The Divided Knight - Chapter Twelve

Garrold Hilstren, Duke of Telvany, could not believe what he had just finished reading. He looked up from the scroll he held in his hands and stared at the courier who had delivered it in disbelief. “Were you aware of what this said before delivering it to me?” he asked.

“Beyond it being a decree from the King, himself, no, Your Grace,” the courier said. When he spoke, it was in a voice that Garrold found curiously flat. “Do you have any response for His Majesty?”

Did he have a response? Garrold had responses aplenty, none of them flattering, and none he wanted delivered by the slack-featured, lifeless-eyed lackwit who stood before him. “None, sir,” he said, letting go of one end of the scroll and allowing it to roll back up.

“None, Your Grace?”

“None! Gods Above, man, are you deaf?”

“No, Your Grace.”

“Then get out of my sight.”

The courier gave a slight bow, turned, and left the study. Once he was alone – aside from the guards, who stood to either side of the study's thick, oaken door, and who were always there whether Garrold wanted them to be or not – Garrold went over to the hearth and tossed the scroll into the fire, watching it blacken and burn as his disbelief at what he'd read turned slowly into outright anger. How could Lyrian order such a thing? Garrold pounded a fist against the mantelpiece. How?

There was a soft knock on the study's door. There was only one person Garrold knew who could knock that softly on the study door and still make his knock heard, and it didn't surprise him at all that the man had come calling as soon as the courier had gone. “Enter!” Garrold called, turning away from the hearth.

When Garrold said “enter”, it did not mean that the person wanting admittance could open the study door themselves and step inside. The only way the study door could be opened from the outside was with a battering ram, which meant that, when the Duke of Telvany said someone could come in, the guards had leave to open the door and allow the caller entry. It was a cumbersome system that Garrold despised – being in his study with the door closed reminded him, sometimes, of being a prisoner in a dungeon cell – but the only way he could have it changed was by summoning a mage who could undo the spell that prevented the door from being opened from the outside. Garrold didn't like mages, however – they frightened him, to be perfectly honest – and he wouldn't summon one unless he absolutely had to.

Since the guard on the left side of the door had been the one to open the door for the courier – both when he'd come in, and when he'd left – it was the one on the right side who opened it, now. It amused Garrold that they took turns like that, and he reminded himself to learn the guards' names at some point – just as he'd reminded himself every day for the last fifteen years.

“Still safe and sound in here, Garrold?” the brown-robed monk said as he stepped in through the open door, flashing a sardonic smile that, along with his familiar use of Garrold's name, was altogether inappropriate when addressing the Duke of Telvany.

“Safe from everything but pests,” Garrold said, unable to keep himself from smiling.

The monk raised his all but non-existent eyebrows. “Pests? I hope you don't count me among that lot.”

Garrold chuckled. “Hardly.” He grew more serious. “Wilem, I'm sure you're already aware of this, but we have a problem.”

Wilem's expression betrayed nothing as he moved to one of the two chairs before the hearth and sat down. He stared into the fire for a moment, then looked over at Garrold. “The news from the courier was that bad, eh?”

Garrold sat in the remaining chair. “Very. The King has issued a decree declaring the Order of Catharzen anathema throughout the realm. All monks and clerics are to be rounded up and brought to the palace to face the King's justice. And we both know what that means.”

Wilem nodded, looking again at the flames that flickered in the hearth. “Execution,” he said, voice quiet. “Just like the Conclave.”

Garrold frowned. “The Conclave? What do you mean?”

Wilem gave a mirthless laugh. “I'm not surprised you haven't heard. It's very hard for news to reach you when you're locked up in this impenetrable study of yours.” He looked at Garrold. “Garrold, all the members of the Conclave were executed more than a month ago. The King has tried to keep it quiet, but we monks have ways of learning things others want hidden.”

“Every one of the mages is dead? Lyrian did that?”

“Not Lyrian. The ones pulling Lyrian's strings. The Order of the Crimson Serpent.”

“But they've been gone four hundred years!”

“Not gone, Garrold. Sealed away. And now they've been let loose. There are dark suspicions amongst my brothers and sisters about who leads them.” Wilem paused, and Garrold saw the fear in his eyes. “We think it might be Atraxos the Black, himself.”

“That can't be,” Garrold said. “Wilem, he's been gone even longer than the Order of the Crimson Serpent. He's been gone for thousands of years.”

