Mage Knight Dark Debts

420 Tz The dank odor of damp stone and old straw filled the room, familiar and stinging. Like all of Necropolis, this room held the stink of untold years of death magic, of power bought by the suffering of innocent and tortured souls, of blood spilled, life debased, and foul treachery revered and rewarded. Kerraii stared impassively at the sorry collection of Elves and humans before her; they stared back with no apparent understanding of her control over their fates. This lower room was one of many carved out of the rocky island that held Necropolis. It resided in Sarnen's tower, a building identical to the eleven others ringing the more impressive Prophet's tower. Twelve towers for the Deathspeaker Orders and another for the Dark Prophet, the bone avatar that contained the essence of the Grand Magus Tezla, father of them all. Thirteen towers, connected by complex tunnels--some of them public and some of them most decidedly not. Above ground, sky bridges connected the twelve Order buildings to one another and to the other major buildings of Necropolis; the rest of the city was a vast maze of edifices, streets, and secretive, walled courtyards that stank of blood and corruption. But here in the lower levels of Sarnen's Order, Kerraii faced this tightly packed chamber of used up slaves and contemplated their fate. It was a fate already decided. These slaves were old, or simply too weak to be of any further use. From child to elder, they no longer served her Lord Sarnen as they should. And they offended her nose with their rank fear and unwashed bodies. Not for much longer. Those still showing a spark of intelligence and life regarded her with wary understanding. They knew what she was--a Nightblade, blooded and trained and battle proven, bearing blade and specialized strap harness, her sleek black hair pulled back into a tight, stern ponytail that merely served to emphasize her stunning, refined Elvish features. Nightblades. Assassins. The ultimate in cold death and beauty combined. If the Nightblade style also provided a subtle visual reminder of the stern and unquestioning loyalty expected of her and her sister Nightblades, such thoughts remained unspoken among those who served Sarnen. As Kerraii served him. Kerraii, Deathspeaker Sarnen's own. His mistress, his most trusted Nightblade, an ex-Wylden Elf who'd moved on to new ways. Those who resented her position and the relative security it lent her often looked for ways to annoy her, to debase her, like the Death Merchant Skulk, who'd found a way to assign her this menial duty. Skulk's vindictive hatred had been a part of Kerraii's life since her arrival in the dark city, when she'd supplanted him at Sarnen's side. Skulk had never been anything more than a momentary pet project to the Deathspeaker, a human in Dark Sect ranks . . . and he'd never been able to accept the temporary nature of that role. Instead he turned his hatred and revenge on Kerraii. She'd long ago learned to expect it. Now she forced a bored note into her voice; her gaze skipped over the miserable slaves, never settling long in one place, or on one face. "You have served what purpose you can in your present state," she told them, using the Atlantean tongue she'd learned upon coming to this place eight years earlier. They all knew it; the humans had come here knowing it and the Elves learned it to survive, as had she. Even after all this time of interacting with humans on a daily basis, they still looked short to her--short and stout, though some much more than others. Now no one here carried enough flesh to be called stout. Not anymore. "It is time to move on. In this you have no choice, but you do have the ability to affect the nature of your continuing service." They exchanged fearful glances at that. They understood perfectly that such choices were never between anything but the lesser of two evils. ButDurgin, Doranna is the author of 'Mage Knight Dark Debts' with ISBN 9780345459695 and ISBN 0345459695.