Linvin placed his hands on his hips and surveyed the view.
Ascending stands rose on the right and left of him holding the
elected assemblymen. King Trigonan sat impatiently on his throne
before Linvin and was the first to speak.
“Good day to you, Lord Grithinshield. Or should I say, ‘good
evening’? I am told you kept me and this entire body waiting while
you counted your money. Is this so?”
Linvin chuckled with no sign of intimidation and responded,
“As with all lies and hearsay, there is a morsel of truth to your
statement. I was managing a conflict within my company, and the
parties took longer to settle their differences than I had expected.
My tardiness in no way reflects my respect for you or this body. If
I have offended anyone in this great room, I am truly sorry. Should
you wish it, I will take leave of you and set another appointment
whenever I happen into town again.”
The king’s expression changed from mild anger to frightened
alarm. “There is no need to reschedule, Lord Grithinshield. We
were merely eager to seek your council on some matters.”
“Then, by all means,” Linvin said as he moved closer to
Trigonan. “Let us talk. I see that you have decided to increase the
size of the army as I had suggested. Have you settled on a troop
level?”
The king looked to his advisors and then answered, “There is
not a set number in mind, but we want to be prepared in case we
need to summon our militia if war arises.”
“Militia,” Linvin repeated with repulsion. “Do you mean to tell
me you have purchased arms for an army you have not and do not
intend to raise?”
An anonymous voice from one of the stands cried out, “Armies
cost money and are of little use unless there is war. They simply
drain the treasury. What is your complaint, Grithinshield? You are
being well paid. Isn’t that what this was all about?”
Linvin glared angrily at the boisterous mob. “Once again it
seems my words are misunderstood. The Mandreans are a
significant threat to our national security. Militias carrying even
the finest weapons are no match for trained legions. Did you not
heed my warning two years ago?”
Trigonan raised his hand to silence the assembly. “Lord
Grithinshield, this room took your words most seriously when you
were last here. In the time since, we have taken measures to assure
our continued safety from the Mandrean threat.”
Linvin produced the staff holding the Red Sapphire and stood at
attention. “Exactly what steps have you taken?”
The king looked nervously at his cabinet and then spoke.
“Aside from the afore-mentioned arms buildup, we have begun
paring down Thornhaven Forest.”
Linvin’s eyes widened at the utterance. “Exactly how much
have you ‘paired down’ the forest?”
King Trigonan stood tall with his hands behind his back and
spoke as he paced before his throne. “We have created a highway
wide enough to march two-hundred men abreast straight into the
Unclaimed Territory. The forest is no longer a barrier for us.”
“Or them,” fumed Linvin. “The very fact that Thornhaven was
virtually impenetrable to an army was what saved our nation the
last time we tangled with the Mandreans. Now you clear a road
they could easily use to invade Sartan. And rather than train an
army of sufficient size to protect us, you plan to rely on militia?”

Necromancer once again hovered down the makeshift hallway toward his seat. “I only did so at the request of his Eminence. As you know, I cannot refuse his commands. Still, you are right. I did destroy the doors to free our beloved Emperor after that scoundrel Grithinshield imprisoned him in his own throne room. After that I had nothing to do with Linvin grating the Imperial Standard in the hall, destroying that beautiful staircase, killing all those soldiers, skewering the Head Jailor, freeing the Princess of Romadon, demolishing the top of the tower and torching our Capital. No General, I cannot take credit for those acts. Oh, by the way. If you intend to send any messages, I would wait. It would seem our former guest ran off the horses at the message depot and killed the guards.” The smug sorcerer quietly sat on his small, backless chair.
Necromancer’s comments refueled the fire burning inside Mandrean who stormed over to address his servant. “You have questions to answer here as well.”
In his usual sarcastic tone Necromancer answered. “As always, I am at your disposal.”
“Why did you not tell me the Red Sapphire would not serve me, but it would kill me if I touched it with so much as a finger?” Mandrean demanded. “Perhaps you wanted me dead? Maybe that was your plan all along? That would suit your purposes well, would it not?”
Necromancer casually raised a hand and waived it in his master’s face as if the notion was laughable. “Come now Most Magnificent One. You know I cannot do you harm in any way. I also cannot lie to you.”
“You did lie to me.”
“I did no such thing,” Necromancer corrected. “I read on the chest the Red Sapphire resided within its right side and its master would have incredible power. You insinuated from those statements you could be its master. Nowhere in the writings did it say only Linvin could wield the gem. There was no lie in my statements.”
“Perhaps not,” Mandrean retorted. “I sense an omission of the full story in your details.”
Necromancer changed the subject as he looked at the pawns. “Just how do you plan your revenge against Linvin for his crimes against you, My Emperor?”

