Brought to you by the authors of Indie Fantasy Addicts

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ASIN: B09J31RD7T

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Published by Indie Fantasy Addicts

Edited by Sara Lawson | www.sarasbooks.com with the generous assistance of Alora Carter

Cover Design by Allegra Pescatore | www.facebook.com/groups/allegrasartalcove

Formatting by D.W. Hawkins | www.DWHawkins.com

INTRODUCTION

From the Ashes is the second heroic installment in the Indie Fantasy Addicts Anthology Collection. It shines a light on the struggles and adventures of a hero in the twilight of his life. We hope you enjoy the experience!

For more IFA stories, check out From the Shadows: Villainous Tales of Dark Lords, Despots, and Devils or head over to https://www.facebook.com/groups/indiefantasyaddicts.

Dedicated to the readers of Indie Fantasy Addicts –

You are by far the most amazing readers we have ever known!

"SO LONG AS HIS NAME RESTS ON YOUR LIPS, A HERO SHALL NEVER PERISH."

-Rachel Rener

BLOOD OF HEROES

By Angel Haze

“Victory is reserved for those who are willing to pay its price.”

-Sun Tzu

The guard pushed Drazhan forward. Drazhan shot his shackled hands out and caught himself on the pitted cavern walls, scraping his palms against the stone. The chains that connected his ankles to the other slaves jangled and jerked, pulling him toward Lenard, the skinny bearded slave to his right.

In front of him, Crispin and Jackin stumbled. Sabina, a tall, dark woman with a loose braid, chained next in line, fell to her knees.

“Bastard,” Drazhan whispered under his breath. He glanced at Yates, the pompous, toothless guard that had been charged with overseeing the slaves bought at auction. The torch he carried cast half his ugly face in shadow, but Drazhan caught the wicked, toothless grin and had half a mind to throw himself on the big son of a bitch and knock out the rest of his teeth, but the mace at the guard’s hip stayed his hand. He would find a way out of this. The guards would not get away with this.

“Stay on your feet pig fuckers!” Yates shouted. “Move as one with the fucking chain or I’ll smash your head in and leave your stinkin’ corpse for the other slaves to feed on.”

A few of the slaves dared to look back, their faces ashen.

“Ain’t much food down here in the mines,” Yates continued, “aside from the odd bug or two. A hearty hunk of flesh would be a luxury compared to what you’re getting.” He chuckled and shoved his mace into the small of Drazhan’s back. “Now move.”

Drazhan looked up at the stalactite Yates was standing under, wishing he still had the power to make it come crashing down on the bastard’s head. He growled and stared down at his bruised and bound hands, wondering how he could hook the chain around Yates’s neck and throttle him.

Not yet. You’ll only get the others killed.

He swallowed. His throat was parched, his tongue thick in his mouth. He could scarcely remember the last time he’d had something to drink. Had it been before he’d been paraded naked in front of a couple dozen men and women? Or after the slaver had bought him, clothed him in a frayed, sweat-stinking gray tunic, thrown him in a covered wagon, and dumped him in the shadowed valley of the Crystal Mines?

Drazhan had yet to see the face of the guard up ahead of him and the other eleven slaves, who kept whistling the same dirge as if he were walking them to their deaths.

Because he was. No one had ever escaped the mines. The question wasn’t if they would die, but when. How long could they suffer the back-breaking work, the hunger and beatings? He’d heard the guards making bets on them while he’d pretended to sleep in the grass behind the wagon. Rumor had it, most died within a month. Many killed themselves in the first week.

Drazhan looked ahead at the other slaves he’d been locked up with for nearly a month. There had been dozens more in that first warehouse he’d been shoved into, but the guards had split them and forced them to walk behind a covered wagon, chained together, with a burlap sack over their heads. Three slaves had been killed on the way to the mines. Yates had beaten another slave so badly, the man cried, shouted, and begged the guard to finish him off. After two days of the slave’s screams, Yates had stomped out of the wagon in the pouring rain and beat the man. Drazhan had heard the thunks of each blow, had smelled the blood that had flecked onto his burlap sack, and the agonizing cries of the man as the wagon jerked forward and they left the dying slave screaming and cursing in the rain.

Drazhan knew most of the names. They were farmers, bakers, barmaids, by the looks of them. Only Jagger, the big muscular thug with the split lip and perpetual sneer, could have passed for a hardened criminal. The others were weak and afraid. What the fuck had they done to get themselves tied up in this mess?

Whistler came to an abrupt halt. Ahead of the line, Thomas and Mannie nearly stumbled into him.

“Backs straight,” Whistler growled.

Drazhan stopped and leaned slightly to his left to see why they’d stopped. Behind him, Yates was cursing under his breath.

A short man with dark hair streaked with silver approached, his unbuttoned doublet too fancy and hot to be wearing in the mines. His chin was tilted high and he walked with an exuberant air of confidence. Three burly men followed his lead.

“Baddon.” Whistler nodded. “Didn’t expect to see you here today.”

Baddon didn’t look at the guard, but instead paced along the line of slaves. “I came to see my new workers.” He got to the end of the line where Drazhan stood next to Lenard and frowned. “Yates, how many slaves did I buy?”

Yates stared ahead. “Sixteen in this batch, sir.”

“And how many slaves do you see in front of you?”

“Twelve, sir.”

“What happened to the others?”

Yates appeared as though he were looking at a pit in the wall above Baddon’s head. “They didn’t make the journey.”

Baddon snorted. “Do you know what two things I hate most?”

“No, sir.” A bead of sweat trickled down the ugly guard’s face.

“Liars and wasting money. So tell me, did you kill my workers? And think carefully before you respond.”

“They tried to escape. I had no other choice but to—”

“But to destroy my investment? Yates, I did not send you to the market to buy me corpses. You might want to rethink your line of work if a chained slave is too much for you to handle.”

“I understand,” Yates said, but the words sounded forced and his fists were trembling at his sides.

“Whistler, make a note. Your quota has just been raised to three carts a day. Anything less and it comes out of both of your purses.”

Whistler glowered back at Yates, but his expression softened as he turned to Baddon. “I’m sure that won’t be a problem.”

“Excellent.” Baddon nodded to the slaves. “You must be exhausted. You will be freed of your chains and fed soon enough. Tomorrow, your work begins, and I want you to know that, in my mine, hard work is rewarded. I expect great things out of you.” He smiled broadly, but his grin didn’t reach his eyes.

No one said a word.

He left, his bodyguards in tow.

“Three fucking carts,” Yates muttered. He shoved his mace into Drazhan’s back. “Get moving! You pieces of shit have got your work cut out for you now!”

Whistler marched them deep underground, through winding tunnels in pitted rock and the odd guard station. The jingling of the chains at their feet echoed off the walls, jangling Drazhan’s nerves.

I am not a prisoner. I will escape this.

The air was hotter than Old Rhett’s forge. His tunic clung to his back. Sweat ran down his face and the tip of his nose. Voices echoed in the distance. The clangs of pickaxes striking rock and crystal and the harsh barks of men—men like the pig-faced, toothless guard behind him.

Drazhan tried to memorize the way to the exit, but there were many intersecting paths. In the dark, they all looked the same. The whistling guard took them through so many twists and turns, Drazhan began to wonder if the damn guards had made a few loops just to throw the slaves off in case they had a mind to dream of escape.

No one escaped the mines. The thought had been drilled into him like a mantra.

The knowledge pressed into him, clouding his mind with doubt. I’ll be the first, but the thought did not hold the conviction he was hoping for. If he had any hope of escaping, it had been in the warehouse, at auction, or on the way to mines. Not in the dark depths of the death trap.

Whistler’s torch flickered up ahead. Shadows climbed the rock walls, curving into pitted holes where crystals had been carved out and off the jagged stalactites that hung eerily above them.

The deeper they trekked, the more fear settled into the pit of Drazhan’s stomach. He imagined the guards, or more likely the slaves, hauling the bodies of the dead to a deep pit where the bones of all the rest of the slaves had been piled. It felt like a long, solemn walk to his grave. The farther they went, the more his chance of escape faded. How the hell would he do it when no one else had?

Exhaustion, dehydration, and the effects of the magicdrain pressed into him, blurring his vision. He blinked, trying to regain his senses and his sense of control.

No matter what happened, he couldn’t let them break him. He’d endure hell, the worst suffering imaginable, but they would not break him. He would escape, even if he had to mine his way through the rock and crystal or kill every guard in this godforsaken hole in the ground. He’d never killed a man outside of battle. But he had a feeling that was about to change. They were going to push him, torture him until he didn’t have a choice.

His stomach clenched at the thought of it. He gazed again at the slaves ahead of him. He would get them out if he could, but if not, he would save himself.

If only someone could find Queen Astra. Since her disappearance and the fall of magic, nothing had been the same. Without the queen, Feros was going to shit. Pain thrummed in his temples and a haze clouded his mind. He exhaled slowly, trying to bear the pain of the magicdrain.

Finally, Whistler led them into a dark cavern. It was hot and smelled of shit. Drazhan thought the guard had made a wrong turn, but the greasy bastard set his torch into the bracket on the wall, turned and smiled at them.

Drazhan looked around the dimly lit cavern. Its rock walls had long been picked over. A few torn and tattered blankets were piled in a corner. Two dented shit buckets stood in another corner.

Drazhan nearly gagged.

This was it?

This was what his life had been reduced to? Nothing but a tattered gray tunic, a moldy blanket to rest his head on, and a bucket to piss in? If only he still had his magic…

“Sit down. All of you. Legs in front. Hands behind your head. Let’s get those chains off.” Yates pursed his lips and stared them down. “If anyone so much as twitches, I’ll break your fucking legs.”

Yates unshackled their ankles. Drazhan could see the guard’s hands trembling just a little. He wondered if he could kick the bastard in the mouth and run back up the tunnel, but Whistler stood behind Yates, slapping his mace in his palm, silently challenging one of them to try something.

When Yates was done, he stood and kicked the chain to the side, then stepped behind them to unlock their wrists.

Drazhan felt his breath quicken as he waited for the guard to work his way down the line.

“You can’t keep us in here!” a man shouted, jumping to his feet. Drazhan didn’t know his name. He leapt at Yates over the bound slave beside him. “We’ve done nothing!”

The slave punched Yates in the jaw, a good loud smack, before Yates grabbed his arm and twisted it hard behind the man’s back. Bone snapped and the slave screamed.

The slave turned his head and spat in the guard’s face. “Queen Astra and Princess Vlasta will find out!”

Yates growled and leaned closer to the slave. “What was that?”

Whistler grinned, still smacking the mace against his palm. “I think he said he wanted you to break his other arm.”

Yates launched. “With pleasure.”

The slave twisted and kicked. “You can’t do this to me!”

“Then again,” Whistler began, “I think you promised to break their legs if they moved.”

The slave’s screams echoed off the walls as he tried to wrestle free. Drazhan winced. He didn’t want to watch, but he couldn’t run away or sit still. His hands were still shackled, but he felt a strong urge to do something.

The slave stomped on Yates’s foot.

Yates growled, kicked the slave, and drew his mace.

Drazhan turned his head slightly as the guard slammed the mace against the slave’s head with a sickening crack of bone. Warm blood speckled Drazhan’s face. One of the women screamed.

The slave slumped to the ground, dead. Yates wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his grimy hand, then kicked the corpse. “There’s tomorrow’s breakfast. Enjoy.” He unshackled the last few slaves without incident, bent over and grabbed the tangled coil of chains from the ground. Without a backward glance, he headed toward the arched doorway.

Whistler smiled. “Sleep … if you can. The first night in the mines will be the best fucking sleep you’ll get in here. Or the worst. That’ll be up to you and how long it takes your maggoty asses to get used to your new life in the mines.” He winked. “Yates and I will be here early tomorrow, and then you’ll start digging.”

The guards started out of the room. Just before they entered the corridor, Whistler turned. “And before you get any wild ideas, there are guards patrolling the tunnels throughout the night, waiting for some pissant dumb enough to think they can escape.” Then he grinned and threw up his hands. “Welcome to the mines!”

Nesta, a good looking, busty, middle-aged woman began crying hysterically and sat down on the stone floor. The slaves stared at the corpse next to her, its bloody, slack-jawed face frozen in fear.

Drazhan turned his head. The shame of not stepping up to help the frightened slave burned in his gut. He had fought in the queen’s army, and yet when a slave had dared to challenge their captors, he had done nothing. There was no way to help him, he tried to tell himself, but the thought did little to alleviate his conscience.

“I don’t want to die,” Nesta cried. Tears streaked down her grimy cheeks; her eyes were red and swollen. She’d been crying since Yates and Whistler had dragged her to the wagon.

Someone started whispering curses.

“Who are they?” Lenard, a thick-bearded man with a broken nose asked.

Jackin snorted. “I’m more curious how Baddon is getting away with this.”

Crispin ran his hands through his hair as he paced the cavern. “How could they do this to us? We’ve done nothing wrong.”

It was the same questions Drazhan had heard all the way to the mines. He had no answer for it. The slaves seemed more focused on their fear and why this was happening than coming up with ways to escape.

“We’re going to die down here,” Nesta cried.

“No, we’re not,” Drazhan snapped.

The slaves turned to him with wide eyes. Crispin stopped pacing, his hands trembling at his sides.

Jagger, the scraggly haired thug snickered. “We all gotta die sometime.” He was the only one whose eyes didn’t shine with fear. From the scars on his face and arms, his twisted sneer, and the gruffness of his voice, Drazhan doubted that this was the first time he’d been imprisoned.

Drazhan could have punched him in the throat. “Not here.”

Jagger snorted. “You gonna be the hero? The one that singlehandedly runs down every fucking guard and breaks these poor saps out? Please. You’re full of shit. No one breaks out of here. But hey, if you want to lie to them, you might be doing them a favor. Get them killed in the first few days instead of starving to death or having their fucking heads crushed by a guard’s mace like this stupid fuck.” He kicked the leg of the corpse. “Save them some lashings too.”

Nesta drew her knees to her chest. She was still shaking and crying. Sabina put her arm around her and whispered something to her that Drazhan couldn’t hear.

“Better shut that bitch up before a guard comes,” Jagger snarled. “Seemed pretty damn eager to use that mace.”

Sabina shushed Nesta, as if the woman were a crying baby. She glared at Jagger, then brought Nesta’s head to her chest and stroked her back. “Don’t listen to him. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

Drazhan stared at Jagger. “If you’ve accepted your fate, so be it. Doesn’t mean the rest of us have to.”

Jagger picked a dirty blanket from the pile and said, “Everyone dies in the mines.” Then he yawned and laid the blanket on the floor.

Drazhan shook his head as Jagger lay down and put his head on the blanket. The other slaves were staring at Drazhan expectantly. He didn’t bother arguing. “We’re going to get out of here.”

“How?” Sabina asked.

Crispin frowned and jabbed his index finger at Jagger. “We all know what he said was true. No one has ever escaped.”

Drazhan stared at the empty doorway. “I don’t know, but I’ll find a way. I sure as fuck ain’t ending up as a festering corpse, left and forgotten in the mine.”

Crispin looked at him with watery-eyes, but said nothing.

Drazhan wasn’t sure they believed him. If it shut them up, he didn’t care. He’d be the first to escape. This wouldn’t be his prison—or his grave.

***

The slapping of bare feet on stone awakened Drazhan. His neck ached from sleeping awkwardly on the cavern floor. He was surprised he had slept at all. Between Nesta’s sobbing, Jagger’s snoring, and the haphazard escape strategies that kept running through his mind, he had tossed and turned most of the night. He knew he should sleep before they sent him down to dig. They hadn’t eaten for a day or two, and before then they’d had only a few small chunks of moldy bread.

He laid his head back down and tried not to look at the corpse across the room.

“In here. In here. Has to be in here,” an old, quaky voice whispered.

In the dim flickering torchlight from the corridor, Drazhan saw the outline of feeble old man. His worn tunic hung halfway down to his knees, and he wore no trousers on his pale, boney legs.

“What are you doing outside the cavern?” a gruff voice shouted. Drazhan couldn’t tell if it was Whistler, Yates, or some other guard.

The old man jumped, stumbled a step, and grabbed the wall of the arched doorway for support. “D-don’t come up behind me like that.” He pressed a hand to his chest. “C-could have had a h-heart attack.”

“What are you doing outside your cavern?” the guard repeated.

“I l-lost my way. Can barely see my hands in front of me. P-please, I didn’t mean any harm. I-I had to take a leak. I-I must have gotten turned around.”

“Where the hell are your trousers?” another guard asked, this one carrying a torch.

“I s-shit them this morning,” the old man stammered. “P-please, d-don’t make me put them back o-on.”

“Get in there, old man.” The guard chuckled and shoved the man inside.

The man stumbled and fell to the ground. He rolled and immediately shielded his face with his rail-thin arms. “Please don’t h-hurt me.”

Drazhan bolted upright.

Even in the darkness, the guard caught the movement and turned toward him. “Stay down if you know what’s good for you.”

If Drazhan had his magic, he would have set the guard aflame. The gods help me if magic ever returns to Feros. I’ll fucking burn every last one of them.

The guard stared at him a moment longer, then turned and left the cavern. When the torchlight and their footsteps faded into the distance, Drazhan stood, circled the sleeping bodies, and sat down next to the old man. “You all right?”

“I d-don’t know how much more I can t-take.” The man didn’t make eye contact. “Everywhere hurts. Some mornings I can barely m-move.”

“You been here long?”

The old man threw up his arms. “I don’t know anymore. D-days? A week?” He leaned forward and began massaging his knee. “I’m so tired.”

He appeared to be in his seventies, if not older. Drazhan looked around the cavern at the silhouetted bodies, sighed and turned back to the man. “We’ll find a way out.”

The man snorted. “A nice thought, but there’s n-no way out.”

“I’m not convinced.”

For the first time, the old man looked at Drazhan and quirked a bushy brow. In the dim light, he thought he saw something there, but then the man started cackling and slapping his dirty gnarled fingers to his mouth to hide his amusement.

Drazhan frowned.

“You must be c-crazier than I am,” the old man rasped.

Drazhan just stared at him.

The old man waved him off. “I need to sleep before things start oozing out of my head. So should you. Tomorrow they will test you, try to b-break you, and if that doesn’t work, they’ll whip you.”

Before Drazhan could question him more, the man rolled onto his side, his back facing Drazhan, and curled his scrawny legs up to his chest. Considering the man wore no trousers, Drazhan was glad the torchlight outside the cavern was dwindling.

Drazhan laid his head down in the crook of his arm and tried to rest, but ruminations kept him from sleep.

***

A loud clap awakened Drazhan. Pain radiated through his head. The back of his neck grew hot and he felt like he might vomit, but he forced his eyes open. Something soared at his face. He ducked and the chunk of hard bread bounced off his shoulder. Another mouldy piece skidded by his feet, and the old man scrambled toward it on his hands and knees and snatched it up before Nesta could get it. Angry bloody welts split the backs of the old man’s pale calves, fresh dried blood trickled off the sides of his calves.

“All right, you snot-nosed fuckers!” Yates shouted. Behind him, Whistler grinned widely. “Eat up. Your next meal depends on how many crystals this unit mines. You want another meal tonight, fill the fucking carts. If you’re short, even by a pubic hair, you don’t eat till morning. Fail to fill your three carts two days in a row, you don’t eat until you do. We don’t reward slackers. Do I make myself clear?”

Most of the slaves nodded.

“Um, sir?” Nesta asked quietly, her eyes red and swollen. “I didn’t get one.”

The guard frowned. “No? Ah, I must have counted wrong. Ask someone to share.”

The slaves looked down at the palm-sized piece of bread in their hands, but no one offered her any. Drazhan rolled his eyes. “Take mine.”

She lowered her gaze, and whispered. “I can’t take it all.”

“Take it.” The pain in his head was so intense he could barely think straight. He handed her the chunk of stale bread. “We’ll mine enough crystals to eat tonight.”

Nesta held the bread protectively to her chest. “Thank you.”

Crumbs fell from the old man’s beard as he greedily scarfed down his bread, eyes darting around the cavern at the other slaves. Drazhan found it hard to be angry at the old bastard, even though it was his fault they were short a piece.

“You have five minutes to finish your meal and squat in the bucket before you get to work.”

Whistler and Yates turned and left the cavern. As they did, Drazhan spotted the coiled whips at their hips. The old man was right. He stared down at the welts on the old man’s calves. Drazhan didn’t know if he could control himself if one of the guards tried to whip him.

“Still playing the hero?” Jagger asked Drazhan as he pissed into one of the buckets. “Mighty nice of you, but remember – down here, there’s no scoreboard. No one gives a shit about your good deeds. Down here, you eat, shit, sleep, and mine. The guards don’t give two fucks about you. You give your bread away, you slow down, you mine less, and you get whipped and you starve. You gonna play the hero, you should at least be getting something for your efforts.” He rolled his eyes sideways at Nesta’s voluptuous chest. “If any of you fucks don’t pull your weight today and I have to mine more just so I can eat, you bet your ass you’ll pay the price. Understand?”

Nesta folded her arms over her chest and turned away.

Sabina looked at him and snarled, “He wouldn’t dream of it, Nesta. I’ll cut off his dick before he even gets a chance.”

“We’ll fill up the carts, good sir,” the old man cackled. “I had a stint in a d-dungeon or two and a few p-pokes I’d rather not speak of or repeat.”

Jagger sneered and opened his mouth to say something, but the guards appeared in the arched doorway.

“Line up, you pieces of shit! Now!” Whistler shouted.

The slaves formed a misshapen single-file line across the cavern. Nesta and Sabina practically jumped into the line, while Jagger moseyed to the back of the line like he was lining up for ale at a tavern. Yates appeared to watch him, his scarred face twitching.

Whistler paced down the line. “I see some of you still hold onto your stubborn defiance. Testing my fucking patience just means I get to exercise the whip more.” He stopped and stared at Jagger and Drazhan. “Understand?”

Drazhan nodded. He’d known he’d be picked as a target. Jagger grinned.

Whistler sneered and turned his back on them. “Follow me, time to put you pieces of shit to work.”

Whistler led the slaves down through the caverns, whistling as he casually spun the mace in his hand. The distant sound of hammering echoed throughout the mine, through dark shafts of pitted walls, over bridges where pale, beaten and bloodied slaves took pickaxes to the crystal protruding from the cavern walls below. Their movements were slow, weak and repetitive; some barely even had their eyes open.

That won’t be us, Drazhan thought with a shudder. We’ll find a way out… some-fucking-how.

Crispin prodded Drazhan with his elbow and nodded at the old man two slaves ahead. “What’s he doing here?”

Drazhan shrugged. “He stumbled in during the night.”

“That’s Coct.”

“Coct?”

Crispin nodded. “Used to be a legend, but he went bat-shit crazy. Don’t know if that was before or after Feros lost its magic, but he went into hiding. Maybe the drink got him, but from what I hear, he’s a washed-up has-been with cotton for brains.”

Drazhan stared at the old man. He had heard of Coct. The Queen’s Coct, they’d called him. He was said to be a bit wild and unorthodox. Although his nickname led to other rumors and jokes.

He’d heard the old mage had disappeared after the Fall of Magic. Losing their magic hit some of the mages harder than others. Magic was their life, their purpose, and without it, some of them felt useless and spiraled into darkness. And the magicdrain was only getting worse.

Drazhan swallowed the bile that rose in his throat, praying his throbbing headache and upset stomach would soon settle. His magicdrain symptoms were not as severe as some of his friends. A few of them were completely incapacitated—debilitating gut pain, random dislocated joints and fractures, blindness; some even went mad.

Drazhan had been to several herbalists, hoping for a cure or relief from some of his symptoms, but he’d found nothing. He’d stopped trying after a month, knowing he was wasting good coin.

He looked at Coct as the man shuffled forward, arms twitching at his sides.

Whistler brought them to a torchlit cavern. Its walls glittered with iridescent crystals. Three large mine carts with a dozen rusted pickaxes sat near a side wall.

“You see these carts?” Whistler said. “Your day doesn’t stop until they’re full of crystals. Understand?”

The crystals were buried deep within the rock, and before long Drazhan’s muscles were tired and weak. He couldn’t image how some of the others kept lifting their pickaxes, but he kept on hacking. Many of the crystals chipped and shattered under their axes, and the carts filled agonizingly slowly. As the hours drew on, he began to wonder if filling three carts was even possible in a day.

Nesta cried softly as she chipped away at the crystal with her chisel. Sabina tried to shush her, promising her they’d get through this. Her crying would fade to whimpering, but would soon start again after, about her back, her arms, her fingers. The others suffered in mostly silence.

“You better not be slowing down now!” Yates shouted, though who it was directed at this time, Drazhan couldn’t tell. “Look at how many fucking carts you still have to fill.” He cracked the whip.

Drazhan saw a flash of black from of the corner of his eye. The whip bit deep into the flesh of his back, a searing pain that split from his shoulders to the small of his back. He dropped the pickaxe and shot out his hands as the impact slammed him against the rough crystals protruding from the wall. His mouth opened, but no scream came out.

For a moment, he just stood there in shock, shaking, his hands braced against the wall. Blood dripped down his back and onto the floor. You fuck! You sick fuck! He lowered his head and stared at the pickaxe at his feet.

“Move slave or you’ll earn yourself another,” Yates said. “Besides, don’t want you bleeding over the crystals.”

Drazhan’s hand shook as he pushed away from the wall and slowly bent down to retrieve his axe. Blood had dripped onto his blade. I’ll kill him. I’ll fucking kill him.

Jackin stared at him sympathetically.

“Don’t you be slowing down too.” Jackin didn’t cry out as Yates took the whip to his back.

Chest tight, back on fire, Drazhan glowered at Yates. He drew a shaky breath, tried to force down the anger that threatened to consume him, make him lash out. Out of all the slaves, Jackin worked the most diligently. His thick, muscled arms spoke of years of hard labor and the way he worked his axe, he seemed at home with the weapon. Yates had no reason to punish him … except to save his own hide and his share of the coin.

Drazhan lifted his axe and hacked at the wall, recklessly smashing crystals. One of them shot in Jackin’s direction and the slave had to step back to avoid getting hit in the face. Drazhan sighed and forced himself to slow down.

Three fucking carts. Drazhan tried not to look at them, because every time he did, his heart sank.

The heat of the tunnels pressed into them. The air was stale, humid. Sweat poured down their faces and arms. Yates paced behind them, barking orders and insults, and whipping them whenever they slowed and sometimes for no reason at all.

Whistler sat casually on a large rock, whistling a slightly less macabre melody and spinning a dagger in his hand. From the fluid motions of his wrists, Drazhan guessed the guard was well trained with the weapon and could whip a dagger into the middle of a tarrying slave’s back in seconds without rising from his perch. He paused his spinning and looked at Drazhan. Then he grinned, grabbed a waterskin from his belt, took a long gulp, and winked.

Drazhan dropped a crystal into the cart and glared at the guards. What he wouldn’t give for a drop of water or to take the whip from Yates’s hand and wrap it around his neck.

Yates stopped pacing. “I’ve had enough of this bitch’s crying. The only sounds I want to hear are your pickaxes and chisels at work.” He uncoiled his whip and whipped her back with a wicked, echoing crack. Nesta howled like dying animal. It was so heartbreaking, it made Drazhan’s insides clench. She collapsed to the ground, blood seeping through the torn fabric of her tunic. She clambered to her hands and knees, shaking and crying hysterically.

Sabina knelt beside her. Drazhan could not hear her whispers, and the way Nesta was crying, he doubted she could either.

“Get up,” Yates growled.

Nesta continued to cry.

“I said, get up.”

Nesta’s cries softened to whimpers, but she didn’t move or look at the hulking, toothless guard. He whipped her second time. She screamed and slowly, shakily, rose to her feet, staggered to the side of the cavern, and turned to face the guard with wide, tear-filled eyes. Blood dripped to the floor behind her.

“Pick up your chisel,” Yates sneered.

Nesta stared down at the floor, tears flowing down her cheeks.

“Pick. Up. Your. Chisel.”

She bent over slowly and cried out, reached for her back, shaking uncontrollably.

Sabina grabbed the chisel and handed it to her. “Take it,” she whispered.

Yates slapped her hand away, sending the chisel spinning across the cavern floor and clanging off the far wall. “I told her to pick it up.”

Drazhan stepped forward. “She can’t,” he hissed. “She can’t even reach the floor.”

Yates pointed the whip at him and snarled. “Stay out of this or you’re next.”

Drazhan didn’t move. He held the ugly guard’s glare, ignoring the searing pain in his back.

Yates circled around Nesta and slammed his boot into the crook of her knee. She dropped on all fours. “Now get it.”

Drazhan wanted to smash the guard’s head in with his pickaxe. You fucking piece of shit. He tightened his grip on the haft and stepped toward the guard.

Coct caught his wrist, glared at him and shook his head. Something in the old man’s eyes diffused Drazhan’s anger.

Drazhan stepped back. If he angered the guards, they’d all be punished. Bite your tongue … for now. Plan your escape.

Yates adjusted his grip on the whip and stepped toward Nesta again. “Pick it up, I said.”

“Yates, enough.” Whistler spun a dagger. “She’ll get up when she’s ready. You keep whipping the slaves to death, you’re eventually going to run out of slaves.” He tapped his head. “Gotta meet our new quota, and I certainly ain’t taking their place to get it.”

Yates growled, but stepped away and lowered his whip.

The slaves smashed through the crystal with renewed vigor. The guards laughed and joked and drank from their wineskins.

Several hours later, Yates announced, “Congratulations, you scum buckets managed to fill the damn carts.”

Drazhan nearly dropped the axe. He had zoned out hours ago, his wounds and back pain long drowned out by the rest of his muscle aches. He’d barely noticed the carts fill up. They were done. By the fucking gods, they were actually done for the day. Blisters stung his palms, but he dared not let go of his axe.

“Leave the weapons here,” Yates said. “You can grab them in the morning.”

Drazhan stared down at the axe his hand. It would be so easy.

“Weapons down!”

Not tonight. Their time would come. But not tonight.

The guards lined them up. Exhausted, dirty, bruised and bloody, their muscles on fire, no one argued. Nesta was oddly silent, her tunic stiff with blood, her shoulders hunched, her legs trembling. She had mined little since Yates whipped her, and the other slaves had worked hard to make up for her. Drazhan stared at her as she stumbled toward the cavern exit. She had not spoken or so much as whimpered since the whipping. Even when Sabina had tried to speak to her, Nesta refused to acknowledge her. She wouldn’t last more than a couple days.

That night, Nesta didn’t speak or eat the pathetic crust of bread the guards gave each of them. She sat in the corner by herself, staring into nothingness.

Sabina approached her slowly. “Let me see your back. Maybe there’s something I can do to help.”

Nesta continued to stare at the wall.

Sabina knelt next to her. “Nesta? Can I help you?”

Nesta kept her gaze forward, but gave the slightest shake of her head.

Sabina sighed and turned away.

Two days passed. They became weaker, both from lack of food and further injury. On the second night they didn’t get any food, not even the lousy bread crust. Drazhan wracked his brain, trying to come up with an escape plan. Hide a chisel under his tunic? They wouldn’t get far. There were too many guards.

The room spun. Drazhan didn’t know if it was the exhaustion or the magicdrain. I need my fucking magic, he thought for the thousandth time…

No guard would be able to touch him. He’d been a high-ranking mage in Queen Astra’s army. But the queen had disappeared when the cataclysmic spell drained all magic from Feros. Most people thought she was probably dead, but only King Nairock’s body had been found on the battlefield. The Hekazterion Council had named Princess Vlasta regent, but Astra had too many loyal followers to allow anyone else to assume the throne without proof that the queen was dead.

The quest to find Queen Astra was the only thing that kept many of the mages going. Without magic, many of the mages’ businesses had to close. Most of the mages became desperate and spent everything they had trying to recover their magic.

Jackin absently rolled a small rock between his fingers as he turned to Drazhan. “What are you in for?”

Before Drazhan could answer, Crispin growled, “You make it sound like we’re in prison.”

“We are,” Jagger said.

“I used to be a blacksmith,” Jackin sighed, “for the Queen’s army no less. Lost everything.”

Drazhan suddenly recognized the once prestigious blacksmith. He seemed to have aged decades in the few months since the Fall of Magic. His hair was thin, his eyes creased with wrinkles, and his face pasty and drawn. But at the mention of his previous position, a half smiled crossed his face and he looked up them. “Mages from all over Feros came to my forge, challenged me make an armor that could withstand the elves’ elemental magic.” Jackin shook his head. “But the magicdrain… I lost my forge trying to save my wife. I did everything I could think of … to save her. Spent all my coin on fake cures. Everyday she’d scream out in agony. Sometimes, she’d be walking and a spell would overtake her and she’d pass out from the pain. Eventually, she became bedridden and well...” Jackin lowered his head. Tears dripped into his lap.

Crispin frowned. “At least you were something once. You had a family. My father was killed, crushed by a rock golem before I was even born.”

“I was a farmer,” Lenard said. “Got cornered by some thugs as I was packing up my crates after I had closed my stall. I still don’t understand what happened.”

“No one saw?” Drazhan asked incredulously.

“It was late, few people around.” Lenard shrugged. “Bastards slammed my head against my wagon, broke my nose and knocked me unconscious. I awoke behind a covered wagon, my hands chained in front of me.” He shook his head. “I just don’t understand what is going on. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

Jackin turned to Jagger. “What about you?”

“What about me?” Jagger snarled. “Talk all you want about your former lives. It doesn’t mean shit.” He waved a hand at the other slaves. “Most of you will be dead in a couple weeks, a month if you’re lucky.”

“Not all of us have accepted that fate,” Drazhan said, irritated. “We’re trying to figure out how we got tangled up in this, trying to find a common thread.”

They asked each of the eleven slaves. A tanner, a brewer, a jewellery merchant...

Drazhan must have looked like he was deep in thought, because Jackin leaned toward him and asked, “You think there’s a pattern?”

“I don’t know.” Drazhan rolled it over in his mind, but came up with nothing. Was it an underground society collecting people off the streets to sell at the slave market? How many good men and women had died down here, lost and forgotten, swept off the streets like common criminals to disappear into nothingness? How much blood of heroes had been spilled within these very caverns?

“There is, isn’t there?” Jackin pressed.

Drazhan lowered his gaze. “I don’t know.” Something was going on, but he didn’t understand what.

“So what if there is?” Jagger growled. “What would it matter? We’re dead men walking.”

***

Morning came too soon. Drazhan’s head pounded so intensely, he wondered if his hunger was compounding the effects of the magicdrain. Every part of his body ached. As exhausted as he was, he’d barely slept. Each movement pulled at the torn flesh in his back. He couldn’t imagine another day of mining crystals.

The slow march to the mine carts was grim and Whistler’s melancholy dirge only dampened the mood. The slaves dragged their feet, their faces worn and pained. As they trudged through the tunnels toward the bridge, Nesta veered to the side. Slowly at first, but then faster. Before Drazhan could open his mouth, she jumped off the bridge.

“Nesta!” Sabina screamed, her hands outstretched.

Drazhan broke from the line to peer over the side in time to see her hit the rock below with a sickening crack of bone. For a moment, he just stared at her twisted body.

Sabina slapped her hands across her mouth.

“Well, looks like today will be quieter,” Whistler chuckled. “Now, get back in line and keep moving. She hardly dug anything anyway.”

Neither the clangs of their pickaxes and chisels nor the guards’ shouts could drown out Drazhan’s memories of the cracking of bone as Nesta hit the rocks, of Sabina’s screams. Already two down.

“D-don’t stop,” Coct whispered. “F-focus on what’s important.” He nodded to the crystals.

Drazhan growled as he smashed his axe through the crystals, drowning out the screams that haunted him. He imagined himself crushing the guards’ skulls, each shattered crystal a broken bone.

He glanced at Coct. The mage was pressing his hand on his lower back as he bent down to pick up a small crystal shard hardly bigger than his thumbnail. Drazhan shook his head and refocused on the crystals. He already had the guards barking orders, he didn’t need reminders from a crazed old man.

But as the crystals clinked to the ground and his arms began to tire, Drazhan wondered if Coct had not been reminding him to forget about Nesta’s death, but trying to tell him something about the crystals themselves.

Conspiratory thoughts consumed Drazhan and numbed his pain as he hacked at the stone wall. He’d always been under the impression that the crystals were used in jewelry, ornamental weapons and other useless garbage.

Beside him, Jackin grunted as he drove his pickaxe into the stone wall, sweat drawing lines down his dirt-smeared face. Behind them the guards were sitting on their rock, laughing and jesting over a tavern brawl that had occurred the previous night.

Drazhan nodded to Jackin to catch his attention. “What do you think they’re doing with these crystals?” he whispered.

Jackin kept hacking at the crystals as if he hadn’t heard, but shifted his gaze nervously and he refused to look Drazhan’s way.

Drazhan grunted and axed the wall again. “You know something.”

Jackin lowered his pickaxe, sweat dripping down his forehead and the tip of his nose. He glanced back at the guards.

The slaves’ tools against crystal and stone echoed in the cavern, from their own crew and those in other tunnels. Drazhan could have waited until later that night, but the thought of the crystals being more than ornamental jewelry was burning a hole in his gut.

“I’ve heard rumors,” Jackin said in barely a whisper. “There’s something going on. A remedy for the sickness, I hear.”

“Bullshit.” Crispin scoffed. “I’ve been to every herbalist, every merchant stall looking for a cure. There ain’t none.”

Jackin swung down the pickaxe, broke off a piece of crystal. It clattered to the floor, and he snatched it up and brushed passed Crispin. “Not yet.” Jackin dropped the crystal into one of the half-filled mine carts, staring at Crispin on his way back.

Crispin sneered, but said nothing.

A few slaves down the line, Sabina was glaring at them and pressing her finger to her lips.

Drazhan frowned, staring at the iridescent crystal in his hand, and turned to Jackin again. “Are they trying to make a remedy from the crystals?”

“Fuck if I know.” Jackin shifted his gaze to the guards.

Drazhan dropped the crystal into the cart. He raised his axe and hacked at the wall.

“That’s just what I heard,” Jackin whispered.

“You mean like healing crystals?” Crispin guffawed. “Seen those in the market. Hogwash if you ask me.”

Sabina rolled a chunk of crystal in her hand. “These aren’t healing crystals. Those were the highest priced and most sought after items in my market stall. Demand went through the roof about a month after the Battle at Rotmen.” She stared down at the crystal, her brow furrowed. “But these aren’t them.”

Drazhan kept working, trying to figure out how the crystals could possibly be connected with a cure for the symptoms of magicdrain. Without magic, it didn’t seem logical.

People would volunteer to work in the mines if they knew it would help fight the magicdrain, if it would help save their families. There would be no need for the guards, the violence…

Drazhan’s head hurt just thinking about it.

He smashed through the crystal and a cloud of dust particles swarmed around him. He coughed. His lungs hurt. He didn’t know if it was his thirst in this insufferable heat or if he was breathing too much crystal dust.

“Looks like you’ve finally filled the damn carts,” Yates growled some time later. “Took you long enough. I should be at the brothel by now. Just for that, no grub tonight.”

Drazhan closed his eyes. The hollowness in his stomach ached, but he said nothing. Bide your time. Make a plan.

Yates stared at Sabina, running his tongue along his lower lip. “Unless this bitch wants to let us take a ride. Then I might let all of you share a piece of bread.”

Sabina’s eyes widened. “Not a chance.”

Yates laughed. “You misheard me. I wasn’t asking.” He gestured to the other slaves. “I’m sure the others would like to eat tonight.”

Drazhan stepped in front of Sabina. “You’re not taking her anywhere.” He glanced at the others. Jagger stared at him defiantly, but remained silent.

Whistler yawned and slid down from his rock. “Stop wasting time. Put your tools away.” He turned to Yates. “You don’t want no filthy slave. She’s probably got crabs.”

Yates sneered.

Drazhan kept his eye on Whistler as he grabbed his pickaxe from the ground. As they leaned their pickaxes against the wall, Drazhan caught a glimpse of Crispin slipping a chisel in his waistband. He looked at Whistler and Yates. They were joking about some brothel whore’s tits.

Drazhan caught Crispin’s eye and shook his head, but Crispin just glared at him.

Drazhan swallowed. He wanted to grab a weapon and try to overtake the guards. It seemed so easy, but how many guards waited in the tunnels?

It would be a massacre.

Surely, there was a better way. If Crispin made a move, Drazhan might have no choice. He kicked himself for not talking to the man earlier. He had promised himself he’d find a way out, but days had passed and he was still no closer from figuring anything out. Exhaustion, starvation, and pain hadn’t given him much time or energy to think of anything else. And that’s what the guards wanted.

Drazhan cursed himself for getting caught up going through motions.

Yates made a sweep of the tunnel and the tools.

Drazhan’s gut twinged.

Yates stopped at the wall. Maybe he wouldn’t notice.

Of course, he’s going to notice.

The guard looked at the slaves and grinned. “Line up against the wall. Hands behind your head.”

The slaves did so, and Drazhan noticed only a slight bulge where the chisel poked out of Crispin’s waistband.

Yates grabbed a pickaxe from the wall. “Seems we have a thief on our hands.” Yates scanned the line of slaves, spinning the pickaxe in his hand. “Did you really think you could pull a fast one on us? Did you really think you’re the first slave to try and kill a guard? You have three seconds to give it up. If you don’t…” He swung the pickaxe in a slow demonstrative arc. “One…”

Drazhan glanced sidelong at Crispin. The man was trembling. Give it up. For the love of the gods, give it up.

“Two…” Yates’s gaze fell on Jagger and shifted between him, Drazhan, and Crispin.

Sweat poured down Crispin’s face, his hands shook behind his head.

“Thr—”

Crispin lowered his hands, drew the chisel from his waistband, and rushed Yates, but exhausted, weak, and famished, his charge was slow and clumsy. Yates knocked the chisel from Crispin’s hand with the shaft of the pickaxe, then swung the blade around and stabbed him through the side.

Crispin’s breath came out in a whoosh as he doubled over and collapsed to the ground. Blood pooled beneath his torso. Yates raised the pickaxe again and drove it down through Crispin’s head and his mouth. Blood spattered Drazhan’s face. He let out a breath as he looked at the dead slave. His skull was crushed on one side. Blood pooled around his head.

Yates stepped on Crispin’s chest and yanked out the blade with a sickening squelch. He twisted the bloody pickaxe in his hand. “Anyone else want to try anything?”

No one moved.

“I thought not. Now get the fuck going or you won’t get breakfast either.”

The blood-flecked slaves marched solemnly back to their cavern. When the guards left, no one spoke. No one even made eye contact.

Drazhan stared down at his hands. He rubbed them against the dirty stone floor, trying to erase the blood.

Drazhan leaned back against the cavern wall, his legs outstretched in front of him. He felt a bony hand on his shoulder. “There was nothing you could do,” Coct whispered. “He made that choice on his own.”

“I was supposed to help. I promised him.”

“Promises ain’t worth shit down here.”

Drazhan lifted his head. “Then, what do we do? How do we get out?”

Coct tapped his head with a gnarled finger. “Be smart about it. Might be some loose flint up there, but sometimes … just sometimes they rub together and sparks go off.”

“There are guards everywhere.”

“There are.”

Drazhan lowered his voice. He didn’t want the others to hear. Not until he had a solid plan. “Then how do we get past them?”

“Been studying their movements.”

Drazhan arched an eyebrow. “Really? And what have you seen from the darkness of the cavern? What can you see during our brief walks to the mine carts?”

Coct gave a toothy grin and winked. “Ain’t my first time getting lost taking a piss.” He winked. “Or should I say … p-piss.” As he said the last, the old man’s sly expression changed to the pale, frightened old man that had stumbled into the cavern their first night.

Drazhan didn’t know what to think. They’d been played.

Coct lay down next to him and smirked, leaving Drazhan to wonder what the old mage had in mind. Even if he was a legend, he was old and frail. Without magic, what could he do?

“Don’t you turn your back on me,” Drazhan growled. “How many days must we be whipped and starved before we talk about a plan? How many more people have to die?”

Coct turned over and sat up. “As many days as it takes.”

“We’re getting weaker by the day,” Drazhan said through clenched teeth. “Half of our wounds are already infected. We need to get out. Something is going on here. We need to figure out what.”

Coct just stared at him.

“No one escapes the mines,” Jagger hissed. Drazhan had thought he was asleep.

Drazhan rolled his eyes. “I don’t give a shit, and saying that is what keeps people from trying.”

Jagger chuckled. “What should we do? Steal a chisel?”

Drazhan ignored him and turned to Coct. “Coct, you know how to get out of here.”

The old mage stopped picking at his toe and popped his head up. “I d-do?”

“Forget the old man,” Jagger snarled. “Forget playing the hero.”

“Have you given up?”

Jagger stared at him hard. “For fucks sakes,” he growled. Drazhan held his stare and Jagger averted his gaze, his shoulders sagging.

“I’m not giving up,” Drazhan pressed. “I don’t give a fuck what you do. If you won’t help, stay out of the way.”

Jagger rolled his eyes. “So Mister Fucking Hero, you have any ideas?”

“At least I’m trying. If we’re going to die anyway, I’d rather die quickly trying to escape this death trap than be starved and beaten to death.”

“Then, think of something fast. If I get whipped one more time or one more dickhead barks orders in my ear, I’m going to fucking snap.” Jagger rolled over and turned his back to Drazhan.

Jagger was in, for selfish reasons, but that didn’t matter. He seemed like a tough bastard and he could help.

Coct rubbed his dirty beard. “You think you’re ready?”

“We need some kind of plan first. We can’t just rush the guards with nothing but our fists.”

Coct’s eyes lit up. “Then, I think it’s time we put a plan into action.”

“What plan?”

“I’ve been working on a little something. No one suspects the crazy old man.” He patted a bulge in his tunic. The damn cloth was even shorter than the previous day. Drazhan almost had to look away for fear of seeing his dirty ball sack.

“What do you have in there?”

“What I came in here for.”

“Came in here for?” Drazhan said a little louder than he’d intended. Coct raised a finger to his chapped lips.

“You don’t think they really caught a legend, do ya?”

“But—”

“I think you’re right. Something is going down.” He patted the bulge under his tunic. “I needed some crystals.”

Drazhan watched the old man sew pockets inside his tunic. “So that’s why your tunic keeps getting shorter, why you have no trousers.” Even the shortened tunic seemed to be a trick. It rode uncomfortably short, exposing his pale, bony legs, and a lot more that Drazhan didn’t need to see. It made you want to look away. “But how did you get here?” The old man might be crazier than Drazhan first thought.

“I slipped in with the other slaves. How else would I get down here?” Coct laughed.

“But how are you going to get out?”

Coct stared at Drazhan a moment. “I really was a legend, you know.”

“But that was when magic—”

The old man rolled his eyes. “Bah. I make my own magic.”

“There is no magic.”

“Right, exactly what I said.”

Drazhan winced. The old man was either crazy or crazy. “What?”

“So there’s no magic. I specialized in magical items, as well as items, potions, and powders that are perceived as magic—tricks, illusions, distractions, whatever you want to call them. My tricks always made me more coin than magic ever did, and even more when I sold them as magic.”

“So you’re a fraud. Your legend—”

Coct glared at him. “Says the man who wants to live.”

“Enough games. Do you have a plan or not?”

Coct leaned over, scrunched his face, and reached for something beneath him. Or … not beneath him, inside him.

Drazhan’s stomach turned.

Coct smiled, pulled out a slick, foul-smelling, balled pouch and held it up like a trophy. “Been saving this.”

“How did you—” Drazhan stifled a gag. “You smuggled something in from the outside? By the gods, how long have you been down here?”

“Nearly lost it in the bucket twice.” Coct chuckled. “And damn do I ever have to clench my cheeks when the guards whip me.”

Drazhan wrinkled his nose. “Dare I ask what it is?”

Coct gave a conspiratorial wink. “Our ticket out of here.”

“Our ticket out of here was up your asshole?”

“Stored in my butt,” the old man said, holding up his index finger. “There’s a difference.”

Drazhan felt his heart sink. The old man was clearly mad. “And that little package, whatever it is, is going to get us past dozens of armed guards?”

“Never underestimate the power of a small sack.” He chuckled and slapped Drazhan on the shoulder. Luckily with the hand that he did not just pull out of his ass. “You want to get out of this alive, you’re going to have to trust me. So you think you’re ready for this?”

“I still don’t know what the plan is.”

Coct shrugged. “I’m not sure I know what the plan is myself!” He laughed, and Drazhan didn’t know whether to laugh with him or strangle him before he got them all killed.

“So what do you need me to do?”

The old man nodded to the other slaves. “I need infantry to storm the castle.”

“Are we storming the castle? I thought we were trying to get out of the castle.”

Coct rolled his eyes. “If I had a cane, I’d beat you with it.”

“So how do we storm the castle and get past the guards?”

“Leave that to me and my jaypalm.”

Drazhan gasped and shuffled away from Coct. “Jaypalm? You’ve had jaypalm stored in your ass all this time? Are you crazy?”

Coct rolled the small sack between his fingers. “Not so loud. You don’t want to scare the others. It’s pure, liquid jaypalm, yes, but it’s soaked in sawdust to absorb the impact.”

Drazhan ran his hands through his sweat-drenched hair. Any lashing, any stumble to the ground could set the explosive liquid off. He tried to slow his breaths and not think of how close he was to being blown to bits.

This could work. Or the old man could end up blowing them all up.

“How much is in that pouch?”

“Enough to do the job.” Coct looked around. “And don’t worry, I’ll give you plenty of notice before I unleash this baby.”

The thought did nothing to soothe Drazhan’s fears.

“Give it a couple more hours for the guards to get a little drunker, a little sleepier. Then we break out.”

Drazhan closed his eyes and nodded slowly, but his stomach felt queasy. I’m going to die.

***

How the old man had slept when they were about to break out of the Crystal Mines, something no one had ever done—and with jaypalm of all things—Drazhan couldn’t begin to comprehend. He had tossed and turned and stared into the darkness, thinking of all the things that could possibly go wrong … in addition to being blown up.

He would have rather known more about Coct’s plan, but a part of him didn’t want to push the legend … and another part didn’t want to know what other crazy ideas the old coot had in mind.

Together, he and Coct quietly roused the other slaves. Drazhan didn’t tell them more than he felt they needed to know. Being beat down by the guards and getting their skulls crushed was scary enough. He didn’t think adding that they also could be caught in a jaypalm explosion would go over well.

Sabina, Jagger, and Jackin jumped at the chance to escape and immediately began searching the cavern for anything that could be used as a weapon. Jagger stopped at the rotting corpse of the slave that had been killed the first day. “What I wouldn’t give to beat these fuckers with a rotting fucking leg.”

“We don’t have time for that,” Drazhan whispered as he reached for the unlit torch in the sconce near the exit. He handed it to Sabina and grabbed for the metal torch bracket.

Just maybe he could pop it free.

Drazhan winced at the sound it made as the metal broke free from the stone wall. He grinned as he felt its rough metal edges and imagined the damage he could do.

“I’m not sure we should be doing this,” Lenard whispered.

“You don’t have to,” Drazhan replied. “No one is being forced into this. You can stay here if you like.”

“Won’t they just kill me if they find here and you’re all gone?”

“Probably,” Jagger said with a shrug.

Lenard let out a breath. “Then I’m coming.”

Jagger laughed as he stood over the shit bucket. “Anyone need this? Now is the time.” When no one responded, he chuckled. “All right, then. Let’s do this.”

“You ready?” Coct asked Drazhan. “I’ll take the rear.”

Drazhan smiled weakly. “Please do, and give me plenty of warning before you use that trick.”

“Which one?” Coct winked.

Drazhan ignored the jest and adjusted his fingers in the gaps of the metal torch bracket, trying to find the most comfortable position for his hands, one that would do the most damage to the guards, while avoiding injuries to his own fingers.

He glanced behind him to the frightened, yet determined slaves, then led them through the arched doorway and into the tunnel.

Drazhan and the nine slaves stood in the tunnel, preparing to fight to the death.

The rancid scent of shit broke Drazhan’s concentration. The smell was so rank, bile rose in his throat. He covered his nose and mouth with his arm and turned to look.

Jagger stood next to him holding a shit bucket.

“What the fuck?”

Jagger chuckled. “Coct said to grab a weapon. Well, here’s mine.”

Behind the group, the old man giggled. “Oh that’s brilliant. Just brilliant!”

“Maybe you should go ahead of us,” Drazhan said. He stared down the tunnel. As of yet, there were no signs of guards patrolling the area. The mine was eerily silent. He started forward, praying the old mage could find the exit in the dimly lit tunnels.

Drazhan’s chest was tight, his palms sweating around the metal bracket as he pushed forward, silently cursing every clang of Jagger’s bucket, every scuffle of a slave’s foot.

He groaned as two torchlights bounced in the tunnel ahead.

“Hey!” a guard shouted. “What do you limp dicks think you’re doing?”

In the light of the guards’ torches only thirty paces ahead, another two silhouettes appeared. Jagger bellowed a war cry and started running, filth sloshing from the bucket and onto the ground. Drazhan and the other slaves ran behind him.

Jagger swung the bucket, splattering three of the guards’ chests and faces with shit. One of them buckled over and vomited. Then he smashed the bucket off the side of one of the guards’ heads and turned and slammed it into the chest of another.

Drazhan stabbed the prongs of the metal bracket into a guards’ face. Nose cartilage snapped and blood gushed. As the guard dropped, Drazhan heard Sabina screaming as she beat a guard with the torch. Behind her a guard swung his mace. A slave cried out, though Drazhan couldn’t see who.

Drazhan grabbed the mace from the hip of the bloodied guard at his feet, hearing the thuds of weapons and cries of men behind him. He glanced up and Sabina, Coct, and the other slaves stood over the bodies of two guards.

“Keep moving,” Coct whispered harshly. “More will come!”

The slaves grabbed weapons from the guards at their feet. Drazhan tossed the torch bracket to Lenard who was trembling violently, his blood-speckled face ashen, his lip split.

Drazhan and Jagger, each armed with stolen maces, led the way. By now, someone must have heard them and Drazhan was more focused on speed than the sounds of their footfalls. There were so many twists and turns, Drazhan couldn’t be certain they were headed out, but there was no time to think or second-guess and when the tunnel split ahead, his heart thudded his chest.

“Do you remember which way?” he asked Jagger.

“No.”

“Left!” Coct shouted.

Drazhan nodded and followed the path to the left with the sharp incline.

Shouts and running footsteps echoed in the tunnel behind them.

“Keep moving,” Coct cackled. “I got these ones!” He grabbed something from the pockets of his tunic and slipped a flaming torch from a bracket on the wall.

Drazhan’s mouth dropped. What kind of fucking warning was that?

The old man threw the torch to the ground, then hurled something into it.

Drazhan winced as he sprinted up the hill ahead. There was a series of loud pops, but no bang … no explosion. He slowed and glanced behind him, nearly stumbling into Lenard and Jackin who were right behind him. Green flames burst in the guards’ path, spreading across the tunnel. Flames licked the walls five feet high.

Not jaypalm.

He let out a breath, his nerves rattled. What the hell was it? But Drazhan didn’t have time to think.

Drazhan led them through a dark tunnel and around another bend. The tunnel glowed ahead of him, brighter than any of the tunnels they had passed. He glanced at Jagger who ran beside him and tightened the grip on his mace.

Two guards stepped out of the torchlit guard station, their maces drawn. As soon as they saw the slaves charging toward them, the tall, bald guard started shouting. “Slaves are trying to escape! Slaves are trying to escape!”

Drazhan tried not to think how many guards were around to hear his shouting.

The two guards ran toward them.

Drazhan heard Lenard and Jackin grunting behind him. Two fist-sized rocks soared over his head. Lenard missed but Jackin’s struck a guard between the eyes. Jagger swung his mace at the bald guard’s head. Drazhan heard the guard’s skull crack and slammed his mace into the other guard’s leg, taking him out at the knee. The guards collapsed, and Jagger bolted ahead. Drazhan struck the injured guard in the chest, stole his mace and tossed it back to Jackin.

Drazhan saw the hilt of a dagger at the guard’s belt and grabbed it just as he caught a glimpse of a tall fat man barreling out of a dark path to their right.

Sabina yelled and threw a right hook at the guard’s throat and then kneed him in the crotch.

Dagger in one hand, mace in the other, Drazhan tore off. They had to be getting close. They were probably farther than any slave had ever got but…

Shouting echoed behind him. Drazhan turned. Yates, Whistler, and dozen or more guards were running toward them. Apparently, Coct’s wall of green flame had not held them.

Fuck.

“You traitorous pig fuckers!” Yates bellowed behind them.

“It might be time to pull out that trick!” Drazhan called back to Coct.

Coct looked back, saw the guards and winked. “You better move a little faster then.” Sconces on walls cast a flickering glow on the old man’s face. He glanced back at the guards and cackled.

Drazhan hollered to the slaves behind him. “Run!”

Sabina and Jackin’s face paled. Their eyes widened in terror.

“What is it?” Sabina yelled.

“Get as far away from here as you can!” Drazhan tore off, his fear overriding his exhaustion.

“What is that crazy bastard doing?” Jagger yelled.

“Just … run!” Drazhan didn’t look back as he sprinted down the dimly lit tunnel. His mouth was parched, his lungs on fire, and his knees threatened to buckle at any moment.

“This came out of my ass-hole!” Coct sang behind him.

Bright orange light flashed behind him. A loud bang echoed up the tunnel, followed by shouting and cursing.

A thunderous crack sounded above them. Drazhan looked up, half-expecting the stalactites to come crashing down on them. Dust rained down, but the stalactites hung steady.

Something crashed behind them. A man screamed. From the corner of his eye, Drazhan glimpsed thick clouds of dust billowing toward them from behind.

Drazhan coughed, pushing through the dust, but lost sight of Jackin, Jagger, and Sabina.

Another boom, louder than the first, sent Drazhan’s ears ringing.

Screams, cracks, another crash … this time closer.

He had two of them! The fucker had two of them! Drazhan pushed himself to run faster through the smoke and falling debris.

The smoke must have hindered the guards, but Drazhan couldn’t see either. It stung his eyes. Rock cracked in the tunnel ceiling, rock crumbling and tumbling toward them like an avalanche. He ran blindly through the smoke, grabbing the arm of one of his comrades, though he couldn’t see who. He heard another scream, and seconds later, the smoke parted. Jagger was kneeling over the body of a guard, his mace bloody.

Deafening cracks reverberated all around them.

Drazhan stopped to help Jagger to his feet.

Whistler sprinted right past them.

“Run!” Drazhan tugged on Jagger’s arm.

Jagger was breathing heavy. Blood streaked the side of his face. He nodded and ran alongside Drazhan.

A stalactite crashed to the ground ahead of Drazhan, shooting fragments of rock and crystal in all directions, stinging his arms and face. He skirted the fallen rock piles and kept going.

An ear-piercing screamed tore through the tunnel. Drazhan winced. It sounded like Sabina. But there was no going back.

Coct caught up with Drazhan. The old man was wheezing as he pumped his scrawny arms, his tunic swishing and flipping, exposing the half-moons of his hairy ass.

Cracks shot through the rock above them, stretching across the span of the winding tunnel. The rocks continued to fall, closing in the tunnel.

“Fucking maggots!” Yates shouted from behind.

Yates snarled as he ran past Drazhan. Beside Yates, a burly one-eyed guard shoved Drazhan to the side. Drazhan slammed into the stone wall, scraping his hands and shoulder. He felt the vibrations in the rock and bolted after the two guards.

