I don't work with buff males very often so this was quite interesting to do. Kind of reffed his chest/abs from a random illustration of Superman xD

All leonin have a large muscle mass relative to other races in my story, but Tier tends to get absorbed in studies and forget to eat meals, with the result he has a particularly low fat percentage and looks rather more ripped than most. His brother is a little bulkier and smoother in the torso, but probably the physically stronger of the two.

Thanks for viewing/reading, and if you have any useful critique on either illustration or story please do voice it so's I can learn :)

---

<<< PREV | FIRST | NEXT >>>

The Foxwood Chronicles - Chapter 23
Control

The final blow of Maximillian’s steel maul settled the matter, the solid weight of metal sending the armoured lupari smashing into the wall behind him. He collapsed to the floor, perhaps unconscious, perhaps dead. Though the kingly leonin grieved for the potential loss of a brave soldier, there wasn’t time to discover the canine's fate. Above his head, the grey stone walls of the city rose skyward, deep shadows laying upon the attacking force like a chill blanket. Periodically the face of a defending archer would appear in a gap between the crenellations, but the retinue of armoured shieldmen surrounding the king of Lordenor kept him covered from all angles bar a frontal assault – and that was an angle that no leonin would permit to be covered by anyone, whatever the protests of their generals and advisers.

With a mighty crunch the sturdy oak door in the city walls gave way, the iron hinges buckling as jagged splinters flew. Immediately the defending commander, seeing the efforts to brace the barrier had failed ordered his men to rush forwards, and to their credit they obeyed without hesitation or fear, pushing out into the invading force, a whirl of blades cutting high and low, over and under their shields as they advanced.

It was a brave manoeuvre, if a desperate one, and Maximilian mentally saluted his opponents for their gall, even as he swing his steel maul at the wall of iron. A solid thud and the shock along the handle told him it had found its mark. Once, twice, three times he struck mighty hammer blows among the city defenders before their egress faltered, shields ringing like bells or shattered along with the arms that had held them. Headed by the tall figure of their warrior king, the Lordenor army surged forwards, pressing through the ruined city gates, forcing their way behind the walls.

From somewhere amid the fray, a sturdy figure emerged before Maximilian. Like himself, this warrior was of leonin stock, young and strong with a thick mane of hair, eager for victory in battle – and what a victory it would be to claim defeat of an enemy king. Maximilian knew the gleam in the other's eyes well, and respected it even as he eyed the younger man shrewdly. Polished steel plate armour over legs and torso, but leaving his arms with only chain mail. It was a bold move, sacrificing armour for the greater speed and freedom of movement, and Maximillian had to give the young man a grudging admiration – not to mention his full attention. With his personal entourage more than busy battling those around him, Maximillian had no choice but to fight alone.

Good.

It had been far too long since he had tasted battle, and now the song of Leonan the hunter echoed in his ears, the drumbeat in his veins bringing him courage. Gone was the time for thought, gone the time for regret, for debate, for discussion and the endless, interminable politics of state. Now was the time to know what it was to be leonin. Now was the time to earn a victory, with strength, and with honour!

With shout that verged on gladness, Maximillian charged his opponent.



“A good victory, majesty,” Lord De Lance said, nodding as he stood at the top of the tallest tower that rose from the city’s walls. Night had fallen, only the last vestiges of sunlight still glowed on the western horizon, but below them the streets were lit by torches as soldiers moved back and forth among the buildings. A brazier had been set atop the watchtower to warm the sentries – and their visitors.

A line appeared between the king’s thick eyebrows as he looked down onto the restless city. He had no illusions that those dark roofs sheltered sleeping citizens. While he had little doubt that many were thankful to find themselves alive, it was unlikely that any would be walking the world of dreamers tonight. Perhaps for the better. The setting sun that evening had painted the sky a bright, fiery red, deepening through crimson to the rich hues of spilt blood. A fitting end to a bloody day.

“How is that young man?” he asked.

“Which, Majesty?” De Lance looked momentarily confused.

“The one who challenged me as we entered the city, the leonin lad. He was brave and fought well. I would know if he still lives.”

“I don’t know, your Majesty,” De Lance admitted. “I haven’t asked for a list of survivors.”

“Then I will,” the leonin stated, looking back down over the city. Unconsciously, his hands clenched against the stone of the wall he leaned on. “What will they think of us, I wonder...”

