SONG OF POWER

Chapter XXX: Homecoming

SONG OF POWER

CHAPTER XXX:  HOMECOMING

Tyroce experienced what Cyenites would know as the Battle of Barren Tower quite differently than did her spouses.

“Why didn’t you tell them before?  Clearly you recognized me,” Grivel asked Tyroce.  Her cheek flushed red.

“He and I were…kindred spirits,” she said forlornly.  “I thought you had left that all behind, Grivel.  Clearly, I was wrong!”

“He must die,” Rowena said simply, a tear streaking down her cheek.  She brandished her cudgel for emphasis.

Through all of this, Grivel’s head was bowed in prayer to the Fell Gods, performing last rites over himself.  Cipher’s blade did not waver while he waited for Grivel to conclude his self-ministration.  He brought the point of his blade down, but it only bit stone.  Grivel had vanished.

***

Tyroce vanished with the time mage.  The snow-skinned sorceress found herself lying on a familiar, blood-stained floor in an oppressively dark room.  She shot to her feet, tears welling up in her eye just as dreadful memories were welling up in her heart of hearts.  She cast about her and saw that the room’s only door stood open, although this was not unexpected.  He’d always left the door open, a way to tempt her to rebel.  His punishments were so severe, however, that she had only tried to escape once.

“So at long last, my vanished wife is returned to me,” said a voice outside the doorway—his voice.  It was thick and cultured, and at one time had made Tyroce’s heart flutter.  Now it only filled her with dread.

“I am but your humble servant, your majesty,” another familiar voice responded, and Tyroce’s fists clenched in anger; the second voice was Grivel the Magi, Summoner and master of Barren Tower.

“You may go in and claim your reward.  You have until the sands in this glass run out,” the cultured voice said imperiously.  A small hourglass was set in the threshold of the room, its shadow nearly reaching Tyroce’s boots.  Tyroce knew that plain, unassuming timepiece only too well—this one would last a quarter hour.  She also knew what was coming, and she braced herself for the atrocities she was about to experience.

Grivel came into the room and found Tyroce standing before him.  She closed her eye and willed her attire to melt across her form to disappear in her ruby.  Grivel’s eyes were large as saucers as he first stared at, then buried his face between,  Tyroce’s overlarge breasts.  His mannerisms were rough and his body unskilled, and though she hated every minute of it, Tyroce did not resist.  She swallowed every awful sensation within her and was a full participant, because she had learned the hard way that resisting rape would lead to…something worse.  Grivel motioned for Tyroce to get down all fours, and she did.  Adjusting his robes, Grivel moved behind her.  That’s when he realized that something was wrong.  He tried and tried, but Ninthalsaya’s curse had stricken the chronomancer—he was unable to assume the necessary rigid quality for lovemaking.  His fifteen minutes ended with failure, and Tyroce was deeply thankful for the bewitchment that the half-elf had placed upon her most prominent pair of features.

“But I…but I…” Grivel whined as he left the room, knowing that to tarry was folly.  Her jewel sprouting clothes once more, Tyroce rose and stood in the middle of the room.  The owner of the cultured voice laughed at the unsatisfied Summoner.

“My King,” Tyroce said with a curtsy as the man entered the cell.  Towering over her was Daman McShain, the White King of Drakkenavia.  He was tall and powerful, with frost-white hair and reptilian eyes.  The monarch had changed since assuming the throne, year by year becoming more monstrous as his draconian heritage began to show.  McShain welcomed the change, for it brought with it power—the power of dragons.  Daman backhanded Tyroce.