Of course, he had visited the mouth of the cave leading into the Aurora Caverns. And decided that Justin was gone…for now.
Yes, he could pursue him into that dark labyrinth. But for all of Wolfram’s tracking abilities, he was starting to admit he was no match for Eldrin, especially since the damnable fool had lost his Blood Bat in Drakendir. And given the extent of the passages down there, the impossibility of finding where they were hiding, Valdrik had to admit the uncomfortable truth.
Justin was gone. For now. And there were certainly a multitude of fires to put out back home.
Justin Talemaker wasn’t everything, was he? The resources he had so far sacrificed were starting to outweigh the potential gains. He had already crafted the story of what had happened in his mind and was ready to get ahead of it.
But Valdrik had to be mindful of the sunk cost fallacy. He had fallen prey to that in the past, becoming so single-minded in his goals that he missed the bigger picture.
Should he have made that deal with Justin, granting immunity for one year? Well, hindsight was always 20/20.
And the Sapphire Star. He could not forget that. He wasn’t entirely sure what it did, but it seemed to have absorbed all of Vorthyrn’s damage and channeled it back somehow. Beyond that, he couldn’t say.
The Ascendant Artifact was wasted on the likes of him. Just imagining what Valdrik could do with such an instrument...
It was time to recalculate. Reassess. Despite their level differential, Justin was starting to become more of Valdrik’s match.
Enough to give up the promise of the Prismatic Core and the Star?
The Baron smiled. “Let’s not get carried away.”
Not all was lost. The instant they even tried to head to Mont Elea, he would know. Gareth and Wolfram had already peeled off and were handling the matter, setting up a spy network with the money earned from the Vault. And now, Valdrik had access to Vorthyrn, safely hidden away in the cave system behind his manor that only he and his most trusted disciples had access to.
If he received telepathic word from Gareth, he could be there in one night’s hard flying.
Plus, he had another trick up his sleeve…
His thoughts were broken when he realized he had come to a stop on his front steps, just before the front door. How long had he been standing here, brooding? There was no avoiding the responsibilities that awaited him. He had a system in place that meant things could run smoothly for a few weeks, as long as nothing too big came up.
But then there were the things that only he could handle. Things that would make him question all his decisions that had led him to the point where he’d been raised to a baron in Aranthia under the auspices of Queen Eleanor II in the first place.
His eyes went to the window of his study, the only one lit with yellow light. Steward Holloway was busy with the books, no doubt. The man would surely greet him with stacks of parchment and a litany of problems that had festered in his absence.
Valdrik was about to step for the door when it opened, revealing the steward himself, a man of the Scholar class. Holloway stood like a quill that had somehow gained human form—tall, thin, and perpetually rigid. His pale face was framed by wispy gray hair that seemed to float around his head like ink diffusing in water.
"My lord!" Holloway said, a ledger clutched to his chest. "We had no word of your return. Where is your horse?" He frowned in confusion. "Where are your men?"
"Just me for now," Valdrik said, entering and not slowing his pace. "Gareth and the rest are busy with another task. Anything to report?"
Holloway cleared his throat. "Well, to be perfectly honest, there are a number of matters requiring your immediate attention. I’ve been fighting callers off with a stick for weeks, and can hardly hold them off any longer.”
Valdrik let out a sigh as he entered the corridor leading to his study. "Give me each item in order of priority.”
“Well, I'll start with the southern mine, which collapsed three weeks ago."
Again? Valdrik scowled. "How many are dead?"
"No casualties, thank the gods, but production has fallen by nearly twenty percent."
That was good, in this case. Ordinarily, mining deaths were actually a nice bonus for a Necromancer like him. Provided he could arrive on the scene quickly enough, it always guaranteed a dead body or two to add to his growing undead force. As long as he used his magic to save someone here or there, no one questioned the ones he couldn't "save."
"And Duke Darrow’s silver shipment?"
Holloway hesitated. "Delayed, my lord. I sent a rider with your seal explaining the circumstances, but his response was...terse."
The baron sighed again. He took note of the general state of things. The manor had been greatly cleaned up in his absence, so Holloway had at least followed that set of orders. Even before the Justin situation, he had let his focus slip too far away from the image he needed to project to the world at large.
"What else?" Valdrik asked.
Holloway consulted his notes. "The miners' guild has requested arbitration over the new safety protocols. Some new law or other was passed by the charlatans of Parliament that must be complied with. The Merchant Council claims the protocols will increase costs beyond sustainable margins. Both parties await your judgment."