“Majesty?”

“The townsfolk. Here we came marching in, smashed their defences, and then stopped, sparing all those not fighting, taking care of their wounded as well as ours. What do you think they think of us?”

De Lance smiled, giving a half laugh. “They will think whatever it is in them to think. Some, that perhaps they need never have taken arms against us. Others... others will hate us for this day. Those whose husbands, sons, wives and daughters will not return home this night.”

“You think it was wrong?” Maximillian asked bluntly.

“No, Majesty, not in the least. Had we not taken this city as ours, then in time, the Freelands council, and specifically Milton Goldwood, would have ordered their armies into our territories. And then it would be our people’s sons and daughters who did not come home, and our people's children who must now grow up alone. One of our nations had to come to this end, and it is no shame that you protected yours – indeed, Majesty, many will toast your name once they hear news of this battle. Today’s victory has been honest and clean, and your majesty has acted with great honour and nobility.”

The tall leonin smiled, half turning to survey the shorter man. “Thank you, De Lance,” he said quietly. “And on that note, Colonel?” he turned to the armoured lupari behind him.

“Majesty?”

“Time to start those orders I gave you earlier. Get your men out on the streets.”

“As you command,” the lupari nodded, then hesitated. “Majesty, not everyone is going to want to open their door to your men...”

“Do what you need to,” Maximilian instructed. “Get it done, we'll sort out the damages later. Now, De Lance,” he continued as the lupari nodded his understanding. “Since neither of us are likely to sleep tonight, will you come with me to decide our line of advance before morning?”

“Of course, Majesty,” De Lance bowed, doffing his tricorn hat. “Whatever wisdom my aging head may contain is always yours to tap.”

Maximilian laughed. “Then be thankful I don't drive a spigot into your skull.”

“Best not, I've heard it said,” the main said with completely sincerity. “That wisdom tends to evaporate on contact with air.”



“No,” the woman whispered as the heavy knock sounded upon the door. “No, I’m not here, there’s nobody in!” Trembling, she pushed herself back further into the little alcove under the stairs, drawing the hem of her skirt tighter about her ankles.

“Nothin’ sarge!” A voice came faintly to her from outside. Lordenor soldiers. They were stopping at every house on every street, that much she had seen from the top window of her house. At each door, a group of soldiers went in, and a few minutes later, a group of soldiers came out – and nobody else.

“Break it,” the order came.

“No...” white and shaking, the young woman tried to pull a blanket over herself as the crunch of wood sounded through the house. “Please... no...” She knew what was coming. When her husband had run to the defence of the walls, she had known what would happen if he failed.

Boots thumped on the wooden floor, three men, maybe four. From the sound of it, they were keeping together, alert, and searching. Probably looting, the woman thought, squeezing her eyes closed. Maybe... maybe if she let them, the safe box was all they would want. She had made it easy to find.

The cupboard door creaked open.

“Ah, now then,” a voice said firmly. “What’s your name, miss?”

“Get away!” She bolted for the door, throwing the blanket aside, darting out of reach of two, almost making it, but being caught by the third. Trembling, held firm in his grip, she was turned to face the leader, a lutrani with a polished steel helmet and breastplate.

“No... please... take my necklace, it’s worth quite a bit! Take anything!” Don’t let them, anything that would stop them... give them anything they wanted.

“Necklace?” the lutrani soldier paused, then shook his head. “No, miss, I don’t want your necklace.”

Collapsing, sobbing, the woman was held up only by the soldier’s grasp on her. No... dear gods no...

“What’s your name, miss?” the soldier repeated.

Damn them then. Drawing herself up, forcing her breathing to slow down, not wanting to give them the satisfaction of seeing her afraid and begging.

“Rinna Taylor. And it’s madam, to you,” she spat defiantly. Yes, let them know she was married, maybe that would dissuade them some.

“Tailor, Taylor...” the soldier held up what appeared to be several sheets of parchment, scanning over them. “Criston Taylor?”

“Husband.”

“Good, then you’ll be pleased to know he’s in medical tent B. Few broken ribs, no more. You can apply for a pass to see him in a day or so, someone will be round with details tomorrow. Until then, please stay in your home. You’ll be brought water in the morning, and bread if you need it.”

