Free The King of the Vile by David Dalglish Page A

Cecil.
    “You coming?” he asked as if it were a cheery autumn day and they were headed for a picnic.
    Tarlak chuckled and continued crawling toward the other side. Once there, he held onto the handle of the thick wooden door, used it to stand, and then flung it open. An elderly man in black robes waited for him in a small entryway, his eyes sparkling green, his beard white, the top of his head bald.
    “You’re finally here,” the mage said. “About time. My name is Adjara. Come with me, Tarlak Eschaton. Your trial awaits.”
    Instead of traveling down, they immediately went up. These stairs, Tarlak noticed, were comfortably carpeted a dull crimson, and the walls were covered with paintings of former members of the Council. Mostly, they were a bunch of frowning old men.
    No wonder I was never a part of this place, Tarlak thought as he slowly followed the elderly Adjara. I swear these mages have never heard of a concept known to us regular folk as ‘smiling’.
    Fifteen steps up they reached another door. Adjara opened it without ceremony, leading Tarlak into the expansive hall of the Grand Council. The domed roof stretched at least thirty feet above smooth, circular walls. The carpet alternated between various shades of red, starting in the center of the room and rippling outward as if a stone had been cast into a pond. Nine oak chairs with padded red cushions formed a circle, each one facing the center of the room. All nine were occupied, and Tarlak swallowed down his growing nervousness. Only one chair was different from the others, the one directly across from the entrance, and in that chair sat Roand the Flame.
    “At last you arrive,” Roand said, his deep voice echoing through the room. “Though the fault is mine in thinking Cecil could perform his tasks in a suitable amount of time.”
    Despite the seriousness of the situation, Tarlak chuckled, glad to know that he wasn’t the only one who couldn’t stand the idiot. As he stepped into the center of the room, he felt the effects of the voidsphere leaving him. It was a welcome feeling, though it wouldn’t help him much. He was surrounded by nine mages, each likely an even match with himself. The slightest attempt at a spell would result in him being burned, exploded, bled from the ears, or turned into a random animal. Possibly all at once, depending on how fast each of the mages reacted.
    “Greetings, men and women of the Council,” Tarlak said as he slowly turned in a circle. None of the mages looked to be below middle age, and even the three women sported a few gray hairs in their carefully trimmed hair. Their faces were passive, guarded, perhaps even bored. Tarlak couldn’t guess if that was good or bad.
    “Or should I say Grand Council?” he added before anyone corrected him. The full Council consisted of fifty members, whereas the Grand Council consisted of the nine most powerful. From what he’d learned from Madral, the Council met at regular intervals to decide mundane matters, with the Grand Council convening only for important decisions.
    Decisions like whether or not to execute a troublesome wizard who had broken their rules.
    “For now, you should say nothing,” Roand said. The fiery illusions cast upon his hair caused the colored flame to ripple through the strands. “You have many transgressions we must document, both against our towers as well as against Dezrel at large.”
    “If you’d like I can get that started for you,” Tarlak said. “Let’s see, I killed my master Madral when I was eighteen, turned down your invitations at least six times, operated an enterprise with significant magical involvement, my Eschaton Mercenaries to be exact, despite no written permission from your council, defeated three different assassins you sent after me, turning one into a mudskipper, one into a rabbit, and one into a frog, and last but not least, I marched alongside King Antonil Copernus during his attempt to retake the east from the orcs.