Dust fell from a crack above him. It shot across the ceiling, cracks spreading at an alarming rate. Chunks of rocks fell from the stalactites ahead of him.

Drazhan raised his hand to shield his head. Fist-sized chunks of rock struck his forearm. “Son-of-a-bitch!”

A large stalactite cracked ahead of him and a giant piece of rock slammed into the head of the one-eyed guard, bounced to the side hitting Yates in the lower back. Yates cried out, his back arched as he flung forward.

Drazhan sucked in a breath as he ran past, trying not to look at the one-eyed guard’s mangled face or Yates as he struggled to stand.

Drazhan’s lungs were burning, his chest tight. He saw an opening not fifty paces from where they were. Moonlight shone through. But the tunnel was caving in, already they’d have to climb over a pile of stone near the opening.

Jackin shouted. “We’re not going to make it!”

Drazhan didn’t have the breath to answer. A three-foot boulder fell directly in front of him. He tried to dodge it, but his knee slammed into it. Pain shot up his thigh. He staggered, he forced himself to keep running.

The whole tunnel trembled, stalactites falling in front of him. The sliver of light shining through the entrance grew smaller.

Drazhan limped, climbing over the fallen rock. His foot slid into a gap, and he yanked it out, gouging his shin. He felt lucky he hadn’t broken his ankle. The light in the tunnel dimmed as rocks continued to fall. Drazhan’s lungs and calves burned he as stumbled, staggered and climbed toward the exit. A large rock bounced from the wall and slammed his shoulder. He slipped and bit back a cry of pain.

“Shit! Shit!” Jagger shouted somewhere to his left.

In the rain of falling dust and rock, Drazhan caught a glimpse of Coct lagging behind him. He hoped the old mage had something else up his … sleeve.

Ten paces from the exit, Drazhan started up the pile of rock, staring at the sliver of moonlight up ahead. Halfway up, a big chunk of rock fell on his back, causing his hand to slip, and he fell, smashing his chin on the broken stones. He tasted blood, felt a big chip of tooth floating between his gum and cheek. He pushed himself back up, spat blood and tooth on the stone, and kept climbing. Just a few more feet. He reached out, put his hand on the top of the pile, lifted himself up. The moonlight seemed so bright he had to squint. He hefted his aching body over the top and flung himself down the other side. Then he lay there, breathing. Alive.

But he couldn’t stop. He didn’t know who was behind him, how many slaves had broken out … or how many guards. He ran toward the trees.

A breeze blew through his hair. But he wasn’t free yet. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Jagger, Jackin, and Sabina climbing down the rock pile behind him, their faces black with soot and debris. Coct’s head popped up behind them and he clambered down and collapsed. Drazhan slowed. He wanted to wait for the old man, but Coct remained on all fours, his head hung low, his back arched.

Shit. Drazhan spat blood on the grass, turned and ran back toward the old man. Jagger, Jackin, and Sabina ran past him. Sabina slowed, her grimy face creased with worry. “Don’t wait for us!” Drazhan said. “Yates is coming … and the others … they can’t be far behind! Get out of here!” Coct was panting sharply, wheezing, trying to catch his breath. Drazhan dragged him to his feet. “We have to keep going.”

“I … know,” Coct rasped through heavy, whistling breaths. “I didn’t … plan for this much … running.” He took a couple steps, his swollen knees buckled, and he dropped. Drazhan pulled him to his feet again, only for Coct to collapse again.

“Shit on a biscuit,” the old man wheezed. “I don’t … have a trick for this.”

Drazhan heard a shout behind him, saw Yates clambering over the pile of stones at the mouth of tunnel. “We gotta go.”

“I don’t think … I can,” Coct said through ragged breaths. “Damn legs … not working.”

Drazhan looked at Yates who was on all fours at the top of the piles of stones. Blood matted his hair, his tunic was filthy and torn.

“You fools!” Yates yelled between heavy breaths. Exhausted, his arm gave out and he fell to his elbow, staring at them as though he was in a drunken rage. “Do you realize what you’ve done?” His arm shook as he straightened his elbow, turned his head, and spat blood on the ground. “Whose investment you’re destroying? You’re dead!” He laughed, his gums and the few teeth he had left stained with blood. “You’re fucking dead!”

Drazhan looked at Coct. “Forgive me for what I’m about to do.” He scooped up the old man, threw him over his shoulder, and ran. The bulge from Coct’s crystals pressed into Drazhan’s shoulder, and the old man’s glowing white ass cheeks were far too close to Drazhan’s face.

He ran into a copse of trees and down a game path until he couldn’t hear shouting or rock crashing. Then he stopped, let the old man down, and bent over trying to catch his breath.

Coct steadied himself, hands on his knobbly knees, and then grinned at Drazhan. “I’ve had many daring escapes in my day, and many more fantastical ones that have made it into stories in taverns and brothels across Feros—” he chuckled “—but none of them have ever ended with me being carried out.”

“With your ass shining like the moon?” Drazhan laughed, straightening. “I promise not let that detail slip when I tell people how the legendary Coct used mysterious magic to destroy an entrance to the mine. How did you do it?”

“You just said it yourself. Magic.”

“But it’s not magic. You had jaypalm and only the gods know what else.”

Coct grinned. “How can you be so sure it wasn’t magic?”

“Because I know it’s not. There is no magic.”

“If it looks like a duck and explodes like a duck…”

Drazhan laughed as he glanced around the dark woods that lined the shadowed valley, wondering how many of their companions had made it out. “We escaped … your secret might get out.”

“Will it now? I don’t think the other slaves heard the truth of my tricks, but even if they did, so what? When the bards tell this tale, it’ll be twisted beyond recognition. Baddon and his minions—whoever survived the collapse will fear me, follow me, wonder why I still have magic when no one else does.”

Drazhan cocked his head. “And that’s what you want?”

“What better way to remain a legend? A man needn’t die to become a legend.”

Drazhan frowned. “They’ll hunt you.”

“Let them. I’ll still have a few tricks up my sleeve.”

Drazhan smiled and started walking north. “So you say, but we all know where your best tricks come from.”

Coct shrugged. “A good trick can come from anywhere. It’s how you work it that matters.”

Drazhan glanced down at the old man’s bulge of crystals. “I’m going to find out what the fuck Baddon is up to. If you find anything … about the crystals or the queen’s whereabouts, you’ll send word to me?”

Coct laughed. “If I find out what’s really going on, the whole of Feros will know.”

Angel Haze is a dark epic fantasy author obsessed with magic, adventure, and morally grey characters.

Unleash the adventure at http://angelhaze.com/

THE LITTLE MORSEL

By Rachel Rener & Alora Carter

“Beware of an old man in a profession where men usually die young.”

Feral wasn’t sure which was louder – the growling grumbles of his stomach or the creaking cracking of his knees. Savoring his afternoon nap a moment longer, he lay curled up in his nest, stretching one ancient leg at a time, trying to coax some old blood to recirculate through the rusty pipes. His knees squawked like the tall rubbing trees or, he thought with a chuckle, those caterwauling old females arguing over their games at the courtyard across from the Ancients’ Annex. Ach, it’d been too long since he’d been there. He even missed the arguing. Almost. These old joints couldn’t carry him that far anymore, so he had contented himself with his memories, trophies, and the occasional – bordering on rare – visitor. At least the daily senior meals still came, though the delivery squires had long since stopped lingering for conversation.

With a massive breath, Feral heaved himself up on his bony rear end, clenching his eyes shut at the wave of dizziness that always happened with the elevation change. He rubbed his face, scratched his chin, and rose slowly to his feet. His scales whispered past each other like tissue paper as he shifted, the once impressive armor plating now reduced to a fraction of their fierce former glory. He wondered if feathers would offer better protection than these thin iridescent flakes for scales. Bones, getting old was the absolute worst. He steadied himself for a few more minutes, counting to twenty as the healer had told him to do after his last fall. What a crock. But he had to admit he hadn’t fallen again after slowing up, trashing the hellhound mat that had tripped him, and doing those damned geriatric calisthenics that made him feel like a drowning crow.

Each step hit heavily on his stone floor – the scuffing of his calloused feet and the dragging of his scaly tail echoed down the long, empty stone halls. He wandered to the cold box and tapped his claws thoughtfully as he stood looking at the empty shelves before resigning himself to the “protein bar” included in the daily old-folk meals that the dragon squires brought him. What were they called again? Snacks in Packs? Things on Wings? Something outrageously stupid. His son, curse him, had signed him up for them last year. He was doing just fine on his own, thank you very much, and further, if the lad was really that worried, why didn’t he visit more than twice a year? Feral huffed irritably, the smoke seeping out of his nostrils no longer billowing or intimidating. Plague rats, even his smoke looked old and frail. He turned away.

Poking at the desiccated brown substance, its dry edges crumbling all over the large stone slab, Feral wondered what had compelled some fool to make something as ugly as it was inedible, and what fool had convinced him to eat it. What exactly that made Feral himself, he didn’t deign to consider. His teeth, now rounded, gnawed through the dusty carbs, which, per usual, sent the tasteless motes deep into the back of his throat, triggering a violent coughing fit to expel the foreign invader. He sipped from the large canteen barrel that the Straws in Claws – was that the name? – folks had refilled for him yesterday. His belly growled in protest again, though whether the protest was in hunger or in rebellion to the protein crapcake he’d just forced down, he wasn’t sure.

As he eyed another nastypatty, he heard the local murder of crows who often lingered outside his door for the occasional scrap cawing loudly. Bones alive, who else would disturb him today? The Yums in Tums – Treats on Feets? – delivery squires had already delivered his indigestible bricks of “food” at three knuckles to sunset. And he never had social visits. He didn’t need them. Rolling aside the large boulder at his front entrance, he winced against the sideways afternoon sunlight. He opened his maw to growl fiercely, but there was nothing there, not even a crow. He stuck his head out past the threshold and looked to either side, his long neck creaking with effort. His wide landing porch was empty, the pathways up and down the mountain (really, in his most honest moments, only an oversized hill, but his pride prevented that vulnerable truthfulness most days), were also empty. He snorted irritably.

“Damn earholes. They making up sound now?” He sniffed at the dirt, sending a billow of dust floating through the entrance way. An odd scent crept into his nostrils. He sniffed again. Then he heard the sneeze. He turned sharply; the bones in his neck crunched like stale walnuts.

Wide blue eyes met his gray stare from the corner by the doorway. Wide, tiny eyes. Feral frowned, then shook his massive head, the wrinkled skin of his jowls wobbling.

“Damn my eyes. Making up sights too.” He blinked hard and rubbed his face in the scaly crook of his arm, but when the procedure was finished, the creature was still there. The creature was real. The creature was human. He hadn’t seen a human in nearly a century. He recalled now, too late, that there were reports of human settlements approaching the Spires, but he had figured the younger dragons would have seen to that. That was…oh, bones…well, at least a decade ago…or maybe three? When was the last time he had ventured out of the Ancients’ Annex? He sniffed thoughtfully, had his senses flooded with human odor, and remembered to pay attention to the present human-shaped debacle here at claw.

He gave the tiny creature an evaluative glance. Even as he crouched on all fours, the thing only came up to his elbow, about the size of a goat – well, a tall goat. Definitely not as tall as a cow. Maybe a small deer? But it looked like it weighed only as much as a day-old fawn, or – Feral poked at the thing’s stick arms – a turkey, maybe? Feral smelled it again, his nose nearly touching the human’s chest. It didn’t smell good. But would it taste better than the vile protein cracker? He couldn’t remember. He stretched his mind back to his last great battle, trying to remember the taste of human. He had eaten some, of course, but it was only because they were stabbing at him first. And of course, humans were generally not considered quality dietary fare because of all those bones, not to mention the odd things they themselves ingested. Oof, the plump, round ones were the worst, the oily richness of their innards always upsetting his delicate internal systems. But the taste? That was a long-lost memory. He leaned his head down again. The human hadn’t moved. The large blue eyes had…well, they had filled with liquid. The face was wet too.

“What in the nine realms?” Feral stuck his head out and looked up. Blue sky. He looked back. Dry clothes. Dry…crown strings, scalp grass? Bones alive, what do they call that stuff on their heads? Hat? Probably a hat. It definitely started with an H. He knew it wasn’t fur, or a tail… Or was it a mane? This one had a really long stringy hat-mane – yellow, like straw. Or, he grinned, his jowls wobbling greedily, like gold. His mouth watered at the mere thought of that wondrous shiny metal. Yes, like gold. The thing’s golden hat-mane came halfway down its back. The human sniffed, which startled Feral, who pulled his head back quickly. Then, with a wail, the human rushed forward and grabbed on to Feral’s right leg, grasping it weakly, but probably with all its tiny might. Feral’s jaw fell slack.

“Lily-livered lizards! What are you doing?” Feral asked, his voice an octave higher than his usual low rumblings. But the human just buried its face against his wrinkled skin and made mewling whinnies with each breath. “Erm. Well, then. Right.” Feral suspected the human was upset. What he really didn’t understand was the running toward him. Most humans, in his experience, ran the plumb opposite direction. The humans who had done that had been in the process of trying to annihilate – and then outrun, he snickered – Feral’s armies. But this little waif had no weapons. It had thin tattered coverings. But no foot coverings. Feral looked hard at its soft pink feet. He remembered that humans had no claws, but bones those nubbins were tiny. How did they even walk without falling?

“Don’t eat me,” it whimpered.

“It talks!” Feral tried to step back, but the thing on his leg was definitely heavier than a turkey and it clung tightly. “Who said I was going to eat you?”

The human blinked up at him, its two lines of face fur coming together and downward. “You did.”

“I did no such thing.” Did he? Was he talking out loud there? He begrudgingly thought it might be possible.

“Of course it’s possible. You’re still talking out loud.”

Feral snorted in grumpy outrage. He lifted up his hind leg, human still attached, and shook it lightly. “Get off with you now.”

“No. You’re warm.”

Warm? Of course he was warm. He was a dragon after all, with lava-blessed blood running through his veins, but this was too much. He reached and plucked at the back of the human’s neck fabric, pulling backward until it had to let go. He dangled the human in front of him, sniffing again.

“I’m not food,” the human protested.

“Agreed,” Feral said, and set it down. The wizened dragon blinked hard and slunk close again, as his eyes couldn’t see quite like they used to. “Why are you shaking?” The human was trembling all over. Its skin was bumpy. “Are you poisoned?” Feral pulled his head back with a grimace.

“I’m cold!” it exclaimed.

“That’s fine and well, but that’s no answer.”

“I am cold,” the tiny thing squeaked. “I shake when I’m cold.”

Feral stood slack-jawed for a second, “What kind of cockamamie survival technique is that? Shaking? In the cold?” Humans shook in the cold? No wonder they were so killable and short-lived. He snorted in amusement, then paused to tilt his head. So then why did they fight so much? he pondered, and spread out so far? If the cold incapacitated them to mewling and trembling, it would seem wise to avoid any variations in climate. Like the North. Like the Spires. Like his mountain.

“Why are you here?” he inquired, one eye squinting.

The human glared at him with tight fists for a moment, its face turning pink, and those tiny blue eyes grew wet again. It sighed a tiny sigh and stared at the ground, shoulders slackening dejectedly. “Do you have any food?”

“Yes. You.”

Crimson pluck colored its small cheeks as it glared at him again. Maybe there was fire in this tiny one too. “I’m not food.”

“Perhaps.” Feral sighed. He could easily send it away. It was in his nature to send small, annoying things away. But a prickling sensation in the back of his chest bothered him. He was alone. Had been alone for such a long time now. At the very least, the thing was something new. And, if he admitted it to himself, he was enjoying not being alone. Not that he was lonely. He was a dragon. They don’t feel that sort of thing.

“Name?” Feral asked as he backed into his stone home, cocking his head to motion for the human to enter. The tiny thing ran inside.

“I don’t like it.”

“Fine. I’ll name you. Age?”

“Nine.”

They were in the hallway, broad enough for one strapping dragon, or in this case, a shriveled general and a tiny human. Feral paused. “Nine…hundred?”

“Nine years.”

“How long are your years?”

“I was born in winter. There’s the normal three seasons, then back to winter. One year. Nine times.”

“You’re just a hatchling?” Feral’s eyes went wide.

“I’m a girl. And I’m nine. I’m big enough.”

Big enough to get stuck in a dragon’s throat, maybe, Feral thought ruefully. He hadn’t killed a human in a hundred years. He peered down at his bipedal visitor. No. Probably wouldn’t start now. Especially when a brittle leg bone was more likely to kill him by getting stuck on the way down than actually fill him up. No nutrition in this one. Just a little morsel of a human.

Oh.

“I will call you Morsel.”

“I am not food!”

“Close enough, little Morsel.”

They stopped in the eating area where Morsel looked curiously around the room. Feral looked too. Well-swept walking paths clearly showed the short, well-traveled route from the bedroom to the cold box, but that was all that was swept. And that much was by accident, due to his wide tail dragging behind him. He scratched his neck uncomfortably. Maybe he should clean more often. Maybe not – really, who was he kidding? No one saw it but him, and clearly, he didn’t notice or care when he traipsed back and forth day to day. Didn’t matter. But looking at his morsel, he wondered if it should.

The human ran to the hefty slab of stone in the center of the large open space, eyeing crumbs that had dropped to the surface from that morning’s protein bar. One crumb was the size of its – her – hands. She struggled up, then perched on the edge. Looking at Feral once, then back to the unappetizing crumbs, the morsel squealed and devoured the cracker faster than a drunken soldier back from scouting. Feral raised an eyebrow. A shiver raced down the morsel as she sat, looking idly around the room, shaking again. He frowned. Turning, he saw his abandoned fire pit. Good for parties, but long gone were the days when he and his friends had sat and caroused around it. It had been replenished with wood the last time Feral’s son had come by. All the pieces were covered in spider webs.

Feral gave a cough, followed by a wheeze, then a gasp, and with a final ungraceful belch, a plume of fire erupted on the desiccated wood and it burst into hot flames. Morsel’s eyes widened as it leapt off the stone table. She landed too hard, and limped for a few steps, but never faltered on her way to the flames. Feral almost reached a claw forward to stop her – because, really, who wanted to clean up that mess – but she stopped short, mere inches before inadvertently roasting herself. With a contented sigh, she sat with her spindly arms clamped around her equally-spindly knees at the edge of the hearth. Her cheeks pulled back to bare her teeth. But she didn’t look angry. Feral tilted his head. He’d have to read about that later.

Her back toward him, Feral took slow steps before sitting on his massive bony haunches. The events of the day had drained him. Pathetic. As he settled forward, he froze. The torn tatters of her top showed white lines and red lines across her skin. The shirt itself was covered in blotches of brown. He peered closer, putting one eye directly behind her. The brown was blood. The iron odor wafted through his nostrils, acrid and sharp. The red lines were swollen and raised up. Beside the lines were round stains of purple and blue, with others that were greenish, nearly yellow. He drew up a single claw to lift back the covering. The morsel flinched.

“Who did this to you?” Feral growled.

Morsel shrugged her covering out of his grasp, which only caused the ragged fabric to tear even more. “No one. It doesn’t matter.”

Feral rolled back on his haunches to sit beside her and peered down at her. She yawned, her face flushing against the warmth of the fire. Something strange and foreign heated his chest, and he didn’t think it was heartburn. The dragon stood, creaking as always, shuffled through the pile in the corner closet, and returned with a bearskin quilt one of the old bats had made him long ago. It was ragged in some places due to age, but then again, so was he. At least it was warm. He tossed it out on the ground, patting out some of the dust with his claws. Morsel reached forward, sunk her fingers into the soft thick fur, then quickly crawled atop it. Her hand dragged behind her, snapping one corner to wrap over herself.

Nodding in approval, Feral turned to find another nastypatty to feed the hatchling, but by the time he’d returned, the morsel had stilled. He reached his long neck over her, unperturbed by the crackling flames of the hearth, and saw her eyes shut, her mouth slack, and her breathing even. Sleeping.

He frowned, hesitating. Well, no reason to disturb the creature as it rested. He wasn’t a monster, after all. But still, as he shuffled back to his room, a niggling doubt lingered. “What are you doing, you old ninny,” he muttered to himself. “What in the blue skies are you doing?”

As the pale orange rays of dawn drifted through the stone slats the following morning, Feral jerked awake, lurching bolt upright – which induced a rather disorienting bout of dizziness – from his perfectly warm heap of assorted furs, matted straw, and glittering rubies. A strange noise was coming from the next room – a low rumbling sound, like a cross between a blade sawing through wood and an elk in heat. His scaly hackles rose: someone was in his cave. For the first time in decades, Feral didn’t pause to consider his stiff neck or sore bones but sprang from his bed and tottered into the next room. There he found the source of the peculiar racket: a large, stirring mound of brown fur. The stale smell of human immediately accosted his nose, which crinkled at the memory. His body relaxed.

So it wasn’t a dream, he marveled, mostly sure by that point that he was, indeed, awake. The ache in his hip and the gurgle in his hollow belly were proof enough since his typical dreams consisted of the things all dragons dreamt of: punching holes through the fluffy clouds far above the Spires and perfectly marinated mutton. His dreams were a thankful respite from his diurnal reality of sciatica and processed protein pulp. His belly shuddered as he thought of that tender mutton from his dreams, its warm juices dribbling down his jowls as his teeth tore through the perfectly marinated flesh – who needed teeth sharpeners when the meat practically fell off the bone?

Oh, he licked his chops. That self-satisfied, know-it-all dolt of a healer had warned him that his old corroded innards couldn’t process rich, unctuous animal protein anymore… But surely a tiny nibble of meat wouldn’t do any harm? And it had been so long since he’d last swallowed something that didn’t taste and feel like coarse gravel clattering all the way down his gullet. Maybe the human wouldn’t taste that bad. Just a nibble? Tapping his front claws together hungrily, he swept across the room with the litheness of a millennial – a dragon whippersnapper of barely a thousand years – keeping his snout close to the floor, and nudged the corner of the bearskin blanket to expose a perfectly bite-sized strip of soft, pink human flesh. A wide blue eye stared up at him from beneath the bend of its skinny elbow.

“I am not food,” Morsel reminded him grumpily. She yawned a deep jaw-cracking yawn. “Do you have applesauce?”

“Applesauce?” Feral scoffed, his surprise and curiosity momentarily sating his growling belly. “What is this?”

“It’s where you take apples, and you bake them and turn them into mush and eat it. Mama used to make it for me before—” she clamped her mouth shut.

“Before…?”

“Do you have applesauce?”

Hmm. He was certainly ready for something new to eat. “I should like to try this pottage you speak of, though I’m not sure how a creature could fill its belly with mashed fruit alone. Feral raised an incredulous eyebrow as Morsel lifted her twiggy arms above her head to stretch. He sneered. Mutton indeed. There wouldn’t be anything to chew on this scrawny little sparrow. The ripe smell of human once more filled his snout, and it was not a pleasant smell at all. “But first, you are in dire need a bath, my foul-smelling little Morsel, and clothes that do not stink of dirt and iron.” He eyed the streaks of red peeking at him through the tatters of her shirt. Were they redder than they had been yesterday? More puffy, perhaps? His pupils narrowed uneasily.

“I don’t need a bath,” came the quick reply. “I took one yesterday.”

“Did you really?”

“…yes.”

With a great sigh, Feral looked around the room, his large gray eye landing on the barrel of fresh water that Souls in Bowls or Bites of Knights or whomever they were had refilled just yesterday. Using his teeth, he gently lifted Morsel by the loose cloth of her neck – eliciting a rather shrill shriek from the thing in the process – trotted over to the barrel, nosed away the wooden lid, and plunked her in the water with a splash.

“Hey!” she gasped. “It’s not even warm!” Then those flat little teeth of hers started chattering again.

Feral swept over to the wash basin and back, retrieving that waxy chunk of ribbon-wrapped lye made from beaver tallow and lavender – some froufrou gift one of the females had given him at last century’s Secret Gift Exchange, an annual event he hadn’t bothered to attend since – and dropped it into the water. He pointed one squinty eye at the child. “First, you bathe, smelly one, and then we shall gather apples for this warm mush you speak of.”

Morsel acquiesced with a scowl and a grumble, flinching as she stretched behind her to reach the red crusty lines on her back. Small whimpers followed.

It needs a healer.

“Don’t move,” Feral instructed. With a flourish of his wide tail, he ambled – trotted, even – into the next room where he flipped open the lid of a large gem-encrusted chest, one of the many spoils from his last battle. It felt like centuries ago. Feral grimaced. It was centuries ago. He nosed through the unpolished gems and dwarven chainmail and golden trinkets, sniffing sharply as dust and cobwebs tickled his nostrils. An unexpected sneeze sent a shower of sparks into the air. A moment later he tugged a frilly tunic out of the chest, its strange fabric the color of salmon entrails, and blew away a cloud of dust and fluttering moths. The garment seemed suitably small for the tiny creature currently sulking inside his water barrel. Satisfied, he took it between his teeth and slunk back to Morsel, who was humming as she scrubbed at the matted dirt behind her ears. The fresh smell emanating from that corner of the room was not pleasant, not by any stretch – a cross between stale flowers and perfumed lard – but it didn’t make his nostrils flare in discomfort, either.

Cloudy water rose up to Morsel’s chattering chin as she peered at him over the top of the barrel. “Now what?”

He tossed the frilly pink thing at the base of the barrel. “Here. Put this on.”

“Fine. Turn around.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want you to look!”

Confounded, Feral did as he was told. What a strange kind of creature, afraid to show its own hide. How could a thing so frail and small, needing other animal hides just to keep itself warm, survive out in the world? It was remarkable that these pitiful things caused as many problems as they did. It was remarkable, he realized, that this tiny thing made it to him in one piece at all.

“Okay, turn around.”

Feral raised an eyebrow as he did. The garment hung from Morsel like a pink oversized sack of sapphires. But it would have to do. “Here,” he said, lifting the ribbon that had been tied with care in a bow around the stupid chunk of soap. “Use this.”

Grumbling, Morsel took the ribbon and wrapped it twice around her skinny waist. “Can we go get apples now?”

“I suppose.” Feral plodded toward the front boulder and moved it aside with a grunt, squinting into the bright morning sunlight. His foot remained airborne for several moments as he considered his next steps. How long had it been since he left his front porch? Taken a stroll? Snacked on a crow while he watched the sunrise? “There are orchards at the bottom of the Spires. At least, there were, several decades ago. We’ll have to walk a ways.” He shifted his hip uncomfortably at the thought. “But we should be able to get there in a knuckle or two.” Feral eyed Morsel’s stubby little legs. So little. “Maybe three.”

Her face puckered into a scrunched expression. “But my feet hurt.”

“My everything hurts.”

“Can I climb on your back?”

Feral’s saucer-sized eyes grew to the size of dinner plates. “Come again?”

“Can I climb on your back? My feet hurt from walking and I’m so hungry.” Her wide blue eyes again did the strange thing where water gathered in the corners. “Please?”

Ride on my back! Feral’s claws instinctively curled at the contemptible thought. If anyone saw, I’d be laughed straight out of the Spires. Carrying a human on my back like a female with a hatchling! He considered alternative options, such as giving her a gentle push over the edge of the Spire to figure it out on her own. He grinned, then reconsidered; as far as he knew, humans couldn’t fly. Pity. He heaved a spark-and-smoke filled sigh through his nostrils. Those twiggy legs of hers were about as useful as a week-ling’s, and those, at least, already had cartilage forming in their wings. Feral drummed his claws on the doorframe. He very much needed to be back in time for his delivery – after all, it was Porridge Day, the one day a week when the food would actually be hot and steaming, with little pieces of quail and acorns, perhaps a sprig of thyme. His teeth began to sweat at the thought.

“Oh, climb on,” he muttered, “but don’t tug! And if you fall off, don’t complain about your bruised rump to me.”

Morsel’s mouth became wide and toothy again as she let out a squeak and skipped across the threshold. With another sigh and a muffled groan, Feral sat back on his rickety haunches, eyeing the sky with chagrin. From decorated war hero to glorified sow. Perhaps I should move out of the Ancients’ Annex and into the packhorse stables. He winced as tiny little sticky claws – well, nubs really – clamored up the scales of his back. A bare little fleshy hoof-thing dug into his side. “Hey!” he half-chortled, half-wheezed. It almost tickled, if dragons felt that sort of thing. “Stop wiggling!”

“Sorry.”

“Ow!” he griped as she yanked on a loose scale.

“Sorry!”

“Pesky little mouse,” he grumbled. Once the clambering and shifting and wiggling finally ceased, the belabored dragon heaved a spark-imbued sigh. “Alright, little Morsel. Let’s go get you your apple slop.”

He peered out the door, turning his long neck one way and then the other – under no circumstance could he let himself be seen in such a disgraceful predicament – and cautiously edged his way onto the porch and peered down the side of the mountain. Had it always been so steep? He edged his clawed toe onto the rocky slope, feeling his knees protesting even before putting his full weight on them. As he peered down, his massive heart sank. How in Smaug’s name did such a tiny little thing clamber up the side of this hill – no, mountain! – with those worthless little stubs on the ends of her legs? Feral swallowed with a loud gulp as vertigo began to set in.

“Are dragons afraid of heights?” Morsel giggled, the subtle mockery clear even to his derelict ears.

“Pah!” Indignance heated his already-hot blood as he slowly extended his back claw do-o-own, grasped onto the stone ledge and began sidestepping down the slope – two steps over, one step down – digging all four of his claws deep into the rock to anchor himself while his unhabituated tail worked for balance.

“Can’t you just fly down?”

“Hush!” With a haughty sniff, he continued down this way, hugging the side of the slope for dear life while his joints berated him with creaks and groans. After what felt like the better part of a century, Feral’s claws finally met with flat grass. It felt so soft, so cool, so cushiony on his freshly blistered feet that he let out a blissful sigh. Part of him wanted to curl up and take a nap right there while basking in the morning sun.

He gave a quick glance to ensure the morsel was still secured on his back, then shielded his eyes from the white rays to marvel at his perilous journey – though, from this angle, and probably due to a trick of the light, the hillside – no, precipitous mountainside – seemed a bit shorter than it had on the way down. No matter. He, Almighty Feral the Heartless, Conqueror of Orcs and Men, High General of the First Order had conquered the mountain!

“I’m so hungry,” Morsel whined, reminding him of his own hollow stomach, now positively ravenous from his death-defying exploits. And the edge of the orchards was just there, within sight. With his snarling stomach urging him forward, he almost nearly trotted across the meadow, toward those plump, crimson orbs. So close! They were – pant – so close. He tried to ignore the stitch in his side. And the sinking realization that the closer they got, the taller the trees became. It really had been decades. By the time they reached the first massive trunk, almost as old as Feral himself, even the smallest, scrawniest apples taunted them from far above, just out of reach. Funny, they looked so much smaller from atop the Spires.

“Well?” Morsel asked, nudging his side with her foot. “Can you reach up and get one?”

“Oof.” Leaning back as far as he dared on aching hindquarters, Feral surveyed the dangling fruit and gave a dubious sniff.

“Here, lemme try.” Morsel clambered up his shoulders, wrapping her arms and legs around his neck as she shimmied upward and hoisted herself atop his head.

With crossed eyes, Feral surveyed a sight he’d never seen before – a tiny human rump saddling his muzzle. His first instinct was to snap his jaws open, bounce her off his snout and teach her a lesson vis-à-vis sharp, scary dragon fangs, but that seemed to defeat the purpose of said backbreaking apple expedition.

Also, the creature had her teeth bared again, cheeks round and…happy? Was that happy? Sighing, he glanced around to be sure no one else was around to witness his degrading predicament, and sat up on his haunches. Reaching forward, he balanced his front claws against the mighty trunk, and stretched his body as high as he could, feeling every vertebrae in his long neck crack and pop like fire kindling. The blasted healer had never been able to do that before! Ha! Meanwhile, Morsel perched precariously on his snout, reaching forward with shaking fingers to grasp the perfect, luscious red apple, barely a hair’s breadth out of reach—

“Almost…got it…” she groaned as she reached forward, straining. “It’s just a teensy…too…far…ah!”

It happened without thought or decision, like an old scroll unfurling for the first time in centuries, its dry, brittle edges crackling and popping open anew. The sound of his opening wings was like crushed leaves in fall or rubbing gravel as the massive stretches of skin unfurled, each movement shaking off rivulets of dirt, dust, and scales. They powdered and billowed in waves as the aged membrane strained and stretched. Finally opening with a sharp snap, Feral pushed down in a moment of long-lost muscle memory even as he ducked his head under Morsel’s body and lifted them into the air. Four heavy thrusts of power pushed them up and into the branch itself, causing the apples to fall like heavy hail.

“Ow!” the morsel cried, rubbing her head. But, recovering quickly, she snatched several apples down before Feral’s energy lagged, and they dropped heavily back to earth. Feral’s lungs heaved, his shoulders ached with the exertion, but his soul was on fire. Sands and stars, he hadn’t flown in ages. He was too old, he had thought, had repeatedly told himself. He had been wrong. The morsel slipped down his neck and hopped to the ground to collect the fallen fruits, oblivious to the internal victory celebration behind her. Feral looked back at himself – his wings! – and stretched to the right, then the left. He’d had them tucked against his sides for so long, he had deep imprints imbedded in the sides of his chest wall. Holding them out was pathetically fatiguing but seeing them and moving them even so slightly felt like a bit of freedom Feral hadn’t tasted in a long time. The morsel had put some of the apples in her frock, pulled up about her knobby knees like a pouch. Feral was about to direct her toward more fruits when a loud thump came from behind him. As fast as he could, which was admittedly slower than the old days, Feral turned to the side and stretched his wings protectively and, hopefully inconspicuously, between the thump and the morsel.

“Who goes there?” a male voice called. A massive green dragon approached, now twenty paces away. His shining scales glittered iridescently in the sun, his impressive talons meticulously sharpened, and a leather strap across his chest flashed his rank and unit. A solider. “State your name and business, old timer. Did you wander from the old home? Where is your caretaker?”

Feral bristled and arched back, his chest puffed out in the pride of hard-earned years. “You watch your frilly pink tongue, young one,” he snapped. He turned his body toward the young soldier, displaying the aged scales of his own chest plate. Three round scars caught in the sunlight. The spears that had caused the prominent marks had almost killed him. He had definitively killed their owners. But those three kills had turned the tide of the last battle – the power of killing the king and his sons.

“General Feral?” The soldier’s maw slackened. He looked up the hill toward Feral’s home as he dipped one knee in a low bow. “Sir, what are you doing down here? Do you need something?”

Humph. Better. “No, son. I don’t. I needed a walk. I am on the walk. Be on your way.”

The solider hesitated, looking around, and back up the hill. “But sir…”
“But nothing. On your way, soldier.”

The younger dragon hesitated only a moment more before nodding once, bowing briefly, and taking back to the sky. He met back with his patrol in the massive V-shaped scouting pattern in the sky as they flew on toward the rest of the northern region. At least some things hadn’t changed in Feral’s years in his cave.

A gasp behind him caught his attention. The morsel was staring at the sky, eyes wide. She was nearly crushing the apple in her hand. “I’ve never seen so many.”
“Hmph. They do that every day. Too few of us and too many of you. Let’s get moving.”

Her eyes finally met his. She nodded again, shook her shoulders in a rallying way and picked up the last apples from the ground. He glanced back at the sky. The patrol was out of sight, but they would return soon. “Come now, little one, lets go burn some apples to mush.” Lowering himself on creaking knees, her ascent to his back was mercifully faster and less agitating (he was not ticklish, thank you) than the last time. As she settled, he turned back to look at her. There were tiny drops of water on her top lip and her normally cool legs were hot, nearly dragon hot. He frowned. She clung to him with her twiggy limbs. With a sigh, Feral turned back up the mountain. For the first time in his life, he was glad it was more of a sloping hill than a looming mountain.

Feral rediscovered the copper pot in the back by the old tomes he had stolen from the eastern nobles. The morsel had filled it with some water, gathered some wood, and waited expectantly as she watched Feral light the fire with a targeted snort. She proceeded to take a decorative dagger Feral had kept in storage to slice the round fruits and take out the best part – the nutty, sweet, cyanide-laced seeds – leaving only the white fluff. Feral’s face rarely changed from his confused scowl. He had never cooked, not really. Dragons rarely had to, as it was, but in the modern era, new fangled concoctions had swept the Spires. Fancy random plants, mixed in fancy new ways, with odd carbohydrates and exotic nuts and suddenly everyone thought these culinary oddities were the best thing since sliced bear. Feral rolled his old gray eyes. Millennials. The old ways were the best ways. The young ones probably were the ones who ruined his previously human-less existence. But Feral could not deny the smell of the cooking apples was mouthwatering.

As he lay by the fire, guarding the cauldron (and certainly not utterly exhausted from his trek back up the slippery, dusty, excessively tall mountainside, no), Feral watched the morsel. She had climbed up the slats in the cold box, pulling down the nuts, bars…were those dried green bunches…herbs? He had forgotten that the Spews of Stews had delivered a box of herbs moons ago. Why was that brown stick so spicy-smelling? What kind of twig smells spicy? He hmphed loudly and narrowed his eyes to slits. The bizarre stick was the least of his concerns. The droplets on Morsel’s lip had spread to her temples. Her cheeks were pink like the skins of the apples. She kept returning to the fire, shivering. When not stirring or exploring, she was huddling under the quilt, her eyes slightly glazed.

“Little Morsel, are you cold?”

“A little. Not really.”

“Why do you shake?”

The morsel shrugged and puffed heavily as she sat down. “I don’t feel good. Probably just hungry.”

Feral sniffed her and grimaced, “Did you eat the spicy stick?”

“The cinnamon? Nuh-uh, but I did add one or two to the pot.”

He sniffed her once more, pushing his senses past the spicy stick smell. He huffed at her back, then quickly withdrew from the foul smell that had swept through the old fabric. Pulling back her collar, he swept her hat-mane to the side. The pink lines on her back looked red, like carrion meat, raised and angry. And smelly. The redness seeped over the other colors. The tiny water drops lined her back as well. She needed a healer.

“I do not.”

“You do not, what?” Feral asked.

“I do not need a healer.”

Feral’s jaw fell again; he swore he didn’t say that out loud. Clamping his teeth tightly together, he rose to make his way to the back room. His snout tossed aside various treasures until he found the black potions box. He sniffed several of the balms hesitantly. Many of these were decades old. His own healer had warned him that they would be too strong even on his own thin scales. Plagues and parasites, none of these would work for the delicate morsel.

He shuffled irritably back to the main room. The morsel had fallen asleep again beside the fire. She was shivering still, even in her sleep. As Feral considered his options, he felt the air pull out of his cave rapidly. He hadn’t even heard the boulder rolling aside. Curse these old ears!

Quickly, with a less cracks and creaks than before, he rushed to the front hallway and casually leaned against the doorframe, blocking the view. The young dragon squire from Tarts in Carts, or whatever, stood stock-still, baffled by Feral’s sudden appearance.

“You can drop those there,” Feral said gruffly, pointing his nose toward the sacks of food and steaming kettle hung by the strap on the young dragon’s nose.

“Sir?” The young one stuttered and stumbled, apparently in shock. After an awkward moment, he recovered. “I can bring them inside for you.”

“No, that won’t be necessary.”

“But sir, what about your water?”

“It’s fine. I didn’t drink much yesterday.” Lie. Feral wanted two barrels: one to drink and one to bathe the smelly human in.

“I have it here,” the youngster tilted his head outside.

“Fine then, leave it there. I’ll bring it in myself.”

The squire flapped nervously, bemused and bewildered, and fluffed his wings oddly like a headless chicken. Feral watched in amusement, enjoying the discomfort while realizing he probably had never really acknowledged the squire before now.

“Name?” Feral asked gruffly.

“Peril,” the boy said eventually.

“Peril. Well met. As you can see, I’m feeling great and really just need you to drop the bags. I can get them from here.”

Peril lifted his head high, sniffing. “Sir, are you cooking?”

“I wanted a fire. I started a fire.”

The young squire’s jaw opened and shut. Feral stepped forward, not feeling nearly as menacing as he had once been, but still predatory enough that Peril stepped back from the larger dragon. Feral grasped the bag with his knobby claw.

“Thank you, Peril.”

Peril gulped, bowed awkwardly, and turned away. Once the little dragon had pushed the large water barrel inside and replaced the boulder, Feral burst into wheezing laughter. Maybe he should torture, er, talk to, the squires more often. Dropping the bag and setting the kettle of porridge on the stone slab, he turned toward his tiny ward, who was still shuddering beneath the quilt.

Something stirred within him. Something old and dusty. Something unused and brittle from neglect. Whatever it was felt a lot like purpose, and instead of the vulnerability of the morsel stirring an instinct to kill, the vulnerability called to the ancient parts of him to protect, to defend – or at best, to not let it die. Dragging an old map from the junk shelf in the cold room, he traced his claw along the path from the Spires to the nearest human settlement. His wings stretched and quivered anew behind him. He likely wouldn’t be able to fly. But this one didn’t seem too far away. If he went at night… Feral nodded to himself. Indeed. Tonight, Feral would stalk and sneak. Feral would spy and steal. Just like the old days. Grinning to himself, Feral went and stirred the boiling apples with one long talon.

Feral’s glittering eyes peered at the human settlement from the dark woods at the crest of the ridge. The once small village on the map had expanded, and the edges of the city were pressing into the foothills of the Spires. The stink was the first thing he noticed. The mess was the second. Feral frowned. He never spent a lot of time around human settlements before, save for setting them on fire. A quick raid or treasure mission, perhaps. But most of his battles were on fields or – when the humans were stupid or desperate enough – in the Spires themselves. With a grimace, Feral crept forward. Really, he creaked forward. In this hunched position, he swore the bones were rubbing against bones like two river rocks pressed together. Each painstaking step, each carefully placed footfall was given away by the squealing, squalling, crackling of his joints as he shifted his weight to that appendage. This was embarrassing.

He passed the stables, hesitating only for a moment as he watched a miniature mountain goat thing with fluffy white fur snuffle in the hay. It smelled delicious. Feral licked his chops, but the scent of a nearby barrel of apples reminded him why he was here. He was loath to admit how much he had enjoyed the apple-mush. Apple-slop. Apple-squish. Whatever. Even the spicy stick – and odd hint of lavender-scented soap – didn’t burn like he expected. Between the hot fruit slop and the boar-and-acorn porridge, he almost felt full. He eyed the fluffy creature again. Almost. Shaking his head gruffly, he turned back to his mission.

Keeping an eye on the rising moon, Feral grumbled when one knuckle, then two knuckles passed as he paced by square-shaped dwelling after dwelling. So many. So flammable. Only a few were made of rock, but even those had straw toppings. He cleared his throat, choking back the temptation to sneeze a few embers their way. Only twice was he nearly spotted: once outed by a tiny furry cat that screamed louder than his knees, and once as he tried to cross the town center to drink from the fountain. That required a rapid(ish) gallop back to the shadows until the nosy human returned to its home. Finally, he found a confusing smelling building. He could identify the spicy stick – salmonin? cinnyman? – but also a thousand other acrid, pungent, nose-burn-y smells. One great eye pressed near the window before he slunk to the back, his long neck popping as it curled around the corner. He gazed at the door. He would never fit. Even if he did, he was no healer. What was the plan now? Why hadn’t he thought of this part earlier?

He really was getting senile.

Reaching one claw forward, he tried to jiggle the small lever that was protruding from the door, then tried pulling and twisting – but when he tried to push it, the entire door collapsed under his weight. Feral froze. That was probably not very quiet. He listened, remembered he was somewhat hard of hearing, then peered and sniffed instead. One heartbeat. A hundred more. Nothing shifted in the night. With a deep exhale, Feral slipped his large head through the tight doorway. Despite the thin film of age, he was thankful for his predatory eyesight. The room was gray-toned, but clear enough even in the dark. The scents inside, however, were nearly overwhelming! Wooden tables sat below cluttered shelves and overflowing cabinets that were covered in boxes, glass tubes, bags of dried green and brown herbs. Every surface in that room was buried under something else. Feral glanced from one side to the other before he sighed heavily. He could only make out a few words; it had been well over a century since he had read the common tongue. Moreover, none were clearly labeled “To save a morsel.”

You old lizard. You oversized puffed-up pigeon. This was a fool’s errand for a washed-up wyvern!

His verbal self-flagellation was cut short by a throat clearing in the corner. “Pardon me, Master Dragon,” a weak and reedy voice emanated from a plump creature sitting on the stairs. It was a soft sound like cattails shifting in the wind.

In his startle, Feral hit his head on the ceiling. Surprisingly painful. “Ow,” he growled.

“Master Dragon, may I assist you?” The creature stepped down, its form short and rounded, wrinkly and old smelling. “I am Alice. This is my shop. Are you looking for something in particular?”

Feral frowned. This was not how his previous interactions with humans had gone. “Why?” he asked unpleasantly.

“Why what, Master Dragon?”

“Why help me? Why not call for help?” he bared his teeth menacingly. Once it had worked well. Today, it only seemed to invite her down one more stair.

“Great Dragon, I remember the old stories. My parents were running from the old tyrant kings. The dragons saved my mother from the raiding armies. The dragons are the reason we live under the mountains. Without the dragons, our small nation would have been overrun by evil men.” She pointed to the corner, where a well-cared-for portrait of a dragon, as well as a burning, smoking, smelly stick beside it, was propped at a place of prominence on the wall.

Feral’s jaw fell slack. Dragons protecting humans! This was not his history. This could not be his legacy. He fought humans. All humans! Well, at least the ones with swords and spikes and arrows. Frowning, he had to admit he did spare the others. Especially the swordless females and the very old. Well, and also the little ones, he mused. Why kill them when you could teach them fear? That’s what he had told himself, anyway.

“Master Dragon, why have you come?”

Feral heaved a massive sigh, filling the ceiling with smoke. “I have a human.”

Alice’s face fur rose to her white hat-mane. “You…have a human.”

Nodding, he spoke again, low and grumbly, “I have a human. The skin is red and rotten. She shivers, even by the fire, and burns as hot as I do.” His mouth clamped shut. After a moment he added, “I don’t want it to die.”

The herbalist turned toward the overstocked shelves, looking through the vials and glasses. “I see. And how big is this human?”

“Tiny.”

“Tiny in age or tiny in size?”

“Yes.”

She turned, one hair fur raised high. “You have a child?”

“She has me, I think,” he muttered defeatedly.

“I see. What is this child’s name?”

“Morsel.”

She bit her lip. An odd gesture. “Does she have blonde – yellow – hair and blue eyes? Wounds across her back?”

“Yes. Did you do this?” he growled, the sharp edge in his voice sharpening each syllable like a dagger.

“No, Master Dragon. I swear it.” She did not stink of fear, as liars often do.

“You are lucky I believe you.”

The herbalist watched him for a moment longer before returning to her manifold unguents and salves and vials. With her arms full, she strode to the crowded table where she measured and weighed and mashed their contents in a bowl before silently scraping the contents into a cloth bag. Then she grabbed one more liquid from the wall.

“This poultice is for the skin. Twice a day. Wrap with clean cloths.” He nodded and she continued, “This liquid is to drink. She must drink a sip once a day until it’s empty. It may make her sick to her stomach, but do what you can to keep it down.” Feral grimaced and hoped it didn’t come to that. “Here.” She added a bright, pungent green leaf to the pouch, “Peppermint may help. Even the scent.”

Feral pulled his head back out to the alley and gave a quick glance around before shrugging an empty bag from his neck. He held it between his teeth toward the healer. She took it with only a little shake to her hands and only a small catch in her breath. At least he could still strike some fear.

“I did not bring any treasure,” he stated, his eye peering at the short creature suspiciously.

“I am not owed any, Master Dragon. May a portion of my ancestors’ debt be paid by being of small assistance to you.”

Feral nodded, then carefully grabbed the filled bag with his teeth. Withdrawing his head, he glanced at the moon. Sands and stars, it was late, only a knuckle or two until dawn.

“Master Dragon?” the small voice asked from the doorway.

“Alissssss” he whispered her name back to her, glancing down.

“Forgive my impudence. But,” she tapped her fingers together, “Yana – the child – wasn’t safe here…” she swallowed, water filling her eyes. “Is she safe with you?”

Feral scoffed. “Safer than before.”

She looked unconvinced.

“She will never come to harm with me.”

The woman nodded, the flaring edges of her mouth crinkling her face. Happy? With a nod of thanks, Feral turned, eyes to the Spires, and took off as fast as his very old, very tired legs would carry him.

Feral wasn’t sure which was louder – the growling grumbles of his stomach or the creaking cracking of his knees. But the smell of boiled apples and spice wafted into his bedroom, tickling his nostrils and enticing his old joints to lug the rest of him toward the tart, steamy goodness. With the nimbleness of a dragon half his age – well, maybe eight-tenths his age – he hoisted himself out of bed, flicking away a few stray rubies that had embedded themselves in his scaly haunches. He scratched his rumbling belly and then quietly plodded into the next room where a tiny morsel of a human – well, less and less tiny as of late – stirred his favorite breakfast. Fragrant steam coiled above the top of the cauldron, making his jowls water. The old dragon crouched as stealthily as he could and slunk over to the side of the massive pot, extending one long talon to steal a sample—

A tiny hand reached out to slap his wrist.

“How did you know?” he protested, rubbing his scales though they did not hurt.

“The rusty knees gave you away,” Morsel replied, her blue eyes twinkling. “Now go wash up for breakfast. Who knows where that grubby claw of yours has been!”

Feral’s teeth pulled back in indignance but he did as he was told. While he lathered up his claws, Morsel called out, “Did you do your morning exercises?”

“…yes.”

A wide smile partially stifling her sigh, Morsel ladled hot applesauce into a bowl the size of a human-sized platter and sprinkled it with extra “cinnyman.” Dragons, it turns out, love those spicy twigs.

Feral returned to the room, a big scary beast that smelled faintly of lavender, and greedily gobbled down his breakfast, being sure to aim his appreciative belch away from the highly-flammable human. “Scrumptious as always, little Morsel,” he sighed, patting his belly in contentment. If someone had told him a century ago that he’d be enjoying a hot bowl of apple glop with a straw-haired human in his living room, he’d have snorted out a plume of laughter that would have turned that poor soul into a shish-kabob.

“Are you still feeling up for our little adventure today?” Morsel asked, scraping the bottom of her own miniature bowl.

A familiar jolt of apprehension and thrill shot through Feral’s plump belly. “Only if you still are,” he hedged.

“Let’s go!” she grinned. “Twelfth time’s the charm!”

With a sigh big enough to set off a spray of sparks, Feral once more hoisted himself on all fours and followed Morsel to the doorway where she strained and grunted against the boulder until he gave it a hearty nudge with his snout. After making the necessary preparations – tightening this strap, adjusting that buckle, giving the old harness a good tug – Morsel expertly scrambled up her dragon’s back and settled onto the custom basilisk leather saddle they’d nearly perfected. Not that Feral ever referred to it as a “saddle.” He preferred calling it a “backplate to ward against chilly human legs.”

Feral squinted his gray eyes against the blinding summer sun and regarded his long porch with trepidation. Sure, he’d been doing his daily drowning crow exercises, had even started doing one hundred wing curls every evening. And he’d been dutifully eating the vegetable stews Morsel had been preparing for dinner instead of those hog-awful dehydrated snack bricks – Bones, those orange roots she put in the soup really had helped his cataracts! Even that snooty physical therapist had given him the claws-up for flight, to his surprise (and a tinge of dismay).

“Hold on tight, little one,” he growled, filling his lungs with morning air. He raised his hind leg, let it waver for a long moment, and then – at Morsel’s impatient nudge – started traipsing forward. The traipse turned into a trot, the trot turned into an optimistic jog, and the jog finally turned into a panting, wheezing gallop. At the very end of the porch, Feral flared his mighty wings open and caught the hot breeze rising up from the meadows below. His jowls juddering from the wind, he let out a surprised gasp as the gale carried them up, up, up – and not tumbling down, down, down – toward the fluffy white clouds above.

Morsel let out a cheer as they flew over the tips of the Spires – this time avoiding the tallest one – sailed across the shuffleboard court, and passed the dining hall. Several of the late brunch-goers saw them and cheered.

Emboldened, Feral let out a big huff and beat his wings, letting the thermals do most of the heavy lifting. Warm summer mornings made flying almost easy. Almost.

At the very edge of the Spires, the caterwauling old females playing armadillo croquet eyed Feral and Morsel soaring above. They all waved and chattered excitedly – most of the graying males in the Ancients’ Annex couldn’t cut their own mutton, let alone take morning flights! “That Feral really is something else, isn’t he?” one of the more attractive ones hooted to her friend.

“What?” she friend yelled back, adjusting her hearing aid.

“I said—”

Feral couldn’t hear the rest but he beamed widely nevertheless. Morsel had been right about those cockamamy hearing contraptions after all – when he remembered to put the tiny trumpets in, at least.

“Higher!” she cried, raising her hands above her head.

“Would you hold on, please,” he grumbled. For such a breakable little thing, the girl seemed to have no fear whatsoever.

With one last pump of his wings, Feral relented and took them higher. The low-hanging clouds from yesterday’s evaporated rain kissed the tops of their heads, leaving a sheen of cool dew clinging to scales and skin.

“You’re doing it, Feral!” she cried. “This time, you’re really doing…ah…ahh—!”

“Morsel!” he roared, feeling her tiny body topple off his back.

“Feral!” she screamed as the leather strap slipped from her hand.

Feral didn’t think. Didn’t calculate. Didn’t question. He didn’t even take a moment to consider his own fate should he tumble from such a great height – he just dove. With the gift of muscle memory lingering from his glory days, he flattened his wings to his sides and tipped his snout to the ground, disregarding the jagged rocks of the abandoned gold quarry far below.

His teeth snatched the back of her dress just as the ground rose up to meet them, far too close for comfort. With a grunt, he snapped his wings out to his sides, catching a serendipitous gust of wind that carried them just within knee-scraping distance of the tallest, sharpest rocks.

“Leaping lizards!” he mumble-yelled through gritted teeth as they whizzed by, lethal rock finally giving way to tall grass. With one final deft maneuver, he steered sharply to avoid hitting an errant boulder and stomped all four clawed feet to the ground, careful not to trample across the dangling morsel as he stumbled over his own feet, eventually landing in a terribly ungraceful tail-over-snout maneuver. Morsel flew from his mouth, tumbling and rolling, finally crashing to a heart-wrenching stop.

“Morsel!” Feral yelled, stumbling to where she lay, her entire body heaving as she shrieked. It took him a long moment to realize that the shrill noises she was emitting were not of agony but of laughter.

“Did you hit your head?” he probed anxiously, his graying snout prodding for injury. “Why are you wailing? Do you have all of your limbs…? Oh bollocks, where’s your tail?” he demanded, momentarily forgetting that humans don’t have one.

“I’m fine!” she wheezed, gripping her sides. Another peal of hysterical laughter ensued. “That was the most fun I’ve ever had!”

Feral stared at his insane youngling, his wide eyes popping from their round sockets. “You nearly died! How can you laugh at such a thing?” He poked her head again for injuries. Humans had such fragile skulls!

Morsel rested a hand on his snout, her giggles finally dying down. “But I didn’t die! You saved me, Feral!”

The old dragon sucked a sharp breath through his nostrils. He glanced at the white fluffy clouds above, inspected his aching – albeit intact – hips and knees, squished the soft grass between his claws…and as he felt his jowls pull back into a wide smile, he tenderly regarded this tiny human sitting in front of him. His human.

“No, my little Morsel. You are the one who saved me.”

Rachel Rener is the author of THE LIGHTNING CONJURER Series, a critically-acclaimed contemporary fantasy with elements of magical realism and romance. Her most recent release, THE GIRL WHO TALKS TO ASHES, was an Amazon #1 new release and a BBNYA (Book Bloggers' Novel of the Year) semi-finalist.

When she's not engrossed in writing, Rachel enjoys painting, reading, rock shows (musical and mineralogical), Vulcanology (both the lava kind as well as the pointy-eared kind), and playing Zelda: Breath of the Wild. She lives in Colorado along with her husband, a stellar mineral collection, and a feisty umbrella cockatoo ("Jungle Chicken") that hangs out on her shoulder as she writes. You can check out her blog, shop, and updates at www.TheLightningConjurer.com or on Facebook.

Author Alora Carter is a native-Coloradan sunchild who would rather be lost in a forest than adulting. She has two vibrant littles and a handsome viking-esque husband, as well as a spinning Doberman, a cranky old Jack Russell and four-foot corn snake (named Sancho). Currently lost in the lake lands of the mid-west, she finds herself through writing fantasy that sprinkles in cool science and nerdy facts alongside themes of endurance through hardship, love conquers all, found family and the brimming potential found in all of us. Follow her at AloraCarter.com or on Facebook.

THE GRANDPARENT TRAP

By Allegra Pescatore & Christoper Russell

“Every crag and gnarled tree and lonely valley has its own strange and graceful legend attached to it.”

-Douglas Hyde

A Dragon Flies into Florida

Bill

“You’ve gotta be shittin’ me.”

This was Williston, Florida. We were used to pythons crashing our 4th of July BBQs, iguanas pooping on our floors, and alligators eating the odd octogenarian or drug dealer. Or both—as I said, this was Florida. What I didn’t expect to see when I looked up from the game of Pinochle was a dragon incinerating the Dollar General.

Jeremiah glanced up from his laptop for half a second before diving back into his kooky video game: World of Wombats, or whatever the hell it was called. There was a literal fire breathing dragon outside. Why play fantasy games when we’d been living in one for the last thirty years?

“You get a bad hand, Bill?” the hunched over geezer asked with a chuckle.

“I get nothin’ but bad hands. That ain’t the problem. Where am I gonna get my smokes now that the only store for ten miles has gone up in smoke?”

Dotty—my cross table partner—reached her liver-spotted hand over the card pile to pat my arm. “It’s okay, Bill. You should take this as a sign from above that you need to quit.”

I sighed. “Dotty, I already have cancer, and my smokes keep me sane in this . . .” I waved at the darkened rec room of Sunny Acres: A Welcoming Home for Active Seniors, filled with peeling floral wallpaper, overstuffed recliners, and haphazard oxygen cords, “. . . asylum.”

“Well, the dragon did fly in from above, so Dotty’s not wrong,” Gertrude chimed in as she laid a Pinochle on the table. Damn her. She always got a natural Pinochle off the draw.

The door to the hallway burst open and Karen’s walker preceded her like a battering ram. “I knew this would happen! Didn’t I say just yesterday that Barb down at the Dollar General bought magic insurance? And now there’s a dragon in Williston.”

I sighed again, but Karen wasn’t finished.

“Fishy, I tell you, what with Barb’s new grandkid on the way. Real fishy. I posted it all over Scale Scanner already. It wouldn’t have been fair not to. Barb better be ready to go down for fraud when this goes viral.”

Karen was a piece of work. Never knew a person that fit the name better or could be so hardwired into the dealings of half the panhandle from the comfort of her pink-upholstered Lazyboy. I tossed aside my cards, pushed out of my chair with a groan, and walked to the window. In the distance, the dragon had finished torching the Dollar General and moved on to the ABC next door.

Tears welled in the corners of my eyes. “That bastard! First my smokes, now my PBR. These damn immigrants have been screwin’ up this country ever since the Magick’ing.”

“Ha. That’s a bingo!” Jeremiah shouted. He made a quick mark on a piece of paper before grabbing his mouse again. “‘Bill curses about magical immigrants.’ Got bingo, so ya’ll better be prepared to pay up.”

Grumbling, I fished in my wallet for a crumpled up Lincoln. Our group had a monthly bingo board for things we ranted about, and I’d walked right into that one.

