The Gift of Volkeye Read Free

being watched.
    The eavesdroppers crouched at a nearby stairwell, gazing at their overlords—one, a muscular dwarf-type, who looked somewhere between human and creature. The other was a self-proclaimed ruler of mankind—an anorexic, nearly seven-foot tree stalk with a bushy unibrow that had an assortment of fine, black and silver hairs. His neck was long like that of a strange animal, as was his body—tall and thin enough for him to be mistaken as a tree branch. However, he was very powerful despite his frailty.
    Phyllamon and Murlach often took these walks around the castle to discuss all manners of wanton violence, and, despite the danger involved, the servants followed them. They aimed to get a hint of whether or not their masters were close to finding him ...he that was their only hope of escaping enslavement.
    They sat on the steps with their ears desperately reaching for every word uttered. They didn’t catch them all, but they had enough and now meant to sneak away. Unfortunately, one of them was clumsy and tripped over his feet, tumbling on the cracked and wobbly steps. He now lay there, aching.
    As his comrade crept away undetected, Phyllamon grabbed this one up by the hair and cuffed his face.
    “Well?” he asked.
    “Well what, Master? I only meant to…I was just…finishing up the steps, Sire!”
    “You lie!” Phyllamon said, knowing that if he was doing chores, there would have been a broom and dustpan nearby. “You like spying, do you? What did you hear? Perhaps you can give us some useful information…tales of him have circulated throughout this castle for over thirty years, ever since my father died. You know who I speak of, I’m not stupid!”
    Phyllamon threw his servant to the floor. The man’s elbow cracked when it hit the stone, and he squealed in pain, trying to crawl away. Phyllamon put a boot in his chest, and the servant now lay coughing as he got his wind back.
    “So?”
    “Master…I swear…I was only inspecting the steps for dust balls and such!”
    “Oh, really!”
    Phyllamon placed his foot on the man’s neck, reveling with passion as the man’s eyes bulged and became red at the edges. Next, his trachea and other surrounding bones caved in, and soon the servant’s body went limp.
    Again, Murlach stepped away from Phyllamon, not wanting to be the next one grabbed during his temper tantrum. Phyllamon’s voice projected throughout the halls of the castle in a furious rage, chest heaving and spittle flying from his mouth.
    “I tire of your ridiculous allegiance to a man who can help NONE of you! You think him your saviour, eh? NEVER! You will die in servitude to me, the whole rotten lot of you! And if you wish for the bastard to walk into my castle and free you from my grasp, you’re sadly unrealistic! FOOLS!”
    Phyllamon glared at the open air before him, trying to come up with something to add to his rant, then…
    “From this point forward, if I hear his name or even think that you’re talking about him, I’ll sick the Karnovs on you! The very thought of him is barred from this castle!”
    (Although he didn’t interject at this last bit, Murlach couldn’t help rolling his eyes at Phyllamon’s overwhelming hypocrisy.)
    Nostrils flaring, Phyllamon paced, hands tearing at the air with his knuckles cracking all the while. It was quite some time before he noticed Murlach shaking his head with impatience.
    “I understand your anger, Master, but may I inquire about the point of that little episode? What did you accomplish? Nothing. It’s only natural for them to be protective— he gives them hope. Enough hope can make men endure unimaginable evils, so you must know that your underlings would die before giving this man up.”
    Murlach paused, hoping that his advice was sinking in.
    “The point is, Sire, they will remain loyal to him regardless, so it’s absurd to continue killing those who cook and clean for you! Each time you have one of those foolish episodes, you