'Freedom or the Fire' Chapter Seventeen- It Shall Be Done

Once again, Richard Vandross thought, Vilec Roak is going to come barging in and apologizing for his inadequacies.  Vandross knew that his beast had died, but he had been prepared for that eventuality when Roak told him that he intended to use the creature in his plot.  Injury, however, would not be enough to please the one-eyed devil this time; he had told Vilec Roak as much before the Shadowbeast Prime and General of his armies had departed to watch the scenario play itself out.  But now, as Vilec Roak slinked into the room, the Shadowbeast wore a toothy grin that split his face from ear to ear.  Success, Vandross wondered.  That would be a pleasant change of pace.  "Tell me all about it, Vilec.  I had low hopes for this little exercise of yours.  How well did it go?"

            "To begin, my lord, let me first say that I apologize for the use of Brink.  It has indeed been lost.  However, with the aid of one of our Illusionists, I was able to convince Byron's fools that they struck a heavy blow to a massive detachment of Shadowbeasts.  Most of them, however, were mere phantasms.  Our practitioner was able to adapt the imagery to react to their attacks.  In all, we lost twelve Shadowbeasts."

            "And our enemies," Vandross asked, raising his good eyebrow. 

            "They are one fewer, my lord.  The Monk, David Spore, is slain."  Vandross grinned inwardly, pleased beyond words.  Monks could be troublesome, he had learned over the years.  Potent, competent fighters, and with the aid of magic sutras.  Effective fighter-mages, them, and this David Spore had been a pain while aided by Byron and his friends.  Though he didn't seem as vital a component to their success as the others, his death would deal a heavy blow to the company's morale.  After the loss of their friend, and the betrayal of a seemingly injured man, Byron and his companions would be unsure of everyone and anyone who approached them or asked for aid.   They would be effectively rendered incapable of helping anyone for a while!  "Does this news please you, my lord," Vilec Roak asked, taking a knee.  Vandross bellowed harsh laughter, throwing his head back and guffawing like a madman. 

            "It is sooth, yes, I am pleased beyond your knowledge!  Our losses you kept minimal, through trickery and guile!  And as a result of your little plot, one of their number lies eternally lost to them!  Vilec Roak, to think that I was losing faith in your abilities to lead this army!  Let it be known throughout our numbers that you are worthy and capable," Vandross said, rising up out of his throne, moving up to stand just before the Shadowbeast General.  "Stand, Vilec Roak.  Tonight, we shall celebrate this first step toward their utter destruction.  And on the 'morrow, we shall plan for their next defeat.  Come," he said, walking confidently out of the throne chamber, toward the entrance of Mount Toane.  "Let us go to one of our new 'protectorates'," Vandross said, refering to the villages he had sent his armies to occupy near his home lair.  Human and Shadowbeast walked along together, out into the light of early afternoon.  Major Tamriel, the huge and dark humoured Renka, stood outside of the mountain with his Sergeants Moran and Doran, the other two bear demons that Vandross had summoned to his purposes.  "Tamriel, Vilec Roak and I shall be going to one of my townships for a celebration.  One of Byron's company has been slain this day, and we must do this accomplishment proper ceremony!  In our absense, I leave Mount Toane under your care and supervision."

            "What of Colonel Molis," the hulking, furred demon asked, signaling for his men to stand at attention. 

            "Ah, right," Vandross said, thinking on his First Colonel, his first creation while still in the thrall of Tanarak of Sidius.  Molis was a half-demon man who he had sent with a detachment of men to harass the city of Ja-Wen further.  He would crush that city-state as surely as any other territory, and claim it for himself; but the task he had sent Molis on he deemed necessary.  He wanted to reduce the number of defenders there before he went in for the kill.  Though Grigory Molis had given him little in the way of interaction beyond silent scorn and low-level disgust, he had done as his master commanded.  "No, Major.  He is engaged in the slow damaging of Ja-Wen, and I shall not recall him.  You are more than capable of this task in his stead.  In the off chance that Mount Toane is attacked by outsiders, you have my permission to carry on the defense as you see fit.  Now, General," he said, smiling widely as he slapped Vilec Roak on the back.  "Let us make haste!  I intend to drink my fill and plan further woe for the Dread Knight!  Ha!"  There was more contempt than genuine mirth in Richard Vandross's laugh, but he did find hilarity in misfortune of his enemies.  Finally, he had struck a blow to Byron and his companions that would leave a permanent mark.  Having gathered the servants under his command, he had amassed a number of useful tools for his conquest over the land and the undead warrior.  But now he wanted more, as he had before; he wanted to slay one of them with his bare hands, or at least be the main hand controlling the figures that would topple more of Byron's damaged company.

            Vandross tore a rift in the air before him, the shimmering, blue tinted image of an occupied township visible on the other side of the tear.  He stepped through with Vilec Roak in tow, and materialized in the center of the town.  The cowed inhabitants of the town gasped in amazement at his sudden appearance, and he could smell and taste their fear; sweet like honey in his nostrils and on his tongue, the aroma of sweat coursing through the air to join the other sensations.  He felt exalted in the presence of such terror, feeding on the waves of emotion that emanated from these hopeless folk.  He closed his eye, letting the warmth of it flow through him, a babbling brook in the center of his soul's landscape.  He felt the Orbs inside of him respond, Power, Vengeance, Spite and Deceit writhing in ecstasy.  Smiling with his eye still closed, he lowered his chin to his chest, letting out a low grunt. 

            "Foolish, blasted incompetents," he screamed in the twin harmony of his possessed voice.  "Know you not your new ruler when you lay eyes upon him?!  I demand respect, knaves!  Bow to me, for I am Richard Vandross!  I am your endgame, your omega!  Kneel, and you shall suffer little more than humiliation and groveling!"  As if on cue, all those assembled who were not under his army's ranks dropped to their hands and knees, touching their foreheads to the dirt.  "Ha ha ha ha haaa!  Excellent!  Now, who shall offer my General and I their wife or daughter for this evening?  We are not unreasonable curs, but we require the company of females as much as the next fellow!  Who among you shall receive my grace with an offering?" 

