asked the faculty of Contemporary History. ‘The previous government has been overthrown – by Emperor Sarabian himself. Tamuli is now an Elene-style monarchy, and Emperor Sarabian rules by decree. The previous government – and its Prime Minister – are no longer relevant.’
‘The Prime Minister cannot be removed from office!’ Dalash screamed. ‘He holds his position for life!’
‘Even if that were true, it suggests a rather simple solution to the problem, doesn’t it?’
‘You wouldn’t dare!’
‘Not me, old boy. That’s the Emperor’s decision. Don’t cross him, gentlemen. If you do, he’ll decorate the city gates with your heads. Let’s press on here. I’d like to cover a bit more ground before our customary recess. It was the aborted coup-attempt that finally brought things to a head. Pondia Subat was a party to the entire conspiracy and he fully intended to stand around wringing his hands while the drunken mob murdered all of his political enemies, evidently including the Emperor himself. If Professor Dalash wants to scream “treason” he might take a look at that. We discovered much in the aftermath of that failed coup, not only concerning the treason of the Prime Minister, but of the Minister of the Interior as well. Most important, however, was the discovery that it had been Zalasta who had engineered the entire plot, and that he was secretly allied with Ekatas, High Priest of Cyrgon, the God of the supposedly extinct Cyrgai.
‘At this point Prince Sparhawk had no choice but to retrieve Bhelliom from its hiding place and to send to Chyrellos for reinforcements. He enlisted other allies as well, not the least of which were the Delphae – who do in fact exist in all their glowing horror.’
‘This is absurd!’ Contemporary History’s reigning bully-boy, the crude and muscular Professor Pessalt sneered. ‘Are we supposed to believe this nonsense?’
‘You’ve already seen a Troll this evening, Pessalt,’ Itagne reminded him. ‘Would you like a personal visitation by a Shining One as well? I can arrange it, if you’d like – but outside, please. We’d never get rid of the stink if you were dissolved into a puddle of slime right here in front of the platform.’
Dean Altus cleared his throat meaningfully.
‘Yes sir,’ Itagne assured him. ‘I’ll just be a few more minutes.’ He turned back to the audience. ‘Now then,’ he continued quickly, ‘since the subject of the Trolls has come up again, we might as well go into that and clear it away once and for all. As you’ve noticed, the Trolls are real. They were lured to Tamuli from their home range in northern Thalesia by Cyrgon, who posed as one of their Gods. The real Troll-Gods have been imprisoned for eons, and Prince Sparhawk offered them an exchange – their freedom in return for their aid. He then led a sizeable force to northern Atan, where the misguided Trolls had been stirring up turmoil in hopes of forcing the Atans to return to defend their homeland – which would have left us effectively defenseless, since the Atans comprise the bulk of our army. Sparhawk’s move seemed to play right into the hands of our enemies, but when Cyrgon and Zalasta unleashed the Trolls, Sparhawk called forth their Gods to reclaim them. In desperation, Cyrgon reached back in time and produced a huge army of his Cyrgai. Then the Trolls, true to their nature, ate them.’
‘You don’t really expect us to swallow this, do you, Itagne?’ Professor Sarafawn, Chairman of the Department of Contemporary History and brother-in-law of the Prime Minister, demanded scornfully.
‘You might as well, Sarafawn,’ Itagne told him. ‘Your wife’s brother isn’t dictating official history any more. From now on, the Emperor wants us to give our students the plain, unvarnished truth. I’ll be publishing a factual account in the next month or so. You’d better reserve a copy, Sarafawn, because you’re going to be required to teach it to all your students in the future – assuming that you have a future at this institution. Next year’s budget’s going to be a little tight, I understand, so a number of departments will probably have to be dropped.’ He paused. ‘Are you any good with tools, Sarafawn? There’s a very nice little vocational school at Jura, I hear. You’d just love Daconia.’
The Dean cleared his throat again, a bit more urgently this time.
‘Sorry, Dean Altus,’ Itagne apologized. ‘I’m running past time, gentlemen, so I’ll just briefly sum up one more development. Despite their crushing defeat, Cyrgon and Zalasta were by no means powerless. In a bold stroke, Zalasta’s natural son, one Scarpa, crept into the imperial compound and abducted Queen Ehlana, leaving behind a demand that Sparhawk give up the Bhelliom in exchange for the safe return of his wife.
‘Following the recess Dean Altus has been so patiently awaiting, I will take up Prince Sparhawk’s reaction to this new development.’
A chill haze was rising from the meadow, and thin clouds had drifted in from the west to obscure the cold, brittle sky. There were no shadows, and the frozen ground was iron-hard and unyielding. Winter was inexorably tightening its grip on the North Cape.
Sparhawk’s army, girt in steel and leather and thousands strong, was lined up along a broad front in the frost-covered grass of the meadow near the ruins of Tzada. Sir Berit sat his horse in the center of the bulky, armored Church Knights watching the ghastly feast taking place a few hundred yards to the front. Berit was a young and idealistic knight, and he was having some difficulty with the behavior of their new allies.
The screams were remote, mere rumors of agony, and those who were screaming were not actually people -not really. They were no more than shades, the scarce-remembered reflections of long-dead men. Besides, they were enemies – members of a cruel and savage race that worshipped an unspeakable God.
But they steamed. That was the part of the horror Sir Berit could not shrug off. Though he told himself that these Cyrgai were dead – phantoms raised by Cyrgon’s magic – the fact that steam rose from their eviscerated bodies as the ravening Trolls fed on them brought all of Berit’s defenses crashing down around his ears.
Trouble?’ Sparhawk asked sympathetically. Sparhawk’s black armor was frost-touched, and his battered face was bleak.
Berit felt a sudden embarrassment. ‘It’s nothing, Sir Sparhawk,’ he lied quickly. ‘It’s just -’ He groped for a word.
‘I know. I’m stumbling over that part myself. The Trolls aren’t being deliberately cruel, you know. To them we’re just food. They’re only following their nature.’
That’s part of the problem, Sparhawk. The notion of being eaten makes my blood run cold.’
‘Would it help if I said, “better them than us”?’
‘Not very much.’ Berit laughed weakly. ‘Maybe I’m not cut out for this kind of work. Everybody else seems to be taking it in stride.’
‘Nobody’s taking it in stride, Berit. We all feel the same way about what’s happening. Try to hold on. We’ve met these armies
