The Tempering

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  “The orc tells me the sword is ready. All but for the final tempering. A part of me imagined that this day would never come.”

  King Grathulus III paced with his hands behind his back around his skeletal throne, kicking skulls and bones as he went, crushing older ones to powder beneath sandals of gold. “I wish I could've seen the struggle play on his face over the why of having a ceremony to present me with a sword unfinished. Respin, go to him and command him to take the sword to your chambers. Complete the final spells.”

  Grathulus kicked hard at a pile of bones, and sat on the spot he'd cleared, legs crossed. He imagined how he looked bathed as he was in the chamber's red glow, looking like some demon the way the light reflected off of his shiny black body. His smile was feral with the image, and in reality it was more terrible than even he imagined. I only wish that orken mage who took my sight was still alive to see this day. I owe it all to him, after all. He almost yelled in a fit of rage until he remembered that the orc mage's bones were probably still lying around him, somewhere.

  “Don't forget to send a guard in when you leave. I'll have him make the preparations in the main hall.” He fingered the hilt of the small dagger on his belt. “Better make that two. I'll need one of them to get into the proper mood. That'll be all.” When the stone door closed behind Respin, Grathulus's deep-throated guttural scream was one of pure joy.