But what could it be? As regularly as Hymneth consorted with the powers of darkness, it might involve some malevolent spell of unimaginable power. Peregriff knew that the baleful green vapor that had crippled the errant soldier was as nothing compared to the malign energies his master could muster if the circumstances demanded it. He had seen him do things in the privacy of his chambers that would have left lesser men huddled mewling on the floor, their eyes fastened to carpet or cold stone, their bodies curled into tight fetal positions.
He dared not probe. If and when the time came, Hymneth would reveal all to him. Peregriff knew the master did not trust him. That was to be expected. One in a position of absolute power could not afford to trust anyone. It was one way in which absolute power was maintained. But the ruler of Ehl-Larimar would occasionally confide in him. Their relationship was based on mutual respect for each other’s abilities. That, and Peregriff’s blood oath to support his master in everything he did.
It had been a good life and, if Hymneth was to be believed, one that the general could look forward to for many years to come. Had not the Possessed, through means of sorcery most profound, given him back the arm he had lost at the battle of Cercropai? He sat a little straighter in his chair. All was well in the kingdom, the nuncupative oozings of the Worm notwithstanding. Hymneth’s confidence was reassuring.
Though he had not met and knew nothing of them, Peregriff found himself beginning to feel sorry for the unknown, unenlightened interlopers whose advent the Worm had foretold.