“That time-sink tell you anything useful?” I asked Karen when she finally made it over and parked her bejeweled walker under the windowsill.

She pulled her phone from whatever frilly designer handbag she had conned her son into buying last week to ‘cheer her up.’

“Well, I did see a very interesting article about how werewolves have infiltrated the government and—”

“I meant about the dragon, Karen,” I said before she could launch into her latest conspiracy theory. In the town below our hilltop old folks’ home, people were pouring out of buildings as the dragon torched them one by one.

“That’s Vanadel the Vehement,” Gertrude replied before Karen could. I jumped, not having seen the frizzy-haired ninety-year-old coming. How she knew the name of a random dragon but couldn’t remember to put in her dentures most days, I had no idea.

Gertrude stared at the dragon, her eyes wide and unfocused. The old bag had finally lost it. “Gertrude?” I waved my hand in front of her face until she started back to reality with a gasp.

“Oh my! Where did you come from, Bill? Why are you in my room?”

Forcing down my frustration, I smiled. “This is the rec room, Gertrude. More Clorox smell, less little stuffed hedgehogs—or whatever rodent you collect—on the shelves.” I turned to Dotty and Jeremiah. “You comin’ to watch the show?”

Karen was the only one of us who had kids in town, and since she didn’t seem more alarmed than usual, I guessed hers weren’t in any danger. If they had been, she would’ve had them on speaker phone loud enough to puncture my eardrums.

“Why would a dragon come here of all places?” Dotty asked, after setting her cards down and joining us as we watched the destruction of downtown Williston. “Nothing worth mentioning has happened here since our very own Foolish Pleasure won the Kentucky Derby in ‘75.”

“I ain’t gotta clu—”

As flames licked across the midtown green, the dragon soared straight up, wings spread wide. Then, with a grace and precision only a ten-ton magical lizard could pull off, he swooped down on the brick steeple atop the biggest building on Main Street. Rubble and dust flew in all directions.

I spun and marched from the room. The damn dragon could take my smokes. He could steal my beer. But he sure as hell wasn’t going to tear down the new bank I’d built and wipe out my pension along with it.

Broadcastin’ in from the Bone Throne

Bill

At the first sign of trouble, most of the nurses had run off to check on their families. The old folks’ home was down to a skeleton crew. Which was ironic, considering the throne of charred skeletons being erected in downtown Williston. A nervous news reporter was standing in front of it on the TV, hair singed and eyes bloodshot.

“While our new Lord and Master Vanadel the Vehement has not yet disclosed his plans for Williston, he will be coming on air at the hour to make a statement. You can see behind me that his new slave legion has been very industrious in the construction of his . . . t-throne.” Her voice quavered as her eyes twitched. “I would like to remind all able-bodied citizens of Williston that you are expected on the town green to swear fealty or, in the words of our Lord and Master, ‘You’re toast. Literally.’”

I gripped the armrests of my chair hard enough that my knuckles cracked.

Dotty shook her head from across the table. “We’ll untie you as soon as you stop glowering. You should hurry up before Jeremiah eats your pudding.”

My arms were, indeed, tied to the padded armrest of my chair by a couple of old floral neckties. There was no give in the binds; the knots were precise. It made me wonder what Dotty had done before retirement.

I continued to glower at Dotty. “Jeremiah would have to stop playin’ his stupid game,” I spat the word at the lanky, long-limbed coot, who didn’t even bother looking up, “to eat my puddin’. And if that wasn’t motivation enough, you’d think the end of the freakin’ world might get him to hit pause for five seconds and look out the window.”

“You can’t pause a multiplayer game, Bill,” Jeremiah chastised. He had one headphone in, one out so he could listen to our conversation. “Besides, dragon attacks happen about as frequently in WoW as they do on the outside these days. Makes me wonder which is real sometimes.”

Off to the side, Karen held up her phone. “Oooohhhhh. I just read an article that says we’re all actually data in a simulation. The ‘Overseers’ on the project are trying to figure out how people will react to the sudden merging of our world with a fantasy one, and we’re just the ones and zeroes playing things out. Makes sense, yessirree.”

“If we survive this, I’m makin’ sure you both get new meds,” I groused, shaking in my chair. “Now can you let me loose, Dotty?”

“Not until you promise not to barge into town in that eyesore of a pickup truck you still insist on owning to confront a dragon head on. Honestly, Bill, what were you planning on doing? Beating it to death with your cane?”

I grumbled an insult under my breath and might have responded had Gertrude not bolted straight out of her chair and pointed at the TV. On it, Vanadel the Vehement himself had sat down on the skeleton throne, looking just as human as the rest of us.

When magical creatures first appeared thirty years ago, none of us had noticed. It wasn’t until they had shed their human forms that the fireworks started. Rainbow winged pixies streaked across the skies. Mushroom-covered trees began roaming the highways. A family of trolls took up residence on Capital Hill in DC, but that wasn’t much of a change from before. Everything we’d read about in stories—and a few hundred other variants besides—moved in and overthrew our governments in a matter of days.

Damn immigrants.

Vanadel appeared to be a vaguely Scandinavian man in his thirties, wearing a sleek business suit and even sleeker hair gel. Filthy skin-suit lizard. The throne was actually a little tall for him, but he still managed to look composed as he sat upon it.

“Citizens of Williston, thank you for the warm welcome to your lovely town.” The fuckwad’s voice was smooth and pandering. “If everything goes well, my rule will be benevolent, and you may return to your puny little lives as soon as you prove I can trust you.”

Despite myself, I leaned forward with interest. Jeremiah even pulled his headphones off and lowered the screen of his laptop as the broadcast continued.

“As I already announced, all wireless frequencies in and out of Williston have been jammed, and all the highways blocked. Anyone found trying to cross the perimeter I set or communicating with the outside world will earn my immediate wrath.”

Vanadel uncrossed his legs, stared directly at the camera, and beckoned with a too-sharp nail. “I am an understanding master. You will notice that I only killed a quarter of your neighbors, where the less forgiving of my brethren would have wiped out everyone just to make a point. We can work together—just like the fine reporter who has saved her family by broadcasting this message.”

“And what do you want from us, sleazebag?” I growled at the TV.

“You’re probably wondering what an all-powerful dragon could want from a wart of a town like Williston,” Vanadel continued. I blinked. Could he read my mind? All the way from the town square? “It’s simple, really. Each of you will come to the bank, empty out your assets, and present them to me within twenty-four hours. This will form the foundation of my hoard, and Williston will be the first addition to my domain. Failure to comply . . .” Vanadel smiled, a toothy, wicked grin that made me shiver, “will result in this cozy hamlet returning to the dust from whence it came.”

He flicked his hand, and the broadcast cut off abruptly. We were left staring at a staticky screen that buzzed like a cloud of gnats.

“See, I told you he was comin’ for our pensions,” I said.

Dotty held up a hand to protest, then let her arm fall limp at her side. “I was going to say that’s your problem, seeing as you, Jeremiah, and Karen were stupid enough to convert your pensions to gold while ours will be backed up by another bank branch, but then I remembered the goblins.”

Light from Jeremiah’s screen flashed across his face as he chuckled. “Yep. Coin-obsessed little gremlins hate the idea of big banks, so they won’t let companies set up chains no more.”

“Which means all our savings go if that shit-scale clears out the bank, and we’ll probably be dead by the time the goblins and the feds agree on the paperwork.” Dotty stumbled back a step, deflated.

“Actually—”

“Karen, if you spout one more damn conspiracy theory,” Dotty usually ignored Karen. Maybe the thought of losing all her money had her on edge too.

Karen huffed, crossing her arms and jutting out her chin. “Actually, I was going to say that I disagree with Bill. Jerry said that Kathy’s niece—you know, the one who works at the bank and is getting a divorce—tweeted about an older international businessman being in town a few weeks ago. Well, Angie and I looked him up on Scale Scanner to see if he was single and all, and rumor has it he might be a dragon. All I’m saying is that it’s pretty suspicious that a dragon comes to town one week, and then another plants himself right in front of the bank.”

Huh. That was a pretty odd coincidence. I looked at Karen, who glanced at Dotty, who shook Gertrude awake, who flailed and knocked my pudding cup all over Jeremiah’s keyboard.

“What in Kalvoneth’s twelfth hell are you people doing? You’ve gone and ruined my laptop. Damn thing is going to be expensive to replace, not to mention you got my max level druid killed while fighting the final boss!” He leapt to his feet with all the nimble grace of a rusty gear stick and stood staring at our beaming faces.

“Won’t matter how expensive it is if a dragon is sleepin’ on your pension,” I said. “If you want to get a new one . . .”

“You’re not suggesting what I think you are, right?” Jeremiah stared at me like I was the crazy one. Although without my smokes and beer, I might well be.

Dotty let out a long, exasperated breath. She stood up, rolled her neck with a crack that made all of us wince, then walked over to me. With a flick of her wrist, a knife that definitely wasn’t orderly-approved appeared in her hands, and the ties around my wrists were slashed apart. “All right, folks. Guess we’re doing this. Let’s go kill a dragon.”

The Hazardous Plan is Hatched

Bill

“We can’t kill a dragon.”

A vein in my forehead throbbed, the one my doctor had warned me not to irritate. Damn my blood pressure. “And why the hell not, Gertrude? A slug to the face does for all kinds of lowlifes, human or otherwise.”

“The face isn’t a face,” Gertrude replied, eyes staring past me. “The face is the mask, but the mask looks like a face so it’s easy to confuse the two.”

“She’s talkin’ nonsense again, Dotty,” I warned, grinding my teeth.

We were all crowded around the computers in the administrative office—its usual occupants long gone. There were maps and books about Williston scattered on the once-neat desks, all lugged down the hall from Gertrude’s hoarder-adjacent room. Every single scrap of paper had illegible scribbles along the margins that the eldest member of our macabre band of misfits kept insisting ‘held the answer.’ If it were up to me, the answer would be sticking Gertrude in the cafeteria with a bowl full of lollipops and leaving her to entertain herself.

“Bill, Gertrude knows more about Williston and fantasy creatures than anyone here.”

“I take offense to that!” Jeremiah called, his eyes never breaking from the screen. Karen was leaning on his shoulder, craning her neck and squinting through her bejeweled pink glasses. “I am fluent in seven Elvish dialects, four Orcish grunt-patterns, and can manage small-talk with any of the ten pantheons of Ancient Immortals.”

“In a game,” I muttered under my breath.

“What was that?”

I inclined my head in mock respect. “Please educate us, O master wizard.”

“Druid.”

“What-the-fuck-ever.” I was half tempted to march out of here and deal with the problem myself. I’d never met a lizard that could stand up to a double-barrel Winchester. “Hurry it up. I gotta dragon to kill.”

Dotty snorted. “If you want to get eaten. You don’t approach a bigger, more heavily armed enemy straight on if you want to live. Karen, are you any closer to figuring out why the dragon came to the bank?”

“Bet it was to put somethin’ in the new vault,” I grumbled. “Two years I worked that job. Two years. That whole damned buildin’s made of my blood, sweat, and tears. And what did they do when the vault was done being installed? Called in a mage. As though I’d install an underground vault that wasn’t bomb proof. Fucking mages.”

“It isn’t new, Bill.” Dotty’s eyes narrowed. I briefly thought about that knife she’d produced from nowhere and gulped. “It hasn’t been new in twenty years.”

“Yeah, well, it’s good enough to call it new. Best damn vault I ever built.”

Her arm—the one with the blade up its sleeve—twitched. “It’s the only vault you’ve ever built. You’re a general contractor. Not an engineer, not a locksmith.”

Keeping my mouth shut would have been the smart move. But so was not picking a fight with a dragon. “Yeah, well, experience trumps fancy job titles.”

“Which is why you should shut up and let those with more experience do the planning.”

“Oh, move over, you big lump,” Karen said, elbowing Jeremiah out of the office chair and taking his place. She adjusted her glasses, flexed her fingers, then started to type with just her two index fingers. “First of all, let’s see what’s happening downtown.”

“The news is off, Karen,” Jeremiah looked grumpy as he pulled up another chair.

“I know that. But I bet the kitten-cam isn’t.”

“The what?” I asked.

“The kitten-cam, down at the pet shop. So that people can watch the kittens play. It’s pointed right at the window of the pet supply store, which is across the street from the bank. See?”

Sure enough, a low-resolution video feed appeared with half a dozen kittens frolicking in the foreground. I wrinkled my nose. Cats always reminded me of my ex-wife. Tough little bastards, just like her.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Dotty said, going over to pat Karen on the shoulder. “Good job.”

Peering past the romping mounds of fur, we watched an unmarked black van carefully avoid a pile of still burning debris as it pulled up in front of the bank. Four men in slick suits similar to Vanadel’s hopped out of it carrying large sets of bolt cutters, welders, and other heavy equipment slung under their arms. Behind them came a man in a floppy brimmed hat wielding a gnarled staff topped by a green crystal. Damn mages. Race traitors, the lot of them.

“Guess Amazon still delivers to warzones,” Jeremiah quipped.

For once, I didn’t laugh. “It ain’t Amazon. Those cutters are for big hinges, and the welder will melt the pins beneath them. They’re after the vault, like I said.”

“Even a broken Bill is right twice a day,” Dotty said.

“That’s not how that sayin’—”

Gertrude burst out laughing. It would have been a pleasant enough sound, except the noise struck with the force of a jet engine—the kind that’s on fire and about to crash. What was up with that broad’s lungs?

Before any of us could scream, Dotty clamped a palm over Gertrude’s mouth, whispering in her ear until she calmed down. Maybe we could turn her loose on Vanadel. Just tell a joke and he’d be curled up on the floor, blood leaking from his ears. What a nice thought . . .

Karen tapped the keyboard, replacing the cat-cam footage with a cutesy adoption certificate. Red yarn ringed the form in flowery swirls and whorls, and the name of the shop, Charlotte’s Cat Cafe, was printed at the top in gold script.

A snort escaped my nostrils. “I almost thought you were useful with that cat-cam, Karen. Almost.”

“Prepare to eat your socks, Mr. Prissy Britches. Look at the name on the adoption paper. It pays to follow all the local kitty pages on Instagram, that it does.”

I opened my mouth to call bullshit, but then I squinted as Karen zoomed out on what turned out to be a picture, not a form. It featured a beaming shopkeeper, holding a belligerent fluffball and standing next to an impeccably dressed man who looked like he would rather eat slugs than smile for the camera.

“Kathy’s niece—you know, the one who works—”

“At the bank,” we chorused.

Karen sniffed, affronted. “Well, she told Kathy that the nice-dressed man who came to the bank had lunch at Charlotte’s Cat Cafe after. And you know Charlotte. She always snaps pictures of patrons to put on her Insta. I figured a nice looking fellow like this was sure to merit a pic. And look, he adopted a kitty. How sweet.”

“Kareeeeeen, get to the point,” Dotty warned, her foot tapping against the shabby carpet.

“I am, I am. As I was saying, if you look here on the post, you can see it got way more likes than most of Charlotte’s posts, and someone commented on it, and she has a profile on Scale Scanner.” Karen was clicking away as she spoke, demonstrating. “Anyway, almost all of her posts on SS are about dragons, so I looked for her #MyFavoriteDragon, and ta-dah.”

A flourish, a click, and I was staring at the same well-dressed man, but this time photographed in front of an elegant desk under the Orlando Times. Next to the picture was a headline: Tvothar the Tempestuous Declares Bankruptcy. Plushie Company Goes Under, Yacht Mysteriously Sinks, and Malibu Mansion Burns Down. Read More On Page 19.

“Well shoot me dead and raise me on Sunday,” Jeremiah whispered. Even in a world of fantasy creatures, the ceiling-tall giant still dropped a religious reference every now and again.

“Yeah.” I poked the man’s face on the computer screen, prompting Karen to shoo my hand away. “This bloke is pullin’ a scam! He faked his losses and hid everything in the new—”

“Old,” everyone else chorused again.

“—vault, and now some rival’s figured it out. And us . . . we’re the shit stains stuck in the middle of their turf war.”

“So that about wraps up why Williston’s gone to crap,” Dotty said, standing and popping her knuckles. “Still doesn’t get us a lick closer to bringing down a ten-ton mountain of claws, fangs, and fire.”

“We could call this ‘Tvothar the Tempestuous.’ We’re still online since we’re outside of town, so he’s just a phone call away,” Jeremiah suggested.

“I wouldn’t mind meeting Tvothar,” Karen said, eyes twinkling.

“Keep it in your pants, Karen. We can’t have two dragons fighting over Williston. Nothing would be left,” Dotty pointed out. “This requires stealth and strategy.”

She turned to Jeremiah. Slowly, the rest of us did too.

He reached up to rub the back of his neck. “What?”

“You’re the expert at defeating dragons and leading raiding parties, right?” Dotty asked.

“Sure, in games. But unless you’ve got some level 120 mythic gear stashed away behind that stack of Depends in your closet, that ain’t gonna do us much good. And IRL? I was just an insurance salesman.”

I gestured around. “Don’t know about level 120 gizmos, but how about five level 80+ born-and-bred Floridians, the contents of a nursing home, and a pickup truck?”

Jeremiah looked us up and down, grimacing as he passed over Karen and wincing when Gertrude waved enthusiastically. “Guess you’ll have to do.”

Talkin’ as Smooth as a Scale

Vanadel

Everything was going according to plan.

Within a few hours, I would be sitting on a treasure horde to rival any in North America. Better yet, Tvothar would never be able to lift a finger against me for the theft, because to do so would be to admit to the IRS, and the nightmare monsters that ran it, that he hadn’t “lost” his entire fortune. His scam would become my means of success.

It was finally coming together.

I smiled as I surveyed the bank floor from the broad window of the second-story manager’s office. My new peons were doing as told, lining up to give me every insignificant pittance they owned and providing my team the perfect cover to tackle our real objective: the vault. Dragon raids were commonplace and while human authorities complained, the council of dragons considered them nothing but a misdemeanor. Now taking another dragon’s horde…that was a more serious offense.

And Tvothar would never be able to get even without admitting to the Cosmic IRS that he had committed fraud.

My plan was perfect.

There were even some old coots at the back of the queue, likely here to shower me with their pensions in exchange for saving some puny grandchild or other human triviality. Caring for one’s young was a human weakness we dragons did not share. Fending for ourselves made us stronger. Their obedience was butter on the steak.

One of my underlings knocked on the open door, then cleared her throat. “Hey boss, they sent me up to tell you that they’re still working on the safe. The magical lock is giving Marvin a run for his money.”

I turned, eyebrows drawing together as I brushed a non-existent piece of lint off my suit jacket. “Tell that second-rate mage that he has until sundown to crack it or he’ll be dinner. I will not allow for delays.”

My underling gulped. “Got it. I’ll let them know.”

I leaned back in the former manager’s chair, savoring the way the built-in Shiatsu rollers worked my neck muscles. Hours, days, and weeks of planning had left them full of knots, both in my human and dragon forms. But here we were at last: a magic barrier and a few locks all that remained between me and my ascension to a position of power. I closed my eyes and imagined the literal lake of gold I’d soon be swimming in.

Another knock sounded on the door, snapping me from my pleasant daydream. I jumped to my feet with an ember-laced roar. “If Marvin has another complaint, I’ll flambé him and blast down the barrier myself!”

A different lackey stood at the door, accompanied by two ancient humans. Well, not ancient by dragon standards, but decrepit and doddering by the pathetic measurement of a lifespan these stuck-up apes possessed. My nostrils flared.

“You’re supposed to take their belongings on the main floor,” I chastised my cringing lackey. “Why have you brought these two . . . wrinkle-bags up here?”

The shorter one’s face went red. “Hey, my skin looks great for my—”

His outburst was silenced by the taller one’s elbow. Ignoring his partner’s coughing, he stepped forward, removed his hat, and bowed. At least one of them understood proper decorum.

“One minute,” I said, feeling somewhat amused. A flick of my finger sent my subordinate scurrying away, and one of my barrel-chested guards closed the office door behind him.

“One minute is all I’ll need,” the tall geezer replied in a thick southern drawl. “My name is Jeremiah Lester, insurance agent to the Magical World.” He paused and handed a card to my subordinate, who brought it to me with their head lowered. Gold trim, professional formatting, and great references. Possibly the real deal.

“I saw on the TV that you’ve recently come into possession of this here mighty fine bank and have it on good authority that it’s about to make you much richer than it appears.”

I stiffened. How did he know? Was it a bluff? Was this someone’s idea of a joke? I was tempted to roast this impetuous mortal where he stood, but that would get soot on my new carpets. Besides, if this were some trap laid in advance by Tvothar, I needed to find out what it entailed. “Go on.”

Jeremiah sat in one of the elegant chairs on the other side of the desk. The motion was accompanied with cracks, pops, and a long groan. Pathetic creature. “It’s truly an honor to meet you, Mr. Vehement. You won’t regret hearing me out.”

I pulled a gold pocket-watch from my breast pocket and popped the lid. “Thirty seconds. I suggest you hurry up.”

“Then I’ll cut to the chase. My previous client, who shall not be named but who we both know recently stashed something of great value in this bank, isn’t keen on the IRS poking their nose into Williston. Way I see it, there are two ways this plays out. One, you make off with the hoard, only to realize you can’t spend a damn cent of it without the IRS linking it back to the millions he-who-shall-not-be-named was supposed to have lost. Sure, Mr. T would get in trouble for fraud, but you’d be on the hook for theft. And,” Jeremiah waggled a wizened finger, “if my previous client’s gonna lose everything anyway, what’s to stop him from siccing those interdimensional tentacle monsters at the IRS on your scent?”

The fire in my belly began to churn. I’d planned for all this. What did he know that I didn’t? “What’s the alternate outcome?”

Spreading his lips in a silken smile, Jeremiah rubbed his hands together. “Doubling down, of course. Why be satisfied with one insurance scam when you can pull off two? If you take out a policy on your bank—which I can put in your name with a tiny little signature—and then it happens to have a tragic…let’s say…coffee-maker fire…well, that mishap becomes a payout ten times what you’d make on he-who-shall-not-be-named’s hoard. My client would empty out anything that survived the fire as soon as he found out so no one poked their nose in, and we could declare whatever amount you want in your insurance policy. Everybody wins. Better yet, it’ll be yours free and clear, and Mr. T would likely do all the bribing necessary to keep the IRS’s tentacles out of it. Whaddya think?” A pen and paper materialized in Jeremiah’s hands as he leaned forward, his smile becoming greasier by the second.

I looked at my pocket-watch. I’d let the flatterer go on for two minutes longer than I’d allotted. There was no denying that his proposal was intriguing, and my hidden scales tingled at the prospect of more gold. However . . .

“There’s too much risk. I haven’t had time to vet you, your uncouth companion,” I gestured at the scrunched up face of the other man, “or the Williston code of law. As tempting as your offer is, I must decline. Besides, I can’t trust a man when I don’t know what he wants from a trade.”

“That’s simple,” the short and rather irritating man still standing by the door retorted. “For you to get the hell out of our town.”

Enough. My good humor was spent. I made a shooing motion, making sure to let my fingers morph to jagged claws. “Not happening. Guards, see these gentlemen back to the main floor. Treat Jeremiah with respect, but feel free to rough the other one up.”

“Don’t even think about it, you—” the shorter of the two growled, only to be shut up by Jeremiah elbowing him in the ribs.

The crooked insurance salesman turned and tipped his hat to me. “If you change your mind, I’ll be across the street in the cat cafe. Good luck with the curse.”

Curse?

What curse?

“Get me that fucking mage,” I yelled as the door closed behind Jeremiah.

Odds and Ends to End an Occupation

Bill

“You’re late,” I said as I opened the door to the bank’s boiler room for Dotty, Karen, and Gertrude. The pickup was parked just outside in the narrow alley, loaded full of the supplies we had scrounged from inside the old folks’ home. There were wire cutters, cans of paint, coils of IV tubing, a stack of scary movies, a crutch, some cardboard, and a battered VHS player that had seen better days. Karen also had a cookie tin in the basket of her walker.

“You try baking with Karen and still be on time,” Dotty said. I reached for the tin, but she slapped my hand away. “Bill, you have the memory of a goldfish.”

“It’s not like I don’t already take laxatives,” I pointed out. After that encounter with the damned dragon trying to steal our pensions, I could use a cookie.

“Trust me. Gertrude added the good stuff to these. Even I don’t know exactly what will happen. So unless you want to be hallucinating on the can for the foreseeable future, leave them be. Besides, your cholesterol is high enough as it is.” Dotty hobbled past me, followed by Karen. Gertrude walked behind them, clutching a paintbrush and grinning like a loon from ear to ear.

I was left to unload the truck. Which, though I’d never admit it, was a hell of a lot harder than it used to be. Damn sciatica.

Kooky Old Ladies With Cookies

Vanadel

“You, you, and you, with me.”

I stormed down the grand central stairwell, pointing at every sunglass-wearing goon I saw. Some fell into line behind me, while others went ahead, clearing a path through the whimpering masses of peasants who’d come to pay me homage. I didn’t listen to their pleas; didn’t pause to see what precious family heirlooms or trinkets they’d brought as offerings.

If there was the slightest chance Tvothar had cursed his vault, everything was ruined.

“Cookie, your lordship?”

My slitted eyes barely registered the silver-haired matron. She’d planted her gem-studded locomotion device in the center of the chaos and was passing out cookies from a heart-shaped tin whose lid read, Eat your heart out.

“No.”

Brushing past her, I marched down the hall behind the tellers’ stations, heading toward the elevator to the vault. I noted with displeasure that several of my guards held her chocolate-coated confections. A growl started to form in my throat, but I choked it down. Discipline could come later, after the vault was secure and all rumors of this curse had been put to rest.

Dragons could incinerate armies, lay waste to cities, and tear down colossal golems and gods alike. But even we were helpless against curses—against cackling wraiths whose spectral forms shrugged off our flames like water. If that was what we were dealing with . . .

“Faster,” I urged, picking up my pace. “No underhanded curse is going to be the end of me.”

Don’t Mess With Dotty

Bill

The damned dragon wasn’t an idiot, and it irked me. There were two suit-clad traitors guarding the electrical panel in the basement. Fortunately, I had built this building and knew where those wires led.

While Karen went around distributing cookies and Gertrude did…whatever it was that she thought she was supposed to do with that paint, Dotty and I had found the room above the electrical panel and cut through the drywall.

My work was going slowly. Not because I’d forgotten how to do my job—hell would freeze over before that happened. No, it was because I kept shooting nervous glances at the motionless body of the seven-foot-tall, three-hundred-pound brute Dotty had subdued with nothing but an IV line and that increasingly ominous pocket-knife.

I sliced open the wire shell and began splicing in our special set of switches. “So, um, Dotty . . .”

“You’re mumbling, Bill. Speak up.”

My eyes tracked the knife as she tossed it in the air and caught it by the blade between two fingers. “You, uh, ever take any self-defense courses? Maybe a class at the Y?”

“Take? No.”

“Then—”

“Teach, yes. Mostly SEALs, a few Rangers, even some CIA spooks. They whined a lot, bunch of prissy little babies.”

Images of highly trained killers groaning on the ground in front of Dotty flashed through my mind. Sweet Jesus, who was I living with? I finished with the electrical and moved my shaking fingers over to the PA system line.

“So you were special forces? Do any missions I might have heard of?”

Dotty stopped tossing the knife and stared at me with two extra daggers. “Do you know anything about the dictator who set himself up in central Africa in the 80s? Had about five hundred men, a tank company, and a bunch of SAMs?”

I shook my head. Nothing like that ever aired on the news.

“Good.” Dotty nodded. “Means I did my job right.”

Wire. Have to focus on the wire. Whistling softly, I resolved not to say another word.

Marvin The Malcontent Magus

Vanadel

“Why haven’t you cracked this vault yet, Marvin?” I snarled as I descended the last step and caught sight of the sweating mage standing in front of the vault doors.

He jumped at the sound of my voice, the flaps of his wrinkled mage robes billowing open as he turned. “Oh shit.”

Mortal ears might not have picked it up, but I was no cowering human. “Where’s my money, Marvin?” I stalked toward him. “You promised me you’d have this thing open in under an hour when I hired you.” Standing nearly a head shorter than me, the pudgy man took a step back as I came to tower over him. His throat bobbed, but I didn’t give him a chance to speak. “I sent you here ahead of our arrival to determine what we were up against. Nothing but basic wards, you said. Easy as apple pie, you promised. So where is my new hoard?”

Marvin wiped his hands on his robes, only adding to the other sweat stains. “I’m sorry, Mr. Vehement. The lights keep flickering down here. Can’t write out runes if I can’t see them.”

As if on cue, the fluorescent lighting went out.

At the same time, the radio on one of my underling’s belts crackled on. Out of it, creepy, high-pitched laughter filled the darkened space.

I whipped around. “Who’s broadcasting that?”

The lights came back on.

“Holy shit, what was that?” another of my men shrieked. He was pale and clutching his midriff. “I felt something crawl down my spine. Boss, I don’t feel too good.”

“Me neither,” another said, swaying.

The lights went out again.

I snagged the front of Marvin’s robes and yanked him up so that when the fluorescent bulbs flickered back on, we were eye to eye. “In your lackluster research, you wouldn’t have happened to overlook a curse, would you?”

Caterwauling For Combat Advantage

Bill

Bright paint coated Gertrude’s arms, clothes, and the walkie-talkie she kept screeching into at odd intervals. I’d asked her to warn me when she was about to let loose, but she either hadn’t understood me or didn’t care.

“Aaaawwwwoooorrrrggaaaaa!”

My hands leapt for my ears. “Earplugs! Why didn’t I grab a pair of earplugs from my nightstand?”

“You’re basically deaf, Bill,” Dotty remarked from her post by the door. She made no move to protect her hearing, which I now suspected had been lost during some artillery barrage in a third world shithole. Either that or the iron maiden was just immune to all sorts of damage, ear-blasts included.

After thirty seconds—what a pair of lungs that broad had—Gertrude stopped warbling. I snatched the walkie-talkie from her before she could give another encore and shoved it against the pair of cheap RadioShack speakers we’d connected to our VHS player and the bank’s PA system. As I did so, Dotty slipped out of the room, holding IV tubing and a fistful of catheters.

Trying not to think about what unspeakable horrors she was going to commit, I jabbed the play button.

“Hope they hate Eraserhead as much as I did.”

For Whom the ‘Curse’ Tolls

Vanadel

“Uggghhh. I can’t take it anymore . . .”

Two of my guards broke rank and fled back up the hallway, doubled over or slouched against the wall to remain upright. I looked at those who remained and jerked my head after those running. “Well? Stop them and figure out what in Kelviel’s name is happening in my bank.”

They raced away immediately. Whatever supernatural phenomena were pouring off this curse were trivial next to the literal roasting I’d give them. I turned my attention to Marvin.

“You’re going to begin scribing a counter-spell—”

The lights went out again, dropping us into an abyssal darkness. I could still see, but Marvin began flailing, trying to activate the flashlight of his cellphone. Sniveling simpleton! I flung him to the floor. “What mage can’t use a simple flare spell?”

“Your job description only asked that I be able to overwrite a common defensive barrier.”

“And a fine job you did of that, third-rate.”

Sparks lit the air with every breath I took. But before I could fling another insult, a sudden crackling erupted from the ceiling and every adjoining room. Eerie music followed, half banshee’s wail, half siren’s call. I plugged my ears at once—not with my fingers, but with scales I grew across my ear holes. It wasn’t unheard of for curses to be tied to such specters, and listening to their cries was the last thing you wanted to do.

Ignoring Marvin, who was writhing on the ground, I rushed up the passageway. The vault could wait. Breaking the curse came first. I took the steps two at a time and emerged on the main level to find an unsettling sight.

The main hall was empty. Where had the humans gone? Had they been spirited away? I took one hesitant step, then another, my eyes darting in all directions as I struggled to decipher the multitude of crude glowing runes coating the entire bank interior. Hexagrams across the teller windows, dripping as if drawn from blood. Cackling skulls wrapping the columns beneath the second story. And marring the mosaic floor, a warning in Draconic read Leave and never return.

Unbidden, the scales beneath my skin began to quiver. My twin hearts pumped ever faster, their erratic vibrations a counterpoint to the surreal stillness of the bank. There was no mistaking it anymore. No denying the grim truth. This was a curse, and a particularly potent one at that.

“Guards!” I shouted, lowering my ear-scales to listen for their replies. A chorus of groans came from the far side of the room. Carefully skirting the flickering enchantments, I made my way to the source of the noise: the public bathrooms. My nostrils recoiled upon entering. What a horrid stench. Vomit, feces, and . . . was that death? Zombification?

“N-noooo . . . Make it stop . . .”

“End it now. Oh, this pain . . .”

“Get away, demons!”

Never had I smelt anything so foul as the effects of this curse. And worse still, every cry was accompanied by a sickening squelch, like the splattering of human viscera after a particularly nasty explosion.

Enough of this. They were just hired hands and clearly beyond saving. My only hope was that whatever the curse had done to them took longer to work on a dragon than a human. Slipping and sliding, I dashed across the paint-strewn lobby, blasted the doors from their hinges with a stream of fire, and paused in the entryway as another fiendish peel of hysterical laughter echoed off the walls. With morbid curiosity, I looked back over my shoulder and saw her. The source of this wretched hex.

She must have been some sort of ghoul or ghost. A stained nightgown hung off wiry shoulders, graying wisps of threadbare hair sticking up in all directions. Her sunken eyes stared through my very soul. The lights went out again, and I could see it then: the splotchy neon glow of her skin that matched the cursed runes.

She opened her mouth and out came a warbling cry of pure evil.

What demon from the underdark had Tvothar allied himself with? What creature of terrible power could strike fear even into a heart as steadfast as mine?

The eerie music swelled, then crash.

A body fell from the balcony above us. My eyes traced up from the twisted form of one of my hired men lying in the center of the runes. There, on the balcony, backlit by a blinding light, was a shadowed form twice as tall as a man carrying a huge scythe.

Death himself.

I turned tail and fled.

An Arthritic Angel of Death

Bill

I cursed as Dotty clambered off my shoulders and threw aside the blanket she had used as a cloak. An orthopedic crutch lay on the ground where she had dropped it, a scythe-shaped piece of cardboard hastily taped to the end.

“I wrenched my back,” I complained. “Couldn’t you lay off the cupcakes?”

My head swam as she cuffed my ear. “Muscle weighs more than fat, lard-ball.”

“Enough bickering, you two,” Karen said as her walker emerged from the gloom-filled office. “Unless you plan to get a room. Then I’m all for it.”

I looked at Dotty, and our eyes met. Then both of us gagged.

“Ain’t happenin’.”

“Ditto.”

Chuckling, Karen scooted herself over to the railing. She surveyed the damage we’d wrought before calling out to Gertrude, who was still waving the billowy folds of her hospital gown like a ghost. “Good job, Trudy. If you want more work as a spirit, I know a guy.”

Rubbing my back and muttering profanities, I joined her at the rail. “How’d you learn to write Draconic?” I asked, pointing at the bright, blocky lettering.

“Oh, that,” Karen said, waving a hand. “Used Google Translate. One of my grandkids loves dragons and I had to write out their birthday cake icing in Draconic last year.”

“Karen, I never thought I’d say this, but I’m really quite impressed,” Dotty said. “Now let’s collect any stragglers and get out before Vanadel sets this place on fire.”

My good mood took a slight dip south. “Does he have to burn down my bank?”

“You could always build another,” Dotty suggested.

I thought about it for a moment. “Nah. Damn immigrants would just find another way to ruin it.”

She rolled her eyes. “Immigrants again? Can’t you come up with something more original?”

“Damn dragons,” I retorted. “There, I’m being more specific. Happy?”

Dotty started laughing. “Never change, Bill. Never change.”

Sign on the Dotted Line

Vanadel

I stabbed my finger, squeezed blood onto the page, and signed the document with a shaky flourish. Death and his mistress still danced in front of my eyes, still cackled in my ears. I couldn’t be rid of this town and bank fast enough.

Across the doily and cat sticker adorned table, Jeremiah Lester followed suit with his own signature. “And that’s a wrap, Mr. Vehement. Are you sure you won’t stay with us for a while longer, seeing as you can’t come back once you leave? We have a pie festival this weekend, and my friend Karen makes the most scrumptious sweet potato pie you’ll ever—”

“Is our business concluded?” I asked.

“Yes, except for, you know . . .” He left the implication open. Nodding, I rose, walked to the cafe entrance, and stared across the street at the monument to my failure. Yet I didn’t feel shame, only fear of whatever inhabited its cursed halls.

And now it was time for me to burn it down. Nothing mere humans built would survive dragon fire. They were too cheap. It would be my sweet revenge against Tvothar for trying to curse me. That bastard deserved what was coming to him. He would lose his hidden horde, I would become rich, and no one would be the wiser.

I clutched my copy of the insurance paperwork, putting the bank vault’s contents in my name. My ticket to riches and a clean break. I’d just tell the dragon council I was here to check on my assets. It would be perfect, and I’d even get to burn it down on my way out of town.

Good riddance to that unholy bank.

Good riddance to my useless crew.

Most of all, good riddance to fucking Williston, Florida.

Vehement’s Valueless Venture

Bill

Karen, Dotty, Gertrude, and I stepped out of the back room of the cat cafe. Behind us, our new friend Marvin peeked out to see if the coast was clear. I had found him down by the vault during our sweep of the building and he’d very graciously thanked us for getting rid of the dragon.

“Is he really gone?” the mage asked.

“Near as I can tell,” Jeremiah said, stretching in the cat-patterned brocade armchair. Picking up a piece of paper, he waved it in front of us. “Got it sealed in blood. Vanadel the Vehement will never again set foot in Williston once he leaves. His fancy new insurance scam isn’t worth the paper it’s printed on except as a souvenir, but this blood oath’s as good as gold.”

“And the video?” Karen asked.

“Ready to upload as soon as Vanadel stops blocking the internet. As long as Tvothar can look past the kittens, he’ll see Vanadel going into the bank to rob it, and will get a front-row seat to him setting it on fire. Vanadel won’t be safe to crawl out from under a rock any time in the next century.”

We gathered around the window. Karen picked up one of the mewing kittens. Dotty sneezed. Across the street, Vanadel had transformed into a scaly dragon with wings as wide as an airplane’s.

“Are we sure the vault will withstand dragon fire? Our pensions are in there,” Jeremiah asked, sounding nervous for the first time in this entire operation.

“Course it will. I installed it,” I replied, crossing my arms. “Ain’t nothin’ gonna get into that vault.”

“Plus the protective runes are still active,” Marvin chimed in timidly. “Seeing as I . . . kind-of-sorta failed to do my job . . .”

“And a fine job of failing you did, dearie,” Karen said while pinching his plump cheek. “I should introduce you to my granddaughter. Every relationship she’s been in has failed, so you’d be a perfect match.”

Dotty patted me on the elbow as flames began to roar across the street. “Any last words, Bill?”

“Fuckin’ dragons.”

A Most Expensive Barbeque

Tvothar

I didn’t bother taking the long way to Williston, even though my private jet had its own mini-bar. As soon as I saw the video going viral on Scale Scanner—posted by an anonymous @FriendOfDragons—I took wing and launched myself into the air.

Two hours later, I crashed down on Main Street and reverted to my human form. Before me stood three different piles of ash and debris, one gaudy throne built of bones, and a bright red pick-up truck parked alongside the largest mound of charred timbers. Five elderly humans lounged on the trailer-bed with an open bag of marshmallows and several long sticks between them.

“Told ya he’d get here quick,” said a squat, well-muscled man. He had a beer in one hand and an official looking document in the other. “Hi, I’m Bill, these are my friends Dotty, Karen, Jeremiah, and Gertrude.”

This mortal foolishness was why I preferred cats to people. “What happened to the bank?”

“I’m not great with arts and crafts, but you might be able to glue it back together from the million or so smoking pieces sitting over yonder.” This time, the speaker was a silver-haired matron with a bunch of fake gemstones pasted all over her walker. “Vanadel did quite a number on it. It was a pity, but to buy our scam, we had to let him burn it down.”

“But if you’re looking for the vault, it’s right down there—and still in one, slightly singed piece, I’d like to add,” the squat one said again. “Best vault I ever built.”

All the others groaned.

“You’re going to crow about that until you croak, aren’t you?” the other man asked.

This drivel was making my claws itch.

“What happened here, humans?”

“Didn’t you watch the video?” the walker-wielding woman asked. “We made sure to upload it in 1080p so you could see all the gory little details.”

“I think he’s asking why it happened, Karen.” The sternest of the bunch, a firmly built woman flipping a knife like it was a mere coin, jerked her free thumb at the tall man. “You're gonna want to ask him for the details.”

“I don’t care who tells me!” I roared. “Just make sense of,” I waved a hand at the biggest pile of rubble, which was still smoldering in places, “this.”

The last of the group, dressed in a paint-splattered robe, giggled.

“Damn dragons. Always so impatient.” The squat one rose, set aside his beverage, and approached me with the document held in his extended hand. “Read this and roast a marshmallow. Might calm ya down a bit, and it’s a long story.”

I snatched the document and began scanning it. Roast a marshmallow and calm down, they said? Whose burning investments did they think they were enjoying their cookout on top of? I had specifically chosen this middle-of-nowhere bank because nothing short of dragon fire would be able to knock it down and because no self-respecting dragon would step foot in a place as insignificant as Williston, Florida. Yet there was the building. On fire.

I focused back on the papers I was holding. Most of the page was wordy legalese. Only two things jumped out at me: the name Vanadel, one of my younger rivals, and his agreement to leave Williston forever in exchange for the bank’s insurance payout.

“This clears up nothing!” I groused upon finishing.

The humans exchanged grins. Then, a marshmallow adorned poker in his hand instead of a beer, the squat man launched into a story. “Well, it all started when a dragon flew into town and torched the Dollar General . . .”

Christopher Russell (native of Williamsburg, VA) is a 28-year-old mechanical and aerospace engineer (graduate of the University of Virginia) who has loved reading since the day he picked up a book and writing since he could scrawl his first letters. After voraciously consuming titles from every genre—ranging from Star Wars to Lord of the Rings—he decided to combine the expertise from his professional education, passions, and Christian faith into a fantasy epic bridging the gap between magic and science. He currently resides in Charlottesville, Virginia, with his loyal dog, Vallen, named after the protagonist of his first work. For behind-the-scenes information on all of Christopher Russell’s works, visit www.christopherrussellauthor.com.

Allegra grew up in a small village in northern Tuscany as the daughter of two artists. She grew up on the works of J.R.R Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, Phillip Pullman, Frank Herbert, and many others, all read aloud to her while she drew and played make-believe. She began to write at the age of eight and hasn't stopped since.

As a disabled woman and staunch LGBTQ ally, Allegra hopes to write engaging, diverse, and representative Fantasy and Science Fiction, where people who do not often see themselves center stage get the chance to shine.

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PREMONITION AND PREJUDICE

By R.L. Davennor

“Warriors don’t ask

‘How many enemies are there?’

They only ask

‘Where are they?’”

Andromeda Mathoku’s fingers traced the ornate embellishments carved into her massive door. She may not have been able to see them but could picture the beasts clear as day: a pair of mondrákons, each with a magnificent set of wings to complement their long, sharp talons. More than anything, she wished that the powerful sentinels guarding her chambers were real.

She should have been eager to get inside and greet her visitor. One push was all it would take.

But she hesitated.

Three years. Three years, and not once in all that time had Luke come to visit her. He hadn’t even written or sent a messenger—not that she’d expected him to, especially since the Seize of Dragons, but it still didn’t lessen the sting over not hearing from her own son. Andromeda already knew most of what he’d have to say; in the past hour alone, their future conversation had played over a dozen times in her mind. She’d foreseen it, just as her foresight showed her most events before they occurred in real life. Though the specifics weren’t clear, Luke needed something. He wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t desperate…if she wasn’t his last resort. Andromeda knew she was far worse.

As an Enchantress with no dragon, consumed by her magic and hidden in some faraway Temple, she was his shame.

To shake the unpleasant truth, Andromeda resumed the ritual that kept her from losing her mind completely: the one she’d perfected during her many hours spent in the padded room. She’d only just emerged from the place she retreated to when her visions were all but eating her alive. There was nothing there but darkness and the padding on every surface that ensured she wouldn’t hurt herself. If only someone could pad the true prison…

Her mind.

But of course they couldn’t, so her ritual would have to do.

Scratch. Bump. Tap. Repeat.

Itch the arm—the elbow, where the marks would be easier to conceal—strike her head against the nearest surface, then tap her bare foot upon the floor. Perhaps gnaw her knuckle for some tactile sensation, though she more often than not drew blood. A necessary sacrifice.

Anything to keep the voices at bay.

Andromeda exhaled through gritted teeth. Best to keep her breaths steady, or Luke would glimpse nothing but her madness. He already thought so little of her…she couldn’t have him thinking even less. No.

She wouldn’t.

As her mind flooded with screams from some other vision demanding her attention, Andromeda opened the door.

What struck her first wasn’t the snarl of a dragon or the faint charge in the air…it was the smell. One that made her knees weak. She might not have detected it had she still possessed her sight, but the loss of one sense had amplified those remaining. Her room smelled like the top of a mountain peak after heavy rain, mixed with lichen and the faintest trace of pine. Dust lingered in the air, but not just any dust—mountain dust.

Home.

The familiarity and comfort was more than enough to drive away the visions but worked a little too well. Andromeda shot out an arm to steady herself just in time, her wrinkled hands gripping the door frame for support as her legs buckled beneath her.

“Mother!” came Luke’s concerned hiss, and he was by her side in an instant. Palms much stronger than her own gripped her shoulders, and before Andromeda could protest, he’d guided her to a chair. The electric sparks dancing up Luke’s arms didn’t shock her skin until he pulled away, and she cursed under her breath. How she’d birthed a storm-summoner, Andromeda could never know; the ability hadn’t been seen in her bloodline for three generations.

“Put that away.”

“You know I can’t.”

They were back to silence. Luke moved away, resuming his earlier position near his dragon, but despite his apparent need for space, Andromeda flicked her unseeing eyes in the pair’s direction. If she’d been a better mother, perhaps she may have been more curious to know what her son now looked like. Surely, he’d changed in the decade since she’d gone completely blind, but it wasn’t as though she’d have any way of knowing.

Lykaer, though, wouldn’t look much different than Andromeda remembered. Mondrákons matured slowly, with the only exception being those bonded to a human. Lykaer had reached her full size around the time Andromeda had left the mountains for good; she didn’t need sight to tell her the room was hardly large enough to accommodate Lykaer’s sheer mass, despite being built for it. Though the mondrákon’s scales were the customary dull hues that most of her kind sported, she did have one distinct feature that Andromeda recalled: bright violet eyes. With a wingspan to rival Ilthe’s, Lykaer had been a sight to behold.

Andromeda’s gut twisted into knots at the way her mind had wandered. No. Don’t think about Ilthe.

Scratch. Bump. Tap. Gnaw.

Repeat.

Andromeda performed her tics without being conscious of her movements—not until her mouth went dry. Her skin tasted of blood and sweat. The former made sense, given the thinness of her flesh and from where she’d come, but how the latter was possible given the chill of the night, Andromeda didn’t know. It only got colder and drier with each passing second, but she refused to be the one to speak first. He’d come to see her, and Luke could spit out what he wanted or leave. He was the mondrákon Enchanter and ought to start acting like it.

“Well?” Andromeda demanded, crossing her arms to better keep her robe in place. “Out with it.”

“Out with what?” Luke spoke over Lykaer’s snarl; the mondrákon was clearly offended by not having been greeted. “You know full well why we’ve come. Do I really have to say it?”

Andromeda stilled; already, this was going differently than she’d foreseen. She’d been so anxious over her son’s arrival that she’d nearly forgotten the most crucial detail—in addition to being a storm-summoner, Luke was every bit the seer she was. Given that he had Lykaer, not only was his power amplified, he had far better control over the visions than she’d had in nearly twenty years. He could reach within himself and guide where his wandering eye led or stifle the visions completely if the situation required him to focus on the present…and more. Just as she’d taught him.

“You…truly don’t know, do you?”

Andromeda’s silence must have damned her, but before she could interrupt, Luke beat her to it.

“Spirits, you’re in worse shape than I thought.”

“You thought?” Andromeda snarled, three years of fury awakened in an instant. She rose from her chair and took a step toward him, pointing in his direction. “You’d know if you actually cared enough to come and visit me. Where have you been?”

Luke kept his voice even. “Serving as your heir.”

“Don’t lie to me—I know there’s more. Ever since the damn Seize, you erected a barrier around yourself so powerful that not even I could break through… Trust me, I tried. You’ve been hiding something.”

Silence.

So she’d been right; the knowledge infuriated Andromeda further. For three years, she hadn’t glimpsed Luke in a single vision until this morning, and by that time he’d been on his way here—far too late to stop him coming. “And still you think I’d know, even with that damn barrier? I may be old, but I haven’t lost my mind yet, boy.”

“I never said that you had—”

“What could possibly have been worth conjuring a shroud that powerful—”

“I’d like to show you, if you’ll let me.”

Mondrákon. Luke had switched to the mondrákon tongue. Hearing it aloud startled her so much that she collapsed back into her seat, her thoughts immediately consumed by the singular voice she could never escape. It enveloped her senses, dragging her so deep into a vision that not even Luke would be able to reach her.

So much for gathering her thoughts in the padded room. She was in a new prison now—one where she had no control over her coming and going.

My andílon . . . why do you torment yourself?

Don't andílon me, Andromeda shot back in the darkness. She may have been trapped there until the voice released her, but she refused to be referred to in such intimate language…especially by something that wasn’t real. It was the worst, most invasive kind of parasite, and it refused to let her go.

It saddens me that you would think of your bondmate so.

“You’re not my bondmate,” Andromeda snapped aloud, still in mondrákon. “Ilthe is no more.” It had been more than twenty years since her dragon’s demise, but she still couldn’t bring herself to say the unblemished truth.

Ilthe—her partner, her life, her soul—was dead. And no matter how much either of them willed it, there was no bringing her back. Andromeda didn’t even have a body to mourn or a grave to visit. Like all dragons tethered in soul to a human, the moment Ilthe took her final breath, her body had disintegrated into dust and smoke. Fifty years side by side, and in a single instant…gone.

The voice, however, wasn’t convinced. I haven’t gone anywhere—you simply refuse to acknowledge me. I’ve been right here the whole time. Yet you’ll speak to your son, even after he abandoned you. Abandoned us.

Andromeda wished she could bite her own tongue, but she couldn’t—not while trapped in a vision. There was no ‘us,’ not with the imaginary voice of her dead bondmate, and she certainly wasn’t up for discussing the complicated relationship she had with Luke.

Ilthe said something else, but Andromeda was able to block her out, and that meant the vision was waning. Good. Even listening this much was dangerous; Ilthe wasn’t real. Nothing in Andromeda’s head was. It was simply a never-ending series of warnings and information that was hers, and hers alone to sort through. When Ilthe had been alive to share the burden, it had been easier, bearable even, but those days were long gone.

Andromeda was on her own.

Suit yourself, Ilthe sighed, finally taking the hint. But you and I both know an Enchantress alone in this world is a terrible thing. A moment later, she was gone, leaving nothing but that awful word embedded in Andromeda’s mind.

Enchantress.

Someone shook her shoulders just enough to irritate her. “Mother, can you hear me?”

“I can, unfortunately,” Andromeda growled before shoving Luke away. Still half-consumed by the vision, by the voice, her fingers fluttered to the marks on her upper chest. Though thin and gnarled with age, three long scars trailed from her breast to her collarbone, framing her heart and marking her an Enchantress—the title for a human bonded in soul to a dragon. The scars were a brand left by Ilthe’s claws, seared into Andromeda’s skin the day they’d started their training, a physical reminder of what they were: partners. Luke had a brand, too, left by Lykaer.

Their early lives had been nearly identical. Hidden deep in the highest mountains, both mother and son had spent their younger years living among the mondrákon horde, learning how to work with their bondmates. They’d been taught how to fight, how to fly, and most importantly, how to control their visions. With practice, it had become as easy as breathing, but without Ilthe, the dam keeping Andromeda’s magic at bay had burst. Left to the mercy of visions assaulting her day and night, she could hardly breathe, much less continue to serve as an Enchantress.

She’d left the mountains that day, appointing Luke as her successor. Only twenty-one at the time, he hadn’t been ready to take his mother’s place, but he had Lykaer. That alone made him far more suited for the role of Enchanter than her. The Sages had taken Andromeda in, and she’d existed here ever since. Not living…only existing in her torment, watching everyone else’s futures play out.

It had frustrated her to no end. Though more than happy to oblige with every other type of premonition, Andromeda’s visions never showed the full extent of her own future. There were reoccurring clues—the ocean, roses, and a dragon’s dark silhouette—but all were so vague and detached she’d never been able to piece them together in any coherent fashion. It was likely a defense mechanism, given that so many of her ancestors blessed with the same gift had been driven mad attempting to change their futures before the events came to pass. Andromeda knew better. There was no changing what was to come.

There was only preparing.

“…certain you can hear me? Perhaps I should fetch some water—”

“Stay,” she demanded, grasping Luke’s wrist, “and show me whatever it is that you brought. Just don’t speak that awful tongue again.”

“Mondrákon? That’s what triggered your vision?”

“Spirits, Luke, do I have to smack it out of you?” Andromeda turned her face toward him. “I will.”

He tensed beneath her grip. “I’m not quite sure you’re ready, especially after what just happened—”

“Lukas Ramiel Mathoku—”

“All right.” Luke cleared his throat before raising his voice so it would carry. “Come in, Sidira.”

There was no time to linger on the unfamiliarity of the name—not when another set of smells all but smacked Andromeda in the face. Most were buried beneath layers of pine and wood bark, but she’d recognize the rest anywhere: briny foam and fish. Whoever this newcomer was, Sidira didn’t hail from the mountains.

As the stranger entered the room, Andromeda shot up from her chair to put as much space between her and the ocean-dwelling human as possible—a difficult task, given how much space Lykaer alone occupied.

Uncaring that Sidira would hear, Andromeda shot Luke a venomous glare. “You brought an okedrákon-touched here?” She’d never trusted the ocean dragons or those blessed by their magic. It was impossible to know what form the slimy shapeshifters would assume next, or worse…whether they were hidden in plain sight, taking on the form of their surroundings to render them invisible. It was maddening and only made Andromeda’s paranoia worse. “Are there more? Where are they hiding?”

“I brought a friend here. She’s alone.” Luke returned from closing the door to ensure they wouldn’t be overheard. “And Sidira isn’t okedrákon-touched. Can’t you see?”

“I can’t, actually,” Andromeda spat.

“Not like that—with your instincts. Feel Sidira’s presence. Tell me…what is she?”

Andromeda hadn’t the slightest intention of feeling anything. “A mute, I presume…otherwise she would tell me her damn self—”

“I can speak,” Sidira said slowly. “It’s just that I’m still learning your tongue.”

Andromeda stilled. Her tongue? An odd choice of words, considering Sidira had answered in common—a language nearly universal among the humans that occupied this land—but that was just it. There was another edge to Sidira’s accent, one that sounded distinctly…draconian.

“No.” A chill shot down Andromeda’s spine. “She isn’t—”

“She is,” Luke said. “Not okedrákon-touched, but an ocean dragon.”

“That’s impossible,” Andromeda whispered, more to herself than anyone else. It was exceptionally rare for a shapeshifting dragon to be able to take on the form of a human; surely Luke, of all people, hadn’t come upon one. She approached where Sidira stood, keeping her senses on high alert for a tail, wings, anything…but there was nothing. Sidira took up such little space that, when Andromeda entered it, it felt strangely intimate.

“May I?” she asked. Her hands hovered on either side of Sidira’s distinctly human face, ready and waiting.

“You may.”

She’d expected Sidira’s skin to be cold, but not this cold. It felt as though Andromeda caressed a block of ice. The flesh beneath her fingers was just as unforgiving, the features hardened and sunken all at once. It got even worse near Sidira’s eyes, where it—

A second vision took her hard and fast.

Agony—both from outside and within. The pressure around her throat wouldn’t give. Her assailant screamed obscenities in her face, which was almost as bad as the dragon thrashing within her chest. She couldn’t breathe, and now wasn’t the time to shift…but she had no choice. Not if she wanted to live.

It hurt, but no worse than what she’d already endured. The dragon exploded from inside, tearing and discarding her human flesh as easily as paper. Scales replaced skin, talons burst from her extremities, and her head shot up to nearly triple her previous height. She beat her newfound wings, regaining both her balance and her strength.

Then she pounced.

She was on him in an instant—the man who’d nearly choked the life from her, took her eyes, tortured her. Now, faced with a dragon instead of a helpless woman, he begged for his life. Sniveling coward… She only wished she could see the look on his face.

“Please, I’m not ready—”

Ignoring his cries, she held him still with one foot, baring her sharpest talon on the other. She pierced his eye—his only eye—and plucked it straight from its socket.

“How does it feel?” she snarled in her mother tongue, relishing the man’s screams. “Whatever agony you feel now, double it.”

Though she’d have much preferred him to suffer longer, there were voices at the door, and she had no intention of being caught…at least, not like this. After discarding the eye, she sliced the man’s throat, listening to the blood gushing from the wound for too short a time. When she leaped toward the window, her tail struck something lying on the floor, something hard and metal…

A crown.

Her legs quivered, but not as badly as the hands still clamped around Sidira’s face. Andromeda recoiled as though burned, sucking in breaths through her nose in an attempt to calm down, but the bloody vision wouldn’t leave her…neither would the obsessive need for revenge.

Sidira uttered a draconian snarl, speaking in Luke’s direction. “You fool, I told you she would see it, too—”

“You knew,” Andromeda whispered. Though still reeling from the shock, it quickly turned to hysterics as the horror of what her son had done truly sank in. “You know who she is, what she’ll do! That vision, we cannot allow it to come to pass—”

Luke started toward her, boots clicking on the floor. “Keep your voice down—”

“She's going to kill the king! I hardly think regicide is anything to keep ‘quiet’ about—”

Hands gripped Andromeda’s shoulders, and Luke’s presence enveloped her. She tried to continue her tirade, but all that came out was a whimper. Spirits damn him; the contact, however restrictive, was calming and the first pleasant sensation she’d felt since the vision. It began to dissipate, her heart began to slow, and little by little, the panic left her. Despite herself, Andromeda leaned into her son, resting her forehead on his upper chest. It wasn’t true intimacy or vulnerability—she was quite simply exhausted—but despite his own feelings toward her, he allowed the contact without protest.

“Mother,” he murmured. “Please. You must listen to me.”

Andromeda said nothing as he guided her back to that damn chair. Fine, she’d listen to her son, but the same couldn’t be said for Sidira. Once sitting, Andromeda crossed her legs and folded her arms, hopefully sending an unspoken message to the shapeshifter: you aren’t welcome. A glare was too obvious and would only earn a scolding from Luke.

He clicked his tongue, breaking her concentration. “Save it. Sidira is as blind as you are.”

Blind—like her? Andromeda had been so flustered by the vision’s violence she’d nearly forgotten the fact that she hadn’t seen a single thing; only felt and heard. She was accustomed to constant darkness in real life, but certainly not in visions. “How?”

“What do you mean, how?” Sidira scoffed. “Seeing is rather difficult when you don’t have eyes.”