“We of the Order of Catharzen used to think the same, but we should have known better. Atraxos is the Order of the Crimson Serpent. It would never have survived without his influence. All this time, he's been at its head, leading them by possessing one vessel after another. Garrold, if it really is him leading it, if Atraxos the Black has found his way back into the world, he has already taken the first step in eliminating the forces that could have stood against him. And if he succeeds in destroying the Order of Catharzen, the world will be laid bare at his feet. We cannot and must not allow that to happen.”

For a long time, the only sound in the study was the snapping and popping of the fire. Garrold had never wanted to be Duke of Telvany, and he remembered his father telling him the same, once, cursing the Red Death and the political situation it had created in its aftermath which had led to the Hilstrens' accession of the title. The Hilstrens were supposed to be scholars and explorers. They were not meant to be leaders. And yet here I am, leader of the oldest, largest, and most powerful duchy in all of Voranar. And now I have to help save the world. “You know, Wilem,” Garrold said, at last, “it's a good thing you're my brother.”

Wilem smiled. “Why is that?”

“If you weren't, if you were just another monk, and I didn't have a personal stake in trying to keep you alive, I'd probably be packing my bags, right now. Us Hilstrens are not cut out for saving the world.”

“I'm not so sure about that, Garrold. We weren't supposed to be cut out for being dukes, either, and Father did a fine job of that for thirty years. Just as you have for the last fifteen.”

Garrold snorted. “I'm not that good. If I were, don't you think I'd actually remember to ask my guards their names?”

“Their names are Stevan and Robert,” Wilem said. “And they love their Duke.”

Garrold turned his head to look at the door. The guards were looking back at him, but they looked away the moment he noticed. Gods Above, are their cheeks flushing? Garrold looked back at Wilem. “Maybe I ought to raise their pay.”

“The Duke's personal guards are unpaid, Garrold.”

“What? How come Father never did anything about that?”

“The guards wouldn't let him. They found the offer insulting.”

“Stevan! Robert! Get over here!”

The guards were there so fast it was almost like they teleported across the room. Garrold looked from one to the other – their expressions were as unreadable as always, and they stared straight ahead, right at the wall above the mantelpiece – then said, “Would you two be terribly offended if I offered to pay you?”

They glanced at him, then looked back at the wall. Neither spoke.

“This is a decree from you Duke,” Garrold said. “You are each to accept a weekly stipend of twenty gold pieces, to paid out of my personal coffers. If you refuse, you will be dismissed from your services to me, and replacements will be found. Do you understand?”

“Twenty, Garrold?” Wilem said. “That's more than the regular soldiers even get.”

“Yes, but Stevan and Robert, here, aren't regular soldiers. So, men, what do you say? Will you obey the decree of your Duke?”

“Your Grace is too kind,” the guard standing nearest to Wilem said.

“But we will accept,” the guard standing nearest to Garrold added.

“Good. Now, return to your posts.”

“At once, Your Grace.”

Once the guards had gone back to standing on either side of the study door, Garrold looked at Wilem and smiled. “Father never thought to do that, did he?”

Wilem laughed. “No,” he said, “he didn't.”

“Now, how do we go about this saving the world thing?”

The Divided Knight - Chapter Eleven

The first night, they camped in the ruin of an ancient watchtower. At first, Thaddeus had been reluctant to make camp there, as the interior walls of the ruin had borne the mark of the Shadow Brotherhood. Even though the Shadow Brotherhood had supposedly been wiped out more than fifty years before, their influence was still felt in the sparsely populated lands of the kingdom's eastern marches, and anything that bore their mark was considered a potential den for thieves and brigands. Zoe had assured him, though, that the ruin was safe, warded against evil in much the same way as the abbey had been – the final battle against the Shadow Brotherhood had apparently been fought there, and, in its aftermath, the clerics who had been there placed the wards, intending for the ruin to stand as a monument to those of the Order who had lost their lives in service to the kingdom.

“There were monks here, then? Not just clerics?” Thaddeus asked as he settled down beside the small fire they had built.

Zoe nodded. “There were. One of the few times the Order's monks stood with regular soldiers in battle.”

“What made them do it? I thought the monks only fought in self-defense?”

“Normally, they do. You know how dedicated to peace the Order is. Back then, though, it seemed like the Shadow Brotherhood was growing more and more powerful. They had already organized all of the outlaw bands in the eastern marches under one banner, and it was thought that, any day, they might try and march against the kingdom in force. The Red Death had only been gone five years, and, even though it had somehow managed to survive, the kingdom still had not fully recovered. The monks chose to stand, here, because they felt that, if they didn't, the king's army alone might not have been enough to defeat the Brotherhood.” She paused, staring into the fire. “As it was, even with the monks' help, the battle was still a very closely run thing.”