“What?” the young woman blinked, confused, and feeling oddly conscious of her messed up hair and the tear tracks down her face.

“Just stay home and wait,” the lutrani advised. “There'll be patrols outside, and there's a sunset curfew in effect until further notice, so please do us all a favour and don't go out after dark. Oh, and I’ll need to confiscate those,” he gestured, and another soldier took down the swords that hung above the fireplace. “Nice pieces,” he commented, making a note on the paper.

“Heirlooms,” the woman said faintly.

“Then I'll try to get them back to you some time, ma'am,” the lutrani said as the soldier behind her let go.

“Sorry about the door, ma’am,” he said as they retreated out through it. “But rest assured there ain’t going to be anyone coming to burgle you, not with our men out tonight. If you have any urgent problem during the night, give a shout to one of our patrols. Goodnight to you.”

“Wait...” feeling slightly stupid, she ran to the doorway, leaning out. “You’re not... not going to...?”

“To what, miss?” the lutrani looked genuinely confused for a moment, then his expression cleared into comprehension. “Oh! Good gods, no. Orders was to pacify and secure the area, minimal casualties. Stay home, respect the sunset curfew, and no harm will come to you. You're free to go about the city any time after dawn, but please stay within the walls. Goodnight!”

And with that, he turned, and moved on to the next house down the street, leaving madam Rinna Taylor leaning confusedly out of her doorway looking on as he and his men knocked on the door. What sort of invasion was this?



“My lord...”

“Katrina,” Tiernach’s image smiled thinly from the middle of the crystal. “I assume you are about to return with my new fragment of the dragon staff?”

“Not exactly, my Lord,” Katrina winced internally but fought to keep it showing in her face.

“Not... exactly?” Tiernach’s glittering gaze focussed on her more intently, the smile vanishing in the time it took to blink.

“There was... a slight problem.”

“Explain,” the leonin’s eyes narrowed.

“Intruders. They were seeking the stone.”

“And?” Tiernach’s eyes flashed with impatience.

“We were first, we found it, but...” Katrina licked dry lips, swallowing uncomfortably. “We lost it.”

“Lost,” Tiernach repeated, his voice terribly calm. “Pray tell me, Katrina, how does a woman of your abilities, backed by two dozen loyal members of the Brotherhood, manage to lose an artefact which I have explicitly stated is more valuable than the lives of every single person under her command?” A muscle under Tiernach’s eye twitched a few times, and the tendons in his neck were clearly visible. Katrina felt glad they were not in the same room. Maybe next time she would persuade one of the lesser brothers to deliver her messages.

“They had a weapon. Something I’ve never seen before,” Katrina said quickly. A hint of curiosity showed in Tiernach’s thunderous expression, and she continued hurriedly. “And that wretched little half-race... He should be dead! But I would have convinced him to surrender, my Lord, I could see in his eyes that he would take the bribe I offered, except... the darkness. The darkness saved him. When I could see, he had gone.”

Tiernach’s image looked back at her from the depths of the crystal, that muscle under his eye twitching again, yet his gaze was directed elsewhere, his expression thoughtful.

“Describe the weapon,” he stated, suddenly focussing on her again.

“It moved, changed shape, flowed like liquid, but struck like steel and held solid as a stone wall.”

Again Tiernach looked thoughtful for a few seconds, then, “Return immediately,” he stated, and the crystal faded.

Katrina took a slow, measured breath. Was it a good thing that something appeared to be concerning him more than the loss of the staff fragment, or bad? She opted for the former, on the assumption that anything which kept his focus off the loss was probably going to spare her a lot of discomfort. Time to fetch the dragon. Quietly, Katrina cursed the creature for being too docile. Had it been free to act it might have been able to help... although actually on second thought, it would probably have torn her apart in preference to assisting her fight. Perhaps it was better to keep it out of conflict after all.



“Why do you watch me?”

Tiernach’s eyes widened and he straightened, realising he had been lost in thought. Before him, the dragon had lifted her head a meter above the compacted earth that served as the floor of her cell, though her body remained relaxed upon the floor of the great trench.

“Do your tasks not tax your attention today?” she enquired, her voice low.

“What do you know of my tasks?” A crease appeared between Tiernach’s eyebrows as he wondered just what thoughts were running through the dragon’s mind.

