 Mordred made his way along the castle’s corridors to his study door; his arms piled high with scrolls and maps. He had been in meetings all morning with his brother and his advisors as they planned how to proceed in the fight against the monster. There were men needed to defend Epitome Oasis from pirate attack and the seas needed patrolling. Talked had turned too to the idea of trying to push the pirates out of their holds on the mainland; thievery could prove to be Shaman’s undoing. They also needed people knowledgeable in magic to oversee the rituals surrounding the stones themselves. A small group of men had been placed under Morgana’s command in the Commune, in an attempt to protect its residents, and other men had been sent to encourage explorers to go out and seek stones and parchments. It was refreshing to have something to do which required more thought than killing monsters. Dred really was getting bored of killing mindless beasts.
Kicking open the door, he moved across the floor to his desk and relieved himself of the stacks of paper, stacking them neatly on the impeccably clean work surface. Mordred turned his back on them and strode to the middle of the room, crouched down and pulled open the trap door situated in the middle of the floor. It slammed back against the varnished floorboards and a moment later Angmar pushed his head through the gap and rested his chin on the floor. His bright blue eyes, with the slit pupils followed his fairy as he went back to his desk and slipped elegantly onto his stool. The dragon was bereft; the extermination of magic had severed his mental link with Mordred. Angmar rarely spoke, and his communication with his fairy was usually conducted through telepathy. It allowed the dragon to feel close to him, to feel loved, and without it, he was miserable. Mordred had accepted the severance with more pragmatism, it was an inconvenience. The spoken word wasn’t as safe as private thoughts, but it was not an insurmountable burden...if Angmar did as he was told.
The nib of the quill scratched against the parchment as Mordred filled in the blank sections of first document from the pile.
“I smell food,” Angmar growled. His voice was unpleasant, unsettling, it was as if he spoke between cracked and scolded lips having just had hot ash poured down his throat. Mordred had not yet grown used to it, the voice the dragon thought in was quite different, more elegant, more to Mordred’s taste.
The young Lord didn’t look up from what he was doing, “you always smell food,” he replied as the quill continued its scratching, “you live in a castle full of it.” Angmar shook his head,
“allowed food,” he managed, in the same burnt voice, “but still breathing. Blood.” Mordred set down his quill and turned in his seat to look at the dragon, tilting his head to one side in curiosity.
“Where?” he demanded.
---
He knew the way to the courtyard well, and his feet carried him down the winding staircase which descended through the heart of the North West tower. Mordred could feel it. It had started when he had left his room, that unsettling thrum of power, like a little pulse in the atmosphere, a buzzing which crackled with an alien kind of power. He quickened his pace, taking the last few steps two at a time. He recognised the sensation. It was a rune stone. Mordred had watched the girl and the mule approach from one of the tower windows. Allowed food Angmar had said, which meant animals, the mule was injured. Mordred stored the information away knowing it could prove useful if the meeting with the girl did not go as he hoped. Only a fool ignored leverage when it was so easily handed to him.
When Mordred stepped out into the yard he was smiling. He played his part well; it was an open, cheerful smile and he softened his eyes so that they seemed kind and welcoming. His blue eyes came to a rest on the young woman’s face as he approached her. The sun was shining bright in the sky, and it made his pale skin look even whiter. The lines of his face were smooth and pleasing and the deep blue of his eyes were made all the brighter by the darkness of his hair.
“The walls will not take it,” he joked as he inclined his head a little in the direction of the valuable little stone in her hands, “if you’d have used the front door a guard would have directed you to the king, or my nephew, or me.” Mordred’s small smile became broader, “I think you’ll find us a little more helpful that stonework. I would hope so, anyway.” He paused as he came to a halt a few steps away from her, and he offered her a polite bow, “I am Lord Mordred,” he explained, “the king’s brother and chancellor. Tell me, how may I assist you?”
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