A chill shot down Andromeda’s spine; no eyes? It explained the strange indents in Sidira’s face. “It’s why you—”

“Plucked out his? Yes. Partial revenge for that bastard taking mine.” Sidira spoke nonchalantly of violence, made doubly unnerving by the way her draconian accent didn’t mesh well with human speech. “I do wish he still had both, but I suppose the way he lost the other was fitting enough. Dragon fire, you know. Melted it right off. His life was only spared thanks to that healer daughter of his…but I’ll be happy to do the rest.”

Andromeda opened her mouth to speak, but promptly closed it upon not knowing what to say to…that. She glanced between Luke and Sidira, eyebrows rising in question. “How…How do you two know each other?”

Neither answered, and a stiff silence settled over the room. The only movement was the rustling of Lykaer’s wings as she drew each breath and a faint scratching coming from Sidira’s direction. Andromeda frowned. Did the shapeshifter pick at herself, too?

“It was almost a year to the day since the Seize,” Luke began, voice low and hushed.

Andromeda couldn’t bite back her quip. “So the last time you visited me?”

“Yes…right around that time. Lykaer and I were in the northern forests, returning home from a Translation. We’d just stopped to rest when Lykaer sensed movement, so we went to investigate—”

“Hunt,” Sidira growled. “You mean hunt.”

Luke sighed. “Yes, I suppose it was more of a hunt than an investigation. But you can hardly blame us—naked women wandering alone through dragon-infested forest aren’t exactly a common occurrence.”

Andromeda gaped. “Sidira was human when you met her?”

“Trapped,” Sidira corrected. “I couldn’t easily shift in and out of my human form at the time.”

“What were you doing that far north? The closest settlement to there would be—”

“Somarian. That’s where I came from.”

Andromeda fell silent as she worked through what she’d learned so far. A year after the Seize, a dragon with a rare and powerful ability, having come from Somarian, the capital city—

Her head snapped up. “The dragons captured in the Seize were rescued and released…all but two. A mondrákon and—”

“—an okedrákon. Me.”

All right—that still didn’t explain why Luke had developed such an odd attachment to Sidira, or why he’d shielded everything they’d done over the past three years before coming here. “Let me make sure I understand,” Andromeda said slowly. “You found a naked woman in the forest who turned out to be a shapeshifting okedrákon. At some point, you read her future and saw what she’s capable of. But you didn’t do a thing to stop it…you proceeded to teach her human speech? Help her? Why?”

“It’s not just her—” Luke started.

“And why in spirits’ sake did you bring her here? What is my role in all of this?”

Sidira hissed. “You don’t have to shout—”

“I’m retired, Luke. Exiled.” Andromeda had abandoned the chair and now paced in a small area where she didn’t need to worry about tripping over any of Lykaer’s extremities. Refusing to take orders from a terrifyingly murderous okedrákon, she absolutely did not lower her voice. “I came here for a reason—to be alone. I want no part of this anymore.”

“You can’t say that and in the same breath complain about me not coming to see you.” Though it had been years since she’d seen his face, Andromeda could clearly picture Luke’s scowl.

“Good thing they weren’t in the same breath,” she snapped. “And just because I don’t want to be involved in this Enchanter nonsense doesn’t mean I don’t want to see you.” Luke said something in reply, but Andromeda didn’t hear it while reaching up to rub her temples. They ached terribly, and from all the fuss, had started to pulse. She knew what that meant—another vision was close. “Get out. All of you—I mean it. Find some beds to rest if you must, but by morning, I want you g—”

“You want to know why I’m here?”

Sidira was suddenly so close that Andromeda nearly tumbled backward. She regained her balance just in time, gripping the side of her dresser for support as she glared daggers at the shapeshifter.

“I’m just like you. Halved. Severed.”

Andromeda’s heart skipped a beat. Ilthe’s tempting voice threatened to pull her under, seemingly summoned by Sidira’s chilling words. Andromeda clenched her fists. She refused to succumb to another vision—not now—but she couldn’t run from what stood in front of her. Not when Sidira kept talking.

“Your mind may tell you it’s impossible, but I’m living proof that it’s not. I was hatched bonded to a human. Though he knew of me and our bond, that human wanted nothing to do with dragons or magic. He wanted a normal life.” Sidira paused, forcing the next words as though they pained her. “He rejected me.”

Andromeda’s mind reeled. Was that even possible? For her, someone who’d been separated from her dragon by an event far from her control, it was unthinkable. To know your soul partner existed in this world but didn’t want you…the pain it must cause, the emptiness, the agony. Was what she felt only a fraction of Sidira’s pain? Could it even compare?

“I didn’t come here for pity,” Sidira snarled, seemingly aware of Andromeda’s thoughts. “I get quite enough of that from your son. I came to ask for your help.”

Whatever emotion Andromeda had conjured up vanished at the sudden change in Sidira’s tone. Between the rejection and the Seize, no doubt the shapeshifter had much vengeance to seek; Andromeda could hardly blame Sidira for that. But what was so unattainable she needed not one, but two seers to do it? The realization combined with her earlier vision weighed heavily in her gut. Andromeda raised her unseeing gaze, narrowing it. “And what could I have to offer you that my son cannot?”

Sidira didn’t hesitate. “Your appearance.”

“My appearance?” Of all the things Andromeda had expected her to say, this wasn’t one of them. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Everything,” Luke answered. “You two can’t see it, of course, but pop a pair of prosthetic eyes into Sidira’s head, and she could easily pass for you.”

Andromeda grimaced at the thought of glass orbs being shoved into her skull. “They make those?”

“They do, and they would look quite nice modeled after yours—”

“Stop it.” Andromeda turned away, needing the support of her dresser yet again. “This is madness. Why in the names of all the spirits would you want to look like me? Where would you go? Everyone who knows me knows I’ve been holed up here for twenty years. They know I’m losing more of myself every day to the visions.” She left off the last bit: they know I’m a failure.

Luke pressed on. “But they also know that there are four vacancies in the king’s court right now—four important vacancies. None of the Enchanters returned following the Seize. He’s got dragon-touched, of course: as many shifters, truthseers, and healers as the man could possibly want. But though there are other seers, none come close to matching the power we possess. What do you think King Richard might give to have his Oracle back—the Oracle? He’d be—”

“—so eager he wouldn’t care who stepped into the role,” Andromeda finished flatly. “Even if it was me…or someone he thought was me.”

There was an audible smile in Sidira’s voice. “Now you’re getting it.”

No…she wasn’t. Andromeda looked in Luke’s direction, voice dropping to a horrified whisper as she pieced together the horrifying realization. “You’re helping her?” Her son was a lot of things, but a willing accomplice to murder was not one of them…or so she’d thought. What on earth had happened to him since his last visit?

“Mother,” Luke said, his tone not the slightest bit apologetic. “Forgive me, but you weren’t there. You didn’t see what happened. What that man did—”

“I didn’t need to be there. I felt it. You think retirement means I’ve lost my senses completely?” Andromeda was repeating herself, but she didn’t care. “My dragon may be gone, but I’m as marked as you are. Losing Ilthe was the worst night of my life—the Seize was the second. We all suffered.”

“Not like me,” Sidira snarled, but Andromeda ignored her.

“The king must pay, but the answer isn’t this.”

Luke didn’t relent. “Isn’t it? Does what you or I want even matter? What is it you always say: ‘There is no changing, only preparing.’ This is preparing, Mother. It’s not as if we’re asking you to wield the blade—you’d stay right here. You’d simply need to hide while Sidira went to court in your place, coach her on what to say—”

Andromeda stopped listening and gritted her teeth. The proposed method aside…why in the spirits’ names did he have to be right? This insanity was coming, and there was nothing she could do to stop it—but how on earth could she become a willing participant in regicide? King Richard may not be perfect, but he was still a king. His bloodline had ruled Arakunia for generations. If anyone found out who was behind his death, knew they were Enchanters and a dragon of all things…

It would start a war.

Her blood ran cold. Such bloody conflict was how the Enchanters had come to be in the first place; if they ceased to exist, there would no longer be any bridge between the human and draconian worlds. The races would have no way to communicate, and there would be no way to ensure peace. Arakunia would plunge into chaos, and one or both races might be wiped from the continent.

What if that was what Sidira wanted?

Andromeda closed the distance between herself and Luke. Yanking the front of his robes to pull him close, she whispered for his ears alone. “Have you lost it completely? You’re playing a dangerous game—quite possibly with the fate of the entire world.”

Luke scoffed. “A bit dramatic, don’t you think? If the world was ending, we’d have seen it.”

“I’ve seen something,” Andromeda insisted. “It’s coming, I just don’t know what. Perhaps this is it.” It made vague sense; the ocean certainly fit into it all somewhere. Why not some mad, power-hungry shapeshifter? “You’d see the Enchanters die out—over her?”

“No,” Luke whispered, so softly Andromeda barely heard it. “Over her.”

He didn’t need to say her name for Andromeda to know he meant his old lover. Nora, too, had been okedrákon-touched, and they’d met around the time of Ilthe’s death. Andromeda didn’t know the details, other than that it had been a whirlwind romance and Nora had thoroughly and irrevocably broken Luke’s heart. “She was one woman—”

“She deceived him,” Sidira said. “She was not as she seemed, and Luke paid a heavy price.”

It was then that Andromeda fully pieced it together. Her jaw dropped as she turned back to Luke. “Sidira reminds you of Nora—doesn’t she? It’s why you’d see this through, however bloody—”

“We cannot change the future, and you of all people know that,” he said stiffly. “We can only pick a side. This is mine.”

Andromeda fell silent. She felt for Sidira—she truly did—and empathized with her more than the dragon could know. They were both blind, both victims of tragic loss, and each had something to prove. But their priorities were completely different—as were their futures. Andromeda would not risk the little she had left over some pointless vendetta and her son’s broken heart.

Luke’s voice dragged her out of her thoughts. “Mother, this isn’t the end of the dragons. It’s protecting them. Sidira is simply ensuring that something like the Seize never happens again.”

Andromeda shook her head. “But this isn’t—”

“Come with me. Before you make up your mind, there’s one last thing you should see.” Luke clasped her hand and began pulling her along.

“Can’t it wait ‘til morning? It’s late—”

“You’re taking her to see him? Should I follow?” Sidira asked.

“Him?” Andromeda glanced between the two, her rage igniting once again. “You brought a third?”

Luke didn’t stop. “Only if you want to.”

Andromeda struggled to match the pace as Sidira’s footsteps trailed after them. Lykaer remained behind, her growl reverberating along the chambers they now traversed. “Who is this he?”

Luke never answered, so despite a dull throbbing in her joints, Andromeda allowed herself to be pulled along. It was dusk now; she could tell by the slight chill lingering in the air, and thankfully, the Temple was quiet. The novices were in their bedchambers and wouldn’t be permitted to emerge until morning, and most of the Sages would be meditating or studying. The rest would be patrolling the grounds, but not to guard; that was the barrier’s job.

The Dragon Temple, secluded and fortified as it was, served as a sanctuary above all else. Though the Enchanters may have been the bridge between the human and dragon worlds, the Temple—as well as the Sages who called it home—were the pillars who kept that bridge standing. Every evening at sunset, they opened their gates to the needy—orphans, widows, and beggars—and kept them safe until sunrise. Longer could be arranged…but such protection came with a price.

Remain there too long, and you might never leave.

It was a fact Andromeda was all too aware of as they journeyed to spirits-knew-where. Despite the moral differences between her and her newfound companions, Andromeda couldn’t shake an uncomfortable truth. She wanted to be useful—needed it, arguably. She desired a direction in her life she’d been lacking for far too long. She needed…

“A dragon?”

The realization of where Luke had led her had Andromeda ripping herself from his grasp. They stood in the courtyard, and though she couldn’t see it, she sensed the being before her: a mondrákon.

The day Ilthe died, she’d sworn off the beasts for good. Lykaer she tolerated, but only because she had to; as part of Luke’s soul, the two were hardly ever apart. She tried to turn and walk away, but rustling sounded ahead of her—that combined with a sea-smell in the breeze informed her Sidira had stepped in her path.

Andromeda gritted her teeth. “Move.”

“Not until you touch him as you did me—and I don’t mean with your visions. Feel his scars. Feel what they did to him. What they took from him.”

“Took?” Andromeda echoed. “Is he—”

“The mondrákon imprisoned with me? Yes.”

Andromeda stifled a shudder. If Sidira had lost her eyes, what had they taken from one of her own kind? She wasn’t entirely certain she could bear to know. “No. I will not slip into another vision tonight—”

“Are you the one they call Andromeda?”

She stilled. That tongue again—only this time, it hadn’t come from her son. Its source was the mondrákon himself. He rumbled gently, vibrating the ground beneath their feet.

“Y-yes,” she answered before she could help herself. She didn’t want to do whatever it was Luke and Sidira had brought her here to accomplish, but there was something comforting about the mondrákon’s presence. It infuriated and calmed her all at once. Her lips moved before she could stop them. “And you are?”

The dragon rumbled again. “I’m called Kaos.”

Kaos. The name didn’t spark recognition, meaning he must have hatched after she’d left the mountains, and being less than twenty made Kaos a youngling. She flinched at the thought of such a young dragon enduring torture such as Richard’s, but there was another, more pressing question that demanded an answer…how was Kaos this massive? Andromeda hadn’t touched him, but had paced much of the perimeter surrounding the young dragon. He took up nearly as much space as Lykaer, and would take up even more if he spread his wings.

“What happened to him?” Andromeda turned her head toward Luke and Sidira, but didn’t move away from Kaos. She couldn’t bear to get any closer, but neither would her legs obey her.

Luke answered. “I think that’s best felt and not—”

“What happened to him, Luke?”

Sidira said something, but it became lost in another of Kaos’s low growls. His presence drew closer, and if Andromeda so much as flicked her wrists, she’d be grazing his scales.

“I sense your fear. Why?”

She shook her head, not wanting Kaos to misunderstand. “It is not fear of you. It’s—”

“—fear of what I represent. I know. We have never met, but they told me about you.”

“T-they?” Andromeda stammered. The dragons couldn’t communicate with those outside their kind, which was the entire purpose of the Enchanters’ existence. “You speak with Sidira, too?”

“Do not evade what is asked of you. Touch me, and all will be revealed.” Kaos exhaled, and the way his breath tickled her forehead told Andromeda he hovered just in front of her face.

Still, she hesitated. Her palm twitched at her side, but her arm remained immobile. “I…can’t.”

“Then allow me to help.”

A weight settled upon Andromeda’s shoulders. Before she could move, the bony membranes wrapped her in their embrace, and she gasped before realizing they were wings.

But something was wrong. Though Kaos’s grip was strong, she could move far too much, and cool night air still tickled her sides. Andromeda flexed her hands, poking her fingers through something that made her heart stop.

A hole.

It wasn’t alone. Raising her arm to trace the numerous scars, she came upon rip after tear, and quickly lost count of the horrific, debilitating injuries. Her voice shook. “He didn’t—”

“He did. As he took Sidira’s sight, he took my flight.”

It was as though she’d been stabbed. Andromeda would have doubled over if not for what remained of Kaos’s wings keeping her upright. She barely noticed the vision take her and didn’t bother to fight.

The shift in reality was welcome.

A shape so massive it parted the wall of fire leaped toward her. Before she could run, teeth snatched her robe with impressive control and shoved her against a tree, immobilizing but not harming her. She stilled, stifling a scream; the scales she’d brushed against were rougher than any she’d ever touched, and the presence enveloping her was foreign yet familiar.

When she met the dragon’s gaze, the world stopped.

Silver eyes complemented scales so black they put the night sky to shame, but where flames flickered against his hide, they flashed a brilliant red. As she and the dragon breathed the same air, a lifetime of memories began flooding her mind: his memories, vivid and whole.

The final piece to arrive was his name.

Kaos.

Andromeda sucked in a breath as she returned to her own body and mind. Another vision—one in which she could see—one that eased all her fear and apprehension over Sidira and what she would one day accomplish. It confirmed one truth.

It wouldn’t matter.

However the regicide happened, whenever it happened, the killing wouldn’t make the slightest difference, because Andromeda and Sidira weren't the only severed souls in this Temple. The vision had confirmed Kaos to be as incomplete as they were, but not because he lacked flight: he hadn’t yet found his bondmate. But Andromeda had witnessed the day he would.

And it was her.

The Enchantress from her visions—the ocean and rose combined into one.

The future.

With a smile, Andromeda turned to Sidira. Luke had been right: they all had a part to play, and this was hers. A flightless dragon needed all the help he could get, and the man who had rendered him so deserved to pay.

“When do we start?”

Raelynn Davennor is an author of fantasy and science fiction, a musician and composer, and a creature of the night. Nestled among her fictional worlds full of darkness, dragons, and sassy heroines, you’ll often find a musical number or two. An accomplished performer, she’s made appearances with artists such as The Who, Weird Al, and Hugh Jackman on many of the largest stages in the United States. Raelynn is usually lost in her head, dressing up in costume, or humming a tune she can’t wait to scribble down. When not obsessing over her latest idea, she enjoys pampering her menagerie of pets and pretending she isn’t an adult. Her home base is https://rldavennor.com where you’ll find more information, her newsletter, and links to social media.

THE GENTLESWORD

By Lesley Donaldson

“We have learned by now that our beauty does not count as a possession. The only thing we truly own is our legend.”

-Bennett Madison

The woods held secrets, whether one wanted them to or not.

Kelmont Woods most of all.

Kifra of Ardismouth had chosen this clearing in which to entrap her latest prey. Long before her time, there had been a massive sentinel tower here. It had been robbed of its stone until nothing remained except a thinning in the canopy of leaves where she had hung the trapping net.

The tower’s importance has been forgotten by all except the woods.

She worried about being likewise erased from history. An age spot had recently appeared on her hand between the battle scars she cherished—it had not earned its place as had they. No amount of summer’s touch upon her pale skin would hide this taunting reminder of her oncoming years.

Kifra shifted her uncomfortable kneeling position, then tied the last of the knots that bound her squire’s arms and legs. She sighed and surveyed the clearing one last time, pausing as her gaze fell upon her aging mother and fellow warrior, Isso.

Her mother dozed against the cart’s front wheel. Whipseeds had settled into her thinning alabaster hair, which she wore spiked by egg white. Her prized halberd polearm lay across her lap. Three horses grazed on moonlily beside her, one of them still harnessed to the cart.

Isso had wrapped herself up in her second most valued possession: a cloak that had been gifted to her upon her retirement from service to the Cobalt Oligarchy. The richly brocaded material hugged her like a lover. Kifra envied the glint of its gold-couched emblem of the citadel.

Her own parting gift was a poor imitation of what Isso had received. Kifra’s cloak had been made from a single layer of wool, and instead of gold thread, the barest amount of yellow silk thread couched the citadel’s emblem. Barely half of Kifra’s near six-foot height in length, her cloak made a passable pillow for Isso’s fatigued head.

If these woods yield the bounty I seek, then neither age spot nor second-rate gift will matter. I will be teaching at the citadel, where I belong.

Kifra secured her final slip knot, then placed the end of the rope in her squire’s hand.

“I hate being bait,” Bryont whined. In truth, he was too old to be a squire, but he’d failed the trials so many times that no other orn in service to the Oligarchy wanted him.

“If there’s a next time, feel free to swing your axe instead.” Kifra straightened, ignoring the grumbling in her upper back that was far too persistent these days.

“I’m a terrible shot.”

“You make my point.” She retreated to the entrance of her hunter’s screen, wiping away her footprints with a leafy branch. “There. Now all that the monster will see is a tidy lunch.”

“What? Issit lunch?” Isso snorted awake, slurring her speech.

“Look who’s decided to join the land of the living,” Kifra said, not unkindly. “I never knew that napping was a required skill for the High Guard.”

Isso set her halberd against the wheel and stretched. “You know why you shouldn’t tease us old fighters? We’ve killed all of our enemies.” She pointed to her good eye, and then at her daughter.

“So you’ve said before, An-ma. Several times.”

Isso hauled herself to her feet using the halberd’s shaft.

First the nap, now this. Maybe her legendary zest is starting to wane after seventy years, after all.

A branch snapped nearby. The horses whinnied nervously. Kifra reached over her shoulders with both hands. She flipped the worn toggles of the leather sheath on her back that held Enduril and Windslicer, her trusty double-sided battle axes. They spun into readiness.

Stay two steps ahead. Plan beyond the now.

Catching Isso’s eye, Kifra mouthed the words, “Cart. Now.”

Isso shook her head in defiance of the directive. She readied her halberd to defend the horses.

Another crack came from across the way. Louder this time. Closer.

No time to debate with the old warrior.

Kifra hunkered down out of sight. She had an excellent view of the clearing’s perimeter. Ten years earlier she would have scouted from the trees, then dropped down onto her target. To prevent injury to her battle-worn knees, she had chosen a thick oak to protect the back wall of the hunter’s screen.

Her ears strained for the sound of her prey.

Unexpectedly, she heard rustling behind her.

A strategic failure.

For the first time, Kifra cursed her age.

The rustling of bushes and slow, staggered crunching upon ground debris came from her right, beyond the clearing’s margin. Peeking through the leaves of her shelter, she saw a nocked arrow slip between the branches. The overly large arrowhead was made of a green metal and glimmered with its own light. Holding the drawn bow was a human-shaped limb covered in graying brown hair that wasn’t as thick as deer hide or as dense as animal pelt.

Cervitaurs. Of course. Who else would have the nerve to set monsters of old upon farmers?

Although the rest of the body was camouflaged by vegetation, Kifra made out the shortened antlers of a female, decorated with fine gold wire and glass beads. Even armed with a bow and arrow, a half-human, half-deer posed little threat for Kifra…that is, if they weren’t part of an ambush. Decades of battle experience cautioned Kifra against assaulting the cloven-hoofed beast who dared have a human upper body and face. They attacked in herds.

Think ahead. The future is now.

There wasn’t time to untie Bryont and send him running. Meanwhile, Isso had slipped nearer the net’s release rope. If the cervitaur hit her first, Kifra would lose her mother, her monster, and (possibly) her squire all in one go.

A miasma of sulfur poisoned the air. Cervitaurs didn’t make that stench.

The abrupt crack of falling trees tore Kifra’s attention away from the cervitaur and back to her own trap.

Something large was charging her way, shaking the ground. Her prey exploded into the clearing, sending shrubs flying. The leathery-skinned monster was massive. Its screech was a cross between thunder and a hellcat’s fury. Thick proboscises dangled from the middle of its open mouth, each snout grasping for Bryont.

“An-ma, now!” Kifra burst from hiding. Nothing happened. Isso had frozen.

Bryont rolled out of the way, on cue. The monster tracked his movement with hungry eyes.

“For Opir’s honor!” Kifra gave the old battle-cry that would stir her mother into action.

Isso shook off her haze. She chopped the rope. The net dropped atop the hideous creature.

Kifra jumped between the monster and Bryont. “Go!” she commanded. He pulled the slipknot and undid his bonds.

Bryont scrambled for the relative safety of the cart. The creature snared his foot with a proboscis as he passed it.

“Oof!” He slammed into the ground. Bryont yanked his leg from his boot. A second tentacle curled itself around his exposed ankle. He screamed in pain.

Kifra sank Enduril and Windslicer into the snake-like proboscis that gripped her squire. Black muck squirted everywhere.

“Get it off!” Bryont shouted.

Kifra struck harder. She wasn’t going to lose her last squire before her triumphant return.

“I’ll get the head.” Isso charged into the fray.

“Don’t,” Kifra ordered between swings. “You’ll cut the net and it’ll get free.”

“It won’t be free if it’s dead,” Isso countered, her weapon at the ready.

“An-ma!” Kifra emphasized her protest with a mighty blow that severed the proboscis. Bryont shook his leg free from the dead appendage as the glowing arrow streamed past Kifra and sank into the amputated proboscis. Bryont dug his heels into the dirt and crab-crawled away.

Kifra spun around with Windslicer raised and ready to fly. “I will hunt you down,” she yelled at the cervitaur's retreating hindquarters.

“Kif!” Isso said in alarm. “I may be half blind, but it looks like the monster is…boiling.”

Kifra whirled around. Isso had been poking at the netted monster with the blunt end of her halberd. Raised lesions erupted on the monster’s skin. Both warriors pulled back quickly.

The creature exploded, spraying half-digested human parts and pieces of itself everywhere. Kifra gagged at the stench.

“I’ve smelled worse.” Isso calmly wiped a chunk of gore off her face. “Before you were born, the Oligarchy cleared out the Northern Plague Pits. That was a smell worse than death.”

“Opir’s ghost,” Kifra swore in frustration.

“Language!”

“Really, An-ma?”

This might not have happened if you'd cut the rope when you were supposed to instead of having ‘battle freeze’.

Kifra kicked at the now empty net instead of venting aloud about her mother’s trauma-induced pause. “That cervitaur must have been bound with an eradication spell to prevent us from finding out who conjured it.”

“I never believed in using magic to accomplish anything.” Isso pulled a water flask from the cart. “Blades are best,” she added with an authoritative nod before taking a swig.

Kifra lifted the severed remains by the arrow stuck into it, amazed at the tensile strength of the wooden shaft. “Now I have nothing to show for my success except a used arrow and a gray piece of monster snout.”

“Bigger isn’t always better,” Isso said.

“Says the shortest person here.”

“You have something more important than a showy trophy.” Isso offered Kifra a drink as Bryont searched for his boot. “You have information. And information is leverage.”

An-ma was right. Kifra had not only witnessed the cervitaur’s attempt to save the monster, but she also had the arrow the half-human had tried to kill her with. Surely the Cobalt Oligarch would reward her upon her return by making her a trainer of recruits, as was her due.

Kifra rinsed her blades. “If we make haste, we can get back to Ardismouth before nightfall.”

“That’s the spirit.”

“Um, Orn Kifra?” said Bryont. “I can’t put my boot on.” His voice cracked, like that of a pimple-faced youth.

“So there’s a little bit of goo on it,” Kifra replied without looking, as she and Isso secured their weapons. “It won’t kill you.”

“You don’t…I can’t…my ankle!” His squeak became a wail.

Kifra spun around. Bryont’s ankle had swollen up into a misshapen shiny black lump with angry fingerlings progressing into his foot. She knelt next to him. Direct contact with the monster had poisoned him. Something undulated beneath the taut, darkened skin.

“Does it hurt?” she asked.

“Not as much as your pell training, but it’s no bed of daylis flowers.”

Judging by the tears in his brown eyes, his heart didn’t possess the same strength as his brave words. Kifra swore under her breath. Every orn who took on a squire accepted responsibility for their safety until the squire completed their training. She didn’t need this now.

Kifra turned her head to Isso, wordlessly seeking her advice.

“We don’t have time to get him to the citadel’s healers.” Isso poked his leg gently with a stick. Bryont winced. Isso shrugged. “Kindling,” she said, part diagnosis and part intent. She pushed aside leafy debris, searching.

“You’re building a funeral pyre?” he asked, eyes wide in disbelief. “I’m not even dead yet.”

“Of course not.”

“Thank the Iphins.”

“We need a fire to heat a sword and cauterize your wound after we cut your leg down,” Isso said with simple certainty.

Bryont’s response died in his throat.

Kifra put away the severed proboscis, then assisted her squire off the ground. “I have another plan.”

“You don’t mean…?” he began.

She helped him struggle into the cart’s seat and placed the harnessed horse’s reins in his hands. “Dorene lives nearby. We’ve no other choice.”

If you die…

Kifra straightened, quashing that uneasy thought. The familiar routine of setting out gave Kifra purpose. Purpose calmed her nerves.

“For the record, this is a mistake.” Isso led her horse away from the young sapling it had been investigating. “He doesn’t need magic. A skilled orn with a wooden leg can still wield a mean sword.”

Urging her horse out of the clearing, Kifra made no reply. Given Bryont’s history of failure at the trials, she doubted he would ever succeed and take the orn’s oath, even if he lived that long.

Dorene lived on a cliff where the secrets of Kelmont Woods paled in comparison to the mysteries of magic. Kifra emerged from the forest’s worn track and progressed to a wide cobblestone path lined with willow trees. As they moved onto it, the force of the breeze dropped to a gentle caress.

Is there anything magic can’t control?

The path led past a walled garden with an open wooden gate and ended at the irregularly shaped base of a stone tower. Kifra dismounted with a whistle of appreciation at the building’s sheer size. It made an excellent vantage point. With its organic hodgepodge of extensions, nothing like Dorene’s home existed in the citadel’s rows of shops and homes.

“Maybe you should have gone into magic,” Isso said, much to Kifra’s surprise. “Then you could retire into a place like this instead of begging the Oligarchy for a tiny room in the citadel.”

“One does not ‘go into magic,’ An-ma.” Kifra wasn’t too old to roll her eyes at her mother. “And I don’t want to retire. I still have years enough in me to coach recruits. Let’s just be thankful to the Iphins that Dorene is still alive.”

“And that my entire leg hasn’t deteriorated into a squirming blob,” Bryont added.

Neither warrior had asked him his opinion of the mage’s house. Kifra wasn’t about to. She had bigger things to worry about. Bryont had fared well so far, although the black mass had engulfed his foot and was halfway up his shin.

“Even if your leg had fallen off, I’m glad we’re here.” Isso dismounted and rubbed her buttock. “I’m saddle-sore. Kif, tell me again why I agreed to come on your little adventure.”

Kifra hitched the horses to a post with a water trough, saying, “You didn’t agree to come. You had to come.” Isso gave her a blank stare. “Remember?” Kifra prompted. “The night watch found you spearing the statues in the hall of heroes at the citadel?”

“It was dark.”

Kifra raised her eyebrow skeptically. “You were naked.”

“I was hot.”

She always has an answer.

“Well, this isn’t about me,” Isso said, deflecting the comment. “We’re here for Bryont. If the mage turns us away, I’ll run her through, then sleep in her bed.” Isso stabbed the air in front of her with an imaginary sword. Unlike her daughter, she had left her weapon sheathed with her horse.

That was fortunate. Isso might still be able to swing a weapon, but her aging body didn’t heal as fast as it used to. Bad enough Kifra had one injured person in her charge. She didn't need Isso getting hurt as well.

“Easy there, Nlleyn.” Kifra tried calming her mother’s agitation by using Isso's earned title of honor—a title forever out of Kifra’s reach.

In giving up the sword and retiring from the High Guard, Isso had been blessed with the spirit of Nlleyn, the Goddess of War. As such, the older warrior became one with the goddess and had a right to be called Nlleyn-Isso.

Once done training recruits, I should be Nlleyn-Kifra. Yet another thing the Oligarchy denied me by making me a Gentlesword instead of letting me choose my own path to retirement.

“Dorene may have been ousted from the citadel, but she’s bound by the code of her Unity.” Kifra tucked her cloak into the back of her belt. “She won’t refuse a guest, especially not one in need.”

“Let’s hope her Unity provides something strong to drink, then.” Isso straightened her own cloak on her shoulders.

On that, Kifra agreed. She also hoped Dorene’s religion provided the means to heal her squire.

Instead of an overhanging parapet for defense, heavy canvas sheltered what should have been the front of the tower-house. A chair and a glass vase full of freshly cut flowers occupied one side of the porch.

Where there should have been a door, two wooden figures stood facing each other, their bodies carved as if emerging from the wall. One was a merman with a single horn protruding from his forehead. Kifra couldn’t identify the other beast. It had the head and wings of an eagle and a shaggy hide like the cows in the North. She counted three of six reptilian feet. The sentinels barred the unseen entrance with crossed ranseurs, polearms with two smaller steel spikes to either side of the main six-inch tip.

“The awning is a good idea,” Isso noted sarcastically as she stepped into the shade. “It’ll keep us comfortable while we wait for someone to build a door to knock on.”

“If you were expected…” said the merman.

“…then you would see an entrance,” finished the eagle-beast.

Bryont gasped. “A magical house!” Gawking, he leaned forward and almost fell off his seat.

“I take back what I said.” Isso flopped onto the chair. “Magic is annoying.”

“So are unwanted guests,” said a melodic, higher-pitched voice from the direction of the walled garden.

Isso harrumphed.

Kifra’s mood lightened when she beheld Dorene Logoria sauntering up to them wholly naked. “So are mosquito bites on your nipples! You still tend garden bare?”

“You still point out the obvious?” came the mage’s reply. Layers of sheer black robes slipped over the rounded curves and faded stretch marks of her matronly body.

“Only when it’s as obvious as corsitt worms.”

“But corsitt worms are invisible.”

“Exactly.”

The last knot fastened itself as the mage held her arms open to welcome the trio. “I miss your warrior’s nonsense, Kifra. I owe the Unity the honor of seeing you again. It has been too long.”

Dorene’s eyes shone with limitless youth. A smudge of dirt had settled into the fine lines on one side of her face.

The women embraced with the comfort of seasoned friendship. Kifra hugged Dorene more tightly than she had intended. The mage pulled back and looked Kifra in the eye, then nodded with unspoken understanding. Kifra almost burst into a babbling mess about why they’d appeared at her home, realizing it had little to do with Bryont’s injury.

Does anything ever get past the mage?

“You don’t look a day over—” Kifra began.

“Don’t say it.” Dorene held up a cautionary finger and flashed a toothy smile. Laugh wrinkles enhanced the symmetry of a beautiful face that looked not much older than Kifra’s own forty-eight years. The mage’s black tresses were silkier than Kifra’s mousey brown hair. “If you suggest I am old, I will be offended.”

The healthy glow of Dorene’s rich brown skin disguised her age as well as any enchantment. She had lived at least 200 years by the warrior’s estimate. At last count, Dorene had outlived five political turnovers of Head Oligarch and two hostile pretenders.

“Or it might be an indication that your glamour magic isn’t as strong as you thought it was,” Isso offered.

“And there’s the warrior’s grudge that made me want to leave the citadel.” Dorene crossed her arms over her chest. Her eyes, purple as violets, never stopped smiling.

“Leave?” Isso snorted. “You were ousted.”

“An-ma!” Kifra chastised. She tensed up, embarrassed by her mother’s outburst.

“What? She was.”

Dorene chuckled softly. “I miss you too, old Nlleyn-Isso.” The mage leaned over and planted a generous kiss on Isso’s forehead.

Kifra peeked over Dorene’s shoulder at her mother. Isso had closed her eyes and was grinning. Probably despite herself.

Relief washed over Kifra. When she'd been too young to wield more than a butter knife, the battle at Norgesol Valley had all but destroyed the relationship between warriors and mages. Isso had come home with more than scars.

“It’s good to see you, Lady Dorene,” Isso said.

“Oh, no. Don’t call me ‘Lady.’ I live out here for a reason. No Oligarchy sycophants to keep happy. And lastly, I can’t forget Bryont.” Dorene took a step toward him. The sight of his foot stopped her in her tracks. She wrinkled her nose. “Now I see why the Unity brought you to my door. Here I thought you intended to convince me to return to the citadel.”

“It crossed my mind,” Kifra confessed.

“Your bones must have more breaks than brains.”

“Possibly. But we do seek your skills. Monsters have been terrorizing farm folk outside the citadel. I trapped one in Kelmont Woods.”

“That’s cervitaur territory.”

“My hunt leads me where my hunt leads me.” Kifra didn’t apologize for being on the wrong side of the realm’s property line. “It did this.” Kifra pulled aside the tatters of Bryont’s pant leg. “I would have had the whole beast as proof, but a damned cervitaur magicked it into oblivion.”

“Uh-huh.” Dorene contemplated Bryont’s leg, her chin in her hand.

Kifra had anticipated a different reaction. Shock, perhaps. Awe? Not this unruffled…the word escaped her. Had the mage seen this before?

Dorene clapped her hands together. “When I woke up this morning, there was a hint of lavender on the air. Do you know what that means?”

“It smelled nice?” Bryont’s brow furrowed with confusion.

“My nose is going to itch?” Isso suggested.

“The scent of lavender was a premonition, for lavender brings cleansing.” Dorene levitated Bryont into the air with a flick of her hand. “Young man, this wound is bleak magic, which, if left untreated, will consume your leg in the next hour. Maybe two. Your entire body by sundown tomorrow. We need to get that curse out of you, and I have an eager protégé who can help me. The Unity provides. This way.”

Dorene kept Bryont suspended with one hand and swept toward the guarded blank entryway. The sentinels kept their weapons crossed, refusing her passage. Shutters at the adjacent windows slammed shut.

“Your house locked you out?” Floating on his back, Bryont strained his neck for a better view.

An-ma was right. Magic is annoying.

“Sentient houses are rare, and those that let someone live in them even more so. Sansbien is just temperamental at times. One time they locked me out for two days because I brought home a Lamsardian carpet.”

Sansbien’s wall drew inward, reminding Kifra of a petulant child holding their breath.

Isso grunted with a mixture of satisfaction and disgust. “See? Annoying.”

Dorene sighed and put her free hand on her waist. “Sansbien, we may be the only ones who can help him. I have the craft and you have the resources. With Aluris as our third, what can go wrong?”

The shutters creaked open and their slats rattled.

Was that good or bad?

Somehow able to understand her home, the mage replied, “If you’re so concerned about bleak magic being inside you, why don’t we perform the excision of the cursed essence in the solarium? It has plenty of windows through which the bleak can escape if things get out of hand.”

“Get out of hand?” Bryont asked.

“Escape?” Kifra asked, a more serious question.

The house took an eternity to make up its mind.

“You may enter…” the merman said.

“…but you may not stay,” added the shaggy eagle.

They drew back their ranseurs, then turned in unison and faced the porch. As they did, an entryway appeared.

“Thank you.” Dorene coasted inside. “A sensible choice, dear Sansbien. Now, will you please call upon Aluris while I conduct my guests to the solarium.”

The house’s refusal to follow conventional architecture continued inside. Kifra shook her head, appalled. No barbican. No gates. Sansbien had no sense of structural defense.

Indoors, Dorene led them across an arched oaken bridge that traversed a flowing river. The water was full of lilac fish which existed for no other reason than to exist. On the left and right of what should have been the walls of this aquatic hallway were three sets of spiraled stairs. Each one had a different design.

Kifra spied a golden lion’s head, its open mouth the entranceway to the library. Beyond it, books flapped around a young man like flocking birds. Kifra halted when she glimpsed a tattoo on the back of his bald head: the Mark of Ayx.

Why is a citadel ayxolytus studying this far away from home? If I return with my trophy and the wayward acolyte, that might further my case. The Head Oligarch will have to reward me with an instructorship.

As if sensing the anticipation that caused Kifra’s thoughts to race, the bridge pulsed and nudged her forward.

“I see you mapping it out in your head,” Dorene said to Kifra when they reached the end of the hallway-bridge. “I wouldn’t bother. Sansbien changes things up quite regularly. I’ve given up on knowing what goes where.”

“Then how do you know where to do…anything?” Kifra couldn’t imagine living in this chaos, the polar opposite of the highly ordered routine she thrived upon.

A vague smile crossed Dorene’s lips. “I guess I don’t.”

“Give me my regimental bed any day.”

Kifra followed her friend through a room full of chairs jumbled in heaps. Next came a grand ballroom with a single tea set on a table decorated with red linen.

The solarium was surprisingly ordinary. Glass walled, it held a variety of plants—some of them exotic, some of them aglow. Kifra and her party encountered a seating area with a substantial worktable. Behind it was a large fountain, at the center of which stood the marble figure of a young buccaneer pouring water from a golden jug. Stone dolphins spouted water from the outer ring toward the middle of the pool.

Noting two points of egress at the far end of the room, Kifra smiled with satisfaction.

“At least the solarium makes sense.” Isso toed a waist-high blue vase brimming with wide-leafed greens. “Or does the furniture get up and walk?”

“Define walk.” Dorene stepped over to the worktable. It cleared itself of tools by shaking like a dog that had come out of a lake. The mage laid Bryont down on its surface. As Isso reached for a wicker chair with a high back, Dorene added, “That particular chair occasionally swallows whoever sits there.”

Isso jumped backward as if the chair had suddenly grown teeth and tried to bite her.

Kifra couldn’t help but join in with Dorene’s bubbling laughter.

“I’m joking, Nlleyn-Isso,” the mage said. Floral blooms on nearby trees bobbed around her like courtiers as she repositioned the chair for Isso. “Please, seek what comfort you may while I gather what I need. That is a perfectly normal chair. Aluris brought it from the citadel, as a matter of fact.”

“I recall that Sansbien locked me in the privy for three days for my charity.” The bald acolyte Kifra had seen in the library pushed aside hanging vines as he entered the seating area from its other side.

Unlike his teacher, he wore a long, emerald-green, brocaded tunic. He cupped his hands together in supplication, the salutary greeting of those who served the Oligarchy at the citadel. “Apparently, the house doesn’t like the citadel, or anything that comes out of it. My name is Aluris, and I bid you good health.”

Kifra responded with a likewise gesture. “I am Orn Kifra, and this is my mother, Nlleyn-Isso.”

“Formerly Orn Isso of the High Guard,” Isso said, keeping a wary eye on the chair as she eased herself onto it.

Aluris perked up. “Orn Kifra? Of the Bracefell campaign?”

His response lifted Kifra’s spirits. “You’ve heard of me?”

“Of course. Everyone at the citadel knows of the first Gentlesword.”

The plain wicker chair, the stupid magic house, and the entire disordered world could have swallowed Kifra whole at the mention of that disgraceful title and she would have welcomed it.

She pressed her lips together, biting back her response.

Yes. Orn Kifra, the Gentlesword. A warrior who isn’t supposed to fight or teach, yet who hasn’t given up the sword and taken the spirit of Nlleyn inside her. What does the Oligarchy expect me to do, sit around and knit all day?

Kifra forced a thin smile. “I thought I recognized the Mark of Ayx on your head when I saw you in the library. Aren’t ayxolytuses supposed to be sequestered in the ayxoltarium for the duration of their studies? And where is your…” She drew a circle in the air over her own head.

Her terse reply sent Aluris scrabbling in his tunic pockets for his scholar’s cap, the indicator of his learner’s status. “The books knocked off my…Sansbien’s fault…I don’t normally…” His face turned red with embarrassment as he stumbled over his words. He whipped his cap on his tattooed head.

“Kifra, don’t cast your tactician’s eye upon Aluris.” Dorene returned from between two frond plants that battled for sunshine. She brought her armful of supplies to where Bryont lay. “My protégé is exactly where the Unity needs him to be, which, today, is here to heal your squire.”

“Yes, please,” Bryont said, nodding eagerly. “Let’s do that. Please.” The angry fingers of the wound had clawed their way closer to his knee.

Dorene gently touched Bryont’s hand. “Bleak magic is often more painful to remove than to bear. It’s best if you stay awake during the process. Can you do that for me?”

“Can’t be any worse than Kifra’s cooking.” His bravery made Kifra’s heart swell with a mentor’s pride, not for the first time.

“Tell us what happened.” Dorene made room for Aluris beside her. Kifra moved to the opposite side of the table and placed the remnant of the monster, arrow intact, next to Bryont’s head.

“Does it have to go right there?” He tilted his head away.

“Sorry.” Kifra snatched it back. Now what to do with it?

A small side table wobbled up to her to receive the severed proboscis.

“Um, thank you?” Kifra said to the house around her. She turned back to the healing attempt, her heart afraid to beat.

“What do you see?” Dorene asked her pupil, gesturing toward Bryont.

Aluris chewed on his lower lip, thinking. “Obviously, it’s bleak magic. Genial magic doesn’t…well, it doesn’t do that.”

Bryont’s whimper tugged at Kifra’s heart.

“He’s a real genius, this protégé of yours, Dorene,” Isso mumbled from her roosting spot. The house had given her a tall mug containing something she must have liked, because she hadn’t yet thrown the mug across the solarium.

“Not helpful, An-ma,” Kifra warned. Isso drowned her next comment in her drink.

Dorene nodded agreement with her student’s assessment. “And?”

“If the monster vanished after it had been captured, then perhaps it hadn’t been captured at all,” Aluris continued.

Of all the insolent…

“Of course I captured it,” Kifra said through gritted teeth. “I may be retired, but I’ve slung more net traps than you have lived years, young upstart.”

Aluris blinked repeatedly at her rebuke, then he shook his head. “Hold on a minute. I mean to say that a basic trapping net couldn’t hold it.”

“Exactly!” Dorene clapped her hands to congratulate him.

He pointed at the amputated snout. “But the cervitaur arrow stopped that part from vanishing, which means the arrowhead must be imbued with some kind of magic that overpowers bleak magic, or interferes with it, at the very least.”

Dorene’s proudly beaming face stirred confusion in Kifra.

Why would the cervitaur stop its monstrosity from vanishing? Without evidence, the citadel couldn’t blame cervitaurs for conjuring the monster. Why would it leave a proboscis behind? The warrior opened her mouth to pose her question, but Dorene stopped her with a subtle shake of her head.

“So, what do we need to do in order to release the magic from Bryont’s leg?” the mage asked Aluris.

“We cut his leg with the arrowhead?” came his hesitant answer.

“Yes!”

“Yes,” Bryont echoed, then levered himself onto his elbows. “What? Wait! No!” He took in the disaster that was his limb. His jaw gaped open. “Maybe?”

“I told you we’d have to cut it off.” Isso jiggled her empty mug for Sansbien to fill up again.

Kifra ignored her mother’s self-congratulating insight. “There has to be another way,” Kifra said, barring access to her precious trophy. “I mean, yes, amputate his leg if you must, but do you have to use the same weapon as the fiends who conjured this monster? It is the only evidence I have that cervitaurs are behind the attacks.”

And it is my key to getting back into the citadel.

When Dorene didn’t answer, Kifra's frustration changed to icy dread.

Why is a woman who wields words as weapons at a loss for words?

After the Iphins’ eternity, Dorene said, “The monster you faced in the woods wasn’t brought forth by cervitaurs. Trust me. I’ve lived long enough to know.”

Dorene knew more about the bleak magic and about the cervitaurs’ involvement in it than she was letting on.

Screw her Unity.

Kifra flexed her hand behind her back, a habit she had developed over innumerable strategizing sessions.

Before I became the first Gentlesword.

Aluris’s next words redoubled Kifra's doubts about him. “We could cast the Ugar.”

The Ugar, the spell that had claimed too many lives at Norgesol. What was he thinking? Aluris had the same wildness in his eyes that Kifra had seen on the faces of squires who repeatedly struck blows after felling an enemy. He craved destruction.

What is Dorene teaching out here, far from the citadel’s reach?

“We’ve spoken about that.” The mage leveled her voice and her gaze at her protégé. “The Ugar is…old magic. It’s too unstable.”

Aluris’s breathing picked up. “Don’t be afraid to use it because of what the Oligarchy did to you.”

“I’m not.”

“But you said I’m stronger than your previous students.”

“I did.”

“And I’ve progressed faster than you expected.”

“You have.”

“Just yesterday Od’xyran said—”

The outer doors of the solarium flew open. “Enough!” Dorene shouted.

Ocean winds raced around the room. Windows rattled. Kifra braced herself against the table. Aluris clutched his cap against his head. Isso spilled her refreshed drink on herself, muttering discontentedly about the Unity soiling her favourite tunic.

Perhaps now was not the best time to question Dorene about what she was hiding. Angry mages did not take well to being interrogated.

Dorene inhaled deeply. As she let out her breath, the winds calmed.

“Let us not speak of the Ugar again. Ever.” She adjusted her robes back into place. “The Unity provides, and that’s all you need to know.”

Without waiting for his response, she folded her fingers into a summoning gesture. A mortar and pestle, a wide-mouthed flask, and a stack of folded linen materialized atop the side table that held the monster's snout. Fully laden, the table edged Kifra out of its way, then wobbled over to Dorene.

“You’re not infected,” she told Bryont.

“I’m not?” he replied.

“You’re incubating.”

Bryont's dilated pupils indicated he preferred the first horrible option.

“Incubating what?” Kifra curled her hidden hand into a fist, fighting the urge to charge in and sort it all out herself.

“That remains to be seen,” Dorene replied.

Isso perched on the edge of her chair. “If I had my halberd, I could spear it. Leverage it out like a cockle.”

“I’m not going to cut off your leg,” Dorene continued to her patient.

“No? Good.” Bryont eased himself back down.

“I’m going to slice open the wound with the arrowhead and extract the bleak from within.”

“Sure. That sounds way better,” he replied sarcastically.

With a quick reassuring glance at Kifra, Dorene directed Aluris. “Start by putting petals of winter’s rage into this flask. Then, add three ground pods of armin. Sansbien will bring a pinch of dirt from a freshly dug grave—”

“Where will they get a pinch…?” he began.

Dorene held up her hand to stop his inquiry. “The kitchen.”

Chastened, Aluris blended the remaining ingredients at the workbench. He said nothing, but the rising flush in his cheeks spoke volumes. Sansbien floated in additional materials here and there, trying to be helpful despite Aluris brushing them off.

Dorene carried the flask of mixed ingredients to a pitcher plant. She tilted the plant’s striped basin and poured the blue liquid within into her flask.

“This will bind the bleak essence for further study after I’ve extracted it.” She swirled everything together, then set the flask aside. “Aluris, stand on Bryont’s other side. At my signal, bundle whatever comes out of the wound. If we’re lucky, the bleak progeny won’t have developed enough to be a threat.”

“And if we’re unlucky?” Kifra’s pulse raced with concern for her squire. She didn’t like the answer she saw in the mage’s strained expression.

Not all deaths happen on the field.

Dorene yanked the arrow from the amputated snout. Kifra’s heart plummeted as her ticket to a teaching position in the citadel puffed into nothingness. Now that the arrowhead was free, it shone with its own green iridescence again.

Dorene handed over the arrow to Kifra, its tip as large as her palm. “Straight line down the front of his shin. Fast.”

Kifra grasped the arrow’s shaft. “You're sure about this?” she asked Bryont, knowing that his answer didn't matter. She would do what was required anyway.

Bryont locked eyes with her. “Yes.”

Kifra steeled herself, then inserted the arrowhead into the undulating mass just below his knee. The tip bit eagerly into him. She sliced downward, all the way to his foot in a single motion. His taut skin split open, and he hollered in pain.

Inside, a black, leathery mass tried to withdraw from the light. The same sulfuric stench as in the woods overwhelmed the room. Sansbien raised the solarium’s ceiling vents, but that did little to improve the situation.

“Why isn’t it coming out?” Bryont asked through gritted teeth.

“The bleak has anchored itself to something within you.” Dorene handed a corner of the linen to Aluris. Together, they unfolded it with what felt to Kifra like unnecessary care. “Tell me what you feel.”

“Like there is a tourniquet on my leg.”

“Anything else?”

“What more do you need?” Isso bolted out of her chair, hands waving emphatically. “House, summon my halberd. I’ll get the bleak out.”

“Your weapon isn’t necessary, Nlleyn-Isso,” Dorene said patiently. “Bryont, I know you’re scared, but I need you to focus on your leg. Do you have any other sensations, or emotions, there?”

“Emotions in a leg,” Isso grumbled as Bryont frowned with concentration. “I have an emotion for you. How about—”

“Grief.” Bryont’s eyes brimmed with tears. He avoided looking at Kifra. “Like a pit that cannot be filled no matter how many corpses they toss into it. So many bodies…” Tears flowed freely.

“Ah. This is a succubinate form of bleak magic,” Dorene said. “It feeds on harbored secrets. I can remove the bleak but first you need to release the anchor.”

“I…don’t…” he replied between sobs.

Kifra stroked Bryont’s hair as she had done with her son when he was sick. “Speak the truth. I will not judge you.” She shot her mother a warning look. “No one will.”

The black mass retreated farther into his leg. Bryont yelped.

Isso clasped Bryont’s hand. “Go on, boy. Speak your truth and save your leg.”

“I…I…”

The sulfuric odor intensified. More of the undulating horror slipped deeper into his body. His knee blackened from it. Kifra fought the urge to shake him until either the secret or the bleak spilled out of him.

“Just say it,” she urged.

“I am a pacifist!”

A bubbling screech arose from his wound. Kifra jumped back instinctively. In an instant, Enduril and Windslicer were at the ready.

“That’s right. More,” Dorene urged.

Bryont grunted in pain as he unloaded his soul. “My family coerced me into serving the blade. I hate every moment we are training, or fighting, or recounting battles.”

Kifra heard him but kept her warrior’s focus on the bleak as it struggled for its hold on Bryont’s leg.

Fight now. Feel later.

“I know everyone thinks I’m a joke, but I fail the trials on purpose. I do not want to be an orn. Ever!”

The bleak puffed up as it released Bryont’s shin.

“Aluris, now!” Dorene commanded.

She plunged her hands underneath the monstrosity and levered it upward, while Aluris wrapped the linen around it from above. The succubinate expanded in size as it came out of Bryont.

Dorene ducked away from the tentacular snouts as they formed. Kifra chopped them back before they could attach themselves to a new host. The severed proboscises exploded, sending black guck flying everywhere.

Dorene slid her hands further down the incision. Aluris threw his torso on top of the mass to keep the linen in place. Isso grabbed the loose corners of the fabric and tied them beneath the mass.

Once it was fully detached, Dorene extended her arms and crossed them at her wrists. “Esta-accha!” The linen enclosed the mass completely. As she pulled her hands apart, the linen stiffened, then began twisting. “Aluris, the flask.”

He held the flask beneath the linen as Dorene continued her spell. The fabric wrung tighter. The succubinate wailed in protest. Oozing black liquid dripped from the end of the enshrouded thing into the flask.

“Orn Kifra…” Bryont moaned.

Kifra rushed to his side and leaned her axes against the leg of the table. “Stay with me, boy.”

He had turned gray, and his pulse was thready. Kifra’s hope sank. He didn’t have long to live.

“I couldn’t…tell you,” Bryont whispered.

“Dorene, he’s dying. Do something!” Kifra’s heart pounded.

“I can’t. This bastard won’t give up.” The mage was struggling to wring the bleak into the flask.

Kifra yanked her retiree’s cloak from her belt and pressed the wadded material against his wound to slow the hemorrhaging.

A wound I inflicted.

Blood seeped through the cloth, its red replacing the black ink of bleak magic on Kifra’s hands.

Isso laid her hands atop her daughter’s. “Kif, be with him. I will keep applying pressure.” The sadness in her eyes told Kifra that she, too, knew he wasn’t long for this world.

Feeling useless, Kifra relinquished her grip. “I’m here,” she said to Bryont. His forehead was cold and clammy. “I’m here.” The bare essence of a groan escaped his lips. His last lungful?

When Kifra dared breathe, she noticed a sweet musk in the air, and the measured tapping of something traversing the stone floor behind her.

“Here. Give him this.”

Kifra turned, expecting to see a collection of household items arranged into a human form representing Sansbien. “You!” She dropped down, snatched up her axes, and held them at the ready.

The female cervitaur from the woods backed up a couple of steps. She wore her gray hair in long braids. Light played against the earth-colored fabric of her woven vest.

Kifra didn’t care that the cervitaur’s face looked as human as that of any soldier or battle mage she had fought with. She cared about the bow in a sheath slung over the cervitaur’s fore-hip, and the quiver of arrows on her back.

"I won't hurt you," the cervitaur said.

Kifra's knuckles whitened. “I can’t say the same.”

“This is a blood rose.” The newcomer offered up a bright red flower and a white porcelain cup. “If you apply its petals to a wound directly, the bleeding stops. The drink is a tincture of the rose’s roots. It will help your squire replace what he’s lost. He’ll be weak for a while, but he won’t die. Hurry. You don’t have long.”

Kifra’s pulse thundered in her head as the unfamiliar curse of indecision paralyzed her.

“Trust her!” Dorene shouted. “She’s Od’xyran, my other pupil and a friend. The Unity provides,” the mage added, followed by another grunt of effort.

“Kif, he’s worth the risk,” Isso urged from the other side of the table. “I have more hair on my aged head than there are threads in this piece of garbage cloak.”

Do I have a choice?

Defeated, Kifra motioned Od’xyran closer with her axes. “Then you do it because, by the Iphins, I will not kill my squire with your potion.”

The cervitaur swept Kifra’s cloak to the floor. Each petal that touched Bryont’s wound plumped up. Kifra watched in awe as his bleeding immediately ceased.

Od’xyran rubbed his sternum, bringing him back to wakefulness. “Drink.” She lifted his head to help him take a sip.

Keeping her attention trained on her squire, Kifra heard, “Aluris, the cork.” Mage and pupil had to have wrung the last of the bleak magic into the flask.

Od’xyran set the porcelain cup down. She motioned for Kifra to come closer.

The warrior set down her axes and checked Bryont over. His skin had warmed, and a healthier pink graced the hint of a smile on his face.

“Rest now,” she said to him, wishing she could do more.

“See?” Od’xyran switched her short, white tail from side to side. “He’ll be bounding again in no time.”

Kifra opened her mouth to express her relief, then closed it again, overcome by a wave of disbelief. A cervitaur helping a human?

Am I so old that my instincts have failed me? Maybe I deserve to be a Gentlesword after all.

Was it age or the stress of nearly losing her squire that made her suddenly ache everywhere? All this drama with so little to take back to the citadel. Tomorrow Kifra would restart her monster hunt from scratch, probably without Bryont. Dismay’s sting coursed through her.

“Well done!” Dorene flashed Od'xyran a big grin as she wiped herself clean. Behind the mage, Aluris was studying the contents of the flask. “You saved the day.”

“It was nothing.” Od’xyran waved away the compliment with a sweeping flap of her hands. “We use blood rose all the time in my village when the bachelors rough each other up during rutting season.”

A nagging question came to the forefront of Kifra's mind. “What were you doing in the forest?”

“I had tracked the bleak monster to your trap. You netted the body, but you were struggling with that snout.”

“You shot at me.” Kifra studied Od’xyran’s face for indications of a lie. But all she saw were friendly green eyes that invited conversation. The cervitaur had the same gentle laugh lines as Kifra did. The warrior briefly wondered if the hair of Od’xyran’s hide masked age spots like her own.

“Yes, well, that was an accident. As I got older, I became near-sighted. Dorene taught me how to enchant my arrows for better accuracy and to stop the monster from dematerializing. I didn’t mean to startle you. Its body degraded before I could land a second arrow.”

“I thought you had conjured the thing.” Kifra felt the tension in her muscles ease as she confessed.

“Od’xyran’s people don’t use bleak magic,” Dorene said.

“That begs the question: who does?” Isso asked. “These things don’t conjure themselves.”

“Only terrible people deal with terrible magic,” Kifra added, pleased that Od’xyran nodded her agreement.

“Would it be so bad?” Darkness edged its way into Aluris’s voice. He began pacing like a caged predator.

“Are you kidding?” the warrior responded.

“Think about it. The person who wields bleak spells can control succubinates like this. Set it loose at the Court of the Cobalt Oligarchy and see who’s harboring secrets.”

“Set the elixir down, boy,” Isso said.

“Citadel scholars won’t teach bleak magic because they’re afraid someone will lose control. But I wouldn’t. I’m stronger than all of them put together.” He turned and glowered at Dorene with hard eyes. “I’m stronger than you.”

“Aluris, I understand the temptation,” she said slowly. “Don’t make the same mistake I did.”

“You.” He pointed an accusing finger. “You are the reason they held me back. They won’t teach bleak spells because of what you did at Norgesol. I came here thinking I could show you I’m worthy of the magic you were banned for using, but all you have me do is practice genial incantations a snot-nosed toddler could master. I can control a simple bleak succubinate.”

Kifra felt adrenaline’s familiar kick. Her senses sharpened and her muscles tensed. Her heartbeat pounded its readiness. Inch by inch she bent down and surreptitiously took up her weapons. She glanced at her mother. Isso had the pestle in hand, ready to use it as a bludgeon or projectile.

You can take the warrior out of the battle, but you can’t take the battle out of the warrior.

