Secretary Youvalan looked down the table, silently
appraising his lieutenants, his viceroys, the lynchpins of his future power. The wizard grimly smiled; some such as the
mercenary Egil who was shifting uncomfortably, the secretary still reserved his final
judgment, the rest were proven, valuable members.
Lyri Farsil’s journey had
easily been the most difficult, Youvalan understood it to be true that she had
actually been killed and resurrected at great personal cost. Alvored was the
least affected by the silence in the conference room, experienced in the
political exercise of power by his Van Fleet brethren.
It was the Secretary most recent coup that
brought him the most pleasure, a halfling brawler of dwarves who had brought
him so much more information.
Essentially a slave to dwarves for years, the diminutive warrior’s
psyche was so easily manipulated, Youvalan had found it unnecessary to risk any
of his newer talents on him. Simply
offering him a mission of importance, a position of authority with an organization
that asked him to join rather than demanded, and commensurate opportunities for
wealth had guaranteed Adalgrim Redhammer’s loyalty. Everyone else at the meeting, the muscle, had
been provided to him by his patron Nerith Alia.
Standing, Youvalan now spoke, “Durg carries the Axe ofWitches.”
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