“Only that which the barbarians above know,” the dragon said softly. “That you prepare for war. I had imagined you would have little time to spare, when one is planning to fight one’s own.”

“I have no plans to fight my own,” the leonin shot back quickly.

“Yet you will fight your father’s army with yours. Are those who live in your kingdom not your own?”

“My family are ‘my own,’” Tiernach stated. “The soldiers are not. They're just people, same as anywhere else. Lordenor, Freelands, desert or highlands, makes no difference – I do not know them.”

“Then you care nothing for the lives that will be lost by your order?”

“I care nothing,” Tiernach echoed coldly.

“Yet you tremble...” the dragon said softly, observing him motionlessly.

“I do not,” Tiernach snapped, stiffening. Was he trembling? If so, only through excitement, surely. “I care nothing for them, they have no bearing on this and are of no import. My plan will succeed, those I wish to protect will be protected, and that is all that is important.”

“If that is your decision. You have hurt your hand.” Great orange eyes flickered down towards his right arm, and he reflexively lifted it, flexing stiff fingers. “Ah,” the dragon sighed. “So that is why you are here. I understand.” The huge head settled to the ground again as Tiernach continued to study his hand, and the raw burn upon palm and finger pads. It still hurt, despite all the salves and ointments he had applied. It didn't matter. It would fade. Pain was, sometimes, the price of power, and it was a price he would gladly have paid many times over.

When he had first grasped the glittering, hitherto untouched fragment of the Dragon Staff, he had exclaimed aloud. This one was not cold like the first. It was hot. So hot that he almost dropped it on instinct. But he must not! That would lose the fight before it had begun. There were no second chances. If he failed once, he failed forever, and that could not happen. Any sacrifice was acceptable, bar his life. His left hand clamped around his right wrist, willing himself to maintain his grip upon the searing fragment.

Then the fragment spoke to him, a shifting, ethereal whisper from inside his own head.

“You have not the strength!”

As it had when he picked up the first fragment of the staff, the world around him seemed to shatter. The fragments span around him, reforming, reshaping into scenes from his life as the magic scrutinised him in every detail, past memories, present situation, future hopes and dreams. This, at least, he had been prepared for, and he paid it no heed.

“I have the strength,” Tiernach shouted, his words almost lost in the hot wind that seemed to blow around him, whirling the fragments of his life ever faster into dizzying chaos. “I have already proven this to another like you, and you shall not disprove me now!”

“Have you indeed. Then make your stand,” returned the voice. One voice? Many voices? Somehow it was both singular and multiple at the same time, as if the speaker changed with each syllable. The spinning fragments of Tiernach’s life tightened around him, closing in front and behind, above and below, the blazing heat contracting. Bracing himself, the leonin raised both hands, planting his feet firmly on the shifting fragments of his memories as they swirled about him, battering at his fingers.

The magic of the Dragon Staff squeezed., and a scream tore from Tiernach's throat.

Heat was pouring in on him, through his hands, through his feet, ever increasing as the magic closed in around him, intense pressure being exerted along his limbs as the magic of the stone continued to strip his mind bare for examination.

“Not this time,” the whisper chuckled around him. “Surrender... the end will be swifter. Painless. Let go your control and let this torture end.”

“No...” the leonin almost whimpered as the searing heat beat upon him. He could feel the stress in his arms reaching the limit of what his bones would take and gritted his teeth. He knew the strength with which he pushed back lay not with the muscles in his arms. Bone was irrelevant. “Never. I... control...”

“You do not.”

The leonin shouted hoarsely as he felt the horrible snap of one wrist, the grind of bone on bone as the magic squeezed relentlessly around him. And still he pushed back.

“You cannot win,” the whisper echoed. “Look how you have already failed in so much.”

The whirlwind of images now showed him all the worst moments of his life. All the good and great deeds he had attempted, but at the end failed to bring about. The sword fighting contest, aged eight, coming in sixth place, despite all his best efforts. The police forces he had tried to set up to maintain order in outlying towns, which went rotten as soon as he left. Local councils he had arranged, which immediately saw to their own benefits above those of those they were to represent. His studies with the order of magi, the night of the storm... With a small cry he felt the other wrist break, the magic pressing upon him as the list of failures continued.

“How can you hope to control this power?” the multivoice asked.

When his instructor in the art had told him to go home after his first week because he had been made so miserable by the strict lifestyle, the rules, restrictions, and regulations of the order.

