“General,” Chancellor Olaf said, “what is it?”
Bahn grimaced like he had walked into bodine flatulence with an open mouth. He was tempted to turn off his radio, but duty intervened.
“I need to speak with the queen,” Bahn reluctantly replied, then quickly added, “or the king, if he is so inclined.”
There was a short pause, which the general filled with images of Olaf dancing for all he was worth. Eventually, the chancellor answered, “They are indisposed at the moment. They are making plans now that the Prophecy has been circumvented. Thank you for collecting the Indiran, by the way.”
“The Prophecy is the least of my concerns, Olaf,” Bahn barked. “The Indirans are on their way to invade Mist Tier.”
The general was not sure what sort of response he expected, but what he got was not it. S
