The Warden

Chapter 22

"What the survivors say, your majesties," Jarl said, twisting his cap between his fingers, "there were fifteen to thirty wighti... night wights."

The near-whiddling man ended his sentences with a cough and yet another bow, however slight, like a mutt eager for attention and terrified to receive it. He hunched there, lifelight tinged with a pitiful greenish yellow hue, sweat beading on his brow.

Master Elwith sat just behind the sovereigns on his small backless seat that grew from the floor. Hands laid precisely in his lap, the High Mage paid little attention to the quavering words as he congealed his lifelight into the singular mass needed to produce Works. He released it. And without hesitation he seized it again. This was an exercise that the acolytes started with when they joined the mages' ranks. Elwith still used the technique to occupy his mind and continually maintain his mental discipline, especially when nothing else would do. One could never have too much self-control. A lack thereof always produced disaster.

The sovereigns occupied their thrones, each seat a single piece of stone swelling up into botanical intricacy, but from Master Elwith's position only a limb or two could be seen of the royal couple. The food monger before them would have appeared, in his circles, on the very cusp of affluence, but here, amongst the royal court, his clothing, his very bearing betrayed him for what he truly was: nothing more than a common merchant.

Elwith sniffed. He couldn't fault a man for trying to elevate himself to better circumstances, after all Master Elwith, himself, had come from quite humble beginnings, but the man could have at least bathed. His pungent odor reached the mage, even over the considerable distance, in near eye-watering waves.

Movement snapped his attention to Lady Telias. She held a single hand under her nose, face twisted with disgust. Elwith smiled to himself.

Oh, can't stand the smell, he thought with a pout. Poor thing.

From his observations, wighties and all their ilk had far superior senses than humans, so while the man's aroma was unpleasant for Master Elwith, it must have been unbearable for Lady Telias. The thought of her discomfort brought a childish satisfaction to Elwith, before he turned his attention back to the proceedings.

Of course, the sovereigns had already read reports, had various ministers inform them as to the progress of the investigation, and consulted with him, as to the implications surrounding the wight's raid on the Shadow colony. Still, they insisted on hearing the accounts first-hand themselves.

"From what you saw," said Queen Brishwyn. She leaned forward, exposing the bodice of her long green muslin gown, its long sleeves tapering to a point over her hands. "How much destruction did the feral wights cause to the colony in terms of casualties and buildings?"

Jarl twisted his knitted cap even more. His eyes darted to where Lady Telias sat. A shiver coursed through his body as he turned his attention back to the queen. "I'd say more than half of the Shadows were killed, but I couldn't make an exact count, they'd already burned the bodies. I counted thirty-two that were still there. Half the hovels had been knocked to pieces."

"In the past have you ever seen anything remotely approaching this level of destruction?" King Othrad asked.

"Never, Your Majesties," said Jarl. He bowed again. "Every now and then the Shadows would tell that a wightie." He stammered, his eyes flicking to the wights. "'scuse me, night wight, or possibly two, on the rarest times three, and would kill maybe a handful of Shadows. They've never torn down one of the lean-tos before, let alone ten, and they never killed this many people at one time. It's nothing I've ever seen before nor me da before me."

He ended with another bow and just stood there grasping his cap, shifting from foot to foot.

"Thank you, Jarl," King Othrad said. "You may go."