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number of troops were marked at a point distant from the city, and by the symbols present more would be arriving soon. No doubt that was the intention of the spell he had witnessed. But why use such magic for mundane movements?
    At Kray’s approach, four figures on the outskirts of the room had risen slightly. At first glance they appeared to be warriors. They were clad in the leather armor of fighting men, but bore no weapons. Their movements were too fluid to be natural, though – And their eyes…
    Only one of them was in Kray’s line of sight, over the shoulder of the Warlord. It was in the shadows, but was easily recognized by the shine of its eyes – as red as the circlet upon Traigan’s head. These were the Thralls, the first of the gifts from the Archdemon to its prodigy. Four warriors chosen from the men Traigan used to command; they still obeyed him and now bore powers ripped from a demon. They were the reason Traigan survived in a society dominated by sorcerers.
    The Warlord looked up at Kray. “We shall move and strike when I say so, Kray. It shall be very soon.”
    Kray switched tactics, hoping the Warlord would reveal more. “Than why have I not received orders? I have been moldering in the city for months now. Warlord, give me blood! I demand it. Give me soldiers and send me to cut a bloody swathe through the enemy lands!”
    A corner of Traigan’s mouth twitched up in amusement, and inwardly Kray flinched. The Warlord knew he was playing games – it was dangerous that the man could read him so well.
    “There will be blood aplenty for all soon enough, Kray. Now leave this room. You have no business here.”
    The scowl on Kray’s face deepened, but he said nothing. The Warlord had already looked away from him, though Kray could see one of the Thralls was scrutinizing him.
    Kray did not believe the rumors that the Warlord could see through the eyes of the Thralls, but decided to act properly subordinate and follow the man’s orders. His anger smoldering, he departed the chamber.
     
    ***
     
    Once Kray had gone beyond hearing, a General turned his gold-browed visage upon the Warlord.
    “He acts above his place, as always. We will warn him against further intrusions, Warlord.”
    Another one spoke up, but kept his eyes to the maps before him. “We should simply have him executed. I’m sick of his insubordination. How a man of such trivial power ever won the silver is beyond me.”
    “Intelligence, you fools.”
    At the Warlord's mocking tone, the Generals forsook their study of the charts and raised their eyes to meet his. Their leader wore his usual contemptuous expression.
    “Without your precious powers to depend on, none of you would be worth the gold that went into your fancy crowns. Kray has achieved more through intelligence and audacity than you would ever have dreamed, were you in his place.”
    One General – a dark and imposing sorcerer known as Vorse, who had held his station since long before the Warlord had been born – dared to speak again. “If you think so much of him, why does he not wear the gold?”
    Another amused smile grew on Traigan’s face, much like the one Kray had noted. “If I decide he is able, he will replace you before I’ve taken another breath.”
    A dark cloud passed over the old sorcerer’s face, and Traigan’s smile vanished as he read the man’s countenance. He leaned over the table to put his face closer to Vorse's, and spoke a harsh warning. “And if he is found dead somewhere in the city, or in a camp, I’ll hold you responsible. Do you understand? Seek to have him killed, and your heart will end up on my dinner plate.”
    “But, but sir!” one of the others spluttered. “Kray is insubordinate, rash, and insults with his every third word! That he has survived so long amongst his betters is amazing as it is! He is bound to end up stabbed in a feud someday –“
    “Not. My. Concern,” the Warlord declared, cutting the man off. “I will assume