Interruption Five
Brutus adjusted his cloak in the mirror, fussing with the scoop of his hood to perfect the angle to obscure his face without blocking his vision, checking that each fold looked purposeful rather than sloppy.
He turned sharply on his heel and strode five steps forward, listening carefully.
Was it swishy enough? Would the whoosh properly emphasize his dramatic monologue?
A knock on the door interrupted his runway walk. “Your Grimness,” the lizard hissed. “The champions have arrived.”
Brutus clutched his hands in triumph, a broad smile spreading across his face. Immediately, he remembered his cursed dimples and twisted his expression into a menacing sneer. “Excellent. How many have you captured?”
“Other than the princess, none—”
“What do you mean none?” Brutus roared, flying toward the door. He threw it open and glared up at the lizard. He considered ordering the minion to kneel before him, so he could glare down at them, but there wasn’t time for petty orders.
Maybe later he could make all his towering guards kneel at his feet to impress the champions with his power. First, he had to capture them.
“How do you even know the champions are here if you haven’t captured them?”
“One of the imps was wounded, and the paintings were activated.”
Brutus took a deep, steadying breath. If he started shouting, he might damage his voice before his big speech. “And did you respond to these security breaches? Like I am paying you to do?”
“Yes, but …”
His jaw clenched and he could barely get two words out. “But what?”
“The champions had already moved on.”
“Then search the lair for them!”
“We don’t have the numbers. To do that, we’d have to leave the doors.”
Murdering minions was frowned upon. If Brutus bashed the stupid lizard over the head, the others might find out, and the best-case scenario would be that they would demand compensation.
The worst-case was that they would all revolt.
A few lizards, he could handle. Lizards, orcs, and imps working together would be more difficult.
Not to mention that they might side with the champions, and then Brutus would really be in trouble.
At least he would still have his apprentice and son on his side.
After crunching the numbers, Brutus decided that punishing his minions this close to the finish line would not yield good results.
He forced his expression into something he hoped said ‘understanding’ and not ‘I’m contemplating your demise.
’ “If the champions are already inside the lair, you do not need to guard the doors or patrol the grounds. Pull your subordinates inside, tell the orcs to do the same. Search every inch of this lair until you find those champions!”
The lizard should have nodded and scurried off to follow his orders. So why was he still standing there?
“What?” Brutus snarled.
“What do we do with them once they’re caught? Put them in the dungeons?”
Brutus considered his options. Putting them in the dungeons for a cold, rough night could soften them up.
They’d be more malleable in the morning, easier to control and manipulate.
But that meant waiting another night to give his speech, and he wanted to give it now. “Herd them into the throne room.”
The lizard’s tail swished agitatedly behind them. “Which room is that?”
Brutus stared at them. “The one with the throne?”
Silence stretched between them for a long time.
“The chair made of a big fucking tree?”
“Oh, that. I didn’t realize that was a throne.” Finally understanding Brutus’ orders, the lizard left to spread the message to the others.
“Minions,” Brutus muttered in disgust. They had no sense of showmanship and no eye for real magic.
The first Lord of Grimnight hadn’t sought to rule one city—he had sought to make himself a new kingdom, with Traumstead as the new capital.
When he’d cast the curse, the first thing he’d done was make himself a throne in the former courtroom, where the laws of the land were thickest.
Since Brutus would soon secure himself five kingdoms, the most appropriate way to greet his captives would be while sitting upon that throne.
He swooshed his cloak around himself one final time before teleporting directly to the throne room.
It would have been a grand entrance if anyone had been there to see it.
Not a single guard or champion—not even his apprentice—waited for him.
He should have stayed in his office longer.
Sighing, Brutus plopped down on the throne of twisted branches and roots, then yelped as a stray twig jabbed his ass.
He shifted and squirmed, trying to find a comfortable position, but everywhere he touched was hard, pointy, and ergonomically disinclined.
One branch stretched diagonally across the back, forcing Brutus to lean slightly forward at an awkward angle.
With a despondent sigh, he rested his elbow on the arm of the throne and settled in for what would hopefully be a short wait.