Free Master Of The Planes (Book 3) by T.O. Munro Page B

comforting gesture.  From polished scalp to hirsute chest, every detail of the necromancer’s appearance was designed to project an image of personal power and arcane mastery.  It was not, however, the final effect that was intimidating so much as the evident self-belief that lay behind it.  Galen was a self-important arsehole, everyone agreed, but that wouldn’t stop him shitting on them and on Vesten most of all.    “I had a report that some contraband was being smuggled in concealed in the governor’s possessions, Secretary Vesten.” Scorn dripped from his thin lips.  “I am duty bound to investigate.”
    “What contraband? How could it possibly be in the governor’s possessions?”
    “Where better to hide two casks of orc flame-breath?” Galen replied.  “Think what damage that could do if it got shared out in the camps?”
    Vesten shivered.  The most fearsome spirit in existence.  One to which orcs were dangerously drawn and especially vulnerable as the powerful liquor exaggerated all the traits of their race in acts of violent and destructive cruelty.  Entire tribes had been known to wipe themselves out in a night after sharing little more than a half-gallon tankard of the stuff.  In the encampments of cold and bored orc tribes around Listcairn two casks of the brew would be a recipe for utter disaster.   Certainly the prospect that such a proscribed cargo might be secreted in the governor’s own personal supplies was justification enough for this intrusion.  Or at least it would have been if the story were not such a damnable lie.
    The Necromancer’s grin grew broader as Vesten folded his hands one over the other in impotent rage.  “This is preposterous, Galen.  The governor will have your hide for this.”
    “Then go and fetch him, Vesten, bring him here.”  Galen cried.  “I did send word to summon him, to let him witness our search, but he could not be found.”  He spread his arms wide.  “I mean, where is the little bastard? Do you even know Vesten?”
    “He’s in his study.” Vesten stared at the stone floor.
    “He’s been in there for three days. The bastard’s probably died of a stroke, or of stroking something.  If I could be bothered to break open the door we’d probably find his rotting corpse with a silly grin on his face.”
    There was a grunt from one of the nomads as another case cracked open and he lifted out a glass bottle of a thick green liquid.  Galen was strangely uninterested in the find and it was Vesten who admonished, “be careful with that.  It is the governor’s favourite liqueur, he sends for it from the Eastern Lands especially.”
    The nomad shrugged and placed it none too gently back in the straw filled box.
    “What are you looking for, Galen?  What are you really looking for?”
    The necromancer frowned, torn between discretion and a desire to share his own imagined cleverness.  He shrugged and confessed.  “I’m not sure, Mr Secretary.  But your precious governor is up to something and I mean to find out what.   Whatever treachery he has been planning, I intend to be the one who shares the news with the Dark Lord.”  His hand went to the heavy gold disc on its chain around his neck. Vesten knew the reverse of the disc held a plain black medallion through which, like all his key servants, Maelgrum allowed Galen to commune with him.
    “Odestus has always been the master’s most loyal servant.”
    “Has! Vesten, has!” Galen wagged a triumphant finger in Vesten’s face.  “All things change.  Since his snake headed bitch got herself killed I think we would all agree your governor’s grip on affairs has been slipping.  My time is coming, Vesten!”
    A guttural shout from the other nomad interrupted the necromancer’s spit flecked invective. Both Galen and Vesten crossed to the case he had uncovered.  Unlike the others this one had small holes punched in the sides and tops.  “Open it,” the Necromancer