Thaddeus looked at her. “You were there, weren't you?”

Zoe's eyes met his. “I was. I helped set the wards around this place, and helped bury the bodies of the monks who died. Thad, does it bother you? How old I am, I mean?”

Thaddeus smiled. “You don't look old, Zoe.”

She frowned. “I know I don't look old! I haven't looked my age in decades. Do you even know how old I am?”

“Older than fifty, if you were here at that battle.” Thaddeus studied her for a time, watching the way the light from the fire played across her features. “You're a lot older than that, aren't you?”

“I'm three hundred years old, Thad.”

Three hundred years old, and she didn't look a day over thirty. Truthfully, Thaddeus wasn't surprised by the revelation – those who could touch magic often lived longer than those who couldn't, and more than one of the mages back at the Conclave had been close to, if not more than, two centuries of age. They looked it, though, Thaddeus thought. “You've always been older than I am, Zoe,” Thaddeus said. “It doesn't bother me in the least.”

“And what about what I am? What I've become?”

“There are worse things to be than a cleric. Yes, the Conclave and the Order of Catharzen may never have seen eye to eye on things, but I only subscribed to that as much as I had to. And, as for what you've become, it surely can't be any worse than what I need to be. In fact, I have a feeling it will help me a great deal in the days to come.”

She was still holding his gaze. “I have that feeling, too,” she said. Then she frowned. “And what do you mean, what you need to be?”

“Well, what happens when I find the Wanderer? The other half of my soul? Something tells me that finding him will mean me becoming something . . . else. Something as new and different as Aylander says you are.”

The two of them were silent for a time. Thaddeus broke out the rations they'd brought – salted pork, bread, and cheese – handing some to Zoe while taking a portion for himself. They drank from their waterskins as they ate, Thaddeus finding it difficult not to drink more than he was supposed to because the meat was so salty. Even though there was clean water to be found in the eastern marches, it was supposed to be scarce, with most water sources said to be so polluted and poisoned that drinking from them brought a lingering, painful death. Hopefully there will be cleaner water in the mountains, and in the lands beyond. If there isn't, this is going to be a pretty short trip.

Have faith, friend Thaddeus, Aylander said, speaking for the first time that day. Eltara can't be as barren as we've been led to believe all these years.

Thaddeus glanced at his sword, which he'd laid on the ground next to him. What makes you so sure?

Nothing, Aylander said. But I do have faith.

Thaddeus grunted a laugh, shaking his head and taking another sip from his waterskin. Gods Above, the pork was salty.

“What did he say just now?” Zoe asked as she chewed. “Aylander?”

“He's admonishing me for a lack of faith,” Thaddeus said.

Zoe raised an eyebrow. “In what?”

“In the fact we'll be able to find clean water on the other side of the mountains.”

“Oh. Well, I'm sure we will be. Eltara can't be as barren as we've been led to believe all these years.”

Thaddeus gave her a sour look. “Have you two been talking behind my back, again?”

Zoe's eyes glittered with amusement. She took a swallow – a swallow, not a sip – from her waterskin and said, “I haven't a clue what you mean, Sir Knight.”

“Bah!”

They ate the rest of their meal in silence, then laid down beside the fire and went to sleep.

“The Eltaran's wrong, you know. She isn't really something new.”

The voice woke Thaddeus from a dead sleep. Opening his eyes with a start, he reached above his head for his sword and touched nothing but bare earth. He sat up, looking across the remnants of the fire to where Zoe should have been. Zoe wasn't there, however – in her place was a bearded man in black, holding Thaddeus's unsheathed sword in his hands and studying it as if looking for defects.

“Who are you?” Thaddeus asked. “Where's Zoe?”

The man didn't look up from the sword. “Two very good questions, but I know of an even better one.” He looked up, and when he met Thaddeus's gaze, Thaddeus saw his eyes glowed blue. “How can there be light, here, if the fire has died?”

“Solanas?”

The bearded man smiled, and, though the face he wore was much younger than that of the spirit who had set Thaddeus on his journey, Thaddeus relaxed when he saw how familiar the expression was. “Yes, it's me,” the man said. “Or, rather, a piece of me, woven into your sword.”

