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“Yes, yes.” I scrub under her carapace chin. “I promise.”
Still eyeing me, she settles in a corner of the birthing kennel and her young ones pile on top of her, sufficiently distracting her from my absence. I stand at the gate a little longer before I hear a voice behind me, grizzled and deep.
“Giroth,” the Trolvor guard beckons. “He will see you, now.”
It is a long moment before I obey, stepping in line with the jackal headed demon as we exit the kennels. He stands tall and proud, with a heavy polearm strapped to his back. They are not exactly the friendliest, but neither am I. "What is the reason I have been dragged from my duties, Trolvor? The summons failed to mention…”
“The King wishes to see you."
“Yes, of course,” I say sardonically, rubbing the base of my proud obsidian horns. “I gathered that much by the summons. I had asked–”
“You do not question it,” he interrupts with a snarl, his upper lip curling to expose his long canines. “The hounds have made you petulant. There are rules, and you will obey them.”
I roll my eyes but say nothing more.
This Trolvor has no interest in light banter, obviously, so I scour the busy streets of Ti’lith instead, recognizing all that we pass, and still, it seems strange. I don’t come out often, except to gather the necessary supplies for the Ur’gin. I prefer to keep my horns lowered and my eyes on the next task, but one does not spurn the Demon King.
A massive Gilak crosses our path, his heavily muscled body straining against a great weight behind him. His head is down, and his horns are nearly touching the earth as sweat slicks his dense gray flesh.
Even the Trolvor halts.
Behind the Gilak is a procession for a Matron, who seems rather too occupied with the other inhabitants of her drawn carriage. From here, I catch the flash of bare breasts and ass as they surge against one another in a feverish attempt to produce offspring. Outside the carriage, a host of squat Zonak chase after it, squabbling among themselves to serve their beloved Matron.
Finally, there’s an opening, and we pass through the wretched procession towards the royal estate. Here, towering spires rise up around us, and I already miss my kennels. But at least the inhabitants are respectful, making way for us as their gazes alight upon the stern Trolvor leading me. They rarely leave the King’s side.
The silence between us is deafening.
I am eager to break it with some wry quip but I don’t think he’ll appreciate it, under the circumstances. I have to wonder what I’ve done to garner the King’s attention. What need does he have for a humble kennel master?
Life on this planet has been peaceful since we arrived. I hardly remember the transition but when it was done, we were free from our oppressors. Now, our island of Galmoleth floats somewhere over the continents of Protheka, concealed beneath a charged cloud of darkness that follows us everywhere, a protective shroud from the other races who might do us harm.
Finally, we are at the doors to the King’s estate, which open to us.
More Trolvor stand straighter as we pass, staring over our heads.
I take in the high vaulted ceilings and the multifaceted glowing glass that shimmers like ruby water over the high walls and pillars. It is beautiful, in its own right, though I prefer the dank and musty kennels, and the hot breath of my hounds.
I do not belong here.
We enter into a great hall, and at the end, sits King Asmodeus, himself. My miserable disposition has no place in his presence. I can feel the chaotic energy around him, a powerful nimbus as if he’s made from the same stuff that crackles around the island.
The Trolvor dips his head and stands to one side, giving me the opportunity to look upon our King, uninterrupted. He is leaned to one side casually in his heavy throne, his face completely concealed by his hood while an impressive pair of twin horns curl up and back. He leans forward as if to better see me, his garb somewhere between a warrior’s and a sorcerer’s, with heavy plates over his shoulders and chest, while exposing the deep purple robes of a Soz’garoth beneath. His voice, when he finally speaks, is resounding and all encompassing, charged with magic. “You are Giroth?”
I can’t help but bow deeply, my sour mood evaporating. “Yes, my King.”
“I have a task for you, hound master.”
I want to correct him, but I wouldn’t dare. “I am honored.”
“Hm,” he says as if considering, resting his concealed face in a palm. “You know of Protheka,” he continues, no indication he’s waiting for an answer. “And the races below. My Soz’garoth have been watching the ground continents for some time, and we have decided to harvest some of the inhabitants for an experiment.”
I hold my breath, hanging on his next words.
What does this have to do with me? I am not a sorcerer or a military leader, like the Princes. I have no stake in whatever war he means to wage on Protheka. Surely, this tentative peace that we have experienced will end if we make contact, though I dare not say so. Perhaps, war is what he seeks. And who am I to correct him?
“Yours is a simple task.
“Below,” he says, waving at the marbled floor. “-under the rule of the dark elves, is a race primed for breeding. They are kept as laborers, though our study of them has indicated that they are fertile creatures compatible with many of the races on Protheka.
