Story #198 - Draogath's Day

Draogath's Day

Draogath was having a hell of a day.

One would think that the Binder of Souls would be able to do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted, and that was precisely what Draogath had always done. Each time before, he'd returned to the world of men when his power was strong enough, collecting the souls of those he slaughtered to increase his unholy army. Each time, however, he'd been defeated by a single man wielding the old magic, a single fool who thought to stand against the Binder himself. Faces changed, but the magic and the humiliation remained the same.

He'd decided to do things differently this time.

The under-earth was filled with demons, imps and sprites of various dispositions, some of whom had skills that Draogath was sure would be useful for his conquest. Instead of attacking the world of men alone and doing what he had always done, he would try something the humans called “delegation”. So far, it was proving to be a vast irritation.

“Explain to me why I can't simply crush the east. They're not protected by any form of the old magic,” Draogath grated to the small demon in front of him. Despite the thing's best efforts – Rayuul, it called itself – it couldn't help but flinch at the sound of his voice. A mortal poet living during the time of his last conquest and who was one of the first to have his soul taken described it as “though the very pit of earth were opening wide, ready to devour all ears it touched”. The poet had been largely unskilled, but that line had always resonated with him, and he had no reason to doubt its truth. He spoke, and others trembled.

“The magician, Lord Draogath, Fratztrabool the Magnificent,” Rayuul said calmly. The short, soot-covered demon had a reputation for ruthless efficiency, and had survived for centuries under the watchful and jealous eyes of demons far larger and more powerful than itself. If there was any creature in the under-earth that could help to plan a successful attack on the mortal realm – one that wouldn't end with eventual banishment and imprisonment – it was this one. Still, the thing had a habit of saying the most annoying things.

“The magician!” He roared, and Rayuul took a step back. “He has the barest control over the old magic, and what's more is a continent away. I could destroy the east before the fool knew I had even returned. I'm out of practice, Rayuul. Binding souls is something I only have the chance to do every five centuries or so.”

“I know, my Lord,” Rayuul said gently, “but you must be patient. Every moment you spend in the mortal realm increases the amount of power the magician has available to him, even if he does not know how to use it. You remember Verdan, I trust?”

Draogath scowled, then nodded. Verdan had been fool – a country whelp with no knowledge of the world beyond his farm. Fifteen centuries ago, he had been the only hope for the mortal realm, but so insignificant that Draogath had all but ignored him until the world was covered in flames and skeletal armies roamed the countryside. Though blind chance and fumbling use of the old magic, Verdan had been able to defeat him and send him howling into a poorly-made arcane prison. It was then that he had learned about the balance of magics, and the proportional increase the mortal champion was given the longer Draogath stalked the earth.

“We do not want that happening this time,” Rayuul went on, “so you'll be staying here while we take care of this magician.”

“You?” Draogath was amused. The little demon could not be much of a fighter.

“Well, demons under my command. Sprites too, for distraction. You see, my Lord, our presence in the world also increases the amount of old magic the magician can use, but only by a small amount. Even weeks of our presence equals a day of your time on mortal soil, giving us the ability to plan an appropriate demise for the champion.”

Draogath scowled. The idea of not destroying this fool magician himself did not sit well. Having someone else do it, even at his command, made him feel like a coward, as though the Binder of Souls was too weak to do his own dirty work.

“Once the magician is out of the way, Lord Draogath, there will be nothing to stop you from conquering the world. I realize this is not how you have done things in the past, but that is why you hired me, is it not? To think differently than you would, to plan an attack that the mortals will not expect?” Rayuul spread his hands and cocked his head, and Draogath almost laughed in the little demon's face. The creature was right, of course, but his attempt at wide-eyed innocence was beyond ridiculous.

“You are correct, demon,” he said quietly, managing to only shake the room rather than send chunks of rock tumbling to the floor. Perhaps doing things differently would not be so bad. “But I have a request.”

“Anything, my Lord,” Rayuul said, bowing. “I am at your command.”

“Of course you are.” To emphasize the point, he reached out and took the demon in a firm grip and then lifted him from the tiled stone. He applied just a hint of pressure, enough to remind the fool just who was in charge, and what consequences would follow failure.

“Make sure he suffers, Rayuul,” Draogath grated, “and make sure that those around him see it. Let the mortals know that their master has returned, and let them tremble as their only hope is broken before their eyes. Make him bleed!”

“Yes!” Rayuul cried out, writhing in pain.

Dropping the struggling creature, Draogath moved to the edge of his prison, and the demon skittered away into the darkness, eager to begin its task. The walls were growing thin, thin enough that he could break them if he so chose.

Soon, he thought, soon enough.

- D

Story #191 - The Emperor's Command

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

Story #186 - Fratztrabool the Magnificent

Fratztrabool the Magnificent

Fratztrabool the Magnificent clapped his hands with glee as a log floated from the stack next to him to land on the fire. He'd barely had to think about it that time to get it to work – he was clearly getting better at this.

