THERE WAS A HUSHED silence to the room as all eyes rested at the head of the white stone table.
All thirteen seats were filled. The heads of the Bulradoer, the Legate, and the Inquisition shifted nervously as they waited for the man seated at its crown to speak.
Valtor slammed his fist down on top of the polished stone. Backs stiffened in stone seats all along the perimeter of the long table. He enjoyed watching them squirm. “Sixteen years!” He scanned his audience, catching each eye in turn. “Sixteen years and what do you have to show for it? How hard is it to find one single child?”
“Apparently, pretty toad-sucking hard with you calling the shots,” one of the bulradoer near the end of the table mumbled to himself, not having expected anyone to hear.
“What was that, Medarin?” Valtor asked as he leaned forward in his seat and glared down the left side of the table. He could feel the mitre on top of his head tilt ever so slightly downward.
The short bulradoer sneered. “I said . . .” he glanced around at the other faces looking for support. “I said I’m tired of sitting on my hands. When Bezaleel was chancellor, you wouldn’t have found us sitting around here coddling each other. We would have been out there getting things done.”
The other members’ heads bobbed back and forth as they looked from Medarin to Valtor and back again. They were waiting to see what their chancellor’s response would be to such a blatant accusation.
Medarin had been an avid supporter of Chancellor Bezaleel back before Valtor had taken his seat, following the former chancellor’s untimely demise. The circumstances surrounding the passing of Valtor’s predecessor had been called into question by Medarin, and on more than one occasion, the bulradoer had attempted to gather those to his side who would be willing to denounce Valtor’s position as the new head of the Tower.
Medarin had one thing right. The time for doing nothing had long since passed. It was time to lance this abscess before it festered into something truly nasty. The last thing Valtor could allow was to have his authority undermined.
Valtor reached for his staff where it leaned against the arm of his throne- like chair. His fingers stroked the smooth, dark wood. Carved into the top and layered in silver was the head of a wolf with its maw spread wide.
Securely wedged between its fangs was a bloodstone that had begun to pulse a deep red.
The little man’s eyes darted back and forth at those seated closest to him.
Not waiting for an answer, Valtor whipped out his arm in Medarin’s direction. The sleeve of his crimson robe retreated far enough to reveal Valtor’s thinning frame. He clenched his hand as if gripping an invisible object, and latched on to the bulradoer’s neck. Valtor raised his arm and Medarin was suddenly lifted into the air, his seat shifted backwards from where his feet kicked out under the strain. The man’s hands fought to tear away the undetectable clamp around his neck.
The others around the table quickly scooted back.
Valtor’s anger seethed. He held the black-robed wielder out over the
table and watched as the little man danced the hangman’s dance in front of the others. Like a marionette on his master’s strings, Medarin’s legs flexed and kicked as he struggled to breathe, his body naturally convulsing from
the lack of air. His face whitened and his lips turned a pale blue. He looked like a little fish with his puckered mouth opening and shutting as he tried crying out, but nothing came. The only sound to escape the bulradoer’s lips was a gurgling noise that was followed by a bubbly white paste.
A few more spasms and Medarin’s body went limp. His eyes were open and filled with fear, but Valtor could see there was no life within.
He released his grip and the dark wielder landed on top of the marble slab. Harsh grumbling could be heard around the entire table. The others passed judgmental glances, but no one dared speak loud enough to be heard.
“Does anyone else want to question my authority?”
The room fell silent once again as heads slowly shifted back to the front. Valtor took a deep breath and rubbed the tips of his fingers down the soft gold-threaded seams of his chancellor’s robes. He sighed as he leaned back
in his chair, the weight of his movement readjusting his hat. Now he was
going to have to find another wielder to replace Medarin. Maintaining the bulradoer ranks was becoming quite tedious. “As I was saying, I want that faeling child found. Aerodyne has special plans for him.” The very mention of the first wizard’s name caused the others to squirm in their seats.
From the center of the table on the right, the Legate Superior leaned forward. “Is it true that the confinement spells have begun to fail?”
Valtor studied the woman as he determined the appropriate response. Her long graying hair boxed the sides of her round face, making her pudgy
cheeks appear even more pronounced. Her eyes were drawn with dark rings. Clearly, she hadn’t seen a decent night’s sleep in a while. From the span of her waist, though, she had obviously spent that time rummaging through the Tower’s kitchens.
Still, he couldn’t see a reason for not answering her question. Aerodyne had been locked away for nearly a thousand years, after all. It had taken the sacrifice of nearly two dozen wizards during the Great Wizard Wars to
assure his imprisonment. And now, after almost a millennium, the dark wizard’s presence was being felt once more.
Valtor was giddy with excitement, especially after his recent discovery of the Waters of A’sterith. They allowed him the ability to directly
communicate with the ancient wizard. A lot had happened since that first meeting, and there was still a great amount of work to do in order to ready himself and the White Tower for Aerodyne’s return.