“One of the enchantments Zoe couldn't identify?”

Solanas nodded. “She's a very perceptive one. Horace chose well when he decided she should succeed him as Abbott.” He sheathed the sword and handed it back to Thaddeus, who set it on the ground beside him. “Do you remember finding that sword, Thaddeus?”

Thaddeus frowned. “Of course I do. It was in the armory, just like you said it would be.”

Solanas studied him in silence for a moment. “How do you think I came to have that sword? True, it is my sword – or was, when I was still alive – but, after I died, it was lost. No one knew where it was, or even where to look. And then, more than two thousand years later, a sixteen year-old boy comes to the Royal Palace of the Kingdom of Voranar with the sword strapped to his back just like it belonged there.” He smiled, again. “You don't remember any of that, do you?”

Thaddeus said nothing. He had been the one who found the sword? How could that be possible?

“Not even I know how you found it, or where. But, when you arrived at the palace, the sword drew me to you. That was the first time you met me, the only other time before I freed you from the dungeon. You should not have remembered that meeting. The spell I placed on you should have wiped it from your mind completely. But, even then, I was sure you would remember at least some of it – if your finding the sword hadn't been proof enough, I could sense how different you were, though it wasn't until later that I learned the truth about your heritage, and your connection to the Wanderer.” Solanas paused, looking down at the remnants of the fire. As he stared, the fire suddenly flared back to life, which caused the false light that had surrounded them, before – the light of Thaddeus's dream – to fade. “Thaddeus, have you ever heard tell of something called the Nightslayer?”

“I think I heard some children mention it, once,” Thaddeus said. “It was part of a game they were playing. The Nightslayer was supposed to be someone who could slay the Bogeyman, though none of the children wanted to be him. Being the Nightslayer was supposed to be like being cursed, and the object of the game was to avoid being tagged. If you were tagged, you became the Nightslayer, and you were supposed to lie down and play dead while the other children threw flowers – which were really dandelions – on you.”

Solanas chuckled. “You think you heard some children mention it, and yet you remember so many other details about their game.”

Thaddeus shrugged. “I was bored, one day, and saw them playing in the courtyard.” He paused, staring into the fire. “Made me wish I had had friends to play games like that with when I was growing up.”

“I'm sorry you never had much a childhood, Thaddeus,” Solanas said.

“Wasn't your fault. Besides, it was all for my own good, right?”

“Indeed.”

“Why did you ask me about the Nightslayer?” Thaddeus asked. “And what did you mean about Zoe not being something new?”

“I met someone like Zoe once,” Solanas said. “Or, at least, someone like what I expect Zoe will become. As for the Nightslayer, I asked you about it because I think it might be important to your larger quest. I can't tell you why, or how, because I don't know, myself. All I can tell you is that the Nightslayer is no myth, no mere subject of a children's game. Based on what I was able to learn before I died, I think there may have even been more than one of them, when they still existed.” He gazed into the fire, his voice growing quiet. “I sometimes think, if things had turned out differently, if certain things hadn't been lost to the depths of time, I might even have been one of them.”

“The Nightslayers were demon hunters, weren't they?” Thaddeus asked, not certain what had prompted him to ask the question.

Solanas gave him a sharp look before answering, his eyes narrowing. “I think so, yes. And I don't think they all came from this world. They came from many, and were of many different races.”

“None of them were Eltaran, though.” It was a statement, not a question, and, again, Thaddeus had no idea what prompted him to say it.

“How do you know that, Thaddeus?”

“I don't know,” Thaddeus said. He frowned. “Somehow, I just do. It's like I've always known.”

Solanas looked at him for a long time, his expression solemn. Then he smiled. “You always seem to find ways to surprise me, Thaddeus.” The fire was beginning to die, again, and darkness was creeping in from all sides. “Our time, here, for now, is nearly over. We will talk again, at least once more before the end. Until then, I wish you the best of fortune, Thaddeus. Goodbye.”

“Wait!”

“Thaddeus?” Zoe asked. “What's wrong?”

Thaddeus was laying on his back, staring up through the ruined watchtower at the sky. He blinked, then sat up, looking at Zoe. “Nothing,” he said. “Just a dream.”

Zoe looked at him for a moment, frowning in concern, then said, “Well, at least I don't have to wake you. We need to get going.”

They gathered up their things and stepped outside. As soon as they were outside, though, Zoe stopped, holding up her hand, her head tilted to one side as if listening for something.