But, whispered a small voice at the back of Tiernach’s mind. I did not. “No,” he snarled, a fire of greater intensity than of the surrounding magic flaring within him, a greater heat than the flames that beat upon him. “I did not give up. And see where I have come from such beginnings! See me now, see my knowledge and my strength! I will control! I will control you, and everything else to which I bring my will!” With all the strength he possessed, he forced his arms outwards and upwards, pushing at the magic of the staff. “I... will... control!”

“You are strong,” the multivoice agreed. “We bend to your will.”

Tiernach crumpled unconscious to the floor, his arms undamaged, his bones intact, but a trickle of blood running between his fingers where the heat of the fragment had burnt his palm.

And now, hours after, he stood before the dragon, both fragments of the staff in deep and secret pockets, both prepared to do his bidding, to amplify and realise his will on but a word from his lips. But was this fragment the same as the first? With the shattering of the staff had come the random and chaotic breaking of the spellpaths and enchantments within it – might not each fragment behave in a unique and unpredictable way when called upon? The challenge they had issued had certainly been different.

“You may proceed,” the dragon said quietly, and Tiernach frowned.

“That is my decision, not yours,” he growled.

“You have already made it, or you would not be here. I am prepared, do what you believe you must.” The body did not move, but somehow the eyebrows seemed to indicate a shrug.

The fingers of Tiernach’s left hand grazed the surface of the second fragment as he regarded the dragon thoughtfully. He knew full well that to apply the full pressure of the staff's magic against her caused great pain, but he had to know for sure the capabilities of this new piece! He lifted it from his pocket, gazing over its glittering facets to the dragon, hesitating.

“Well?” she demanded suddenly as he paused. “Are you afraid?”

With a snarl, Tiernach spoke a word of command to the shimmering fragment, and the great head reared back with a roar. Crimson scales flashed in the torchlight, claws raked the ground as images filled Tiernach’s head – images of places far away, of mountains and of forests, of cities and of caverns, of oceans and of islands. The sensation of flight, the beat of strong wings, soaring, wing tip to wing tip with other dragons, and among them...

A violent crash sounded as the dragon’s horned head impacted the metal grate above. Shouts echoed down to Tiernach as she slumped to the ground, unconscious. The leonin blinked, stepping back as the head lolled sideways. Hot breath washed over him as the mouth half opened.

“Majesty?” a hesitant voice from above.

“Stay your ground!” Tiernach barked without looking up, regarding the dragon intently.

“Majesty, you commanded that if the crystal...”

“Who now?”

“Lord De Lance, Majesty.”

Sighing, Tiernach nodded. He would have to leave the dragon where she had fallen. She continued breathing, seemingly undamaged, and yet... he shook his head as he ascended the ramp to the surface. He had at no time ordered her to harm herself. Indeed, he had been far too tied up in the curious visions the fragment had drawn from her mind to even notice her actions. A reflex brought on by the violence of the mental assault, then? If it was anything like his experiences of allowing the magic of the staff into his mind, it could easily be so – and of course she had no choice in the matter, whereas he has been willing to face the challenge every time.

Interesting.

“Most interesting,” he said aloud several minutes later, gazing thoughtfully into the polished quartz. “And troublesome.”

“Troublesome?” De Lance’s voice emanated from the crystal, accompanied by the light distortion that such magical communication had yet to free itself from. “Highness, your father is going to lead us to victory!”

“Precisely,” Tiernach hissed quietly, leaning forward, elbows on the marble desk as he peered closely at the man’s image. “The last thing we need is a victory. Especially when measures are being taken to minimise casualties. We will not be in a position to establish power if the majority of both armies remains intact.”

Looking thoughtful, the man ran a hand through his grey-streaked hair. “I understand. What would you have me do.”

“Quite simple,” Tiernach said, his voice calm and soft as he lowered one arm. Unseen under the desk, his claws bit into the side of his chair. “I have a man near Goldwood. I will have him deliver a message, giving a time and place that our army will be. Goldwood will be suspicious, naturally, but he will check, he will prepare, and when he verifies the information I have fed him...”

“The armies will meet,” De Lance finished. “I understand, highness. Most ingenious.”

“You are to stay with my father until the battle begins,” Tiernach’s eyes narrowed slightly, glittering in the candlelight.

