“I do not know,” Geldon replied. “Nor is it for me to say. But I believe both he and the wizards will be glad to hear it.”
“There is an issue of which I would now like to speak,” Joshua said suddenly. Traax and Baktar turned quizzical eyes on him, waiting. “You are familiar with the Minion warrior named Ox?” the consul asked.
Traax smiled. “Yes. Although not quick of wit, he is one of the most loyal of us.”
“I would like to take him back to Eutracia with us,” Joshua said. The sudden, unexpected words hung over the table like a cloud, and everything went silent.
Geldon tried not to show surprise. I hope he knows what he’s doing, he thought nervously.
Traax scowled. “May we be made aware of your reasons for this request?” he asked darkly.
“He was wounded during the capture of the shrew,” Joshua answered.
“That is your reason?” Traax asked with a snort. “Because of a simple wound? The Minions have seen many wounds, and we have always dealt with them ourselves. Fighting, dying, and being wounded are the very reasons for our existence!” Then he glanced over at Geldon, wondering if he had misspoken. “Or at least that used to be our mission,” he added.
“But his is not a simple wound,” Joshua answered. “The entire foot is severed. I enchanted both the foot and the end of the leg immediately after the attack to preserve them. If we return Ox to Eutracia, the Chosen One’s wizards may be able to reattach the foot.”
Traax’s mouth opened slightly in awe. “You can do such a thing?” he asked softly.
“No,” Joshua answered simply. “My powers do not extend to such realms. But there are others of the craft across the sea who may be able to accomplish it.”
Traax waved a hand in the air. A Minion officer promptly appeared, clicking the heels of his boots together. “Send for the one called Ox,” Traax ordered.
“I live to serve,” came the quick reply. The warrior ran off.
Ox appeared several minutes later, limping along on a crudely made crutch. The strange, azure glow of the craft continued to surround the base of his footless leg.
“I live to serve,” he said, trying to go down on the knee of his good leg and causing himself obvious pain.
Geldon winced as he watched the warrior try to assume the traditional Minion position of servitude, and he temporarily considered commanding him to desist. But Traax stepped in at that point.
“That will not be necessary,” he said. Ox straightened to a standing position, leaning heavily on his crutch, and Geldon realized the devoted Minion would have stood there that way all night if ordered to.
“These emissaries of our new lord wish to take you with them back to Eutracia. It is possible they may be able to heal your foot. Would you like to do that?” Traax asked.
Geldon could see Ox struggling with the concept of healing a severed limb, but the Minion finally responded. “If you send, I go,” he said crudely, his deep, resonant voice matching the power so evident in his body.
“Very well.” Traax nodded, turning his attention to the consul. “But I have a request.”
Joshua put down his goblet as if annoyed, then looked Traax squarely in the eyes. “That depends,” he said. “The Chosen One is not used to demands.”
Geldon froze, watching the unexpected test of wills. The consul is perhaps far more brave than I gave him credit for, he realized. He learns quickly, just as Wigg said.
Joshua rather rudely took his eyes from Traax and returned to eating. “What is it?” he asked, fork poised before his mouth.
“That should Ox die in your land he be given the right of any Minion warrior. That his body be burned, his ashes scattered.”
Joshua looked up for a moment, considering the request. “Done,” he said.
“Very well, then,” Geldon interjected, wanting to regain control of the conversation. “It is decided. We will stay here for several more days. I wish to watch the reconstruction of the Recluse unfold further.” Smiling, he turned to look at the young consul. “And perhaps Joshua would like to become better acquainted with the young woman who just served us,” he added coyly. While everyone else at the table laughed, Joshua only scowled, and turned bright red.
Geldon looked at Ox and wondered what the wizards would say when out of the portal came not only a consul and hunchbacked dwarf, but also a wounded Minion warrior. He smiled slightly to himself.
May the Afterlife have a sense of humor, he thought.
32
Ragnar turned over luxuriously in his bed to gaze into the eyes of the woman he had just brutally taken—the one who had for so long been his favorite. He had brought a great many females here over the centuries and continued to do so, usually letting them go after he had taken his pleasure from them. Sometimes he held them for days, sometimes for years, depending upon how much they pleased him. But none of them had been the quality of the one he now regarded.
This one he had selfishly kept, her time enchantments allowing them to lie together in perpetuity, here in this place that was both his prison and his sanctuary.
In truth it had not been his idea to grant the time enchantments to the magnificent creature lying beside him, he knew. He had been ordered to.
Ragnar gloated over how differently things had evolved from the way they had been planned all those years ago. If the one who had ordered the time enchantments placed upon the woman were here now, Ragnar would surely be dead, rather than praised or thanked.
Smiling to himself, he thought of how lucky he had been. How the synchronicity of events had woven itself into an amazing, colorful tapestry of revenge that was finally coming to fruition. The finished product would soon be taken from the loom, as it were, and put to his use.
“You shall leave me now, my sweet,” he said to her, almost gently. “For there are things to which I must attend.” She slowly rose from the bed, not looking at him as she put on her silk robe.
Reaching to the bedside table, Ragnar placed a finger into the vial of yellow brain fluid and licked it hungrily, feeling the familiar, comforting heat go through him. Slowly he turned back to the curvaceous beauty.
“Did I make you happy this time?” he asked, knowing what her answer would be.
She was still standing with her back to him, shivering.
“No,” she said. “You disgust me, and you always shall.” She paused for a moment, lowering her head in shame.
“Even if you take me for yet another three centuries, my answer will remain the same,” she said wearily. “My only blessing is that your madness and addiction have made it impossible for you to leave me with child.” She finally turned to him, her eyes brimming with hate, her hands clenched into tight fists. “I would rather die than carry the abomination of your seed within my womb.”
Had Ragnar been near enough, he would have reached out to strike her. But as it was he simply lay back upon the sheets, lazily tasting another drop of the precious fluid. He leered at her.
“Rest assured, my dear,” he told her, “that we have centuries of this bliss still lying before us.”
“May I take my leave now?” she half begged, half demanded.
“The Chosen One and Wigg will be here within hours. I wish for you to be present when they face us,” Ragnar said unexpectedly, enjoying the sudden look of surprise upon her face. He smiled wickedly. “It is important to me that they both see you.”
“Why?” she asked. “I do not know who they are or why they have come. How could my attendance make any possible difference?” She had never been a part of his plans before, and his suddenly wanting her there now perplexed and frightened her.
Ragnar rose from the bed, walking naked to where she stood. She cringed. Reaching out, he grasped her face with one hand and then quickly backhanded her with the other, forcing her to her knees. She reeled drunkenly for a moment near the floor. She slowly stood again, hate flashing in her eyes.