He had monsters to the left of him, and to the right, their breath fogging in the cold air, and their spittle flowing freely down their chins, as they pawed at the earth impatiently, twisting and turning against the invisible command bindings that held them in place.
He had his followers as well. Men and women with souls as black as his, as craving in power as he was. He'd promised to teach them the secrets of magic. In the meantime, they made rather effective tools. Their swords glowed in the green fire that Francis had made his calling card, ever since he set his mother's head upon a stick, and lit it with the power that Ingolsol had given him.
"You've grown silent, mage," Lombard said. "This standoff makes me uncomfortable. Could it be that you've given way to cowardice? Has some shred of sanity shone its light through your broken mind? Surrender, then, and you have my word as a Knight of Stormfront that your death will be quick and painless."
