>From: asparrow@cs.umr.edu (Angelia Sparrow)
>Subject: Dinner--a story fragment
>Date: 14 Aug 91 02:30:38 GMT
>Lines: 984


As always: Copyright 1991 to Darren Bloomquist and Michael
Raleigh.  All rights reserved.
______________________________________________________________
 

    The Dark Lord made certain he was early for dinner, taking
his place at the head of the table half an hour before his
guests.  He ignored the youngsters setting the table as they
paused in their work to bow when he entered.  There was much to
discuss, and the Dark Lord was eager to be gone from the luxury
and dull security of Dark Hold.  He needed the excitement of
another campaign, he could only tolerate leisurely decadence for
so long.  He was unsure why he begrudged himself the pampered
life that so many of his nobility enjoyed.  He did not know
whether he was afraid it would wear away at him like salt water
on the metal of a good sword, or that he would become addicted to
such a life if he dallied with it too long.  He knew such an
addiction would sap his vitality, and reduce him to the type of
lapdog courtier whose fawning and petty schemes he only permitted
to exist because he needed their money to finance his ambition of
seeing the entire continent of Quapu come under his banner of
blood-stained midnight.
     Addiction was what he dreaded, he realized; the
relinquishing of his will to something else.  He had worked hard
for all the power he had achieved, and he would not sacrifice any
of it.  But was it the lifestyle he worried about, or something
else?  The image of Rhea intruded on his thoughts, as if on cue,
as it had been doing so often lately.  For a change, he dwelled
on it instead of dismissing it with the usual contempt.  The girl
had been coming to his mind far too often and he knew it was time
to address the possibilities of why; that was the only way he
could be rid of it.
     Having his permission, his memory lingered on the beauty he
had just left in his bed chamber, his collar on her pretty
throat, and a chain around her ankle.  The fingers of his left
hand idly stroked the arm of the chair, recalling her curves and
how she had felt when she pressed herself to him in her wanton
eagerness to please.  Rhea had been with him longer than any
other pet, and during that time she had been subjected to more
than her fair share of pain and pleasure at his whim, but she had
well-earned everything she had received, from her beatings to the
limited power she held over the rest of his harem.  A more
complete slave he had never had before, nor since, and he had
owned many.  Could it be possible that she did indeed love him as
she protested so often?  More disturbing was the thought that he
might actually be growing fond of her.
     The Dark Lord's hand clamped down hard on the arm of his
chair that it had been stroking.  Love--such an empty word.  The
bards had exhausted it in their songs, using it to explain an
emotion that enthralled whole populations.  True, he did care for
Rhea, just as he cared for his hounds or other animals, but love
was unthinkable, even intolerable.
     Love was an emotion, and emotions promoted feelings. 
Feelings could complicate or poison his thoughts.  His precision,
perception and intuition were all that kept him one step ahead of
his enemies: alive and seated on his throne.  He knew that those
who let their hearts rule their heads lost the head in question,
just as he knew that if he lost his head it would end on a pike
somewhere, overlooking the usurper's victory feast.
     Rhea was a slave, a mere toy to satisfy his every whim, and
nothing more.  The feelings that were causing her image to
intrude upon him so often were most likely only generated by the
fact that she had pleased and satisfied him the most of all of
his slaves.  She had always served well, except for the incident
Ferone One-hand had set up for her with the poisoned needle, but
even this was changing of late.  She had recently become
careless.  She had permitted Gold-lily to become bruised, even
though the elf had caused the bruises herself and inflicted worse
on Rhea.  This could almost be excused, perhaps with only light
discipline since it was the result of Gold-lily refusing to
accept her place as a slave.  Then, she had not educated the elf
in her new duties to her master.  Gold-lily was resistant and
obstinate and had nearly thrown him out of bed the last time he
had summoned her.  This too was almost excusable, since she had
not spent more than a day and a half with the elf.  Finally,
there was the matter of that miserable priest.  Rhea had never
failed in a seduction before, and the Dark Lord did not like the
look of the pattern that might be developing.  But she had not
lost her talent for pleasing him, as the languid feeling in his
limbs reminded him.  Her most recent performance, less than an
hour ago, had more than adequately reassured him that she was
still serviceable.
     The servants completed their tasks and bowed out of the door
when he dismissed them.  Left alone, with not even a guard or one
of his hounds for company and protection, he stared blankly
across the delicate crystal goblets, molded off of the delightful
breasts of a long-sold slave, and the silver dishes.  He reserved
the gold plates for very formal occasions.  A sigh escaped him as
the empty chairs suddenly filled with ghosts of the past; most
gone to their graves, but a select few still able to look at him
each time he passed through the Hall of Skulls.
     One of the costs of building an empire is living with the
ghosts of those who fell to make the construction possible, and I
have indeed paid heavily.  Among the shades sat his father and
older brothers, the very first victims of his imperialism, some
of the very few that fell by his own hand.  He sneered at the
image of his father, wondering Have I proven myself a man to you
yet, Father?  Now that I hold sway over an empire greater than
anything you could have dreamed of?  An empire I have carved out
of the land and its people, with my own hands, and paid for with
my own blood?  Am I finally good enough to be the fruit of your
loins?  And what of you, my brothers?  What pale glories of yours
could compare with the splendor I have created?  What magnificent
destiny could any of you have brought our tiny kingdom of Guhrya
to?  Not the majesty I hold now, not, I think not!     
     Next were the nobles and ladies of his father's court whom
he had known since childhood.  They were pillars of the
moralistic, pure-hearted and enlightened society, who had turned
against him to side with his older sisters in a short-lived
rebellion.  Fools, he admonished them with a scowl as he recalled
some of the more prominent faces, both before and after his
ascension to power.  The superstitious contempt they had held him
and Zara in, as if they could have helped being twin-born, the
arrogance behind their facades of righteous chastity when the
twins were revealed, the pompous dignity as they fawned over the
more favored princes and princesses crossed his mind.  The
burning rage he had felt most of the time he was growing up came
back, only to be quenched and soothed by the memory of how they
had begged and whimpered so pitifully before him, and pleaded the
virtues of mercy before he had sentenced them to the hands of his
new executioners and torturers.