He looked around at the assembled men and women, their eyes filled with horror and panic, desperation.  One of the young Human women present had caught his attention in particular; a woman barely older than a girl, her figure full and voluptuous.  But she wore the simple dress of a modest commoner, and her hair glistened with natural oils and grease; she would need a bath, he thought, but she was perfect.  The slight, gentle slope of her cheeks suggested that she took care of herself, and if properly attired and cleaned, perhaps with a touch of makeup, she would be gorgeous.  The girl had a long, swan-like neck, and her skin was pale as moonlight where it could be seen.  She was unblemished, undamaged, perhaps untouched by carnal knowledge, Vandross thought with a twisted chuckle.  She was also, he realized, a Half-Elf.  He would defile her, then, he decided.  "You there," he shouted, pointing an armored finger directly at her like an accusation.  "I will know your name!"  The girl remained half slouched, her form still somewhat prone.  But she looked him in the eye, her lower lip trembling with unconfined fear or anger, he could not tell which.

            "I am Kelly Jonas," she said, her voice warbling like a dying bird.  Fear, Vandross decided with satisfaction.  "Why would you ask, villain," she said, spitting at him.  Hmm, he thought, rubbing his beard with his left hand, his right on his hip in a thoughtful pose. 

            "You've got spirit, I see," he said, grinning at Vilec Roak, who had himself adopted an amused countenance.  "What do you think, General?  Is this girl worthy of my attention?"

            "Oh yes, she is," the Shadowbeast said, stalking toward Kelly Jonas and wrenching her to her feet by the arm.  He tossed her roughly toward Vandross, who caught the girl by the wrist a moment before she punched at him.  "And I can sense that she is untainted, my lord.  A prime choice, if I do say so myself."

            "Bastards," cried an older man behind Roak, barreling headlong into the Shadowbeast and heaving him to the ground.  The man had the frame of a small bear, all width and disused muscle turned to fat, his shaggy beard hanging an inch from Vilec Roak's face.  The man pulled a small smithing hammer from his tool belt, and struck at Vilec Roak's arms over and over in a fury, the General easily blocking the attacks.  With a thrust of his hips and a flick of magical force, Vilec Roak tossed the man aside, hovering over him an instant later. 

            "And who is this man," Vandross asked the girl, staring into her eyes from only a few inches away.  He felt her body turn cold and rigid, gripped by the power he commanded and the threat that he might take out on her any punishment due to the fallen smithy. 

            "He is Thomas Jonas, my father, and blacksmith of this village," she whispered.  Twin fangs of fear and guilt sank into her, venomous power coursing down through her blood.  She had become compliant in a moment's time, and Vandross, while pleased, wasn't entirely certain if this newfound cooperation was yet another side effect of his powers, or simply a young woman's desperation and loss of hope.  "If you will spare him, I will lay with you," she whispered into his ear, reaching up on her tiptoes to speak to him alone.  Vandross, his hands still on her shoulders, pushed her out to his arms' reach.  Turning toward Thomas Jonas, he gave Vilec Roak a brief sign to back off, keep an eye on his prize.  Richard Vandross knelt down next to the fallen smithy, who had scrambled back from the Shadowbeast.

            "Look at me, old fool," he rasped at the smithy.  No fear lay in those eyes anymore; instead, there floated only fury, seething and boiling over.  The Human would surely do something foolish, but Vandross cared not.  "I am going to give your daughter her first taste of true womanhood.  I am going to violate her in ways she has surely never even heard of.  I am going to spill my seed about her face and hair, for I shall not sire you a grandchild of power such as mine.  Yours is blood too lowly and base for such honor," he said with a grin, spitting in the old man’s eye.  The smithy's face had gone slack, either in defeat, or as a feint.  Again, it didn't matter.  "I shall spare your life now, for she has begged it of me.  But you shall still receive punishment for your attack on my General, who also is one of your new lords.  Do you understand?"

            "Just kill me," the smithy growled, facing Vandross squarely.  What sort of man was this, that he did not feel despair in the face of the one-eyed warlock and his forces, his powers?  Insanity did not hold him, and that Vandross could tell, aside from his skill with the occasional abrupt assault, no powers availed to help this man.  "Kill me and spare my only daughter your filthy desires, villain!”  The smithy took his turn now to spit at Vandross.  “Strip my flesh from my bones, let vultures feast upon me,” he cried out, standing now to his feet and ripping his shirt open, exposing it to the air, daring the scavenger birds to descend upon him.  “Have me drawn and quartered, but do not dare lay a finger on her innocent head, or surely the great God Oun shall banish you to the Hells!"  The man had just requested torturous methods of death over the perversion of his daughter's body, and Vandross fumbled with his thoughts for a long moment.  How could any man be so determined?  What sort of person chose potential death over the temporary pain of their child? 

            A flash of memory played in his mind’s eye.  His mother and father, running through the streets.  They had propelled him into the waiting arms of a neighbor so that he would be kept safe from the bandits.  They had tried to save him, but in the process, they had been slain.  Vandross felt a little of his control slip out of his hands.  Such tactics only lead to death, and the misery of being orphaned!  This act put this smithy in the same league as his own lowly, worthless, powerless father.  Oh, he would need to be punished.

            Byron of Sidius had done something similar, a long time ago.  He had been ordered to kill his wife and son, under the direct command of Tanarak and himself, Vandross thought.  But his soul had somehow gained the strength to refuse him and his master.  Now, years later, Vandross faced a much less capable man, willing to sacrifice himself to the imagination of a warlock in order to spare his child.  "My lord," a serpentine voice called to him, sounding as though it came from a hundred miles away.  He recognized it as Vilec Roak's, but could not bring himself to respond to it just yet.  After he cleared his throat, he stood up and faced his General, who appeared worried.  "Are you well, my lord?"  Vandross shook his head to clear his jumbled thoughts.  At that moment, Spite spoke in his mind, his voice slithering and slurring like the serpent he took the form of.  There is a great punishment for this man, it said to him.  Think on it for a moment.  And think on it he did, smiling broadly as he listened to Spite.  Such awesome humiliation, Vandross thought, his blood pumping faster as he thought about it.  He had his answer, and it was far worse than any threat of death the smithy would dare. 