“I wasn’t banned for using the old magic.” Dorene's voice held nothing but calm. However, the narrowing of her eyes and the ruddiness of her cheeks suggested otherwise.

“You lie!” he protested.

Kifra tightened her grip on her axes. Even her sore joints now itched for a fight.

Dorene eased herself forward. “Put the flask down. Be smart.”

“I’m smarter than you think I am,” Aluris snapped. “You think I’ve spent all my time in the library studying how to grow healing herbs and make protective charms?” He yanked the cork from the opening. “I command the power of Cralundo into me!”

“Aluris, no!”

He raised the flask to his lips and gulped eagerly. Isso threw the pestle. It obliterated the flask, bursting forth its contents. A shard of the vessel sliced Aluris’s face.

He snarled at her, his eyes glowing yellow. He had ingested enough essence to increase his power.

“By the Iphins’ teeth,” Kifra swore.

Aluris crossed his arms as Dorene had before. “Esta-accha!”

The ties of Isso’s gorgeous cloak twisted themselves tighter around her neck, stifling her breath.

Od’xyran leaped over Bryont and the table to assist. She curled her fingers around the ties and kept them from tightening. Isso gasped for air.

Kifra aimed Windslicer at Aluris. Misguided youth or not, he was going to die. She hurled her axe with seasoned expertise.

He deflected her attempt with a wave of his hand. The axe sliced through the trunk of an adjacent, thin tree, which began falling directly onto Isso and Od’xyran.

Isso’s halberd blocked its trajectory, swung into place by Sansbien’s invisible grip. Vines curled around the split trunk, supporting its weight.

Kifra dashed at Aluris, Enduril held aloft. In a single downward sweep, she cut off the arms that commanded the cloak's ties. Aluris wailed with surprise and agony. Dark, swirling bleak magic spilled from his wrist stumps and staunched his bleeding before it started.

With Isso freed from his magical grasp, Od’xyran ripped the cloak off.

Dorene’s fingers sparked with lightning. Her spell coalesced into a crackling ball of energy, which she flung at Aluris, sending him flying into the fountain.

Isso’s halberd soared to the pool. Sansbien’s unseen hand kept Aluris submerged with the weapon’s blunt end as each dolphin turned its head and squirted water over the top of him.

“Yes,” Dorene responded to what Kifra assumed was Sansbien. “Let’s do that.” She touched the surface of the pool and spoke an incantation. The buccaneer set her jug upright and the streaming from both her vessel and the dolphins’ mouths stopped.

Bleak essence oozed out of Aluris, drawn out by the now-enchanted water. With the essence trapped in the fountain, the halberd flipped over and fished him out using its pointed end.

“Exactly what I suggested earlier,” Isso said in a hoarse voice. “Pry out the unwanted crap like shucking a cockle.”

Aluris coughed and sputtered as he dangled there. Moments later, his eyes reverted to normal. Kifra yanked him down, then marched him in front of his mentor before going to help Isso to the chair.

“I hate you, old lady!” Aluris yelled at Dorene when Kifra had turned her back on him.

As Kifra looked his way, he raised his knee to kick out at his mentor.

“No one calls Dorene ‘Lady,’” Od’xyran shouted. With a fluid motion, she scooped up her bow and nocked a glowing turquoise arrow. When the arrowhead struck him in the gut, reams of crawling ivy burst forth from the impact site until it encapsulated him, rending him immobile.

“‘Old’, Od’xyran.” Kifra corrected, with a chuckle. “Nobody calls her ‘old’.”

“But I heard Dorene when you came…she said she didn’t want to be called a lady.”

“Right you are, my friend,” Dorene said. She curved her fingers as though holding a ball, then rotated them in opposite directions over top of her entombed protégé. Vines parted, revealing a face gagged with leaves. “I’ll deal with you later,” she promised.

The flooring shifted, rolling Aluris away to Sansbien’s governance.

“Does your magic house have a dungeon?” Kifra asked.

“Of course, but it’s only for guests.” Dorene gathered her robes about herself and sat down on the edge of the fountain. “Well, that was a little bit of excitement. I’m bushed. There was a time I could cast intense extraction spells for hours. Now I’m just used to casting them when my gentleman callers have been here too long,” she added with a wink.”

“That makes, what, once in a while?” Kifra asked casually, while still keeping an observant eye on the murky water.

“A polite mage never kisses and tells.” Dorene fanned herself with her hand.

Kifra certainly understood discretion.

“At least three times a week,” Dorene admitted without being asked twice.

“And thrice on holidays,” Od’xyran happily contributed.

So much for discretion.

“Excitement makes me thirsty.” Isso rubbed the red marks on her throat. “I don’t suppose Sansbien could find me a whisky, could they?”

“Sansbien and I will figure out a way to concentrate the bleak essence and contain it again.” Dorene stood up, gesturing that they join her. “In the meantime, why don’t we have a nice spot of supper. Isso’s right. A dram of whisky wouldn’t go amiss.”

“Make mine a double, House,” Isso said as they followed Dorene from the solarium.

The cliffs called to Kifra after sundown. Isso and Dorene had taken turns sampling the best of Sansbien’s stores while Od’xyran entertained them with stories from her village. Bryont was sleeping in a room on the second floor, or maybe it was the third. When Kifra had checked on him, she couldn’t figure out one floor from the next.

Sansbien must have sensed Kifra’s troubled mind, for the house had created a straightforward path to the outside. The winds were calm, and she didn’t need the cloak’s pitiful warmth. Now clean and pressed, she carried it anyway, hoping her last physical connection to the citadel would bring her peace.

In a sculpture garden beneath the tower, she found a bench and sat down. As she did, stone figures danced atop their pedestals in the moonlight. Kifra’s thoughts drifted on the surf below.

Gentlesword. What does that even mean?

She had spent most of her years in service and had many yet to offer as an instructor. Yet, the Cobalt Oligarchy thought her too feeble to wield a blade for any real purpose. “You have earned your rest,” they had said before pushing her out of the citadel with little more than a day’s worth of food…and the short, thin cloak that couldn’t even stop her squire from bleeding out.

Gentlesword means nothing.

She sighed, yearning for the reassurance of her warrior’s routine. Training at dawn. Tactics over lunch. Recounting at night. Protecting the future by teaching recruits to do the same. Defending the realm against enemies until death, or until she had ceremonially become one with Nlleyn.

“Orn Kifra?”

She heard the cervitaur call her from a distance, as if the summons came from her beloved citadel. The warrior reluctantly returned from her waking dream of running youth through her drills, shaping them into an elite fighting force.

Moonlight reflected from Od’xyran’s hide and delicate jewelry, giving her an almost supernatural glow. Beside her, the sea breeze made Dorene’s robes flutter, as if she were floating.

Kifra had befriended the mage despite the Oligarchy’s rejection of her. Could a warrior do the same with a cervitaur, a traditional enemy of the realm?

Dorene withdrew a small vial from within her robes and offered it to Kifra. “This is all that I managed to salvage from the fountain. I know it’s not much…”

“It’s not enough,” Kifra said, turning her head away.

“The essence that splashed around from the broken flask created demon weeds. It will take me a while to uproot them all and distill the bleak out of them.”

“I mean to say, what the Oligarchy offered me is not enough.” She turned her gaze to her friend. A single tear escaped the tight hold Kifra had on her sadness.

“You could live out here with us,” Dorene suggested. “Isso and Bryont too. Sansbien has taken a liking to Isso. They’re letting her knock the heads off the standing armor in the great hall.”

“I didn’t see a great hall when I came…no, never mind. Of course you have one.”

This house…confusing without being confining.

“And if Bryont won’t help you hunt, I’ll give it a go,” Od’xyran added. “You swing an impressive axe.”

“I don’t know.” Kifra could think of many reasons to decline the invitation, all as thin and irrational as Sansbien's windows. But to work alongside a cervitaur…?

Except Kifra wasn’t a warrior anymore, was she? Neither had she been offered a position with the High Guard as Isso had when she had had enough of the battlefield.

Kifra wiped away her tears. “There was a big parade when the Oligarchy styled me a Gentlesword, although it wasn’t for me. No. My part was a short adjunct to the welcoming ceremony for instructors from Baryn.”

“But didn’t the Oligarchy go to war with Baryn?” Od’xyran threw her hands up questioningly as her tail slowly moved from side to side.

“Unlike the Oligarchy’s earlier war with your Hekeriate Rangale, the dispute with the Baryn ended in a diplomatic exchange of leaders. We’re making amends by learning each other’s ways. It is a just and rightful thing to do.”

“But it means you’re out of a job?”

“A job, a place to live, a position of honor in the citadel. All I have is a shite cloak and a meaningless title.”

Dorene took Kifra’s hand. “You have me.”

Od’xyran held the other. “You have us.”

Kifra's warm tears flowed freely. “And that is enough, isn’t it?”

Yes, she would stay. She would be a friend to a nearsighted cervitaur and an ousted mage. The retired warrior might even adapt to Sansbien’s weird ways. And, Iphins willing, somehow the three of them would figure out who was behind the bleak magic attacks.

A joyful hoot announced Isso’s arrival into the sculpture garden. She had ditched her halberd and her clothes.

“By the Iphins, does the Unity ever provide!” she declaimed in a sing-song voice as she waltzed about with a one-armed marble man with chiseled abs.

“Maybe the Unity can provide my mother some dignity?” Kifra covered her eyes in mock embarrassment.

“Why clothe her when you can join her?” Dorene jumped up, threw off her gauzy robes, and twirled between the pedestals herself.

“I’m already half naked.” Od’xyran giggled and pranced about like a spring fawn.

Kifra’s face hurt from smiling too much. “I’ll dance, but I’m not taking off my tunic. That statue over there has already been giving me the love-eye.”

Nightfire bugs lit up the sky to a chorus of songs from bygone days. As the unusual companions pranced about the garden, a gust of wind upswept Kifra’s poor excuse for a retired warrior’s cloak and dropped it into the sea.

Lesley loves crafting atypical characters you’ll love in genre-blending journeys. She has been published nationally and internationally, and her debut fantasy, The Queen’s Viper, was a Semi-Finalist in the 2016 Kindle Book Awards. She is a Canadian ER nurse, hobby medievalist, mother to a son with special needs, and an often companionable wife.

Read Lesley’s stories for free at writerlesleydonaldson.com and chat with her on Facebook https://www.facebook.com/WriterLesleyDonaldson.

LEGACY OF THE PAST

By Dan & Robert Zangari

“The true soldier fights not because he hates what is in front of him but because he loves what is behind him.”

-Gilbert K. Chesterton

“Magic and morality must go hand in hand, lest you create an unstoppable force of evil.”

From Edicts of the Mage-King, “Preface” 6,461 C.D.

Naeala’s wrinkled fingers tensed as she dismissed her magical fire. The flames crackled, then vanished from the barsion-protected crucible holding her latest creation, a thin molten strand of pale-green oxleyca—a rare gemstone found in the depths of Kalda’s crust. When refined, oxleyca could harness magic.

A faint hiss carried from the crucible, and Naeala took a deep breath. She focused on maintaining the blue barrier of her barsion around the oxleyca so the gemstone would keep its new form. The strand had to remain true to the mold. Once before, a strand of ceurluia had only slightly expanded, but when she added it to the other components for the tevisral, a cascading effect rendered every piece unworkable. All the components of that magical object had to be discarded.

Through her magic she could sense the gemstone’s intense heat. It pressed against her barsion, causing it to flicker. “You will not defy me,” she said, her voice hoarse. She rasped the words of an incantation, and blue light swirled from her fingertips, seeping into the crucible and around the molten strand, forming another layer of protective magic.

The pressure of the molten gemstone intensified, and the inner layer of barsion shattered. But the oxleyca’s expansion was soon halted by the outer layer of reinforcing magic.

Hopefully, that swelling wouldn’t be a problem.

After she recast four more inverted barsions, the oxleyca had ceased hissing, cooling enough to hold its new form. The glistening strand, once an unrefined jagged cube a quarter the size of her fingernail, now spanned the length of her forearm.

Naeala sighed in relief and grabbed tiny tweezers beside the crucible. She gently raised the oxleyca strand—now devoid of barsion—and moved it to a nearby worktable, toward a pair of polished granite cubes spaced a hand’s width apart. A harmonious ommm rang through the workshop as the oxleyca touched the granite and the strand began to glow with soft emerald light.

Exhaustion began to overtake her, and Naeala dismissed the barsion barriers surrounding her and her workshop. The fiery magic she had used was so hot that it would have not only melted the crucible, but turned her entire cottage to ash. And the surrounding woods.

Stretching, Naeala moved to a chair beside the worktable, brushing a curly gray lock from her face. The oxleyca was still ringing, though fainter than at first. She let her eyes linger on it, then she glanced to the pieces of an off-white vambrace—the forearm portion of her armor that would house the channeling tevisral.

It was a design all her own, derived from the channeling staffs used by mages. Those staffs could accelerate magic, propelling bolts and blasts at tremendous speeds. But this tevisral, if what was claimed in her stolen texts was true, would be as grand as those magical devices found only in myth and legend.

Over the past five years she had secretly devoted her life to the creation of that vambrace and other tevisrals like it. Possessing tevisrals in the Kingdom of Los was a violation of the Edicts of the Mage-King, the Kingdom’s supreme law created by Dorin, the Mage-King. If possession is tantamount to treason, she sometimes wondered, then what would creation be?

She had never dwelt long on the imagined answer. As a grand mage of Alath and an Agent of the Order, Naeala was held to a higher standard of conduct than a common citizen. If she was caught, her punishment would be much more severe.

All violators were doomed to the crude cells of Ahzeald, a name that evoked terror for an average Losian. But for an Alathian mage…the sentence was worse than death.

Within Ahzeald’s depths a mage was cut off from the Channels of Power. Mages incarcerated there always emerged estranged from magic. Many lost their connection completely, and few ever reconnected with the Channels as intimately as they had prior to their imprisonment.

But if she, a grand mage and Agent of the Order, were caught, she would surely never emerge from Ahzeald’s depths. Her life, as she knew it, would end. For what was a mage without the Channels of Power?

Useless, she thought. But that price was worth paying to end Mindolarnian tyranny.

Since her childhood, the Kingdom of Los had fought against the ever-expanding Mindolarn Empire. Magic alone was not enough to stop Mindolarnian aggression. In the fifty-four years since the first skirmish, many of her Order had perished, including her pupils. Lysna had been the last to fall, and it was her death that proved magic was not enough.

If we had had tevisrals, we might have stopped the Mindolarnians years ago, and perhaps she would still be alive. Naeala’s thoughts turned to her other pupils. Perhaps they all would be alive.

The harmonious ringing faded into silence but was soon replaced by a loud rapping at the cottage’s entrance.

* * * * *

Naeala spun out of her chair. Another set of loud knocks pounded the door. Who could that be? She glanced about her workshop, noting the tevisrals she had constructed over the past year—each was in plain sight. She swiftly uttered an incantation, mustering white-blue particles that soon formed veils of invisibility.

Once outside her workshop she closed its door, locked it, then continued toward the cottage’s tiny foyer.

A third set of knocks, louder than the others, resounded through the home.

“One moment!” Naeala shouted, glancing to a small study beside the foyer. It held only a chair, a worn sofa, and a knee-high wooden table. Good, nothing incriminating in there.

“Master Sia’ar!” A familiar voice carried through the door. “We have urgent business to discuss!”

Naeala narrowed her eyes. Master? She had not told anyone from the Order where she had secluded herself…but then again, the Order of the Mages of Alath had eyes everywhere.

Wary, Naeala opened the door. Four robed men stood on her covered porch, their cloaks’ cowls drawn over their heads, their faces barely visible. Each looked half her age, most likely in their early thirties, and—

She started, recognizing the foremost of them: Almar, the son of Adrin. He was taller than the others, with hawk-like features resembling his father’s. His striking sapphire eyes were determined. Fierce.

Almar removed his cowl, a grim expression contorting his sharp face. “May we enter?”

Naeala nodded, stepping back from the door. She gestured to the study, but remained in the hall. The four mages entered, all removing their damp cloaks. Had it rained? The sky outside was clear. She scanned the yard, and her eyes fell upon four partly muddied mounds near the stone walkway leading into the woods, undoubtedly the remains of transmogrified steeds. Must have been raining elsewhere.

She closed the door then joined her visitors in the study. “Would you care for something to drink?”

One of the mages flinched, undoubtedly in response to hearing her raspy voice.

“No, thank you,” Almar said, rummaging through his robe.

The others shook their heads, but the shortest of them narrowed his eyes and spoke. “You’re a long way from Alath. Why did you settle in these mountains anyway?”

“We’re not here to interrogate her, Rinden,” another said, his tone firm.

Rinden huffed. “I’m just curious.”

Almar smiled at Rinden in apparent sympathy but then returned his gaze to Naeala, a rolled parchment now in his hand. It was held in place by an oversized silver ring. “I don’t know how much you could have heard in your seclusion, but over the last six months the Kingdom’s armies have made a significant push through former-Klis. Four days ago we liberated the capital, and the Mindolarnians have fallen back to the Klitar Range. They are amassing their forces in a stronghold in the mountains.” He held the parchment toward Naeala. “The premier-general is mustering the Kingdom’s entire military might to siege Klitar, calling on soldiers in reserve and retired mages…like yourself.”

He paused, studying Naeala. “I’ve been tasked with leading a contingent of Agents of the Order to infiltrate the stronghold.” His fierce gaze intensified. “And I want you with us. We will slay all of Emperor Mindolarn’s brothers and anyone else who stands in our way.”

Naeala chuckled and stared at the rolled parchment. “You’re just like your father. Bold. Daring.” And reckless. But then, Adrin was much like his and Naeala’s master in the magical arts, Zatryn Phar. I suppose Zatryn made us both reckless. She could easily imagine her master constructing tevisrals in secret, just as she did.

Almar studied her, his gaze determined. “And we can avenge Lysna.”

Naeala’s stomach tensed. She shuddered, averting her gaze and resisting gruesome memories. But anger and sorrow began to swell within her. She folded her arms, but the gesture did not help. “So, they are there?”

Almar nodded. “I saw her murderers in the capitol. But they fled with the princes before I could engage them.”

“It was quite the rout,” Rinden said. “You should have seen Almar.”

A grunt left Almar’s lips. “They will not escape this time. Nor will the emperor or his brothers. Mendal will fall by my hand.” He stepped toward Naeala, holding the parchment toward her. “Here is your summons from the premier-general, and a means for you to join us.”

Naeala closed her eyes, arms still folded. Why now? I’m not ready… Parchment pressed against the back of her hand.

“I know this is a lot to ask,” Almar said, and Naeala opened her eyes. She sucked in her breath, and reluctantly took the parchment. The ring binding it was inset with a rogulin crystal, a dark-blue gem accented by golden flecks. Such rings were used by Agents of the Order to teleport to Alath, or to another mage elsewhere in the world. This particular ring was large enough to fit on a mage’s battle garb.

“The rogulin is bound to a battle platform outside the capitol,” Almar said, stepping back toward the other mages. “Premier-General Graden is driving our forces north, and we should be ready to strike in four days.”

Naeala studied the rogulin ring and fought back a grimace. “I don’t have a choice, do I?”

“We always have a choice,” Almar said, then nodded to the man who had remained silent. A teleporting incantation left that mage’s lips, golden particles swirling from his hands. The four mages grabbed onto each other as a portal formed around them.

Naeala shielded her eyes as the light burst, whisking the mages away from the study. The magic faded, but the acrid odor of a portal, a blend of rotten eggs and citrus juice, lingered in the air.

* * * * *

Holding the parchment intensified her anger while invoking a harrowing sense of dread concerning her work. “I’m not ready,” she muttered, balling her fists. Though she had made great strides in creating several tevisrals, her arsenal was not enough to ensure victory.

She walked back to her workshop, pulled the ring from the parchment, and unrolled the summons. Filled with formal language, it gave Premier-General Graden’s detailed account of the Kingdom’s military actions over the past six months.

“…And now I issue this charge,” she read. “As paragons of justice it is our duty to liberate all who suffer under Mindolarnian oppression. By the power vested in me, I hereby call every man and woman able to—”

Naeala tossed the parchment aside and threw open the workshop’s door. She knew how that rhetoric ended, and the affixed punishments for defying the decree. No matter her choice, all she had worked for would be lost either by death, by becoming a fugitive, or by imprisonment in the depths of Ahzeald.

“No!” she growled, throwing the rogulin ring. It bounced off the wall with a sharp ting and landed beside the crucible.

Fury mounting, Naeala screamed and fell to her knees. “Damn you, Dorin!” She pounded her fists against the wooden floor as if against the Mage-King himself. “Damn you and your Edicts! May you burn in Tardalim for all eternity!”

She continued to scream, losing control over the suppressed memories of Lysna and her murderers, those Crimson Praetorians who called themselves the Onyx Twins: Suraeka and Eurmaldin. Even after five years, Naeala felt as if she were still on that battlement, smelling the stench of desiccated flesh and hearing the howling laments of the maimed, their rhythmic wails leaving her ears ringing.

And hearing her own warning cries, echoing through the baleful cacophony as if they belonged to another.

Through perfect recollection, Naeala saw Lysna’s barsion weakened, pierced by a black blade composed of magic that dissolved all it touched. But that blade was not her doom, though particles of it eroded her battle garb and consumed her flesh. Golden light reached from a fist-size portal behind her, pulling her into the timeless void where conjurers kept their menagerie of creatures: the Visirm Expanse.

But unlike most portals to that timeless void, the one Lysna passed through compressed her upon herself, instantly killing her. When Suraeka hurled Lysna back from the Visirm Expanse, she was nothing more than an unrecognizable mass of flesh, metal, and cloth.

That horrific image lingered in Naeala’s mind. Tears welled and then streamed down her cheeks, dripping on the workshop’s wooden floor.

Soon, her emotions settled to a simmer, and Almar’s last words came to her. I can run, she thought. Flee from the Mainland, from civilization. But that choice felt wrong. She stared at the grain in the wooden floor, and she knew—with every fiber of her being—she knew she must obey Graden’s summons.

Naeala stood, waving her hand in a dismissal to reveal the tevisrals she had concealed. Each was once a piece of off-white plating belonging to her mage’s battle garb: both gauntlets, one vambrace, part of a breastplate, and two sabatons. But now the plating had become powerful tevisrals capable of maintaining, containing, and propelling magic.

With a renewed sense of determination, Naeala stepped toward the worktable holding her latest creation. “Let’s hope four days is enough to complete you.”

* * * * *

Naeala scarcely rested after Almar’s visit. She melted a second strand of oxleyca and fastened it to the vambrace’s housing. Within those two strands she intended to contain arpran magic to mend her wounds if her barsion were shattered. But the piece of her breastplate-turned-tevisral had been built to accommodate a reserve of barsion that would surround her.

One could never be too careful.

While crafting a third strand, Naeala’s concentration waned from fatigue. The inverted barsion shifted, and the re-formed oxleyca expanded. She pressed it back into place with her magic, but the strand had several impurities, and its glow was much fainter than the others.

Do I dare use it? Without it the vambrace would not function correctly—the arpran magic would leak from the other parts of the tevisral.

Best I don’t…

Evening drew near, and the fatigue of the past few days set in. After warming a pot of stew by aid of her magic, Naeala ate while reviewing Geological Confluxes for Sustaining Destructive Flows, one of the tomes she had stolen. It had been in the Hilinard, a Mindolarnian institution of higher learning responsible for curating knowledge and creating tevisrals.

Shortly after Lysna’s death, Naeala had journeyed to Mindolarn’s capital and infiltrated their storehouse of knowledge. The heist was more fruitful than she had anticipated. Each tome she found had duplicates elsewhere in the Hilinard, some numbering in the dozens. How the Mindolarnians had obtained such knowledge, she did not know. Such texts should have been lost to the world.

The sun had set in the east when Naeala finished eating. If she were to survive tomorrow’s ordeals she would need to rest. She stared at Kalda’s moons, Kistern shining brighter than Kaelyrn.

Was this the last night she would gaze upon their beauty?

Surely, appearing on the battlefield with her newly constructed tevisrals would end her life as she knew it.

The next morning Naeala exited her cottage, girded in her enhanced battle garb. The tevisral pieces were bulkier than simple armor plating, inlaid as they were with re-formed gemstones that connected to the various strands within. Those stones acted as emitters for the stored magic.

This was the first time she had donned the pieces since their completion. Though the tevisrals were heavier than their plain plate counterparts, they were not encumbering. Nor would they interfere with her preferred style of fighting, infusing hand-to-hand combat with destructive magics. In fact, they would amplify every aspect of that deadly art.

Once near the trees, she turned to face the cottage she had called home these last four years. The plain wooden structure was exactly as she had first seen it. Abandoned, with few furnishings. Earlier, she had divested it of all her belongings and placed them within the Visirm Expanse. That timeless void was meant for preservation, not destruction.

Looking to the west, she shielded her eyes against the morning sun.

She raised her gauntleted hand, focusing on the rogulin ring. “Today, we change the world,” she said. “And my life.”

* * * * *

Golden light veiled Naeala’s vision, accompanied by a fleeting wave of nausea. Eruptions, louder than thunder, rang overhead as she arrived on the alabaster battle platform.

Had the siege already begun?

Steadying herself, Naeala looked skyward. An expansive barsion dome spread dozens of city blocks in each direction, enveloping the entire war camp. It was assailed by an unnatural storm, undoubtedly cast by a group of Mindolarnian mages.

A nasal voice called amid the noise, “Are you Master Sia’ar?” She turned as a lanky middle-aged man clad in leather armor approached with a large sack.

Naeala nodded. “How late am I?”

“We began the siege before sunrise.” The man reached into the pack. “The premier-general managed to drive us quicker than he anticipated.” He retrieved a small pouch from the sack and handed it to Naeala. “The rogulin inside will take you to Vaesar.”

Slipping the rogulin ring from her gauntlet, Naeala placed it in the pouch and removed a rogulin shard half the size of her thumb.

“May the Powers be with you,” the man said, taking the pouch. He hurried away as Naeala uttered the teleporting incantation. Golden light swirled from her gauntleted hand, but the rogulin did not glow. Wary, she finished the spell, but no portal formed.

That does not bode well. She glanced to the man, who looked aghast. “I’ll find another way,” she said, tossing the crystal to him.

Turning back toward the eruptions, Naeala studied the magic-filled sky. Myriad bolts, beams, and streaks of destructive power assailed the barsion dome. The quickest way to the stronghold would be to hurl herself with a telekinetic blast. Her sabatons had been crafted to emit that sort of power. But with the raging torrent overhead, it would be too risky.

“I suppose I need to awaken you, old friend.”

With that, she hurried from the battle platform. The screams of the dying, the clanking of metal, and the sounds of eruptions carried from the foothills beyond the war camp. The army’s rear line was perhaps two grand phineals away, a distance equal to ten city blocks. The Kingdom’s forces were divided into three regiments, each assailing a separate part of the blue-gray mountains. Naeala, however, could not tell which route was the shortest to the stronghold.

After darting through the camp for several minutes, she happened upon mounds of dirt and rock. “More than enough.” She extended her gauntleted hand and closed her eyes. “Taeshar, come.”

Focused on her stomach, she willed her baelnarn to manifest, the transcendent essence of a yidoth. A pricking sensation surged through her arm, then dissipated. Exhaling, Naeala watched as a white speck floated through the air. Once it struck the mound, earthen debris rose from four points. The limbs of a great feline formed, then a torso, and lastly a head and tail.

Most Alathian mages took horses for baelnarns, but Naeala wanted a companion more versatile. Luckily, her master in the arts had accepted her request. Zatryn took her to the southern parts of the Melar Forest and together they found an old yidoth—a green-furred feline with brown stripes. Through her magic she formed a bond with the creature, coming to an understanding that at the end of his life his essence would live on with her.

As grandmaster of the Order, Zatryn was privileged to know how to enact such a ritual, and three years later that same white speck came to Naeala. Since then, Taeshar had been her loyal mount and sometime battle companion for four decades.

Naeala smiled as Taeshar became fully formed, down to the minutest detail—a perfect re-creation of his mortal body. “This might be our last time together,” she said, stepping toward the transmogrified yidoth. She brushed her gauntleted hand through the earthen-made fur. “Whatever the outcome, know that you will always be a dear friend.”

Taeshar bowed his head. She mounted him and uttered a transmutative incantation, mustering brown light. The magic surged into the mound, then a liquefied strand swirled around Taeshar’s mouth and neck, becoming a metal halter and leather reins.

* * * * *

Taeshar bolted from the war camp at magically enhanced speed, moving toward the westernmost regiment. Yidoths were swift creatures, but when enhanced they could outrun a man tenfold. And, as a baelnarn, Taeshar could sprint for all eternity.

Holding tight to the reins, Naeala mustered her magic, directing each spell into the tevisrals of her armor. Her breastplate shone with a dark blue hue while her gauntlet glowed with purple disintegrating light.

As they neared the army’s rear line, she enhanced herself, quickening her speed, agility, and strength.

“Weave through!” She uttered another incantation, mustering an arpran aura. Now that they were upon the foothills, she could see a switchback ramp ascending the mountain pass behind a three-story gate made of the mountain’s stone, its doors shut. Lining the ramp, fortifications hewn from jagged blue-gray stone were occupied by archers and mages. The main stronghold, however, was still obscured by smoke and magical eruptions.

Several squads cleared a path for Naeala while others shouted ahead for their allies to do the same. Amid the noise she heard her name and title shouted. Cheers resounded around her, followed by chants of her name.

The army parted farther than she had expected, and she soon neared the front line. It consisted of the most elite of the Kingdom Guard, golden-armored knights enhanced by magic. They were accompanied by towering creatures: trolls, rencaths, and yaeltis. Elemental conjurations also pressed the line, humanoid creatures formed from rock, magma, flame, and water. There were even gigantic transmutations among them.

As with the rest of the army, the creatures moved aside, revealing the Mindolarnian soldiers. Their plate armor was emblazoned with the emblem of their empire across their breastplates: a seven-headed crimson hydra.

“Buck me,” Naeala said, uttering an incantation. Telekinetic light swirled from her gauntlets to her boots. She dropped the reins, and Taeshar halted, abruptly bowing his head.

The motion catapulted Naeala. Then her telekinetic blast hurled her toward the Mindolarnians at a speed faster than a bolt leaving a crossbow.

Almost instantly she collided with the enemy ranks. What would have been a deadly velocity was negated by the continual flow of barsion from her tevisral breastplate. She hit the foothills, tumbling up the mountainside and knocking her foes out of the way. Rolling to her feet, Naeala spun and settled into a wide stance, her gauntleted fingers splayed. She glanced about as incantations sang through the air. No Mindolarnian around her had recovered from her concussive landing. Behind her, Taeshar bounded through the swath she had carved, the Losian forces following him.

Flexing her hands, Naeala darted toward the soldiers blocking the ascending pass. Her gauntlets hummed, then crackled as violet light surged from the gemstones, a disintegrating aura forming.

She charged a soldier in red armor who was also surrounded by a thin veil of barsion. The soldier evaded, stumbling backward. She swung again and her gauntleted fist collided with the soldier’s barsion, instantly shattering it. A wave of violet mist flew from the gemstones, engulfing the soldier and the air around him.

Before the man could scream, he was consumed.

Landing where the soldier would have fallen, Naeala bounded toward another Mindolarnian. Commands resounded from the enemy ranks, mingled with battle cries from both sides. She pummeled the soldier, and another wave of disintegrating mist consumed him.

She pushed through the ranks, landing blow after blow that pierced barsion and metal. Though she had designed the gauntlets to amplify the magic stored within them, she had not known they would be so destructive.

Soon, Taeshar lunged beside Naeala, tackling a soldier and clawing the Mindolarnian’s barsion. But before Taeshar could breech it, pink orbs raced from the pass, erupting against his earthen body and hurling him away. But the repulsion was the only effect it had upon the transmuted feline.

Naeala dodged magically enhanced weapons, narrowly evading the crackling blades and maces. Losian battle cries grew louder and several Kingdom Guardsmen joined her.

After killing a half dozen more Mindolarnians, the violet mist ceased flowing. She continued attacking her nearest foe while swiftly mustering more disintegrating magic.

Hand-to-hand combat was natural to her.

Instinctive.

Her martial skill was so great it did not inhibit her concentration while mustering magic.

Dodging a blow, she directed the formed magic to the gemstones beneath her wrists. They absorbed most of the deadly magic while several particles brushed against her opponent’s barsion.

She ducked and spun, sweeping the soldier.

Naeala flexed her hands as she swung at her foe, but the tevisral did not emit the magic. Metal struck barsion, and the man tumbled sideways.

A flash of orange sped toward Naeala, seizing her vambrace. Orange light pulsed from a cord composed of life-draining magic. Its owner stood twenty paces away, a necromancer surrounded by a bubble of acid-infused barsion. Red particles flowed from her gloved hands.

Annihilation particles—

Naeala’s eyes were drawn to the gate, positioned directly behind her attacker.

Ignoring the soldier, Naeala bounded toward the necromancer. The red light surged along the life-draining cord—but neither magic fazed her barsion. If her protective barrier were not from the tevisral, it would have weakened and possibly shattered.

Leaping into the air, Naeala kicked the necromancer’s acidic barrier, a flash of white emanating from her sabatons.

The Mindolarnian screamed in surprise and flew backward, Naeala trailing after her, still bound by the life-draining cord. They knocked aside soldier and mage alike, cutting yet another swath through the Mindolarnian ranks.

Before they landed, Naeala swiftly uttered a dispel. More white particles appeared, surrounding the orange magic. The cord flickered as the necromancer tumbled across the ground.

Landing, Naeala shook off the fading magic and bounded toward the necromancer. Should’ve used an ensnaring cord. She struck the Mindolarnian’s acidic barrier, a high-pitched hiss accompanying the blow. Naeala struck again, waves of violet light surging all around. Three more blows and the barsion shattered, then the woman inside was consumed.

Naeala bounded toward the closed gate as incantations rang from the pass. Soldiers fled from her, leaving the gate unguarded.

They’re going to rain magic.

Wary, she glanced over her shoulder, searching for Taeshar. The transmuted feline leapt atop a soldier, clawing the man’s armor. Behind him, the Losian forces were raising barricades along the swath, transmuted from the foothills. The liquefied stone soon became glistening metal, and was reinforced by barsion.

Hopefully they make a tunnel.

As she reached the blue-gray gate, deadly magics rained from fortifications up the mountainside: acidic bolts, arcane and disintegrating orbs, surges of lightning.

With unnatural finesse Naeala avoided the deadly projectiles, but for every step she advanced toward the gate, she was repulsed.

Arrows and bolts infused with magic also assailed her; some were laced with dispels. Amid her evasive dance she searched for an opponent to engage, but the Mindolarnians had retreated.

Soon, a barsion barrier formed overhead, akin to what protected the war camp. But Naeala held her ground, lest the Mindolarnians break through the barsion. Heavy footfalls approached from behind her as well as the clanking of armor. Garbles of shouted commands were drowned by the eruptions overhead.

Incantations joined the dissonance, and earthen walls rose along the path to the gate, forming a tunnel that darkened the area until a layer of barsion reinforced the transmuted shelter.

“Master Sia’ar!”

Naeala spun.

A golden-armored soldier jogged toward her, lifting his visor and revealing the familiar wrinkled face of a childhood friend, Caemar Adala.

“I heard rumors that you had died,” Caemar said.

Naeala pursed her lips. “You don’t have to call me ‘Master.’” She turned, nodding toward the gate.

Caemar chuckled. “You know I do it out of respect.”

“I am sure you do, Commander.”

A half dozen mages had already run past them, mustering their magic a few paces from the fortification. Though the tunnel was dimly lit, the gate’s seamless nature was apparent.

This was not the first time Naeala had besieged a Mindolarnian gate, but after infiltrating the Hilinard she had learned more about their nature. Unlike other fortifications around the world, Mindolarnian defenses were maintained by tevisrals. The gate was indeed seamless, as it was maintained by a continual transmutation. Layers of barsion reinforced the transmuted stone from within. The doors, which had no hinges, were also held in place by emitted magic.

“Hold your incantations!” Naeala shouted, raising her hand.

Words were replaced by slow exhales.

She looked about, studying the mages. All had obeyed.

“There are tevisrals inside this gate!” She moved toward the left wall and tapped a spot at shoulder height. “Focus on this point. It will disrupt the cohesive bond for the doors.”

Naeala hurried back to Caemar, and the incantations resumed. Violet beams soon struck the smooth wall where she had pointed.

“I’m impressed,” Caemar said, folding his arms. “Where did you learn that trick?”

She succinctly answered, and when Caemar asked after why she had been in Mindolarn, she did not reply.

“I don’t suppose it has to do with your battle garb?” He eyed her, his brow raised. “After fighting alongside mages for four decades, you tend to notice when they look different.”

Naeala nodded, and Caemar sighed regretfully.

A faint hum filled the tunnel, then the doors of the gate crumbled, sunlight pouring through. Overhead, Mindolarnian horns trumpeted a retreat.

* * * * *

The Losian ascent was met with no resistance. Naeala led the charge atop Taeshar, holding tight to another set of transmuted reins. Caemar, however, had fallen back to the other members of the Kingdom Guard.

Though the walls of the pass were jagged stone, the ascending floor was a smooth ramp, albeit steep in some places. The switchbacks eventually led to another gate, flanked by two towers. The defense’s elaborate stonework consisted of sharp curves that resembled talons. The towers had that same distinct Mindolarnian design that resembled a serpentine claw clutching an egg. Mages stood atop an ornate parapet, veiled in myriad hues and ready to fling their spells.

Naeala reared Taeshar, scanning the final ascent. Several alcoves were nestled into the jagged rock face nearest the foothills. “Find a way through,” she commanded and leapt toward the nearest alcove. “And sniff out the twins.”

Eruptions and flashes of light veiled the pass.

I need to bypass that gate. Though the retreat signaled by the horns was probably meant for those in the pass, she could not risk those in the fortress escaping.

The towering conjurations charged past while the Losian mages unleashed their own magic.

While her allies laid siege to the second gate, Naeala whispered an incantation. She gathered white illusory particles, forming a brown hawk. Closing her eyes, she sent it flying and focused her vision through it.

Besides the hundred or so mages at the gate, there were perhaps a thousand soldiers and archers standing ready.

More fortifications and towers overlooked the pass, each with a small contingent of mages mustering their magics.

A large clearing spread beyond the gate, filled with partly constructed buildings, and a grand phineal beyond them lay the towering fortress of Klitar, made from the same blue-gray rock as the mountain. Armor-clad figures—a mass of silver and red—were repulsed from the fortress by Agents of the Order.

Naeala veered the illusion toward the castle’s eastern side. Losian forces had already breeched the gate of the center pass, clashing with Mindolarnian defenders.

Among those barring the way to the castle were two figures in black armor, the seven-headed hydra on their breastplates glistening from inlaid onyx.

There you are.

* * * * *

Veiled in invisibility, Naeala scaled the jagged mountainside by aid of the telekinetic magic stored in her sabatons. She soon landed in the clearing and dashed toward the fortress. The defending force had since been split, the Onyx Twins amid the eastern division.

Mustering more telekinetic magic, Naeala hurled herself over the battle.

Though the Onyx Twins were retreating, they left a devastating wake. Masses of flesh and metal were strewn across the battlefield.

The sight sickened her, and her fury intensified. Today, she would end that profane use of the Visirm.

Naeala landed among the unrecognizable dead as the Mindolarnians retreated into unfinished structures east of the fortress. Crimson Praetorians held off Kingdom Guardsmen while the Onyx Twins focused on the Losian soldiers. Eurmaldin bounded through the ranks, cutting through barsion with his black blade. The weapon seethed a dissolving mist, turning metal and flesh to dust.

Golden light swirled from Suraeka, coalescing behind soldier after soldier and sucking them through tiny portals.

Still invisible, Naeala wove around gory heaps and straight for Eurmaldin. She lunged, hurled by aid of her sabatons, and punched the twin as he struck a woman’s barsion. A violet burst veiled the air as Eurmaldin was repulsed from the soldier. The twin spun as Naeala followed up with an arcing kick, knocking the twin off balance.

But Eurmaldin recovered, swinging his blade toward Naeala. “Show yourself, coward!”

“Only when you die.” She sidestepped, punching ferociously.

Diabolical laughter left Eurmaldin’s helmet as Naeala repulsed him again, causing his form-fitting barsion to flicker. “So, you’ve come to join your apprentice in death.”

Naeala lunged again, but before she struck, white light tinged her vision, and she felt her invisibility no longer.

Eurmaldin raised his blade, intercepting Naeala’s gauntleted fist, their magics crackling. “There you are!” The twin spun, swinging his blade, but Naeala evaded.

Both moved at magically enhanced speeds, punching, slicing. As they fought, golden light swirled near Naeala, but she shifted the duel each time with telekinetic-enhanced vaults. She couldn’t be pulled through such a tiny portal while encased in barsion, but she did not want to give Suraeka a glimmer of hope.

Eurmaldin’s blade struck Naeala’s barsion several times, but the black particles did not so much as make her barrier flicker. His, on the other hand, had weakened considerably.

The other Mindolarnians had since fled, and Losian soldiers surrounded the duel.

“Stay clear,” Naeala shouted, dodging the black blade by closing the gap between her and Eurmaldin. She kneed his right hip while hammering her fists against his left pauldrons. The concussive forces and her magic shattered his barsion.

Growling, Eurmaldin shoved Naeala and tumbled backward. “Impressive.”

Suraeka shouted something in a guttural tongue, and Eurmaldin responded with a single word laced with fury. The vile conjurer had since moved atop a nearby structure.

Naeala closed the gap once again and knocked Eurmaldin into a partly constructed wall. The stone cracked as he recovered. Strange words left his helmet—the odd magical tongue used by some Mindolarnians—and blue particles surged from his gauntlets, surrounding him.

“Oh, no, you don’t!” She lunged, striking his helmet.

Eurmaldin hit the wall again and stumbled over his words, his mustered magic flickering. The blow should have disintegrated his helmet, but it only dulled the polished sheen. The residual mist washed toward the wall, widening the crack, and he fell inside.

What is that armor made of?

Shaking the thought aside, Naeala bounded through the hole. The twin pushed himself up, and a layer of barsion formed around him. They came to blows again, and Naeala’s bursting magic dissolved parts of the structure. Above them, Suraeka spoke that odd tongue.

Tumbling to evade a lunging stab, Naeala backed toward a pair of stairs.

Eurmaldin leapt toward her, blade raised. He sliced as he fell, but Naeala caught the magical blade. She pressed her gauntleted hands together, holding the weapon in place. All the while, the violet aura within the gauntlet’s gemstones intensified.

The twin chuckled. “You cannot break this Ko’delish bla—”

Violet light exploded between them, and Naeala felt her gauntlets meet, the magic within them depleted.

Eurmaldin gasped. “Impossible!”

As the light dissipated, she mustered more disintegrating magic. Eurmaldin’s blade had been halved where Naeala had grabbed it, the severed end turned to black mist. He backed away, tossing the blade aside and uttering another incantation.

Naeala attacked again while perfectly mustering her magic.

Amid their blows, several tall human-like figures darkened the windows and doors. But Naeala paid little attention to them. She kept focus on mustering her magic while instinctively reacting to Eurmaldin.

Her magic soon surged into her gauntlets, but she felt some leeched away.

Spinning from Eurmaldin, she looked about. Nine gray-skinned creatures surrounded her, enormous pores lining their four limbs. They were quinta’shals—mage’s banes—creatures that consumed magic. Their nearly featureless faces were focused on her, their five-sided mouths contorted in twisted smiles. The odd lips spread, and enormous pink tongues slithered toward her, each arrayed with more pulsing pores.

Naeala lunged toward the nearest quinta’shal and grabbed its mammoth tongue, wider around than a man’s thigh. Blue-and-purple magic seeped into the tongue from the surrounding aura while some particles spread through the air, consumed by the other creatures. She uttered another incantation, intending to overload her new foe.

Her magic dissolved parts of the quinta’shal’s moist flesh, but the creature consumed most of the particles.

The quinta’shal’s moist gray skin turned a dingy purple, and it raised its tripod hands toward Naeala’s face. Quinta’shals had the capacity to repurpose magic, expelling it through slits in their palms. Those slits opened, but before it released its magic, it fell limp. Magic leaked from its pores, as did its purple blood.

Finished with her incantation, Naeala glowed with a disintegrating aura.

Eurmaldin had since stepped away.

The quinta’shals lashed their tongues, leeching her barsion and the destructive aura. But Naeala did not relent. She grappled each of the creatures, forcing her magic into them until they collapsed, though before the last fell, her breastplate’s barsion reserves were depleted.

A battle cry filled the air, and the quinta’shal moved away. Eurmaldin charged, swinging a new black blade at Naeala. Though she was still engulfed in a disintegrating aura, it would not protect her from him, or Suraeka.

She darted away, throwing herself toward the nearest wall. It dissolved before she hit it, and she fell into a clearing, mustering more barsion. A guttural incantation sounded above her. Suraeka stood on a nearby balcony, golden light swirling around him.

Eurmaldin bounded into the clearing, the quinta’shal trailing behind him. “You cannot defeat us!”

A shadow sped over her, then Taeshar tackled the advancing twin.

Naeala faced the last quinta’shal as golden light shot from Suraeka. She ran toward the creature as it lunged, its tripod hands extended.

Leaping aside, she spun and kicked the quinta’shal, knocking it toward the tiny portal where she had stood. Its flailing tongue touched the mystical doorway and it vanished, evoking an enraged cry from Suraeka.

Blue particles surged into Naeala’s breastplate and a barrier re-formed, stoking Suraeka’s fury. His vehement screams filled the clearing as Naeala joined Taeshar against Eurmaldin. He struggled against them, and they soon weakened his barsion. Taeshar pinned the twin, and Naeala grabbed his helmet.

Eurmaldin struggled to break free, but Naeala held tight. The winged ornaments of his helm dissolved, and then she finally breeched the black metal. A yellow eye glared at Naeala.

“For Lysna!” she shouted, slamming her fist into the breech. The hole widened, and Naeala’s gauntlet sank into the helmet. A hurried incantation sounded overhead, and she turned to see Suraeka surrounded by the golden light of a portal.

No sooner had the Onyx Twin vanished than three squads of Alathian mages entered the clearing. All but one, a transmuter by the sigil adorning his armor, took up positions around her. The transmuter looked young, perhaps no older than Almar. “I am Nemmerin Dumal.” He stared at Naeala. “And I presume you wear no ordinary battle garb.”

They’re here for me, she thought, and studied the mages. Each was mustering magic. She beckoned to Taeshar and his body lost cohesion, his essence swirling toward her.

Nemmerin’s eyes narrowed. “Are you in possession of unsanctioned tevisrals, Master Sia’ar?”

Many a time Naeala had been the mage in Nemmerin’s position. Too many to safely escape. Her end had come.

Sighing, she removed the tevisrals from her battle garb. “Take them. They’ve served their purpose.”

* * * * *

Her wrists bound by magic inhibiting cords, Naeala sat within a large tent at the war camp’s heart. Her mouth was gagged with a scarf made of the same substance as the cords. They were not tevisrals, nor were they made of magic. Rather they negated magic. The bindings veiled the tent in a greenish tint.

Two guards stood at the tent’s entrance, their eyes trained on Naeala.

She had not been tied to the chair. In fact, if she wished she could move about the tent freely. But she decided to sit and rest, awaiting her inevitable trial before the Order’s council.

Many soldiers had also returned, their conversations filtering into the tent as they passed by. Some spoke of Emperor Mendal’s death, and she gleaned from various accounts that Almar had faced him one-on-one. Then, Almar had pursued Prince Magdolin, who would have been next in line to the throne. He was already struggling against two Agents of the Order, but upon Almar’s arrival they overtook him quickly.

That leaves only two of the seven brothers. She had heard nothing of Prince Marden—he was the most elusive. But Prince Monddar had escaped with the help of one of his nephews, the Decimator of Angolith.

The tent door flapped open and Caemar entered, clad in his golden armor, his helmet under his arm. Time had not been kind to him; in five years his once-brown hair speckled with gray had turned completely white. “And here I hoped you would have escaped.”

The guards turned to Caemar, each looking confused, but he extended his free hand to placate them. “I’m only here to see an old friend.”

Neither relaxed.

Caemar strode through the tent, grabbed another wooden chair and placed it beside Naeala. “I want you to know it wasn’t me…or any in my command.”

She nodded.

Caemar leaned back, shaking his head. “Oh, Naeala…you were always mischievous.”

They sat in silence until the young mage, Nemmerin, entered with two of the Order’s council-mages: Praetar and Niramis. Naeala couldn’t help but resent Nemmerin. But she knew what she had done, and she had not made the decision lightly.

I don’t regret it.

She had accepted that her life would end this day.

Praetar shook his head upon seeing Naeala. “I…I don’t believe it… Nay, I don’t want to believe it.”

Niramis, however, frowned in disgust as a sandy-brown-haired mage entered the tent, clad in his battle garb. He looked not quite middle-aged, but there was a maturity to him. Those hazel eyes of his looked old. “You summoned me, masters?”

Niramis nodded. “Please, come with us.”

“I wish to be present,” Caemar said, rising from his chair. “May I?”

The council-mages looked at each other, and Praetar nodded. Niramis inclined his head in what could barely be considered a nod. They gathered around Naeala, Caemar gently placing a gauntleted hand on her shoulder.

Once they were all touching, Niramis spoke a teleporting incantation, mustering golden light and whisking them off to Alath.

* * * * *

Caemar insisted he escort Naeala to the Order’s council chamber. Of all the structures on Kalda there was nothing more beautiful or majestic as the Estate of Concorious Knowledge. Its walls were made from the purest of alabaster, accented with elaborate golden molding and trim that shone like sunlight.

As she approached the council chamber, Naeala savored these brief moments in the Estate’ halls. I will never walk them again, she thought. These exquisite halls would be the last glimpse of beauty she would ever experience.

The council chamber was no less majestic—an expansive alabaster room rising three stories, its ceiling supported by six pillars that bore the glowing emblems of the Order’s foundational archetypes: arpranists, barsionists, conjurers, illusionists, transmuters, and wizards. These symbols glowed with hues representative of the primary Channel of Power used by each discipline.

White light shone from elegant symbols etched into the deep-coffered ceiling. Moonlight poured through a glass dome at the chamber’s center. Golden framing spread throughout it, a half globe of Kalda with Alath positioned at the dome’s apex.

And at the room’s far end rose a wide dais spanning the distance between the pillars. It was curved, as was the elaborate dark wood table atop it, allowing the council-mages to face one another and anyone standing before them.

Naeala had stood at that dais many times, reporting on her assignments as an Agent of the Order. The guards stopped her and Caemar, then took sentinel positions behind them. Nemmerin and the other mage stood to the side, whispering.

Only three of the council’s mages were seated behind the curved table.

Soon, others arrived. Grandmaster Thelimar Korida stared hard at Naeala. During her tutelage at the Estate, he had taught her the ways of the Visirm Expanse and the Aldinal Plane. Most of the others she knew by reputation only. Per tradition, everyone was silent, waiting for the grandmaster to begin the meeting.

Eventually, all but two chairs were filled, one beside the grandmaster and another two seats to his left. Thelimar looked about the council chamber, his face heavy with emotion. “We have won much today, but we have also lost much.” He grimaced at Naeala.

Why hadn’t he waited for the other two to arrive?

“And it pains me that we will lose even more. But before proceeding, we must make our council whole. Brethren, I submit before you two worthy of succeeding Girald and Midira. Behold, Dorith and Nemmerin. Those in favor of accepting them, please signify it.”

One by one, each council-mage stood. But instead of taking their seats they shifted, making the seats on either end vacant.

“Nemmerin, please sit to my right,” Thelimar said, then gestured with his left hand toward Dorith.

Together the twelve mages took their seats, their eyes on Naeala. Then Thelimar continued. “We have heard grievous things, Naeala Sia’ar. And I wished they were not true. Violations of the Edicts are not taken lightly. This you know. Never in all my days have I seen one of our own disobey our Kingdom’s supreme law. Nor has it happened since the treachery of Prince Gadith.”

Thelimar related to the council Naeala’s actions at the battle in the Klitar Mountains and her use of unsanctioned tevisrals.

Questions were put before her from each council member, and she responded by writing upon parchment. She answered truthfully, except for the whereabouts of her unfinished work—she could not bear to have the tevisrals destroyed.

Caemar read her answers aloud. His voice wavered as he relayed Lysna’s fate and the motives behind Naeala’s actions.

“The Edicts are flawed,” she wrote. “Dorin was a fool. Our enemies have grown strong while we’ve remained stagnant for almost a millennium. That is why I created a means to thwart them. How many lives could have been saved if it were not for those Edicts? The blood of the slain stains Dorin’s hands!”

Several council-mages flinched, including Nemmerin. Others sighed, while Thelimar bowed his head. Dorith, however, nodded.

“I have heard enough,” Thelimar said. “Do any others wish to question her further?” The room remained silent, and the grandmaster stood. “Naeala Sia’ar. It is my regret, and my shame, that I convict you of violating the Edicts of the Mage-King on twelve counts.” He paused, wiping his eyes. “We sentence you to the depths of Ahzeald for the remainder of your days, forfeiting your title and rank within this Order. Brethren, those who support this conviction, please signify it.”

All rose except Dorith.

Caemar gasped, raising an eyebrow and whispering to Naeala. “What does that mean?”

The grandmaster cleared his throat. “Dorith, do you wish to explain yourself?”

“I do not believe her guilty. The Edicts of the Mage-King are clear; any citizen found in possession of tevisrals beyond those sanctioned would be put to the law. But the term tevisral in that document is specific to devices created around or before the time of the Karthar Empire.” Dorith stood, and stepped off the dais, moving toward Caemar.

At that same moment, the doors to the council chambers opened, followed by the echoing of thick soled boots. Naeala’s attention, however, remained fixed on Dorith.

“Furthermore, I can’t agree to your counts, Grandmaster. She created six tevisrals, not twelve. Creation, by any means, is not punishable, nor is it implied anywhere in the Edicts.”

“You are arguing semantics,” Nemmerin said. “All tevisrals are a violation of the Edicts, Dorith. There is no room for exception.”

Several others voiced their agreement, but before anyone argued further, the grandmaster held out a hand to silence them. “Your Majesty! Premier-General, what brings you here?”

Naeala started, looking over her shoulder. Two men approached. One wore a plain metallic mask and a dark green battle doublet with matching trousers, an embroidered ivory sigil of the Kingdom Guard woven upon his chest; a staff surrounded by twelve seven-pointed stars over two curved blades, with six vines reaching from the blades to the stars.

The other was an attractive sandy-haired man in his middle years, with exquisite blue eyes. Though she had never met King Calidar, Naeala had heard him described as handsome. His attire was no less impressive, a metallic white doublet and matching trousers, accented by black boots.

But why was the king at her trial? Had he been at the battle?

Neither answered until near the dais. King Calidar studied Naeala, but didn’t speak.

“We heard of Master Sia’ar’s exploits,” the premier-general said. “And we wanted to hear the truth.”

“Why?” asked a council-mage. “The determination of his council cannot be swayed. I apologize, Your Majesty, but if you’ve come for such a reason, we cannot permit it.”

The king laughed. “Do you think me a fool, Laktis? I know the Edicts well. Only Dorin can forgive a trespass against his law.”

And he’s dead, Naeala thought. Long dead. The thought enraged her. How he had damned her people!

“I wouldn’t dare attempt a pardon,” the king added. “But I do wish to observe her punishment.”

What admiration she had for Calidar evaporated. Had he come from the capitol—or wherever he had been—to watch? Was she just sport for him? A monumental event during his reign?

“I assume you’ve reached a verdict?” asked Graden.

“We were voting,” Thelimar said. “And Dorith here was arguing for a mistrial.”

“She isn’t in violation,” Dorith insisted.

Laktis snorted. “We need only a majority ruling. Take your seat, young one.”

The grandmaster nodded. “Please sit, Dorith.”

Sighing, Dorith returned to his seat.

“Naeala Sia’ar, we Mages of Alath strip you of your title and condemn you to the depths of Ahzeald. We hereby give custody of you to His Majesty, King Calidar of House Orn, and Premier-General Graden.”

The council-mages sat while Graden approached Naeala and Caemar. “Your services are no longer needed, guardsman.” He took Naeala by the arm, pulling her away from her friend.

“Let me see her out,” Caemar insisted.

Graden studied him, then nodded in agreement.

* * * * *

The night sky was clear, and Kalda’s moons shone brighter than the night before. His Majesty led Naeala and Caemar to a large caravan gathered on the road wrapping around the Estate’s main hall.

While the king marched toward a large black carriage, Graden stopped, holding a hand out in front of Caemar. “I’m afraid this is as far as you go. Say your farewells.”

Caemar wrapped his arms around Naeala, and whispered, “I’ll try to get reassigned to Ahzeald. I won’t let you be alone.”

Naeala tried smiling through her gag. If only she could say her goodbyes. But at least she had seen one friendly face before embracing life-long misery.

The king held the carriage’s door open, and Graden urged her in with a firm push. She tripped, but managed to regain her footing.

“Please sit,” the premier-general said, motioning to a plush bench. King Calidar called for the caravan to move, then entered the carriage and shut the door.

Naeala sat, and a pang of hunger struck her. I doubt they’ll feed me. Overcome by exhaustion, she leaned her head back against a head rest softer than anything she had ever felt. Despite her bonds, she felt comfortable, so much so that she drifted into slumber.

* * * * *

A sudden jolt roused Naeala, and she found herself lying on the carriage’s bench.

“Good, you’re awake,” Graden said.

Still drowsy, Naeala pushed herself upright inside the now-stationary carriage. Her wrists were no longer bound, nor was she gagged. “What’s going on?”

The premier-general’s lips twisted in mirth. Besides his eyes, they were the only feature she could see under his metal mask. “You’ll understand soon enough.”

King Calidar had an equally amused expression on his face.

Were they playing a game with her? She fought the urge to bolt from the carriage. But what if an ambush waited outside?

“Cautious,” Graden said. “Calculated.” Upon studying him again, his lips looked more pleased than mirthful.

“She will do nicely,” the king said, opened the carriage door, and stepped into a woodland grove with a slight hill at its heart.

To Naeala’s surprise, no ambush was waiting. She moved ahead of Graden, poking her head out. Besides the carriage, the grove was empty; the only other person nearby was the carriage’s young driver.

Naeala stepped down, and entered the grove. The first hints of sunlight passed through the trees to the west.

What are we doing here?

Possibilities ran through her mind, each growing increasingly sinister. Could this be a trap? She spun, studying the king and the premier-general. They couldn’t be imposters, could they? While infiltrating the Hilinard she had learned the Mindolarnians were trying to duplicate an ancient tevisral capable of shifting one’s form—not an illusion, but an actual transformation, and one that could not be dispelled.

The ancient versions were rings, weren’t they? She darted a glance to the king’s fingers, but he wore no jewelry. Graden, however, wore a green-gray ring on his right forefinger, tiny green gemstones inlaid along its center.

Could that—?

The flapping of wings carried from the west, quickly growing louder. Naeala spun as a shadow swept over the grove, the wingbeats louder than any bird she had ever heard. The noise faded, and a winged shape appeared over the trees.

That’s no bird.

She blinked in disbelief as a winged serpent, composed of dirt and as large as a small cottage, eased into the clearing, a robed rider upon its back. Though she had never seen such a beast, she recognized its features from texts at the Estate of Concorious Knowledge. A drake.