“What is it?” Thaddeus asked.

“Shh!”

I can sense it, as well, Aylander said. Something changed during the night.

Like when we sensed Atraxos's return? Thaddeus asked.

No, this is different. More immediate. Closer.

“The wards are gone!” Zoe said, dashing off around the southern edge of the watchtower.

Thaddeus hurried after her. Behind the watchtower, on the southeastern side, was a patch of ground that looked as if the earth had been thrown up and out from beneath. It was clear that, before whatever had happened, this area had been home to a number of graves. Zoe stood looking at it, her eyes wide. “Gods Above, no,” she whispered. “No!”

Atraxos has raised the first Abominations, Aylander said. His power is growing, just as it did before the Great Mage War. From here on, our path becomes much more perilous.

The Divided Knight - Chapter Ten

Atraxos ran his fingers – it was still difficult for him to think of them as his, even though the body which had belonged to Garris Galgana was not the first body that had played host to Atraxos's essence in the long years since his original body had been slain – uneasily over the surface of the book. This book's title, translated from Eltaran into the mongrel form of Common that was spoken, these days, was The Book of Unfathomed Darkness. It had been in Atraxos's possession for more than three millennia, and, even now, even after understanding so much of what power the book could grant him, and what powers it had in its own right, he still found it disturbing. Perhaps what disturbed him about it was the fact that no mortal hand had played a part in the book's creation – it had been crafted in the Sundered Halls by the Demon Lords, its final touches placed on it by the Hidden King, himself – or perhaps it was how it had served as Atraxos's prison for four hundred years. He had been aware of every tortuous moment of those four hundred years, his only solace being that the book had slowly corrupted those who guarded it. When the time had finally come for him to escape, when he had at last been found by Galgana and his followers, Atraxos had taken much satisfaction in having soldiers who were already primed to accept his commands.

If the book had been encountered by someone who knew nothing about it, and if that someone had no way of sensing the book's arcane origins, there would have been nothing about it to make it look or feel out of the ordinary in any way. Its cover was unadorned, with the texture of well-weathered leather, and, if viewed in normal lighting, the edges of its pages would have looked yellowed with age. A metal hasp held the book closed. The hasp could be unlocked with a twist of the knob set into it, and Atraxos let his fingers linger over it, both wanting and not wanting to twist at the same time. Why do I hesitate? he wondered. The escaped knight has forced my hand, and I know what I must do.

There was no turning back once Atraxos opened the book, however. Once opened, the power of the book would be laid bare, and, for only the second time in his existence, Atraxos would no longer be in control. Long ago, he had sworn to himself that he would only open the book, again, in the direst of need. Was his need that dire, now? Was one escaped knight, who, though aided by magical means, had no magical ability of his own, worth becoming vassal to the Demon Lords over? Haven't I always been their vassal, though? Aren't all Necromancers, in one way or another, servants to the Lords of the Sundered Halls?

Atraxos twisted the knob. An electric shock snapped at his fingers, making him jerk them away, and the hasp fell open. As soon as the hasp was open, the book opened, as well, and Atraxos's study, which had only been lit, before, by the flickering light of a few candles, was flooded with a blood-red glow. The glow came from the middle of the open book, and Atraxos found himself unable to look away from it. At first – just as he had the last time he'd opened the book, in those days now long since lost – he tried to fight it, gripping the edge of his desk as he tried to pull his head backward. Gradually, however, his struggles began to lessen, the glow growing welcoming, like that of a campfire on a cold winter's night. There was nothing about that glow to be frightened of. And, in the place where it came from, there were friends – friends who had been waiting for him for a long, long time. I'm coming! he thought, and then, in the blink of an eye, Atraxos was elsewhere.

The overpowering stench of sulfur and blood told Atraxos all he needed to know about where he was. Opening his eyes and looking around, he found himself in a small room with walls of stone. A dungeon cell, he thought. Why put me in here? Looking down at himself, Atraxos saw he was dressed in beggars rags, which also made no sense – the last time he had visited the Sundered Halls, he'd been draped in a robe the color of midnight, a crimson serpent spewing fire sewn onto its front.

Atraxos turned as the door to his cell was unlocked and pulled open. A skeleton with burning eye sockets, wearing a scorched steel breastplate and carrying a wicked looking halberd, stood in the doorway looking in on him. Though the skeleton said nothing, Atraxos understood it had come to collect him, but he had no intention of going with it without at least trying to figure out what was going on.

