Prophet of Moonshae - Douglas Niles [27]
He thought of one who dwelled there, who dreamed of the robed man, though she did not know it yet. Still, her dreams were a summons, an appeal to him, and soon she would know his presence. To her, he would become more than the impersonal figure who had just sent these raiding parties on their missions. Indeed, she would need to call him something- though, of course, he could not let her know his real name. The faint smile played with his lips as he thought of the young princess and her naive welcome.
"She will call me Malawar," he whispered to himself with a soft chuckle.
* * * * *
From the Log of Sinioth:
The pieces of war are gathered. Talos awaits the rise of chaos, when the armies shall march and his power shall rule over all the land!
Of course, I do not control these armies, but through the wisdom of my master, I do not have to. The mere triggers of war, prodded by the agents of Talos, will be enough to sweep away the fragile framework of twenty years' peace.
And in its place, once again the isles will tremble before the thunder of war, raging conflicts of men and of gods!
5
Road to Blackstone
Gotha finally touched claw to land upon an islet that stood in lonely isolation, rising a little higher than the gray seas about its bleak shore. The barren rockpile was crested by a low hill, and near the rounded summit, Gotha discovered a cave. The natural cavern did not approach the grandeur of the magnificent lair he had once claimed, but it was a dwelling that would serve him well for the task at hand.
Next he went about exploring the islet, knowing that it was not huge but having earlier seen evidence of human habitation. The beast prowled the rock in the dark of the night, stalking the land like a huge hunting cat. Wind howled, and sheets of rain drenched him, but Gotha pressed on, unmindful of the weather.
The dracolich came upon a small pasture of sheep and gleefully slayed the stupid creatures. When their bleating brought a shepherd forth, the hideous monster disemboweled the wretch with one quick slash of his foreclaw, deriving even more pleasure from this killing.
Creeping across the fogbound isle, the dragon-beast found more huts-dwelling places for lone shepherds and fishermen mostly, though in one place, he encountered a dozen or more buildings clustered together, forming the beginnings of a town.
Gotha's eyes-red orbs that seemed to float in his deep, black sockets-glowed fiercely at the discovery. Slinking silently along the ground, sheltered by the heavy mist and the thickness of the night, the beast coiled in the center of the rude buildings. The structures employed, for their walls and roofs, the wreckage of ships that had been cast upon this lonesome rock, giving each a temporary, haphazard appearance.
From several, Gotha smelled odors that would have once been pleasant: a kettle of boiling fish, a leg of mutton sizzling over a driftwood fire, even the sweet scent of tobacco wafting through the dusk. Now these spoors triggered nothing beyond memory, for the undead dragon no longer felt hunger.
He still, however, lusted for the savage joy of killing
Gotha raised his gaunt head to the sky like a spearhead thrust upward into the night and uttered a bellow of fierce challenge. The force of the sound rang through the night and brought the northmen stumbling from their huts, peering in terror through the mists, trying to see the nature of that which had inspired such deep and primeval dread.
And even as they learned, they died.
Carefully, methodically, Gotha set about making the island his own. The huts and houses of the inhabitants he left intact, save in a few cases in which a desperate human-as often as not, a male with female and young to protect-barricaded himself in his dwelling.
These Gotha dealt with directly, spreading his jaws and belching the murderous gout of flame. His metamorphosis from dragon to lich