The transmutation lowered its head, and its rider dismounted. He wore golden armor fused to his maroon robe, and upon his back was strapped an ornate off-white staff with flowery designs.

Naeala flinched. That…that couldn’t be the King’s Scepter. No, Dorin’s relic—an ornate channeling staff—had been lost centuries ago. Only its depiction lived on in the emblem of the Kingdom Guard.

The man grabbed the staff as he stepped into the clearing, standing a height equal to Naeala. He took three steps toward her, then planted the staff in the grass. “Master Sia’ar, please come forward.”

She recognized that voice. But it can’t be… Erindal is dead.

“Obey your king,” Calidar urged.

Naeala glanced over her shoulder and saw King Calidar pointing to the newcomer. My king? She turned back to the robed man. “Who are you?”

Chuckling, the man tapped the crest of a winged serpent emblazoned upon his breastplate. Each piece of armor glowed a soft white hue, then folded in upon itself. The maroon robe remained, but the golden armor compressed, becoming a simple round pendant.

Naeala stumbled backward. She knew his face. “You are Erindal! B-but how?”

He smiled, the wrinkles around his lips deepening. Erindal looked as he had the day he died. “Not the name I intended to use today, but it will do.” He looked past Naeala. “Is everything ready?”

“Nearly,” the king replied. “The prisoner needs to be prepared.”

“Best you do that,” Erindal said. “We can handle things from here, Uzil’unath.”

If the king replied, it was not with words. The carriage’s door shut, and the clip-clop of horse hooves carried through the grove.

“What is going on?” Naeala asked. Perhaps I’m dreaming…

“An official pardon,” Erindal said. “Would you like that, Naeala?”

She wrinkled her forehead. Did he have to ask? “Anything is better than rotting in Ahzeald. But you can’t be real.”

Erindal’s lips twitched as if to hold back laughter. He looked behind her, and she followed his gaze, watching Graden approach.

“Enough with the ceremonious pomp,” Graden said, grunting. “Tell her already.”

Naeala turned back to Erindal, studying his hazel eyes.

“I am pardoning you, Naeala, because I am the architect of Los’s Edicts; I am Dorin, the Mage-King.”

She snorted, then hastily covered her mouth with her hand. “Dorin is dead, and so are you!”

“The persona of Erindal might be dead, but I am very much alive, and have been for centuries.” He studied her with a kind, paternal gaze. “You are too priceless to be thrown away. Your understanding of tevisrals is unprecedented in this current era. And your prowess on the battlefield is…rare. You are like unto the ancient Fistfusers of the Kaldean Alliance, who fought back Cheserith and his abominations.”

Naeala narrowed her eyes at the man—Erindal, Dorin…whoever stood in front of her. The thought of him actually being Dorin kindled the anger she had for the long-dead king.

“Your contempt is justified,” the man said. “Blood indeed stains my hands. The Edicts were never meant to endure this long. And that is why you are here, to help us prepare Kalda for the restoration of its former grandeur.”

Her resentment waned. Those were not words she expected to hear from a man claiming to be Dorin.

“We wish for you to join us,” the premier-general said, standing beside Naeala. “To become a Guardian of Kalda, a Keeper of Truth and Might.”

The robed man nodded. “Your character is befitting one of our Order. You would be a great asset.”

“And if I refuse?”

“Then you are on your own,” Graden said. “Regardless, you are free.”

The robed man leaned on his staff. “If you accept, you will craft tevisrals far grander than you can imagine. It is your choice, Master Naeala Sia’ar. Kneel and accept, or refuse and walk from this grove.”

Naeala considered the choices. Life as a vagabond would not be pleasant, although she had learned to find peace in seclusion. Perhaps she could find it again. But could she dismiss the chance to create tevisrals of wonder? As with the summons to battle, she knew what she must do.

Taking a deep breath, Naeala knelt before Dorin, the Mage-King.

THE END OF

LEGACY OF THE PAST

A Legends of Kalda Story

Dan Zangari is the creator of the Legends of Kalda fantasy universe, a work-in-development since the early 1990’s. He received a Bachelor’s of Science in Aerospace Engineering from the University of Southern California and a Masters Degree in Systems Management. His love for science fiction and fantasy prompted the creation of this fantasy universe. When he’s not writing he enjoys reading, watching movies, spending quality time with family and serving in his local church congregation.

Robert Zangari is the co-author of the various books which belong to the Legends of Kalda universe. He studied Bio-Medical Engineering at the University of Utah; however, his love for stories and storytelling took him down a different career path. When he’s not writing he enjoys spending time with his wife and daughters, playing video games, practicing martial arts and immersing himself in a good story.

Dan and Robert have won multiple awards for their novel, A Prince’s Errand: the 2019 Chanticleer International Book Awards in the OZMA (Fantasy) division, the 2020 Global Ebook Awards for Fantasy, the 2020 International Book Awards for Fantasy, the 2020 American Fiction Awards for Fantasy, the 2020 Best Book Awards for Fantasy, and the 2020 Royal Dragonfly Book Awards for Science Fiction/Fantasy. For more Legends of Kalda stories visit: http://www.legendsofkalda.com

A PROMISE: ONCE MORE INTO THE DARK

By Lee C. Conley

“It doesn't take a hero to order men into battle. It takes a hero to be one of those men who goes into battle.”

-Norman Schwarzkopf

I thought I had escaped the horrors that dwelt in the darkness.

Old eyes stared back at him from the mirror. His hair hung in matted, grey-streaked locks, while his chest bore a lattice of old scars, most he had no memory of receiving. His torso had lost much of its lithe knotted thews. At least his beard retained its fierceness. An old yearning clutched at his stomach as he read the parchment again.

Things must indeed be dire if they sent word for me. A last resort.

His mind flashed with memories long buried.

A glint in the darkness. The sudden rush of claw and rending talon. Blood sprayed as he swung his steel. Dark blood. The initial explosion of fury at his charge, then red. A blur of violent memory, the Narcia taking hold. Sword falling, piercing. Anger and death. The glorious euphoria of Narcia.

He looked at the old chest in the corner. It’s still in there. All these years. How many now, eight years, nine? I am free. Still, I know there’s some in there.

He had not felt the old Yearning clutch at his belly for many years. He knew there needed to be some there, just in case. He had never touched the last bit though. Knowing it was there was enough, that he could if he needed. He hadn’t for long years. Some days the thought didn’t even cross his mind.

But no one fights them without Narcia.

He knew of men driven mad to see those nightmare things without the Narcia. The madness born from what a man must see in those tunnels.

The only way to survive is the Narcia.

He pulled his eyes away from the old chest and flicked his gaze to a sword hung on the wall, his sword.

The Flash of glinting steel, hacking wildly, thrusting. Those screeching screams filling his ears. The spray of viscous gore, splattering his face. A feral euphoric grin before bellowing mad defiance. Swinging with all his strength at a squirming, coiling horror. His eyes barely seeing. A savage carnage unfolding around him.

A blur of colors and sounds ran through his mind, fractured memories of violence, forgotten nightmares flooding back. He clamped his eyes shut and grasped at his hair. Leaning the other hand on the mirror, he shook his head clear and looked once more into the old eyes that were staring back.

“Is there no one left to fight them?” he muttered at his reflection. “Am I the only one left?”

Few survive for long fighting down in the darkness. Lost in a blind fury, lost in the clutches of the Narcia. Not feeling their wounds, not feeling death. Just the beautiful ecstasy of the blinding feral rage. The Proving. Of those that go down there to prove themselves, many do not return. Those that survive, live out their days in the grip of the Yearning. Of those that survive their days fighting in the Proving, fewer still return from the clutches of a life of Narcia. Is it even a life?

He was the only one he knew who had freed himself.

He had taken back a life. He had a family now. Yet the Yearning haunted his steps, his thoughts. It had never gone away. The Narcia called to him always.

He forced his eyes from returning to linger on the chest in the corner and instead looked again at his sword. He battled to steel his grim resolve. He had learnt focus through his blade.

He moved smoothly between the forms. Shapes, guards, structure. His blade flowed through the air lashing out and returning. The movements were trained, familiar - old friends. He felt the breeze in his hair as he trained beside the old oak trees, the grass beneath his feet.

New memories. Hard memories. The Yearning tearing at him, seeking to drag him back into a pit of uncaring numbness, where day and night had no meaning, the realms of Narcia’s waking dreams. He had trained, filling his mind and time with the old forms instead. He dedicated his world to the study of his form. For, every moment he trained beside those old oaks was an escape. Perhaps only for a while but an escape from Narcia’s siren call.

He had torn its barbed leashes away, conquered the Narcia’s call. Through sweating sickness, the mindless stupor of need and the blind rages. He had vague memories of being chained—he had since heard for ten nights—before falling into unconsciousness. He remembered little of it but he had torn the Narcia from his very flesh. But in the mind, in the soul, it still haunted him. He needed his focus, his form, his steel…

“Love?” spoke a voice behind him.

I needed her. She saved me.

He looked into the reflection in the mirror. He saw her reflected behind him, standing at the door. He turned. He saw her face sadden as she saw something in his eyes. Her eyes fell to the parchment.

“No,” she muttered.

“They have sent for me,” he said, his voice low and graveled.

Her eyes flicked to the chest in the corner.

Yes, she knows… Perhaps that is what she saw in my eyes… the Narcia calling. Or the fear.

“I must go,” he said.

“Don’t,” she pleaded.

“I must, I may be the last hope of my people.” He smiled sadly. Her face was racked with fear. “They would not send for me unless the need was dire. Something is wrong. I will not fight in the Proving unless there is no choice. I have nothing more to prove.”

“But you’re free of it. Please don’t.”

He glanced at the old chest. “If I must… I must do it without the Narcia.”

She looked at him. A small smile rising through the worry but falling into a sob as she stepped quickly to embrace him.

“I will not let it rule me once more,” he declared.

“Can it be done?” she whispered.

“We will find out,” he replied.

***

“Should I wake her?”

“Yes, she would never forgive me if I let you go without saying…” Her eyes teared, she forced a smile.

He moved to the bed. A small form nestled there, her chest gently rising and falling. He moved closer and knelt beside her, gently stroking her hair as she slept. Her face wrinkled in a frown and she pushed his hand away. He smiled.

Her eyes stirred, the disturbance waking her.

“Da?” came her little voice.

“Yes Princess, it’s me.”

“What is happening, it’s still dark?”

“I have to go somewhere, and… I may be gone a long time. I woke you to say goodbye.”

She yawned and sat up. “Going?”

“Yes, I have to go somewhere.”

She saw he was wearing his armor. “To fight the monsters?”

“Yes”

“You should take this.” She snatched up her necklace. “It will help you beat them.”

He took the trinket and placed it around his neck with his own necklace of warrior fetishes.

“Goodbye da,” she said, hugging him fiercely. “When you beat them, come back soon.”

“I will.”

She kissed him and smiled sleepily before flopping down to clutch her blankets. She closed her eyes and fell asleep quickly. He watched her for a long time, taking in every detail, burning the image into his mind. He leant forward and kissed her.

My little girl, I love you, Princess. He forced back some tears. I will see you again.

He rose and turned to his wife. She smiled at him but tears rolled down her cheeks. She checked his armor, tugging at a strap. He wore a raiment of mail and leather, his steel pauldron strapped over his left shoulder. It still fitted him and the familiar weight felt good. He picked up his sword. Its long elegant blade was scabbarded. He regarded it a moment then strapped it to his belt.

He turned and embraced his wife.

“Come back to me,” she said.

“I came back from it once before with no reason to live. Now I have a reason.” He smiled. “I will come back to you. I promise.”

She kissed him, a long lingering kiss, then kissed him again. He cupped her face in his hands and a long look passed between them. Each remembering the other. He could almost read her thoughts, his were the same, this could be the last time their eyes met.

“Goodbye my love,” she said finally.

***

The old town had grown strange in his absence. He recognized nothing. The old wooden halls of his people had been replaced with strange buildings of stone. The townsfolk dressed in strange attire, their faces were not of his blood, but those of strangers from across the breadth of the new empire. Outsiders had come, merchants and traders had replaced the familiar folk of his people. He saw no-one he recognized as his own.

He wandered the streets, bewildered at the change that had come to the place he once called home. His eyes eventually found something that was unchanged in this new world. His stomach knotted.

The mound loomed larger with every step closer. There were more stones now, more wooden frames, all erected on the mound since he had last laid eyes on this place. Hundreds of fetishes hung on both stone and wood. A holy mound festooned in the barbarian fetishes of his people. A mound of memory, of tribute. A mound of the dead. Each fetish, the exulted memory of those fallen fighting the Proving.

He walked amongst the old stones reading the runes, names of men long fallen. He approached a familiar old menhir and brushed his fingers over the fetishes of men he once knew. Men he remembered falling, others who had been still standing when he had left, all those years ago.

They are all dead. Everyone I once knew.

He felt a pang of sadness. The Proving, or the Narcia, it consumed them all.

The wooden hall stood beyond the mound of dead heroes, as it always had. It was still as he remembered when he had first laid eyes upon it as a boy. He wandered inside.

He walked between the banners of his ancestors hanging from the rafters. The weapons and shields of his people’s greatest warriors decorated the walls. A familiar smell wafted into his nostrils. Narcia.

He shuddered as the smell enveloped his senses. He steadied himself and walked onward. The hallway opened into a chamber lit by two flaming braziers. An elderly man sat reading an aged parchment. He was adorned in fetishes and trinkets, the symbols of the old ways. The old shaman looked up as he entered.

“You came,” said the shaman, his voice thin and cracked like the old parchment he held. “Welcome home.”

“This is no longer my home. It’s not the place I once knew. Too much has changed.”

“Aye,” replied the old shaman sadly.

“There are none here. Where are the warriors of our people? Who fights in the Proving?”

“The new religion prevails here now. There are few who follow the old ways. The outsiders do not understand. They see our ways as barbarous, uncivilized.”

“So who stands against the things in the dark?”

“The realm has soldiers here, but they fight and train in strange ways—not like us. The gates are sealed and they watch the bridge. There has not been a Proving in many moons. Times have moved on. The Empire’s soldiers, they fight as many but move as one, it is the same all across the realm. No longer one man’s fury against the darkness, with only the light of Narcia to guide his wrath. A new time is upon us and we are now a mere relic of an ancient time. Now, none hunt in the darkness. The Proving will soon be a forgotten custom.”

“So why did you summon me?”

“They grow in number, the horrors of the dark. I tried to warn them.” The old shaman shook his head. “There are too few of us now.”

“I will not fight in the Proving.”

“Yet, it is our ancient duty to hunt them, your duty.”

“Not mine, Shaman. I have a new duty. You said it yourself. The gates are sealed.”

“But yet, we cannot hold back the tide. There have been attacks. Foul creatures seen in the wilds. Some must have escaped the catacombs.”

“Impossible.”

“So I thought, but still it has happened. The new commander here, a captain of the Empire, has ordered their eradication.”

“Perhaps he is not so foolish.”

The old shaman frowned. “So easily you have walked away from the ways of your ancestors,” snapped the shaman. “You would die an old man, the last of us?”

“Is there so much dishonor in that? I saw enough death and nearly lost myself to the Narcia. I am free. I would be just another trinket over cold stone on a monument of the fallen if I had not left.”

“All who stand in glory beside the ancestors, died with steel in hand, as is our way. Where will you stand when the darkness takes you?” sneered the shaman.

“I am here aren’t I, old one? If this captain wishes them destroyed, I will not stand against him, if that is why you have summoned me. The darkness that lives down there is an evil that should be wiped from memory.”

“You would forsake the fallen? Have their brave deeds forgotten?”

“Folk will remember that once, a brave people stood against the dark. They will remember brave men that eventually stood victorious and vanquished a terrible foe. They will remember the last of us for all eternity, the final tale of valor when all memory of our ways is forgotten.”

The shaman gave a dismissive wave.

“So how does this captain of the Empire plan to stem the eternal tide?”

The shaman looked up. “They claim to have magic powders, brought from empires in the east. Powders that bring fire and death, that can even level a mountain. He means to collapse the catacombs and crush the spawning pools under the weight of rock itself. Forever ridding this world of the spawn of darkness.”

“Can it be done?”

“Who can say? But they need the last of us, those who can guide them into the heart of the catacombs.”

“I will not go down there again. Let these soldiers see the horror for themselves. I am old. No longer can I be taken into Narcia’s embrace. I am of no use to any of you.”

“Without Narcia all will surely perish. Any that emerge will certainly lose their minds. It is a fool’s errand,” agreed the shaman.

“Then why have I been summoned?”

“I summoned you because we must make one last descent in the catacombs. There are a handful who will go, young boys, still unproven. You are the last of the blooded warriors of our kind, and I the final keeper of our lore and our ways, the final giver of the touch of Narcia. We must go.”

“You will go?”

“I will let Narcia take me. If this is the last chance at valor then I must find a seat beside our ancestors.”

“You are a foolish old man. You cannot imagine the horrors forced upon us. Perhaps if you could, you would not look so shamefully on my chosen path.”

The shaman looked at him thoughtfully. “If you will not join us in one final Proving. Will you still help us? When the Narcia takes us we will be of little use to the soldiers. Will you guide them? Think carefully, warrior. If they cannot stem the tide now, how long before the creatures spill into our lands. For how long will your new found life be safe from the darkness? It will eventually spread and lay everything you hold dear in ruin. Unless it can be stopped.”

He stood a long while staring into the flames in thought. The brazier sent its flickering light dancing across the room. The faint tang of Narcia still lingered, twisting his thoughts, knotting his belly with an old yearning. He clutched his sword’s pommel tightly as he tried to focus on thoughts of his little girl, of his wife.

I will not yield to it. I am free.

He knew he must go. He knew he had to put an end to it.

“I will go,” he said. “I will see the end of this, the Proving, the foul things in the dark, the need for Narcia, all of it.”

I will do it for them.

***

A strong gust made him halt and brace himself. He once again found himself traversing that same ancient bridge which he had once vowed never to cross again. His hair trailed in the wind from beneath his helmet. The wind seemed a living malevolent thing, bent on knocking him over the edge into dark oblivion. He warily eyed the sheer sides of the chasm below as they fell away into a dark abyss of unknown depths. His head swam with a sense of vertigo. He looked forwards, focusing on the far side of the bridge, steadying himself.

The narrow stone bridge arched over the yawning chasm. It ran between two ancient fortifications on either side and was hewn from the living stone by the hands of a long forgotten people. The chasm ringed the forsaken atoll where the Catacombs could be found. It served as an impassable barrier, locking away the horrors that dwelt from within the lands of men. The atoll itself rose from the dark depths and towered over the surrounding lands, a cracked and blighted place where only the bravest dared tread. It was once a stone city or the fortress of an ancient people. Legend said it was the site of some terrible cataclysm which cracked the very earth asunder, thrusting the atoll into the sky and laying waste to all that once dwelt there.

“Move onwards, barbarian,” barked a voice behind him.

He turned and glowered at the man who spoke, a sergeant of the Empire’s soldiers. Men waited behind him in ranks of four abreast, stern faces beneath helmets, failing to conceal their encroaching fear at the foreboding gateway awaiting them.

He walked on.

Another formation of soldiers marched ahead of him, red cloaks flapping in the wind, armor clattering, spears held high. Others stood guard by the gates ahead. Their engineers hauled barrels of powder and vessels of liquid across the narrow bridge, those said to produce the great violence and fiery destruction. He hoped it would be enough to seal the atoll’s subterranean catacombs in eternal ruin.

He passed beneath an archway of cyclopean stone and gave one last glance back at the bridge. With another step he stood, once again, in the courtyard of an ancient fortified gatehouse crowded with soldiers and stacks of the deadly barrels.

“No torches, no fire,” shouted another sergeant. He continued to repeat his order while standing guard over a stockpile of powder barrels.

He spied the shaman standing by another iron bound gate with a number of young warriors crowded around him, all looked to be preparing for their first Proving. The old shaman spoke with a man in ornate armor, the captain. The empire’s captain was surrounded by his own personal guard of stern faced soldiers.

They fell silent as he approached.

They stare for I am the last living warrior who has faced the dark.

He looked at each face in turn.

These poor souls, they have no idea what awaits them.

Iron hinges screeched as the gates swung open, revealing a dark corridor descending into shadow.

Once more I stare into the dark… the Catacombs.

Soldiers formed a defensive formation surrounding the gates, levelling spears at the darkened passageway as though they expected some dread creature to spring forth. Nothing came.

The young un-blooded warriors stood around the Shaman. He handed a long smoking pipe between them as he chanted the Blood-rites.

The pipe was fashioned from a human bone and was hung with fetishes and feathers. The young warriors drew deep lungfuls on the pipe and passed it on. The warriors swayed as the Narcia took effect, their eyes glazed as they descended into the blissful stupor that came before the rage took hold.

The Ritual of Narcia.

He watched, half in longing, half in angry revulsion. The pungent, cloying aroma pervaded his nostrils. He felt his stomach tighten. His eyes twitched. He noticed his hands shaking but whether it was the fear of what lay in the darkness or the Yearning, he was not certain.

He dragged his eyes away from the ritual and stared into the gloom of the passageway. He grasped the pommel of his sword and ran through his forms and stances in his mind. It was no use. Every fiber of his body wanted to walk over and take a deep draw of the pipe.

None have faced the horrors of the Catacombs without Narcia and lived.

He steeled himself against his doubt. Bile rose in his throat. Grimacing, he looked away. A single thought stayed him. He thought of his wife, and held the image of her face in his mind. He must stay strong, he must do it for her, for them. He could not let the Narcia tempt him. He would not go back to that life.

“Onward, Shaman,” barked a commanding voice.

“For glory, we hunt,” slurred the Shaman loudly, brandishing an old sword above his head. He pointed it into the Catacombs and loosed the un-blooded warriors into the shadow of the descending stone passageway. They leapt forward and ran into the gloom eager for glory.

“Forwards men, stay tight,” ordered the captain. “Clear a route for the engineers and then pull back. Barbarian?”

The latter was directed at him. He pulled his gaze away from the shadows of the passageway. He had been staring after the warriors taking the Proving, who had all now disappeared into the darkness. He turned his gaze on the captain and grunted in reply.

“Lead on, Barbarian,” said the captain.

He turned back to the waiting dark. The soldiers and engineers bristled behind him. He touched his daughter’s necklace and taking a deep breath, he stepped into the gloom.

***

Water dripped from the ceiling, echoing along the narrow passageway, mingling with the clatter of armor as the soldiers followed him deeper underground. It was too dangerous to use torches, the magic powders were ignited with fire, but he was surprised to find they could still see.

An eerie ethereal light glowed from the walls. A strange flora inhabited the Catacombs, a glowing moss. It grew everywhere from crevices and on the bare rock-face. He had never considered how they had seen in the darkness before. His mind had always been focused on the hunt and warped by Narcia’s touch. The moss gave off a dim blue light, barely enough to see. It illuminated helmets and armor behind him, but left most of his companions’ faces in deep shadow.

His hand brushed the grainy stone walls of the twisting passage.

Are these caves or some ancient crypt carved from the stone by the forgotten people who once dwelt here? The thought struck him that it may have even been his ancient ancestors, a place created to fight the Proving. Who would create such evil? No one had these answers. He focused on the task at hand.

A bestial roar echoed along the passage. Everyone froze. It was a human voice. One of the un-blooded had met with his prey. He was now either no longer un-blooded, or had met a grisly end.

A Proving or death.

The passageway forked, there were recesses of yawning darkness, some appeared to be adjoining passages. A labyrinth of subterranean tunnels riddled the surrounding rock, it grew ever more vast and complex with each passing step. Some of the passageways were only high enough to crawl through, others were wide and strangely circular, as if burrowed by some giant worm.

He heard a strange hissing, something gliding and sliding over rough stone. It grew louder.

Something terrible draws near.

He slowly drew his sword and stared into the oppressive gloom ahead of him for any sign of movement.

A soldier screamed behind him. He wheeled, only to catch a flash of movement, a spray of blood, and something glistening and wet darting away into a dark side tunnel.

Men were shouting, hacking. Spears thrust into the darkness at nightmare forms. Horrors of fang and claw, rending talons and shimmering chitin appeared from nowhere and darted amongst them. There were screams and blood. He watched a shield ripped away, an arm still attached. It was all so fast. He barely caught a clear glimpse of any one of the creatures before it was gone, returning to the darkness in an instant. He heard a rush behind him and turned to meet it.

Something coiled around him, a terrible thing that felt wet and gelatinous. The tentacle-like thing wrenched him from his feet and dragged him into the dark with an unfathomable strength.

He roared defiance as he was dragged through the dark. He hacked with his sword, cleaving the terrible thing free of him. Something shrieked horribly close. The writhing tentacle ceased its vice-like grip and fell with a splash.

He stood waist deep in water. He had been dragged into a half flooded passageway.

Suddenly something was lunging towards him. Rows upon rows of serrated teeth framed a snarling maw. More tentacles tried to seize him. He set a stance and met the thing with steel. His body moved without even thinking, a practiced form, a deadly lunge. He buried his sword deep into the writhing thing’s face. He ripped it free and brought a cleaving slash down into its single glaring eye. Coils of tentacles writhed and spasmed. Then it was still.

He stood breathing heavily, eyes fixed on the dark. Nothing came.

Screams and battle cries mingling with inhuman shrieks echoed down the tunnel. It sounded far away.

Close by, only eerie silence. The only sounds nearby were the disturbed water gently lapping against the dead thing—now a pile of leathery coils and teeth—and the water dripping from the roof. The sound of his heaving breath.

After a tense moment, he waded onward, sword in hand.

The passageway was narrow. In places, barely wide enough for his shoulders to squeeze through, more a fissure than a carved passageway. The dim, blue light cast an unearthly glow, highlighting the rippling waters around him and the edges of stone. All else was a deep shadow. An outcrop of sharp stone grazed his cheek as he squeezed through. He winced as his pauldron loudly scraped the stone wall. He walked sideways through the narrowest parts, his sword held forwards, casting nervous glances back into the gloom. He constantly expected another creature to come hurtling out the blackness. The tension grew with every step.

The water level receded as he walked and he eventually found himself standing on bare rock.

Where in ten hells am I? Where are the soldiers? Are they all dead?

He was uncertain what to do. His purpose was to guide the Empire’s soldiers, but they were nowhere to be seen. To charge off into the darkness would surely mean death. He touched his daughter’s necklace again. The memory of her sweet smile steeled him.

I must get out of here.

He edged forward silently.

***

He came upon a strange mist hanging in the air ahead.

His foot struck something. It clattered over the stone floor. It felt too light to be a rock. He moved closer. It was a skull.

Never a good sign.

He looked up into the mist. He hesitated. He had hoped he would have found his way back to the same passageway where he had been separated from the soldiers. He had already walked quite a distance. He must have got turned around and gotten himself lost. A panic clutched his chest as fear grew in his belly.

Should I turn back?

He peered back along the dark passageway which he had just traversed.

I am lost. There were creatures back that way. May as well keep going.

He stepped towards the strange mist. Something brushed his face. It felt like hair. He wiped his face and felt it was sticky.

A web. This is no mist.

Strands of web choked the tunnel spanning its width for as far as the light permitted him to see. Moss dangled from the roof, emitting its eerie azure glow. It illuminated the outline of more bones at his feet.

Definitely not a good sign.

He turned to go back. A terrible clicking sound, brought his head snapping back. He held his sword ready.

It came skittering forwards, plunging from the darkness with a terrifying speed. The movement of its scythe-like legs chilled his blood. It looked akin to a monstrous spider but bore a grotesque human-like torso made from leathery dark skin upon a pulsing bloated abdomen.

It rose up before him on its rear legs. Hissing from a demonic mouth of three fanged flaps, it spat a yellow slime. He shielded his face with his mailed arm. His skin burned as the slime seeped through his mail.

He slashed wildly at its flailing fore-limbs, severing a leg. The thing screeched and lunged forwards. He stepped back to avoid it.

His foot crunched through a brittle ribcage of a long dead corpse. He stumbled and fell.

The thing was upon him. Stabbing down with razor sharp legs as he squirmed wildly to avoid them.

This is the end. Only a fool comes here without the Narcia.

As he waited for that final rending blow to pierce his chest and send him to meet his gods, he thought of her. His love, she who saved him, who had borne him a beautiful daughter, who gave him something to live for.

“No,” he muttered. Then he roared, “No!”

He rolled and slashed. Chitinous legs tumbled. Its yellow, burning blood splattered the floor. He leapt to his feet as the creature crashed to the floor. It quickly rose to face him, teetering on its remaining legs.

He set his feet and assumed a stance. His face, a determined grimace. He held his sword low in two hands. He felt its leather bound hilt, the cold steel of its pommel. Its weight was a familiar comfort in his hands.

“Not this day,” he sneered.

The creature paused, for a moment the two faced each other in the darkness, and then with a shriek, it charged.

He stepped to the side and with practiced ease, slashed a back-swing into the thing’s grotesque torso, severing a limb.

It rounded on him again, shrieking. Its yellow blood pulsing from its wounds. Its head was clustered with eyes above the snapping tri-fanged mouth. Its eyes bore a mindless malice. He could almost see the spite, its blind fury, in its deadly regard. It charged, talons scything the air.

He ducked and plunged his sword up into its bloated body. The thing stiffened and a shudder rippled through its body, its legs twitching and contracting. He wrenched his sword free and with a roar, brought it swinging down with a mighty blow. Its head tumbled to the floor and his sword cleaved deep into its chest.

He struck again, and again. He noticed he was screaming in a bestial rage, a rage he had not felt since long ago. He chopped and hacked at the thing until its bloated corpse was a gore splattered ruin. He swung a final slash and stopped. He breathed heavily, his teeth clenched tightly. He could feel the thing’s blood still burning his skin.

“Not this day,” he spat with vehemence.

He strode onward.

***

He had only walked a short distance before he heard the sounds of battle. He moved towards it. His blood was up, now eager for combat. His old warrior instincts guiding him towards the sound of the fighting, the screams of the dying, the clash of steel.

He emerged into a wide chamber. The place seemed familiar, some dark and deeply locked memory. All was dreadful chaos. Men fought desperately for their lives. At the far end two of the warriors still fought their Proving. Wheeling and slashing with savage ferocity. He arrived in time to see the Shaman fall. The old Shaman was battered with a terrible swipe, his limp figure hurtling through the gloom and smashing into a column of rock, the force crushing his organs and snapping bone.

There is your glory, friend.

Closer, a tight huddle of Empire soldiers fended off a many-legged horror of teeth and talons. He saw terror in the eyes of the soldiers. One man laughed manically, his mind in tatters. His weapon hung limp at his side, he wandered about through the chaos cackling an insane laugh. Something dark flashed through him with dreadful speed. His upper half collapsed in a pulp of blood and bone.

He lingered in the shadows, only moments, but enough to see the nightmare scene unfold. His blood ran cold.

This place was certain death. There are too many.

He saw some of the barrels had made it to the chamber. The Empire troops were fighting a retreat beside the deadly barrels, edging backwards along a wide central corridor which appeared to be sloping upwards. Men were falling every second.

That’s the way out. I must move.

He darted from his hiding place. Hacking and slashing at any dark form that came within reach. He flowed through his practiced forms, ducking, weaving, his sword carving a terrible path through this nightmare charnel house. The past fury of Narcia was replaced by sheer skill.

The soldiers were feet away, one shouted to him in warning.

A shrieking face dropped in front of him. With a roar and a spray of dark ichor, he carved a terrible wound into the snarling horror.

Then he was amongst the soldiers. He ran up the corridor, leaving the madness and death behind him.

“Retreat. Run for your lives!” someone behind shouted.

Wise words.

The organized retreat turned into a rout. Engineers dumped the barrels they were rolling and ran. Soldiers scrambling and pushing each other to escape.

He threw a look over his shoulder. A terrible sight greeted him. Dozens of nightmare creatures swarmed the rear guard. Each creature different from the others, a horrific myriad of repulsive nightmares. A lesser man’s mind would have been shredded into gibbering madness at such a grotesque and terrifying sight.

He ran faster. Racing up the sloping passage. He heard soldiers sounding the retreat, shouting warnings for any man still lingering to run for his life.

A light shone ahead.

Daylight… the gates.

He was nearly there. His muscles screamed and strained as he hurtled onward. He passed stacks of barrels and shattered vessels of the strange fire-liquid. He was amongst the last handful of men racing for the daylight, the last possible survivors.

A man beside him was wrenched backwards with a scream that was instantly cut horribly short.

Death is a step behind me.

“Shut the gates,” he shouted as he ran into the courtyard.

A soldier screamed as he saw what pursued them from the depths of shadow. Others levelled spears. The weighted chains were released with a clatter and the heavy gates began to swing shut. A vase of fire-liquid was thrown into the dark tunnel as the doors slammed shut.

There was a loud boom as something smashed into the aged wooden gates. The iron bindings creaked.

It won’t hold.

“Get across the bridge and fire the powders,” snapped the awaiting captain.

An engineer fumbled to light the final fuses as another percussive boom racked the doors hinges. The remaining soldiers retreated across the bridge.

Another boom splintered the ancient wood of the iron bound gates.

A terrible clawed hand reached through, swiping at nothing but air. He heard a bestial inhuman bellow of rage. Something glared out at him with unveiled malice.

He stood frozen watching the terrible thing claw its way free into the daylight.

“Run,” someone shouted at him.

The world behind him was suddenly engulfed in hissing flame as he sprinted back across the narrow bridge. He felt the heat searing his back. A deep rumbling shook the ground beneath his feet. A concussive detonation thundered behind him with an earsplitting crack of stone.

The entire world heaved beneath his feet. A shock-wave battered him. He struggled to maintain his balance. For one terrible moment he teetered over the edge of the black abyss.

He forced himself onward.

Huge chunks of rock tumbled through the air, smashing into the sides of the chasm ahead of him. Something smashed through the stone bridge behind him. He dared not look back. The bridge heaved and shuddered, then in terrible slow motion, began to descend.

He ran. He was nearly across.

Safety was mere strides away, but the bridge cracked and tipped sideways, sliding into the immeasurable dark abyss.

With every last bit of strength he leapt.

***

Still clutching his sword, he clung to the sheer rock. Inching up a bloodied hand, he found a better hold. His strength was failing. He had barely enough to cling to the side of the chasm. Images of his wife and daughter flashed through his mind. He had failed them. His strength failed him. His grip slipped away.

A hand thrust down and clutched his wrist. Other hands clutched at him, heaving his bulk up and over, snatching him from the jaws of oblivion. He knelt, dazed. He was bruised and battered, his sanity very nearly shattered.

I live.

There was a commotion of shouts around him. Somewhere, a sergeant snapped orders. Soldiers watched in awe. He turned to see.

The bridge was gone, mingled with the chunks of stone which still crashed down into the dark depths of the chasm. A thick cloud of dust rolled towards them enveloping the watching crowd. Through the dust, he watched the atoll collapsing in flame, a crumbling ruin, and with it the labyrinth of catacombs once hidden deep within the rock. The horrors of the dark, crushed and purged in fiery destruction.

It’s over, the Proving, the Narcia, the old ways… all gone.

The captain strode towards him and opened his mouth to speak.

Before the captain could say a word he was waved aside with a weary arm as the old warrior began to walk away.

“It is done,” he said as he walked. “None survived.”

“So it is,” replied the captain behind him. “You will be honored and rewarded.”

He halted. “No… I am done. No honors, no records,” he said, turning a grim face on the empire captain. “None survived. Not one.”

The commander nodded. “As you wish, barbarian. Take this though.” He handed him a heavy purse. “I will report none of your kin survived,” he repeated with a nod of respect.

“My people have passed now into legend. The last of us perished fighting in the dark. Remember us. Remember what we did here.” He walked on.

His legs were heavy, each labored step pained him. He was weary but he was alive. The crowd parted to let him pass. They stood in silence. Soldiers, townsfolk, all watched as he limped quietly away.

He approached the old mound and paused for a moment. His eyes passed slowly over the standing stones and wooden memorials. Countless warrior fetishes dangled, swaying gently in the breeze. The mound of the honored dead.

He unsheathed his sword and held it in his two palms. He stared down at it. The bright steel still smeared in the dark ichor and blood of those unnamed horrors. He ran his fingers over its pommel. His mind flashed with the memory of his training, his form. He had dragged himself free of Narcia’s clutches with this sword. He raised the weapon above his head. It glinted in the sun. He brought it down and thrust it deep into the mound beside the stone of his fallen comrades. He removed his own warrior necklace and draped it over the hilt of his sword.

A final memorial for the final warrior.

He knelt a while before slowly rising to his feet.

The secrets of Narcia died with that old Shaman, it is gone, forever. Now I am truly free.

He cracked a laugh and then looked to the hills. He lifted the remaining necklace his daughter had given him and regarded it. A simple carved wooden charm. He would see her face again, her smile, hear her laugh. He thought of his wife, he would kiss her lips again. They awaited him beyond those distant hills.

And now, I have a promise to keep.

He walked onward.

Home.

Lee is a musician and writer in Lincolnshire, UK. He lives with his wife Laura and daughters Luna and Anya in the historic cathedral city of Lincoln. Alongside a lifetime of playing guitar and immersing himself in the study of music and history, Lee is also a practitioner and instructor of historic martial arts and swordsmanship. After writing his advanced guitar theory textbook The Guitar Teachers Grimoire, Lee turns his hand to writing fiction. Lee is one of the founders of Bard of the Isles Literary Magazine and is now also studying a degree in creative writing while working on his debut fantasy series The Dead Sagas, which includes the novels A Ritual of Bone and A Ritual of Flesh, as well as also generally writing speculative fiction and horror. Learn more at: www.leeconleyauthor.com

FRACTURED BLADE

By Moud Adel

“The dark warrior feels the end approaching and is aware of his ultimate fate, yet he puts on a valiant visage and advances sturdily toward the final battle; for he knows that at this hour only the strong can create legends while the weak will conspire to falsehood.”

-Vinayak Shrote

A Heart Ready to Stop

A still water surface may mirror its surroundings, yet it can only show a copy of the truth, an image that distorts at the slightest of waves.

Such were Rumi’s thoughts as his feet clung to the sand at the bottom of a cold spring, his hands clutching the hem of his cyan tunic and raising it to his knees. Standing still, he studied his replica in the water. His short figure appeared taller, the scars on his dark skin invisible. Surrounding his image was a halo of blue infused with splashes of an orange hue, the spring’s interpretation of the clear sky and the sun departing to the west. Around him, a vast desert stretched in every direction, yet its color bared no representation atop the water’s surface. Even the spring obscures the truth.

“It’s my reflection that scares me the most. I thought it would be time, but we have been friends for so long that I can forgive its betrayal,” he said to the girl sitting on the shore. She was only a few feet away, yet her likeness didn’t make it to the water.

“Reflection, Master?”

Rumi nodded. He shook a foot and watched the scene warp in the ripples. His resemblance was more accurate like that, a broken man in a disturbed world. For over two centuries, he was one of four Illicitums, a watcher entrusted with a secret power that magnified his magic and stopped his aging. He carried the role with pride and protected the continent from the never-ending conflicts of its factions. When time came for new Illicitums to ascend, he happily obliged and passed his power to the new generation, accepting his one-year retirement.

At first, he appreciated the time, a chance to peacefully experience the beauty of his world before meeting his demise, a chance that he now wished he didn’t get. It didn’t matter, though. The year was finally over, and his assassin was already here. He was ready.

“I’m sorry, Master,” the girl spoke again, breaking the silence. “I still don’t understand.”

Sighing, Rumi glanced at Aira. She wore a white silk suit like the people of Delphia. Odd outfit since she was one of the Illicitums who replaced him. She should no longer attribute herself to Delphians. Still, the color contrasted beautifully with her golden hair and sandy skin, while her green eyes and small features added a touch of charm. He liked that she called him Master despite not being his apprentice, but her smile bothered him. Delphians were saiters. That meant she could see the future and manipulate it. Did she really respect him? Or was it just an act? After all, she was going to kill him. It was the final step in her ascension.

“Foresee my words, Aira. Saite my response and avoid me the trouble.”

Aira lowered her head. “I’m sorry, Master, but seeing something through saiting isn’t the same as hearing it directly. It’s true that I would know the answer, but if you didn’t voice it, we wouldn’t bond. We must exchange emotions if we are to build a connection.”

Connection! Rumi thought. What connection can a prey have with its hunter? Does she not know why she is here? Rumi looked at her strange smile. It gave him a contradicting vibe of deviousness and comfort.

“Aira, you know that you are here to—”

“I’m not ready for it, Master,” she interrupted.

“I thought you preferred not to foresee my words.”

“I’d rather you speak them, but some words need to remain unsaid.” Sighing, Aira pulled a small bag of red candy from her pocket. She paused, looking at the eye-shaped sweets as if she was contemplating something, then put one in her mouth.

“Is that Tafan?” Rumi asked, his mouth watering.

Aira nodded, then slurred with the candy in her mouth. “My faction’s greatest creation.”

Rumi agreed and asked for a piece. Aira brought the bag closer to him, but as he put his hand inside, she shook it. He narrowed his eyes, wondering about the shake. He knew enough saiters to understand that they planned their every action. It was how they manipulated the future. Their smallest moves could start sequences that reformed time itself. Her smile also faded for the first time since she arrived, more evidence that she was planning something, and he wanted to know what it was.

Rumi put the candy in his mouth, slurring as he spoke. “Shameful how Kala doesn’t have Tafan. I’ve had none since I came home. When I lived in the palace, Milan and I used to buy it by the crates whenever we visited Delphia.” He grinned, remembering how he and Milan would split their cargo then steal from one another. Milan was also a saiter, so that gave him a challenge to enjoy.

“My bag is full. Just ask whenever you want one.”

Full bag. Was this another sign? Would she kill him once the bag was empty? Or was he overreacting to a random move? But no, she was going to kill him. He killed the Illicitum he replaced a year after his ascension, and now was his time to die. Only the current Illicitums could know the secret of the power. He accepted the fate centuries ago, but why was Aira prolonging his execution? He was promised a quick death. Feeling the nectar slowly melt on his tongue, he shook the thoughts away to enjoy the bittersweet taste, thanking Aira in the process.

“Master,” Aira said a moment later. “You still didn’t tell me about the reflection.”

Rumi studied his reflection in the water, noting the small wrinkles below his wide eyes and the slight curling of his droopy nose. It had been a year since he started aging again, and even though he looked barely older than the twenty-year-old girl to his side, he still hated it.

“I got used to my reflection,” he said. “It reminded me of the man I used to be, the things I could do, but now… The truth is finally revealing itself. Over two centuries of protecting the world, and what do I get for it? My own faction throwing me in one of their side villages where they put the people who either abandoned their magic or proved themselves useless. Even among those, I’m still unworthy. My reflection in their eyes is even worse than what I see in the water. They look at me as if I am a traitor.”

Rumi sighed. “When they chose me to become an Illicitum, they spoke of the heroism, the honor, the added power, and the prolonged life. Yet, none of this was why they sent me to the palace. They thought I would become a pawn and use my abilities for their sake, but I swore an oath. I vowed to protect the entire continent, and that meant, sometimes, fighting against my people. Was I wrong?”

Aira did not reply. Rumi pinched the bridge of his nose. “They hate me now, and I can no longer stand seeing it in their eyes.” He met Aira’s gaze, his shoulders sagging. “Complete your mission. Kill me. Do it quickly… Please.”

“No.” Aira shook her head, her muscles tensing. “You are a hero, Master. I won’t end your life until you remember this truth.” She rose to her feet and presented a hand to Rumi. “Come, you need to rest. We will leave at sunrise.”

“And go where?”

“If Kala doesn’t know your worth, then I will take you to those who do, so you can see for yourself.”

“It doesn’t…” Rumi trailed off, falling back to his thoughts. She obviously knew they would go on this journey from the beginning. She brought a bag full of his favorite candy and hinted that he would have time to finish it. But if his theory was true, why did she shake the bag when he put his hand inside? A clue? A game?

Excitement burst into Rumi’s veins. He didn’t care about Aira’s desire to heal his soul. He had lived for centuries and was ready for his life to end. Yes, the hatred of his people was heavy on his heart, but emotions didn’t matter in death. Beating a saiter, however, now that was a game he hadn’t played in a while, not since Milan. It would be fun to sabotage the timeline she was building. One last adventure, he thought, grinning and taking Aira’s hand.

Reflection

Rumi and Aira strolled through a single-road village that centered a vast desert. Simple mud brick houses lined both sides of the road. Some of the residents had set up wooden tables next to their homes where they displayed a few products for sale. Dates from a nearby oasis, eggs from homegrown chickens, scarves and tunics they wove by hand, and wood-crafted products.

Aira glanced around. “Everyone says Kala still lives in the dark ages, but compared to your main village, this place looks like it never heard of civilization.” She turned to Rumi. “Does your council punish them because they don’t know how to use Gate magic?”

“Don’t let appearances fool you. The side villages may house the gateless, but they are still important for Kala’s structure. One provides life necessities, and the other ensures protection. Neither can exist without the other.”

“But—”

“Let it go, Aira,” Rumi interrupted, his voice calm. “You still haven’t told me your plan.”

Aira brought her gaze forward, her lips pursed into a line.

“You don’t have a plan, do you?”

“Of course I do.” Aira scratched the back of her neck. “I will take you around the continent and show you the people you saved. I will prove that our world sees you as a hero,” she added, pausing to fidget with the sword pendant on her silver necklace, her voice lowering. “And to me, that it’s worth saving.”

Rumi chuckled, ignoring her muttered words.

“I mean it, Master,” she quickly added, her brow raised. “I can do it.”

“Did you see it? Does the future unfold the way you want it to?”

Aira said nothing.

“Do we both find our peace?” Rumi asked again.

“The future can change, Master. It’s the first lesson my people learn. I will do it.”

Rumi halted and turned toward Aira, their eyes meeting. She shuffled her feet as if about to move, but she didn’t waver, keeping her stare stable.

“Alright,” Rumi said. “We will proceed as you wish…for now.” He presented an open palm. Aira inspected it, her lips twisting before recovering the candy bag from her pocket. Rumi reached for a piece but kept his hand inside the bag while meeting her eyes. Sighing and looking away, Aira shook the bag.

So, I was right. Rumi thought, putting the Tafan in his mouth. The shake had a hidden meaning that he planned to figure out. She wouldn’t tell him about it, but that made it more intriguing. For now, however, he decided to make a game out of the Tafan. Whenever he sabotaged her plan, he would ask her for a piece to treat himself. It would make the challenge more interesting.

“Where will we go now?” he asked.

“Averett. There’s someone there I would like you to meet.”

Nodding, Rumi formed a fist with his right hand but left his thumb straightened. He pushed his thumb toward his chest, but Aira took hold of his hand.

“Not here, Master. Let’s move further away from the village.”

To Rumi, that meant something would happen if he used his magic in that spot, something she didn’t want him to see.

Grinning, Rumi used his left hand to unfold Aira’s grip, then proceeded to push his right thumb toward his chest, using it to draw an image of the number three above the location of his heart. He moved his neck in a circle, feeling power course from his heart to his veins, filling each and every cell inside his body. He waved his hand toward the ground, and a large plank of wood materialized atop the sand, its surface large enough to carry him and the Delphian. Before Rumi stepped atop the plank, he caught a glimpse of Aira’s frown. Her eyes, however, were elsewhere.

He followed her gaze to see four children, their black skin a heavy contrast to their light tunics, which they held high at the hems as they ran toward Rumi and Aira.

“Master, Master, Master,” shouted one of the kids, his eyes meeting Rumi’s. “Are you the Kalangou who will take us to the main village for testing?”

Rumi shook his head.

“Mother said he will come next week,” another child argued.

“Then who are you?” asked the third one, who stood shorter than the others. “And what gate did you use for this?” He pointed at the wooden piece.

Aira moved closer to Rumi. “We need to go, right now.”

Rumi noticed how Aira focused on the fourth child, a girl who looked to be three or four years older than the boys, perhaps in her tenth year. The girl stood at the back with her arms crossed and her eyes filled with anger. Rumi saw his reflection in her gaze, and his heartbeat tripled. Yet, he forced a smile and squatted, meeting the girl’s glare.

“Would you like to step on the wood?” he asked her.

The boys jumped forward immediately and started running on the plank as if they’d stepped into a playground. The girl remained in place, her expression unchanged.

Aira lowered her lips to the level of Rumi’s ears. “Master, we must—”

“I don’t listen to traitors,” the girl said.

“Hey,” Aira shouted, positioning herself between the child and Rumi. “You will respect your elders.”

Rumi bit his lips and rose back to his feet, his heart playing a painful rhythm.

The girl huffed. “He is not my elder. We only obey the council of Kala.”

“Master Rumi is above the council. He is an Illicitum,” Aira said.

“Was,” said an older woman approaching the children. “Our ancestors chose him, so he would bring glory to our people, but he betrayed his own faction and fought against it.” The woman then turned to the children. “Varid, Cove, San, let’s go. Your parents are looking for you.”

The children jumped one more time on the wood then ran back toward the mud houses. The woman glanced at Rumi and shrugged, then nodded to the girl, and the two followed the young boys.

“I’m sorry, Master,” Aira said, turning to Rumi. “I didn’t want you to see this.”

Rumi nodded, his heart still aching. “This is how the world perceives old Illicitums, Aira. There’s nothing you can do about it.”

“Maybe some people had false expectations, but you can’t believe that everyone in Mastoperia hates you just because you were an Illicitum.”

“I do.”

Aira shook her head. “I refuse to believe that after I spend the next two centuries protecting the continent, they will hate me for it. Kalangous are known to be hotheaded anyway. You will see how people really feel about you at our next destination.”

Rumi sensed a glimmer of doubt in her words but said nothing. He stood atop the wooden plank and waited for Aira to join him. Evading her sympathetic look and pursed lips, he waved his hand toward the sky, and the plank flew upward. When they were high enough, he glanced at the village one more time, sighed, and then waved his hand again, directing the wood southeast toward Averett.

The Fantastic Forest

Rumi and Aira spent most of their day flying over the continent of Mastoperia. The Kalangou sat in the front, his feet dangling off the flying wood as if he was sitting on a tall bench. Despite their high speed, the wind didn’t bother him, though he tightened his scarf around his neck and hid its edges. He also raised his tunic to his thighs and tucked it between his legs, revealing a large scar that started at his ankle, wrapped his leg twice, and ended slightly above his knee. Seven more scars spanned his other leg, each signifying a deep cut.

Aira sat behind him with her legs crossed in a meditative position. The jacket of her silk suit flapped with the wind, but she didn’t give it any attention. Rumi figured she was saiting to plan her next move, although he knew she could see the future on the fly, even in the middle of a conversation without the other party noticing. Taking the silent position, however, allowed her to see further in time and investigate multiple timelines to decide on the one she wanted to make a reality.

He didn’t care, though. No matter what Aira planned, he would sabotage it later.

Rumi wondered if he should allow her the chance to prove the world cared about him without interference. Maybe emotions were important in death. They did weigh heavy on his heart. Yet, he quickly decided against it. Playing his game would guarantee him a victory. She would either lift the burden off his soul, or he would have at least enjoyed his last few days.

Rumi leaned back and used his elbows to support his weight while gazing at the rising moon. He caught himself thinking that Aira was better than him. He wasn’t sure why she bothered with how he felt, but he appreciated the gesture.

Below, the desert began to disappear, its dead sand turning to dirt that gave room for grass to grow. Distant trees drew closer and closer, and soon they were flying above a massive forest.

“We are here,” Aira said.

Rumi sat up and half turned, raising one foot to the level of the wood and noticing the wide grin on her face. “Perhaps we should spend the night outside the Fantastic Forest. Neither of us is from Averett. Our sudden arrival in the dark might scare them.”

“Nonsense,” she answered, still smiling. “It’s time they meet their new Illicitum.” Without averting her gaze, Aira pointed at a faint light coming from between the trees. “There. That is where we need to go.”

Rumi adjusted their direction. He chose to land a few hundred feet away from where Aira pointed. He expected she would say something against it, but she didn’t. Once they were on the ground, Rumi waved his hand at the plank of wood, and it disappeared. He then formed a fist and used his free thumb to draw another three, closing the gate that gave him the magic. Instead of dropping his hand, however, he drew the number five, unlocking a different gate.

“They aren’t dangerous,” Aira said.

Rumi nodded but kept the gate open. As the two walked toward the distant light, the old Illicitum kept his eyes forward while the Delphian looked around, turning in a circle, inspecting every tree, plant, and leaf.

“It’s different,” Aira said.

“What is?” Rumi asked.

“The forest. It’s different from the ones we have in my faction.”

“Of course it is. Averett’s entire landscape is a collection of forests. Yours are more woodlands that surround your cities.”

“True, but that’s not it. These plants… They look more alive, their colors are deeper, and the way they integrate with their surroundings, it’s like they are a single unit.” Aira smiled. “I shall spend more time here in the future and explore Averett.”

Rumi ignored her words and halted in the shadow of a tree. The light was only a few feet away, and he could finally see the place. Tables set in a restaurant-like formation were scattered in an opening between the trees with a canopy of leaves arching overhead. Hundreds of small glowing bugs flew from one branch to another. Their colors differed: blue, green, red, white, and yellow. Each looked as if it were flying on its own, following a random path, yet every group formed a single color as if moving in unison. Silhouettes of people spread around the tables, their voices loud, filled with laughter, and accompanied by music.

“Master,” Aira called, grabbing Rumi’s attention while passing him and continuing toward the Averettis. “When we go inside, I would appreciate it if you let me do the talking.”

Rumi followed her. It was his first time in Averett since he left the palace, and he had no idea how they would react to seeing their old Illicitum.

Once he passed the last tree bordering the restaurant, the music stopped, and the chatter silenced. They could see him, and he, them.

The Averettis rose to their feet, their gazes focused on Aira and him. The bug light allowed for some darkness, yet he saw the fury in their eyes. Averettis were large in build. Men and women stood in nothing but simple shorts that allowed their massive muscles to bulge. They wore their hair in braids, though no two Averettis carried the same style, as if competing to show their character with how they wove their braids. They also had tattoos, every single one of them, always of animals, though sometimes of different species.

Aira waved her hand with a smile. “We come in peace,” she said.

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Rumi quickly added. Immediately, every Averetti took an offensive stance, animals jumping out of their tattoos, erasing their ink and turning to real creatures that stood as high as their masters.

Twenty-something Averettis stood behind their Majestic beasts with barred teeth. Thirteen tigers, five apes, and two bears formed a line between their masters and the newcomers. The Majestics differed in size and shape, yet all carried at least a single glowing stripe on their bodies.

“I told you,” Rumi said, presenting a palm to Aira. He believed she wanted the meeting to go peacefully, so riling them up and bringing them to the brink of fighting was a point in his favor, which earned him a Tafan.

Grunting, Aira held out her bag of candy. Rumi put his hand inside, waited for her to shake it, then took a piece and put it in his mouth. Enjoying the taste on his lips, he pushed his palms to the side, and two double-edged spears began to materialize in his hand.

Majestic Beasts

While the Majestics charged, Rumi rotated his spears in the air before leaning one on his shoulder and holding the other to the side.

“I’m the new Illicitum,” Aira shouted. The Majestics instantly halted, their muscles motionless. The silence returned with three of the beasts only inches from Rumi.

For a moment, the Averettis exchanged glances, but Rumi spoke before any of them could. “And I am the old one,” he said, and the silence vanished. Chaos returned as the creatures continued their attack.

Rumi took a step back, swinging both spears. Their tips changed to take the form of a hammer’s head just as they landed on the first tiger, pushing the large beast several feet to the side. The second spear slammed against another tiger, sending it away. Rumi’s weapons continued to turn, clearing his surroundings from the attackers until a blow landed against a bear with black fur and two stripes across the waist that glowed purple. The bear remained in place, unaffected by the strike.

Rumi quickly glanced at the beast, his other spear moving toward a two-headed ape. The second Majestic caught the spear and pulled Rumi in its direction. The ape formed a fist with its free hand and moved in for a punch.

Rumi used the momentum of the pull and threw his body upward, giving himself a higher altitude while letting go of his weapons. The ape punched the air the same moment Rumi landed on its shoulders, his legs wrapping both heads, his thighs pushing them against one another. The beast was strong, but a wave from Rumi’s hand conjured a metal belt around his own legs. Using the strength of the metal around his thighs, Rumi squeezed tighter against the Majestic’s two heads. The ape shook, throwing its body left and right while shrieking. The other Majestics moved in a circle around the ape, roaring while their eyes focused on Rumi as if trying to find a chance to attack the Kalangou without hurting their comrade. Rumi created new weapons in his hands, full-on hammers this time with heads twice the size of his fists. He swung toward any that dared approach.

In the rear, the Averetti themselves began running forward, more creatures coming out of their tattoos.

“Enough,” Aira shouted, forcing another group halt.

However, the ape continued to struggle, and a single Averetti marched forward, tears in her eyes as she pleaded through her sobs, “Please, don’t kill her.”

“Master,” Aira shouted again. “I won’t accept that you hurt any Mastoperian.”

Rumi waved his hand, and all his creations disintegrated in a cloud of smoke. He pushed on the ape’s shoulder and landed back on his feet.

The animal staggered and fell to the ground. The Averetti woman rushed to it. She lifted the creature in her arms, kissed its two heads, then absorbed it back in her body as the animal returned to a tattoo on her skin. With the woman and the beast as one again, she fell closer to the ground and used her hands to support her head as if she were absorbing the Majestic’s dizziness.

“This was so uncalled for, Master,” Aira said. “Had you listened to me, none of this would have happened.”

“I know,” Rumi said, dusting his tunic. “But it would have been because you ordered them. This is the world we live in, child. People fear the Illicitums but wish they could either kill them or become one themselves. It’s the truth I finally understood.”

“This is only one group, Master. They don’t represent the entire continent, and like you said earlier, our night arrival scared them.”

“Yet, they only attacked me.” Rumi lowered next to the Averetti woman and put his hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I would never have killed your Majestic.”

The woman said nothing but shot him a look that screamed hatred, and he instantly jumped back to his feet.

“Please, we mean you no harm,” Aira said in a loud voice to the Averettis who remained standing, their Majestics returning to tattoo form. “All we seek is a boy by the name of Mackanza.”

No one answered, but a young man who was clearly in his last teen years walked forward, two Majestic tattoos covering his body.

“That would be me,” the teen said.

Aira approached an empty table and put a couple of fallen chairs back in place. “Come, Mackanza. All I want is an answer to some questions, I promise.”

The young man nodded. He walked toward her with careful steps and a stiff posture, but his eyes showed no fear.

Rumi walked to Aira’s side. “Who’s this?” he asked.

“The one that will prove you were a true hero,” she said, handing Rumi a piece of Tafan.

Rumi took the candy with a smile. Aira understood his game.

The Enemies We Love

Rumi sat next to Aira, studying the boy who stood on the other side of the wooden table. A vine that he tied in a knot at the side of his waist held his dark-green shorts in place. His chest was bare like every other Averetti, bronze and bulging with muscles. A tattoo of a tiger started at his neck, wrapped around his shoulder, and ended in his back. Another tattoo of a snake enveloped the lower half of his arm. He’d woven his hair into three braids that interlocked into one another, leaving two to come to a peak at the top like horns.

“Sit, Mackanza.” Aira pointed at a toppled chair.

While the boy followed the Illicitum’s order, Rumi glanced around at their surroundings. The other Averettis had already taken back their seats, though their eyes still focused on him with the same hateful expression he’d gotten used to seeing lately. Above, the glowing bugs continued to fly between the branches in their pattern of organized chaos.

