The Book of Warlock

The Book of Warlock 6. Confliction of interest.

The dawn broke in a warm golden glow upon the hills. At the foot of the grass-blanketed dewy peaks, faint smoky wisps from dead campfire embers drifted lazily upwards. A few tethered horses whinnied, awaiting breakfast, and as the breeze meandered through the gathered tents their flaps fluttered with a rustle. The travelling warband that was assembled here began to stir. Goblins, knolls, tauren, skaven and more pulled grimy flat pillows atop their faces and collectively groaned. Another beautiful day of servitude under the rat's banner.

General Hemlock hadn't slept. General Hemlock was a troubled reptile. He stood watching the sun at the entrance to the biggest, grandest tent of the marching company; the tent with the highest flying banner, the tent with the deadliest occupant. He could hear the rasping snores behind him now. Nisgarant was bundled up in his thick, silken quilt, his beloved Sceptre still held in his vice-like grip. All night long, his whiskered Lord had murmured to it cooingly in his sleep. His long, thin tail had thrashed, and his rodent teeth had bared, as he dreamed of future conquests.

It was oh so tempting to put his own scaly fingers around the rat's fragile windpipe and squeeze, but one stab from the black spiralled horns that adorned the terrifying Sceptre would seal his fate for eternity. And they were not alone in this place. Of course not. Major Threllif was also sprawled out on his hairy back, the biggest gnoll that Hemlock had ever seen, with one dog leg twitching in the air as he slumbered.

He'd voted for Threllif to be the next General after Warlock's unfortunate demise, and he'd watched on helplessly as all eyes had turned to him instead when the results had come through. He'd been very happy as a Colonel. He'd been in charge of the mobile armoury, a nice simple job, making sure everyone had a working blade and adequate training. Now he was on the front line, at the head of the assault, in the direct line of fire. He did get the best horse, though, as if that compensated any.

He stood and watched as the warband soldiers collected up everything that they needed for the day ahead of them, and then began to load up the numerous wagons. They would be on the road again, today. The tent he had spent a sleepless night in would be the last to be unpegged and folded, as Nisgarant would not tolerate being disturbed before breakfast was ready. An army marches on its stomach, after all. General Warlock had dared make suggestions that food was not in plentiful supply, as the rat wished to believe, and Hemlock further sunk into depression at the prospect of the dead commander being right. About everything.

His position was impossible! He had to keep morale up enough for his men to fight, while placating Nisgarant in reassuring him that everything was peachy, lest he get the old Sceptre through the shoulder business like his predecessor. Then, naturally, as General, he would be the tactical mastermind for bringing down the next walled city on their uncharted, haphazard journey, ensuring the defeated fighting fit joined their ranks. He really hoped there would not be another scene like before, with the rat trying to put townsfolk survivors on the menu. General Warlock paid a heavy price for his morals, but the truth was nobody had wanted to be feasting upon children, really they didn't. Following the rat had simply devolved into a survival of the fittest scenario, with those most capable of doing unspeakable things likely to see another dawn. Being General had been proven to be the single most dangerous position within the Elite, and Hemlock was beginning to think he was a dead lizard walking. He'd been singled out. Picked on. Bullied.

There was silence.

A fuzzy hand clapped his back, but he felt no chummy camaraderie from the massive gnoll.

Threllif was in charge of the scouts and was absolutely one of Nisgarant's right-hand men. His loyalty had never wavered. He was loathsome. "Your first day as General," he said, in an almost mocking tone, "off you go, see to your men, make sure they're ready for the last miles to our destination. Where is our next target, anyway?"