"Schedule the hearing for tomorrow afternoon in the grand hall."
Valdrik had no intention of adhering to safety protocols, but it was better to let them think his hands were tied.
"Yes, my lord. Additionally, three tax collectors report resistance in the southern homesteads. The silversmith guild withholds payment as well, likely thinking they can get away with it because of your…absence. As for their reason, they’re claiming exemption under the Edict of—"
"I know what they claim," Valdrik snapped. "Their exemption expired last season. Double the collectors and send a squad of guards. And if anyone gets mouthy, send them to me."
The steward's quill scratched frantically across parchment. "Understood."
Valdrik hoped at least one resisted, so he'd have someone to make an example of. Public punishment had a wonderful way of ensuring compliance from the survivors.
"There's also the matter of the winter reserves," the steward went on. "Without regular shipments leaving the warehouses, our storage facilities are at capacity. The excess must be secured before word spreads, inviting banditry."
When Valdrik reached his study, he eyed the mountain of correspondence stacked on his desk. Wax seals from neighboring baronies, the capital, even a scroll bearing the royal crest. What on Eyrth could Queen Eleanor want?
Two months of governance compressed into paper and ink. It was so much worse than he had imagined. He thought back to his days on the streets of Karadesh, free of these burdens. He had thought that marching up the ranks of power would offer him more opportunities.
While they had, they had also offered more shackles.
"My lord," Holloway hesitated, "perhaps the most pressing issue is the delegation from the Free City of Noirlac. They are arriving in three days' time. They seek exclusive trading rights for your silver, and I must say, it could greatly simplify things for you. The terms are—"
"I'll review them tomorrow." Valdrik collapsed into his chair, the leather creaking beneath his weight. "Leave the most urgent documents and take the rest."
Holloway watched him, eyes full of unasked questions. "Of course, my lord. Before I depart, I should mention that Her Majesty's correspondence arrived by royal courier three days ago. The seal remains unbroken."
Valdrik’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, I saw the letter. And I thought I told you to relay your news in order of priority.”
Holloway gave a rueful smile. “My lord, if I had led with the Queen’s letter, you would not have had a mind to take care of the rest.”
He was right, of course.
“I will say,” Holloway continued, his eyes flickering to the scroll bearing the distinctive wax impression of Queen Eleanor's royal signet. "The courier seemed... uncommonly urgent."
Stolen novel; please report.
“Thank you, Holloway. Leave me.”
Holloway bowed and finally departed.
Valdrik sagged deeper into his chair. The silence of the study pressed against him. No howling wind across mountain passes, no pounding hooves, no shouted commands.
Just the soft tick of the mantel clock and the occasional pop from the hearth. It was already enough to make him go stir-crazy despite just arriving.
"What a mess," he said with a sigh.
His gaze settled on the royal scroll, its crimson ribbon and golden wax seal gleaming in the lamplight. His eyes focused on the impression of the Aranthian royal crest, a rooster rampant. A most ridiculous symbol for arguably the most powerful state in Serenthel.
What fresh obligations would Her Majesty impose now? More taxes? Another royal tourney requiring his attendance? He had little patience for court intrigues even in the best of times, but social capital was hard to accrue and easy to let slip through one’s fingers. He had spent a great deal of it already in the hunt for the Prismatic Core.
With a resigned grunt, he broke the seal and unrolled the parchment. The royal letterhead bore the same rooster.
Below it, elegant script flowed across the page in the unmistakable hand of Lord Chancellor Blackwood, one of Valdrik’s most useful connections in the Court of Belmora.
By decree of Her Royal Majesty, Eleanor the Second, by the Grace of the Six Gods, Queen of Aranthia, Protector of the Realm, Duchess of the Golden Shores, and Defender of the Unitary Faith,
To our trusted and loyal servant, Baron Dragomir Valdrik of Silverton, Warden of the Silver Mines, Knight of the Order of Ayla, greetings.
It is with solemn duty that we inform you of the passing of Count Erik Harrington of the Eastern Hinterlands, who has departed this mortal realm after sixty-and-seven years of faithful service to the Crown. The Gods have called him to the Ether Realm, leaving his territories without proper governance.
The matter of succession has been brought before Our Privy Council. While tradition would grant these lands to Lord Harrington’s sole heir, his nephew Percival, it is the unanimous judgment of our counselors that the young lord lacks both the experience and disposition to administer territories of such strategic importance to the realm.
