Here Be Monsters - By M T Murphy Page 0,10

of the human life within.

As he stood in the centre of the chamber, he recalled the taking of each one. The only pleasure that exceeded visiting his collection was expanding it by harvesting new human ore.

The newest of his collection still struggled within their confinement. He stroked the cool glass with the dark green flesh of his palm and heard the magical echo of two voices. A smile played across his gnarled lips. When he had coaxed the female’s essence from her body, another tiny flicker came with it. She’d been with child. The challenge had delighted him: how to encase two as one, and yet still keep the casing thin and the sound clear. It had been tried before, always with disastrous outcomes. But no two souls were as intimately connected as a mother and child, and his triumphant artistry had stunned everyone who’d seen it. They swirled together, blending their blue and golden light, then flew apart as though dancing. It filled him with pure delight. He had considered giving this one to the clan warchief, but found he could not part with the pair.

His thoughts of the warchief reminded Krel of the summons he’d received. The hour had come to attend his patron. He turned toward the door, bracing himself for the meeting ahead. His heavy boots thudded against the stone floor as he strode with purpose to the stairwell.

His thoughts lingered on his collection, distracting him to the point of obsession. He nearly collided with his daughter at the top of the stairs.

Krel’s heart swelled with pride at how beautiful Ruygret had become. Her black hair hung over her shoulder in a braid that reached her waist, making her the spitting image of her mother. Krel thought of his lost mate often since her death in the Battle of Curtol six years before.

“Father,” Ruygret said. “I want to bring my new pet to live in my rooms, but Hyug won’t allow it in the house without your consent.”

Krel scowled. “Another? But what about Crush?”

Ruygret met his eyes fiercely. “My wolf died nearly a year ago, father. I told you. The new pet needs more attention. It gets bored tied up outside all day.”

A pang of remorse shot through him. He’d neglected Ruygret since her mother died, but his work had helped fill the gap left by his wife’s death. His collection had grown to number in the hundreds. If he sold it, he could retire in comfort and buy his daughter a legion of her own bonded warriors. But he knew he couldn’t part with any of his creations. He found it difficult enough to offer the required occasional tribute to the warchief.

“So I’ll tell Hyug it’s all right with you,” Ruygret said, bringing him back to the moment.

“Why would he say no? Hyug is our servant, not you his.”

She shrugged. “He worried the noise might disturb you. The creature is not fully trained and it tends to howl at night. But I think having it inside will help.”

“I must attend the warchief,” Krel said absently.

“So I have your permission then.” A statement, not a question.

“Yes, my heart,” Krel said and started to go, but paused at the archway leading out. “Keep it on a leash until it’s domesticated.” He shuddered as he imagined the wolf, or perhaps a werecat cub, clambering around in his gallery.

“Thank you, father,” she called as he walked away.

The conversation was forgotten within moments, and he considered the meeting ahead. The warchief possessed ten of Krel’s orbs. Not his finest. Those, Krel kept for himself. None could match his rate of success or the complexity he achieved in his designs. Reavers were not the only artists of their race, but they were the most sought-after. The powerful wanted soul-orbs decorating their strongholds, reminding visitors not only of their wealth, but of their hand in the subjugation of the indigenous humans.

Krel climbed the long, stone staircase that led into the warchief’s stronghold. Scarred and battle-worn warriors stood guard at intervals, their marred and tangled faces showing that the warchief’s legion was the one to be feared above all others.

The audience chamber had an immense fire burning in the centre of its dome-shaped space. The flames burned blue, fuelled by magic. At the back of the room, the warchief sat on a raised crescent-shaped dais, looking glorious in full battle armour, with his black hair pulled into a top-knot. His face broke into a snarling grin when Krel stepped forward. “There you are,”