Spirit Blade: Book III of the Dragon Mage Trilogy by Carey Scheppner Page B

had to have the ogres on board first, because otherwise they would regard the minotaurs as a threat encroaching on their territory. They would surely come to blows unless they had a common goal.
    The warlock sighed and looked up into the sky. It was a dying shade of red as the sun faded, giving way to the moon and stars. From above was where this war would be decided. Whoever could get the aid of those infernal dragons would have the winning hand. He knew the humans were trying just as hard as he to control them. Whether they became allies or served him by some other means, victory would be his. He would gladly offer up his army as an offering to them for his victory. They could feast on all the combatants from both sides for all he cared. Too bad they didn’t like the taste of orcs and goblins.
    A servant came out of the tent to contact the warlock. It was a creature half orc and half goblin. It had all the physical characteristics of an orc but the mind and attitude of a cowardly goblin. “Sir, the commanders are waiting.”
    The warlock turned to him with a scowl. “I know that! I’ll be there when I’m ready!”
    “But - what should I tell them, Sir?” asked the servant fearfully.
    “I’ll be right there,” snapped the warlock, and waved him away.
    “Yes, Sir,” answered the servant, who quickly disappeared back into the tent.
    The warlock waited a few more minutes and then followed.
    The tent was large and was sectioned off in several places. The front portion was fairly wide and had a table adorned with a map of the region. Seated around the table were various commanders of the forces in the valley below. There were four lizardmen commanders, three orc commanders, two goblin commanders, and one human mercenary commander. They all looked up as the warlock entered. To them he appeared large and intimidating. He was a good six and a half feet tall, with wide shoulders and muscular limbs. His facial features were rugged, with a long, pinched nose, an ugly scar on his right cheek, and eyes that were deep and black. His mouth was drawn in a scowl that left creases on his face which enhanced his dour expression. He had a black mustache and goatee, which he often stroked when deep in thought. His commanders knew better than to interrupt him when he did this.
    The warlock looked around the torch-lit room and waited as each commander saluted him. Then he sat at the table’s head and folded his hands on the table.
    “So, gentlemen,” he began, “what is the latest report?”
    “The squabbles among my forces have subsided,” said one orc. He wiped his hand across his mouth as some spittle escaped his deformed face. He had the wide mouth of an orc, and his two bottom fangs pointed up at an angle, but his face hung at one side, evidence of an old battle scar. “The magical rings we recovered have been distributed by lot. Those who have one in their possession will keep them as long as they live, and are banned from acquiring more.”
    “Good,” said the warlock. He looked at the others. “Has this worked for the rest of you?”
    “Yes,” responded the commanders in unison.
    “Good,” repeated the warlock. “We will use this method after each battle.”
    “I still think the higher-ranking commanders should be entitled to one outright,” objected a goblin commander. He was particularly dark green for a goblin, and his pointed ears protruded from a shiny brass helmet undoubtedly acquired from the latest skirmish. The warlock found it odd that the creature could find a helmet that actually fit its tiny head.
    “The lot determines who will own one,” stated the warlock sternly. “You have to lead by example.”
    The goblin looked down but said nothing further.
    “Has anyone discovered an easier way to identify magical ring wearers?” asked the warlock.
    “We are still working on that,” said a lizardman commander. “We hope to have found a spell capable of doing that soon.”
    The warlock frowned.