“Tell me, Mackanza,” Aira started again, “what is the story your mother told you every night before you went to sleep?”

The boy’s eyes widened. “I…”

“Don’t be afraid, Mackanza. Just tell me the tale, and we will leave your faction, both of us.”

Mackanza’s jaw dropped as if at a loss for words, but when a hand landed on his shoulder, he relaxed.

“Rumi,” the newcomer said in a soft tone, his eyes narrowed. He stood tall with a buffed up chest. His physic contradicted the wrinkles on his face. His head was nearly bald except for a few strands he’d woven into a single white braid. His bronze skin carried the tattoos of nine Majestics within a wide range of species, their ink nearly hiding his many scars. “What dark wind brought you to us?” the man asked.

“That dark wind would be me, Tribe Elder Tabek,” Aira said, stressing his name.

“I mean you no disrespect, Illicitum.” Tabek bowed his head. “But I was talking with the man.”

Rumi smiled and put his hand on Aira’s arm before she spoke again. “I didn’t know you still lived, Tabek. Time must have been kind to you.”

“Though not to my face, I must admit.”

“That one has always been ugly, old friend.”

“Can’t argue with that.”

“Old friend?” Aira raised her brow. “You know what, Mackanza? You can go now. I will ask for you later.” The boy jumped out of his chair as Aira turned to Tabek. “Would you care to join us, Elder?”

Tabek took Mackanza’s seat, then raised an arm and snapped his fingers. A young boy approached, and Tabek asked for a round of drinks. A simple request that breathed life back into the place. Other Averettis returned to their earlier conversations, their laughter quickly rising as the music once again played in the background.

“I must apologize for the earlier attack,” the Averetti man said. “My people don’t like seeing Kalangous in their forest. It boils their blood.”

“Apology accepted.” Rumi nodded.

“Elder Tabek,” Aira started, “can I ask, how did you and Master Rumi meet?”

“Ask me?” Tabek laughed, slightly raising his head. “You are an Illicitum now, child. You order, and if we don’t listen, you punish.”

“This is the second time I have been called ‘child’ today. I will have you know that I’m twenty.”

Both men laughed, and Tabek started again. “I’m a hundred and nine, Illicitum. My grandchildren have children who are older than you. Rumi here is more than twice my age despite that young face of his. You will always be a child to us.”

“Fine.” Aira leaned back in her chair, folding her arms. “Would you answer my question at least?”

Tabek nodded. “I was six when it happened. I had just captured my first Majestic, a baby tiger. I took him for a run to get acquainted with my body and get used to my commands. Unfortunately for me, I ran into a group of Lunardis who tried to sneak into our forest. It was obvious that our meeting startled them as much as it scared me. I tried to run, of course, but was no match to their flying devices. After they caught me, they spent hours debating what to do with me, hours that I was thankful for. Even at my young age, I could tell that no matter what they were going to do with me, I would never see my home again, but then—”

The young boy returned with the drinks on a wooden tray, each large cup filled with thick white liquid covered in foam. One-eyed crocodile milk, they called it. Tabek nodded at the boy and thanked him.

“Then what, Elder?” Aira asked.

“I arrived,” Rumi quickly answered.

“You didn’t just arrive,” Tabek said, then turned to Aira. “He came from the sky and landed at the center of their circle. He stood tall, uninterested by their technology, as two swords appeared in his hands. It was the first time I’d seen an Illicitum in battle, a Kalangou Illicitum. In an instant, my fear turned to amazement, and I couldn’t stop following his movements with my eyes. The battle didn’t last long, of course. They were no match for him.”

“You exaggerate, Tabek. It was a long time ago. Your memory must be failing you.”

Tabek shook his head. “I will never forget that day. It was when I made my first promise.” He took a sip of his drink. “He made me promise not to tell my people about the encounter. I didn’t understand why back then, but I know now. Such a small action could have ignited an entire war between Averett and Lunar.”

“So, what you are saying is that you wouldn’t be here today if it wasn’t for Master Rumi, and that more lives would have been lost if he didn’t force you to make that promise.”

“Not only that day,” Tabek added, taking another sip. “This man saved my life thirteen times.”

Aira put her elbow on the table and rested her cheek on her palm. She turned to Rumi with a smile. “Thirteen times, Master? One could say that you are his hero.”

Rumi chuckled. “That would have been true if I wasn’t the reason behind half his scars. What Tabek failed to mention is that I buried a blade in his body nine times. Once, I even hung him upside down outside the palace wall for three days.”

“And I’m thankful for each and every discipline. You could have killed me to stop the wars I helped start, but you always made sure I had another chance at life, that I understood the importance of having other factions even if I disagreed with them. I take it upon myself to teach my children and tribe members that Mastoperia is above everything, that we need one another to survive.”

Rumi lowered his head as a slight warmth flowed in his heart. He returned his gaze to Tabek and nodded, smiling as he saw his reflection in the man’s eyes. His new wrinkles seemed to have vanished. What he saw was a man he deeply missed, a man who stood alone, ignoring the danger, fighting for the safety of his people. Yet, the smile didn’t last. A quick glance at the distant tables reminded Rumi of his place in the world. He was a dead legend that they wished would remain buried.

“Master!” Aira said grabbing Rumi’s attention.

He turned to her and saw the bag of Tafan she held close to him. He smiled. Aira had now won twice. “Mackanza never had a story, did he? This is why the boy looked flushed.”

She nodded. “I’m not a fool, Master. Had I said we were going to talk to Elder Tabek, you would have insulted him before he sat down or found a way to not be here. It had to appear natural.” She paused, then met his gaze. “As if it wasn’t part of my plan. Otherwise, I would lose at the game you didn’t tell me we were playing.”

Rumi nodded with a grin and put the candy in his mouth. “Fine,” he said with a roll of his eyes. “I guess that puts us in a tie then.”

“No, it’s three for me, two for you. The game started the moment we met.” She grinned, though it felt off. “But fear not, our journey is not over yet.”

Sand Lines

Once again, Rumi and Aira rested atop the flying plank of wood the Kalangou conjured with his magic. This time, Rumi sat with his legs crossed, his arms resting on his lap, and his chest leaning forward. The light of a rising sun crashed against the side of his face as they flew northeast, but he paid it no attention. Instead, he focused on the desert below and the palace in the distance with its massive stone towers and magnificent dome, a place that he once called home. Looking at it, he couldn’t help but think of his own faction, Kala. Could he still call himself a Kalangou? He was born in Kala, grew up among its people, and practiced their magic. But he had only lived there for a little over twenty years. It was nothing compared to the centuries he spent in the palace, yet he couldn’t claim to belong to the latter, not anymore. He was Rumi the Kalangou again, and that was how everyone saw him.

“Master!” Aira called as they passed above the palace, and he turned toward her. She was lying on the wooden plank, her feet inches away from him, her head resting against the opposite edge of the wood, her golden hair flying in the wind. “How did it feel to be an Illicitum?” she asked, her gaze focused on the sky.

“You are one already. Why do you need to ask?”

“I have only been an Illicitum for a year, and this is my first real trip in the world since ascending. I mean…” She sat up and imitated Rumi’s crossed legs. “I knew about the respect the title commands and could really feel its weight when I saw how the Averettis reacted to my words. But the way people treat you and the wars they wage against one another, knowing the Illicitums will step in to stop them, doesn’t make sense. Even Elder Tabek, a man who saw the extent of your power numerous times, continued to fight against you. Why?”

“What did Delphia teach you about other factions?”

“Nearly everything. We are an academic group and studying Mastoperia’s factions is obligatory in our schools.”

“What do you know then?”

Aira took a deep breath. “I know their geography, history, hierarchy, political behavior, and magical abilities.”

“Yet, not the people. You don’t know how a Kalangou feels when they unlock their first magical gate, how Averettis connect with their Majestics, or how a Lunardis uses the seeds on their bodies to control their organs. I’m also sure that none of them understands what it really means to saite.”

“Saiting means to look inside the mind’s eye and see the future.”

“And it still doesn’t make sense,” Rumi said. “I understand the result, but what is a mind’s eye? Is it like an invisible eye? And how do you see that future? Is it a vision? Do you see it the same way you see me? There are many questions that can only be answered through experience. As a result, those who understand one another stay together, which in turn creates borders, both physical and emotional. And borders ignite conflicts.

“Factions don’t fight against the Illicitums. They fight one another,” Rumi went on, “and if the palace didn’t exist, they wouldn’t stop until they had destroyed themselves and the entire continent.” Rumi narrowed his eyes. “Is this what you wanted? To make me admit the importance of Illicitums to our world?”

“In part, yes.” Aira nodded. “I did think it would help if you remembered the importance of your past to our survival, but the truth is, I can’t stop thinking about how right you are. They don’t see us as saviors but punishers. If we didn’t have the power we do, they would happily destroy us.” She lowered her head. “Perhaps we should let them destroy one another.”

Rumi’s eyes widened as he regarded her. “You are serious.”

She didn’t respond.

Rumi waved his hand, and the plank stopped midair.

“What are you doing, Master? We need to go to Lunar. You agreed to let me lead the journey.”

“Was your plan to make me hear another story about how I saved someone’s life?”

“You will love this one, I promise.”

“I believe you, but it wouldn’t have worked. You think I don’t know I was a hero. I do. I remember every life I saved, but I keep asking myself whether they were worth it or not. However, it’s okay for me to wonder about this because I have already done all I could do. But you…?” He shook his head. “You have a life of protecting ahead of you. You can’t ask yourself these questions.”

“Master, I—”

“There’s only one place that can help the two of us.” Rumi waved his hand again, and the wood began flying in the opposite direction. “The palace. It’s where we must go.”

“Master, no.” Aira’s face reddened. “If we go to the palace and the other Illicitums see you, they will know I didn’t complete my mission. They will kill you themselves.”

“Then you need to make sure they don’t see me.”

“Master, please. Our journey has nine timelines. In three, you win the game but die disappointed. In four, you die with a happy smile. You like the game, right? Let’s just continue with my plan and enjoy your remaining days.”

“What happens in the last two?” Rumi asked.

“The other Illicitums kill you earlier than scheduled.”

“In both timelines?”

Aira bit her lips, lowering her gaze. “I can’t saite the end of one. We reach some room, then everything vanishes.”

Rumi regarded her expressions, reading genuine emotions. “Why do you care so much about how I feel, Aira? You will have to kill me either way.”

“Because…” She twisted her lips. “I hope that when it’s my time, my replacement will give me the same treatment.”

Rumi narrowed his eyes. “Perhaps, but that isn’t the only reason, is it?”

Aira lowered her head. “I don’t like it,” she muttered, then said with a raised voice, “I was excited to be an Illicitum, but no one told me before the ascension I would need to kill for no reason.”

“The secret must—”

“I understand,” Aira interrupted, “but that doesn’t make it fair.”

Rumi sighed. “I lived longer than any man could, child. I saw the worst of this world, and I have already accepted my fate. Now, if you really wish to please me for your conscience, then let’s go to the palace. It’s troubling to see you lose your resolve, especially since I know I’m the reason.” He smiled. “Plus, now that we know the possibilities of your plan, don’t you think it would be more engaging to explore the mysterious path?”

Aira nodded reluctantly.

“Good,” Rumi said, then asked for a Tafan.

“No,” Aira said.

“I never said the game was over, and since I changed your chosen timeline, I get a point.”

Aira sighed but pulled out the bag.

“Now, we are at a draw. The next is for the win,” Rumi said, putting the candy in his mouth and steering the wood toward the palace.

The Bag of Tafan

Rumi and Aira landed just outside the Forbidden Palace, a massive stone structure bordered by four towers, each topped with a small dome. A fifth dome, a much larger one, centered the palace, its color, like the others, a bright gold that glimmered under the sun.

The two passed through a metal gate that led to a garden split by a cobblestone path.

“Master,” Aira said as the two walked side by side along the pathway. “I agreed to your plan, but once we cross the second entrance, you must abide by my words, or you will die before either of us gets an answer.”

Rumi nodded.

Shortly after, they reached a stone gate. Aira caught his hand and took a step forward, making sure she stepped inside first. She looked both ways then continued walking, with Rumi at her back. They advanced with slow steps, Aira inspecting every corridor and intersection they passed through. Rumi found himself smiling while following her. Seeing the gray stones of the palace and their dull reflection brought back a sense of belonging and a massive range of memories. He loved this place, even when he hated it.

They stepped into a large intersection between four corridors, but once he took his second step, Aira pushed him back with a quick move.

“Duck,” she said, leaning on the edge of two crossed walls. Rumi crouched behind her legs, hiding between the Delphian girl and the wall to her left.

Rumi glanced around. There was no way she could hide him well like that. Anyone coming from behind or the front would see him. A moment later, the sound of footsteps came from the other side of the wall. He remained in place as the stranger drew nearer and nearer.

“Aira, you are back already?” Rumi recognized the voice as Amarin, the new Averetti Illicitum. Rumi had met him when he helped ascend the new Illicitums and passed his power to them.

“Well, you are back too. I assume you took care of your target.”

Amarin didn’t respond aloud, but Rumi imagined he had nodded.

“Did Rumi give you any trouble?” Amarin asked, his steps still getting closer.

“He was a delight.”

“Lucky you,” the Averetti Illicitum answered, his voice indicating he was only inches away. Rumi’s heartbeat doubled, and he brought his thumb to his chest. Perhaps he wasn’t ready to die after all. When Amarin continued, however, his voice was already drifting farther away. “Milan said he wouldn’t go down without a fight. He broke four of my ribs and nearly killed one of my Majestics.”

“Good thing he didn’t kill you,” Aira said.

Amarin chuckled as if finding her words impossible but continued on his way.

Milan is dead, Rumi thought, feeling a slight squeeze in his heart. Ganev was probably dead too, and he would shortly follow. Did it matter how he felt about his life if it was going to end anyway? No, he told himself. I shook Aira’s belief in her destiny. I should have accepted my death like the others and not interfered with the formula our ancestors created.

At that moment, the game he was playing with Aira no longer interested him. He decided to put her back on track, and that would be his last act to help his people.

Rumi rose to his feet and started walking in the same direction Amarin had gone.

“Master, what are you doing?” Aira asked with a whisper, grabbing his arm.

He turned to her. “Don’t worry, child. I know what I’m doing.” She was a child, and even though he had used the word before, this time, he actually saw her as one.

“No, Master. You don’t know. I’m the one who can see the future, and if you go this way, you will die quickly. I saw it already.” She moved closer to Rumi, her voice still quiet. “You want to go to Kalita and ask her for permission to let you in…whatever this Hall of The Dead is. But I assure you, you won’t get there. Kalita is already suspicious of me since our ascension. She thinks I’m not taking being an Illicitum seriously. She will kill you before you even open your mouth and then blame me for—”

“Not if my death is certain already,” Rumi said, interrupting.

“What?” Aira’s eyes widened then seemed to be vacant for a second before she released a sigh.

“It will work,” Rumi said. “You just saw it through saiting, didn’t you?”

She pursed her lips and sighed again. “If we do this, I won’t be able to control your time of death as I had planned. I was hoping to give you a week after our journey to settle any final affairs you might have, but—”

“This is my last deed, Aira. It’s all I want.”

She lowered her head, a tear on the edge of her eyes.

“It’s alright,” Rumi said, patting her shoulder. “I’m not afraid of my reflection anymore. I thought I didn’t like their hate, but I was wrong. I have lived with it for centuries. It was how useless they made me feel. Every time they dared to show me their hatred, it reminded me that I was no longer an Illicitum, that I could do nothing to protect their world. You changed that, Aira. You showed me that I can still do something even without my Illicitum power. I can save their savior.”

Aira’s tears strolled down her cheeks as she pulled out the bag of Tafan from her pocket. She closed her eyes, put her hand inside, and grabbed three more pieces. “If you take these, the poison in your body will be complete, and it will start working immediately. Had you digested each on its own as I planned, it would have taken a week after the last one to kill you. But since you are taking three at the same time, I’m afraid it will accelerate the process.”

“How long?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I can’t saite beyond the strange room as I said.”

“Well…” Rumi put the Tafan pieces in his mouth. “All that matters is that we reach the Hall of The Dead.”

The Palace Illicitums

While Rumi sucked on the candy, his smile grew wide. Poisonous or not, he still enjoyed the taste. He found himself thankful for dying at the mercy of his favorite sweet and for Aira being the one sent to kill him. He did suspect some type of poison in the Tafan the first time she offered it to him, though admittedly seeing her eating from the same bag threw him off. It was all clear now, though, and he liked Aira even more for sharing the bag with him. The ones she ate were, of course, regular Tafan. It was why she sometimes shook the bag when he put his hand inside, to make sure he picked the right one.

With Aira behind him, Rumi walked across the palace corridors with a metal robe that jailed his upper body and secured his hands behind his back. He had conjured the robe earlier with his Gate magic. The idea was to show Kalita that he was under Aira’s control, and with his hands immobilized, he wouldn’t be able to open any magical gate. That, of course, wasn’t true since Aira insisted he kept the third gate unlocked in case the future betrayed her, but Kalita didn’t need to know that. Aira was the only Illicitum with the power of saiting.

They entered the throne room together, where the massive dome could be seen at the center of the ceiling, hollow, transparent, and reflecting the sun.

On the other side of the hall, Kalita sat on a wooden throne positioned a few steps higher. She was talking with two men. But once she saw Aira, Kalita jumped off the throne and rushed toward her. As she drew closer, Kalita’s skin remained pale on her face, but from the neck downward, everything changed. Her leather suit transformed to a blue liquid that enveloped her body, then the color became black before it solidified again. A gun with a long barrel climbed out of her strange armor, and she instantly drew it.

Aira kicked the back of Rumi’s knees, and he dropped to the ground the same way she had told him to do. Kalita raised her gun but halted when she saw the Kalangou fall. She looked confused for a moment but quickly regained her composure.

“Why is he not dead yet?” Kalita asked, eying Aira.

“He is as good as dead,” Aira said. “The poison in his body will claim his soul soon enough, but he said there was something in the palace we needed to see, so I brought him to you.”

“Aira,” Kalita shouted. “If you are playing—”

“Inspect him.”

Kalita looked at Aira with narrowed eyes. Grunting, she walked to Rumi, closed her eyes, and put her hand on his cheek. The black armor surrounding her hand changed back to blue liquid before crawling inside Rumi’s pores.

The two men in the back edged closer. They were Amarin and Rhett, the remaining Illicitums. Amarin had Majestic tattoos all over his body like the other Averettis, though his were moving atop his skin, their ink constantly changing. Rhett was the new Kalangou Illicitum. He had obsidian skin and a bald head like Rumi. He even wore a similar tunic. He stood a lot taller, however, and with a bulkier body. Yet, when Rumi glanced at him, he looked away. It was clear he didn’t like seeing a man from his faction chained like that.

“I thought you said you took care of him,” Amarin said.

“I did,” Aira quickly added though she evaded meeting his eyes.

“Alright,” Kalita said, removing her hand. “The poison is already circulating through his body. There’s no escaping it.” She took a step back and her entire armor transformed to liquid, then back to a leather suit that stuck to her body, taking the form of ankle-long pants and a sleeveless shirt. Six seeds that glowed in different colors were visible on her body: two on her chest, two on her forehead, and one at the top of each arm. Kalita was an Illicitum like the other three. She represented the faction of Lunar, but during the ascension trials, she proved herself the strongest, and that earned her the title of Umholi, leader of the Illicitums and ruler of the palace.

“What is it you want to show us?” Kalita asked, her arms crossed in front of her.

Rumi met her eyes. “Below the palace, there’s a room with a spear stuck to the ground. Take me there.”

“Why?”

“You will see when we reach it?”

“Fine,” Kalita turned to Aira. “Let him go. I will take him myself.”

“No,” Rumi said with a raised voice, speaking words that the Delphia girl told him to say. “Aira must come with us. She took away my misery, and I promised to show her the truth.”

Kalita darted her gaze between Aira and Rumi multiple times. “Fine, but Amarin and Rhett must join us too. I don’t trust Aira, and that means you too.”

Nodding, Rumi rose to his feet.

The retired Illicitum led the other four through a series of corridors, secret doors that clearly surprised them, and a collection of passages that pointed downward. The walk was long, but at its end, they reached a stone room. The walls looked exactly like every other part of the palace, gray, dull, and devoid of life. A star painted on the floor occupied nearly half the room with a spear stuck at its center, tip down.

Kalita moved closer to the weapon and studied it with her gaze. “What’s so special about this spear?”

“The spear,” Rumi said, “belonged to a woman by the name of Salinda. She left it here as a reminder.”

“Of what?” Aira asked.

Rumi looked at her with an uncomfortable expression then pointed at his chains. Once she dropped them, he took a step forward and lowered his head, pain clutching his heart. He closed his eyes while taking hold of the weapon, and then… He vanished.

The Fire of Peace

Rumi took a deep breath and opened his eyes. Even though he no longer stood inside the palace, the spear remained to his side. Above him, the sky was dark, no clouds, no night. The sky itself appeared black. Around him, a field of sand spread in every direction, its color a mix of yellow, dark brown, and crimson. Massive fires with red flames latched onto the ground, eating into it, adding a reddish light to the atmosphere.

Rumi jumped back when he saw Kalita appear next to him with a gun in her hand, but she didn’t raise it. She didn’t have time. Her eyes widened as they caught the scene. Aira appeared immediately after, followed by Amarin and Rhett. Horror haunted their faces as they turned in a circle. They saw it too. Piles upon piles of bodies stretched across the land, their corpses fueling the never-ending fire.

“What is this?” Kalita shouted, aiming her gun at Rumi. “Is this a trick of your magic?”

Rumi shook his head.

“The future,” Aira said, turning to the Kalangou. “Is this a future beyond my time limitation?”

Rumi shook his head again.

“Then what is it?” the four Illicitums shouted, nearly in unison.

“It is what has been, could have been, and can still be,” Rumi finally answered.

“That doesn’t make sense, Master.”

Rumi turned slowly, gazing at the destruction. Bodies lied side by side, damaged to the point it was impossible to guess the origin of each. He completed a full circle and met Aira’s gaze. “This is a memory that Salinda left for us, to remember what we once did to our world.”

“Master, I still—”

“The Black War,” Rumi continued interrupting. “Five centuries ago, a group of scientists found the origin of all magic. They cultivated its essence into a machine that could give its user god-like power. They thought it would unify us. That if we all had the same abilities, we would become one, and our differences would no longer matter. They were wrong.”

The stench of death grew stronger in Rumi’s nose. “Every faction wanted control of the device. Independent groups formed in an attempt to seize everything for themselves. For years, war dominated Mastoperia. It consumed the entire continent, and everyone died.”

“That can’t be,” Kalita said. “The Black War did nearly wipe us out, but the Order stopped it.”

“They didn’t stop it. They merely used the machine to push back time.”

“If that was true and they had that much power, why didn’t they reverse time to before the war even started?”

“We needed to remember. This wasn’t the first war, and they knew it wasn’t going to be the last. The factions always found something to fight over. So, the Order used the sorrow to create the Illicitums and establish them as rulers of the continent. After that, they broke the device into ten pieces and entrusted one part to a group of four, one for every faction. That one piece was enough to make them superior to the entire continent.”

Rumi moved closer to Aira and met her eyes, one hand pointing at a nearby pile of bodies. “This is what you protect them from. They will hate you because they don’t know and because they don’t like to be ordered around, but that is the burden you must bear, or Mastoperia will be no more.”

Tears flowed down Aira’s cheeks. “Master, I—”

“I had forgotten this truth, but I remember now.” Rumi put a hand on Aira’s shoulder. “Thank you.”

Aira lowered her head. “I understand,” she said with a low voice, “and I promise you I will protect their world with everything I have.”

“Good,” he said, then turned and started walking between the fallen bodies.

“Where are you going, Master?”

“This is where I belong,” Rumi said without turning back.

“I can take you back to Kala.”

“No need. You go. Touch the spear again, and it will take you back to the palace. As for me...” He looked toward the black sky, his voice turning to a murmur. “I lived as an Illicitum, and I will die as one.”

Rumi felt pain rise in his body. The poison had started to work. He ignored it, however, the same way he ignored the others. Rumi continued onward, walking among the corpses. There was no reflection here, only his true self. With a smile on his face, he collapsed, his body falling among those who were once dead, those whose children he protected.

Moud Adel is a fantasy and science fiction author who is ancient of soul and Egyptian of nationality. As an Ancient Egyptian writer, Moud uses his history degree, nomadic childhood, and vivid imagination to construct worlds he can escape to. To channel the spirits of his ancestors, he goes on long walks and leisurely drives without any particular destination in mind, and listens to epic soundtracks. When the connection is disrupted, he likes to play Assassin’s Creed, go to the cinema, or immerse himself in long conversations. He lives in France with his wife and her growing number of plants, which he complains about taking over his writing space, but secretly loves because they keep him company while he crafts his stories.

https://www.moudadel.com/

THE WHITE STAG

By Justin Fike

“A hero is someone who steps up when everyone else backs down.”

-Rabi Nayak

The imposing vastness of the Ordenfrag Forest loomed out of the morning mist in front of him. Trees wider than a farmer’s cottage huddled together like aged senators sharing whispered words in the halls of the Capita, shrouding the forest floor with their secrets. It was an ancient place, old when even the peaks of the Urali mountains had first stretched toward the sky. Few men had dared its shadows through the centuries, in part because they concealed all manner of dangers, but even more so because the whole range of the Ordenfrag was sacred to his goddess, and she did not take kindly to mortal trespass no matter how noble the cause.

Normally the threat of Kressida’s displeasure would have kept him safe within the woods, but he knew that not even the wrath of a goddess would turn aside those who now sought his blood. Not after what he had done.

A small shuffling behind him drew Cuernos’s mind back to the present. He looked over his shoulder to see that the two children still clung to one another on the back of his horse. They had ridden together like this for three days, stopping only for short snatches of restless sleep and quick bites of food before returning to the saddle. The journey had not been kind to them, but they had not complained. Indeed, they had yet to speak a single word of any sort to him or to each other in all that time. After what the poor waifs had seen, he could not blame them for clinging to their silence.

At first glance, there was little to distinguish them from any other child of small years. A second glance soon revealed the truth. The tips of their pointed ears had just begun to peak up through the curtain of blonde or brown hair that framed two faces so delicate it was difficult to say which was the boy and which the girl. Two pairs of eyes stared back at him, emerald and sapphire hues shining in the pale morning light like no human’s ever could. Both were haunted by scenes of such terrible violence that he shuddered to think on it. No one who looked at the pair could mistake them for anything human, which was why he had avoided even the loneliest farmstead in his desperate flight toward the forest.

The two small elves continued to stare up at him without seeming to care much what he chose to do next. If they understood what he was trying to do for them, they had given no sign of it during the three days they’d shared on the road. They slept when he slept, ate what he fed them, and rose when he told them to. In all that time, he had not seen either of the children laugh or smile even once. Indeed, he had not seen a single trace of emotion flicker across their cold faces. Cuernos knew the cause of the shattered emptiness that had frozen their souls to stone better than most, and it broke his heart every time he glanced at them.

The two elves were quite possibly the last of their kind on the face of the earth. His hands clenched tight around the reins as he thought of the mad avalanche of events that had left the pair orphaned, alone, and hunted, and his stomach twisted when he considered the role he had played in it all. He forced his thoughts back to the task at hand before the guilt that gnawed at his soul drove him mad. He would see the two of them to safety before the end. What came to him afterward was in the gods’ hands.

Cuernos clicked his tongue and flicked the reins to urge the horse forward. The large roan gelding responded to his command with the easy strength of a trained warhorse. It trotted over the final stretch of open grass, then dug in its hooves and refused to take another step at the edge of the gnarled roots, tangles of thick fern, and moss-covered deadwood that lay before him like the teeth and claws of a slumbering beast. The horse’s nostrils flared wide as it caught the scent of the woods, and Cuernos could see that it feared whatever it sensed in the gloom ahead far more than his boot heel in its ribs. He sighed, then swung down to the ground.

He lifted the children down after him, retrieved his bow, quiver, and the two packs that hung from the beast’s saddle, then wheeled it around and smacked its flank to send it cantering back toward the world of men. He paused to guide each of the children’s hands to the hem of his cloak and ensure they had taken a tight grip on it, then turned and led them into the depths of the forest.

They walked for hours in silence. The Ordenfrag was still and somber, without the bright birdsong or rustle of small creatures hunting seeds in the underbrush that one would expect to hear in the woods. A light breeze whispered through the massive boughs overhead. The faint drip of water trickled down through the canopy to splatter onto leaves as the smell of wet earth and wood rot filled his nose. Once he heard the crash of something large forcing its way through the underbrush to their left. He pulled the children against the rough bark of a tree trunk to wait with his heart hammering in his ears until it faded into the distance before resuming their trek.

His eyes scanned the forest as they walked, searching for some kind of shelter. The sun had risen high enough to send tight shafts of warm light through cracks in the canopy overhead by the time he found what he’d been searching for. A larger patch of sunlight drew him through the murky forest to find a small clearing formed when one of the massive trees had fallen and torn a jagged hole in the lattice of branches on its way down.

Sun warmed his skin and lent strength to his bones as he stepped out of the gloom and into the glade that surrounded the giant trunk. A clearing in a dangerous forest was a poor home for two small orphans, but Cuernos judged that it would meet their needs well enough, and that was far better than the cruel world outside would offer them.

Rainwater had formed a small cold pond in the hole left when the tree’s roots were torn from the earth, and the space between the ground and the fallen trunk formed a sort of natural cave to shelter them from the wind. The clearing was filled with more of the dark green fern they had marched through to reach it, along with clusters of white flowers that rose to the height of his thigh. The blossoms were balanced atop spindly stalks that swayed in the breeze as though waving their hellos to the strangers who had just stumbled into their home.

He led the children around the pond and slid the two heavy packs off of his shoulders to lean them against the tree. They were stuffed full of all the camp rations, warm clothes, and useful tools he’d been able to gather before he fled with his new charges. The packs would hold them for a time, but not forever. The children ate little, but even still, the supplies would run dry sooner or later, and then they would be forced to fend for themselves.

He laid the quiver full of arrows beside the packs, then turned and passed his bow to the boy.

“Practice with it every day until you grow strong enough to use it properly, but take care with the arrows.”

Cuernos had left his usual longbow behind in favor of a horseman’s shortbow. It was less powerful, but more than capable of bringing down game once the boy had grown into it.

“Until then, you’ll need to forage to fill your stomachs.”

He drew the long skinning knife from his belt and knelt down to slice off several fronds from the nearest fern, then used the blade to dig up the roots of one of the white flowers. He looked to the girl as he brushed dirt from the roots then took a large bite out of them, followed by another from the green fronds. The bitter sap from the roots burned his throat, but he forced a smile as he passed her the plants and the knife.

“Not the tastiest fare in the world, I’ll admit, but they’ll keep your strength up well enough. If you dry and powder the roots you can make flat cakes from the paste, and you’ll find blackberries in the woods come summertime.”

The elven girl stared back at him, her unblinking blue eyes reflecting the sky overhead. He still wasn’t sure if they even understood his words. Many of their kind had learned the language of one the human kingdoms out of necessity during the war, but the children were young enough that they might not have been taught their enemy’s tongue. As they still refused to speak, he had no way to know. Still, the girl reached out to accept the plants and knife he offered with the same empty expression she’d worn since he had pulled her away from the wreckage of her home.

“I know it’s not much,” he said, his voice carrying through the still air even though he spoke softly, “but it’s all I can offer. I only wish…”

His words trailed away as his throat clenched into a knot. Gods, he wished so many things. He wished he had broken free of his blindness years ago, or had the courage to go and see the toll of war for himself rather than trusting in Caius’s promises and stale reports on dry parchment.

A chill swept through him as his mind returned to the hellscape that had greeted him when he’d mustered the will to ride through the ruins of the lasts freehold of the elves after their soldiers had finally breached its walls. All he found were smoke and blood, ashes and death, and through it all, the harsh cries of carrion birds feasting on all that remained of a race that had once outnumbered his own.

The wanton carnage had horrified him, but it was the scene that had greeted him inside the small house on a corner street that still burned like a live coal within his memory. The whitewashed stone walls and clay-tiled roof were ordinary enough, but its owner had planted lilac and honeysuckle in small pots outside the door and hung bright blue curtains in the window. The small touches transformed the plain house into a loving home, which made the sight of its door torn off its hinges stand out like a fresh scar on a pretty face. He’d wandered inside in a daze, his stomach twisted into sickened knots, desperate to look away even as the force of his own conscience denied him that relief.

He’d found the girl inside. She knelt on the floor in the middle of the small room, cradling an elven woman’s head in her lap as she brushed her small fingers through locks of golden hair. The woman’s face was turned away from him. She lay naked on the floor, her torn clothes scattered across the room, along with so much blood. The only way the girl could have survived was if she’d stayed hidden somewhere inside while…

He shook his head to clear away the horrifying vision and forced a thin broken smile onto his face. The poor creatures had more than enough of their own darkness to carry without him forcing his own guilt and shame on top of it.

“Stay together, and most important of all, stay inside the woods. If you keep small and quiet, no one will discover you here.”

His words rang hollow in his ears as he spoke them. He knew that the odds of their surviving within the forest alone were smaller than a grain of sand, even with their race’s famed wood sense to aid them. He longed to stay and look after them, but his presence placed them in far greater danger than his absence ever could. He hated to leave them, regret clawing through his chest with every breath as they gazed up at him in silence, but every moment he lingered brought their pursuers one step closer. He had to lead the hounds away if the children were to have any hope of a future.

“If I can escape pursuit, I’ll return and…”

Cuernos swallowed the words before he spoke them, unable to stomach even a harmless lie after so many deadly ones had passed his lips. Once he left the forest his life would be measured in hours, or less. He wanted to leave them with something better than a frail, false hope. Then an old memory kindled in his chest, and he stood taller as it brought him strength.

“Grass rise up to meet you. Sky reach down to hold you. Stand tall, fight well, die with honor.”

The Gallean blessing filled the air like a prayer. For a moment, he thought that he saw a faint emotion flicker across their faces in response. He waited, thinking they might finally speak to him, then sighed into the yawning silence and turned to leave before he allowed himself any further delay.

A hooded figure stood at the edge of the clearing.

Cuernos froze in place as the figure took a step forward and raised a hand to pull back the hood, revealing black hair cut to legion-standard length, along with the beaked nose, sun-weathered skin, and piercing green eyes he knew so well.

“Hail, brother,” Caius said as he came to a stop in the center of the glade. “This is a strange place to find you hiding in.”

Cuernos swallowed hard as another figure stepped out of the trees to stand beside Caius like a wraith summoned from the gloom by his voice. Maela glared at him with a mixture of fury, disgust, and disappointment playing across her face. He saw no trace of pity or mercy on either of them, nor did he expect to. His only hope had been to face his former companions outside the forest after erasing any trail that might have led them back to the elves. Now it seemed he’d failed at even that much.

“Caius,” he sighed as he nodded a weary greeting. “I had hoped the boundary of the Ordenfrag would give you pause, though I suppose it was foolish to expect any trace of restraint or respect from you now.”

Anger rolled across Caius’s face like a rising storm cloud.

“Only the king of all fools would hide behind the skirt of the very goddess he betrayed and expect her to shelter him. Who do you think revealed our path through these damned choking trees?”

Caius’s words squeezed at his heart, though he realized that he shouldn’t have been surprised to hear them. The whisper of Kressida’s voice in his soul had fallen to silence the moment he had defied the divine decree by choosing to aid the children of myth, taking the divine power she had lent him as her mortal champion along with it. Caius and the others had been his family through dark and bloody days, but Kressida had been his mother and muse. The loss of her blessing had left a cold longing in his soul that would never be fulfilled again.

Still, for all it had cost him, he realized as he stared into the hatred and fury on their faces that even if they had offered him the chance to go back to the moment when he’d betrayed everything he’d once believed in and choose again, he still would have knelt in the soot and blood to lift the shivering waifs into his arms rather than drive his sword through their hearts as the gods demanded.

“Leave them be, Caius,” Cuernos said to the man he would have gladly died for just days ago. As he stared at his old friend, he marveled again at what a strange pair the two of them made. He was tall and restless to Caius’s short and brooding, pensive where Caius was decisive, prone to doubt where Caius was prone to anger. Yet he had been there when Jovian himself had appeared to Caius in splendor to charge him with uniting the nations of men to his grand cause. The two of them had survived starvation, elven magic, dwarven axes, orcish arrows, and countless other dangers. Together they had done the impossible, and only now did Cuernos see how far he had allowed his love and loyalty to carry him from the truth.

“I will return with you without protest to face your judgment. Hells, you can strike off my head in the center of the Capita if you wish, only let us leave these two with some shattered remnant of a life.”

Caius opened his mouth to snap a reply, but hesitated when his gaze fell on the small elves peeking out at him from behind Cuernos’s cloak. Cuernos pressed in on the moment of weakness.

“The war is over, Caius. We set out to secure a future of peace for humanity after so many centuries of terror and bloodshed, and by all the gods, we did just that. But this stopped being a war years ago. We are now little more than carnal butchers staining the earth with so much blood that even the grass has choked on it. Look now on all that is left in the wake of our grand crusade, and tell me if you believe they deserve death.”

As Caius looked past his comrade at the elven children, the anger that had filled his face began to break apart into a swirl of confusion.

“You dare blaspheme the Divines to our very faces?”

Maela’s shrill voice shattered the moment and jolted Caius out of his sudden doubts. Cuernos glared at the pale Novari woman as she stomped toward him to stand beside her lover. She had taken Magren as her patron, and the Goddess of Death had magnified all the sharp bitterness in her soul a hundredfold over the years. Her words had twisted Caius’s heart up with hers until the justice that he should have overseen as Holy Jovian’s champion had become nothing more than brutal tyranny.

“If speaking the truth has now become blasphemy, then I do it gladly. They are innocent of any crime against our people, and pose a threat to no one.”

“Not today, perhaps. But what of the future?”

Maela glared down at the elves with venom enough to poison a river. Cuernos knew what elven raiders had done to her home and family. They had done the same to his, but he could see that even the terrible price their brotherhood had exacted on all the mythic races in the years since had not been enough to quench the flame of vengeance that raged within her.

“If they live they will grow strong, and one day they will return with sword and magic to repay you for your foolish mercy. No, the gods demand their deaths as the final price of our peace.”

Cuernos stared back at her without blinking for a long moment, then planted his feet on the soft earth and drew his sword.

“Then the gods are wrong.”

His companions gaped at him in shock for a moment as he faced them with bared steel. Then the silence was broken by Maela’s mocking laughter as it echoed through the glade.

“Even when you still bore your silly goddess’s blessing you were no match for any of us, Cuernos. Pretty words and speeches will not save you now. You would be better served by turning that blade on yourself and saving us the trouble.”

Cuernos didn’t move. Maela was right. Kressida’s blessing had been one of grace to stir men’s souls to action, not one of strength or power. Her music in his soul had driven fear from men’s hearts when none beneath the gods’ sky believed that humans could ever hope to stand against the strength of might and strange sorceries that their mythic oppressors boasted of. Her wisdom on his lips had forged a peace between the warring realms of men and summoned an army to Caius’s banner greater than any the world had ever seen. But even if Kressida had still favored him as her champion, he could never have hoped to best any of his comrades in combat, let alone two of them at once.

Not that it mattered now. His worn and weary heart had just enough strength to stand in their way until he could stand no longer. It was all he had left.

Finally, Maela snorted with impatience and moved to push past him to reach the children who huddled at his back. Cuernos’s steel flashed once in the dappled sunlight, and rending flesh and spraying the white flowers with blood as his sword carved a deep gash across her unprotected chest.

“Ach!” Maela shouted as she stumbled backward from the force of his blow. She stared down at the gaping wound he’d dealt her, then touched two fingers to the blood that gushed down her stomach in shock. If she had worn a mail shirt, it might have turned his blow aside, but her simple black tunic and overcloak offered no protection from his blade. When she looked back up at him, her cold eyes shone with murderous rage.

“That hurt.”

She lunged forward, the divine power coursing through her knitting the wound closed almost as fast as it propelled her fist into his face. She struck him across the jaw before his eyes had finished registering that she had moved at all. His head exploded with crippling pain as he flew backward and struck the fallen tree behind him with a sickening crunch.

White-hot pain flared through his chest with every ragged breath as he struggled up onto his knees. He shook his head to clear the starbursts from his eyes, spat the blood that filled his mouth onto the grass, then forced his aching body to stand as Caius stepped around Maela to advance on the elves, face grim and sword drawn.

Cuernos lurched forward on unsteady legs and caught hold of Caius’s arm as he raised his sword to strike. Cuernos knew his failing strength could never hope to check his friend’s strike, but Caius froze as though the touch had turned his arm to stone and turned to meet Cuernos’s gaze with all the pain that rent his heart written plain across his face.

“Please, brother,” Cuernos pleaded, his voice rasping through torn lungs and over a broken jaw. “You can be more than this. Better. You must—”

His words cut off in a storm of racking coughs that drove him to one knee. He felt the jagged tips of his broken ribs tear through his insides with every gasping breath he drew. Caius turned to catch Cuernos as he stumbled forward, ignoring the blood that spattered his gleaming armor as he held his friend close.

“Why?” Caius whispered, his voice pitched low so that only the two of them could hear it. “You and I walked the darkest paths together and forged a bonding oath in blood. Tell me why you have drawn us to this dark forest when we should be celebrating our final triumph together.”

“Because we were wrong, Caius.”

Cuernos loosed his words like arrows to pierce the shield of Caius’s pride and bury themselves in his heart.

“Blind, hate-filled, and wrong. We broke the world, brother. If it takes my death to open your eyes to that truth, then I will pay that price gladly.”

Caius’s hand clenched at Cuernos’s tunic in an angry fist as he reeled beneath the onslaught.

“Was it wrong for us to rise up and lead our people to war after centuries of terror at the mythics’ cruel hands? Was it wrong to fight for a better future?”

“Not in the beginning, perhaps.”

Cuernos shook his head, then winced as the movement sent a fresh wave of pain through his throbbing skull.

“But this stopped being a war long ago. We were just too drunk on blood to see it. Now that my eyes are open, I cannot close them again.”

Cuernos reached forward and drew the knife from Caius’s belt. His friend’s eyes went wide in surprise, but he made no move to defend himself from the sudden threat.

“Do not force your death on me, brother.”

Caius’s voice trembled. Tears broke free to run down his cheeks as he stared into Cuernos’s broken and bloody face. Cuernos looked up at him in pity.

“No one forces anything on you, my friend. You choose your path as you always have, just as I have chosen mine.”

Caius grunted in pain as Cuernos drove the knife between his ribs. They both knew it was a futile gesture. Jovian’s power would have preserved him even if Cuernos delivered a hundred strikes more, but Caius’s eyes narrowed in sudden anger as the finality of Cuernos’s pointless defiance pierced his heart.

“So be it.”

Caius pushed his former comrade away from him, then drove his sword through Cuernos’s chest with one sharp thrust.

“Finish this,” Caius snarled over his shoulder. Maela grinned at his words like a fox let loose in the roost and stepped toward the children with her own blade held high.

“Nooooo!”

The anguished cry tore itself from Cuernos’s throat like a wounded bird struggling to take wing. His dying scream was an animal thing, halting even Maela’s hatred for a moment as all the guilt and sorrow that wracked his soul poured from his mouth and the hole in his chest. The aching cry carried on past the point when his breath should have failed him as he reached a trembling hand toward the sight of Kressida’s beautiful glade bathed in sunlight just beyond his reach. Then his face hit the grass as the last of his lifeblood soaked the earth. With a final, shuddering breath, Cuernos died.

His soul hovered within the void that stood between Magren’s chill halls and the world of the living. He fought to return to the warmth above him, but the cold hand of the Queen of Death drew him downward. He felt Magren’s cruel, mocking joy all around him. Soon he would be hers to torment as she wished until the seas ran dry and the stars fell silent at the end of days.

Then the notes of a song more beautiful than the red sun at dawn soared across the endless void. As the music rushed toward him and wrapped him in a warm embrace he realized that he knew it well. It was the song of joy that had filled his soul the moment when Kressida Bright-Weaver had chosen him as her mortal champion, and he wept as a voice he’d thought he'd lost forever whispered his name with love.

A howl of jealous rage echoed in Magren’s depths, but Kressida caught his soul and bore him upward in her arms until they burst free of the void and back into the morning sunlight.

Cuernos sucked down a shuddering gasp of air as Kressida’s power coursed through his limbs to wash away the pain of his wounds and jolt him back to life. A current of warmth swept him into the air in a spiral of leaves and white blossoms as his companions turned to gape up at the sudden explosion in awe.

Power crackled through the whirlwind like summer lightning as it spun him faster and faster. Whenever one of the white flowers touched his skin it burst into a kaleidoscope of colors and stuck fast. The wind pulled more and more of the blossoms from their stalks to pelt him like snowflakes in a blizzard, covering him in a new skin of pure white.

His body cracked and shifted as the Bright-Weaver’s power re-made him. He felt no pain in the change, only a sudden lightness as he shed the weight of old oaths and crushing guilt like a fledgling breaking free of its eggshell. His body grew larger, chest broadening and neck lengthening as his arms and legs morphed into strong flanks that now ended in hooves instead of hands and feet. His heart soared with newfound freedom as one final burst of power echoed across the glade to carry away the last of what he had once been.

Then the gale of wind lowered him back to the earth and died away, its work complete. Cuernos snorted into the stunned silence, stamped a hoof on the ground, and tossed the magnificent spread of antlers that now crowned his head.

“Cuernos?”

Caius stared up in awe at the massive white stag that stood over the spot where his friend’s lifeless body had lain a moment ago. The huge beast stood taller than a draft horse at the shoulder despite the graceful lines of its perfect limbs.

“Bah,” Maela scoffed as she shook off her surprise and turned back toward the children with her blade eager in her hands. “Whether man or beast, you’ll not stop us from finishing our work.”

Cuernos’s angry bellow shook the leaves on the trees as he stamped his hoof again. A rumble shivered through the earth in answer. Then a tangle of roots burst up from the ground beneath her feet to wrap themselves around her arms and legs like twining snakes. Maela screamed with rage as she tried to hack at the clinging growth. Then her scream turned to shock and pain as the roots dug into her limbs and began to pull. She struggled like a salmon trapped in a net, but the roots only dug deeper and pulled harder until one of her arms tore free of its socket with a wet, wrenching crack.

Caius spun around and charged at Cuernos, divine power shimmering in the air around him. A huge stone tore itself from the earth to crash into his chest before he had taken three steps. The boulder flung him backward and slammed him into a huge tree at the edge of the glade as Cuernos turned back toward Maela to finish what he had started.

“Wait!”

Caius coughed as he struggled to his feet and held out a pleading hand toward the divine avatar that loomed over his lover’s mangled body.

“You asked me to be better, brother. I should have heeded you.” Caius took a step forward, then stopped, his face full of doubt as he looked upon the strange scene. Cuernos could see that the man was finally coming to terms with what had happened. Kressida had claimed him, saving him from death and shaping him into something far more than he had been. In doing so, she had aligned herself with his cause. She was only one among the five Divines, but the Ordenfrag was her domain, and Cuernos was its guardian now. They could not hope to match his power here, and from the doubt on his face and regret in his eyes, Cuernos could see that Caius no longer wished to try.

“I’m sorry, my old friend.”

In all the years they had known one another Cuernos could not recall hearing Caius speak those words to anyone. The White Stag let out a long steaming breath, then dipped his head in answer.

GO…

The word rumbled through the air like distant thunder, echoing out of the forest itself as the roots receded back into the earth to drop Maela to the ground. She lay still as death, but Cuernos could see that her chest still rose and fell. The jagged, bloody socket of her shoulder had already begun to mend, bones knit and tendons repaired by Magren's divine power. Caius stepped forward, lifted the woman into his arms, then turned and strode back toward the forest.

He paused at the edge of the trees and turned to look back at Cuernos. Man and stag stared at one another for a long moment, each searching for words strong enough to carry across the space that now stood between them, and each one failing to find them. Then he turned and disappeared into the forest gloom.

Cuernos watched until even the flicker of Caius’s red cloak had disappeared into the shadows. Then he wheeled around and looked down at the children who stood at his feet. As they stared back into his large brown eyes, Cuernos saw something other than numb sorrow on their faces for the first time in the three days they had spent together. Awe and wonder shone on their small faces like sunlight dancing on the surface of a pond as the girl reached her hand toward him. Cuernos leaned down and touched his wet nose to the tips of her fingers. She gasped but did not pull away from him.

The White Stag knelt down in front of them and waited as the children pulled themselves up onto his back, then turned and dashed into the forest in a sudden burst of speed.

He raced beneath spreading limbs and leaped over rocks and fallen logs faster than a gust of wind and lighter than a song. His heart pounded in his chest, but his limbs did not tire even as he pushed himself faster and faster. Above the drumming beat of his hooves, he heard joyful shrieks of laughter ringing through the air. He glanced back and saw the children’s faces lit with beaming smiles as they whooped and cheered his flight.

“More! More!” they cried with glee. Cuernos bellowed and summoned all his strength to grant their request as his heart soared with joy. For the first time in his life, he was free.

Justin Fike has been hooked on stories since his grandma first started tucking him in with tales of her life on the South Dakota prairie swimming in his head. He grew up in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia and was blessed to have a mother who didn't complain when he came home from the woods covered in mud and burs, and a father who told him the stories that sent him out there in the first place.

He has a Masters Degree in Creative Writing from Oxford University, and is the author of The Farshore Chronicles, as well as Fire in the Dawn, Book 1 of the Twin Skies Trilogy.

Justin lives in Colorado with his amazing wife and two pixies in disguise who allow him to claim them as his daughters at parties. You can learn more about his work at www.justinfike.com

THE GOOD CAPTAIN

By RG Long

“Legends are material to be molded, and not facts to be recorded.”

-Hervey Allen

Lust

The city of Beaton was quiet except for the usual nightlife that held its sway over the metropolis. Most of the regular vendors that operated in the daylight had gone home or closed up their shops. Those were the more respectable ones of the city-state.

However, places that opened up only at night time thrived in the enormous walls of the city.

Beaton was a city-state. The largest city on the continent of Ruyn, if not in the entire world of Gilia. Many would live and die within its walls without ever feeling the need to leave. Nor could many afford to. The most wealthy of the city might travel to neighboring Thoran or even to the dwarven mines to the south, but the middle class and poor only dreamed of such a luxury.

Most of the middle class knew well enough to avoid certain areas of Beaton.

The most experienced of the Red Guard knew it was a five-day walk from one side of the city to the other. And some of those days were more dangerous than others. The Red Guard was the security and soldiers of the city. They offered both their allegiance to the city's governor and their services of making sure the city stayed safe.

Mostly, at least.

If any of the Red Guard had found themselves in this particular area late at night, they would’ve made excuses to get away as soon as possible. It was more dangerous for them to be present than for them to turn a blind eye to whatever it was that was going on within this area of the city.

It was run by the Silver Suns, after all.

The general calm of the street was interrupted by the sound of a door being kicked open. A short grunt was followed by the shape of a man being flung out of a business unceremoniously.

“That’s the last time you get rough with any of my girls!” came the voice of Roger, the owner of the Twin Moons Brothel. He was a rough-looking man who had attempted to find some semblance of style. The effect was that he was both intimidating in stature and well dressed.

Even though he traded in flesh, he tried to take care of his employees. They were how he earned his coin, after all.

There were more than enough people in Beaton to pay for his services, even though there were better establishments in the nicer parts of town. His shop was one of the places where the downtrodden and the unlucky could come and find a way to while away the hours.

For the right price, of course.

This particular customer had been demanding for him. He showed up every other night for the last month and caused trouble every time he had arrived. It wasn’t so much that he was rough. Some of his girls appreciated that. It was the anger that this man exuded that bothered Roger.

Tough, he could handle. Rage was something he didn’t care much for.

The man seemed to recover slowly out in the street. Whether that was because of his age or because of the drinks he had had that night, Roger didn’t much care. Once he was out of his establishment, he was no longer his problem. Either the Red Guard would come by and clean him up, or the Silver Suns would rob him blind.

It didn’t matter to him which scenario unfolded.

He turned around and saw that several of his girls comforted the half-elf the man had spent time with. She had a black eye and a cut lip. He wondered if there was anything more broken about her than she let on. If it got bad enough, he would call a Speaker in to help. At least those rock wizards could be helpful.

For the time being, he looked at some of the concerned patrons who were left in his establishment.

“Nothing to worry about,” he said as he plastered a smile back to his face. His job was to make his customers forget their problems, not have to think about any that came in as well.

“Come with me, Sheila,” he said as he motioned for the half-elf to get off the couch. “Let’s get a better look at your eye.”

Roger was in a bit of a building rage himself.

If this man had hurt Sheila so that she couldn’t work for the rest of the night, he might go back outside and give him another piece of his mind. For now, however, he had a full night of patrons and a business to run.

He couldn’t be focusing his attention on a washed-up old man who abused his girls.

There were coins to be made.

List

The two Red Guard had seen the man thrown from the brothel as soon as they had turned the corner. It was not an uncommon sight. The later their shift went, the more violent things got in this district of Beaton. Especially since it wasn’t a district that was normally patrolled by their soldiers.

Gilsi, the younger of the two and the greener, tried his best not to let his partner see him shivering. It didn’t do well to look afraid. If he couldn’t hold it together for a fellow guard, how could he hope to show confidence when they faced off against an actual threat?

“Do you think we ought to get him off the street?” Gilsi asked.

“Depends on if you want another problem,” Eryn replied.

Eryn was tall and seasoned in the Guard. She had at least been able to stick around for longer than five years. Whenever somebody signed up for the Red Guard, they committed to a five-year stint. Any debts that they had incurred would be paid off, and any crimes that might’ve been committed in their name would be re-examined based on their service.

It wasn’t a guaranteed way to avoid the gallows or prison, but if a judge ruled in their favor, typically, most people would accept a stint in the Red Guard as opposed to rotting away in a jail cell.

Gilsi had yet to ask Eryn if that was why she joined the Red Guard in the first place. It was common courtesy not to ask too many questions during the first year of service. If the gods saw fit to allow a person to live after their first year of being a Red Guard, then they were permitted to be curious. Until then, a Red Guard’s main goal was not to die.

Not concerning herself with other people’s problems was probably how Eryn had managed to live through the trials they faced.

But Gilsi was a different person altogether.

At that moment, two men walked around the corner. The first looked down at the heap of a being down on the street and laughed out loud. The second saw them and pointed his sword right at Gilsi.

“We saw him first!” he shouted. “He’s ours!”

Both Gilsi and Eryn drew their swords. Gilsi saw the pins on their cloaks. These were Silver Suns, alright.

“Back down,” Eryn ordered. “The Red Guard have this under control. We don’t want violence.”

“That’s a shame,” the first said. “We do!”

With that, he lunged at Eryn and sliced with his sword. She parried it while still holding her torch and gave him a run for his life with her quick attacks and slashes. Gilsi was amazed. There was a reason she had survived so long in the Guard. She was an excellent swordfighter. He, however, was struggling.

The other Silver Sun had come at him with a sword and a dagger. Gilsi was decent with a sword, but not great. He fought hard, trying to keep the man in his sight. A quick slash nearly caught his arm. Then Eryn intervened. A quick thrust to the side had the man on his back. His partner lay groaning on the street as well.

“I’d run before you get yourself killed,” she snarled.

With a kick, she managed to separate his hand from his dagger and picked it up off the floor. The two men got up and scampered off.

“Tell your friends the Red Guard are patrolling!” Gilsi shouted after them.

Eryn shook her head.

“You probably should be a little quieter about that,” she said as she sheathed her sword and put the dagger in her belt. Then she looked at the heap of a man in the street.

“Let’s at least get him on his feet,” she said.

Gilsi could hear Eryn muttering to herself as they made their way over to the old man who was still in a pile on the cobblestone road. Something about how she always had to help out new recruits. He didn’t much appreciate her mumbling but knew better than to confront her on it.

He reached the man first and rolled him over. Then he gasped.

He heard Eryn walking up slowly behind him.

“What’s wrong?” she asked. “Already dead?”

Gilsi looked up at his partner and shook his head.

“Can you bring the torch in a little closer?” he asked. “I think we’ve got bigger problems.”

Eryn held the torch over the man’s face and clicked her tongue.

“Well, well, well,” she said as he brought the torch back up over them all. “He wasn’t on the list of people we were supposed to find. It looks like times have been tough on Captain Lyst.”

Lost

Captain Lyst was still in a mild stupor as he received a second bucket of cold water on his face.

Spluttering and coughing as the two figures in front of him slowly came into focus, he groaned. He recognized the uniforms.

And he hated them already.

“I’m retired,” were the first words he managed to mumble out coherently.

“We didn’t come looking for you,” the blonde-haired male Guard said. “We stumbled upon you as you were getting kicked out of that whorehouse. And saved you from being robbed or worse by some Silver Suns.”

“I doubt the Red Guard would consider recruiting someone in your particular condition,” the dark-haired woman said. “You look like death warmed over.”

Captain Lyst squinted as he got a good look at her.

“Oh? And you look like someone a boy would rather punch than kiss.”

The slap across his face was quick and hard. It did more to wake him up from the liquor than both buckets of water did.

He stood up with a fluid motion, grabbing her arm and putting a knife he had drawn out from his belt into her armpit. He let the blade touch her, but he did not pierce her skin.

“Don’t assume I’m not a threat just because I’m drunk and retired,” he said as he pushed her away. “Now, do you want to tell me why two Red Guard are in the Silver Suns’s district? Are you trying to get yourself killed early in your stint?”

The blonde-haired boy cleared his throat.

“We’re actually here on a mission,” he said as he glanced sideways at his partner.

Lyst could tell he was trying to figure out how much he really wanted to share. Perhaps he was subordinate to her command. He at least acted like a green coat.

“We’re looking for a place called the Runner’s Walk. There’s a pretty big bounty on the head of someone who hangs around there,” the woman said. “He’s Gilsi. And I’m Eryn. And if you put another hand on me, I will kill you.”

Lyst let out a small chuckle.

“You’ve got all the fire of a new recruit,” he said. “They don’t normally send anyone so green down here. What’s your mission got to do with the Walk?”

The pair of guards looked at each other for a moment. He knew they were trying to figure out what to tell him. He was the legendary Captain Lyst, after all. Maybe they felt like they could trust him. He had used such feelings to his advantage before.

“All right. Keep it quiet then,” he said as he shook his head. “But if you want to get to the Walk and come out with all your fingers, I suggest you get out of your uniform and into some common clothes pretty quick.”

“We know they don’t take kindly to the Red Guard,” Gilsi said. “We just sent a pair of the Suns running just before you woke up. But that’s part of the reason we’re going.”

Lyst shook his head again.

“Jamond’s got his head stuck in the dark again,” he said. “Trying to weed out trouble in the middle of an earthquake.”

“Commander Jamond knows what he’s doing,” Eryn said.

Defensively, Lyst thought.

“You can stand up for him all you like,” Lyst said. “But if you want to live long enough to finish this stupid mission he sent you on, listen to me. Change clothes.”

“Why are you helping us?” Gilsi asked. “You were lying in a puddle of your own sick just a few moments ago.”

Lyst looked between the two guards. He smiled a bit as he shook his head.

“Anyone dumb enough to come down to the Silver Suns’s territory wearing Red Guard armor and thinks they’re not gonna run into trouble is either really brave or really stupid or lost.”

Eryn and Gilsi looked at each other. Lyst thought they were probably trying to figure out if they’d been complimented or insulted. He didn’t care what they thought. He knew they could help him. And perhaps he could help them a little too.