Fidgeting slightly, the man nodded again. “Very well...” He sounded more hesitant now. Tiernach’s lip curled.

“You will be safe,” he said, addressing the obvious cause of the man's concern. Sharp as De Lance might be he, like every other member of the Brotherhood that Tiernach had met, was concerned mostly about his own safety. After all, what good was a promise of immortality to one who was sent on a suicide mission? “Give no hint that you expect trouble, and command one of the flanks – ensure it is filled with troops loyal to us. When the time is right, withdraw.”

De Lance’s eyebrows climbed over an inch up his forehead.

“They won’t kill him,” Tiernach smiled thinly. “My father is far, far too useful alive, and they know it. The advantage of being one of the most hated men in the Freelands – he is also the most valuable.”

“As you wish, my prince.”

Jaw tightly clenched, trying to give away nothing, Tiernach reached out and passed his hand over the quartz, causing it to fade swiftly into transparency.

“That was a good choice, Prince Tiernach,” said the First calmly, watching across the expansive desk. “Now the armies will decimate each other, and leave the way clear for ours.”

“Yes...” Tiernach said softly, feeling the wood of his chair crack in his grip even as his expression remained slack. “Yes, they will.”

“Speaking,” the First leaned forward. “Of our army. Tell me, prince Tiernach, how have your experiments been recently?”

Tiernach’s face gave away a hint of emotion this time, a slight twitch below one eye.

“Come now, prince Tiernach,” the First said in his maddeningly slow manner. “We are both aware of the goal of your research – that is, after all, why I originally provided you with Tenebrae's books.”

“Then come,” Tiernach snarled suddenly, standing so swiftly that his chair scudded back across the floor. “Walk with me, and I will show you.”

Tiernach led the First through the corridors of the palace – some of which had now been re-routed to avoid the ruined east wing – to what by appearance might be a servants' entrance to the cellar. It wasn't. The maids and other maintenance staff had strict instructions to never, ever, enter the doorway through which the two now proceeded. To do so... well, the chief of staff had never quite explained the full penalty, but it was generally agreed that it would be bad to violate the instruction. Public execution for treason sort of bad.

Needless to say, nobody except Tiernach had as yet passed the intimidating sign upon the door to the stairwell. Spiralling downwards, ever aware of the First's gaze upon his back, Tiernach continued, lifting a candle from its sconce to light their path down the compact, winding stone stairs.

Dungeons.

Theoretically, their use had ended decades ago, somewhere around the start of Maximilian's rule, but they existed nonetheless. Dark, cramped, and cold as only places that never saw the sunlight could be. Tiernach could only sympathise with those who, through long ago deeds, long ago forgotten, had once been imprisoned within the grey stone cells.

Deep under the palace, below the foundations of the solid stone fortress walls that surrounded the grounds, below even the cool storage cellars for wines and ales, lay caverns cut into the bowels of the rock by water that had ceased to flow aeons past. Down here, the only light that ever shone was the flickering glow of flame, the only sound the soft pad of footfalls as here and there a black robed attendant hurried about their duties. Age old prisoners aside, Tiernach pitied these poor wretches, spending their time of service in the Brotherhood in these dark, sunless places. This was no existence for anyone – but then, they served a purpose, volunteered gladly, and probably deserved no better. Crawling, creeping little vermin the lot of them Let them serve a higher cause, even if they didn't lacked awareness of what it truly was.

An opening to one side of the main channel had been closed off by iron bars, and it was at this that Tiernach stopped, grabbing a piece of fruit from an unexpected pile on the table nearby and tossing it through the entrance.

“Just wait,” he snapped, noticing the First peering into the darkness beyond and seemingly about to ask a question.

“As you wish, Prince Tiernach,” the man nodded slowly, his face shadowed by his hood, his expression indiscernible.

There came a shuffling noise from somewhere in the darkness beyond, a scrape as of feet over rock. A whisper of reflected light appeared in the shadows. The shadowy form observed them for several long seconds, before scurrying forwards to claim the fruit, hunching over it on the dusty floor.

“Curious...” For a moment, the First’s air of control faltered, his eyebrows drawing together as he cast his hood back.

The creature behind the bars started, matt black eyes catching the movement, large ears turning. Evidently deciding it wasn’t being threatened, it went back to eating, giving those outside a chance to study it in detail.

