Unlike the rest of its lavish surroundings, the room was dull and
dismal with sparse decor. A straw bed sat in the corner by a table
with a wash basin. The rest of the walls were completely covered
in bookshelves. Upon them were ancient texts and scrolls on
parchment so frail one was afraid to disturb their solemnity. A
grand table of questionable sturdiness stood prominently in the
center of the room. Open books and papers littered its surface save
for a lone, four-wicked candle at the table’s center providing the
only light in the dungeon-like quarters.
In a rickety wooden chair at the table, toiled a diminutive man
adorned in a white robe with scarlet trim. He wore no jewelry. In
fact, there were only two features of distinction about the man. His
hair was a stunning shade of white. The other characteristic of note
was his eyes. They were a radiant shade of red only seen deep in
the heart of a raging inferno. No pupil was evident in them. The
light in them burned steadily like coals in a furnace.
The man was using a quill and ink to copy information from a
tattered paper onto a scroll. His calligraphy was perfect with good
reason. He only moved his eyes and hand while writing. His
concentration was complete.
The books surrounding him were a mix of older texts on
legends and newer ones on geography or various cultures. Without
warning he would snatch one and flip frantically through the
pages. When he found the desired page, he ran his fingers along
the words until he reached the quote of interest. Then he would
carefully transfer the information to his compilation paper.
His work came to a crashing halt when the door to the room
flew open and made a loud thump against the wall. The albino was
startled and knocked over the inkwell. The black liquid soaked the
scroll destroying his work.
He was furious. His eyes became searing white-hot in color.
Nearly invisible rays of magic fired from them and struck with a
concussion against the intruder. An imperial page was shot out into
the hallway where he came to a sudden stop upon reaching the
wall.
A moment later the page stumbled back into the room. He held
the frame of the door while trying to keep his feet. “Great, all powerful,
Necromancer, I have been sent to bring you to Lord
Mandrean.”
Necromancer’s eyes returned to their normal frightening
appearance. “Never enter my chambers without permission again,
Vermin! Do you have any idea of what you have just ruined, you
putrid sack of flesh? I would burn you down right now if we
weren’t running short of ignorant pages to invoke my wrath. Count
yourself lucky and get out of my sight before I change my mind.”
“Please accept my apology for disturbing you but our lord
awaits your presence.”
“Then he will wait,” Necromancer yelled as he struck the books
and cleared the desk in one angry swipe. “Tell your emperor that I
will be there when I have time.”
Necromancer crumpled the paper he had so painstakingly
prepared and threw it at the wall. He stood silently for a moment
and then reluctantly began to search for the bit of paper he had
referenced. During his search, his eyes caught sight of a narrow
shadow in the doorway.
“Are you still here, page? Your life must mean less to you than
it does to me.”
“I beg thee, great Necromancer, I have orders from Lord
Mandrean himself to escort you to his chambers. He seems
dissatisfied with the speed you display when answering his orders.
Those are his words, not mine.”
Necromancer rolled his eyes and then hung his head. He
replaced the objects on the table with a snap of his fingers and
approached the trembling page. “Well then,” he said in a calm,
monotone voice, “let us not keep his worship waiting.” He
gestured politely to the door. The confused servant led him out of
the room and down the hall.

Their level of the tower had been vacant and silent other than them. As jails went it was rather well maintained. Such cleanliness could not disguise the sound of screams and cries filtering into the chamber from above and below. It was clear their level was the most desirable in the building.
The dreadful noise was interrupted by the sound of heavy boots on the stairs. Two human guards carrying an obscured prisoner thundered down the steps. Stopping at their floor, the guards could each be seen holding one arm of a young human woman. Her head hung down with a tangled mass of blond hair hiding her face. The woman’s feet dragged trenches in the straw on the floor as they carried her down the hall. Her clothing was tattered and shredded. Opening the cell next to the elves’ they tossed her in like a bale of hay.
“You’ll give us answers,” one yelled as he locked the door. “If you don’t I’m sure Hugon would be happy to interrogate you himself.” They laughed and then descended the stairs.
Between the cells were thick stonewalls that prevented prisoners from seeing each other. They did not, however, deafen sound. The girl cried as she lay on the floor. It was a painful, sorrowful sound.
Linvin sat on the other side of the wall trying to think of something to say. His usual greetings seemed wrong at that moment. At last he managed, “Are you hurt?” The sobbing continued. “Miss,” he called out louder, “Are you injured?”
The crying reduced and was interrupted occasionally by a sniffle. “It’s nothing that won’t heal,” she said meekly. “But it doesn’t matter. I will never leave these walls alive.”