            "Thomas Jonas, I shall spare your life, as your daughter has requested.  But you shall still receive your punishment for your transgression against myself and my General.  Hear you now what I have in store for you both," he said, sweeping his gaze over the girl.  Gods, he thought, she was beautiful.  He let his gaze linger a moment longer than necessary, relishing the thought of what was to come.  "I shall ravish your daughter in the manner I have told to you.  And you shall watch me do so," he said, reaching a state of near sexual climax as the man flattened himself on the ground and screamed his anger and remorse into the dirt.  Such despair, Vandross thought, his mind reeling with the narcotic effects of feeding on raw emotion.  I shall have such sustenance for all the days of my life.  Hoisting Kelly Jonas over his shoulder like a rag doll, he motioned to Roak to grab the forlorn smithy, who grappled with the Shadowbeast for a moment before letting himself go limp in defeat.  Ah, what a marvelous day this shall be, Vandross thought as he waved to his slack-jawed subjects.  They shall all know me for generations to come, he thought.  And they shall fear me in all times.

            The moon hung in the sky directly above the seedy inn room that Richard Vandross had committed his atrocity in.  Blood ran down the length of his arms, mixing with the rivulets of sweat he had earned from a hard night's labors.  He had ravished the young woman, Vilec Roak cackling in the background as he restrained Thomas Jonas the blacksmith.  Afterwards, Vandross had strangled the girl, and as the smithy had finally surged to his feet to assault the one-eyed warlock, he launched a viper of black force at him.  The smoke-serpent sank its fangs into Jonas's neck, wresting the life from him. 

But the smithy was strong and full of fury; he somehow managed to rip the serpent free from his throat, bounding across the floor and striking Vandross once hard on the jaw.  As Vandross reeled from the sheer force of the blow, he thought his jaw was broken.  Turning back, Vandross lined his fingers up into a wedge, thrusting his hand into the smithy's chest, tearing the heart and lungs right out of his body.  Blood sprayed him, caking his front side from forehead to toe, its coppery aroma infecting him like an aphrodisiac.  He savored its smell, relishing it the way one might do so if he had returned home after a long time.  To baste in the blood of one who threatened him, to tear the life out of another living thing with his own two hands; these things were sweet nectar to his soul.

            Using the stained sheets he had ravished the girl on to wipe himself down, Vandross dismissed Vilec Roak and walked into the washroom.  Without realizing what he was doing, he stood in front of the mirror, staring at his reflection.  His face appeared gaunt, deprived of real nourishment, the thick stubble of his beard unkempt in the fashion of madmen and beggars.  His jaw had a severe thrust to it, partially natural and partially from the blow he’d just gotten, giving him the appearance of a natural predator.  At this he grinned, noticing the gleam of his teeth in the dim light.  But a moment later, his eyes caught his attention.  They glowed bright crimson, filling his vision with the promise of destruction.  From behind the patch over his injured eye, smoke swirled with the light, a slow pulse developing as he stared at his reflection.  A wave of nausea swept through him then, and he fell to the washroom floor, unconscious. 

            He regained awareness shortly, looking up from his back.  He struggled to his feet, looking around at the familiar hallway of his soul.  Vandross opened into a sprint down the hall, not bothering to take notice of any changes that may have further occurred since his last appearance within the space of his spirit.  He didn’t slow for a moment, thrusting aside the twin doors leading into the chamber containing the Orbs' manifestations.  Here, however, he was given reason to pause.  The chamber had become enormous in scale, and had been filled with small altars and strange relics.  Power flowed freely through the air, clouds of black smoke floating slowly about, shadows with crimson eyes like his own standing in small circles while chanting a low, rhythmic mantra.  Power, Vengeance, Spite and Deceit stood apart from these smaller groups, up near the altar on which rested the cask of the Glorious Mother of Destruction.  They looked up at him as he stalked toward them, bare-chested, bare footed, and seething with violence.  He had been summoned, he knew, and would not have minded so much if it had been while he slept; but this time, they had pulled him from his own reality during his waking hours.

            "Power," he growled as he got within earshot.  "What is the meaning of this?!  I do not see any reason for you to have called me here at this time.  I was not even asleep for the gods' sake!"  The elegant woman who represented the first Orb adjusted her stance only slightly, her head covered in a veiled hood.  In spite of this, Vandross could feel her smiling at him like a madwoman. 

            "We have made a discovery that I did not think you should wait to know of, gracious host.  In truth, it was Vengeance who first brought the matter to our attention."  She hooked her arm around Vandross's and gently guided him closer to the altar, the cask now only an arm's length from him.  He could feel power emanating from within the container, power the likes of which he had never even imagined possible.  The power to bring down entire nations with the snap of his fingers, and it would shortly be all his!  Just one more Orb, provided the wretched Dread Knight and his companions didn't get there first.  "Within there lies the Glorious Mother of Destruction, host.  It is only Despair that we await, but we have not been able to locate or sense him anywhere.  I have sent copies of you all over the realm of Tamalaria, but have found nothing."  That's right, Vandross thought.  He had forgotten about Power's ability to make ethereal copies of his being.  Up to this point, he had only used it the once, and then left it forgotten. 

            "So what is the point of all of this," he barked at her, still annoyed that he had been forcefully summoned just to see that there took place certain activities and rituals inside himself. 

            "My host, it may be that we can unlock the great power without Despair," Power cooed at him, rubbing his arm.  She's just a spirit, Vandross thought to himself.  She isn't real, so don't even start thinking about a second romp.  After all, he thought with a half grin, I'd essentially be fucking myself!  As he cleared his head, the weight of what Power had said sunk in. 

            "Wait a minute," he said, trying to clear his head.  "You mean to tell me that there is a way to access it without the final Orb of Eden’s Serpent?"  The female manifestation raised an eyebrow and nodded.  "You mentioned this once before, but you seemed resistant to the idea.  What are the risks in trying this?"

            "The, risks, are, great," shlurped Vengeance.  "If there, is a, mistake, in the ritual, you may find, yourself, damaged.  We, require, your consent, to continue.  That, is why, you, were summoned, here.  Even, if, you are, not damaged, physically, there may be, other, repercussions."  Vandross looked about from creature to creature, trying to weigh the risks against the potential gains.  What form would Despair take, he wondered?  None of the Orbs appeared like the others, nor did they have similar powers.  It might be beneficial to him to have access to the Glorious Mother of Destruction now, but Power and Vengeance had not been specific about the damage he may suffer as the result of a mistake.  The consequences could be dire, perhaps life-threatening.

