‘That is true,’ the King said, persuaded. ‘I had not thought of that. Continue.’
‘I will direct the Loremasters to create Tsagoroth, which will be created solely for the purpose of destroying the Pixie vermin and the device she bears. What the Tsagoroth do afterwards is of no consequence to Yourself. They will, of course, continue to rend and destroy- perhaps they will stumble upon those miscreant half-breeds who call themselves Outcasts; those descendants of vermin who skulk about in the old woods like animals-’
The King, uninterested in Cyphallus’s spleen, intent only on closure of his planned immortality, said quickly, ‘Yes, yes, get on with it! Unleash the Tsagoroth, and discontinue this inane prattle. You cause my head to ache!’
Inane prattle indeed! Cyphallus whined to himself as he made his way to the Vault once more. Witless old dotard! Accuse me of inane prattle when you waste untold hours in manic, deluded scribbling!
With a petulance he assumed to be an air of violence, like an ineffectual lap-dog with master-borrowed bravery, he set about summoning the Tsagoroth.