     Beyond those sorry shades, the Dark Lord found the faces of
the people he really missed, whose loss was deserving of his
grief.  The soldiers of the Old Guard, who stood along side him
against the empire's early enemies, his very first legionnaires,
who had believed in him and spilt their blood in his campaigns. 
There were dukes, an admiral or two, distinguished officers and
common soldiers who held their ends of the imperial line when
enemy ranks closed upon them.  They were men who had never left
those first bloody battlefields, whose lifeless bodies adorned
great funeral pyres in the streets of the first city-states to
fall to him, or sank into the muck at the bottom of the river or
sea to feed the myriad fish.
     The silent multitude haunted him.  There were a few whose
faces he saw, those who had died near him, a few, like the sandy-
haired drummer boy of eight, who had died in his arms.  But most
of the helms covered only emptiness.  I made myself a promise
when we began this great work.  I vowed I would remember each of
you who fell in the name of my Empire, for it was yours as well. 
But as the wars went on and the losses multiplied, I just
couldn't.  All I can do now is lift a goblet to the memory of
your deeds, and hope that somewhere, someone remembers, because
I, the man you died for, cannot.  He picked up his wine glass
from the table before remembering he had ordered no wine set on
the table before the meal.  He had expected to be occupied until
the last minute.  His cup remained as vacant as the faces of the
phantoms around him.  "We shall drink a toast to you tonight,"
the Dark Lord promised aloud to the empty room around him.  "To
that I swear."  The spectral company nodded in reply and faded
back into the nothingness.
     Alone again, he turned his thoughts to the matters that
would soon be at hand, namely explaining to his council their
parts in his most recent plans of conquest.  King Fionn would
also be joining them for dinner, alone save for his bodyguard, so
that the council could appraise him and decide if he would make a
better friend or foe.  Dinner was for getting reacquainted by
good food, excellent wine and even better old memories.  The real
planning would take place in the war room upstairs, a conclave
which King Fionn would not be attending.
     After a time, the bell began to toll the first hour of the
evening (sixth hour will put it about 2 am!) and a respectful
knock came at the door.  Moving to sit up straight, the Dark Lord
gave the command to enter, and the door opened for the elite
honor guard.  They were dressed in their best parade armor and
marched around the perimeter of the chamber in a precise fashion,
assuming their posts at very precise intervals.  The Dark Lord
watched as the Captain of the Guard gave the orders and his
troops came to attention and turned to put their backs to the
walls.  Satisfied, the Dark Lord nodded and, after a hearty
salute pounded off his shoulder, the captain took his place to
the right of the chair at the foot of the table.  It was his
privilege to occupy this seat whenever the elite guard was
required for meals.
     After the guards, Lem followed, leading in all of the girls,
except Rhea, Chandra, Morgan, Alia and Gold-lily.  The girls
quietly entered the room and situated themselves around the
table, each selecting a pair of chairs to stand behind and
between.  Darlene and Dara, having their orders, took the head
and foot of the table, standing behind and to the left of the
chairs.  All knew they would serve the men who sat in the chairs
they had selected, providing them with anything that would
satisfy them, including private entertainment later if they
desired.  Each wore a sheer two-piece garment of rainbow hue with
a flattering glitter of jewelry and expertly applied cosmetics. 
Each was a vision of loveliness, presenting her best features for
the pleasure of her master.
     Elna entered last with a psaltry and a large pillow from the
harem.  She would not be tending the table tonight, but rather
providing the only formal entertainment.  She positioned the
pillow in a corner across from the door to the oil reservoir and
knelt trying not to look nervous.  Her performance would have to
be flawless.
     The Dark Lord surveyed his arrangement proudly.  The
symbolic uniformity and hardness of the guards contrasted well
with the softly subdued individual beauties around the table,
making a splendid visual representation of his power.  A sweep of
his hand dismissed the eunuch to the harem to watch over his
master's prize trophy who would be displayed after the banquet. 
All was in readiness, and he turned to watch the door, taking an
appreciative glance at Darlene as she stood shyly behind his
chair.
     She was lovely, not as achingly beautiful as some, but
pretty in a way some beauties never had.  Any other girl might
have dared a tentative look up at him, but Darlene kept her eyes
to the floor, not in fear like Gold-lily, nor out of respect or
worship, like Alia and Zandra, but from innocent longing to
please.  She was his innocent flower, untouched and unspoiled,
whose nectar would soon bear sampling.  She was the only one
whose affections he trusted as genuine.  She was thoroughly
trained now, and he had toyed with her on occasion, but had never
taken her completely.  She was also the only one who had never
felt the explosive slap of his hand or the burning kiss of his
whip, the only one who had experienced nothing but his gentle
side.
     Footsteps from the stairs broke his sentimental yearnings,
and he watched the first of the commanders arrive.  Duke William
James IX of Guhrya commanded the elite First Legion, as well as
governing much of the Empire's eastern half.  He was one of the
few men left from King Leonyir's reign, and had been with the
Dark Lord from the very beginning.  He was a judicious,
moralistic and traditional man, and as fine a politician as a
soldier.  He had no ambition to do anything more than serve his
emperor, as his family had generations before, even beyond the
memory of the Time of Darkness.  The Dark Lord's ancestors had
ruled the area of Guhrya beyond memory or history, and there had
always been a James at their side.  The duke would speak for
nearly half of the Empire in the council, and his counsel, would
be especially important.
     Duke Zuberbier followed him, a flamboyant lethargic man, the
misbegotten product of noble inbreeding and hereditary
succession.  Since his father was a duke, and he came from a
noble family of great affluence, he assumed the military rank and
status upon his  father's death, regardless of his personal worth
or competence.  It was one of the few traditions the Dark Lord
had not opposed, since to do so would have cost him the support
of much of the nobility.  It was easier to merely relocate the
useless ones to calm, insignificant provinces, instead of
deposing them and giving his nobles a cause to unite against him. 
They kept their pretty titles and trappings, but held no real
power and fatal accidents could always be arranged if he needed
to replace them quickly.  Rima was such a sleepy province, and
although blessed with the princess for whom it was named, a
prince, and Duke Zuberbier as well, the real power rested in the
hands of the admiralty, headed by Rima's husband, Paloken, a man
who had spent most of his life on the sea before his age caught
up with him.  This new campaign promised to make Rima more
significant, and although Duke Zuberbier commanded only a single
legion, he would need briefing as much as the more competent
dukes who commanded five or six.
