Pilgrimage by Carl Purcell

presence!
    “I invited the most important and most noble subjects of the realm to an execution and I have been embarrassed by your incompetence. Incompetence! I have a mind to put you all to death and give the execution I promised. Do you have any idea what it looks like when The Great Lord Pentdragon is unable to defeat a mortal man? Any idea? Did not one of you think for a moment that, when you fail, it appears to the court that I failed? I am Lord Pentdragon and I fail at nothing. Nothing! The entire realm exists and functions because I say it does.” Pentdragon turned from his men and pressed his thumb and index finger against his forehead. His unbridled rage threatened to turn a dull throbbing over his brow into a full-blown headache. He took a few slow, deep breathes to settle his nerves.
    Feeling calmer than before, he turned around to face his servants again. One of them, a wiry man with a disgustingly hairy face, was looking at him. As soon as Pentdragon looked at him, the hairy-faced man turned his head downwards again. His whole body quivered non-stop. Pentdragon continued quietly:
    “Each and every one of you lives because I say you may live. Your continued existence is at my mercy and you may all be thankful that I am merciful. I am merciful.” He took a seat on his throne and from his place above his subjects, he scrutinised them quietly. Not one of them spoke. They were a pathetic lot; hardly worth his attention and each only slightly more adept at sorcery than a child apprentice. They cowered before him and suffered his temper in the desperate hope that he would throw them the scraps of his knowledge and wisdom. Yet, they were each uniquely unworthy of the slightest amount of pity. Their loyalty was outweighed completely by their uselessness.
    He waited to see if any of them would dare to speak. They were too timid in his presence to even muster up an apology for their stupidity. He might have looked kindly on them if they had even enough spine to beg forgiveness. They didn't. They only offered him failure, time and time again.
    “Why do I keep you? Why? Somebody tell me. Rise and speak, one of you; tell me what use you offer.”
    Nobody answered him. They didn't even move.
    “We will bring them back.” Pentdragon continued. “You will have another opportunity to prove yourselves. Now stand, all of you. Stand.”
    They stood but kept their heads low.
    “Return only when I have summoned you. I shall engineer a way for you to find them and you will bring them back to me. Now go. Go!” Each turned and left. The door closed behind the last and left Lord Pentdragon in solitude.
    He sat silently and contemplated the task before him. The burden of creating both the method and the means of hunting and retrieving Roland and Griffith rested on him and him alone. If Griffith continued to use magic, one of his many spies across the Tablelands would surely find him again. But even when they did locate them, what were the chances of ambushing them a second time? Surrounded, as he was, by useless servants and vain courtiers there was nobody Lord Pentdragon could turn to for aid in any of his grand designs. So it was in lonely bitterness that he schemed the deaths of his new foes.
    He worked undisturbed for an hour or more. He did not move from his throne and he did not speak. Nothing disturbed his thinking until, without warning, he heard the door slam closed. He had been so deep in thought he did not even hear it open. Was he expecting someone? Had he absent-mindedly called for one of his attendants? No, he hadn't. Some unwelcome intruder had come into his chamber.
    “Who goes there?” He demanded. There was no answer. Pentdragon took a moment to strengthen the aura he had been projecting and the crimson glow blasted the whole room with light, leaving no corner untouched and no shadow remaining. Now he could see his visitor. The man standing in the room had dark eyes and short grey hair. He was over six feet tall