The Forgotten King smiled down from his throne of brambles at a Billman scout kneeling before him. “Tell me of your success. Where is my quarry?”
The Billman stuttered, yellow beak flailing around his words. “We sacked the town, lord,” the chimera lisped. “We took them by surprise. Our troops are burning the town and searching for survivors.”
Why am I surrounded by idiots? When I’m free of this prison, I’m leaving the ducks down here. “Yes, yes. And have you brought me my prize?” The king’s eyes darted to the two corners of the star-shaped chamber where blue light still flickered. His power was growing. The magical shield that held him here remained strong, and he couldn’t leave this accursed room, though the arched stone doorway stood wide open. But his influence was spreading. New soldiers were spawning here in the Downs and ranging farther into the Fae Wood that surrounded his prison.
“No, my lord. But we’re still looking for anything that might tell us . . . where to look.”
The Forgotten King frowned. He should have been there. How did he escape? He turned his face from the Billman, dismissing him with a gesture, and the soldier darted from the room.
A huge shape detached itself from the shadows in one of the dark corners. It resolved into a giant bearlike form, shaggy and looming. “My lord, shall I go and help detain any survivors?”
“My dear Boris, no you shall not,” The king answered. “The task is well in hand.”
Boris growled low in his throat. “I don’t trust the new guy.”
“The Ram?”
Boris growled again in answer.
“Our new brother is bound to us.” The king rose from his bramble throne. “He is as loyal as any of my Knights. Or do you doubt the magic that binds them to me?” The words held a quiet threat, not veiled by the smile on the king’s lips.
Boris shook his huge, hairy head.
“I thought not,” the king said. “Any survivors from the town will be brought here directly. The Sprouts are hungry. The Ram knows this.” He didn’t have to say what would happen to the Ram, newest of the Bramble Knights, if he didn’t bring back the human survivors of the raid. Sprouts weren’t picky about their meals. Any species, or combination of species, would do.
He considered the Billman’s report. No word on what I seek. But after all these years, I am a patient man. He still thought of himself as a man, though a mirror would tell him otherwise.
“My lord?” A tentative voice sounded from the archway.
Boris growled for the speaker to enter. It was a Nether Elf captain, and he bowed before the king, remaining on his knees and not raising his head when he spoke. All angles and jutting features, Nether Elves had none of the beauty of their above-ground kinsmen.
“My lord, I bring a troubling report. My squad was ambushed on the road from Stonebridge. Ten elves were shot down before we knew what hit us. Only myself and two of my soldiers were able to make it here to safety.”
The king waited.
“. . . and . . . we don’t know what happened.”
The king waited.
“. . . and . . . one of my soldiers is injured.”
The king waited.
“. . . and . . .”
The king finished the trembling elf’s sentence. “. . . And you didn’t return to find out what took out your squad, but instead came cowering back here in shame, allowing however many humans or elves or dwarves or whatever attacked you to continue marching for the Downs.”
The Nether Elf shrank even farther into the cold stone floor.
“And,” the king continued, “you’ve come here to ask me to provide you with more soldiers, so you can continue allowing others to die in your place when anything shows the slightest resistance to our continuing return to power.”
There was nowhere lower for the elf to cower.
The king’s voice softened. “You have served me well for many years, elf.”
From the base of the bramble throne, the elf looked up in hope.
“And you will continue to serve me. By serving my growing army, you will continue to serve me forever.”
Boris grabbed the elf and dragged him to his feet. Barely chest-high on the huge Bear, the elf bobbed his head in gratitude.
“Forever, my lord. I will serve you forever.”
Boris dragged the elf from the room.
Well, not forever. But you will serve. Or rather, you will be served.
The Sprouts weren’t picky about their meals.