            "You can hold off for now.  Complete as much of the preparations as you see fit, but do not perform the final ritual.  We shall find Despair if possible.  I do not think he is beyond our grasp," he said, thinking about Byron's fallen comrade.  Monks had strange powers, even by magical standards.  They were known for protecting ancient artifacts, even suppressing their powers, in the monasteries they made their homes.  If one such brotherhood had the final Orb, they might have secreted it away.  And Byron was heading further north, it seemed, into the mountains.  "Power, make another copy of me, and send it into the northern range of mountains.  Have it search for Monk-run monasteries, nothing more.  Get its report and dispose of it afterwards."

            "Host," she asked, raising an eyebrow once again, this time in question.  Vandross explained his thoughts on the Monks, telling her that there might be a particular order that held onto the artifact of arcane power.  "If the copy finds that it is under the care of a single Monk, have the man slain.  If there are two or more, recall the copy.  I want nothing botched, no half-assed measures in this effort.  Do you understand?"  The woman bowed deeply to him, smiling as she did so.

            "It shall be done, my host," she said in a whisper.  A whirl of energy flowed around Vandross, and he found himself awake in the washroom of his rented chambers.  Hellfire, he thought.  Hell and blood!  Still seething at the Orbs' apparent power over him, despite his impression that he was the master of them, he looked up into the mirror and punched the reflective surface.  Blood ran between his fingers as he held his fist against the shattered glass, the soft tinkle of shards striking the floor.  Shadows encroached upon the outskirts of his vision, blurring everything into a vague blob of shades of gray; he was certain he was going to pass out again.  But as he turned around, he saw that he was more than conscious.  The shadows around him had actually begun to wax and wane, taking on vaguely humanoid shapes before returning to their host objects.  They were reacting to him, he realized with a shock.  His abrupt violence, the stench in the bedroom of his crimes, the glow of his damaged eye; all these things had caused the shadows to come to life for his command.  They were not demons, this he knew from the fact that they didn't appear to possess any souls.  The shadows didn't move or take shape until he fixed his full attention on them.  Lifeless, shapeless extensions of himself, he decided.  He would figure out a way to make use of them at a later time.  For now, all he honestly wanted to do was finish dressing himself, grab his armor, and teleport himself back to Mount Toane.  The bodies of the Jonas family could remain where they lay sprawled.  After all, he thought with a chuckle as he tore a rift in the air, they wouldn't be missed.

            "Report," Vandross said as he came out of Mount Toane and stalked groggily up to Major Tamriel.  Vandross had shuffled straight to his chambers after getting back in the middle of the night.  He had, upon awakening, bathed himself and adorned a new suit of black and blue armor.  He decided it might be best to continue on with his normal routine.  This involved a morning report from whoever had kept watch overnight, which more often than not, meant speaking with the great bear demon.  The Renka snapped off a sharp salute, standing straighter than usual.  Vandross raised his good eyebrow, and folded his arms over his chest.  The Renka smelled like old grime and mutton, a rather odd combination, Vandross thought.  Then again, Tamriel and his kind didn't exactly eat a standard Human diet; few of Vandross's forces did.  The Shadowbeasts ate grasses, weeds, and other sorts of plants not suitable to the normal person's palate, let alone digestive tract.  Brink, when the great beast demon had been around, had consumed every living animal it could get its huge hands on.  The Khan in his employ hunted in the dark hours of the morning, dragging deer and moose into the mountain by the half dozen, just to feed one of their packs. 

            Thus, it was fortunate that many of his forces had spread out to his new territories.  The immediate area surrounding Mount Toane had taken a severe blow to its ecosystem as a result of the one-eyed warlock's armies.  The more intelligent creatures, such as wild dogs, wolves, and horses, had decided unanimously that the new inhabitants of the region were too dangerous to live with, and as such had moved on.  Aside from the slightly dull witted creatures, the food sources had become scarce.  The only clear exception to this were the few bears that lived in the area, but the Renka had made it clear to the first poor bastard who had tried to hunt one that this was unacceptable.  The Khan Hunter had returned with a bear corpse, and had been ripped apart violently by the hulking Major.  Tamriel hadn’t been screwing around.  He had buried his claws in the top of the Khan’s head, gripped, and ripped in opposite directions, literally ripping the man in half.

            "Whilst you were absent from Mount Toane, little occurred, my lord.  There were no unexpected assaults, no strange magics, and nobody has gone AWOL.  All is in order, my lord.  But something did catch my attention, and I am uncertain what to make of it."  Vandross nodded, waving his hand to motion the Renka to continue.  "It was at about the midnight hour, my lord.  The entire mountain shook as with terror, and there flashed a dazzling light from the northwest, in the direction of the village to which you went.  Did something happen there, my lord?"  Vandross shook his head, waving the question irritably aside. 

            "Nothing to concern yourself with at any rate, Tamriel.  Tell me, who's watching the entrance today?"

            "That would be Lieutenant Amon and his pack of Khan," Tamriel rumbled, stretching his massive arms.  His eyes had developed bags under them, his body still unaccustomed to being incarnated in mortal flesh.  In Hell, the demons needed no rest to carry out their duties.  The hellfire and demonic power channeling through the rings of Hell from Pandemonium gave enough energy to all the demons.  Now, the Renka had need of food and rest, things he was not accustomed to requiring.  Vandross was surprised that the Shadowbeasts seemed to get by so easily, while in comparison, the more potent demons were tiring out and becoming sluggish.  Then again, the Shadowbeasts had little or no pride, and would consume anything and sleep at any time available.  Almost like Humans, Vandross thought with a smirk.  "They shall be here promptly, my lord.  Requesting permission to knock off for a good sleep," he said with a snappy salute.

            "Granted, Major.  You are off duty for now.  And for your own sake, don't come back on today.  Take the day off, unless I personally send for you, Tamriel.  Dismissed," he said, returning the salute and watching the bear demon lumber away.  Something in the way that Tamriel had become less intimidating concerned him; too much time in the mortal realm might ultimately render him effectless.  Perhaps if he gave the Major something a bit more aggressive to do, he would return to the state he had been in when first Vandross had summoned him.  He would want the Renkas available as the first line of defense if Byron and his company gathered an army against Mount Toane.  Though Moran and Doran struck him as being next to petty Shadowbeasts in power, they would at least serve as sword fodder.  Vandross had become increasingly certain that it would come down to that, despite any efforts he made to crush the Dread Knight.  But more of his party could be destroyed, and that would make things a bit more difficult on Byron.  Vandross's armies could destroy anyone they wanted, but he increasingly wanted Byron to himself.  He would destroy the Dread Knight with his own hands.

