Walking briskly down the tower stairs, black cape flowing behind him, Murasa Cyphir's mind raced. Of all the idiotic and doltish things Flugg does, this was the one he was going to pay for, he thought.
As he got closer to the bottom, he heard voices and footsteps. He streached his mind... Even... Laughter? Were the guards enjoying themselves? What was the point of having guards if they amuse themselves while you were away? Perhaps it was time to send someone to tell their families that something unfortunate befell them...
No. Not now. He was far too mad at Flugg to kill them. And loyal men were just starting to get rare. No point wasting them.
As his boot hit the final step, the voices fell silent. Let them be afraid, Murasa thought. He went through the doorway and into the torchlight. The five or six guards in the hall immediately fell to one knee out of respect. Or fear. Murasa didn't care which. Murasa turned with his cape flourishing in back of him, walking past them without slowing or acknowledging. Once the guards thought he was out of hearing range, they stood up slowly and quietly started conversing once more.
"-I'll deal with you later!" Immediately shot through each one of their minds, sending chills down their spine. One or two of the guards considered running for the briefest of seconds, but abandoned the idea once they realized it was worthless. A scolding, or being splattered across the wall: It was a clear choice.
Murasa kept his pace up, yet with all the dignity of a soon-to-be emperor. All that stood in his way was the foolish King Tarus. And this damn goblin. Few torches lit the walls. Light was unnecessary. Occasionally a guard or servant would stop and bow low as he rushed past. When he was done with Flugg, they wouldn't know how to piece him together for his funeral, Murasa mused. Not that they would bother to bury a goblin.
He finally got to the mess hall, where, just as he would have predicted, Flugg was helping himself to roast. Murasa walked with menance to the table where the moron-of-a-goblin sat. The people stopped talking and stood up, human or otherwise. Except for one goblin.
Happily enjoying himself, Flugg didn't seem to notice the Dark Priest himself standing there, staring at him. Beef was more important to him than life.
With a quick flick of Murasa's wrist, Flugg and his chair were sent spiralling across the room. Without enough time to blink, let alone put out his short arms, Flugg landed flat on his face. His chair shattered spectacularly against the floor. Hopefully that son-of-a-beholder broke that long nose of his, Murasa wished.
Still in shock, Flugg tried to lift himself up with his shaking arms a few seconds later. Noticing every eye in the hall was watching them, Murasa quickly pointed to the door to the right of him.
"OUT!!!" He yelled with his booming, chilling voice. Flicking his finger to the side, the door swung open. After hesitating for half a heartbeat, everyone else rushed out the doors, leaving Flugg and Murasa alone.
He walked over to the hunched over goblin. Pathetic. Motioning his hand upward, Murasa lifted Flugg up off the ground. Clearly suprised by floating upwards, Flugg flailed his hands about and squealed. Moving his finger in a circle, Murasa turned Flugg around, seeing his warted, green face.
Gasping, Flugg panicked. "-Sorries Master! Sorries Master! Sorries Master!-"
"-'Sorries' isn't going to fix it..." Murasa's purple irises seemed to darken. "Castle Exodus doesn't have room for dolts like you."
"But Master! Mine cleaning was thoroughs!"
"Yes, perhaps too thorough. Cleaning my personal books, opened to the pages regarding the Ragnarok and the Gladeon-"
"-Glad-on? Rag-rocks? Mine not knows such things!"
Murasa reached up with his fingers to touch the goblin's head. Flugg cringed, squealed, and flailed some more as the Black Priest pushed his fingertips on the green man's scalp. Murasa closed his eyes, opened his mind, and let Flugg's thoughts flow into his... Yes, he should have done this a long time ago... Memories of rebellion, sending messages to other spies, opening the book... He pulled his hand back and disconnected.
Yes, he should have done this long ago.
Balling his fist up, Murasa's hand became surrounded in a glowing purple mist. Clenching his fist tigher, more mist fell towards the floor. Flugg stopped flailing for a moment, stared at the Black Preist's hand, and screamed, "Nooooooeeeeeesssssss!" as Murasa pointed his palm at him.
A blast of purple light enveloped the mess hall. Flugg was sent flying about five feet back, a wave of gelatinous green blood gushing out of his chest. Serves the traitor right, Murasa thought. Just now bringing his hand down, Murasa turned for the door. He thought to himself as he exited the poorly-lit mess hall...
The Ragnarok, the demonic sword of destruction, and the Gladeon, the heavenly blade of life. Only the Ragnarok would serve his purposes, but the Gladeon must not be left unchecked. Half the reason he waged this war was for those swords. To rule over life and death, to be their master! To be... A god in his own right. Murasa savored the thought. But to even tip the enemy on the very existance of the swords was too much of a risk. Where did Flugg's memories say the spies were? Derynn, Lokotz?... Just over the mountains. Not too far for the special troops. He opened the door a few steps ahead of him with a wave of the hand. Murasa saw a few servents waiting there, almost cowering.
"Send message to the army. We attack Derynn in two hours."
Funny, he thought goblins didn't have the brains to defect.