Midlan scurried across the fields like ants, doing
whatever he ordered. It was fear — the weight of his eyes on the tops of
their little ant heads — that kept them obedient. Yes, let them build his
cities, let them fight, die and bleed for him. Then when they grew too old to
lift a blade, he would crush their tiny bodies between his fingers …
A knock at the
door brought him back to the present. He turned and saw a steward peeking his
head through the slightest of cracks. “Forgive me, Your Majesty, but your
guests have arrived.”
He waited for
the King to nod before he darted behind the door and closed it. After gazing
out the window for a while longer, Crevan began his stroll to the throne room
— where his guests would be waiting.
The halls of
Midlan had a torch for every three stones. Crevan ordered that they remain lit
day and night. Shadows were the cloaks of thieves … and assassins. He wouldn’t
give them anywhere to hide.
At the end of
the hallway, a huge onyx dragon guarded his chambers. It bared its violent
teeth and reached out with curved claws. The black dragon had been the symbol
of Midlan since the time of the first King — a crest of power, the lord
of all beasts.
Nevertheless,
Crevan was careful to avoid its stony glare. He pushed the spines at the end of
the dragon’s tail, and one shifted under the pressure. It sunk down and
clicked. A segment of the wall to the left of the statue slid over with a
chalky groan, revealing a narrow passageway hidden in darkness. He grabbed a
torch from the hall and made his way down a tight spiral of steps.
Tunnels
crisscrossed through the fortress like spider webs. They wound behind every
door and under every corridor — and he kept them all a secret. Here in
the darkness, Crevan moved without fear. The passageway was sturdy and the
walls were thick enough to hide the heavy fall of his steps. A man could even
scream for hours on end, and no one could hear him.
This, he knew
for a fact.
At the end of
one tunnel was a small wooden door. He snuffed his torch and opened it slowly,
careful not to stir its hinges. Beyond the door was the backside of a tapestry.
As he peered through a worn section of thread, his throne room came into focus.
Five people
lounged about the long table in the center of the room. They were Crevan’s
chosen few: the Sovereign Five.
When King
Banagher … perished, several nobles fought to seize the throne, but Crevan
outwitted them all. He was strong, yes, and he towered over everyone else in
the King’s court, but his pride was in his cunning — not his strength.
And now he ruled the Kingdom the same way he’d commanded the King’s army: mercilessly.
Gone was the
tangled mass of lords and ladies that used to rule the realm. Purged were the
mumbling, argumentative old men and overzealous young nobles. Squashed were the
many noisy opinions and the general stench of democracy. Under Crevan’s rule,
there was only one voice — his. And when he spoke, the Kingdom listened.
He’d taken
Midlan and its vast army for himself, but there were still five other regions
to control. For these he assigned a small group of nobles, handpicked for their
particular brands of ruthlessness.
A woman’s laugh
drew his eyes to the hearth behind the table. Time could not touch Countess
D’Mere, ruler of the Grandforest. She was as alluring now as she had been
seventeen years ago. When the Countess tossed her golden-brown hair and batted
her pretty blue eyes, her enemies fell. No man could hold his ground against
her charms — or survive the kiss of her dagger.
Duke Reginald of
the High Seas smiled like a born swindler. His close-cropped hair rolled in
tight waves across his head. He tugged absently on the end of his goatee and
lounged against the wall; the firelight glinted off the sharp edge of his
smile. Though he feigned indifference, his eyes wandered repeatedly down
D’Mere’s liberal neckline while they chatted.
Baron Sahar
whatever he ordered. It was fear — the weight of his eyes on the tops of
their little ant heads — that kept them obedient. Yes, let them build his
cities, let them fight, die and bleed for him. Then when they grew too old to
lift a blade, he would crush their tiny bodies between his fingers …
A knock at the
door brought him back to the present. He turned and saw a steward peeking his
head through the slightest of cracks. “Forgive me, Your Majesty, but your
guests have arrived.”
He waited for
the King to nod before he darted behind the door and closed it. After gazing
out the window for a while longer, Crevan began his stroll to the throne room
— where his guests would be waiting.
The halls of
Midlan had a torch for every three stones. Crevan ordered that they remain lit
day and night. Shadows were the cloaks of thieves … and assassins. He wouldn’t
give them anywhere to hide.
At the end of
the hallway, a huge onyx dragon guarded his chambers. It bared its violent
teeth and reached out with curved claws. The black dragon had been the symbol
of Midlan since the time of the first King — a crest of power, the lord
of all beasts.
Nevertheless,
Crevan was careful to avoid its stony glare. He pushed the spines at the end of
the dragon’s tail, and one shifted under the pressure. It sunk down and
clicked. A segment of the wall to the left of the statue slid over with a
chalky groan, revealing a narrow passageway hidden in darkness. He grabbed a
torch from the hall and made his way down a tight spiral of steps.
Tunnels
crisscrossed through the fortress like spider webs. They wound behind every
door and under every corridor — and he kept them all a secret. Here in
the darkness, Crevan moved without fear. The passageway was sturdy and the
walls were thick enough to hide the heavy fall of his steps. A man could even
scream for hours on end, and no one could hear him.
This, he knew
for a fact.
At the end of
one tunnel was a small wooden door. He snuffed his torch and opened it slowly,
careful not to stir its hinges. Beyond the door was the backside of a tapestry.
As he peered through a worn section of thread, his throne room came into focus.
Five people
lounged about the long table in the center of the room. They were Crevan’s
chosen few: the Sovereign Five.
When King
Banagher … perished, several nobles fought to seize the throne, but Crevan
outwitted them all. He was strong, yes, and he towered over everyone else in
the King’s court, but his pride was in his cunning — not his strength.
And now he ruled the Kingdom the same way he’d commanded the King’s army: mercilessly.
Gone was the
tangled mass of lords and ladies that used to rule the realm. Purged were the
mumbling, argumentative old men and overzealous young nobles. Squashed were the
many noisy opinions and the general stench of democracy. Under Crevan’s rule,
there was only one voice — his. And when he spoke, the Kingdom listened.
He’d taken
Midlan and its vast army for himself, but there were still five other regions
to control. For these he assigned a small group of nobles, handpicked for their
particular brands of ruthlessness.
A woman’s laugh
drew his eyes to the hearth behind the table. Time could not touch Countess
D’Mere, ruler of the Grandforest. She was as alluring now as she had been
seventeen years ago. When the Countess tossed her golden-brown hair and batted
her pretty blue eyes, her enemies fell. No man could hold his ground against
her charms — or survive the kiss of her dagger.
Duke Reginald of
the High Seas smiled like a born swindler. His close-cropped hair rolled in
tight waves across his head. He tugged absently on the end of his goatee and
lounged against the wall; the firelight glinted off the sharp edge of his
smile. Though he feigned indifference, his eyes wandered repeatedly down
D’Mere’s liberal neckline while they chatted.
Baron Sahar
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