     General Cartwright, another of his senior officers entered
chatting with General Garza.  They were an unlikely pair at best. 
Cartwright was tenacious, traditional and wise.  He had served
the Dark Lord's father and grandfather with the same unswerving
loyalty that he bore his emperor.  He was of the old nobility,
widely respected and as fine a fighting man as most men half his
age.  Garza, on the other hand, was living proof that the empire
discriminated only against the weak.  A towering unsightly giant
of a man, in whose veins was rumored to flow the blood of ogres
and trolls, as well as that of his human mother, a slave in the
exotically vicious Chained Collar brothel in Ellanya, he was
utterly ruthless.  He commanded the southern outposts, holding
them against the Ice Queen and her hordes.  The spring thaw ran
red with the blood of legionnaires and Winter Wizards each year
since he had been posted, and through his efforts, the southern
border had advanced more than fifty leagues.  Unlike Cartwright
who would support the Dark Lord's plans unhesitatingly, Garza
would most likely voice his grievances against the upcoming
campaign, since it would draw on the resources needed to keep
back the Ice Queen.
     General Victor "Victorious," of the renowned Lightening
Legion followed them, hiding his amusement at the conversation
topic.  He was boisterous, cunning and proud; one of the more
ingenious of the military chiefs.  He was able to make and
execute snap decisions, based almost entirely on his unerring
combat instincts.  He and his Lightening Legion, the only legion
that operated completely on horseback, would be crucial to the
Dark Lord's ultimate designs in securing the Elven Kingdom.
     Warlord Toggle Fingerbiter entered and chose his seat with
no ceremony and an approving glance at Phyllia posted beside his
chair.  He was no tactician, but he and his people would follow
orders and fight to their dying breath, since death in battle was
their way of assuring great rewards in the next life.  He would
speak for many and support anything the Dark Lord proposed.
     Admirals Thomas Ekert of Londarus and Charles Stout of Rima
were carrying on their customary friendly feud over whose river
forces were more effective at pirate hunting: Rima's, where
quality troops were needed to keep the smugglers, and the ships
from Lupa and Tavect in line, or Londarus' forces who clashed
with river pirates and barbarian raiders, in situations where
numbers were of more use than strategy.  They were both
argumentative, determined and resourceful, and each knew his
river, its shores, and the opposing forces intimately.  Their
special knowledge would be as invaluable as the Lightening Legion
to the success of the campaign.  This would be the first time the
imperial army and navy had worked in direct cooperation.  The
Dark Lord disliked first times because too much could go wrong,
so there was much to plan to ensure nothing did.
     General Timothy Oakleaf, the empire's only half-elven
general followed the debating captains, looking bored at their
conversation.  He was taciturn and spiteful, and like most dark
elves had spent his life trying to live down his elven heritage. 
He was fiercely competitive with his peers, a character flaw that
the Dark Lord had molded from a liability to an imperial benefit. 
His hatred for his elven blood, like that of most half breeds
cast from the light of Eslil, had become a driving conviction to
destroy the race that had borne him and cast him out when he did
not conform.  He was the expert on elven society, customs and
mind-set, and always requested stations near the Elven Kingdom. 
He had personally led several of the reprisals against the
infrequent elven raids.  His support for the plan would
neutralize much of Garza's expected opposition.
     General Ravensblood, the youngest and newest of the generals
entered last, leading Morgan on a leash.  The brazen display of
his loaned bedwarmer only confirmed the reports about him.  He
was said to be impulsive, inexperienced and lucky; a rogue in
imperial uniform.  He was already a folk hero, based on his short
career.  His tactics were spectacular, haphazard and based on
surprise, novelty and great risk.  None of the more established
generals were comfortable working with him, and no one was sure
if he was a greater asset or danger to the military.
     The eleven men stood, anticipating the arrival of the
missing three that the table was set for, quietly conversing with
each other and admiring the slave girls that would be serving
them.  The Dark Lord noticed that Morgan was kneeling perfectly,
even if her bound hands were clenched into angry little fists
behind her back.  It would be amusing to watch her during the
interplay tonight.
     Moments later, Balkar arrived, escorting King Fionn and Sir
Edward.  The company was seated with a simple motion of their
host's hand, a casual show of dauntless supremacy which mortified
Sir Edward.  Introductions followed, and the Dark Lord watched
the reaction slyly.  The Tavectans had probably never seen a real
hobgoblin before, and Generals Garza and Oakleaf hid their scowls
poorly under the formality, as if sensing a new enemy.
     Dara, at the end of the table, moved to the wooden panel at
a snap of her master's fingers and signalled the cooks to send up
the food.  Elna, reacting to the same snap, began a lively tune
she had heard sung around the barracks.  It was an unorthodox
choice for a formal banquet, but since it was not ribald, she
doubted there would be objections.  Approving glances from
Ravensblood and Admiral Stout confirmed her belief.  She knew her
master hated dull, sleepy melodies when he was among friends.
     The slave girls went to where Dara had received the first
platters and began the task of serving their master's guests. 
More than one shot Elna a glance of envy.  She could sit in
whatever position she found comfortable while she played, well
out of reach of the greedy hands many of them would feel before
the end of the evening.  They would be standing and moving about
all night, and then if selected for private duties, would likely
get no sleep.  Elna would be excused to rest her sore fingers
after the meal was over, they would clear the table and report to
the various suites, chambers and tents.
     During the first course, among the fried curds and chicken
patties with almonds, was circulated an elongated divided platter
stocked with what appeared to be large brown peas with dark spots
on the sides and a curiously fermented odor.  The other side held
long segmented strips and smaller round bits of meat.  Toggle
Fingerbiter smiled favorably and hungrily eyed the platter as it
was started at the head of the table, as were all the dishes. 
The Dark Lord, noticing, and not wishing to offend, took a
healthy spoonful of the dark spheroids and an ample helping of
the meats.  Balkar followed suit, but most of the other men
passed it by or took only a modest helping from it.  Toggle
spooned a triple portion of both foods onto his plate and ate
with relish.
