The Ivory Star

Chapter 1

The little man dreamed. He dreamed of power, and of riches beyond imagining. He dreamed of powerful men squirming like bugs under his omnipotent thumb, his enemies splayed and writhing upon the rack, and an army of little boys to serve his every whim. His magnitude shadowed the land itself, and he was master of all he surveyed. His heart thrilled and pumped at the power coursing through him, the absolute authority over men. In his dreams he laughed and laughed, unbearably pleased. Then a shadow fell across him. A shadow that dwarfed him, that bestrode the world. His small body erupted in a clammy sweat like it always did in the Master's presence, and he squirmed like a child in his bed. Blood-red eyes blazed from the monolithic darkness, and a nameless dread, like the feet of an icy rat, scuttled up and down his crooked spine.

Lord Sneev bolted upright. A single droplet of cold sweat left a moist trail across his liver-spotted pate, down his wrinkled forehead, toward his hooked nose. He stared wide-eyed in the darkness for a moment at his trembling hands. A fitful snore from the lumpy figure beside turned his glance, and his wife, Prilla, rolled over in the darkness, her mouth working as if talking in a dream.

Chills trembled through his gaunt frame, remnants of the Master's cold presence. His memory grasped vainly at the message that had been left with him, but after a time he gave up. Ah, well, the message would come to him soon enough. It always did.

He threw aside the silken bedcovers, pushed aside the linen curtains, and slid out of bed. His small feet danced across the stone floor toward the warmth of the glowing hearth. He rubbed his misshapen hands for warmth, working the Master's chill from his bones. Across the room, the shutter slammed open, and a stiff breeze whistled into the room, ruffling his night robes and raising fresh shivers in his spindly limbs. Pale moonlight splashed a silvery shape on the floor.

He cursed quietly, careful not to wake his wife. The last thing he wished now was to hear her wagging tongue. Rubbing his arms for warmth he moved to close the shutter, pausing to look out over his domain. The lush forests and valleys of Ophidia sprawled far below his perch, black in the moonlight. Sneev's fortress rested on a singular stone crag, jutting like a dark sentinel over the valley below. The sleeping town of Cragmoor lay hunched at its base. Faint lights of other villages in the distance winked among the moon-painted forest blackness. Snatches of his dream crept back into his memory. Yes, it was Lord Valerion's body he had seen lashed to the torturer's rack, his hide peeled away from his limbs, eyes burnt from his skull, his feet and ankles crushed by Sneev's hammer. He sighed wistfully, such joyful thoughts pushing back some of the uneasy chill of the Master's touch. He wondered why the Master suffered such a man to live, much less rule one of the Four Lands. Someday, Sneev thought, he would have Valerion on the rack. Then, after Sneev had gleefully broken and butchered him in ways most men could scarcely imagine, he alone would rule half of Eorthe. Under the Master's guiding hand of course. Of course.

He dabbed at the sweat slicking his pate with the sleeve of his night robes. Ahh, the message was coming ...

"Unholy Chaos!" he hissed. "The Prophecy!" The Master's orders were beginning to crystallize in his mind, even as his own thoughts exploded with the realization of what was happening. His brow furrowed as he weighed the possibilities. The Dragon had fallen in Armond. Unfortunate, that, for it complicated things. Sneev rubbed his forehead with a still-trembling hand. If Ophidian soldiers were caught in Armond, Lord Valerion would demand an extensive explanation and a public apology. The thought of apologizing to Valerion filled him with revulsion. But perhaps such an unpleasant event could be avoided. The exact location of the Dragon solidified in his mind, implanted by the wisdom of the Master. The Dragon lay just beyond the border, far from any roads or towns. A small force could ride hard, do what was necessary, and get out of Armond before Valerion was any the wiser! He slammed the shutter closed, turned, and clapped his hands with anticipation.