Linvin moved closer to the bars by the wall. “My name is Linvin. What is yours?”
There was silence for a few moments and then one soft, beautiful word was spoken in return. “Mirianna,” she replied.
“You seem a little out of place here,” Linvin said.
“Everyone in this tower is out of place,” she answered indignantly. “I suspect that was their purpose in building it. You don’t sound like the usual criminals they bring in here. There must be a different reason you have checked in to this establishment.”
“I have no idea why we are here.” Linvin answered.
“Sure you do,” Mirianna said. “Everyone knows why they’re here. Some people just don’t want to admit the answer.”
Linvin was caught off guard by her banter. He tried to refocus on her. “Well then, why are you here?” he asked.
Her tone immediately changed. “So that’s your game, is it? They bring me down here and think I will tell you everything just by asking? Nice try Spy. I am wise to you. You can tell that red-eyed sorcerer you work for I have no knowledge of my country’s defenses. You can also tell him if I did know anything, I would never tell him or any of his agents.”
Linvin was stunned by the accusation. “Mirianna, you are mistaken. I am no spy. My kin and I are prisoners just like you.”
Mirianna snapped back. “That is just what a spy would say.”
Linvin sighed. “If I were a spy then why would they put three other people in here with me? Would it not be wiser to have a single person here to whom you could confess?”
 

Linvin and the others passed many open fires with fresh beef and pork roasting, continuing on to his command tent.  Upon entering the tent and leaving view, they collapsed.  Squires attended each of them.  They removed all their masters’ armor and soiled clothing.  Linvin passed out wine from his private stock to celebrate.
Fardar was attended as well.  He was shocked as the squire disrobed him and washed his body of the vile, pungent goblin blood that had stained his clothes black.  “These will have to be discarded,” the squire told him.  “Goblin blood does not wash out of clothing.”
Fardar observed the others in the room.  Linvin’s arm was being stitched and dressed.  It was a far more severe blow than he had acknowledged.
Sculla had been stabbed in the thigh and sliced on his arm.  He, too, was receiving treatment.
Victolin appeared unharmed and healthy until his armor was removed and he held his ribs.  His right side was deeply bruised and bleeding.
Only Githara looked to have escaped without a scratch.  She looked at Victolin and asked, “Was it an ax that hit you?”
He winced in pain, while lifting his arm to allow a bandage to be applied.  “A heavy mace.  I cut down one of their War Chief’s bodyguards and another struck my exposed side, knocking me off my horse.  Fortunately, one of my men cut him down immediately thereafter.”
“What happened to you, Sculla?” Linvin asked.
“Stupid, really,” he replied.  “When the line was advancing, this pathetic remnant of a swamp dweller reached up and stuck me in the leg with one of those cheap sickle swords.  Made me furious!  So I stomped his head.  Wretched, filthy, disgusting little lizard!”
The squire attending him finished cleaning the wound and prepared to stitch it closed.  “If you had not pulled the sword out by yourself, the wound would not be so large.”
“The blade was getting in my way!” yelled
Sculla as he shoved the attendant away.  “This stable boy acts like he was the one who was stabbed.”
“Easy, Stump,” Linvin consoled his friend.  “I think he is just frustrated with your disregard for your body.”
“Well, it’s my body!” Sculla snorted.  “I’m here to fight, not compete in a beauty contest.”
“We’reall glad of that,” Victolin joked.  “You’d make an uglier woman than Githara.”
Githara lashed out quickly at the insult and kicked Victolin on his injured side.  Victolin howled in pain.  “You’re mistaken for a woman far more than I am for a man,” she said.
“Enough, children,” Linvin said, gesturing downward with his hand.  “We do not need another fight today.”  They were in many ways like the siblings he had never known.
Once their wounds had been tended and they were all adorned in scarlet robes, the meeting broke up.  Githara and Victolin left to check their units.  Fardar left to prepare his report.  Entering the tent as they left was a centurion.
“Pardon the intrusion, My Lords,” he said as he saluted.
“What is it?” Sculla demanded.
“We cannot bury the goblins as the general ordered.  The water table is just below the surface, and whenever we start digging a hole, it fills with water.”
Sculla turned to Linvin for direction.  Linvin stood and tightened his robe.  He clasped his hands behind his back and paced.  After a few moments, he stopped, moved his hands to his hips, sighed greatly and dropped his head.
“Pile the bodies and burn them,” he ordered.  “There is enough disease in this swamp without leaving the dead to add more.”