Wanda's Dirge Read online

  Mordred’s eyes were a fierce blue—although one eye was now milky. Some said he could still see through some dark dealings with Chessintra, the Goddess of death and darkness. His six-foot frame allowed him to easily gaze out over the crenellations of his keep to the north. There had been fires illuminating the dark silhouettes of the mountainsides. The goblin tribes were active again.

  Mordred smiled with grim satisfaction. These last two years had been disappointing for him. Firstly, his idiot younger brother had stolen a family heirloom: The Malefecorum. This was a divine tome that had been reputed to be scrivened by the handmaiden of death herself—the reaper, Imari. The young fool, Eli, had thought of nothing more than base control. The single ritual had grabbed his impressionable mind, and he dwelt solely on seeing it resolved. Not once had he taken the time to truly grasp the breadth and measure of the work. Magic—which was what transfixed the young man’s fancies. But after that first circle of the work, came death, and dominion over it. But even that shouldn’t allow one to become too enraptured or beguiled. For once you could unravel the third circle, the mastery of time, then even the gods would have to take attention to your actions, wouldn’t they? Nevertheless, the thieving brat had absconded to parts unknown, and with the family’s property. Mordred would have to reconcile this transgression.

  The second disappointment of the last few years had been from the Amarallan government. Their views on Chessintran worship were short-sighted. The king-fool, Bradwyn Corr, had all but outlawed almost all of his research. Not that this had stopped him. No, not at all. No upstart king would dictate his devotion. The annoyance was the town of Scale that his family were charged with protecting. They should likewise be forced to protect the Bligh family interests.

  Pacing around the curtain wall that enveloped his keep, Mordred’s gaze fell to the lights in the south. The clustered haven of buildings in a wooden palisaded rampart marked the presence of Scale. It was a sullen redoubt against the tundra, and the balefull marauders of the north. An age-worn road led from Castle Cairnhold to the village. It was along that very track that he watched a procession of lights, as several wagons caravanned their way to his castle. Turning from the desolate countryside, Mordred strode into the doorway leading to his gatehouse. Tonight would see the end of one of his disappointments at the very least.

  Rushing down the quarried stone stairs, Mordred grabbed his gate-guard captain roughly by the shoulder.

  “Torgar! We’ll have the delegation from Scale arriving within two hours! Ensure they pass through unmolested. I wish them to feel wholly welcome.”

  Torgar looked hard at his lord. He was unaccustomed to such displays of congeniality and hospitality. After assuring himself that this was no jest, and indeed, Mordred Bligh was earnest, he nodded. “As your lordship commands.”

  Mordred walked with purpose across the muddied courtyard towards the keep’s heavy Amarallan oak doors. The dark wood was shod in black wrought iron. Seven ascending stairs rose to the height of ten feet. This was the intimidating venue for which Mordred would later place his imposing frame to greet his visitors. He strode the risers, which were nearly a foot and a half tall, with steep knee bends. There was a far more accommodating entrance around the back, but he left that for the geriatric and infirm.

  Striding through the main hall, his boots rang out a staccato sound as his heels hit stone. He allowed no carpeting in the public parts of his keep. The gods alone knew what manner of vermin the folk of Scale would be harboring when they came to call.

  As he strode down the length of his manor hall, pillars carved with reliefs guarded his flanks. Images of his forefathers lined the hall. Three more steps elevated him to his throne. On the dais where he held court, there was a rich red carpet. It was the colour of Fornathos’ scales. A wan glimmer of natural light was allowed to permeate the gloom over his throne from a solitary window, high overhead. Sconces provided the bulk of the light in the chamber.

  Mordred chose one of the two entrances atop the dais, and headed to the oak-paneled dining hall. This was where he would be entertaining his guests tonight. The succulent smells wafting out of his kitchen had a tantalizing effect on his taste buds. Closing his eyes for a self-indulgent moment, Mordred contemplated the menu he had carefully selected for tonight. There were the six roasts that his chefs were preparing: caribou, a brace of foxes, a snowy owl, and a northern hill bear, and her cub. All were to be carefully skinned and prepared with the finest Jherrim spices, then they were to be returned to their skins. The servants would then present the edible menagerie. There would be a cauldron of rabbit stew. Several loaves of white baked bread were prepared, along with two wheels of a rich orange cheese. To go along with each place at the table, there would be a bar of marzipan. Four bowls of oranges, pears, and grapefruits completed the table.

