The Troll King (The Bowl of Souls Book 9) (35 page)

“An interesting development,” he said with as much emotion as a man that had just been told that he would get two rolls with his dinner instead of one. “Now tell me, how many of these trollkin are there?”

“At the moment, their numbers are not great, Warlord,” Mellinda admitted. “They number in just over a thousand.”

A laugh escaped the gnome’s lips at the same time that a flash of anger entered his eyes. “You promised me an army far greater than I could raise on my own. No doubt these trollkin are formidable foes even if, as I suspect, you brought these two because they were your two finest specimens. However, they could be twice as large and twice as strong and those numbers would still pale beside the tens of thousands I must face to take Malaroo as my own.”

Mellinda took this berating meekly as if expecting that it would come. “This is true, Warlord. Which is why I have come to make you an offer that will improve both our situations.”

He waved a bored hand. “Continue.”

She gave him a sultry smile. “I have it on good authority that your current allies, this Mer-Dan collective, has a surplus of prisoners and malcontents that have become a drain on your resources. After all, you must feed them and guard them.”

He smiled back in return. “So that is the true reason for your tardiness. You questioned some poor unfortunate individual along the way. I wonder if they still live.” He shrugged. “No matter. It is possible that your information is correct. I take it you are offering a way that we might rid ourselves of them? By feeding them to your Troll Mother, perhaps?”

Her smile became a chuckle. “It would benefit us both. Do you not agree? You send your problem children to the Mother and receive a loyal army in return.”

His smile faded. “You are unaware of my timeline, Troll Queen. In just two weeks I will be meeting with the Protector of the Grove to negotiate his surrender. As much as I would love for him to join my empire willingly, I am most certain that he will choose to fight. That, Mellinda, is the crucial moment I need your army for.

“It would take several days to deliver these problem children to the Troll Mother’s waiting mouth. Just how quickly can she process these souls?”

Mellinda’s smile did not leave her face, but her arms began to sway in a snakelike fashion. This was something that Talon’s time with Ewwie had taught her meant that the bearer of the rings had come under a great deal of stress. The woman was close to losing control. Talon’s skin itched and that muted primal part of her pleaded that she leave.

When the woman was unable to respond right away, the gnome warlord stroked his chin thoughtfully. “But perhaps your thought isn’t so far off, Mellinda. I propose an alternate plan . . .”

Aloysius and Mellinda were still negotiating the details of the Warlord’s plan when Talon decided to sneak away. She had realized that there was little more for her to learn from the discussion and she had no time to digest what she had seen. Matthew was still captured.

Her first intention had been to free her master later in the night while more of the army slept, but after what she had just seen, it now seemed best to attempt a rescue while the army’s commander was distracted. She had just watched him undermine and dismantle Mellinda with nothing but precisely chosen words and was now almost as wary of him as she was of her former mistress.

She slid from her protected position in the tall grass and stole away between two watchful gnome warriors. Once Talon was sure that she was a safe distance away, she climbed a nearby tree and observed the army, looking for the best route to the command tents. They had been placed in the center of the army and though there was a nice gap between their tents and the camps of the regular soldiers, she would have to pass through one of the camps to get there.

One factor in her favor was that this was not an army under high alert. The guards were lax, most of them talking with the other soldiers at their various campfires. Talon could see which groups of soldiers had decided to retire early and which had decided to stay up and converse and play games with each other.

The shortest route was through the strange spiky tents. In her short time listening to conversations between the guards earlier in the day, she had learned that the white skinned creatures with red claws that inhabited these tents were called imps. They wore strange bladed armor and she had seen them use both air and fire magic. They also seemed more alert and watchful than the other camps, so she decided against that route.

The wild human camp was a dangerous choice because they were all too awake and aware. Most of them were dancing and chanting and their fires burned so brightly that she could not find a route immersed in shadow.

Ultimately, the route she found was a circuitous one, but Talon decided that sneaking through the kobald troops was the better choice. Her time spent watching Ewwie torture some of them had taught her much about kobalds’ sensitivity to earth magic. She knew that they would hear the vibration of her feet as she crept by, but with an army this large, it would be impossible for them to distinguish between the vibrations of friend or foe. She would simply have to take care and travel between the dirt mounds that had closed their openings for the night.