            At this point the growling figure of Lieutenant Amon came marching out of Mount Toane, his orange and black striped head thrust forward like a primate.  A thickly furred and muscled man, Amon's body possessed more tiger-like features than humanoid, giving him a bestial personality and temper to go along with his general physical appearance.  Part of his aggressive tendencies, the one-eyed warlock knew, came from the fact that he had not truly wished to serve in the armies of Vandross.  He had only come along as a way of preserving his people, that they might one day return to the Allenians and crush the Simpa Race.

Vandross had appointed him an officer's rank for the simple reason that he was an effective leader of his people.   Among Khan, the way leadership was determined was through a battle-royal style battle, unarmed, until one man stood alone.  Amon had been the ruler of his pack for years, and each time a new challenge was made on the post of leadership, he had laid waste to his challengers, upon occasion killing the Khan who had issued the challenge in the first place.  Many of his kinsmen didn't bother with the battles anymore; they enjoyed the privilege of breathing.  As a result, even here in Vandross's armies, none of the Khan questioned their place.  Amon snapped a sharp salute off at Vandross, who returned it after a moment. 

            "Lieutenant Amon, sir," the tiger-man growled.  "I am here to relieve Major Tamriel, along with my personal vanguard."

            "So noted, Lieutenant," Vandross said, moving back toward Mount Toane.  "I assume you shall send a runner to me in the event of attack?"

            "Of course, sir," the Khan said, looking at a point somewhere in the distance.  Military service seemed to suit the man perfectly, Vandrosss thought.  "Everything shall be carried out accordingly.  Gentlemen," he barked, spinning on his heel to look at his men.  "To your posts!  Everyone!"  The Khan all moved to their assigned posts without questions, or any indication that they objected.  Vandross nodded his satisfaction, and moved into Mount Toane.  His mind wandered, and as he stalked through the great rock halls and caverns of the mountain, he found himself thinking back on days long past, days in which he served as the apprentice instead of the master. 

His first time entering Mount Toane had felt like a test of his physical and mental mettle, a rite of passage that he hadn't even felt up to; yet he had gone into the bottom most caverns and tunnels of Mount Toane with his master, Tanarak of Sidius.  There, he had viewed a small glimpse of what was to come for the land of Tamalaria.  He had known that Tanarak would be felled, however, despite the warlock's own confidence and power.  Something in the images that had cleverly played out on the walls told him of Tanarak's fall, and how fortunate he would be to be in the position of apprentice when the warlock was slain.  He would have a way of absorbing Tanarak's powers, and could become even greater than the old freak. 

            That first night, however, after seeing the Chamber of Fate and its stories shown in magma light, he had been greatly disturbed, even terrified.  Tanarak had summoned a platoon of Shadowbeasts, simply to practice his arcane powers on them.  One by one the old warlock blasted them back into the Hells, leaving piles of ash and salt where there had stood demons.  The practice in and of itself did not move Vandross in any way, but Tanarak's complete lack of emotion haunted him; the man took no pride or joy, not even any satisfaction, in his exercise.  He simply appeared to be going through the motions of slaughter, as though such actions were a common part of his everyday life.

 In the years that would follow, Vandross would learn that they were indeed thus, and that he himself took great satisfaction in the slaughter of his enemies.  But that first night, he had curled up in his bed of stone and straw and rocked himself to sleep.  He had agreed to accompany Tanarak in order to learn the arcane arts of magic, the spells and powers of a warlock.  Such mages had no restrictions on the type of magic they practiced, and held great power over those spells they mastered.  Since he had been very young, Richard Vandross had wanted to wield such power.  And now he did, he thought with a smile.  Now he did. 

There had been another item of note that had caused Vandross some discomfort that first time in the lower chambers and depths of the mountain.  He had detected a great demonic presence, one that was in another class entirely from the Shadowbeasts that Tanarak had summoned and destroyed.  He had felt its power, its hunger, but instinct told him that this essence, this presence, could do nothing without a physical body.  He had asked Tanarak about it, and the old warlock had grinned with his mouth, though his eyes had belied no single emotional response. 

“I know of what you speak, apprentice,” the old warlock rasped, peering around the chamber.  “It is a demon of the sort that is too powerful to be allowed access to the Mortal Realm without a host body.  Such restrictions were put in place many hundreds of years ago by the Gods in the Heavenly Palace themselves.”

“Would the demon be in control of the host,” Vandross asked, still wet behind the ears in those days.

“No, not total control.  It would be like sharing space inside your own body and soul.  Unpleasant to say the least.  In addition, this sort of demon requires the summoning of one who can control demons.  You will learn to do this in time, my apprentice, but not as yet.  And if ever you decide to awaken this beast, do not give it space within yourself.  Give it a useful mortal who can then be yours to command.” 

And Vandross had done just that, years later, creating Grigory Molis.

            Crimson and pitch rock faces stared back flatly at him in every corridor, their surfaces barely discernable from one another.  But Vandross had learned every inch of stone in this mountain, having made it his home twice now, once its second-in-command, and now its master.  His armies were not much different from Tanarak's, he thought with a trace of bitterness; he had wanted to be so much different than the old warlock, so much more effective and destructive.  In one respect, at least, he had done much of what Tanarak had done, but in a different way.  He had not manipulated the political structures of cities or kingdoms, had not used the back door to glean power and standing.  He had sent waves of soldiers to crush resistance and occupy that which he wanted, which he considered to be a much more effective way of securing power over his new subjects.  So much alike, he thought, but so much different.  And one more sore point separated him from Tanarak, one thing he wanted to have in common with the dead warlock; Tanarak had possessed all five of the Orbs of Eden’s Serpent, and had not unlocked the Glorious Mother of Destruction, though he had spoken of it cryptically on occasion, muttering about the power he would have with it.  Vandross intended to attain the final Orb, and unleash the final power of the Orbs upon the world, where his master had not.  But for the moment, he had no idea where the Orb of Eden’s Serpent was, and so would have to be patient while Power's shadow copies went in search of it.

