The Scepter of the Sands (Book 3 of the Vicelord Chronicles)

Almraiven, Calimshan

(5th of Hammer, 1380 Dalereckoning)

Three days of fire. Three days of blood, blood now lost and forgotten amid the shifting sands outside Almraiven’s lofty walls.

Entire houses raided.

Entire houses razed.

The vassals and majordomos of the realm gathered in the audience hall...those not slain by the coup at least, awaiting word from their king.

But the Throne room, while being the finest known display of Calimshan’s extravagance, served only as the facade for a second, hidden chamber, the shadow to its sunlight. Here was where the king stored his most treasured artifacts, tools through which the royal family had maintained order for three generations.

“Crafty little wretch...” King Ahriman mused, scratching his chin.

Following his gaze, Amon “Felbinder” Silasar, studied the drifting, tenebrous motes of starlight gamboling along the surface of the scrying orb, ignoring the representation of the quarry within. He’d seen this already; Vala, conferring with a Dark Elf raiding party. Vala, allying with the Lady of Silverymoon and her vile wizards to usurp the throne. Vala. Vala. Vala.

“Every image is false.” He reiterated, “Every detail. A ploy to conceal her true location and intentions. Adir’s as well. This Psion’s capabilities in defeating your divinations are...impressive”.

“No mortal alive can defeat my enchantments.” Ahriman snapped, agitated as he had been since the uncanny escape of Vicelord Adir, Amon’s hated rival, and his eminently unusual bride, the Half-Drow Vala Oblodra, “But she doesn’t need to. She’s merely creating false traces that my spells seek, diverting them again and again, despite how many times I cast. She has turned several attempts made simultaneously”.

Amon didn’t point out the depth of focus necessary to project so many illusions in such fine detail in such a short amount of time. He knew little of the Invisible art, few did, but he knew no tales of such a powerful practitioner of any kind.

“I am not convinced it is her doing alone.” Amon confessed, drawing the attention of his king, “Perhaps she has allied with others in the short time since their flight. Or perhaps one of the strange Drow gods shields her”.

“It matters little.” Ahriman conceded, “They may elude me, but here, in the heart of my power, I am invincible. With Adir weakened as he is, they will never be able to lay siege to Almraiven and rout us. Likely, they will seek asylum in some far removed place”.

“I wish Adir dead.”

“You have made that abundantly clear.”

He held in his next retort; always had Adir vexed him. Pretending to be his erstwhile ally had been a constant strain on his sanity, and the moment of betrayal should have been absolute. Vala had denied him that, so she had to die too. He found that he hated her in nearly equal measure to her husband.

“Fear not, my friend. You may yet get your chance. Let us wait and see what our adversaries decide to do”.

Yes. Yes he would. He would wait for his chance, though he would hardly be idle.

He decided then that more mundane measures might avail. There were many skilled men at his disposal, and the deserts of Calimshan remained a dangerous realm to traverse...