     When the tray finally reached Sir Edward, the Dark Lord
intentionally slipped a large spoonful of the spheres into his
own mouth and smiled encouragingly as he chewed, while discreetly
swallowing them without letting his teeth touch them.  The young
knight took a careful, but large helping from the girl who smiled
down at him, never meeting his gaze.
     Having never seen such food, the Tavectans sampled the
dishes cautiously.  They were salty, with an unusually tangy
flavor and a stringy interior texture which differed from the
smooth, slightly wrinkled exteriors on which their tongues could
detect tiny ruffles.  Still, they were interesting and palatable,
but clearly not vegetable as first thought.  The long strips of
meat were tender, while the small round bits were somewhat chewy,
but flavorful, like excellent beef.
     Curious and considering making the dish a centerpiece for
the next masked ball, during the approaching Harvest Festival,
King Fionn asked his host what they were, just as Sir Edward
beckoned the girl back from Toggle who had just taken another
large helping.  The Dark Lord only smiled as he cleared the last
of the meat from his plate, followed by the remaining spheroid
and washed them down quickly with a large gulp of wine.  He was
glad to be done with them and on to the more appealing
appetizers.  After a bite of the chicken patty, noticing the cook
had been heavy-handed on the rosewater again, he commented, "You
like them, do you?"
     "Oh, quite," King Fionn returned, noticing the some of the
other diners who had taken them had not even touched the
appetizer.  "You set a fine table, Great Lord, but please, what
are these called.  I'm sure I've tasted something similar, but
I'd like to be sure."
     "Pooshnok," the Dark Lord answered, gesturing with his wine-
glass to the brown spheroids Sir Edward was adding to his plate,
"served in accompaniment with Javooka-du-Shagga."
     "Is special hobgoblin delegate," Toggle added from across
the table between enthusiastic bites.  General Oakleaf stifled a
snicker in his wine-glass as Sir Edward blanched, his jaws
momentarily ceasing their chewing.
     "Delicacy, Toggle," the Dark Lord corrected.  "We can't have
our guests thinking they are eating sentient beings.  The word is
delicacy, not delegate."  The hobgoblin nodded and shrugged and
apology.  Sir Edward regained his composure somewhat, but ate
with noticeably less enthusiasm.
     Now more curious than ever, King Fionn persisted, "We may
have to rethink our initial evaluation of your humanoid allies. 
But please, what is Pooshnok?"
     The Dark Lord gestured to General Garza who had been leaning
forward, eager to explain.  "As the Warlord said," the general
began formally, "they are a hobgoblin delicacy.  Most humanoids
from the Mountains of Menace live underground, hence their diets
have developed along a very restricted track from limited natural
resources.  In fact, Pooshnok was extremely rare until only
recently when our new trading policies opened them up to the
outside, but even now they are still considered a delicacy, at
least to some palates.  But in answer to your question, Your
Majesty, Pooshnok is pickled goose eyes, and Javooka-du-Shagga
are worms sauteed in butter with crack-shelled snails."
     Duke Zuberbier roared with laughter as Sir Edward turned an
unhealthy shade of green and slumped in his chair, but a
withering glance from the Dark Lord silenced his ridicule. 
General Ravensblood, having unwittingly taken a fair sized
portion of the buttered worms and snails also felt a sudden knot
in his stomach, but avoided reproach, by feeding the remainder of
his food to Morgan, who shuddered at every mouthful.  It was
permissible to feed the slave girls unwanted food, and as a
slave, Morgan could not refuse any such favors.
     "An interesting menu, Great Lord," King Fionn answered,
taking a moment to let his own stomach settle as Ursala refilled
his wine-glass.  "Snails are a delicacy in Tavect as well, but I
had never considered worms, or goose eyes."
     The Dark Lord raised an eyebrow at the admission, but said
nothing.  He in turn let his stomach settle at the thought of
civilized humans eating snails.  Humanoids he expected it of, and
he had only had the cooks prepare the repulsive dish for the
benefit of Toggle and to watch the Tavectans choke when they
found out what they had been eating.  Only Sir Edward had given
him the pleasure, and now it had been turned upon him with a
vengeance.  He found himself wondering how hard it would be to
lay siege to a people who could resort to eating snails.
     Dinner progressed nicely, and the talk invariably turned to
the military prowess of Tavect and the treaty.  Tavect's rivalry
with Lupa was well-known to both Admirals who had made their own
assessments of both kingdom's navies.  They had been called on at
times to escort imperial vessels through the disputed waters, and
had lost potential smugglers and pirates to the safety of
either's ports, where they could not pursue without international
incident.  They believed that while Tavect and Lupa were well
matched to each other, neither could stand against an imperial
fleet.  Lupa's ships were faster, while Tavect's were sturdier,
but the Empire had both and in far greater numbers than even the
combined forces.
     General Oakleaf noted that Tavect's army had not engaged in
any major conflicts for generations, and that its fortifications
along the borders were antiquated, more serviceable as watch-
towers than as credible strongholds.  He added that Lupa was more
progressive, and their ongoing fortification construction was a
matter of national pride.
     King Fionn readily agreed to all of the facts, only to
stress again that his kingdom was dedicated to peace, but capable
of defending itself if attacked, with an army that was constantly
on the move, making its size impossible for invaders to
calculate.
     "None of those invaders," Sir Edward quickly pointed out,
"have ever managed to take and keep Tavectan ground for more than
a few weeks before being destroyed."
     "And none of them," Balkar countered, "have ever been a
particularly large force in all my years."
     "That is fortunate for them," the young knight returned. 
"Our enemies have learned that any force sent against us is
doomed.  It is not our fault that they are intelligent enough to
prefer the certain destruction of hundreds over that of
thousands."
     "Thousands?"  Balkar immediately probed.
     "The army of Tavect does what is required of it," King Fionn
interceded, determined not to let the wizard call his bluff.  The
belief of an invincible army was all Tavect had to protect itself
with, and King Fionn knew it all too well.  Brianna's spendthrift
habits had resulted in his neglect of national security, yet a
fortuitous marriage could bolster that security as never before,
but he would have to maintain the hoax for a while yet to bargain
from a position of strength.