            How long would he be forced to wait, he wondered as he passed into a rock stairwell that led downward into the mountain, toward the Chamber of Fate.  Would he gain possession of the fifth Orb of Eden’s Serpent?  Or would Byron and his companions secret it away, finding it before he could?  Then he would be forced to attempt the unleashing of the Glorious Mother of Destruction before it was safe to do so.  Then again, it might not even be safe with all five Orbs, so why not take the risk?  No, he thought, shaking his head roughly.  That was the other Orbs speaking, he thought, spitting vehemently on the steps as he descended.  He wanted to take every precaution; he was Richard Vandross, warlock and ruler, not madman and fool! 

As he reached the bottom of the stairwell, he stopped, shocked into recognition.  Had his feet carried him here without him being any the wiser?  Surely there was good reason for coming here, he mused, rubbing his beard.  He stood ten feet from a granite door, crudely created by stone melding, a Dwarven Racial power that allowed their kin to shape rock and stone at will.  On the other side of the door lay the Chamber of Fate itself, a high vaulted circle of stone that hung over the lava pits of Mount Toane.  When he opened the door, the first thing he would see would be the stone catwalk from the slim walking circle around the outside of the chamber to the central pad of suspended stone.  There, on the central pad, could be seen a pair of stone seats, crafted by the same technique as the door.  Hundreds of years ago, Mount Toane had belonged to Dwarves, and much of the furnishings available had been crafted by the beloved technique of stone melding.  Superstitious folks, Dwarves, Vandross thought.  But the Chamber of Fate was one superstition that his master, and even he himself, had come to believe in and depend upon. 

            As he threw open the door with one hand, he gasped once again as he gazed into the lava chamber.  Of course, his mind screamed.  Of course!  As Richard Vandross took one look into the Chamber of Fate, he screamed in fury and horror as he realized that the Chamber of Fate was the model from which his soul's central chamber had been copied!  And there, across from the doorway in which he had stood, cast in shadows, was the image of a hulking Knight of some sort bringing its flaming sword crashing down on the skull of the shadow his own body had cast against the wall.  Seeing this, Richard Vandross fled up through Mount Toane in blind panic and fear; he needed the Orb, and he needed the final powers it would grant him.  If he did not attain them, he was doomed.

            Several hours later, Richard Vandross rolled out of his bed, falling hard onto the compact floor of his bed chambers.  "Damn it all," he muttered, rubbing his eye.  He couldn't sleep well, his mind still haunted by the image of his skull being split in two by a Knight with a flaming sword.  It had been too real for his liking, too life-like, and only had one reasonable conclusion that could be drawn from it; Byron of Sidius would slay him.  Irregardless of how many ways one looked at it, the message was clear.  For perhaps the first time, he consciously regretted his loss of Locke, the Keeper.  But such regrets would have to wait.  He had other things to take care of first. 

Vandross moved from his bedchamber to his washroom, disrobing and pouring steaming water into a basin from a tube that pulled water from the depths of the mountain, near its fiery base.  Using a small container of fine sand, he scrubbed away the outermost layer of grime, feeling as though he had torn away the outer layer of skin along with the accumulated dirt.  Rinsing off, he arose from the basin and redressed, new tunics and heated armor feeling good on his skin. 

            He had a meeting to conduct with Colonel Molis at noon, to discuss the progress made by his armies against the defenders of Ja-Wen.  As soon as that meeting ended, he intended to draw Power forth from his body, and ask her for a report on the progress of his shadow copies.  After that, he had decided to go hunting with Lieutenant Amon and his pack.  Later in the evening, after he had satisfied his hunger with a nice dinner, he would invite Tamriel to play some chess.  He had tried to invite Vilec Roak on several occasions, but the Shadowbeast General hadn't shown much interest in the greatest of games.  All in all, he had a full day ahead of him as leader of the new world order.  Well, he thought, off to the throne room.  He was surprised to see that Colonel Molis had already arrived and was waiting for him at the foot of the grand throne.  The half-demon snapped off a salute, his gleaming yellow eyes the only thing visible inside of his full plate mail armor and helmet.  He looked not unlike Locke, in his own way, except that Molis's armor was a shimmering greenish, silver color, and he stood only six feet in height. 

            "Colonel," Vandross said as he returned the salute and assumed his throne.  "What news from Ja-Wen, Colonel?"

            "Sir," rasped the half-demon, his own voice sounding similar to Vandross's when the power of the Orbs took hold of him, a twin harmony of human and demon voices speaking at the same time.  "We began the siege by concentrating our efforts on the northwestern quadrant of the city, hoping to first strike at their elite defenders.  However, when we stormed that section of the city, we found only standard soldiers and constables of the law.  Thinking that they had simply rearranged their distribution of forces, I sent runners to all parts of the city, disguised as townsfolk.  However, much to my chagrin, none of the elite troops could be found.  It appeared that they had abandoned their posts after our first assault on the city.  I became suspicious, of course, when none could be found."  The half-demon shifted his weight on his feet uncomfortably, removing his helmet to reveal a handsome man's face, with streamers of shadows flowing off of his head instead of hair.  His eyes were the color of old ashes, the distant look of apathy locked in them.   Vandross couldn't remember when last he’d seen that Human-like face, but had come to respect the man's prowess and tactical mind.  Now, however, he sensed hesitation.

            "Is there something wrong, Colonel?"

            "My lord, for these last eight days we have harassed their city, destroying their defenders utterly, crushing their pockets of resistance under foot.  But yesterday, a small group of men and women, warriors we had not seen before, rushed at our encampment from the outskirts of the city.  They were only one score in number, yet they managed to cause severe casualties to our forces.  I believe they had been hiding in the outer residential districts all along, waiting for us to drop our defenses."

            "Hmm.  Describe these warriors for me, Colonel," Vandross said, raising an eyebrow.  An effective counter-attack, eh?  Twenty people, Molis had said.  What sort of numbers had they generated in their brief blitz on Molis's men, he wondered. 

