The Emperor's Command
Emperor Lassan VI was annoyed. If anyone had asked him – which they wouldn't, for fear of their own lives – he would have told them that he was angry, or furious, but he wouldn't have used the term “annoyed”.
He was annoyed, and very much so.
Draogath was returning, and it was only a matter of time before the Binder of Souls walked the earth again. When he had asked his priests just how much time the Empire had before that happened, they had all looked at each other and shrugged.
He didn't have any priests any longer, and out of the five of them, two were decorating the front of the palace with their heads. The other three had gone into hiding, and that was fine with him. He didn't need to kill them all to make the point – simply enough of them that everyone else understood his message.
Lassan VI was no Lassan III, who had wanted only vague generalities and let the Empire slip into disrepair. Nor was he his father, Lassan V, who had been so strict that much of the best talent for administration in the west had ended up at the wrong end of the headman's axe. He knew the value in a good servant, a good priest, and in good council, but he could not be perceived as weak. If those around him would not bother to supply him with the answers he needed, he would find those that would.
From what the Service told him, they had found a man that might be of great use near the coast. An easterner, and a magician, but recent reports indicated that he might possess scraps of the old magic. Such magic was the only thing that had a hope of defeating Draogath, and so Lassan had sent a dozen Servicemen to bring him in.
The last communication from any of those men had come over a week ago, and no one in his palace could tell him anything of use. He didn't see the point in killing those close by for the failures of those father away, and so his annoyance had built and fed upon itself to the point that no one wanted to be around him, even if he was not threatening their life. Lassan knew he was acting childishly, but couldn't help it – if something wasn't done, and soon, there would be no one to stand up to Draogath when the beast arrived, and the Lassan line would end with him, an Emperor ruling over a land of only the dead and tormented.
Thank the gods his father was no longer alive.
The old man had always been critical, and the situation Lassan now faced would have been enough to make the previous Emperor mad with rage. He'd be at his son's elbow constantly, offering foolish advice and demanding brutal killings when his ideas didn't pan out. Lassan VI just needed something to go his way, something to help him save the Empire. As much as it galled him, he couldn't do it alone.
There was a soft knock at his audience chamber door, and he raised his voice. “Enter!” The room had not seen much use in recent days, as even the most foolhardy gave up on trying to ask him for a favor or a moment of his time, so whatever news was being brought must be of some importance.
A servant in brown leathers entered, head bowed.
“What?” Lassan's tone was short. “Make it quick, servant.” He couldn't remember the young man's name – not that it mattered. He would be replaced with someone else within the week, in the hope that at least one of the servants on staff would please him more than another. So far, they all irritated him to the same degree.
“A rider, your Magnificence. One of the twelve you sent out. He returns with another man, an easterner.”
Lassan felt his annoyance vanish, and he smiled down at the young servant. “Bring them in, please,” he said brightly, “and tell your master you have performed well. I will keep you on as my doorman.”
The servant's face creased in a quick smile, and then he dashed out of the room. Moments later, two men were led into his presence, one tall and dark, dressed in the gray of the Service, and the other a short, bearded man in multicolored robes whiich shimmered as he moved. The magician.
Both men knelt, though Lassan saw that the Serviceman had to force the small man to his knees. This one would not roll over easily. Lassan smiled; he enjoyed a challenge.
“Rise,” he said after a long moment, and both stood.
“My Lord,” the magician said with a wide sweep of his hands in front of him, “I -” He cut off at a casual backhand swing from the Serviceman.
“Silence!” The man in gray roared. “You will not speak unless spoken to, and you will address the Emperor as 'your Magnificence'. Do you understand?”
There was an anger in the little man's face, but he nodded.
“Please, gentlemen,” Lassan said broadly, “there is no need for violence. Little magician, what is your name?”
“Fratztrabool, your Magnificence, the magician.” The smaller man did not seem afraid, simply willing to do as asked. Smart, then, to know when he was beaten, but not one to beg on command. Good. He would need such steel if was to fight Draogath.
“Good, good,” he peered down from his chair at the magician. He didn't seem like much, but heroes could come in odd packages, or so his father had told him. “I am given to understand that you posses the old magic?”
There was a pause as the magician considered his response. The little man might not have heard it called such where he came from, but he caught the meaning well enough.
“I...” Fratztrabool hesitated, “there are certain things I can do that others cannot.”
“Perfect!” Lassan exclaimed. “You will be our champion, little magician, against the Binder of Souls, against Draogath himself.” He smiled broadly. “From what I have read of such champions, you will likely not return alive, but you will have the gratitude of an Empire and an Emperor.”
“And if I refuse...your Magnificence?”
Lassan let his smile grow even wider. “Then your friend in gray kills you right now. Choose, magician.”
Fratztrabool bowed his head. “I accept.”
-D
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