     "Perhaps, Good King," Duke Zuberbier ventured, "you are too
lenient with your taxes?  The only way to live well is through
the purses of others, and really, what use have the peasants for
money?  They certainly aren't smart enough to spend it properly."
     "My taxes are more than sufficient," Fionn replied, looking 
suspiciously at the golden apples that Camille was offering him
before taking one.  It's my management of money that's to blame,
he added silently.  His mind drifted to his daughter's wardrobe,
filled with gowns and accessories that went out of fashion far
too quickly for what they cost, and her lavish jewelry
collection.  Magpies and youngest daughters adore shiny things,
but a quarter of my girl's baubles could finance the
refurbishment of those antiquated castles and the construction of
a dozen new warships!  The golden apple turned out to be a ball
of pork encased in some sort of egg-based coating.
     After several slave girls had set the main course of
cockatrice on the table, to appropriate noises of approval, they
returned to their places behind the diners' chairs.  Two of the
beasts were set out, and closer tasting revealed that they made
of suckling pig and rooster, highly spiced and endored with a
red-brown coating before having the feathers added.
     "A most clever subtlety, Great Lord," commented King Fionn. 
"There are records of such feasts being held in my great-
grandfather's court.  I fear our cooks have become simple-
minded."
     "This is a trifle," the Dark Lord returned, resolving to
compliment the cooks.  "For my last birthday they created an
entire dragon."  He stretched luxuriously as Darlene's soft hands
rubbed his shoulders.  He noted disapprovingly that Duke
Zuberbier seasoned his food very liberally with kaniba taken from
an ornate silver dispenser.
     Further discussion proved fruitless in gaining an account of
the numbers in Tavect.  Known battles were reviewed as the
chroniclers had recorded them, and minor information gaps were
filled by either the king or his knight, but precise numbers and
tactics were never discussed.  Even if an enemy's numbers were
known, Tavect's were never disclosed.  Although none of the
battles had been waged against opposition the size of an imperial
legion, which was promising, if Tavect was indeed hiding a
skilled massive force behind inadequate exterior defenses, they
might easily give the Dark Lord his first major military disaster
since Ocara.  This time there would be no secret allies to call
on, and he just might lose.
     Getting nowhere, and not wishing to offend his guests, the
Dark Lord directed the conversation to the proposed alliance,
especially the difficult point of how many troops might be paired
with his legions.  They could keep their advisors and their
banners, he merely wanted numbers equitable to what the kingdom
could spare.  King Fionn again held to the original offer of one
hundred, refusing to be swayed by either glory or spoils,
claiming his kingdom's only interest was peace.
     Resisting the temptation to crush the wine-glass he held to
ease his frustration, the Dark Lord began working his situation
through silently.  He's hiding something, but I cannot risk a
miscalculation against him when I'm already taking a large risk
with the elves.  Damn if he's not about to force an alliance I
don't want, and maybe even find some way of holding me to it so I
cannot turn on him.  We're too much alike, this king and I, far
too much alike.  That means I need to find his weakness if I'm to
exploit him before he finds a weakness in me.
     The banquet finally drew to a close, with the appearance of
the olikuken and the wine in bottles instead of carafes, a signal
it was time to toast the night before retiring.  The small raisin
and current studded bread puffs were eaten in near silence, while
the girls lucky enough to be kneeling near a benevolent guest
were permitted to sample dessert, although more than one paid for
the privilege by having their breasts fondled or a nipple cruelly
pinched through the sheer fabric.  Morgan, who had been fed more
in this one meal than she was accustomed to eating in two days
appeared bloated.  Her ample breasts served General Ravensblood
as a seemingly endless source of amusement as he toyed with them
and forced her to accept food from his mouth with his kisses. 
Several of the older and more established men were rather
displeased with his seeming lack of discretion, but the Dark Lord
took a certain measure of satisfaction in watching his spiteful
bandit being humiliated before the entire harem, knowing she
hated the watching eyes as much as her own inability to resist.
     Neither the twins, kneeling obediently beside the Tavectans,
nor Phyllia, serving the frightening Warlord, received any of the
dessert.  In Tavect servants did not eat at the table, and were
definitely not fed from it like animals.  Phyllia had eaten
little, since Toggle had been enjoying his meal too much to share
with anyone.  A few of the other generals, noting the lack of
attention, had fed her when she had served, but she could still
hear her stomach rumbling at the smell of the honey the hobgoblin
had drenched the olikuken in.  The others were more generous, and
most of General Ravensblood's dessert found its way from his
mouth to Morgan's.  General Garza nearly gave his, plate and all,
to Lucy, since he disliked anything sweet.  Olikuken were not
especially sweet, but the raisins were not to his liking.
     Darlene had served well, and was rewarded with several small
bites from her master's own fork, and a long sensuous caressing
of her throat and shoulders.  He gently lifted her chin so he
could look at her pretty face, noticing the soft imploring eyes,
and the way she ran her tongue lightly along the side of his
thumb as it brushed her lips.  The delicate arching of her back,
that presented her breasts to him in a display of submissive
longing intrigued him.  The Dark Lord ran two fingers through the
honey that remained on his plate and brought them to her lips. 
She licked his fingertips lightly, savoring the sweetness on
them, before moving to encompass them with her mouth.  She closed
her lips very slowly, stroking his fingers with her tongue before
he withdrew them.  He smiled approvingly down at her.  Rhea had
trained this one well.  Very soon now, she would be ready for his
bed.
     Returning his attention to his guests, the Dark Lord
refilled his wine-glass and stood.  Elna stopped playing
instantly, her sore fingers going promptly to her mouth.  "A
toast," he declared.  "One from each of us, and then the night is
through."  The company smiled and took up their own glasses
expectantly.  It was a visionary close to a perfect meal.
     Drawing a deep breath, the Dark Lord gazed out across the
table, looking past the live guests, to the faceless phantoms
beyond the walls, as he raised his glass before him.  "To all
those whom we had to leave behind on the battlefields, and
beneath the waters, without whose courage and sacrifice the
Empire would not stand as it does today.  And especially to those
whom we know served with us, and died for us, but whose names and
faces we cannot remember."
