Shifting Stars Gary Stringer (moboreader .txt) 📖

the Tower itself, where Dreya the Dark was sitting quietly in the sun, reading a book and sipping a glass of wine. As they cast their shadows over her, she finally looked up.

“Greetings,” she offered, pleasantly, “and what brings you to my door on such a fine afternoon?”

“Surrender or die, Black Witch!” the knight leader declared.

“‘Black Witch’ is it, now?” Dreya remarked with raised eyebrows. “And I was just getting used to ‘Dreya the Dark.’ I do wish you’d make up your minds about my nickname, it’s getting hard to keep track.”

“Your tower is a blight on the land!” insisted one of the clerics.

Dreya looked hurt as she glanced around her grounds.

“Well, I agree it’s a bit of a mess right now, but ‘blight’ is a bit harsh,” she pouted. “Be fair, this mess is three hundred years in the making, and I’ve been here about three days. I’ve got my best people working on it.”

“You are the scourge of the people, and you must die!” another knight declared.

“Or surrender,” Dreya suggested. “At least according to your friend here.”

The knight blinked, confused. He had expected a fight, not a debate.

“Well, yes, I suppose you can surrender instead. Do you wish to surrender?”

“Well…” Dreya closed her book and seemed to consider the question. “…I’d say that rather depends on what happens after I surrender.”

The knight leader answered, “You will be taken to Gaggleswick, where you will be tried, sentenced and executed.”

Dreya slowly stood. “On what charge?” she asked. “I believe I am entitled to know that, am I not?”

“You are a threat!” said the cleric spokesman, as if it were obvious.

“I’m sorry,” said a puzzled Dreya, “who exactly have I threatened?”

“That’s for the court to decide,” a knight asserted.

“But according to you, the court has already decided, since I am to be tried, sentenced and executed. So, it seems to me as if you are giving me a choice between dying here or dying in the town square. That’s not much of a choice, is it?”

“Well, it’s the only one you’re getting!” the lead cleric insisted.

“In that case,” Dreya’s voice gained an edge of steel and her gaze sharpened to match. “Let me give you a choice: leave my lands and never return or enter my service and never leave.”

“We will not leave until you die!” the knight insisted; the others murmured their agreement. All readied weapons.

“Very well, I accept your choice,” Dreya replied.

With that, she unleashed her power at her enemies. She tore out the knights’ souls and discarded them, turning all four into her very own death knight bodyguards, each with the strength of ten mortal knights, unyielding, untiring. Meanwhile, with the clerics, she took the opposite approach. Discarding their lifeless bodies and corrupting their souls, so they became ghouls, floating on the breeze as insubstantial as light and sparking with the power of the gods of Darkness, each one more than a match for any dozen mortal clerics.

“Tell me,” Dreya said, “whom do you serve?”

“We serve our Mistress, Dreya the Dark,” they chorused.

“And when will you leave my service?” she asked.

“We will not leave until you die,” they said.

“Excellent,” Dreya approved.

*****

You see, gentle reader? Aunt Dreya gave them a choice – a far better one than the non-choice they gave her – and she accepted their decision. They would serve and protect her, and never leave until the day she died, and technically, gentle reader, a thousand years later, she still hasn’t.

Chapter 14

Dreya assigned duties to her attackers, treating them as her household staff, while she retired to her study.

An hour or so later, she emerged with a pair of sealed letters and handed one to each of her two groups with instructions to deliver them to the individuals who sent them to kill her. They were under strict orders to take no hostile action except to defend themselves and ensure the letters reached their recipients on the stroke of midnight. They bowed and obeyed.

That night, Squire Johanssen and Prince Travarin were both shocked to receive their unexpected visitors. With trembling hands, each opened their identical letters, which read:

Dear sir,

You are cordially invited to attend Mistress Dreya the Dark for a banquet at her private residence, the Black Tower, in precisely 72 hours from the moment you receive this letter. Please arrive promptly at the gates to my grounds by the first stroke of midnight, whereupon your hostess will be delighted to escort you to her tower. (Formalwear required, leave all weapons behind, no plus ones.)

Once here, it shall be my honour and privilege to treat you to an evening of delicious food, fine wine and the charming conversation of yours truly.

Then afterwards, we shall retire to my drawing room where we will discuss, in most pleasant surroundings, our future as neighbours in these lands.

At the end of what is sure to be a night to remember, you will, of course, be free to return home to your lives, as usual, all of us secure in the knowledge that there will be no further misunderstandings between us.

Attendance is not compulsory, but it is in your best interests, for should you choose to decline my formal invitation, you will find my terms are not nearly as favourable.

Yours in magic,

Dreya the Dark

Mistress of the Black Tower

p.s. In the interests of safety, please do not attempt to enter my grounds unescorted. A few of the late Ulvarius’ defences are having some difficulty adapting to the new regime here, and I would hate for there to be any unfortunate accidents.

Too terrified to do other than as they were told, seventy-two hours later, Squire Johanssen and Prince Travarin were waiting restlessly at the gate to the Black Tower’s grounds. On the stroke of midnight, Dreya emerged silently from out of the darkness. Neither human nor Faery could say whether she had teleported just that second or whether she had been there, unnoticed, as one with the shadows, since before they arrived.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” came Dreya’s voice from the depths of