  Pulling free of his little smile, Lord Bligh climbed the staircase to his living quarters. There, he doffed his working attire, and donned the finery that had been left out by his handmaiden. His steward, Ulrich Votten, was busying himself with the oversight of the accommodations, as well as the contents of the night’s ‘festivities’.

  The bulk of his clothes kept the deep crimson of his house colours. However, the trim was lightened from black fur to white fur. His finery was fastened together with buttons of white gold, not lacing, and his cloak was pinned around his throat by a white gold clasp that held a prominent ruby in its center.

  A timid knock resounded through the acoustics of his bedchamber. “What is it?” Mordred demanded in reply.

  The sing-song voice, seeming out of place in these dour lands, resonated a smile in his heart. “It is only I, m’lord. I am just knocking to let you know that the contingent from Scale is almost at the gates. Also, there are lights on the tundra along the Dwarf-friend trail.”

  “Thank you Cahandara, my pet.” Mordred licked his dry lips. He hungrily thought of the young Vitani elf-maid, whose slender form made her look deliciously no older than fifteen. He had stolen her from a brothel’s rather irked madam whilst he was at the auction in Wyvernhold. Her loss was his to spoil. Mordred chuckled to himself.

  Flinging the heavy door wide, Mordred barreled past a startled Cahandara, and down the hall, leaving the unceremoniously groped girl leaning against the wall. Mordred strode through the keep, arriving at the main double doors, which were opened for him by his guards, just in time to see the arrival of the first of the carriages through his curtain wall’s gatehouse.

  The first carriage to arrive was a rather plain affair. Drawn by a single caribou, it expelled a heavily-bundled man out onto the first step when it pulled up. The man struggled his way up to Mordred’s level. There, he was divested of two large coats, and a fur. Upon the release of these constraints, a rather gaunt man of nearly six-foot tall stood before Mordred. Ice blue eyes glared beneath a mop of unruly blond grease. There was a tomato-like hue to the man’s skin. A rather poorly waxed moustache completed the green-and red-garbed man’s ridiculous sense of suave fashion.

  “A pleasure to accept your invitation to dine, Lord Bligh. It is a shame the weather is not more accommodating for such pleasantries,” simpered this fool of a man.

  “Nonsense, my good mayor Jordan Evarrson, I find the clime aptly reflects the natures of the finest men and women of Amaral. Please, come in, my servant shall show you to your place.” Mordred cajoled to the man for what he sincerely hoped would be the last time.

  Plumes of crystal huffed from the noses and mouths of the next team of steeds as they drew up to the grand entrance. The rig they drew was a much heavier affair. Four fully planked walls held windows that were shuttered closed against the cool tundra evening. There was smoke drifting from a stack at the back left corner of the carriage. This suggested the opulent, if not absurdly decadent comfort of a heating stove aboard the carriage. The walls of the carriage were painted in rich green. There were beaten copper plates that held to the skin of the carriage, and that shod the wheels. A driver and a crossb
owman rode in front, guiding the massive vehicle along. A footman, wearing heavy furs, stood sentinel on a running-board along the back of the carriage. Mordred grinned maliciously. The pretentious contraption obviously belonged to the merchant-queen of Scale. As the thing rolled to a halt, he put a welcoming grin on his countenance.

  The footman had quickly dismounted and deftly placed a step in front of the sliding door. He then slid the door open to reveal a portly silhouette. The opulently porcine woman stepped down and crossed to the stairs ascending to Mordred’s keep. Her footman began the very harried task of arranging the stool on every step for the woman to mount the stairs to Mordred’s waiting form. Once she climbed the remaining step, Mordred presented a saccharine platitude.

  “Inga Torn-eye, such a pleasant feast for the eyes.” He ended his greeting with a slight bow.

  “Oh, Lord Bligh!” she tittered gleefully. “You are such a charmer.”

