war will be won with politics and coin.’
The woman spoke up. Even inside, away from the breeze and the city noise, her voice was still distant, zephyrous. ‘And who might your enemies be, sir? I see none.’
Malvus bowed again, eyes fixed on the slender woman’s pale eyes. ‘The enemies of progress, madam. The same enemies that would see Krauslung’s expansion and well-being damaged beyond repair.’
Durnus sighed. ‘As always, Council Barkhart, you distract us with your outlandish opinions. Our guests are hungry and tired. You will have a chance to speak to them later, over dinner, if you wish.’
Malvus’ eyes narrowed. ‘I wholeheartedly look forward to it. I bid you a good day, sirs, and madam,’ he replied, and with that, he walked away, hands still folded firmly behind his back, polished boots squeaking on the marble.
Tyrfing and Durnus quickly led the others into their rooms and locked the door firmly behind them. ‘Finally,’ Tyrfing sighed, spreading his hands over the door. The door seemed to hiss and quiver for a moment. When he rapped his knuckle on its gilded wood, it sounded as though he were knocking on stone. ‘We’re safe from eager ears.’
The three visitors stood in a little triangle in the middle of the room. They were staring at a red velvet armchair in front of them, an armchair which held a blonde man dressed in steel armour, wrapped in a black and green cape, his head back, limbs limp, and snoring contentedly. Tyrfing shrugged off his heavy robe and hung it on a hook. He looked over at their guests and followed their confused gazes to the man in the armchair. With a sigh, he wandered over and flicked the ear of the man, eliciting a grunt and a surprised snort. The man came awake with a start and sat bolt upright in the chair. Rubbing his ear, he looked up and saw three strangers staring back at him. ‘Well, isn’t this embarrassing?’ he muttered. ‘I was on the night shift again.’
Tyrfing gestured to the three. ‘Modren, might I introduce our three guests. The goddess Verix, and the gods Heimdall and Loki. My lords and lady, this is Undermage Modren.’
Modren jumped from the chair and instantly dropped to his knees. ‘It is an honour,’ he whispered. Durnus and Tyrfing also dropped to their knees, now that they could show the proper amount of respect.
‘Please, rise,’ said Heimdall. ‘We have not come here for that.’ The god shrugged off his warm, woollen coat and let it fall to the thick green rug that covered most of the floor. He looked around at the swollen bookcases and drowned desks, the trunks stuffed with trinkets and artefacts and scrolls. He took it all in with slow movements of his tawny eyes, as he had in the streets, absorbing every minute detail like a hawk examining rabbits. A moment of weakness washed across his face, and he rubbed his eyes. The prayers had been strong enough to wrap his ethereal form in bone and skin, but his powers had been left behind. Summoning them was difficult. He sighed and went to one of the six chairs that sat in a circle in the middle of the room. He tested it with his hands, feeling its soft velvet and its plump cushions, before settling awkwardly into it, almost as though he had never sat in a chair before, or if he had, he couldn’t remember how to. Modren and Tyrfing watched with blank expressions, while Durnus felt his way to an oak cabinet.
‘Please, sit,’ he asked, feeling for the cabinet’s handles. Tyrfing didn’t move to assist him. He knew better than to offer help. The blind Arkmage’s hands soon found a trio of glasses. ‘Would you like a drink? Some wine? Food perhaps?’
Loki opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by Heimdall. ‘We will not require any, thank you,’ he answered. ‘Our bodies are merely shells.’
Tyrfing and Modren took their seats. ‘Well, you might have to pretend they aren’t. Gods might not eat, but trade delegates from Hȃlorn definitely do. We don’t want to
The woman spoke up. Even inside, away from the breeze and the city noise, her voice was still distant, zephyrous. ‘And who might your enemies be, sir? I see none.’
Malvus bowed again, eyes fixed on the slender woman’s pale eyes. ‘The enemies of progress, madam. The same enemies that would see Krauslung’s expansion and well-being damaged beyond repair.’
Durnus sighed. ‘As always, Council Barkhart, you distract us with your outlandish opinions. Our guests are hungry and tired. You will have a chance to speak to them later, over dinner, if you wish.’
Malvus’ eyes narrowed. ‘I wholeheartedly look forward to it. I bid you a good day, sirs, and madam,’ he replied, and with that, he walked away, hands still folded firmly behind his back, polished boots squeaking on the marble.
Tyrfing and Durnus quickly led the others into their rooms and locked the door firmly behind them. ‘Finally,’ Tyrfing sighed, spreading his hands over the door. The door seemed to hiss and quiver for a moment. When he rapped his knuckle on its gilded wood, it sounded as though he were knocking on stone. ‘We’re safe from eager ears.’
The three visitors stood in a little triangle in the middle of the room. They were staring at a red velvet armchair in front of them, an armchair which held a blonde man dressed in steel armour, wrapped in a black and green cape, his head back, limbs limp, and snoring contentedly. Tyrfing shrugged off his heavy robe and hung it on a hook. He looked over at their guests and followed their confused gazes to the man in the armchair. With a sigh, he wandered over and flicked the ear of the man, eliciting a grunt and a surprised snort. The man came awake with a start and sat bolt upright in the chair. Rubbing his ear, he looked up and saw three strangers staring back at him. ‘Well, isn’t this embarrassing?’ he muttered. ‘I was on the night shift again.’
Tyrfing gestured to the three. ‘Modren, might I introduce our three guests. The goddess Verix, and the gods Heimdall and Loki. My lords and lady, this is Undermage Modren.’
Modren jumped from the chair and instantly dropped to his knees. ‘It is an honour,’ he whispered. Durnus and Tyrfing also dropped to their knees, now that they could show the proper amount of respect.
‘Please, rise,’ said Heimdall. ‘We have not come here for that.’ The god shrugged off his warm, woollen coat and let it fall to the thick green rug that covered most of the floor. He looked around at the swollen bookcases and drowned desks, the trunks stuffed with trinkets and artefacts and scrolls. He took it all in with slow movements of his tawny eyes, as he had in the streets, absorbing every minute detail like a hawk examining rabbits. A moment of weakness washed across his face, and he rubbed his eyes. The prayers had been strong enough to wrap his ethereal form in bone and skin, but his powers had been left behind. Summoning them was difficult. He sighed and went to one of the six chairs that sat in a circle in the middle of the room. He tested it with his hands, feeling its soft velvet and its plump cushions, before settling awkwardly into it, almost as though he had never sat in a chair before, or if he had, he couldn’t remember how to. Modren and Tyrfing watched with blank expressions, while Durnus felt his way to an oak cabinet.
‘Please, sit,’ he asked, feeling for the cabinet’s handles. Tyrfing didn’t move to assist him. He knew better than to offer help. The blind Arkmage’s hands soon found a trio of glasses. ‘Would you like a drink? Some wine? Food perhaps?’
Loki opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by Heimdall. ‘We will not require any, thank you,’ he answered. ‘Our bodies are merely shells.’
Tyrfing and Modren took their seats. ‘Well, you might have to pretend they aren’t. Gods might not eat, but trade delegates from Hȃlorn definitely do. We don’t want to
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