Into the Abyss (The Nightslayer Trilogy, Part 2) - Chapter Five

Tymothe Vabarn, Baron of Blanchart, stood at the window of his chamber in the castle of Valewind and watched the men train in the courtyard. Not all of the men he saw were Telvan – some bore the almost ghostly pallor that marked the people of Orogrod, while others had the slanted eyes of Velestar, or the darker skin tones of lands further to the south – but they all seemed to be doing a remarkable job of working together, of putting aside any differences they may have once had and recognizing each other as people striving toward the same goal. Tymothe found the sight of such union disturbing – no duke, baron, or king in the last five hundred years had ever succeeded at inspiring such a thing, but now, after only a few short weeks, Garrold Hilstren, a man who wouldn't be in the position he was except through unhappy chance, had. His lands should be mine! Those troops should be mine!

Fifty years ago, Duke Paulus Vilar had, along with almost half the population of Telvany, succumbed to the plague known as the Red Death. At the time, there had been no one of direct lineage to take his place, and it had seemed that Telvany – which, even then, had been the largest and most prosperous duchy in the kingdom – would become a part of the Barony of Blanchart, with Tymothe's father as its new lord. But then the monks of Catharzen – who had always been almost as meddlesome as they were useful, but never enough to be considered a threat – had announced that House Vilar did have an heir. The heir – Garrold's father – hadn't been of direct lineage, which meant that, traditionally, he shouldn't have been allowed to become duke. The monks, however, made such an impassioned petition to the king that the king had acquiesced, naming Garrold's father Duke of Telvany and preventing Tymothe's father from nearly tripling the amount of land he held. The decision had sent Tymothe's father into such a fit of rage that his heart had given out, meaning that Tymothe had been named Baron of Blanchart the same day that Jasen Hilstren – a man whose friendship Tymothe still sometimes missed, despite everything that had eventually come between them – had been given his ducal coronet by the king.

If none of that had happened, however – if Jason Hilstren had never become Duke of Telvany, and Tymothe now held the lands that were Garrold's – would Tymothe be the one building an army, now? Would he be planning a war against the king – a king who, despite his oaths, he'd never really felt any sense of loyalty toward? Tymothe didn't know, and, because he didn't, the scene taking place outside his window became all the more galling. And wouldn't it gall him even more if he decided to swear fealty to Garrold – to the whelp who reminded Tymothe so much of how his father had been at that age that standing in the same room with him was almost more painful than he could bear? Standing there, looking out the window of a castle that, had things gone just a little differently, would have belonged to him, Tymothe found himself wishing he had died years ago, and that all these questions – all these problems – would have been those of his heir.

“That's quite a set of spells that have been placed on you, Baron. And cast by your mother, no less. She must have been a very impressive woman.”

Somehow, the voice didn't surprise Tymothe like he thought it should have. Had he been expecting it, then? It was possible – no one had ever been able to tell him all of the things the spells his mother had put on him before she died were meant to do. Turning away from the window, Tymothe looked at the person who had spoken – if a shadowy figure wreathed in a halo of flame warranted the title of person. Tymothe, despite understanding who – and what – it was that had joined him, found that he wasn't frightened. If anything, he felt resigned. It was almost like he'd been waiting for this meeting for a very long time, and that, now that it had come, he just wanted to get it over and done with.

“Has my time finally come, then?” Tymothe asked.

“That depends,” the Demon Lord said. “If you are wondering if the time has come for you to die, I'm sorry to disappoint you by saying that it hasn't. However, if you are wondering if the moment has come for you to finally seize the glory that has always been denied to you, I can say that, as long as you make the proper choice, it has.”

“The proper choice? And what would that be? All I want, my Lord, is to be free of the concerns of this life, and if you are not here to grant me that, then I ask you to be gone.”

“Do you, now? Baron, do you know how dangerous it is for you to ask that of me? To ask that of your king?”

So he wasn't speaking to just any of the Demon Lords – he was speaking to the Hidden King, himself. Of course, that didn't actually matter, as, when it came to the subject of a person's soul, all of the Demon Lords were said to be equally dangerous. Tymothe found he still didn't care, however – being a thrall to the Hidden King would still mean that the concerns of his mortal life would be behind him. “I understand what could happen, and what probably will,” he said. “It doesn't matter.”

“It should. You see, my Lord, if I decide to make a thrall of your soul, you will never know any rest. Your whole existence will become nothing but pain and suffering. Is that what you truly want, Tymothe? Is it?”

“Perhaps it's what I deserve.”

“And what of your people when you are gone? They will have no one to lead them. Your barony will be no more. When your mother placed those spells on you – particularly the one that has maintained your health and vitality – do you think that's what she wanted? For her son to simply give up, for him to abandon both himself and his people? She wanted glory for you, Tymothe. Glory that can still be yours, should you choose to join me.”

“Join you? As what?”

“It seems that, after a few recent events, my forces in this world need someone to lead them. I want that someone to be you, Tymothe.”

Tymothe frowned. “What of King Lyrian?”

The Hidden King snorted in derision. “Lyrian,” he said. “Why Atraxos ever thought he could be useful is beyond me. Devin Lyrian, Baron, is quite dead, and so are all his heirs. His throne, and all that comes with it, can be yours. And then, together, you and I can unlock everything your mother gave to you before she died.”

“What did she give to me?” Tymothe asked. “All I know is that she cursed me with an unnaturally long life and the inability to produce an heir.”

“Oh, Baron, she gave you more than you can imagine,” the Hidden King said. “Much, much more. Will you join me?”

An image suddenly flashed through Tymothe's mind, an image of him standing before the kneeling form of Garrold Hilstren and looking into his eyes in the moments before beheading him with his sword. Those eyes were the eyes of a broken, fearful man, and Tymothe found himself wanting very much to see them in the flesh. Perhaps, when the time came, he could even make Garrold beg for his life.

Tymothe dropped to one knee before the Hidden King and bowed his head. “My sword and my life are yours, Great One,” he said.

The Hidden King's laughter filled the room.