Having taken measure of your service as Baron these several years past and noting the exemplary manner in which you have increased the prosperity of Silverton and its environs, we are minded to elevate you to the rank of Count of the Eastern Hinterlands.
This advancement would place under your authority the townships of Caroway, Mistwatch, Whispering Pines, Ravenhollow, and Oakenshield, as well as the hamlets and villages therein. Silverton shall remain your seat of power, serving as the administrative center for the county.
Be advised that such elevation comes with increased responsibilities to the Crown. Annual tribute shall be adjusted accordingly, and you shall be required to maintain a standing force of no fewer than one thousand men-at-arms and ten mages or classed individuals of equal value for the realm's defense. Furthermore, your presence shall be expected at quarterly court sessions in the capital.
You are hereby summoned to the Royal Palace at Belmora within thirty days of receiving this missive to discuss the formal investiture and to swear new oaths of fealty.
Should you be unable or unwilling to accept this honor, you are commanded to dispatch a reply forthwith, so that we may make other arrangements for the governance of these lands.
Given under Our Hand and Seal this thirtieth day of November, in the fifteenth year of Our reign.
Eleanor Regina
Below the Queen's signature was the countersignature of Lord Chancellor Blackwood, along with a postscript in a different hand—smaller, more hurried, but still refined.
My dear Baron,
I write this addendum in my personal capacity as your friend, rather than as Chancellor. This opportunity comes at no small effort on my part. There were other candidates with stronger connections at court, but none with your proven ability to extract value from difficult terrain. It is truly what we of the Privy Council deem best for the realm.
I need not remind you that becoming Count will place you one step closer to the Duchy you once mentioned as your ambition during our game of Crowns and Kingdoms last Wintertide. The Eastern Hinterlands are rich in resources beyond silver—timber from Whispering Pines, furs from Ravenhollow, and the old Valorian ruins that populate the eastern extent of the Umbers. I know very well that those would interest a man of your scholarly interests.
As for young Percival Harrington, you need not concern yourself with his displeasure. The arrangement has been finalized with delicate care. He has accepted a generous annual stipend drawn from your new revenues, while retaining his ancestral manor house in Windfall and the surrounding estates. He seems quite content with the wealth without the burden of governance. His proclivities are well-known, not just in Windfall, but in the capital.
With Eribar's recent military posturing along our western borders, Her Majesty cannot afford to leave the Hinterlands under uncertain leadership. You shall be working in concert with Countess Alessandra of Highmeadow, Count Thaddeus of the Greatkeep, and Count Reynard of Darkwater Vale—all of whom have expressed their support for your elevation, albeit with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Expect some resistance, especially from Reynard; pending your acceptance, you will have a rich prize indeed.
Choose wisely, old friend. Such opportunities come rarely, and I have staked no small amount of political capital on your success. I eagerly await news of your most recent excursion. I trust that the Ranger (who is highly capable) arrived in Windfall safely, despite the short notice. Consider this small favor a down payment on what I expect will be a mutually beneficial arrangement for years to come.
—Blackwood
Valdrik read the letter twice more, his mind racing with the implications. Count of the Eastern Hinterlands. Access to new resources, new people to tax, new territories to exploit.
And the ruins of Valoria—notorious for spawning Vaults. The gods seemed to love that place; it seemed every season brought whispers of new treasures appearing.
A slow smile spread across his face. Perhaps the interruption to his hunt was not such a misfortune after all. Of course, he would ride to Belmora at first light to meet with the Queen. But he would do so in as much style as he could muster on short notice. A Count could not appear before his sovereign looking like a road-weary hunter.
He wondered idly if Blackwood had helped the old Count along to his final rest. Not that it mattered—death came for all eventually.
Except, perhaps, for those who knew certain secrets. Death worship had its advantages. People feared what they didn't understand, but fear was currency. A currency he'd amassed in abundance.
He was much too animated to sleep. He reached for the first document—a report on silver purity from the master refiner. There were complaints of inconsistent quality, requests for new equipment, and suspicions of theft among the workers.
It seemed so inconsequential now. Soon, he'd appoint his own Baron to mind such trivial matters, perhaps young Lord Vane who had been so eager to prove himself. Sheriff Farley was allowing the corruption to become far too gratuitous. Another headache.
