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

The Baron stared at the Sword Priest named Edrend in disbelief.  “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” he asked.  “That we should retreat before battle, here, has even begun?”
    “Not retreat, my Lord,” Edrend said.  “Redeploy.  Our power base is much more consolidated closer to the Royal District, and troop movement will be easier.  It will also take our enemy’s forces longer to reach us, seeing as how the bridge over the Gorge has been destroyed.  We will have more time to prepare.”
    “I see,” the Baron said.  “And are you taking magic into account at all in regards to these concerns?  I burnt that bridge as a symbol, knowing full well that Garrold would be able to replace it with little effort.  And he’s not alone, anymore.  There are at least two other mages in his camp, now, and, once the battle starts, even more may be revealed.  If we withdraw, no matter how well consolidated things are closer to the Royal District, it will give Garrold’s forces that much more time to prepare.  We need to strike them now, Edrend, while they are still comparatively weak.  Can’t you understand that?”  He narrowed his eyes.  “Or is there something you aren’t telling me?  Some other concern that is, shall we say, more personal in nature?”
    Something flickered in the Sword Priest’s otherwise dead eyes.  “I don’t know what you mean, my Lord.”
    “Oh, don’t you?  Were you not the one who led the last, abortive strike on Telvany?  Were you not the one who was bested by a mage who had only just come into his power?  Tell me, Edrend, does the prospect of facing Garrold a second time really fill you with so much dread?”
    The Sword Priest said nothing.
    “Silence won’t save you, my friend,” the Baron said.  “After all, you already know I can sense your fear.”  The Baron stood and moved to the table beside his chair, taking the pitcher that sat on it and pouring himself a cup of brandy.  “That fear disgusts me, Edrend,” he said as he took a sip.  “And it disgusts me even more that you’re allowing yourself to feel it.  What does someone like you, one of the most senior members of the Order of the Crimson Serpent, have to fear from a boy like Garrold Hilstren?  Tell me, do you know why it was that Garrold bested you the last time you faced him?”
    The Sword Priest still refused to speak.
    The Baron took another sip of brandy, then set his cup very deliberately down on the table.  “It’s because you forgot what you were,” he said.  “You’re a mage, Edrend, and all you could think of using against Garrold was your sword.  A sword he took from you and snapped over his leg like it was a twig.  Do you know what Atraxos would have done to you if he’d returned and learned of your humiliation?”  He stepped from behind the table and moved to stand directly in front of Edrend, using his magic to make himself appear taller than he actually was.  “Do you?”
    “He would have killed me, my Lord,” the Sword Priest answered.
    “Indeed,” the Baron said, “and you know what that means for someone who is already undead.  The suffering would have been an exquisite thing to witness.”
    “Do you intend to kill me, my Lord?” Edrend asked.
    “I should, but I want to give you another chance, instead.”  The Baron grinned, still using his magic so that he could look down at the Sword Priest.  “Besides, killing you wouldn’t allow you to continue wallowing in your humiliation.  I want you to use the memory of that humiliation as your incentive, as the force that will drive you to do better.  And let your fellows share in that memory.  For, if any of you fail me, I promise to make what Atraxos would have done to you look light in comparison.  Do you understand me?”
    “I understand, my Lord.”
    “Excellent.”  The Baron returned to his normal height.  “You may go, now.  We attack in two hours.”
    “Very well, my Lord.”  The Sword Priest saluted and left the Baron’s tent.  
    “Pity,” a sultry, feminine voice suddenly said.  “I was hoping I’d get to see him suffer.”
    The Baron turned.  Standing behind the table where the pitcher of brandy sat was one of the most disturbingly beautiful women the Baron had ever seen.  She was clothed sparingly, with lush, distracting curves, and pale skin.  Hair the same shade of black as the darkness outside hung to her shoulders, and her green eyes glittered under heavy lids.  When the Baron first saw her, he was sure she was shorter than him, but that impression vanished so quickly, with the woman suddenly seeming to match his height, that he wouldn’t have been able to swear to it.  The woman smiled at him–a smile that, at the same time, made his heart skip a beat, and cold sweat to stand out on his forehead–stepping around the table and walking up to him.  As she approached, the Baron saw the reason her eyes glittered–flames danced in each of the woman’s pupils, marking her for the Demon Lord that she was.
    “Edrend may still prove himself a useful tool, Mistress,” the Baron said, his voice suddenly hoarse.  “Only fools discard the tools they might need.”
    “And you’re no fool,” the woman said, still smiling her unnerving smile.  Had she somehow grown taller?  She must have, as the Baron found himself having to look up at her.  “Isn’t that so, Baron?”
    The Baron was too afraid to answer.  The woman’s smile grew teasing, and she reached out to trace a finger down the side of the Baron’s face.  It was all the Baron could do to keep from shivering at her touch, and his trousers had suddenly grown uncomfortably tight.
    “Wise of you not to answer,” the woman said.  “Though you need have no fear of me.  So long as you don’t . . . disappoint me.”
    “As I swore to the Great One, so I swear to you, Mistress.”
    “Of course,” the woman–who had to have been Hel, the Queen of Demons and ruler of the Underworld–said.  She stroked the Baron’s face, again.  “Of course.”  She turned away from him and sauntered back to the table, pouring herself some of the brandy.  Facing the Baron, again, she took a sip and said, “You’ll be pleased to know I’ve come to help you.  And to know you need not worry about the Nightslayer appearing to spoil things.”
    The Baron was relieved by the news.  A part of him had been afraid that, for his first battle as their new Necromancer, the Demon Lords would leave him to carry the fight on his own, a test to see how well he would do, and whether or not he would survive.  And then there had been the problem of the Nightslayer, who the Baron well knew had returned from wherever he had gone to.  The Nightslayer–who, until the Baron had been approached by the Hidden King, had been nothing more to him than the subject of a children’s game–frightened him, and seemed to have no small effect on the Demon Lords, either.  To hear the that the Nightslayer wouldn’t be coming for this particular battle made the Baron feel a little better, though it did leave him curious.  “How did you accomplish that?” he asked Hel.
    Hel smiled again, taking another sip of brandy.  “I’ve sent some of my children to waylay him.  It’s likely they won’t survive the effort, but that hardly matters if it keeps the Nightslayer from getting here and having an effect on a battle that will be largely one-sided without him.”  She sipped, again, then raised her cup a second time and downed the rest of her brandy in a large gulp.  Replacing the cup on the table, she went on.  “Oh, and about the help I promised you.  It’s already been deployed.  Which, I’m afraid, moves the time-table for your attack up a bit.”  Her smile turned teasing, again.  “Sorry about that.  I abhor waiting unnecessarily, though.”
    The Baron thought he had a good idea what sort of “help” Hel had deployed.  More of her children–monsters she could summon at will from some shadow realm only she seemed to know about, and that only she had any sort of control over.  Legend said Hel’s children could only be destroyed by the most powerful of magics, and that, in only the span of minutes, they could rip a small army to shreds.  The Baron returned Hel’s smile, his previous unease at her presence now all but forgotten about.  “As do I, Mistress,” he said.  “As do I.”