     A prolonged silence filled the air, each man seeming to see
his own ghosts reflected in the crystal of his wine-glass.  The
Dark Lord watched the smiles of appeasement on the faces he could
not remember as his own ghosts faded away.  Lightly chiming his
glass against Balkar's to break the commemorative silence, he
moved his arm left, to touch King Fionn's glass, and drank a
measured sip, leaving plenty for the other toasts.  His guests
followed suit and the hall filled with ringing crystal.
     Balkar stood next, and presented his own glass.  "To the
alliance between Tavect and the Empire: may it be forged as
strongly as the swords in the hands of the soldiers who will
stand on either side of it."
     Duke Zuberbier followed, standing beside the wizard, as it
was the custom to remain standing after one's toast was drunk,
and cleared his throat in a poor attempt to hide a belch.  "To
health...and wealth...stealth.... and...and...uh, well, what else
matters?"  The Dark Lord blinked and held his eyes closed for a
moment too long, but drank the oafish toast anyway. 
Unfortunately the duke's military talent's matched his courtly
graces.  It galled the Dark Lord to think that his younger
brother, Prince Jame, was being exposed to this man as a proper
social influence.
     Admiral Stout rose quickly to make up for the Duke's
ineptitude.  "To the spirit of cooperation between the kingdom of
Tavect and the Empire: may our ships never need to meet in
conflict."
     Admiral Ekert offered a more ominously pragmatic toast to
follow him.  "And if that spirit of cooperation between our
nations should ever fail, and our ships do meet in conflict, may
the contest be quickly ended."  It was a double-edged sword,
gilded with words sweet enough to hide its bite.
     General Garza shoved away from the table and brandished his
wine-glass like a weapon.  "To all those who have fallen," he
began, following his lord's example, "defending civilization from
the forces of chaos on our borders, and especially to those who
will continue to fall if we ever permit our ambitions to call our
armies from where they are truly needed."
     The Dark Lord pondered the challenge to his authority as he
sipped his wine.  At least he now knew Garza would oppose him,
and he would be able to prepare his presentation around it.  The
challenge was permitted since it came from the man's heart, with
a genuine concern for the imperial citizens and legionnaires
along the frontier.  The challenges to him from personal pride
and jealousy were crushed without a second thought.
     General Ravensblood stood, appearing at a loss for words
when his turn came until inspiration landed on him like a great
bird.  "To the Lady Ariadne of Keep Theda:  May Blessed Maira
grant her tortured spirit rest that the good people of Ocarina
may be spared her mournful hauntings."  The Dark Lord quietly
promised King Fionn he would explain the young general's very
personal toast later.
     The remaining toasts proceeded with no real distinctions,
mostly hopes for the alliance and well-wishes on the Empire or
Tavect or both, until only King Fionn was still seated.  He shot
a thoughtful look at Balkar, and then slowly stood.
     "Before I lift my glass," he began after a short silence, "I
should first like to make an honest observation, then a grand
announcement, and finally my toast."  The room fell into an
anxious calm, and several men leaned forward in curious
anticipation, while the Dark Lord felt the warning tension cross
his shoulder--usually a warning that the enemy was about to
strike from behind in a battle.  He shrugged it off, knowing he
was safe in his own castle.
     "Through all of our discussions here, and your own
deliberating assessment of my kingdom, it should now be apparent
that Tavect is indeed a mighty nation, not by any means as great
as your empire, but still the dominant authority in our region,
rivalled by only one: the coalition of Lupa and Nikka across the
river from us.  War between your empire and this hated coalition
appears imminent, but it is my understanding that in future wars
of conquest you would consider it wiser to have my kingdom
aligned with you than against you.  Your bid for such an alliance
is hereby accepted, as understood and set forth in the treaty
your emperor and I have been discussing the past few days, with
but one condition that will be beneficial to all:
     "At this time, I am pleased and proud to announce to this
assembly the betrothal of my only daughter, the Princess Brianna
Anastasia Theresa Fiona, to your Emperor, the Dark Lord.  A toast
to their happiness together, and to the strength and security
their union shall bring to both of our nations!"
     The silence was like a thunderclap, knocking the breath out
of Sir Edward and a number of the generals.  It was broken by
simultaneous gasps from Phyllia and Darlene as the two girls felt
their hearts nearly stop in their chests.  The silence wore off
quickly, and was immediately followed by an almost joyous ringing
of wine-glasses and a rush of applause and congratulations from
everyone at the table, almost startling the Dark Lord a second
time.  He had not realized his generals were so anxious for him
to take a wife.
     "Congratulations, Sire!" Balkar beamed at him.  "I had no
idea."
     The Dark Lord glared at him before turning to King Fionn who
held his glass expectantly, waiting for him to seal the bargain. 
Instead, he locked eyes with the King, and poured the remaining
wine onto the floor, before planting his wine-glass upside down
on the table.
     "Neither did I," he answered his wizard dangerously. 
"Neither did I."
     The cheers and congratulations ceased abruptly, and all eyes
followed him as he left the dining hall.  Suspicious glances
began to fall on King Fionn and his knight.  Clearly anyone
capable of springing such an announcement without the approval of
one of the parties involved was no one to make a treaty with. 
The imperial leaders left one by one, going up to the war room as
they had been informed.  Soon the Tavectans were alone at the
great table with the wizard.
     "I thought you said he would take it well," King Fionn snapped.
     "Your forgiveness, Great King.  Perhaps I can talk him
around to the idea," Balkar attempted to placate him.
     "I hope you can.  We shall retire for the evening.  Let us
know of any progress that is made."  Beckoning Sir Edward to
follow, they retreated through the waiting room to their suite.
     Caught in the middle, and not really wanting to go to the
war council, Balkar wondered if he could beg off on the excuse of
dinner not agreeing with him.  The guards were leaving and he
remained sitting.  Dara brushed next to him to retrieve her
master's inverted wine-glass.  "Tonight, my chambers," he
whispered.
     "Captain," she answered briefly, indicating the Captain of
the Guard wished her attentions.
     Balkar sighed and swirled the dregs of his wine in the
glass.  He lifted it briefly to the picture that appeared in his
mind's eye.  General Ravensblood had given him an idea, and
perhaps the alliance with Tavect would be made after all, only
with his signature at the bottom instead of the Dark Lord's. 