His eyes skimmed the words while his mind wandered back to the chase. Justin Talemaker, the fly in the ointment. All of these new matters would take time to pursue, and Justin and his companions were the major kink in that plan. A temporary truce had never sounded more appealing, at least long enough to consolidate his gains. He could always resume the hunt once his position was secure, with the resources of an entire county at his disposal.
The hours crawled by in a haze of signatures and seals. Valdrik authorized the hangings of thieves caught during his absence, approved repairs for the collapsed mine shaft, and drafted responses to increasingly impatient nobles—stupid insects who had no idea what was coming for them. He couldn't wait to see their faces. Count Valdrik would remember every slight, every delayed payment, every whispered mockery.
As midnight approached, the stack of documents seemed no smaller, but his patience had worn thin.
He was eager to visit his pet.
Valdrik set down his pen and listened carefully for the sound of servants or guards. Hearing nothing but the night's silence, he moved to a bookshelf along the eastern wall. His fingers found a small silver raven figurine—his house sigil, adopted from the previous Baron Drenmar—pressing it inward until a soft click released a hidden mechanism. The bookshelf swung outward, revealing a narrow passage leading down.
Grabbing a lantern, he stepped through, allowing the shelf to close behind him with a soft thud.
Cool air rushed to meet him as the passage twisted downward, deeper than the manor's foundations, until several minutes later, it opened into a natural cavern system that honeycombed the mountain.
The walls glistened with veins of silver ore too thin to be worth mining. As he passed one particular alcove, his lantern illuminated row upon row of loculi carved into the stone—each containing a perfectly preserved corpse, skin drawn tight over bone. Servants, guards, laborers, and troublesome visitors who had "left Silverton" over the years. Their bodies would rise when called.
Valdrik was beyond elated that his promotion would not require him to move. It would mean abandoning all of his work here, an impossibility. Blackwood had at least considered that.
Deeper still he went. Finally, the passage widened into an immense natural cavern, its ceiling lost in darkness. Here, he had brought Vorthyrn, flying only at night and only over the most remote areas along the Umbers, waiting for a fully cloudy sky before even attempting to cross over Silverton.
With Vorthyrn safely stashed here, he had chosen to enter Silverton on foot, coming through the forest paths to avoid questions about his new mount. The time wasn't right to reveal such a powerful asset, even to a loyal minion like Holloway. Better that his steward believe his master had simply returned alone, travel-weary but otherwise unremarkable. Questions about what had exactly happened would have to wait.
At last, Valdrik arrived. He watched the drake, admiring her form. Her gray, listless scales, the tears in her wings, the exposed bone. She was no beauty, but she would certainly get the job done.
Rothian had been a useful tool, but too annoying and questioning. A sniveling servant was good to a point, but the Pyromancer had really taken it to the next level.
A quiet, loyal, and supremely useful drake, completely loyal to him, was far more preferable. With such a prize, he could get wherever he needed, though he would have to wait for night and preferably cloudy weather. At least the latter was the norm in this part of the country.
The drake would need to be fed, both in Vranthillian Death Cants and sustenance, but with his vast resources, doing both should be simple enough. He’d simply enlist some of his undead servants to hunt in the isolated valley outside the cave, and if the weather was suitable, he could let Vorthyrn hunt on her own, well away from Silverton and only at night.
Thankfully, while she was large, she wasn’t so large that feeding her would be a huge problem. She could be fueled by the magic of the Nether for a long time if it came to that. Though that would be quite taxing for Valdrik.
He would have to do everything to protect her. And one day, when he was strong enough to no longer hide, she would be a mount worthy of a Necromancer Lord.
“We’ll find him eventually,” the Baron said. Nothing was able to sour his mood now. “Rest assured."
The drake's eyes followed him, letting out a wheezing snort.
He left the drake and followed a narrow passage that branched off from the drake's chamber. After several twists and turns, he arrived at a small iron door, unadorned save for a single rune—the Mark of Binding, created with a basic cant he’d learned all the way back during his time as a student at the Grand Athenaeum.
How that simple past seemed so far away now…
With a quick utterance, the rune Mark of Binding flashed, and the door unlocked and swung open on well-oiled hinges.
The chamber beyond was small and spartan—a cell more than a room. A single bed, a small table, a washbasin.
And a figure sitting motionless in the shadows, head bowed.
Valdrik stood in the doorway, letting his presence fill the room. The figure tensed but did not look up.
Breaking a person's will was an art form, and Valdrik considered himself quite the artist. The strongest minds yielded the most satisfying results when they finally shattered.
"I have a job for you," Valdrik said.