She waited for a guard to pass, then released her pheromones as she made her way past the tent mounds of the kobalds. The way was easier than expected. There was one tense moment when she crept by the mound of two kobald lovers that were trying to be discreet, and were very aware of her vibrations as she passed by. But thankfully they did not seem worried that her footsteps weren’t as heavy as a kobald and she slid by unchallenged.

Now that she was past the common soldiers, there was a nice grassy gap between her and the command tents. The guards in this area were more alert and kept to a strict pattern that took her a few minutes to memorize. She made her way to the largest of the tents and crept up close, sniffing at the tiny gap in the bottom.

She caught her master’s scent right away and felt a wave of relief. Though it smelled like he had an infected wound, he was alive. And he was alone. She lifted the base of the tent as much as the canvas would allow and discovered that she had just enough room to slip underneath.

The inside of the tent was quite dark, but not a problem with her excellent night vision. Canvas walls divided the interior of the tent into several sections and she realized that she had entered an isolated corner of the tent. The decorations were bare but for two plush chairs much like the one she had seen the Gnome Warlord sitting in before.

One chair was empty, but the chair facing it was occupied. Matthew sat with his hands folded in his lap, his posture straight, and his eyes closed. He wore plain brown robes and the skin of his face, which he usually kept clean shaven, was scruffy with two weeks of beard growth. The hilt of a sword rose diagonally from behind his left shoulder. That was strange. She had never seen him carry weapons before.

“Talon?” he said without opening his eyes.

“Yes, Masster,” she replied, approaching him slowly.

“I had a feeling that you would come.” He opened his eyes and it was evident how weary he was. He looked haggard, like a man at the end of his limits. She had seen this look on men before. Men that Ewwie had sent her to hound until they died of exhaustion. “You didn’t happen to bring my pipe, did you? I had one with me, but an imp took it away.”

She rushed to his side. “Masster, I am here to ssave you.” She sniffed and realized that the sword wasn’t resting in a sheath on his back. The blade was sheathed in his back. This was the source of the infected wound that she had smelled. Talon reached for the hilt.

“Stop, Talon,” Matthew commanded calmly and she felt her hand fall away from the sword. “You musn’t touch it. He will know if you do. Besides, you are not the one who is supposed to remove it.”

“But Masster. It hurtss you. It makess you ssick,” she said.

A slight smile curled his lips. “Well, you’re right that it’s infected. Aloysius let that happen on purpose. He allows his kobald healers to come in from time to time and clean out the wound with their magic, but he’s a mean bastard. He doesn’t let it get so bad that I could die, but he also doesn’t let them heal it all the way. He knows that an infected wound is more sensitive and he also knows that a fevered mind isn’t a sharp mind. He wants me to do his bidding and the magic of his sword can only force me so far.”

“Let uss leave Masster,” Talon pleaded. “We can remove the ssword later.”

“I’m afraid I can’t leave just yet,” Mathew said bitterly. “This is my penance, you see.”

“Penance?” she asked.

“I have been neglecting my duty for a long time and now it seems I must reap the rewards of my laziness.” A sour look spread across his tired face. “Why does John always have to be the good one? He never has to go through something like this.”

“But you must leave,” Talon said, feeling a panic rise within her. She reached for the sword again.

“Don’t worry about me, Talon.” Matthew raised a hand to stop her and winced. “I am exactly where I need to be. I do wish I could get some sleep, though. The thing is this sword hurts like hell unless I’m sitting exactly still.”

“You cannot sstay with that gnome,” Talon insisted. “He is dangerouss. Besidess, the mistress is here!”

“Who?” he asked, then frowned. “Your old mistress? The Troll Queen? I thought she was destroyed.”

“As did I,” Talon said. “But I ssaw her talking with the gnome. Sshe is making an army of troll thingss and sshe has Ewwiess ringss!”

Matthew’s frown deepened. “Show me what you saw.”

Talon’s eyes narrowed. “Sshow?”

“Hold still,” he said and gritted his teeth as he raised his hand and placed it over her heart. Talon felt a warmth pass through her mind and his hand dropped back into his lap. “Blast it, that warlord is going to make this so much harder!” His eyes focused on hers. “Listen carefully to me, Talon. You must leave right away.”