A sound in the darkness told him that Wudder, his manservant, was returning, hopefully with dinner. He'd purchased the large Targanian two villages ago, and so far the broad-chested beast had proven to be extremely useful. He'd never had a manservant before, but once the masses in the theater had started throwing coins at him to go on with his show, he had decided it was time to take a step up the social ladder. Wudder had been available at a deep discount from his former master, since the hulking man couldn't cook or clean without breaking pots, pans and furniture. Fratztrabool had no interest in having his food cooked by someone else, and had no home to store anything of value, so the Targanian had been a worthwhile purchase.

“Me sorry,” Wudder said as he came back into the firelight, hands empty, “no food.”

“First off all,” Fratztrabool fixed his servant with a cold look, “it's 'I'm sorry', not 'me sorry'. Understand?”

Wudder nodded quickly. This wasn't the first time they'd been over this particular point of pronoun use, and the Targanian always acted as though he understood, but then proceeded to make the same mistakes again and again. Fratztrabool was trying to be reasonable, but his patience was wearing thin. For the moment, however, he limited himself to one comment about grammar and addressed the more important aspect of Wudder's failure.

“Now, on to bigger problems. Why is there no food?”

The bigger man shrugged, and then looked down at his feet. “Sorry. Rabbit too fast. No deer. Birds too small. Sorry.”

Fratztrabool sighed. These woods weren't known for their game, but Wudder had proven a capable hunter in other situations, and he had hoped the same would be true here. If need be, he could always sell the manservant at the next town he came to, but he had grown to like the Targanian's quiet solemnity and his eagerness to please. He wasn't much for speaking with others of his own race or any beyond, but he found Wudder an easy man to talk to, largely because Wudder didn't talk back.

He waved at hand dismissively. “Fine. Sit, and I'll take care of dinner.” Fratztrabool put on a show of being annoyed, but in truth he was eager for another chance to try out his new-found abilities. He'd spent the bulk of his adult life as a two-bit magician, one his mother and father would deny came from their house if pressed. Fratztrabool wasn't his birth-name, but it fit the majesty and grandeur that went with being on the stage, and he had worked hard to learn as much about sleight of hand and misdirection as he had to learn about politics and economics. The first two helped him make a living, and the second set helped him understand the rich men who often came to see his shows. Small knowledge could result in huge compensation for his skills, and he had built up quite the reputation in the magic circuit.

It was a bad gambling debt that had forced him out of the playhouses and onto the streets. Too much money turned out to be just as bad as too little, and several prominent crime families had sworn that he would never work again. He'd ignored their words until men with daggers had begun to show up at his performances, and he was forced to cancel all but the most important of his appearances. Towns, cities, and kings knew he'd been marked out as a debtor, so refused to hire him and put their guests in danger. As a result, he'd been forced to trek across the sea to the gods-forsaken west.

Looking around the small clearing where Wudder had made camp, he frowned. He still hadn't learned the names of any of the cities on this side of the ocean, and he had no idea how the political structure of the Empire truly worked. He'd been able to get jobs – they loved his brand of magic – but they didn't pay particularly well.

All had seemed bleak, but three weeks ago, he'd woken up like...this.

He didn't understand it, and whatever had changed him hadn't bothered to stick around and explain itself, but all he had to do was think about something and it would happen. At first, it drained all of his energy just to move a cup of water or push a branch out of his way, but he found that the more he used it, the more he could do without becoming exhausted. A few shows with some new tricks had earned him the gold he'd always been sure he deserved, and now he was working on a set that would truly turn heads. He was going to be famous, rich, and want for nothing.

Wudder starting at him expectantly brought him back to the present.

“Dinner!” He said brightly. “Right!”

He had Wudder bring him the large silver platter from his bag; it was part of his act, but would do well enough for now. Once it was on the ground in front of him, Fratztrabool focused on the image of a fully-cooked turkey with all of the trimmings. He held it in his mind for a moment to make sure it was clear, and then projected it down onto the platter.

There was a wet thump, and the platter sunk a few inches into the loamy earth underneath the weight of the bird he'd willed into existence. Wudder jumped back quickly, his eyes wide with fright.

“Don't worry, my Targanian friend,” he said, reaching for his belt-knife, “there's nothing to be scared of.”

It was steel under his chin that brought his head up, and he looked into the bright and clear eyes of what had been the dull orbs of his manservant.

“I knew if I waited long enough you'd do it,” Wudder grated, “you're coming with me, Fratztrabool, to the Emperor himself. The Service has been trailing you ever since you arrived on our shores, and your magic proves you're the one we've been waiting for. Get up.”

He stood quickly. “Waiting for?” He asked mildly.

“To save the Empire. Draogath is coming, and you're going to kill him.”

Fratztrabool had no idea who that was, but was sure he'd be told soon enough. This was no life for a magician.

- D