prison.
Now the hall was restored by weeks of human and zombie slave labour. The entry way was a long sloping passage from the victory plaza in the centre of Morwencairn. It opened into a great arched hall, far larger than any temple, even those seen in the ruins of the Monar Empire in the Eastern lands. There was something of that civilisation’s architecture and skill in the columns carved out of living rock and the mosaics that adorned floor and walls.
However, the scenes picked o ut in tiny fragments of stone were anything but civilised. They depicted images of torture and despair more in keeping with a fire-breathing prelate’s warnings of hell, but Haselrig knew these were no threats for the life here after. These were solemn promises by Maelgrum of what had been and what would be again. The antiquary spotted a sequence of pictures on the floor, of ugly winged creatures, half-women half-birds, lifting men high into the sky and dropping them onto rocks. He had, with his own eyes, seen a dozen such creatures taking hunks of meat and bags of gold from his master’s hand before setting off on just such a mission as the mosaic showed.
Udecht stumbled and Haselrig yanked at the chain. They must not keep the Master waiting. Maelgrum sat on his carven stone throne on the raised dais at the far end of the hall. He was utterly still. Only the red glow in his empty eye sockets and the trails of condensing vapour from his ragged robes and blackened paper thin skin gave any clue as to his mood or thoughts.
Haselrig groaned to see those in attendance on the undead wizard. To his right stood Rondol the ruddy bearded sorcerer in chief. To his left stood Marwella the toothless crone who led the necromancers in their marshalling of the legion of undead. There was a time when the antiquary would have been the one stood at Maelgrum’s right hand, as guardian and repository of all the intelligence and information the undead wizard needed in preparing for his return to enslave the Salved. Haselrig gave the chain another tug and the limping Bishop staggered again.
They were not the firs t brought to audience with the Master. A man lay prostrate on the floor before Maelgrum, richly dressed yet trembling. Haselrig halted and held back Udecht when the Bishop drew level. It was not wise to intrude on the Master’s business until invited to do so.
“Do you promissse then to sssserve me and no othersss?” Maelgrum was asking of the supplicant.
“Yes, your Highness,” the man stammered.
“Insolent bastard ,” Rondol interrupted. A crack of lightning arced across the man’s back as the sorcerer added a conjured whip to his words of rebuke. “To speak to the Master in the style of the servants of the traitor Eadran. You address the Lord Maelgrum as Master or your Eminence!”
Haselrig noted the puddle of liquid spreading out from between the prone man’s legs.
“A thousand pardon’s Master Eminence er… Your Eminence, I meant no offence,” the words spilled out incontinently.
“Very well then, you ssshall ssserve. I grant you the freehold of Proginnot. Marwella will ensssure you know what your fiefdom isss required to sssupply to usss in men, women, children and materialsss. Provided you meet our requisssitionsss, the ressst of the people and property of Proginnot are yoursss to do with entirely asss you will. Ssserve me well and great richesss may yet accrue to you.”
“What if the people cannot provide…”
He never finished the question. Rondol was ready to strike again but Maelgrum raised a blackened bony finger and the sorcerer stalled his spell. The Lich’s red eyes were flaring, and the cold mist around his body thickened. “If? Cannot?” Maelgrum played with the words. “Thessse are not termsss a loyal ssservant of Maelgrum would ussse. Your tasssk isss to make them provide. You will find that knowing you act in my name isss a great
Now the hall was restored by weeks of human and zombie slave labour. The entry way was a long sloping passage from the victory plaza in the centre of Morwencairn. It opened into a great arched hall, far larger than any temple, even those seen in the ruins of the Monar Empire in the Eastern lands. There was something of that civilisation’s architecture and skill in the columns carved out of living rock and the mosaics that adorned floor and walls.
However, the scenes picked o ut in tiny fragments of stone were anything but civilised. They depicted images of torture and despair more in keeping with a fire-breathing prelate’s warnings of hell, but Haselrig knew these were no threats for the life here after. These were solemn promises by Maelgrum of what had been and what would be again. The antiquary spotted a sequence of pictures on the floor, of ugly winged creatures, half-women half-birds, lifting men high into the sky and dropping them onto rocks. He had, with his own eyes, seen a dozen such creatures taking hunks of meat and bags of gold from his master’s hand before setting off on just such a mission as the mosaic showed.
Udecht stumbled and Haselrig yanked at the chain. They must not keep the Master waiting. Maelgrum sat on his carven stone throne on the raised dais at the far end of the hall. He was utterly still. Only the red glow in his empty eye sockets and the trails of condensing vapour from his ragged robes and blackened paper thin skin gave any clue as to his mood or thoughts.
Haselrig groaned to see those in attendance on the undead wizard. To his right stood Rondol the ruddy bearded sorcerer in chief. To his left stood Marwella the toothless crone who led the necromancers in their marshalling of the legion of undead. There was a time when the antiquary would have been the one stood at Maelgrum’s right hand, as guardian and repository of all the intelligence and information the undead wizard needed in preparing for his return to enslave the Salved. Haselrig gave the chain another tug and the limping Bishop staggered again.
They were not the firs t brought to audience with the Master. A man lay prostrate on the floor before Maelgrum, richly dressed yet trembling. Haselrig halted and held back Udecht when the Bishop drew level. It was not wise to intrude on the Master’s business until invited to do so.
“Do you promissse then to sssserve me and no othersss?” Maelgrum was asking of the supplicant.
“Yes, your Highness,” the man stammered.
“Insolent bastard ,” Rondol interrupted. A crack of lightning arced across the man’s back as the sorcerer added a conjured whip to his words of rebuke. “To speak to the Master in the style of the servants of the traitor Eadran. You address the Lord Maelgrum as Master or your Eminence!”
Haselrig noted the puddle of liquid spreading out from between the prone man’s legs.
“A thousand pardon’s Master Eminence er… Your Eminence, I meant no offence,” the words spilled out incontinently.
“Very well then, you ssshall ssserve. I grant you the freehold of Proginnot. Marwella will ensssure you know what your fiefdom isss required to sssupply to usss in men, women, children and materialsss. Provided you meet our requisssitionsss, the ressst of the people and property of Proginnot are yoursss to do with entirely asss you will. Ssserve me well and great richesss may yet accrue to you.”
“What if the people cannot provide…”
He never finished the question. Rondol was ready to strike again but Maelgrum raised a blackened bony finger and the sorcerer stalled his spell. The Lich’s red eyes were flaring, and the cold mist around his body thickened. “If? Cannot?” Maelgrum played with the words. “Thessse are not termsss a loyal ssservant of Maelgrum would ussse. Your tasssk isss to make them provide. You will find that knowing you act in my name isss a great
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