  “Indeed,” he proclaimed. “I am truly happy you were able to make it here this evening. We have much business to discuss.”

  With jiggling jowls, Inga chortled, “You do know how to get a girl’s dander in a fix now, don’t you? I do so love the thought of lightening your coffers.”

  “This way,” Mordred gestured down the hall. “My servant will show you to your place,” he concluded.

  Mordred barely contained a shudder as he watched the voluminous form of Inga retreat down the hall. She was sallow-skinned, in spite of her orcish heritage. She had coarse, black hair that she wore in a coiled braid about her head in an ascending column. It was held in place by brass pins, topped with emerald orbs. She was draped in a forest green gown that lent to an illusion of a spring hill moving through the room. Her white fox stole had been given to the servant, who was now trying to unburden his line of sight with the large vestment.

  There was an after-scent of cinnamon and ambergris from the perfumes ladled on Inga’s body. It was easy to assess that her insecurity forced her to wear her wealth on her sleeve.

  A few more moments in the biting cold freshened the air about him, and brought with it the sound of beating wings on the breeze. Moments later, his cloak swirled up, buffeted by a massive downdraft, created by a water dragon’s manta ray-like wings. This heralded the arrival of Captain Weif Sturmholt.

  The massive dragon that carried him into Mordred’s courtyard was Voltare. The creature had been born and raised in the tundra lands. Unlike its more tropical cousins, who tended to a black and gold band scaling, Voltare was a muddy-brown that blended to a creamy underbelly. Both types of water dragon emitted currents of electricity along their bodies, where they could then be discharged along the length of twin fore-facing horns.

  There was a tremble in the stone stair as the creature landed. This was accompanied by the crunch of earth being solidly compacted in spite of the permafrost.

  Mordred felt the prickle of ozone in the air against his flesh. Voltare leaned against the stairs and extended a powerful wing so that Captain Sturmholt could walk up to him as an equal. The impertinence of this display would only be tolerated by Mordred for this last time. He affixed a non-too-congenial smile upon his face as the Captain walked deftly up to him.

  “Lord Bligh,” Weif crisply stated. “Thank you for your considerate invite to sup with you.” The thickly corded man extended his hand.

  “The pleasure is mine. I’m glad you could fit this into your busy schedule.” Mordred aggressively clasped the other man’s forearm. They shook their limbs and clapped each other’s backs in a fraternal display.

  Thuggish goon, thought Mordred, as the Captain disentangled himself from the soldierly embrace.

  “How about Voltare?” Weif asked.

  “I’ve arranged a pair of old nags for him, along with some drinking water that has been flavoured with pond scum.” Mordred had spared no expenses when getting northern algae imported for the purose of making the oversized lizard happy. Hopefully, it would help keep the beast drinking from the prepared trough.

  Voltare allowed himself to be led away from the keep to the stables.

  Smiling, Weif clapped Mordred on the shoulder. “Thanks for your hospitality.” He then strode into the hall, crushing a servant under a cloak and shield. His raucous laughter dissipated down the hall, as the outer gates swung open for the last time.

  The stout and broad rider was wrapped in white bear fur. Straddling a mountain goat, it gave an image of a short, shaggy camel. Silver polished chain mail and barding covered the pair. Silver polished caps covered the tips of the ram’s spiral horns, and the head of the dwarf. The clinking pair arrived at the base of the stairs; the ram bleated, and the dwarf looked up and grunted.

  Mordred patiently waited at the top of the climb, smiling with satisfaction at every grunt, huff, and grumble that the dwarf uttered during his ascent. Once he cleared the last step, Mordred benignly smiled and said, “Jarl Porter Goldhelm, you deeply honour me with your presence. The dwarves of the Dragonspine Mountains are a vital component to my proposition.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah!” Porter glowered at him from under bushy white eyebrows. “Save it until after we sup, and at least have a couple of drinks into me.”

  “Of course,” Mordred acquiesced. “Please accept my hospitality. Make yourself at home.”

  “Watch out, or I’ll carve dwarven-sized stairs into yer’ keep,” growled Porter with a good-natured half-grin.