Knowing it was time to go, he left the dining hall for the war
room, hoping his absence would not be remarked upon.
     Arriving, he found the discussion of King Fionn's
announcement loud and growing more heated by the minute.  The
Dark Lord had been backed into a conversational corner by his
married generals, while the unmarried ones hovered around the
edge, making pointed comments about succession.
     "But I can't abide the chit!" he bellowed as Balkar walked
in.  "Why now and why her?"
     "Sire," Balkar began, nervously trying to smooth things
over, "You grow no younger, and you insist on taking needless
risks, like riding with your troops.  You have named no heir, and
we worry about the future of the Empire should you not return
from a battle."
     "That's what they've been telling me.  Besides, you knew
this was coming.  I saw the look King Fionn gave you before he
spoke!  Suppose I were to wed the princess, and fill her belly
before this next campaign, but some elf nails me from the trees? 
She would bear the child in late summer, well after I'm gone, and
then spend eighteen years raising it until it can take the
throne, and there's no guarantee it will be a boy!  My sister
Zara is my heir and after her comes Jame as all of you well
know."  There were dark looks from the Vanadan generals and a
mumbling about being ruled by a sorceress.  "Enough!" the Dark
Lord bellowed again.  "I will consider an Empress, but I will not
marry the Princess Brianna.  Not for all the swords in Schwerter
or all the doxies in Pergamum.  Balkar, you are not needed.  Give
apologies for my rudeness to King Fionn and tell him I am
considering his proposal.  Now enough about succession. 
Gentlemen, your assessments of the Tavect situation."
     Balkar strode down the stairs, pleased to be away from the
discussion, but peeved at being dismissed like a footman.  He
would not visit the king tonight, he decided, let both rulers
stew for a while.  He swept through the cool evening air toward
his tower, a look of serene calm on his face.  He passed a pair
of orcish guards that grumbled quietly in their native tongue. 
He was amused to hear complaints about the food, as well as a
comment about a cheater in a card game.
     He drifted up the stairs to his apartments, dispelling the
magical ward on his dorr with a single sweep of his hand before
opening it, the languid smile on his angelic face giving lie to
the trophies that were illuminated when he entered.  Some he had
collected, and others he had fashioned himself to perfect his
magic.  He closed the door softly behind him.
     General Ravensblood had given him an idea, now if he could
just implement it.  He walked to the bookshelf, lightly running
his fingertips along the spines of the books, some hot, some icy
cold, and some, the most powerful, having no temperature at all. 
Not finding it, he dropped down, shelf by shelf, until he was
kneeling and searching the very bottom shelf.  As if seized, his
fingers stopped on the book he had been searching for.  It was
faded and musty, and the edges showed signs of fire, but it was
there.
     Carefully pulling the aged volume from its place, Balkar
stared at the golden symbols on the cover with a mixture of
triumph and dread.  He stood, trying to recall the language to
his mind.  After a full minute of intense concentration, he
deciphered it, although he knew the title as he had always known
it.  Almost reverently, he breathed the name.  It was a language
humans were not made to speak, and no tongue but his had used in
over half a century.
     "Ariadne's Antithesis," he repeated softly.
     Although slightly scorched around the edges, and rippled by
rain, the volume was in remarkable shape.  Carried from the Keep
before its destruction by one of the lady's harem slaves whom she
had freed, it had been kept secret for years.  It was believed
destroyed in the cataclysmic battle, when Silver-eyes, the elf
who owned it, fell on the side of the Light.  It was the last,
and most complete, work of the Lady of Ocarina, and a premier
work on wizardy, the black arts, and other occult mysteries.
     The few who knew of its existance had zealously guarded the
secret, since the book would have made them the target for every
meglomanic hedge wizard and holy paladin on Quapu.  The Furyblade
family, a most formidible group of paladins and priestesses,
especially would stop at nothing to destroy the book, as would
the Elf Queen, on whose family name Ariadne was a blot.
     Using great care, Balkar cleared a space on his cluttered
desk and gently set the book down.  Contained in this volume was
the sum of three hundred years of knowledge, amassed by the lady
both before and after her casting out from the elven kingdom. 
And although her life had been cut short, her last work was
complete, if a bit random.  Magic spells and ceremonies that
could channel awesome destructive power lay but pages away from
prosiac herbal remedies.  Recipes and elaborate instruction for
potions, poisons and magical paraphenalia were included among
various entries on her daily life and sexual adventures. 
Advanced necromancy kept company with curses for chronic male
impotence, and favorite dinner recipes with plans to bring ruin
to entire geographical regions.
     Surely, Balkar thought as he blew the dust from the volume
and opened the heavy cover, there must be something in here I can
use against my lord.  Something that will alleviate the situation
that grows more intolerable with each passing day.  I am through
being his lackey!  It is time for me to forge my own destiny, and
time for a change in imperial order.  Time for a new emperor to
seize the ebon throne, one who will not appoint a mystic witch as
his heir to be succeeded by a bleeder.  Time for my order and my
reign!
     The Lady Ariadne will see to that, somehow.  But even when I
find the perfect item it will take me weeks to decipher her
writing and then translate out of this language that was dead
even when she affected it.  Perhaps even more weeks will be
needed for preparation, and I do not know if I have enough time. 
He suspects something, I can feel his eyes watching me.  It is
only a question of who moves first.
     Balkar's eyes strayed momentarily from the page to his
dagger, a lissome anlance given to him personally by Nikodanb of
the Many Faces when he had summoned the being for a contract.  He
envisioned himself planting it deeply in his lord's back, taking
the satisfaction of making the kill personally.  Unfortunately
simple assassination was out of the question.  The Dark Lord was
too much of a physical opponent for Balkar to risk a
confrontation, and even if he succeeded, by some cosmic stroke of
luck, there would be the guards to deal with.  The human regulars
were loyal beyond question, and nearly impossible for a would-be
usurper to win over.  The humanoids would be entirely impossible,
and the ShetaRra would either martyr themselves in their lord's
defense or never rest until his death was avenged.  Also to be
figured in were the army of Shadowmen, Zara, and the Dark Lord's
numerous personal allies.  At least one of them would eventually
avenge him, and any assassin would live in fear of that for the
rest of his miserable, and very short, life.