Bipedal, humanoid, bearing a vague resemblance to one of the canine races, it crouched low to the floor, dull black eyes perhaps fixed upon the food, perhaps in constant motion – there was no way to tell the direction of its gaze. Perhaps it viewed the world from all directions at once. Its furred hide was a dull, stone grey, while the limbs seemed slightly out of proportion, the shins and forearms too long by several inches. When it turned and scampered back into the shadows, it dragged one hand on the floor, as if unable to walk upright on two legs alone.

“That is more than a dog, prince Tiernach,” the First said slowly, turning his face to the leonin. “I believe congratulations are in order. What was it, originally?”

Tiernach didn’t answer for a moment, his gaze still fixed upon the shadows where the creature had vanished. A filthy, loathsome little beast, and yet... a triumph for the work of Tyrandius Tenebrae, and a step closer to the goal. But that had once been...

“Prince Tiernach?” the man repeated, and the leonin started.

“Lupari,” he said, gathering himself.

“A small one...”

“Yes.”

“I understand. The barbarians, I believe, think very little of anyone below their average stock. I am not surprised you found volunteers willing to take risks. Those brutes would take any chance for elevation through the ranks.”

Did the lupari volunteer, though, Tiernach wondered, or was he simply someone the Brotherhood had thought would not be missed? He had been delivered unconscious, and Tiernach had never quite managed to ask. Was the original mind still inside the deformed creature, or was he mercifully unaware of who he had been? Perhaps that person was long since dead, and now all they saw was the creature that controlled the body in his absence.

“How long do you need to refine the process?” the First interrupted his thoughts.

“Not long,” Tiernach met his gaze coldly. “I see the pattern in the results, now. Come with me,” he gestured brusquely, turning on his heel, leading the way further down the torch lit corridor.

Deeper down still, past a pair of uniformed guards, and into another chamber. In one corner, a pool of water glimmered, surface throwing back the flickering light in reflections that danced across the walls and ceiling of the chamber.

“I assume, prince Tiernach, that our tools of conversion do not like the open air?”

Tiernach didn’t answer. Instead, he took a pole from where it leaned against the wall. On one end was a net, and it was this that he shoved roughly below the surface of the water, scooping up his target. Carrying it swiftly to one side of the chamber, he dumped the contents of the net into a wooden tank. In one side, a glass plate allowed the new occupant to be observed.

“I would suggest,” he said with a thin smile as the first approached. “That you don’t touch it.”

“Oh, I assure you, prince Tiernach, I have no intention of doing so.” Nonetheless, the man’s hand pressed against the crown glass as he looked through it at the distorted shape within the tank.

Grey, and slug like, the creature drifted in the water, apparently unconcerned by its recent relocation. Thin tendrils hung down from its body, waving slowly to and fro, though there was no appreciable movement of the water. Tiernach gave a snort of amusement as it suddenly bumped up against the glass plate, causing the First to withdraw his hand in alarm.

“You are indeed to be congratulated, prince Tiernach,” the man told him, bowing his head with respect. “Very few, other than Tyrandius Tenebrae himself, have ever shown the aptitude to harness these creatures. Does this not make you happy?” he asked as Tiernach’s expression darkened.

The leonin looked back at him thoughtfully before replying. “These creatures have been known by many names. They are the dark worms, the soul maggots, the mind eaters and in the old tongues the dak mal, the farr kutch, and the rathtar ek. They are born in the deepest, darkest parts of the world, the places that mortal men fear to tread, and they spread fear and death wherever they are involved. To bend them to our cause is a reason for satisfaction, but happiness is an emotion they have never inspired.”

To Tiernach’s irritation, and surprise, the First actually smiled, a thin and predatory smile that held little warmth and less amusement.

“Then, Prince Tiernach, perhaps you can take satisfaction in knowing that your efforts are going to bring about the greatest change that this world has ever seen,” the man said slowly. “With these, soul maggots, I believe you called them, our army will be swelled with loyal converts to our cause, and the empire of Tyrandius, will flourish.”

“And the information?” Tiernach’s eyes narrowed.

“Will, of course, be provided to you upon completion of our task, prince Tiernach. I am assuming, of course, that you have plans for further refinement?”

Tiernach paused. “Naturally. It won't take long now.”