“It is true,” he said and then sat back to watch their reactions.
The room buzzed with whispered conversations. Faces animated to the
numerous possibilities of their master’s return and the promised rewards for their faithfulness.
“The time is coming when we shall take our rightful place in this world,”
Valtor said. “No longer will the ven’ae be the outcast. No longer will we
have to skulk and hide amongst the dregs of society for being what we are. When Aerodyne returns it will be the jun’ri who bow to us.”
Echoes of acclamation filled the large chamber as the members resounded their ovation.
“What of Aramoor and the High King, Your Grace?” a bulradoer asked from the front. “Rhydan has never trusted the White Tower, and I don’t
foresee him sitting idly by as we move to overthrow his rule.”
Valtor leaned forward and rested his elbows on top of the table’s cold surface. “There is more than one way to defeat an enemy. A strong leader
would raise a force and engage them in open combat. However,” he added, punctuating his words with a raised finger, “a smart leader will manipulate his adversaries from the inside, and lead them to destroy themselves.” Valtor shifted in his seat. “Why fight an unnecessary battle when you can allow others to do it for you?”
There were more than a few raised brows and nodding heads as the others passed eager glances.
Valtor enjoyed playing the game. It suited him. He loved watching the pieces fit together as he manipulated the board. It was one reason he had always appreciated a decent hand of Batmyth, as long as he had a worthy opponent. It was a game that required cunning, skill, and sacrifice.
“How is our recruitment faring?” he asked as he turned his attention back to the Legate Superior. The members of the Legate were in charge of keeping the books for the White Tower. They were the oil that kept the
gears moving in stable fashion.
“Enlistment is up, Your Eminence. We are seeing a fresh consignment of wielders coming in each month. The Black Watch has done an excellent job in sourcing out possible recruits. Those that join willingly have been growing in number. It seems the ven’ae are tired of being treated like
criminals.”
Valtor let his fingers follow the contour of the wolf’s bared teeth on the top of his staff. “Excellent news. We can use their anger to our benefit. It’s not hard to convince a beaten animal to turn on those who are mistreating it.”
“There are still many however,” she said with a hesitant look, “who want nothing to do with our cause.”
Valtor nodded. He knew that to be all too true. Why couldn’t these people see that what he strived to do was in their best interest? He was
going to reshape the world so that the ven’ae—those with true power—no longer feared the oppression of the jun’ri. How those without magical ability had managed to lord over those with it for so long was beyond him. The only thing the non-wielders had going for them was their numbers, but if he was to get his way, that would no longer matter.
There were always outliers, those that would continue to stand in the way of progress. He didn’t understand these wielders. They actually fought to protect the very people who wanted to destroy them. Their attempts at hiding potential wielders from the Tower’s grasp were becoming quite the
nuisance. He needed to squash their resistance now before it grew into an all-out rebellion.
“And how are our dear brothers and sisters of the Inquisition handling these defiant wielders?” He shifted his gaze toward the white-robed delegation sitting at the far end. “Have you been able to motivate these
rebels concerning the value of our cause?”
One of the inquisitors cleared his throat to speak. Valtor didn’t know his name, but then again, he didn’t know the names of half of those seated around the table.
“A few hours on the rack has convinced many to recant their ways, Your Grace. And those who haven’t have joined their fellow compatriots in the purging chamber.”
Valtor hated losing valuable resources to purging, but, at least with the guidance of Aerodyne’s grimoire, they were able to separate the non- compliant wielders from their abilities and store the magic for future use. The wielder, of course, never survived the process.
Valtor had managed to gather quite the collection of magical essence over the last couple of years as head of the White Tower, talents he would
one day put to good use as he built his army and forged a new sect of magic wielders.
“We have one wielder, Arch Chancellor, which you might find of interest. He has managed to resist his inquisitors so far with remarkable
force of will. His gift is unusually strong. Even more interesting is that he’s a metallurgist. Not only a metallurgist but a gifted weapon-smith to boot.”
Valtor raised his head. It had been years since they had found a true metallurgist. Evidently, a wielder who had the ability to manipulate metal ore was very uncommon. If this man was truly skilled in the art of crafting weapons, this could be a remarkable find for the White Tower.
“And who is in charge of his interrogations?”
The man glanced at his fellow inquisitors before replying. “Sylas, Your Eminence.”
Now that was a name Valtor was familiar with. “I hear he is quite talented in the art of persuasion.”
The inquisitor at the end of the table smiled. “He has a rather unique affinity for his work, Your Grace.”
“Yes, I’ve heard good things.”
“If anyone can get a man to talk, it’ll be him. I’ve never seen an inquisitor more dedicated to, or in love with, his job.”