Linvin was astounded at Anvar’s condition.  “You are unaffected by the Racik?”
“On the contrary,” Anvar explained, “I could tell from the first sip that the drink was more than I could handle.”
“But I saw you drinking all night,” Linvin protested.
“Indeed you did,” Anvar answered.  “You saw me drinking water.  Newminor was so preoccupied with you that he took no notice of me dumping his liquor and refilling my cup with water.  I see that you took a similar approach to the evening’s festivities.”
Linvin nodded.  “He was far too sharp of an individual to match wits with in an altered state.”
“He was sharp,” Anvar agreed, “but I did not trust him.  His blatant attempt to intoxicate the group made me suspect that he had an unseen motive.  That motive had become quite clear with the sunrise.”
“He was clearly a thief,” Linvin recounted, “but I cannot help but wonder if there was more to his charge than he told.  What if he was sent to get the key?”
Anvar stretched and then searched the saddlebags for some pork.  “As odd as it sounds,” he began, “I believed him. The key was the only item of value he could find to take.  He admitted to being a thief, and I think there is little more to his story.  Besides that, with our sentry performing a lackluster job, he could have easily returned in the night and stolen it again or even killed us all.  He did neither.  By the moonlight, your heart told you to set him free.  Why would the sunlight tell you differently?”
As opinionated as ever, Anvar restored Linvin’s faith in his decision to spare the gnome.  Deep in the recesses of Linvin’s mind, he held an unwilling admiration for Newminor.  The gnome was a person who said what many others may have thought but would not dare to speak.  Instead of following the herd, he struck out on his own without a heading.  Rather than fret about the future, he viewed it with anticipation.  Such a carefree existence pushed Linvin beyond admiration into the realm of envy.

Something I have never understood are credits for creating the arts.  Books are nice and simple.  X person wrote the book and Y did the illustrations.  Then Z came along and published it.  Nice, clean and simple.  Everyone knows where they stand and what piece of the pie they get at the end of the day.  Movies are all together another thing.  They often say “Based on the novel by X.”  I think they do that to remind people how simple the process was before they started.  I always watch Marvel movies to the end of the credits for the secret extra scene.  When you sit there and watch how many people are involved in making the movie it makes your head spin.  By the way, what is a ‘Best Boy’ anyway?  It sounds like a good job.  But why aren’t there ‘Best Girls’?  I’m sure there’s a story behind it that’s not nearly as entertaining as the ones I can think of for the title.  Getting back to point, it is amazing how many people get credit on a movie.  If someone ate a bagel in the corner on the set, he’s probably listed under ‘Bagel Eater’.  Music is still another animal.  They give less credit than is deserved.  You will like a song and it will give credit to one person for writing it.  So they’re saying that one person wrote the words, the drum piece, the guitar, the bass and the keyboards for that song?  Who is this guy?  He’d have to be a musical genius.  There are a few people who can actually do all that but I emphasize the word FEW.  Most of the time someone wrote the words and maybe a bit of the music.  Then a band filled in the rest of the song.  Why don’t they get any credit?  Think of all the songs with guitar solos and the guitarist is not listed in the credits.  Surely he wrote at least that piece.  Why does he not get credit for his labors?  Take the song, “November Rain” by Guns N Roses.  Axl Rose is given full credit for writing the song.  There are, however, 2 guitar solos within that were clearly written by their lead guitarist, Slash (I didn’t make up the names).  Even with a ‘thank you’ in the credits, his name is not listed as a writer and so his royalties will not be forthcoming.  Does that sound wrong to anyone else?  Music has different rules.  I’m glad I write books.  Everything else is too complicated.    

Necromancer had seen the room many times before and was not
impressed. “First you disturb my work with that imbecile you sent
to fetch me,” he called out. “Then I come all the way over here to
find out just what insignificant thing has you disturbed, and you
are hiding in steam you created yourself. Waste no more of my
time, Master.” He turned to leave.
“I don’t believe I like that tone of voice,” said a man through
the mist. The sounds of water sloshing back and forth in a bath
echoed through the room.
“What difference does my tone make?” Necromancer barked.
“No one said I am required to be polite to you. Now get on with
your reason for bringing me here.”
“Come closer.”
Necromancer drew nearer to the voice until its origin came into
view. In the largest bath of all sat a man of great size being washed
by several female servants in the water and out. In all, there were
six of them cleansing the man.
Though a broad man, he did not appear extraordinarily
muscular. He had perhaps 10 years, several inches and many
pounds on Linvin. The weight was not well distributed. It
concentrated in his belly, which was decorated with stretch marks.
A large and hideous scar highlighted the region. It was indeed
Lord Mandrean the 13th.
“Are you sure you have enough women to bathe you?”
Necromancer asked sarcastically.
“Actually, one of my servants is not here. She is with child. But
the baby will be here soon. It will not be long before she returns to
my service.”
“I’m sure she would be moved by your excitement at becoming
a father…again. Your concern for her is indeed moving. And your
Grace continues to demonstrate his concern by bouncing back
quickly from such a troubled heart.”
Mandrean was visibly angered by Necromancer’s attitude
toward the transgression. He gestured for his bathers to leave and
spoke once they were gone. “You are a fine one to lecture me on
such things. My concubines mean as little to me as all of humanity
does to you. I will forgive your insolent tone for I have business to
discuss,” Mandrean sneered.
Necromancer found the statement to be humorous in the way
one would when being scolded by a witless child. He did not point
that out, however, as he chose his battles wisely and saw nothing
to gain from an exchange of barbs.
“What can I do to be of service, Sire?”