            "They were an assembled force, organized and well disciplined.  They did not appear to be any one Race or Class in particular, my lord.  Humans, an Elf, a pair of Dwarves, a Cuyotai, a Werewolf, Jafts, a Minotaur, and even a couple of Gnomes.  Their kind are typically cowardly and scientific, but these two had mastered the arts of Aquamancy and Q Magic, respectively.  It was a varied arrangement, all working in unison, my lord, much like our hated nemesis," Molis said, referring to Byron and his rag-tag company.  Vandross agreed with his Colonel on one fundamental point; Byron led a small group rather effectively, considering that they did not have a large assortment of Races or Classes among them.  Still, their talent and power more than made up for the lack of numbers.  "Those who attacked took us by surprise, and destroyed two hundred and fifty of my men," the Colonel said.  Vandross gasped; no ordinary twenty men and women, regardless of skill, could have accomplished that much, not on their own.  "As I have said, my lord, they were well prepared for us.  Not so, we for them.  However, they all have been dealt with."

            "Well, there's a spot of good news," Vandross said with a sigh. 

            "My lord, there is one thing more I must show you," the half-demon rasped, reaching into one of his satchels, and withdrawing a small patch of cloth.  It was an armband, and on one of its surfaces, was the symbol of Oun, overlapped by an eyeless skull.  Richard Vandross twitched, setting the cloth ablaze with a thought, and howled with fury up through the highest reaches of Mount Toane. 

            "Byyyyyyrooooooon!" 

            Colonel Molis had left Vandross to his ranting and fuming a half-hour before the one-eyed warlock had enough time to calm himself down and summon Power.  He had reduced the walls in the throne room to scorched rubble with blasts of vitriol and lightning, power coursing through him, flames shooting forth from both eyes.  Strangely enough, the heat did not burn away the patch over his ruined eye, and he retained a measure of dignity when at last he forced Power into existence.  The tall, coy woman bowed her deference to him, and he waved a dismissive hand at her gesture.  "I want to hear something good, Power," he growled through barred teeth. 

            "And so you shall, gracious host," she whispered to him, her soft voice echoing eerily around the chamber.  "Of the six copies I sent forth, one has reported seeing a group of some three or four Monks carrying a cask with them.  I assume from their location that they are taking the item with them to a safe place in the northwestern most mountains.  There are few cities in that region, and most of them belong to the Dwarves."  Hmm, thought Vandross, Dwarves.  Superstitious folk, that much he knew about the stalwart humanoids.  And utterly fierce.  He could not hope to successfully lay siege to a Dwarven stronghold as he had Whitewood, especially if Byron and his ilk arrived first, which seemed an inevitability.  Dwarven armies were nothing to be toyed with, either; he would not risk open warfare with them.  But they were superstitious, and untrusting of magic for the most part.  Dwarves, as Richard Vandross had known them, possessed unequaled combat tacticians, brave and deadly warriors, and potent Clerics for the purposes of healing.  Aside from Gnomes, they were the greatest scientific minds in all of Tamalaria insofar as their technology was used for war.  They had developed siege engines that used a black powder to cause an explosion much like magic, except for the fact that the fire of science did not die like that of magic.  Dwarves used similar designs in smaller form, creating weapons they called 'hand cannons'.  No, he would not risk an assault on Dwarven territory.

            But he might not have to.  No self-respecting Dwarf would let something into his city of the Orb of Eden’s Serpent's nature.  The Monks would be refused, turned aside from safety.  They would have to find a cave or another monastery to hide the Orb in, somewhere in the mountains.  Out among the wilder, less inhabited mountains, however, Vandross ran the risk of running into another, far more lethal sort of foe; Dragons.  Vandross himself could handle a Dragon or two, but they lived in packs in those foothills and valleys.  This sort of thing would require stealth and skill, a smaller, more mobile group.  One that he would lead himself, he decided before speaking again.

            "My host," said Power.  "Are you well?  There is much on your mind, I sense."

            "Then you sense correctly," Vandross said, clasping his hands behind his back as he paced in a circle around the Orb manifestation, his gaze directed at the floor.  "There are risks to be weighed in this, Power.  I shall suffer no miscalculations.  I don't want to lose anymore of my minions needlessly.  I shall require council with my best officers on the matter.  Return now to my flesh, Power," he said, stopping in his tracks and facing her.  Without having even thought about it, he drew her back into his being, her material form winking out of sight with a dark glimmer of shadows.  Going to his specially assigned game chamber, he sat among the many stone seats and mentally summoned his highest officers and advisers to his side.  Within minutes, the chamber was occupied by seven men, Vandross included.  Directly across from Vandross sat Vilec Roak, the Shadowbeast General.  Looming in one tunnel entrance stood Major Tamriel, the great bear demon.  On Roak's right, sitting stiffly upright, was Colonel Molis, the half-demon.  Skulking in the shadows across the chamber from Vandross was Lieutenant Amon, sharpening his claws with a whetstone.  Lounging on one of the pool tables Vandross had erected was Talus Cur, an Illeck Q Mage in command of Vandross's special magic-wielding squads.  These Mages and Clerics had not been given military designations, as it seemed ill-suited to their nature, Vandross had decided.  And lastly, the highest ranking Beastmaster, a Sergeant Robin, stood behind Vilec Roak.  The Human had come in handy for providing meals and beasts of burden for the inner workings of maintaining the mountain as a base of operations. 

            "Gentlemen," Vandross began, adjusting his armor to make himself appear more relaxed.  Though all of these men around him held power, they all feared him in some way, and it occurred to him that it might be more effective to get them to be helpful if he did not daunt them.  As the saying goes, he thought with a smirk, you catch more flies with honey.  "It has come to my attention where the fifth and final Orb of Eden’s Serpent is, and where it is going.  Monks from the north have it in their charge, and they move swiftly for the northwest, into Dwarven territory.  I intend to claim it for my own, and thus give myself and our army enough power to crush all those who would oppose us," he said, knowing all the while that he did not mean to claim the world for his own.  He would feast on fear as long as he had to, and then fall into the Immortal Rest, and let his armies and minions fend for themselves.  He cared not what happened to them once he left the picture, only that he wanted them to help him achieve his ends now.  "But that is a dangerous region, even for one such as myself.  I shall require aid in this, but we cannot have open warfare with the Dwarves, or the Dragons.  I need options, gentlemen."      Silence, thick as stew, filled the room. 

