The Ogre's Pendant & The Rat in the Pit

The Wizard-King's Truth III

The Wizard-King's Truth III

Lukotor the Wises hands trembled around the Vessel of Altak-Tur, which had penetrated the minds of the guards from the southern gate and seized their bodies. It was a powerful spell that strained the vessel terribly; it shuddered as though in agony. Cracks were forming in the magical clay.

Only a little more, he promised himself.

Triumph thrummed in his breast as the enthralled ogres led them through the low wall to the barrows. King Gergorixs tomb rose before him. He was certain of it. He could feel it. Within that great hill would shine his ultimate triumph. An egg that would hatch into endless power.

Avernixs bearing was imperious, but his countenance pale and coated in an icy sweat. His lips muttered silently and his eyes were helpless. When theyd first reached the wood, it was with a great army at their backs. Now, like an apocalypse, all had been withered down to three exhausted warriors. Hed been made heirless as well.

Lukotor considered all his overlord had lost and knew he would need to pledge restitution and bestow boundless tribute unto him. With the power to shatter mountains, he could spare time to console his devastated sovereign. Or perhaps

His dark eyes narrowed.

Perhaps he should be sovereign.

All along hed held no interest in pursuing earthly rule once hed gained Gergorixs legacy, thinking to slough off such things like a child casting away wooden toys in adulthood. Hed thought to live as demigods do, drinking of mortal gratitude for generations while supporting Avernixs dynasty. With the overlords forces devastated, Lukotor would need to take a firm hand to rebuild what had been lost. Why not control it directly? It could be amusing.Updated from

They rounded the barrows, their feet crunching on ancient gravel paths weaving between silent hillocks. A pall hung on the air. One of death. One of anticipation.

Gergorixs barrow loomed higher before him.

Lukotor scoffed, touching one of the jewels in his hair. Clearly, the Wizard-King had been a man of limited taste. No matter the size, it was still a dirt mound hed chosen to spend eternity beneath. Is this all the fool had aspired to? Even the city - grand enough in its time - would have been a poor lair for one who rocked the skies with his power. Lukotor had traveled to many civilizations far grander in his youth.

He would build something that would shame the Duke of Laexondael and the Merchant Princes of Zabyalla. And when he came to restnowhy die at all? His imagination soared at the possibilities. He walked tall, more than ready for godhood to be bestowed upon him.

The warriors breaths fell silent.

He rounded a final barrow.

The door to Gergorixs tomb came into view.

He froze.

The Vessel of Altak-Tur slipped from numbed fingers to roll on the gravel.

Lukotorthe door Avernix murmured.

The vault had been breached by a terrible force.

No! the old man shrieked, pushing past his bewitched ogres and rushing toward the doorway. No! No! No! No!

His pyromancers ember came to hand, its glow wan from being called upon so frequently as of late. Its light dissolved the pitch dark of the tomb. The burial chamber had been despoiled. Ancient treasures were scattered about thoughtlessly by a brute hand.

The bones of the Wizard-Kings personal guard were scattered, their verdigris tinged armour flung to and fro. In the middle lay a crumpled skeleton with a crown lying beside it. Lukotor kicked it aside, desperately searching the dusty vault.

Lukotor! Avernix and his warriors filled the entryway. Whats happened?

The wizard snarled at him.

Crunch.

Another rotten tooth broke in his mouth. Dont stand there like a fool, help me search for it! Now!

The overlord recoiled. Never before had the old man spoken to him so, and his endless fears and frustrations finally curdled into a terrible wrath. His face turned red as blood. You dare? You dare speak to me, Overlord Avernix of Garumna, like this?

I dare! Lukotor shook with rage. I made Overlord Avernix of Garumna! Who was it that fed your tribes weak demons?! Who was it that taught you tactics and grand ambition?! Who was it that helped train your warriors beyond the ale-swilling brigands they were?! Who was it that put actual thought into the empty heads of those two louts you called sons?! It was I! Lukotor of Garumna! Lukotor the Wise! the ancient mans voice shook the dusty chamber. I am a god to you! Obey me, you hapless idiot! Look for the egg!

In a cage of twined mastodon hair hung an egg.

An egg of white marble, jade and gold, encrusted in rubies, emeralds and diamonds.

The Egg of Gergorix.

The Wizard-Kings legacy hung before him as no more than an ogres pendant.

With a speed he had not known in decades, Lukotor leapt for the Vessel of Altak-Tur. Caught in surprise, none of the giants were able to act before he seized it. Incantations poured from his lips. The whispering voices from the urn shrieked as his spell twisted its magic beyond its purpose. He thrust a clawed hand toward the bewildered giants, then squeezed it shut.

There was a surge of impact.

Panic-stricken thoughts poured from the vessel, but his terrible wizardry crushed any resistance. Their bodies contorted, twisted, then went still around their panicked eyes. He had them.

Nothing was stopping him now.

Walk forward, he mentally ordered the giant chief.

She slowly came forth. The urn shuddered.

Take that thing off, he commanded. Free that stone from the ridiculous setting you put it in.

Snap!

The ogress pulled off the necklace, snapping the mastodon hair. Spider webs of cracks appeared through the vessel.

Give it to me! He extended a clawed hand that trembled in anticipation.

Lukotor! a strangers deep voice called from behind him. Rapid footsteps approached.

The Egg of Gergorix dropped.

For a single breath, the world hung in the air.

Any number of things could have happened. A beam of hellfire or thrown sword could have severed the old wizards life. The quick hand of a thief could have snatched the egg before it dropped.

Yet nothing so fortunate occurred.

Lukotor the Wise closed his hand around the prize hed sought all his life.

A new Wizard-King was about to ascend.

Slit your throats, he mentally commanded. The ogres before him slowly raised their claws and drew fountains of crimson from their necks. Gurgling, they fell. Danu the Ogress, feared throughout all the forest of giants, died to a man who knew not her name.

The Vessel of Altak-Tur pulsed, gave a final infernal shriek, then crumbled into dust as he burned out all its magic. He did not care. He did not need such a bauble anymore.

You are too late, thieves! Lukotor whirled about, lifting the egg in triumph.

A motley band stood before him. A tall, dark southlander with crimson eyes. A heavily armed warrior in gilded and sapphire plate armour. A tiny, rat-faced woman who swore in Makkadian, her eyes terrified. The red-eyed man stared helplessly as Lukotor raised the egg.

Witness now the coming of a new age! the ancient man shrieked. An age where my will is law!

Jewels shone in the morning light. He reached deep into the stone, calling forth That Which Hungers from its gilded prison, ready to yoke its power to his own purpose.

And he reached.

And he reached.