     Overt magic was not feasible.  While a well-placed fireball
or lightening bolt could be counted on to fell a dragon, it would
be worthless against the emperor.  In his paranoia and knowledge
of magic, the Dark Lord had fortified himself with an unseemly
array of protective charms and talismans, mostly disguised as
jewelry, which could take the brunt of any magical attack.  He
was practically invulnerable from that angle.
     Balkar knew his options were limited.  He was no paladin to
slay the Dark Lord and die a martyr.  He wanted his former friend
dead, but without any repercussion falling on him.  Poisoning was
likewise out of the question.  If the Dark Lord died from poison,
Balkar knew that his neck would go on the chopping block right
beside Lem and the entire family of cooks.  That policy forced
those in the best position to attempt such an act to guard
against it.
     It would have to be a curse, or perhaps, just a hex, given
the time constraint.  A hex might not be powerful enough to
accomplish the Dark Lord's demise outright, but if cast at the
right time, it could weaken him enough that someone else, like an
anonymous elven archer, could accomplish it.  It would be less
awe-inspiring than a curse, but easier and less-time consuming to
cast.
     Still, he mused maliciously, leafing to the page where he
had deciphered the heading of "Curses" almost a year ago, if I am
to aspire to the ebon throne, and since I will only have one
chance, why should I not use this text to its full potential?  A
hex is only good against one victim, but a curse could strike
down many, including those who would oppose me, solving all of my
problems at once!
     His glee dissolved into dread as he comtemplated the task
before him.  The casting would be simple compared to acquiring
the means and wherewithal to cast it, namely perusing the book
beyond the first few pages.  Ariadne's Antithesis had a long
history of being the undoing of those who had read it, even
Silver-eyes to whom she had given it personally.  The adventurers
who had retrieved it from the battlefield all died horribly
bizarre deaths shortly thereafter, setting a grim precedent for
the later possessors.
     Balkar had aquired it through just such a tragedy.  His
former master, the wizard he had been apprenticed to, had owned
the volume before him, and Nikodanb only knew who had it before
the old man.  Balkar remembered the stormy night he had awakened
to a ghastly piercing scream, and the tower seeming to rock on
its foundations.  He had followed the screams and weird maniacal
laughter to the library.  He arrived in time to see his teacher,
engulfed in flames, laughing and screaming like a lunatic, throw
himself out a window and plummet like a shooting star into the
waves below.  the book was lying open on the writing desk, almost
the only piece of furniture not burning, and Balkar had snatched
it and several other precious books and scrolls and fled the
castle before it slid from the cliff and joined its master in the
waters off Vorsorge.
     After much wandering and research in all of the remaining
libraries, Balkar finally stumbled upon the language the book was
written in.  It was a variant of Old Minotaur, which showed heavy
ogrish influence.  He had deciphered the title and few pages,
shaking his head at the complexity.  What had possesed a dark elf
to write in such a language, he had no idea, but realizing the
treasure he had, and finally understanding his master's fate, he
locked it in a chest beneath some clothing.  When he had moved to
Dark Hold he had put it on the bookcase, since few thieves look
for valuables in obvious places.  He had dabbled with it, like a
miser playing with his gold, but only briefly, before losing his
nerve and putting it back on the shelf.  He had almost forgotten
about it, but tonight General Ravensblood's toast seemed to ring
purer than the sound of crystal and the book had seemed to call
him, even when he was inside the castle's keep.
     After a brief instant of toying with the idea of putting the
book back, being content with his lot and living a long healthy
life in the service of his lord and friend, Balkar clenched his
fist in firm resolve.  He began reading, chanting a continuous
incantation of protection.  He paused only momentarily to
concentrate on the occasional symbol he could not remember and to
copy it out for later reference.  Always watching for an unusual
glyph that might destroy him as one had his master, he committed
each listing to memory, fascinated by the variety of virulent
influences he could invoke.  His throat was dry and the syllables
of the incantation were sticking, but he dared not stop lest he
lose his resolve.  Swallowing was painful, and his vision was
blurring, but the book compelled him onward, dominating his
attention and relentlessly draining him.
     Word after word sank into his memory as the archaic language
began to creep back and become increasingly prevalent, almost
intimately personal with each block of script.  He hungered for
more, his blood pounding faster as he read on, marvelling at the
crooked genius behind each individual selection.  He pressed on,
unable to decide, ignore the fever that swept over him and his
irregular breathing.  More hours passed, night moved into day,
with the first dim rays of false dawn.
     A rooster crowed in the outer courtyard, almost inaudible in
his chambers, but breaking Balkar's concentration like a
thunderclap.  A bone-numbing chill washed over him, and the
enchanted light dimmed for a moment before returnign to normal. 
Impulsively, he slammed the cover shut, and pushed himself away
from the desk, suddenly aware of how weak he felt and the wetness
in his mouth that indicated he had not been chanting for some
time.
     He glanced out the window trying to guess the hour, not
remembering hearing the castle bell since he left the keep.  He
leaned on the desk to support his unstable legs, but drew back
quickly.  Ariadne's Antithesis lay open agains, although he had
distinctly closed it.  Mor intimidating was the fact that it was
well over two-thirds of the way through, to a page he had never
seen before.  The was no wind in his chambers, and even so, no
breeze could have flipped the heavy cover and stiff pages without
him feeling it.
     Balkar reached over to shut the book again, aware of the
chill that still permeated his body, but he could not help
glancing to the page it was open to when his hands found the
volume's covers too heavy to close.  The inscription at the top
alluded to a curse, and he became aware that he was smiling as he
effortlessly read the title and summary of the effect.  Perfect,
my Lady.  Exactly what I wanted, and precisely what I need. 
Knowing his services would not be required for several hours,
Balkar collapsed on the bed, exhausted from his night's labors.
     She is small and fair.  Her green eyes sparkle as she kisses
him, trailing her long golden hair over his body.  The white gown
she wears dissapates into the mists around her.  A tinkling laugh
escapes her as she removes his robes.  It has been too long since
he took a woman, and now he comes to her gladly, enjoying her
small body and gentle words of encouragement.  Her pointed ears
poke through the shower of gold she bathes them both in, and she
whispers to him in the old arcane language of her book as he
makes love to her.