Bastion of Sun

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Puppets on a String

Sithel kept his arms clasped behind his back, standing upon the precipice of the windy cliffs of Ren Nar, looking out over the world of Farhaven. He grinned wickedly, seeing the Great Kingdoms spread out beneath him like pieces on a cyn board that were waiting to be played like the last scraps of food pushed around on a plate before being consumed.

Standing on an outcropping of rock, wind raging about his massive form, he felt like a god dealing out death and judgment.

He gazed to the west.

"Median," he gurgled in delight.

The Great Kingdom of Water was like a white hand stamped upon the Frizzian Coast. He sniffed the air, smelling the tang of salt from here. Hourly, Median's high white walls were pounded by the fierce, salty waves, as if the Great Kingdom of Water had tamed even the great and powerful Kalvas Ocean. Isolated and smaller than the rest. Like a sickly beast separated from the herd, you'll be culled. That will be your end, water folk.

He twisted towards the north and east.

"Vaster," he hissed as if he could feel the brilliant sun on him.

The bastion of light was only a pinpoint of gold from here, but Sithel knew its thousands of mirrored columns, resplendent and breathtaking in the rising sun. Pride will be your downfall, Jewel of the North, he thought, tongue playing across his razor-sharp teeth, savoring his meal further.

He peered deeper east, but the rocks of the great Thousand Spines obscured all sight of Lander, city of stone. A dead, lost city, he knew, no meat on the bone to pick there.

Eldas—consumed even as we speak by Dryan and his machinations.

Yronia—devoured.

Narim—eating itself from the inside out.

Morrow—lost.

That left the best for last.

Wind raged about him as he gazed south.

He reached out slowly, almost tenderly, but instead of a normal human hand, thick, glossy black claws curled at the air, engulfing the dusty city of Covai in the distance. He pictured planting his dark talon in the center of the Great Kingdom of Flesh and raking it across—spilling it open like the belly of a hog for the Harvest Festival. This tickled Sithel and he continued, dancing his clawed fingers in the air in amusement as if pulling strings and causing havoc, and grinned wickedly.

"Master," said a sniveling voice behind him.

Sithel, caught in his moment of joy, felt a spike of annoyance. His mirth fell along with his dark clawed arm. He didn't turn. "What is it?" His voice was dark and sinister now, like thick sheets of metal being ripped.

"Master," it whimpered, "Master, I've brought one."

Sithel slowly turned.

Kneeling upon the windy cliff was a small man like a shriveled shrub, clinging to life just like the tiny trees that gripped the cliff's face beneath him. He was nothing and nobody. Just some small thing that Sithel picked up in his retreat from Farbs—a cobbler or something else equally worthless. He called himself Hammand and he was part of the kin—pathetic humans groveling for a false promise from Sithel's master. Sithel was the only true servant. The rest were just puppets on strings.