  Mordred chuckled his appreciation for the dwarf’s humour. He followed the heavily armored figure into the keep as a few of his guards closed the massive door behind him. His keep swiftly became warmer once the vent of the front door closed. He was particularly pleased with his family’s design of Cairnhold. It was positioned over a thermal vent, which allowed the heat of the world itself to serve him.

  The dwarf divested himself of his snow bear coat. Porter Goldhelm was clad all in white and silver. His long white hair and beard made him seem more congenial and kindly than Mordred knew him to be.

  They joined the others in the dining hall. The buzz of conversation died off when they entered the room. Mordred indicated that all should find their seats.

  “First, I have to thank you for joining me this evening.” Mordred smiled to each in turn. “Next, allow me to present …” he paused for dramatic flair, “the meal!”

  This declaration was followed by a procession of servants that were choreographed by his steward behind the scenes. They were laden down with the menagerie of beasts, and pitchers of ale and wine, all laced with the tasteless and odorless ingredients that he had imbibed the antidote for, before the meal.

  “My fellows,” Mordred rose a glass in the air. “We all are beholden to the interests of Scale, and its surrounding regions. I bring you here tonight, not just to hold your company, but to entreaty you with the future of your realm.” Mordred was warming up. “Just because some upstart ex-slaver regent decides he knows what is best for us, doesn’t mean he should choose our fates!”

  “Treasonous talk,” growled Captain Sturmholt.

  “Here! Here!” applauded the dwarf, who truly held no loyalty to King Bradwyn Corr, the aforementioned ex-slaver.

  “Where is the profit in thwarting the crown of Amaral?” analyzed Inga.

  The mayor of Scale simply trembled in simpering fear. He had much in common with the tundra hare.

  “My dear Captain,” Mordred practically purred, “how is it you are only a lowly Captain, and not a General by now? You ride one of the most fearsome and venerated dragons of the draconic cavalry, yet you are ferreted off to these frontiers, instead of holds in, or at the least near, the capital. Face it, you have been wronged by that slaver-king. I offer you the command of my armies. This talk is not treasonous—it is patriotic! To the people under my rule!”

  Then, turning his focus to Inga, Mordred continued, “As the sole merchant of Scale, you shall have a monopoly in my realm of all goods that pass through the borders. Your investment will be dear, but there will be initial waivers of
cost for one year, and then your profits shall seem limitless.” Mordred watched as Inga’s face screwed itself up to become even less appealing than her orcish heritage would suggest it should be. She was intensely analyzing the information.

  The Mayor, as any good hare in the eyes of a predator should do, remained silent and frozen.

  “Let us set aside business for now! My friends, eat and drink!” Mordred raised his glass first, as was custom. He then rose from his chair, so that others followed suit. “To the feast! Also, to our forging of a relationship made with a new and undying bond!” Mordred toasted. He then imbibed his drink first. Another custom to show that no poison was laced throughout the beverage. Mordred smiled broadly. They were as lambs to the slaughter.

  All drew their draughts together and cried, “Huzzah!”

  The dwarf, Goldhelm, promptly dashed the goblet to shards behind him and cried out, “Where is the ale? It’s flowing like a glacier around here!” He then laughed as a servant dashed forward to rectify his problem.

  Inga sent a servant to harvest the forepaws of the arctic bear for her. It was a delicacy among the orcish and goblin tribes, and she was very fond of bear paw. The heavily marbled and slightly gelatinous meat melted in her mouth and provided her with warm and pleasant sensations as she savoured her most favorite delicacy.

  The captain began to hungrily savage a shank of the bear.

  The mayor cannibalized an arctic hare.

  Mordred leaned contentedly back on his chair, nibbling an owl drumstick, and listening to their idle chatter. This evening was going perfectly.

  An hour into the meal, Inga’s head bobbed, then she dropped her chin to her ample bosom. The other guests chalked it up to fatigue and feasted on.

  Fifteen minutes later, as the captain reached for an orange, he collapsed into his plate, scraps of food forming a savory, adhesive pillow. At this, the dwarf roared out his laughter, and applauded Mordred for serving such strong spirits. Then he promptly looked confused as he too, succumbed to the effects of the drink. The dwarf managed to rise before crashing to the floor amidst his meal’s detritus.