As he searched the faces of all of the assembled men, Vandross took heart in the fact that they all seemed to be debating in their heads what the best course of action would be.  Of course, one or two of them would offer overly simplistic plans, shot through with flaws the size of a boulder, but he would listen to them each in turn before he cast down any suggestions.  And, as he had suspected he might, Lieutenant Amon was the first to test his mental might in this situation.

            "My lord, I do not see the problem with confronting the Dwarves in a military strike.  Their numbers are not as vast as ours, and we have resources that they do not!  If we properly rationed the men, and marched every last battalion out to the Dwarven cities, we could destroy them one by one.  It could work!" 

            "No, it couldn't," Vandross said with a hint of irritation.  "Whilst engaged with one city, the army of another city would flank us and harass our forces constantly, killing hundreds of my men.  And dividing the forces at our disposal into smaller portions might prove just as fatal, only on a smaller and more time-consuming fashion.  The Dwarves cannot be beaten over the heads like Elves, Amon," he said, trying to sound as condescending as possible.  Amon returned to his spot leaning into the shadows, going back to the unsavory task of thinking.  Khan tended not to like long, involving thought, Vandross noticed with a slight snicker.  "Any other suggestions," he asked, spreading his arms wide with a smile on his lips. 

            "My lord, it is possible that, with the aid of more of my kin, I could lead a small group into the mountains," Tamriel boomed, his voice rebounding off of the walls of the chamber.  Lowering his voice to compensate for the acoustics of the room, he continued.  "We Renka are hearty demons, and feared among the Dwarven Race.  We could intimidate them into giving more men safe passage," he said, folding his arms across his barrel chest.  Vandross thought over the Renka's proposal; he liked it for what it was, a nice, clean way to move more forces into the region.  But what would they do then?  He had already told himself that the Monks with the Orb would probably be turned aside from Dwarven cities.  Dwarves were not the only problem here, and neither Amon or Tamriel had suggested a solution for the Dragon dilemma. 

            "That can be considered," Molis chimed in before Vandross could voice his concerns.  "But lord Vandross has made a point of the Dragons.  Your kind are not so feared or exalted by the great Wyrms, are they bear demon," the half-demon Colonel asked with a measure of disdain.  Tamriel bared his teeth at Molis, growling deep in his throat.

            "What right have you to mock or disdain me, half breed," Tamriel growled.  Uh oh, Vandross thought.  He couldn't afford any in-fighting so far up the chain of command, and he stood to his feet to put a stop to any further squabbling. 

            "Major, Colonel, please.  We are gathered here with the same goal in mind.  Tamriel may very well have a valid solution to the Dwarven problem, but the Colonel does have a good point.  Lieutenant Amon can lead a moderate sized force into the mountains behind the Renkas, but what do we do at that point?  We need to pool together our resources and thoughts, gentlemen.  That's why I called all of you here, instead of one or two of you."  The tension remained hanging in the air, a guillotine ready to drop at any moment; but that tension seemed to have been reduced, the executioner's hand stayed for the moment. 

            "Dragons respect powerful users of magic," offered Talus Cur, a paper-thin smile on his face.  "As well as mind games, my lord.  Perhaps the General and some of his Shadowbeasts should make ready some tricks and pitfalls, simple enough that they can be placed on the spot, since we shall be traveling."  Vandross tried to think of a flaw in this, but Cur hadn't suggested in his tone that this was the final solution to the Dragons; rather, the Illeck had left plenty of room for addition or editing of his plan.  At this moment, the Beastmaster Sergeant Robin stepped forward. 

            "Mind games, yes," the lanky Human said, his voice a half-whisper.  "Convince one or two to have council with you, watch a marvelous display, yes.  And when you have it distracted, someone of great physical prowess can lay a few key strikes to it, to weaken its body and keep its mind reeling.  That," he said, thrusting a finger to the air in revelation.  "That is how I shall gain command of a Dragon, and order it to aid us, to allow us safe passage and perhaps even bodily assistance!  I shall have mastery of a great Wyrm," cried the Human, slavering at the corners of his mouth, his eyes gleaming like a zealot who has flung himself into engulfing flames because he believes it is what his god asks of him.  Colonel Molis leaned toward Richard Vandross, whispering to him as softly as he could.

            "I think Sergeant Robin is a tad too enthusiastic, but he makes a good suggestion, sir.  Having control of one or two of the Dragons would be most advantageous for us, and I myself can handle the task of damaging the selected Wyrm," the half-demon muttered, and Vandross nodded his agreement.

            "Though what you propose is risky, Sergeant, I admire your willingness to assume such a daunting task.  Few Beastmasters have ever gained control over a Dragon," Vandross said, smiling broadly at Robin.  "And those who have tried usually wind up maimed or dead.  It is a difficult spot to put oneself in, but I will not allow you to do so unless the others here assembled agree with what you suggest.  Gentlemen," Vandross asked, looking for approval from the rest of his officers.  But they all looked to each other and nodded, everyone feeling out the others' reaction to the idea of having a Dragon in their army; every single one of them seemed to be grinning at the implications. 

            "I believe, my lord," rasped Vilec Roak, standing to his feet, "that I speak for all of us when I say that although it is a hazardous action to take, we are willing to accept the risks.  If this effort is successful, then we shall gain a tool of invaluable worth, a mighty Dragon!  My lord, we shall do this.  But we must gather our separate plans into one cohesive whole, my lord."

            "That is what I'm here for," Vandross said with a rather smug grin.  "And this is how it shall be done," he said, going into detail as he wove the individual portions of their schemes together like a fine map of fabric.  In the end, it was a plan worthy of his lofty goals and his lust for power.  He would thusly gain control of the region, and begin a thorough search for the Monks and the Orb of Eden’s Serpent they carried with them.  Once attained, he would unleash the power of the Glorious Mother of Destruction, and the whole of Tamalaria would bow to him in terror.  His pursuit of eternal fear would be within his grasp, but he would not attempt to unleash that power right away.  He would return to Mount Toane, and learn the ways of the Orbs when all were together, before he attempted the greatest power he would ever know.  Well defended, and well prepared, Mount Toane would withstand any army until Vandross had taken the time he needed.  He would succeed where his former master had failed; his plans would not end in defeat and ruin.