you are responsible for them!”
A Rescue
“WHERE IS VALDAIMON?” demanded Baron Manfred Culdus, his angry voice echoing down the corridors of the east section of the king’s palace in Hamblen. Anger flashed from his dark eyes as he clanked along the hallway, throwing open one door, then another, in his personal search for the author of his discontents. Nor was Culdus’s anger a thing to be taken lightly. It was not the evil, chaotic rage of a creature like Valdaimon, nor the impotent, decadent rage of a besotted youth like King Ruprecht, but the cold, efficient anger of a professional soldier. All the court of Heilesheim knew that when Culdus was angry, there would be efficient, ruthless corrective action.
Unlike most of the court, Culdus, general in chief of the army of Heilesheim, designer of the military system that had borne such great fruits in the conquest of Dunsford, Argolia, and now the Duchies in the Land Between the Rivers, knew full well that he could take efficient action only at the pleasure of the king. And the king’s pleasure, more often than not, was guided by that stinking pustule Valdaimon, with his foul black arts, his zombies and ghouls, and now his damnable League of the Black Wing, which was supposed to be providing political consolidation of all the recent conquests.
“Where is Valdaimon?” Culdus bellowed again, into the empty halls. In the various rooms that occupied this section of the palace, the servants cringed at the sound of Culdus’s voice. No one knew where Valdaimon was.
Culdus knew that no one knew, and that only made him angrier still. His massive form strode back down the hallway the way he had come, his impressive six feet and three inches of height so great that he had to duck his head when passing through the lower archways.
Ten thousand devils drag that wizard in pieces to their separate hells, Culdus thought, as he stomped back to the central section of the palace where the king awaited him. This kind of thing was just like him. In mid-campaign, when the army was winning victory after victory, Valdaimon had disappeared. Normally, Culdus would have been grateful to him for taking his perpetual stench out of the way. But not now, when he was needed. So needed, in fact, by the dissipated king that Ruprecht demanded to be brought back to the capital, to the comforts and safety of his own palace, until the wizard was found. Culdus had no choice but to follow, leaving the army in the capable hands of the Legion commanders, but leaving undone much of the work needed for planning the next stages in the conquest of the Holy Alliance.
Culdus stormed into the royal presence. With Valdaimon absent, he could be much bolder with the king than he would ever dare when his archrival was on hand. The tall, thin, pale youth lounged on his high throne, his white blouse open rakishly in front to tempt the household serving girls. The king’s gangly legs were propped over the sides of the throne. But fear showed in the king’s eyes, and Culdus decided to make good use of that fear.
“Valdaimon is not here, Your Majesty,” he reported. “His conduct is nothing short of treason. He has disappeared at a vital moment in Your Majesty’s campaign. His League of the Black Wing, which was supposed to provide temporary governance for the conquered territories, is doing nothing. No decrees are posted, no instructions given for the cultivation of crops, no plans made for the harvests. The roads are unpatrolled except by the army; cutthroats, deserters, vagabonds, ruffians of every sort prowl everywhere at will. The common people, so far from productively pursuing their trades, are either taking to the open fields in fear for their lives and their few remaining goods, or else gathering in sullen mobs demanding action from the officers of the occupying forces. The drain on our manpower is staggering. In a campaign of a few months, Your Majesty has more than doubled the size of the territories
A Rescue
“WHERE IS VALDAIMON?” demanded Baron Manfred Culdus, his angry voice echoing down the corridors of the east section of the king’s palace in Hamblen. Anger flashed from his dark eyes as he clanked along the hallway, throwing open one door, then another, in his personal search for the author of his discontents. Nor was Culdus’s anger a thing to be taken lightly. It was not the evil, chaotic rage of a creature like Valdaimon, nor the impotent, decadent rage of a besotted youth like King Ruprecht, but the cold, efficient anger of a professional soldier. All the court of Heilesheim knew that when Culdus was angry, there would be efficient, ruthless corrective action.
Unlike most of the court, Culdus, general in chief of the army of Heilesheim, designer of the military system that had borne such great fruits in the conquest of Dunsford, Argolia, and now the Duchies in the Land Between the Rivers, knew full well that he could take efficient action only at the pleasure of the king. And the king’s pleasure, more often than not, was guided by that stinking pustule Valdaimon, with his foul black arts, his zombies and ghouls, and now his damnable League of the Black Wing, which was supposed to be providing political consolidation of all the recent conquests.
“Where is Valdaimon?” Culdus bellowed again, into the empty halls. In the various rooms that occupied this section of the palace, the servants cringed at the sound of Culdus’s voice. No one knew where Valdaimon was.
Culdus knew that no one knew, and that only made him angrier still. His massive form strode back down the hallway the way he had come, his impressive six feet and three inches of height so great that he had to duck his head when passing through the lower archways.
Ten thousand devils drag that wizard in pieces to their separate hells, Culdus thought, as he stomped back to the central section of the palace where the king awaited him. This kind of thing was just like him. In mid-campaign, when the army was winning victory after victory, Valdaimon had disappeared. Normally, Culdus would have been grateful to him for taking his perpetual stench out of the way. But not now, when he was needed. So needed, in fact, by the dissipated king that Ruprecht demanded to be brought back to the capital, to the comforts and safety of his own palace, until the wizard was found. Culdus had no choice but to follow, leaving the army in the capable hands of the Legion commanders, but leaving undone much of the work needed for planning the next stages in the conquest of the Holy Alliance.
Culdus stormed into the royal presence. With Valdaimon absent, he could be much bolder with the king than he would ever dare when his archrival was on hand. The tall, thin, pale youth lounged on his high throne, his white blouse open rakishly in front to tempt the household serving girls. The king’s gangly legs were propped over the sides of the throne. But fear showed in the king’s eyes, and Culdus decided to make good use of that fear.
“Valdaimon is not here, Your Majesty,” he reported. “His conduct is nothing short of treason. He has disappeared at a vital moment in Your Majesty’s campaign. His League of the Black Wing, which was supposed to provide temporary governance for the conquered territories, is doing nothing. No decrees are posted, no instructions given for the cultivation of crops, no plans made for the harvests. The roads are unpatrolled except by the army; cutthroats, deserters, vagabonds, ruffians of every sort prowl everywhere at will. The common people, so far from productively pursuing their trades, are either taking to the open fields in fear for their lives and their few remaining goods, or else gathering in sullen mobs demanding action from the officers of the occupying forces. The drain on our manpower is staggering. In a campaign of a few months, Your Majesty has more than doubled the size of the territories
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