Interlude Number Eight: A Tale of Servitude
Gruulth strode through the gatehouse, the inky night greeting him as he left Ilinvur town. Onyx crouched motionless, its eyes, all of them, trained on the long hawk-like walk of the necromancer. Both fit easily into the sickly moonlight.
Gruulth came to a halt and gave a glance of recognition at the machine beast before him. His face rose quickly into a snarl.
"Where is Arkella?" demanded Gruulth, "I will not talk to a pack of monstrosities."
"She is busy," croaked the voice of Onyx.
"She is not," replied Gruulth venomously.
A second past, then one of the Onyx stepped forwards.
"My apologies Sir Gruulth, I have been delayed."
"I see," answered Gruulth, "So what task do you run on now that the staff is in my possession?"
"Whatever you please" hissed the beast.
"Exactly, so tidy up whatever you have got yourself into and listen," said Gruulth, "scout westwards and clear any threats. Our way mustn't be blocked. We've been held back too long already. My master doesn't wait and after all this I must still get to Tilverton."
"Yes."
"Take who you need."
"I need nobody," growled Onyx with defiance.
"Good, then leave."
Onyx withdrew immediately and loped into the shadows, their whirring joints eventually whispering to silence.
Gruulth waited. He savoured the complete isolation of the darkness, though the occasional cry could be heard from the town behind him. But before him stretched a gulf of unknown, at least until the sun lit everything in a sickly light.
With these thoughts he turned and sunk into the shadows of the Ilinvur walls.
Far off, a deep baying of wolves awoke the night and the residents of Ilinvur pulled their sheets a little closer about them.