began to quieten, and waited expectantly. All eleven places at the head table were now occupied, so the council could commence.
Then the herald rose. ‘Most honoured guests and companions of the Warlord Artibulus, I present to you his son and heir, Thegne Nibulus Wintus.’
‘At last,’ murmured Nibulus, rising excitedly to his feet. This was the first time that his father had allowed him to take full charge of the proceedings, and make his first address to a council. And moreover this was to be his campaign, and he would not let the old man forget that. With one last glance towards his father, he faced the throng.
Now that Nibulus was facing ahead, the Warlord’s syrupy eyes studied his son unblinkingly. Artibulus, like many a Peladane, had never considered it particularly important to get to know his son, and he could not help but speculate about his performance now. The lad seemed worthy enough, the sort you could depend on in a tight spot. But what about his oratory and leadership skills? How would he handle them? What demands could he make of his men that would still sound like promises?
Nibulus cleared his throat. ‘Right, first I would like to thank my father for hosting this gathering today,’ he began, ‘and also thank you all for attending on this, my first . . . campaign .’ He savoured the word, drawing it out luxuriously.
Pel’s Bells! Artibulus rolled his eyes and his gaze rose up to the vaulted ceiling.
‘I shall come to the point,’ Nibulus went on. ‘I realize that many of you are under the impression that, following our triumph over the Villans of Frea-Vilyana three years ago, we are here to raise another army to repeat such a victory.’
There was a general buzz of approval from the throng, many of whom were veterans of the Villan crusades and, having spent most of their spoils already, were keen to have another crack at the enemy. For many, too, the sacking of cities and general harrying of the South was their only escape from a life of relentless boredom.
Nibulus changed tack: ‘However, since our last victory over them three years ago, those southern upstarts are of little concern to us now . . .’
The first murmurings of surprise and disappointment began to be heard, and Nibulus resisted the temptation to look at his father, though well imagining the expression on the old man’s face. Still, there was no avoiding the subject now, so best to get it out of the way the soonest.
‘No,’ he affirmed authoritatively, ‘there are far more important matters to concern us now, my friends. The force of elite warriors I intend to raise today will be granted the honour of defeating an even older, greater enemy, a threat that is now poised to engulf us all. For an ancient terror is once again stirring across the land.’ He paused for effect, as his father had taught him. ‘I lead you against the vile forces of Olchor and his minions!’
There was a buzz of surprise at this announcement, but one of interest too. Olchor, the ‘Evil God of Death’, was not only recognized as one of the most powerful deities in existence but as the common enemy of all others, immortal and mortal alike. His cult was one of the oldest in the world, and his worshippers were many. His temples lurked in many places, some veiled, shadowy and primordial, others bold, shining and new. And their priests, the necromancers, were feared by all; some of them were reputedly so ancient that they hardly resembled any other race that dwelt upon the face of Lindormyn, either because of inconceivable decrepitude or, in the case of those with the greatest powers, because they were born in an era so far distant in the past that mankind then simply did not look as he did nowadays. In some cases their true age transcended the count of years, for their beginning occurred before numbers had even been conceived. And there were other necromancers barely out of their childhood, proud acolytes given to saturated excess and sanguine
Then the herald rose. ‘Most honoured guests and companions of the Warlord Artibulus, I present to you his son and heir, Thegne Nibulus Wintus.’
‘At last,’ murmured Nibulus, rising excitedly to his feet. This was the first time that his father had allowed him to take full charge of the proceedings, and make his first address to a council. And moreover this was to be his campaign, and he would not let the old man forget that. With one last glance towards his father, he faced the throng.
Now that Nibulus was facing ahead, the Warlord’s syrupy eyes studied his son unblinkingly. Artibulus, like many a Peladane, had never considered it particularly important to get to know his son, and he could not help but speculate about his performance now. The lad seemed worthy enough, the sort you could depend on in a tight spot. But what about his oratory and leadership skills? How would he handle them? What demands could he make of his men that would still sound like promises?
Nibulus cleared his throat. ‘Right, first I would like to thank my father for hosting this gathering today,’ he began, ‘and also thank you all for attending on this, my first . . . campaign .’ He savoured the word, drawing it out luxuriously.
Pel’s Bells! Artibulus rolled his eyes and his gaze rose up to the vaulted ceiling.
‘I shall come to the point,’ Nibulus went on. ‘I realize that many of you are under the impression that, following our triumph over the Villans of Frea-Vilyana three years ago, we are here to raise another army to repeat such a victory.’
There was a general buzz of approval from the throng, many of whom were veterans of the Villan crusades and, having spent most of their spoils already, were keen to have another crack at the enemy. For many, too, the sacking of cities and general harrying of the South was their only escape from a life of relentless boredom.
Nibulus changed tack: ‘However, since our last victory over them three years ago, those southern upstarts are of little concern to us now . . .’
The first murmurings of surprise and disappointment began to be heard, and Nibulus resisted the temptation to look at his father, though well imagining the expression on the old man’s face. Still, there was no avoiding the subject now, so best to get it out of the way the soonest.
‘No,’ he affirmed authoritatively, ‘there are far more important matters to concern us now, my friends. The force of elite warriors I intend to raise today will be granted the honour of defeating an even older, greater enemy, a threat that is now poised to engulf us all. For an ancient terror is once again stirring across the land.’ He paused for effect, as his father had taught him. ‘I lead you against the vile forces of Olchor and his minions!’
There was a buzz of surprise at this announcement, but one of interest too. Olchor, the ‘Evil God of Death’, was not only recognized as one of the most powerful deities in existence but as the common enemy of all others, immortal and mortal alike. His cult was one of the oldest in the world, and his worshippers were many. His temples lurked in many places, some veiled, shadowy and primordial, others bold, shining and new. And their priests, the necromancers, were feared by all; some of them were reputedly so ancient that they hardly resembled any other race that dwelt upon the face of Lindormyn, either because of inconceivable decrepitude or, in the case of those with the greatest powers, because they were born in an era so far distant in the past that mankind then simply did not look as he did nowadays. In some cases their true age transcended the count of years, for their beginning occurred before numbers had even been conceived. And there were other necromancers barely out of their childhood, proud acolytes given to saturated excess and sanguine
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