“What is the meaning of this?” Atraxos asked, pleased that the voice he spoke in was his original one, and not that of Garris Galgana. “Why dress me in rags and throw me in the dungeon like some kind of criminal?”

The skeleton said nothing, and it did not move. The fire burning in its eye sockets seemed to grow brighter, however, and Atraxos thought he could feel its heat. Incensed, Atraxos readied a spell that, armor or not, would blast the skeleton apart. However, just at the moment he was about to cast it, he realized something that made his blood run cold – he could feel no magic here. That should not have been, could not have been. Magic was everywhere, in everything, and someone with an arcane talent as strong as Atraxos's should have sensed it at all times, even in a place like the Sundered Halls. What had happened to him?

Atraxos sagged in defeat. He looked at the skeleton in the doorway a moment longer, then let it lead him out of the cell. The skeleton wasn't alone – a second, dressed and armed in the same manner as the first, and possessing the same burning eye sockets, joined them once Atraxos was outside the cell, falling in behind him as they walked. The skeletons led him through the cavernous halls of an enormous palace – based on its size, along with the finery and opulence that surrounded them as they walked, it had to be the palace of the Hidden King, himself, a thought which gave Atraxos no small amount of pause – until, at last, they came to a high-ceilinged room dominated by a throne made of bone.

A human-shaped figure, dressed all in black, its face silhouetted by a nimbus of flickering flames that seemed to emerge directly from its shoulders, sat on the throne. Though he had never been in the presence of the Hidden King, before, Atraxos knew that was who the figure was, and the terror that knowledge spawned inside of him subsumed all confusion over why he did not look like an Eltaran. From his throne, the Hidden King looked down on Atraxos, and, though he couldn't see it clearly because of the flames, Atraxos was sure the smile that graced the Demon Lord's lips was a cruel one.

“Atraxos Solkanan,” the Hidden King said, his voice clearly audible even though it was little more than a menacing whisper. “It has been a long time since you have visited these Halls. Millennia, in your reckoning, has it not?”

Atraxos was too terrified to speak. He was too terrified to even think.

The Hidden King chuckled. “You fear me. You fear all my kind. And yet, you use our power to do your will. If you are not afraid of our power, why are you afraid of us?”

Atraxos licked his lips. He had to say something. If he didn't, the Demon Lord was sure to destroy him. “I . . . I do not fear, Great One.”

“Ah, at last the Eltaran speaks, even if it is to lie. Tell me, Atraxos, why did you turn your back on us? Did we not bestow upon you all that was promised?”

“You . . . you gave me great power, indeed, High One. And I never intended to forget the debt I owed to you and yours. I always intended on calling upon you, again.”

“Did you?” Atraxos could sense the Hidden King narrowing his eyes. “Did you, indeed?” The Hidden King sat back in his throne. “You spoke of the debt you owe. Are you prepared to repay it? Are you prepared to unleash us on the world? To set us free, at last?”

Atraxos wasn't prepared. This was why he had avoided opening the book for so long. Even he, a Necromancer who commanded dark powers and sought only to dominate others, had never wanted to see the Demon Lords let loose upon the land. They would ravage it in ways he never could, and, once they were free, there was no one who could stand against them. The Council of Light had perished eons ago, and Solanas had been the last mage who could have named himself a Nightslayer. I opened the book, Atraxos thought. But it will not only be me who pays the price.

“What if I say no?” Atraxos asked.

“Then you will die,” the Hidden King said. “By rights, I should have had you killed, already. Killed for turning your back on us and betraying us.” He paused, and Atraxos knew he was smiling his cruel smile, again. “But I decided to be merciful, instead, and give you this one last chance to redeem yourself.” He leaned forward, and his tone grew conspiratorial. “And, if you do say yes, the reward will be substantial. I promise you that.”

“What . . . what reward?”

“I will make you one of us.”

One of them? Suddenly, Atraxos's felt his lust for power stir within him, felt as it pushed his terror at standing before the Hidden King's throne aside. Before, when he'd been told what the cost of the deal he struck with the Demon Lords would be, nothing had been said about him becoming one of them. He had always assumed that, when the time came for him to pay, he would suffer alongside everyone else.

“You would do that, Great One?” Atraxos asked. “Truly?”

“I would,” the Hidden King said. “All you need do is say yes.”

“Yes, then,” Atraxos said. “Yes!”

The Hidden King threw back his head and laughed.