Talon shook her head. “I cannot leavess you,” she hissed.

“You will,” he commanded. “You must return to the marshes and collect Durza. Then you go and find that young named warrior that came to see me. Sir Edge is his name. You know him.”

“Deathclaw’ss wizard,” Talon said.

“Yes. You must tell him what you told me about Mellinda’s return.” His brow furrowed. “I don’t think any of the major players know about her yet.”

“He will k-. . .” Talon hesitated, full of uncertainty, but finally she bowed her head in acceptance. If Matthew said it must be done, she would do it. “I will go.”

“Then leave now, because Aloysius is returning.”

“Yess, Masster,” she said and returned to the place she had entered from.

Talon felt a mix or anxiety and eagerness. It was an impossible task. Sir Edge wanted her dead. She had seen the pained look in his eyes when he realized that she had poisoned his bonding wizard friend. Deathclaw wanted to kill her too. In his mind it was the only way to fix her. Neither one would listen to the message she was supposed to give.

She lifted the bottom edge of the tent and an odd smile stretched her lips. Perhaps that was the reason for this command. Perhaps it was time for her penance.

“Oh, and Talon?” Matthew added, sensing her thoughts. “When you see your brother, don’t let him kill you. I will have need of you again.”

Talon let out a disappointed growl and disappeared into the night.

*                      *                      *

Matthew had very little time to compose himself before the gnome warlord returned to the tent. He had been in a dark place, but Talon’s visit had invigorated him. He saw it as evidence that the Creator had not completely turned away from him after all.

He hadn’t told Talon the full extent of his pain and exhaustion. It was more than the lack of sleep or the sword sheathed in the skin of his back. It wasn’t even the broken rib that one of the imp commanders had given him when Aloysius wasn’t looking. It was the pain of remorse, an after effect of the first gift that his master had returned to him.

It had come, oddly enough, the very day that Aloysius had taken him captive. The gnome warlord had announced to an exuberant army that he had full control of the Stranger. Matthew had been aware before this that the races within his realm of responsibility hated him, but that knowledge had always been a distant one. He had told himself that their hatred was a necessary side effect of his position. It was merely proof that his methods were effective.

Aloysius had brought Matthew to his command tent, sat him in a chair and began bringing in the leaders of the demon army one-by-one. The warlord told these imps and kobalds that they could not harm the Stranger, but they could tell him what they thought of him.

Vile things were shouted at Matthew. He was spat upon. One imp started to urinate on him before the gnome warrior guards dragged it out of the tent. These were humiliations that Matthew was unaccustomed to, of course, but he barely noticed them. For as each of these demons entered the tent, Matthew’s mind was opened.

As they yelled or spit or stared at him in undisguised anger, their lives passed before his eyes. He saw the pain that each of these people had felt because of his inaction. He saw the families mourn because of barren women and miscarried infants. He saw the results of the fighting caused by the enmity he had instituted between the races.

At first, he held himself numb against it. These were things he knew already from a dispassionate distance. But these revelations didn’t come from a dispassionate distance. In those brief moments that flashed through his mind, Matthew experienced their pain from their perspective. The lost children were his. The dead friends and family were his.

Eventually, he broke down. Tears streamed down his face as he begged their forgiveness. He didn’t receive it. Some of them were disturbed by his display. Others doubted his identity.

The gnome warlord was confused. He commanded the Stranger not to cry. Tears did not help Aloysius’ cause. The magic of the sword had forced him to obey. For the rest of the journey all of his sorrow was internal.

Moments after Talon left, Matthew heard the gnome warriors enter the front section of the tent. Light shone through the cracks at the top and bottom of the canvas wall in front of him. He rotated his head on his neck, ignoring the way that it pulled on the skin of his upper back as he did so. When Aloysius pulled aside a section of the canvas flap and entered, he was met by the Stranger’s unflinching gaze.

“Good evening, Aloysius,” Matthew said cheerfully.

“You will call me Master,” Aloysius commanded.

“I will not. For you are not my master,” Matthew replied.

This was part of a constant back and forth between the two of them. The gnome warlord had been dismayed to learn that there were limits to the control his sword gave him over the Stranger. Matthew had to obey most of his commands, but he could not deny his identity and he could not call anyone but the Creator his master.