and holds his right to rule in an iron fist, but he has not yet had time to recruit more forces. Until he does so, we are forced to rely on the services of many who lived and prospered under the former ruler of this place.’

Another crash echoed throughout the chapel.

‘Rebellion festers among the dissatisfied. Though they are weak, they are many, and even a lion may be felled by dogs.’

Then turn them againssst one another. Let the dogsss fight amongssst themssselvesss while we grow mighty.

Gis pondered the serpent’s advice as he made his way from the chapel to his personal quarters. It was a sound tactic, though he had not the requisite knowledge of the various rebellious dogs to enact it.

The priest’s expression soured. He would have to enlist the aid of a specialist. There were a few around the Keep, most in Basgar’s camp. One of those might serve, though those who flocked to Basgar tended to lack a certain finesse. The man was an excellent iron fist but he was a fist completely lacking in velvet glove. This plan required a fine touch or it could easily backfire on them, and their position was too tenuous as it was.

There were also many potential complications. No, while it was a wise idea, wiser still would it be to consult a higher authority before taking action on the matter. And while Gis could not appeal to Urkhan directly for answers (his body could not yet withstand that level of divine energies), there were lesser divinations he could perform.

Gis’s personal quarters were opulent, wealth as an open display of power. The priest himself cared little for the aesthetics of gold or the luxurious touch of silk. He was only interested in such things for as much power and control as they could give.

He closed the door to his chamber and locked it. He could afford no interruptions. Divination was an imprecise art at the best of times, and the tools Urkhan gifted his priests for the practice were particularly dangerous to employ.

Yet employ them he would.

Gis knelt before a large chest. The scent of cedar and myrrh rose to meet his nostrils as he opened the lid. Inside were several things he would need. Salt. Blood red candles. A sanctified dagger and the skull of some horned humanoid engraved with runes and sigils. Gis retrieved these and a few other things and turned the chest into an altar. In fact, it had been designed as such. The demands of conquest often called Urkhan priests to be more mobile than their brethren of other churches.

The room grew hot and fustulous, stinking of sweat and sulphur. Gis’s voice droned in a harsh and guttural language. The flames of the candles danced to red and then to black as a presence entered first the room and then the skull upon the altar.

Two pinpricks of red light kindled themselves in the dark hollows of the eye sockets. A breathy, whispered laugh with an edge like a razor blade slid out of the rictus grin.

‘In the name of Urkhan, God of Tyranny and Prince of Lies, I command you speak!’ Gis all but hissed the command. ‘Tell me—’

Beware the blade of laughter. Beware the sharpened pip. Beware the shadows.

Before the priest could ask about his planned course of action, a warning was given. Something was already in motion! Something that threatened the will of Urkhan, if it overrode the cleric’s own desires in this working.

Gis’s blood prickled at the whispered words from the servant of his god. Something or someone was coming to threaten their rule in this place. That could not be allowed! He had plans for this place, and plans greater still that required his success here.

The priest banished the entity inhabiting the skull and then rose and began to pace. Their position here was balanced on a dagger’s point. It had to be secured before this outside threat arrived to tip it out of their favour.

By any means necessary.