“Let’s just say you’re my kind of people.”

Last

Lyst was weary about going back to the Runner’s Walk. He hadn’t ventured near the bar in several months. They didn’t really like seeing the face of a former commander around, even though he had long since given up on wearing the colors of the army.

He had quickly made a name for himself after leaving the Red Guard. It wasn’t a reputation most anyone would be proud of. He had given up on caring a long time ago.

“These clothes smell like someone vomited in them,” Eryn said as she adjusted the collar around her neck.

“Someone probably did,” Lyst said as he looked back at the pair.

They had just crossed over the threshold of the tavern. It wasn’t a place where any respectable guard would go into. Mainly because they’d be killed on sight. Lyst knew he was taking a risk with these two following him. But he found himself too curious about why the Red Guard would send in two inexperienced rookies to chase down a mark deep in Silver Sun territory.

He was also a little impressed that they had made it as far as they did without giving up.

“Stay close to me and don’t say anything,” Lyst muttered as they approached the bar.

A severe-looking woman behind the bar eyed them suspiciously until she saw Lyst. It was at that moment a wide smile broke over her otherwise dour expression.

“Well, well!” she exclaimed. “It’s been several moons since I’ve seen you around here, Lyst. Who do you owe money now?”

“Good to see you too, Norma,” Lyst said as he shook his head. “I’m not here on my business today. I’m here on theirs.”

He took a seat at the bar as the two guards behind him looked around uncomfortably.

“Take a seat before you look more obvious,” he said as he kicked one of the stools of the bar out. It clattered to the floor as Gilsi scrambled to pick it back up. Eryn took a seat to Lyst’s right as Gilsi recovered and placed it on the left side of them both. Lyst was fairly certain everyone in the bar had observed them coming in.

“Good,” he thought. Now things will start to get interesting.

“If you’re not here to pay off a debt,” Norma said as she got out three mugs and filled them with ale before placing them in front of the trio, “what are you doing here?”

Both Eryn and Gilsi looked at Lyst as he took a sip from his drink. Setting it down and smacking his lips, he looked at them and shrugged.

“This isn’t my job,” he said with a casual tone. “You tell her why you’re here.”

This instruction must have been a big shock to the pair of guards. Gilsi cleared his throat and took a drink. Eryn recovered her tongue first.

“We’re looking for someone,” she said. “Someone with the Silver Suns.”

“And why are two Red Guard looking for Silver Suns in their own part of the city?” Norma asked.

Lyst enjoyed the look of shock that came over both of their faces.

“Who… Who said we were a part of the Guard?” Gilsi asked.

“Don’t insult my friend,” Lyst said. “Norma is the best in the business of information. Which means she also always knows who she’s talking to. If she doesn’t, they normally get a knife to the throat.”

Norma winked at Lyst.

“Stop it. You’re making me blush,” she said as she spat into a mug to clean it with a dirty-looking rag.

“Now, which Silver Sun are you looking for specifically? And do you have enough coin to pay for that kind of information?”

Eryn and Gilsi exchange a look that Lyst didn’t miss. Of course, they didn’t have coins. The Guard paid in debts forgiven and prison time shortened. Not actual money.

“I think they’re gonna have to take this one on my tab,” Lyst said.

“I thought you still owed me from that incident with the Speaker with no left arm,” Norma said.

Lyst shook his head.

“I paid that off when I caught a dagger from going into your back. Remember the man with the cursed helmet?”

For a moment, Lyst could see Gilsi and Eryn looking back and forth from Norma, to him, to each other.

Finally, Norma relented.

“All right,” she said. “This one’s on the house. But the next one won’t be free.”

Lyst tapped his empty mug on the bar, and she shook her head as she snatched it up and refilled it.

“Who specifically are you looking for?” she asked as she handed Lyst back his full mug.

Gilsi leaned in and whispered the name. Norma’s eyes went wide, and Lyst hung his head. This was bigger than he thought.

“Do you two have a death wish?” she asked. “Going after him is going to be the end of your career and your lives.”

Eryn nodded.

“Probably,” she said. “Just tell us where you saw him last.”

Lest

The roar of the crowd took Eryn by surprise as they descended the steps into what Norma had described as the under Colosseum. She was utterly amazed that such a thing could exist underneath the streets of Beaton. Smoke and the smell of liquor invaded her nostrils as they found themselves stopped by a man who covered half of his face and wore a hood.

“Entry fee,” he said as he turned his palm to them.

Eryn was acutely aware of how much money they did not have. She could see the look of concern on Gilsi’s face too. Lyst, however, produced three gold coins and put them in the man’s palm.

Eryn could see his eyes sparkle with greed. And then Lyst made a quick jab with his hand and snatched two of the coins back from the man’s possession.

“Got a question for you,” he said. “I wonder if it’s worth three coins. Do you think?”

Eryn heard him grunt under his mask as he pocketed a coin.

“I’m listening,” he said.

“Who’s Erert been betting on tonight?” Lyst asked.

The man scoffed.

“Hasn’t placed a bet all night. Don’t blame him. The crop is not as good as it’s been in the past.”

“Thanks a lot,” Lyst said as he threw the covered man one of the golden coins.

“Hey!” he shouted after him as Lyst moved into the crowd, trying his best to blend in. Eryn followed his lead.

“Why do we care who the target is betting on?” Gilsi asked.

“We don’t,” Lyst replied. “I just wanted to know if he was here or not.”

They continued to move through the bustling crowd. It was certainly lively. The whole place was a round theater that surrounded a dirt fighting ring. Several boxes at the top held important-looking people. Most everyone else sat or stood on wooden benches. Eryn looked down toward the fight. It looked like it was some cage match between a heavily armored brawler and an elf with a spear. The spindly warrior was giving the considerable bulk of a fighter a difficult time.

“There,” Lyst said as he pointed up toward a box seat with a lot of rich-looking people in it. In the middle was one of the seven voting leaders of the Silver Suns. Erert the Fateless.

“He looks a little fatter since the last time I saw him,” Lyst muttered. “How do you plan on getting over to him? Especially without getting killed?”

Eryn and Gilsi looked at each other. And then back at Lyst.

“You mean you don’t have a plan?” he said as he looked at them both.

Eryn hadn’t known they would get this far tonight. She had thought they would have to do several days’ worth of reconnaissance just to discover where their mark was located. Everything was moving fast, even for her. Gilsi was the first one to recover.

“I mean,” he said hesitantly. “You’ve kind of been calling the shots….”

Lyst let out a groan of frustration and motioned as he began making his way toward the box.

Eryn had been fairly certain that he knew they wouldn’t have a plan. But maybe he had hoped they might take a little initiative. He was, after all, guiding them through this entire process so far.

“Rookies,” he muttered.

“I heard that,” Eryn whispered back, irritably.

They had almost approached the side of the box when Erert stood up and made a grand gesture in Lyst’s direction.

“Lyst, you old scoundrel!” he shouted as a crowd cheered.

Down below, the fighters exchanged another set of heavy blows.

Lyst inclined his head.

“How long has it been?” the boss asked. “Three months? Come up here! I’ve got some drink and some news I want to share with you!”

“Do you know him?” Gilsi whispered frantically in Lyst’s ear. “Don’t you think you should’ve told us that you’re friends with the mark!?”

Eryn smacked Gilsi as they continued to make their way toward the box. She hoped she had hit the boy hard enough to encourage him to keep his mouth shut. If they were actually going to do this, it was going to come at great risk to all of them. Best they play their cards very carefully.

Lyst

The smoke-filled room they sat in was not unfamiliar to Lyst. He had spent more than one evening here plotting with one of the leaders of the Silver Suns. The gang had a seven member council that ran the whole operation. Erert the Fateless was one of the longest-serving members. Life expectancy in the council wasn’t very high. But Lyst, being retired from the Red Guard, was knowledgeable and helpful for the purpose of doing business.

Like Norma had taught him, knowledge was profitable.

“What brings you down to the pit tonight?” Erert asked.

He had just shuffled out two cards to everyone sitting down at the oddly shaped table. By the look of him, Gilsi didn’t know what to do with the cards, but Eryn put her hand on her pair and began measuring up the others seated at the table with her.

“High card bluff,” Lyst muttered to Gilsi. “Try to convince one of the other people at the table you’ve got the better card. Get it wrong twice, and you lose your spot at the table.

Lyst peeked at his two cards. It was a terrible hand.

“Looking to make some coin,” he said, answering the boss’s question. “My funds are getting a little lower than I’d like to admit.”

The boss looked at Lyst’s face with a hard stare for a moment and nodded.

“Always hated playing cards with you,” he said. “You’re too good at bluffing. But I’ve got the high card.”

There was a chuckle from the henchmen who had gathered around, watching them play and eating off the table against the wall. There were plenty of drinks going around. Someone came and put a mug in front of Lyst and the two Red Guard.

“And what about your friends here?” Erert asked. “I haven’t seen you travel with anyone for several seasons. Are your funds low because you’ve got mouths to feed?”

Lyst smirked.

“Something like that,” he said as he looked at his cards again. “Two silver says you’ve got the better card than me.”

More chuckles. Lyst knew the cronies around liked to see the boss win. He looked between Eryn and Gilsi, hoping they remembered what they discussed coming into the Colosseum.

“But two gold says the card on top of the deck beats your high card.”

“Can you do that?” Gilsi whispered as he looked between Lyst, his own cards, and Erert.

“Three gold says my card beats them all,” Eryn said confidently as she slid out one single card. “Do you want to call?”

The boss laughed.

“This one has gumption!” he said. “You looking to make a bit more than whatever Lyst here is paying you?”

“I don’t much like the life expectancy I hear your crew suffers from,” Eryn said.

The boss shrugged his shoulders.

“Everyone has to take a little risk sometimes,” he said with a smirk. “Like you betting your card beats them all. I’ll raise the stakes a little higher. If your card does beat mine, I’ll pay you four months’ worth of work right now.”

“And if I have the lower?” Eryn asked.

The boss smiled.

“You’ll give me one night for free,” he said.

Lyst saw that Eryn did not break eye contact with the boss during this exchange. He let one of his hands slip under the table.

“I’ll take your bet,” Eryn said. “Show your card.”

The boss smiled.

He flipped over his card to show a silver castle.

“I only bet when I’m certain I will win,” he said. “There’s only one card higher in the deck.”

“You mean this one?” Eryn asked as she flipped over the golden king’s crown.

That was the cue.

Gilsi shoved his chair back into the guard who was standing behind him and drew out his short sword. He ran one of the guards through before he had a moment to react.

Eryn had thrown two of her daggers at another two guards, who went down in a flurry.

Lyst stood up and put his own short blade through the boss until it stuck in the chair he was sitting in.

The scuffle was over in a mere moment. One of the attendants opened the door when they heard a loud ruckus. Lyst took a dagger out of one guard’s chest and put it into the man’s neck. He fell dead in the doorway.

“Now what?” Gilsi asked, clutching his blood-soaked sword.

Lyst looked at the two Red Guard with a little bit of admiration and a good mix of concern.

“There’s a door behind that tapestry. With any luck, there won’t be a guard up at the exit on the other side. Get back to the Red Guard headquarters and let Jamond know your job is done.”

“What about you?” Eryn asked. “We owe you some coin.”

“I’ll come get it when I need it,” Lyst said. “Right now, I’m gonna make sure you two get out of here in one piece.”

Gilsi and Eryn exchanged a glance before they found the tapestry and the door behind it and were gone. Eryn looked back just long enough to nod her thanks before she disappeared through the hidden portal.

Lyst looked at the lifeless face of Erert the Fateless. Stepping around him, he reached into the man’s pocket. He pulled out a silver mask with a moon inscribed on it. The only thing someone needed to claim a spot on the Silver Suns’s council. He admired it as he sat back down in the chair.

He flipped over his own two cards—a pair of pebbles.

“Got dealt a bad hand,” he said. “Looks like my bet paid off, though.”

Now that he knew what the Red Guard was up to, he could easily take over this part of Beaton as one of the Silver Suns.

He took the mug off the table and toasted the tapestry.

“Couldn’t have done it without you two,” he said with a smirk as he took a swig. “To the good Captain Lyst, a Silver Sun.”

I'm author RG Long and I grew up on Final Fantasy video games, Warhammer tabletop games, and Dragonlance novels. Which is why I love getting to write stories of my own now! I'm a dad of three smart, brave, and creative girls.

www.rglongauthor.com

TO BLEED THE DRAGON

By Jeffrey Bardwell

"Heroes get remembered, but legends never die.”

The fire dancing in her hand vanished as she turned toward me. She said something. Another lie, no doubt. My ears dismissed her, but I refused to shut my eyes. Her soft fingers stretched toward me. The promise in that vain gesture never reached her face. Her mind had already accepted what her body could not. It was quite the reverse for me. I was already planning our next argument. I denied my nose the dark metallic stench of battle lost. My thoughts had plenty of blood and bile already.

Did she think to snatch me from the Black Tower? Snap those fingers and deny the five gods their prize? Such as it is. Wiggled my toes against my boots. Toes hurt, but they still listened to me. Where was that fool man? Cruel I should waste my last moments with her. Crueler still to see my own face mirror back at me, pretending to hope. See my own hand reaching through the dull glass, pretending to care.

No, by the gods’ shining tresses! At least the humble hay thatch on my scalp looked nothing like the styled golden coffer atop hers. And our uniforms. Not alike at all. Her clean blue sleeve almost touched my muddy red one. Withdrew my hand. Clasped numb fingers against the warmth seeping across my chest. Tried to remember training and failed. Mind drifted through tattered pages of the field manual as if to drop unguents and poultices into her stupid clutching fingers. Perhaps a bone needle. Handful of needles, plunging deep, threading my guts for twine. Winced, imagining my sister kneeling over me. Only half face respooned…re-ponded…pulled down. Eyelids tried to pull down too. None of that!

No tailor or healer, that one. She would burn the wound with foul magic and cold gaze. Warm thoughts fit dear Maven like a dress on a dragon…

The sticky pool became lake. Thoughts whispered, I would never see it grow into an ocean. Every muscle and sinew screamed assent. Iron of my body melting away. Putrid smell on my fingers. Blood more black than red. Pierced liver. Would my mates avenge me? Toast my valor after prayers? Would she join them…

Moments only. Why waste them on her? Turned away from the reproach in that brow. From those spiteful puckering lips. I would deny her whatever she sought. Much too late to reach toward me, now. Thought made lips twitch.

Flames in my chest made grimace of smile. No magic there. Fought to keep eyes open. Sought Corbin’s rose hip cheeks through the haze. He would be near her. Mind veered back toward hateful bitch. Treacherous mind! Almost, reached for him in mocking parody of her gesture. Clutched fingers to chest instead. Only one twin would darken air between us with each breath.

Told myself such restraint only for Corbin. Knew it for lie. Found him. Savored pallor of his cheeks. Could not hear agony of his voice. Was there any? Or were the tears in that soft beard more falsehoods?

My mind finally bowed to the dark fog spreading over my body like a cold embrace. The gods would succeed where Maven had failed. As they should. A goddess of her mind, that one.

Only…one…person…ever…worshiped…her. I finally closed my eyes as my soul screamed into the darkness. The pain of my body was a frightened whisper beside it. Those wretches…welcome to each other.

The gentle caress of Corbin’s lips raised me from the quiet shroud of darkness into a cold night. I strained to hear sounds of danger above the gentle evening song of happy mating insects. Somewhere in the distance, I sensed the clatter of arms and armor, but it was a faint murmur. So, I relaxed and let myself wallow in the tingling pleasure of that kiss.

“I know the heft of that weight, the feel of those hands on my body,” I murmured, eyes still shut. “Taking advantage of unconscious girls now, Corbin?” Disorient him, I thought, old training coming to my aid while I shook away the fog, then dislodge him. My arms shot out of their own accord and sent the man sprawling away.

“Hello, Minerva,” Corbin growled.

I smiled and finally glanced at my surroundings. Narrow walls rose on either side. A hint of moon poked over the rooftops. Any fight here would be close and desperate. I pushed myself into a sitting position and admired my smooth wrist and ample curving breasts as they caught the moonlight.

My hand paused at the sound of a tiny sheath strapped to my outer thighs emerging and sliding against the cobbles. I stared down at the shape of the lone plain dagger pressed against the cotton fabric. This wasn’t my dress any more than that was my blade. Where were my weapons? Where was my uniform? Where was my…body?

I was a young woman again, for a wonder, but everything felt wrong. Like fingers crammed into an ill-fitting leather glove. Young? Before the army? No, the difference was more than age. I touched those unfamiliar cheeks and bit a girl’s bottom lip. That name was certainly me, but this body, this soft supple frame, was that of a stranger.

It’s mine! And none of it is soft! A strange voice yelled inside me, reaching up toward me, fingers clutching. I ignored her. My ears dismissed her and her vain…gesture. A memory rose through the fog on the heels of that voice. I pushed it away too.

I ran a finger along the callused fingertips, touching the chapped lips. Not my fingertips, not my lips. The coarse cotton dress exposed two pairs of bony elbows and knees. I ran a hand through my hair, smiling as the long tresses draped over my shoulders. That dirty hay color was familiar at least. As for the rest?

“What? No pigtails for your scruffy little doll in her little smock?” I choked back a laugh as I rubbed my…her…throat. Nor my voice either. Not unpleasant. But smooth, buttery. A throat never choked by the smoke and dust of battle, never scraped raw from screeching over clanging steel. Such softness everywhere.

Who's a scruffy little doll? The strange voice cried, and I started. My hands dropped to my sides like a naughty child.

What lies did you tell her, Corbin? I crowed before turning inward with gentle reflection. I was a guest in this dainty frame. I should be polite. Who is this?

Kelsa, the voice said with a huff. If I squinted, I could almost see a shadowy figure, arms crossed and stomping her foot. And this is my…

Go to sleep, Kelsa. I laughed, pushing her gently back down into the fog. Good little girls never speak, only watch.

“Hiding?” I whistled into the shadows, pressing a finger to my lips and savoring his touch, grizzled as it was. In some ways, his changes were more startling than my own. Neither of us belonged to these strange bodies. Oh, by the gods’ quivering hearts, how long had I awaited that kiss? Dreaded it? Why was Corbin skulking? “Are you suddenly afraid of me?” I glared as I searched for reasons to explain such odd behavior. My memories seemed disjointed and fuzzy. “Do you have reason to be afraid?”

My lover shuffled into the moonlight. His once-plump rosehip cheeks had shriveled to prunes. His silky hair had frizzled to wisps. His soft beard was hard grizzle. His confident strides had become the crooked paces of a hunched, broken man.

“Oh, Corbin,” I cried. “Look at you.”

“More vinegar than wine these days,” he muttered, flashing that old familiar grin.

My heart thrummed to see it, even on such a wizened face. Shriveled grapes fit his image poorly. He had aged more like an apple, a few wrinkles hardly marring his crisp form and sweet mellow tang.

I embraced him, and his arms tensed as they wrapped around me. I slid my leg along his inner thigh with a gentle caress. Something else tensed. An old man, but still a man. Some things never changed. A comfort, that.

“You're concealing something. You always were a horrible liar,” I said.

Except for the worst lie, my treacherous thoughts whispered with a silky hiss. He held that one beneath his armor. But I could not recall the worst lie. Perhaps I had already shoved that memory, too, down into the fog with the silly girl.

“We have no time, Minerva,” Corbin said, pushing me away and waving his wrinkled hands at me. “There's a company of Black Guards after us.”

The words conjured images of shapeless horrors patrolling that black fog. I winced, and almost I reached down to pull the girl from their depths but resisted. Here was Corbin at long last. How long had I been waiting for him?

Wait, why was I waiting for him? Later, the enemy approaches now. My mental fingers slipped back into that steel gauntlet with ease, strange hands or not. “By the five, what is a 'Black Guard'? Are they human, spirit, or mechanical?”

“Human, for the most part,” he said, shrugging. Time had worn away his powerful shoulders to sad nubs. “Though they've brought out their mechanical division to chase down two fugitives…us.”

“Fugitives, eh?” I shrugged. “So long as someone mans those machines, it matters not. Humans can be manipulated. Plucked apart. Coerced.” I scraped my nails against the stone wall and the soft shriek sent shivers down his gently curving spine. He didn't look all bad, I decided. I could live with nubs. “You have a secret, Corbin. No more secrets.”

He chuckled softly and splayed his large, wrinkled fingertips against my own. “We are so different. We were always so different. Now time and magic have separated us beyond recognition.”

I withdrew my hand and clenched my fingers into a fist. “By the five gods, Corbin, if you ever held any love in your heart for me, stop dodging and answer.”

“You were gone for so long,” he hedged. “I got lonely.”

Gone? Where did I go?

“Perhaps you can still smell the woman on me? Like a hound?”

“Smell her? Give me a name, you old warhorse, or you'll discover this hound bites.” That name wasn’t Kelsa, was it? Had he abandoned me for this knock-kneed little dragon shit? I raised my new hand and glared at it. I would tear her apart with her own fingers.

I must have given voice to my thoughts. A riot of emotions crossed my lover’s face. He looked almost relieved even as he shielded his face with his hands.

“Do you not remember? Maven! I lay with Maven. But there was no love in it, just two desperate people.”

You see? My mind said as darker memories bubbled to the surface like something foul released from a slimy pond. He lies, he lies, he always lies.

“Has my sister aged too?” I asked as my heart shriveled. He had sworn himself to me. And betrayed me. “Am I supposed to be shocked? Surprised? After you impregnated her, why should a little sword play rattle me? How many times? How many women?”

The old hurt returning was almost gentle. There was something deeper throbbing beneath it, a foulness dripping darkness and shadows that promised sharper pain. It had the sulfurous odor of melting tar. I did not probe further lest I disturb the creature.

“Since you…ah, left?” Corbin asked hesitantly, lowering his hands.

I nodded the girl’s head. The last thing I remembered, the three of us had been fighting that wizard in a sun-bleached, little box canyon. We had been winning too! And now this? The strange sweaty cotton dress clung to my body as the cool night breeze whispered more doubts in my ear. The old man looked fairly itching to tell me another one of his fool stories.

“I swear under the eyes of the five gods, that Sir Corbin Destrus has never lain with any woman who did not somehow remind him of you,” he whispered. “I missed you, Minerva.”

I waved aside such empty excuses with the contempt they deserved. Missed me, did he? I glanced at the cobbles and the old-fashioned houses rising on either side of me. A glint of red hosiery hung up to dry flapped in a window. The smell of a nearby trash heap assaulted my nose. I knew this place: a realm of tourists by day and thieves by night. “Why the old capital?” I muttered as the pieces arranged themselves in my mind. The steel gauntlet clenched. “To the point, then. These new, mysterious 'Black Guards' of yours have the stench of imperial politics swirling about them. What did you and your cronies do to irk the emperor?”

“We killed the man.” Corbin sighed and heaved his shoulders. Almost, I could get used to the thought of them, and those flaccid old arms, wrapped around me.

“We?” I asked archly, bracing my hands on my hips. The softness was still there, but not so displeasing. A little oil to smooth that ill-fitting glove perhaps?

“The mages, I mean,” Corbin said, his voice becoming haggard as he turned away from me. “The mages killed him.”

I laughed in that strange girl’s voice. The noise did not seem so unfamiliar, now. “Mages? Those skulking flame-fingered fools? Maven's pretend soldiers assassinated the emperor?” I laughed again. “That bitch is many things, all of them vile, but she would never betray the empire. Her betrayals are more personal, remember?”

“I suppose,” he said, scowling.

Do you love her still, my mind growled, that you will not hear one word spoken against your precious Maven? I wondered how these stranger’s fingers would feel slapping the man’s fool cheeks.

Forget the old man’s cheeks, Kelsa grumbled. Worry about slapping Black Guards.

Don’t teach a soldier her trade, girl, I snapped. The waif had a point, though. Corbin always was a distraction. My fingers caressed the hilt of the dagger through the rough cotton. My lover shrugged again. Ah, such shapely nubs!

“The new empress blames all mages for her father's death.”

I nodded, still gripping that hilt under the taut fabric while I rose to my feet. The gawky girl was rather graceful, I conceded. “Good. Dirty mages.”

His eyes narrowed. “The empress would kill you too. That girl you so blithely shove aside, whose body you wear like a set of old clothes, is the granddaughter of a powerful mage.”

I grunted in response, twisting as the awkwardly placed dagger sheath balanced on the bony curve of my hip and tugged at the fabric of her dress…my dress. By the five, what sort of village rube mounts their dagger on the outside of her thigh? Any scrap of admiration I had for this…this…dainty little doll…vanished. Memories not my own rose to the surface. Apparently there had been goats in that village.

Never you mind the goats. As you say, these Black Guards are waiting. Your first lesson: treat small hard steel like a man’s cock. What pleasure having the thing swinging and slapping against the outside for all to covet? Slip it in where a cock belongs, girl. Much better to feel it caress the warm softness of your thighs, especially when you’re wearing skirts.

I could feel her blush spreading inside me. I snorted. It seemed that weapons were not the only thing the poor girl’s fingers were unused to touching. More unfamiliar memories spurted across my thoughts in shuddering waves one after the other. I suppressed a loud guffaw as Kelsa’s inner turmoil deepened. Perhaps not so innocent, this one. Still, I relented.

Think of it as coin, then, girl. A weapon well-hidden is treasure hoarded. A blade slung at your hip is already spent. Once an enemy knows your secrets, they will send you quick to the Black Tower. Your hide is my hide, now. I would prefer we preserve it.

Kelsa squelched her thoughts while I reached under the dress to reposition the dagger lower on my thigh to accommodate the loose, worn straps. It tweaked my soldier’s pride, but I would have to wait and reposition the damn thing later. And the condition of the sheath was disgraceful. At least this doll had enough awareness to wear a dagger despite her lack of sense concealing the thing.

I turned toward my lover and flicked my fingers toward the smelly corner of the alley. “Who is this girl, Corbin? Did you pluck her from that midden pile over there along with this dagger? And where is my wrinkled mage dragon shit of a sister?”

“She is hiding here in the capital. Still living, thank the five. Unlike most of the regiment.” He hummed snatches of a song he had sung when he first met me. And her. More foul memories began to rise, and I stomped them back down over the girl’s weak protests.

Is that stupid, little tune supposed to put me at my ease? You're still hiding something, I thought, squelching the screaming snip of a girl further into my mind. There's a story here. By the gods’ bleeding ears, don't let him start telling it. That man's lips are nothing but a trap to snatch the unwary.

My lover mouthed some more platitudes, which I ignored. His lies were interrupted by the familiar jingle of clanking armor as a column of odd soldiers dressed in black cavalry plate filled the entrance to our cozy little alley. The thick stench of rust and neglect marched ahead of them. More than half had that awkward bow-legged gait of those who spent far too long astride a horse and had neglected their weapons training afoot. A coat of black shellac on old armor hardly made for a proper soldier. And that metal sheen did not reach their heads. None of them were wearing helmets. So very unprofessional.

I turned away as my lips quirked. These are the so-called Black Guards that Corbin fears? Street rabble and army rejects who let their ponies wage war instead of their heads or their steel? Age has turned his heart into a dove.

The girl hissed in the back of my mind. And you’re an eagle...or maybe a dragon yourself, then? So, they offer no contest for you? Proper soldier, feh! Fine. Good. Use those precious skills. Slaughter the lot. Especially the mousy-looking one who leads them.

My grin widened. I very carefully avoided reaching with either eyes or fingers toward the dagger barely concealed beneath my dress as the tiny blade filled the young waif’s tiny thoughts. By the gods’ gleaming eyes, to receive another lesson so soon after your first. Such roles the five have chosen for us. Either you are the very lucky new recruit or I your very lucky sergeant, girl.

My name is Kelsa! The waif hissed again. Her fists clenched.

My grin fully unsheathed like a gleaming sword while fond memories of my own time as a recruit rose past the child. And others not so fond, but time and distance had brought a certain warmth to those too. I wondered what training Sergeant Luccia would inflict on this buzzing horsefly so eager to nip before the world slapped her flat? And how much flesh and bone would the good sergeant have charged for the lesson? I glanced down at her soft hands. I sighed and flexed those dainty fingers. No pale scars, alas.

I was not the sergeant, but I would have to do. How long would it be until this…this…recruit…elbowed her blind way into a brawl her feeble elbows couldn’t win? I was not the sergeant, true. But I could slip into her cadence easily. I had certainly heard the woman’s favorite lecture often enough. My regiment had been rich with fools before Sergeant Luccia had pared away the rot. Well, most of the rot. I refused to even glance in Corbin’s direction as I turned inward toward the girl. I felt my back straighten and my shoulders swell.

You demand your name from me, recruit? You dare ball your grubby fingers? You are mud. You are less than mud. You are the print my bare heel leaves behind. An empty pit for flies and spunk water. Nothing but a silly girl with wet dirt between her ears. Do you think you can best me with that head full of sludge? A puling little dragonet like you?

Kelsa stiffened. Her face darkened. A critical time, this. I tilted my head to one side and crossed my arms as the sergeant had once done. I carefully sheathed my smile lest the girl misinterpret while she struggled to contain the emotions fighting a campaign across her body. Her trembling finally eased. Her brow unfurled. I snorted. Thank the five, this one had some measure of self-control. Not such a girl after all. Maybe. Though I tucked that term in my belt for later.

The second lesson: Don’t be so quick to reach for your steel, recruit. A mistress of blades has many hidden weapons. And some not so hidden. Never fail to use them all when you have the need. My glance shifted from fingers to dress, already so conveniently torn. I buffed four grimy nails on the somewhat cleaner fabric while the louts in stolen armor marched ever closer down the long narrow alley.

“We have no choice but to bluff,” I whispered to Corbin, ignoring the girl’s protests. I pressed my back square against the far wall, sinking deeper into the shadows. The old man flattened his body next to mine, reaching toward me. The cool, wet stone seeped between my shoulders and spread across my hips. I shivered from the chill, not Corbin's wrinkled, gnarled fingers clasping at mine. I smacked his hand away.

“Some of them know your face,” Corbin protested, cradling his injured hand. “That girl's face. Nortus the Mouse is back there somewhere goading this pack of—”

“Somewhere back there. But not up here?” I asked, feeling the girl’s desire for mouse blood flare inside my gut.

“He’s a pampered pet of our dear empress, not a scruffy alley cat.” Corbin laughed. “Nortus, skulking through darkness and grime when he has others to do—”

I pressed my finger against Corbin’s lips. So the girl’s target was not among these strange soldiers? Maybe she would shut up about slaughtering the man, then. I pissed out her petulant little bonfire before the girl’s squalling emotions began to affect me in this soft fleshy prison.

Something tugged at my mind behind the girl. I stared at my enemy again and then turned back toward the approaching black clad soldiers. It wasn’t just their odd gait, I realized. They all had the same slant of the elbows and wide breath across their shoulders. It was something in how each one swung his arms but not his hips.

They're all men. Who was this strange empress who surrounds herself with such an oddity of troops? How many of my cavalry sisters have lost a few of their less talented brothers? I kept my lips tight over my teeth as I smirked. The army had always been eager to mold anyone, regardless of sex, class, or creed. And the empire had been all the better for it.

“No fear, lover,” I said, arching my back against the wall, treasuring his tiny gasp. “None of those fellows will be looking at my face. This girl is so…soft after all. Why not unleash such pretty little doves as the gods have provided us?”

I squinted, wishing the moonlight penetrated deeper into the alley shadows. His face must have been a delightful painting to behold. I wondered, did male artists ever try stroking the canvas with their– The girl’s horrified sputtering silenced such happy distractions. I sighed and squared my shoulders. One shouldn’t keep the enemy waiting.

“Have no fear, old man,” I repeated, easing into the gentle nasal twang I remembered hearing in my youth from the servants on my father's estate. And again later from some of my more rustic mates in the army. Odd that the girl’s mental voice did not have a trace of such tones. Who had raised this supposed village waif? “They're searching for a scrappy young woman and a retired cavalryman, not some poor goatherd lost in the big scary city. A doll in a flimsy dress accosted by some dirty old beggar. Tragically stripping her clothes…her money…her innocence.”

“You were never innocent,” he replied as a breeze blew downwind through the alley, bringing me more sounds and smells of soldiers. Muttering, grumbling, tired soldiers. Same the empire over, despite the color or condition of their armor.

“Everyone wants to be a shining knight when presented with a damsel,” I murmured. I had only known one such selfless man in my life. It certainly wasn't Corbin. I fluttered my fingers. “Turn around, goat. You lost the pleasure of a woman’s body when you sheathed your greasy blade inside my sister.”

He grumbled and fumed, but did as I asked. I looked around the confines in which my genius lover had entrapped us that promised to fill soon with armed and armored men. My eyes sought the midden just before my nose. A few stray scraps of cloth poked from the midden. I skinned my brown dress. Then, I bent down to untie the dagger sheath, waving the girl’s shapely ass at the approaching soldiers like a pale flag. I suppose her softness was good for some things.

“Back into the midden from whence you sprang.” I put the girl’s weight behind my shoulder and shoved Corbin into the heap. He made such a delightful little squawk. Then I tossed the dress, the dagger, and a few smellier scraps atop the man.

Corbin mumbled something. His voice was muffled by cheap fabric and rotten apple cores. I should have stuffed an old rag down that man’s golden throat years ago.

“Silence, lover,” I whispered. “I know my sister. You’ve buried your face in nastier things.” I patted the smelly bulge that was his head. Then, I tied the ragged cloth loosely around my waist. I shielded my breasts with one trembling hand, but not so tightly they didn't still painfully bounce while my bare feet slapped the cobbles.

How many years has it been, and they still hadn’t paved these old streets proper? Did all the machines break? And what about these jelly sacks sets mens' loins ablaze? I flushed a bit as warm memories spent in steamy pools with my mates rose over the girl’s shrieking protests. And more than a few women. When did the empire start birthing such prudish village folk? None of my mates were ever so—

I cleared my thoughts and silenced the girl. I slapped my feet harder against the rough stone. I made each seductive step echo through the alley more loud and sweet than the dull clang of their steel greaves. The air was too cold and midden-soaked for alluring feminine smells. But I could still let their ears feast as well as their eyes. I waved toward my brave rescuers with only partially feigned enthusiasm.

At last, something familiar. Corbin may still hold his secrets close, but this enemy I know of old. You didn't sign the rolls to march down cold hard alleyways on a blustery night, did you, fellows?

“Help,” I cried in weak, piteous tones. No lost kitten has ever mewled better. I sprinted chest first into the nearest cluster of Black Guards, swinging my hips to ring their armor like a set of bells. I apologized to the girl for the bruises she would have tomorrow. I promised her that it would be worth the pain as I slammed myself hard into the next shocked man.

I focused on one of the younger men with no scars, an unblemished cuirass, and two free hands. He paused and looked right at me, his face the perfect image of horse-stomped bewilderment. Perfect. A raw, innocent recruit. Like another I know. New to his duties. Still young enough to believe stories of knights and damsels.

I threw myself into the man's arms, bawling. “Please help. That nasty old scoundrel…he stole…he stole my…” I shrieked and pounded on his armored chest. The cuirass was burnished to a sheen that glistened in the moonlight. Some of the cheap shellac came off on my hands. “Where were you? By the five gods, where were the guards?”

I wrapped my arms around him, wincing as my skin pinched against the armor. My fingers probed beneath his cloak while I wept. Proper military armor should have—yes! I could feel the familiar disc-shaped indent the size of my palm hidden on the small of his back. These guards really were just wearing lacquered army uniforms. I poked my fingernail in the disc's off-center flat, narrow hole and then withdrew my hands. I hadn't quite believed what I had seen, but I could not deny what I felt. Suspicions confirmed, I started pounding on his metal chest again.

Chuckling, and very carefully keeping their hands—but never their gaze—away from my breasts, his mates gently extricated their young friend from my clinging embrace. The guard I accosted removed his cloak and wrapped it around my shoulders. I sighed. Beware the sharp edge of chivalry, lad.

Their commander, a small man with major's pips on his collar, pushed his men aside. He took my hand in his own and patted it. I could almost hear the man’s chest swelling beneath his armor. “I, Major Nortus, will ensure no harm comes to you. We are here now. Tell us what happened.”

I restrained myself from turning to glare at the midden heap as the girl’s wrath rekindled inside me. A stream of curses echoed through my mind while I examined the major’s features. His nose was a bit sharp, but he didn’t look so mouse-like to me. Besides, a troop of armored soldiers seemed to have turned the timid rodent into a bristling cat. Corbin wrong, yet again. And I had believed him, yet again. I was the one with mud between her ears. I carefully shielded such thoughts from my new recruit.

A major leading a small company through alleyways? I thought. What did Corbin and this girl do? Or is it my dear sister you're hunting?

“A nasty old scoundrel?” the major pressed with a new gleam in his eyes. “What did he do, my girl?”

So it's my lover and new recruit you're chasing, Nortus the Mouse. You can take the one, but I’m growing to cherish the other. Ah well, I've got some cheese for you. What crime did Nortus commit that you lust for his death, recruit?

The cursing ebbed. He betrayed your regiment to torture and death, the girl whispered. For those shiny pips.

Did he? Let’s see how well they fit beneath his fingernails. Ah, but a proper soldier should not indulge as her new recruit would. I hastened to stomp out my own rage and glanced at the major again, assessing him and his grumbling men. He did indeed seem new to his command. The sort to strike from the shadows. There would be a time to lovingly repay him for my lost comrades, but not now. Hold your emotions tighter, recruit. We will deal with the traitors later. All of them.

Kelsa seemed to sense the direction of my thoughts. He made Corbin the same offer, but the Hero of Jerkum Pass refused.

The what? These words fell harder on my ears than Corbin revealing the loss of my regiment. Hero of Jerkum Pass? That wretched storyteller? I’m the hero— But my mind shied away from the events at Jerkum Pass as the monster lurking beneath the girl stirred again. They would only lead to deeper, darker memories. I channeled my roiling heart into the performance instead.

“Uh-huh,” I blubbered, making myself nuzzle against the traitor’s face. “He stole my mother's best red dress. The one she bought last New Year's? It had the most dazzling sequins and ruffled bows.” I patted the top of my head and moaned. “But he…he ripped all the pretty, little bows… Gave my mother's…good…red…dress to some tramp with long hair just like mine,” I flicked the girl’s tresses in his face, “and big…just like mine.” I glanced down at my chest and wrapped the cloak tightly around my breasts, accentuating every distracting bulge in my haste to 'hide' them.

The girl steamed and spewed black pitch like a broken street paver. I could almost hear the pistons bursting and gears snapping. Proper soldier? she groused. Proper, nothing. Don’t forget, that’s my body you’re flaunting for the whole empire to see. Have you not one whit of modesty?

What possible use is that? I asked, pressing the cloak tighter. Share your pretty doves, my dear. Let these poor caged birds soar free.

Nortus glanced away, blushing while Kelsa retreated in glum silence. “What did this villain look like, my dear? Where did he and that other young woman go?”

I sketched Corbin's appearance in brief, unflattering terms. “Won't you please find my mother's red dress? By the five, she told me not to come to the capital. Why didn't I listen?” Told myself not to trust a word Corbin says, didn’t I? Many a time. Why didn’t I listen, indeed! These guards are listening though.

“But now,” I said, voice rising to a screech, “now, I've lost everything!” I raised my arms and wailed, neatly throwing off the cloak while my last fragile scrap of modesty fluttered in the breeze like a torn flag. Sir Nortus and his men stepped back as I waved the flag in their faces. “Won't you kind, strong, brave gentlemen please find my little satin ribbons?” I caressed my long tresses, wrapping an errant curl around one finger as I formed my lips into a tiny moue. “I'll…I'll let each of you tie one in my hair.”

The guards began to nod. Some smiled shyly. Others were not so coy. Words of assurance and dedication spilled from every pair of lips.

“And don't forget my little red dress!” I cried. “Oh, I feel so indecent without it.” My chest heaved as I shooed them away. “Hurry, please hurry. He's getting away!” I pointed toward a random side street. They would have chased dear old Corbin into the Black Tower.

Then, with a clatter of armor and a few more hurried assurances, the guards were gone. I pinched the soft fabric and smiled, turning just in time to see Corbin pull himself from the midden heap. He offered my brown dress in one hand and the sheathed dagger in the other. He shook off the worst of the grime, stared resolutely at the wall in front of him, and held the dress stiffly to one side.

“Thank you. It's not red satin,” I said, smiling as I grabbed it, “but it will do.”

“That was a more fitting disguise than you know. So I am not allowed to see your bosom for my transgressions,” the man growled, “but a whole company of Black Guards…”

“My bosom? Your transgressions?” I murmured. “Did these words just pass the lips of an honest stable lord? A prince of horse muck? You've been spending far too much time with those snooty mages, my lord.”

Corbin sighed and offered his hand, which I refused. “I believe we were escaping the old city? Easily done if we can avoid the patrols and the thieves and pass the inner wall. But the gates of the outer wall will be closed for the night. We will have a better chance slipping out tomorrow with a caravan.”

“They will smell us coming. An inn then? With a hot bath?” I asked, rubbing my hands together as the wind began to howl. “Two lovers off to visit the grand city?”

He held his chapped, wrinkled hand against my soft, smooth skin and sighed when I once again rebuffed him. “A grandfather and his granddaughter is a more likely guise.” When I bristled, he said, “or an old man and his attendant.”

I scowled. “An innkeeper would be blind and deaf to think that we could possibly be related to one another.” Corbin seemed poised to reply, but choked on the words while I tied my hair back with a scrap of cloth. “I shall be your protégé, and you shall be—”

“The Hero of Jerkum Pass,” Corbin said, reaffirming my recruit’s strange words while scratching his grizzled chin. Alas, his silences never lasted. “There's not an innkeeper in the city who won't recognize this face. We are safer sheltering in a garden shed or a workshop until daybreak.”

I shrugged even as a part of me still gawked at the concept of Corbin as some figure of legend. Only in his mind. A goddess of her mind, that one. The thought rose unbidden, and I pushed it back down. Why did everything keep reminding me of Maven tonight? “Let's find this shed. I'll doss on any mattress right now, even a sack of potatoes.”

“Then we can craft you a new dress from the potato sack come morning.” Corbin smiled his familiar crooked smile. The muscles in my cheeks twitched in response despite his…transgressions…those which I knew and those I suspected. Treacherous habit! I had struck them from the rolls, him and my sister both. The regiment truly was dead. A sobering thought, useful for banishing smiles.

We dodged the patrols and made our way through the abandoned old part of the capital. The rough streets never improved, and soon my bare feet ached. The only sound was the wind rattling the shuttered windows of the buildings looming on either side of us. But the farther we crept away from the palace through the dead, moonlit streets of the old city, the closer we came to the bustle of the new city. I glanced at the streetlamps, few and far between, as the glow of the new city beckoned just beyond the inner walls. The glow beckoned, a false promise of safety. Between the overhanging buildings, the sparse lamplight, and the empty streets, this was a thief’s paradise. I shivered as I wrapped the guard's cloak tight around my shoulders and scanned the shadows for ambush.

Frightened? A proper soldier like you? The girl scoffed in the depths of my mind.

I squeezed my inner thighs against the warm hilt of the dagger, which I had finally nestled in its proper place. Not hardly, recruit.

Corbin squeezed my shoulder. “The worst is over.”

“Don’t touch me.” I grunted. “The worst is yet to come.” I grinned at the girl. The best is yet to come. “Guards and soldiers see a helpless maiden and want to render assistance. Thieves see a helpless maiden and want to rend her clothes.”

Corbin raised his eyebrows. “My memories of the regiment are not as wholesome as yours. Friends and companions all of course, but soldiers take to debauchery like pigs to a wallow. The men and women both, eh, oh helpless maiden?”

“Every soldier is a knight when the commander is watching. What people do with their mates,” I stopped as something moved in the shadows, “or worse, when they're alone in the dark, is a different story.” I glanced overhead at the lonely streetlamp with missing glass panes. Its weak flame sputtered in the wind, beckoning to the shadows like a fiery hooked finger.

“I could not agree more, madam,” a soft silky voice replied as the narrow blade of a long thin stiletto emerged from the darkness with a pale arm and sneering face following the blade into the lamplight. The stiletto looked almost delicate, like a knitting needle with a hilt. The thief casually rested the tip of the stiletto against my neck. “If the gentleman would be so kind as to throw his sword at my lady's feet, thank you?”

I glanced at the narrow blade in the man's hand. It's the perfect weapon for sliding between gaps in plate armor, slipping through chain mail, or puncturing hardened leather. Not that we're wearing any such protection.

Corbin unbuckled his sheathed blade and did as the man asked. The sound of the leather sliding over the cobbles was lost in the wind.

“Awful close, weren't you?” The thief turned to the bright lights, the raucous murmur, and the tall buildings of the new city rising above the squat, low wall several blocks away. He grinned and reached for the sight, clenching his fingers. “The patrols, the well-lit streets, the instant hue and cry…just within reach. Ah. I so love robbing people when they finally think they're safe.” He waved the dagger between us as he kicked the sword away. A fresh gust of wind extinguished the lamp. “You two are not safe. So sorry!”

“Gives you a little zing, does it?” I asked. “Stripping away our…safety?”

“Yes,” the man said. “Now, the dress, if you please. Remove it.”

“Of course,” I smiled between clenched teeth. “Just as soon as you stop threatening me with a woman's weapon.”

The thief blinked, glared at me, and then glanced aside at the blade in his hand. “A what?”

Did I tie a knot in that glib tongue? I thought, smiling on the inside as I caressed the sheathed sword with my toes. “A woman's weapon. A man can walk around with his big thick sword swinging between his legs for all the world to see, but a woman? We don't have big flashy blades. We have tiny, little daggers between our legs…just like that one. Hidden. Covered. Waiting for the right hand to slip us out of our sheath.” I teased my dress up just above the knees and smiled.

The thief stepped back to admire my calves and grinned. “You seem very eager to show me your little blade. I mistrust that.” He placed his free hand over his heart. “And mine is such a trusting profession. Hmmmm, despite those soft legs, there is a hardness in your eyes. A steely gaze, madam. I think you could stab me to death with such eyes.”

Clever bastard, I thought, but said nothing as I tried not to glare. White knuckles clenched the hem of my dress. He isn't worried about getting stabbed by my…eyes. I let the hem drop and smoothed the fabric. My tight smile never wavered.

The thief waved his stiletto and wrinkled his nose. “If the fragrant gentleman would step forward?” The man gave me a little shove as my lover walked toward him. “While you step back, madam.” He gestured with the weapon before placing the tip against Corbin's throat. “Further, if you please. You care for this man, yes? Would you remove your clothes…for him? A safe distance away, of course. Oh my, I think your eyes just grew harder.”

Would you remove your clothes…for him? My mind reeled as those taunting words echoed. I had removed my clothes for him. Several times. Several places. Until that night.

I suppressed a shudder as the monster I had buried deep within my thoughts finally broke free. I saw a vision of my sister, her blue uniform disheveled, boots slung over her shoulder. She emerged from Corbin's tent, face flushed, legs bowed–but not from riding a horse–as she stumbled back toward the mage side of camp. She giggled with every stick that broke beneath her bare feet. And my lover Corbin, head emerging from the tent, hair mussed, stared after her with that soft, familiar look in his eyes. The befuddled, wide-eyed gaze as though you were the sun and his world was melting. The look he had always reserved for me…

“Well?” The thief asked, pressing the tip of the blade deeper into Corbin's throat. “What is this man to you?”

Yes, my treacherous thoughts echoed. What is that man to you? Did his betrayal matter when you cherished the flavor of his lips? Savored the warm strength of his arms? Embraced every one of his sweet lies? Do you love him still that you will not utter one word against your precious Corbin?

“He's…he's my…” I stumbled. The words caught in my throat as more memories hurled through my mind. None of my mates asked me to speak when I stumbled into the barracks alone that night. Some emotions are too strong for words. They just held me close and let me weep until I had exhausted my tears. They never asked about Corbin…or my sister. But I knew that they knew.

The shadowy monster lurking beneath the girl screamed and thrashed. I did nothing. I let the beast rage, sending me fresh visions and fresh misery. I had no strength left to subdue it.

“Your father? Your master? Your brother?” The thief chuckled. “Do you feel affection for him? A trifling love? Is he a worthy hostage or the dross beneath your feet, hmmm?”

“He's my…” The words froze as my mind went unbidden to a darker place, imagining the scene inside that tent. My sister and Corbin, breath panting, their sweaty bodies entwined, merging into a dark silhouette on the fluttering white canvas…

Such a large stable of memories, my recruit whispered. Why does this one frighten you so? Did you um…elbow your way into a fight you knew you were going to lose?

I started, realizing the monster had subsided. No, Kelsa was perched atop it. She rode the shadow like an uncut stallion. The thing quivered, but accepted her heft, responded to her heels. My recruit paced the monster up and down the corridor of my mind, letting me examine the creature. She was right. Just another horse in a stable full of horses. We would make her a proper cavalrywoman, yet. I summoned the memory of an apple core from the midden. The monster gently nipped, accepting the treat from my fingers. Then, he accepted my touch.

The thief's eyes narrowed. He drew back the stiletto for a killing thrust.

Yes, my– Yes, Kelsa, I said as she led the dark memory back to its empty stall beside the others. It was a fight I could never hope to win. One I had already lost. Still, I fought. Some things are worth the pain and blood. And sometimes, a soft glance cuts deeper than steel. But that is the not the lesson, now. You need something more practical than a soldier’s wounded heart. Her fist. I flexed my fingers as the young weeping Minerva vanished and an older Sergeant Minerva stepped up and dried her eyes. Tell me, recruit. Have you ever thrown a dagger?

Corbin looked at my face. He lingered on my eyes. He sighed and steepled his fingers.

The thief's sneer widened. “Not a worthy hostage after all, eh?”

I screamed, reaching beneath the dress. I grabbed the dagger's hilt and ripped the sheath from my hip. As the frayed strings broke with a silent twang, I raised my arm and whipped the dagger high, slinging the sheath into the night. Then, I reversed my grip, holding the tip of the blade, skills the good Sergeant Luccia had polished in me so many years ago. I plucked a strand of Kelsa’s hair to gauge the wind, staring beyond at my target.

The thief's sneer vanished. His eyes grew large. He craned his neck to follow the arc of the sheath, exposing his throat. I snarled and let fly. Your third lesson, Kelsa. Distraction is a keener weapon than any blade. Use it as a main gauche. Let the enemy expose themselves. Then, you may use your steel.

I know, I know. Learned that one already, didn’t I? My recruit sighed. Hardly the first time I’ve seen you expose somebody and wield…distractions.

The man died with a soft gurgle. His body slumped to the ground.

“Good job with that knife,” Corbin said, unclasping his hands after a quick prayer and rubbing the nick in his throat, “but you could have just answered the question. We have nothing worth stealing. You didn't need to kill him.”

Yes, she bloody well did! Kelsa shouted at the old man.

“Yes, I bloody well did,” I murmured. “And it's not a knife, by the gods. You slice butter with a knife. You slice men with a dagger.” An old soldier like Corbin knew better. In fact, I had taught him all the sergeant’s little tricks. Was he feigning ignorance to irk me?

Corbin tried halfheartedly to remove the blade protruding from the man's neck before giving up and walking over to comfort me. I pushed past him and marched to the corpse. You talk like a damn scholar half the time. You balk at killing a thief. You left a blooded weapon in the enemy. You've become a disgrace to the army.

I braced my foot against the dead man's chest, working the hilt slowly back and forth, finally dislodging the blade from the neck vertebrae. I wiped the weapon on the thief's shirt. There was hardly any blood. I had scored a clean hit to his windpipe right between the lacy blood vessels. I stared into my foe’s blank eyes and touched my lips to the warm flat of the blade.

Kelsa grimaced. That’s disgusting! You’re kissing it?

It is the enemy you are kissing, truly, I whispered, tucking the dagger away. Saying goodbye for the last time. Like a lover who has...turned aside. Always, we salute the enemy when the fighting is done. He accepted the same risks as I, did he not? So we honor this man as he kicks down the doors of the Black Tower. Do you understand, Kelsa?

Yes, I think I do, my recruit replied, chewing her bottom lip. Still a nasty ritual.

The army is full of nasty rituals. I chuckled, staring inward at the calm shadowy memory now stabled in my mind. Such is the life of a proper soldier. Remember this when I am gone. When you make Nortus pay in pain and blood for betraying the regiment. You will still give him the honor an enemy deserves no matter the depth of his evil…or your hate.

The girl hung her head. Yes, sergeant.

Good. I nodded. I may mold that clay between your ears, yet. That’s all wet mud is, you know. Remember this, too, Kelsa: Defeat is a far better tutor than victory. There will always be another battle and another lesson.

~THE END ~

Jeffrey Bardwell writes epic fantasy with elements of darkness, steampunk, and romance set in the Metal vs. Magic Universe. His character-driven books are guaranteed to include gritty realism, political intrigue, lurid entanglements, dry wit, and dragons in differing proportions. He devours fantasy and science fiction novels and is most comfortable basking near a warm wood stove. When not writing, Jeffrey enjoys cooking, gardening, and shooing baby dragons from the compost bin.

The author lives on a farm and in a prior life worked as a community ecologist. He is overfond of puns and alliterations. He is also an unabashed history and mythology enthusiast.

https://jeffreybardwell.com/

WHEN HEADS ROLL

By Cully Mack

“Live like a hero, die like a legend.”

It was near dusk when Danel first glimpsed the giant’s head mounted on the pole. Rising high above the stronghold’s defensive wall, the monstrous display ruined an otherwise perfect pink and peach ribbon-streaked sky. The giant’s teeth were missing—no doubt rooted out as keepsakes. His rooster red hair, matted with blood and filth, clung to the sides of his bruised and disfigured face.

Danel pulled at the neckline of the white robe he was wearing underneath his blue one. The movement caused his shoulder to throb in mild protest. The residents of Anat should be dead. Why weren’t the stronghold, the scribehouse, and everything else in the city burning? Where were the Wielders and strange beasts of which he’d heard terrifying rumors? A sole giant striding into Anat already made little sense—and neither did his improbable ending.

“They’ve gouged his eyes out,” Patar said.

Danel tore his gaze from the revolting sight. Due to the crowds and his loathsome affliction, he’d waited until the celebrations had quieted before leaving the scribehouse to inspect the half-breed’s head for himself. Patar, an apprentice scribe, had been keen to come with him. He didn’t appear so eager now. The sculpted trim of ginger framing his mouth and the promising chin-strap shadow lining his jaw didn’t hide the muscles tightening on his face. One of the subtler signs of his loathing, which many observers wouldn’t have noticed.

Behind Patar, a few onlookers lingered, walking back and forth over churned-up footprints and small dried-in blood patches staining the courtyard. The evidence confirmed the giant wasn’t the only one who’d entered the realm of the dead.

Danel pointed to the red dragline which ran across the square and past a blight of beggars loitering near the harbor trail. He swallowed, knowing how close he’d come to becoming one of them. “They dragged the body that way.”

A bellowing laugh caught his attention, and the joyful rhythm of plucked strings and triumphant choruses coming from the nearby beerhouses interrupted his thoughts. The celebrants’ cheers testified to their misguided perception of victory. Before his shoulder was ruined, he might have joined them for a last drink before the immortal whose son they’d killed sought retaliation.

He didn’t say it, but rumors of the giants inheriting their sire’s immortality or their continued ability to see into this world even after entering the netherworld were most likely the cause of the hybrid monstrosity’s missing eyeballs. That, or battle rage. Before surrendering his position as Anat’s War Chief, Danel had witnessed frenzied men stabbing at corpses long after the fighting had ended. Most often, they betrayed their inexperience, but not always.

Missing eyeballs were the least of their problems now.

“Patar, go to the beerhouses and find out what you can. I’ll meet you back at the scribehouse.”

Without allowing himself time to reconsider, Danel strode toward the stronghold’s gatehouse. The two warriors standing sentry made no attempt to intervene. He assumed the older, and one he recognized from his warring days, must have muttered to the younger, disclosing who he was as he approached. Was being the fitting explanation regardless of the younger warrior’s admiring glance.

Almost ten years, and he’d never crossed this threshold.

He inhaled, breathing in the aroma of bravado and brute strength which never left the now vacant internal courtyard. A twitch at the corner of his mouth threatened a smile as he contemplated the impending shock on his younger brother’s face.

A few twists and turns through wooden framed corridors and careful side steps to avoid the creaking beams, and Danel reached to rap on the door. The door swung open before his bone-tired knuckles made a sound.

“I expected you sooner,” Dachah said.

He looked Danel straight in the eye. Where Danel’s unbound hair brushed against his collarbone, Dachah kept his cropped short. They both had deep brown eyes, and Dachah had a way of arching his eyebrows and furrowing his forehead, giving him the appearance of an aggressive individual…which he was. Being raised by their father, like Danel, he’d stood no chance of becoming anything else. And yet, despite his ruthless exterior, women craved his attention, men championed by his side, and everyone else, young and old, worshipped him as a hero—a notion Danel remembered too well.

Dachah leaned on the door, raising his hand in open invitation. “You’re going gray.”

The hint of humor did nothing to ease the brutality of his accusation. It was true. Silver strands highlighted his hair.

“I can still take you,” Danel said as he entered the room.

They both knew this was a lie.

He glanced at the nicks in the timber caused by throwing blades, the scuffs on the wooden floor, and where the once rocking bedframe had knocked deep dents in the wall. Years of grime and residue from oil lamps blackened the familiar scars.

There were many reasons why Danel never returned to the stronghold. This room had once been his, but at the time he’d still been Anat’s War Chief. Over the years, he’d buried the shame caused by his failure. It had curled in the pit of his belly where it slumbered, becoming nothing more than a dull ache. Or so Danel had thought.

Regardless, in those dormant years, he’d found a new purpose, becoming so engrossed in the mysteries etched into clay tablets, he’d seldom left the scribehouse. Shame was stirring once again. And though he ignored it, he couldn’t ignore that time was expiring. The proof was hanging from the stronghold wall.

“What happened?” Danel asked.

“I could ask you the same thing.” Dachah gathered his cloak and a tunic off a stool and used his foot to slide the seat closer to Danel. His eyes darted around the room before opting to throw his clothes atop a thick blanket covering a straw mattress. “You want beer? I have barley sweetened with date syrup.”

“I came to discuss the Nephilim’s head staked on the pole.”

“Of course, you did. One drink won’t hurt. We have much to celebrate.”

Dachah was no fool, and Danel was positive his brother didn’t consider killing the giant a victory. Whatever he aimed to celebrate, Danel wanted no part of it.

As Danel sat, he flinched against the spasm spreading from the small hump aggravating his shoulder. His trophy and the reason he was no longer the War Chief. His foe—a youth, as nervous as he was misplaced, had crept through the mist and the dust kicked up by fighting men, and tried to sever his head. The lad’s axe, deflected by Danel’s dagger, had wedged deep, splitting his shoulder blade.

The lad had jerked. Slain. Eliminated. Not by Danel’s hand, but by the man who watched his back, the man now sitting opposite him. Danel often relived the astonishment flaring in the youth’s eyes. They’d mirrored his own—big, brown, and bulging—when his downward glance fixed on the blade jutting from his throat.

Blinking, Danel forced his focus to the matter at hand. He’d not lifted a weapon since that battle. Not unless you counted the reed stylus he pressed into clay. Since relinquishing his title, the border wars had ceased. Immortals coming through portals had ended centuries of conflict between rival clans. Humanity had a new enemy—immortals conquering their lands—and Anat had gained a new War Chief.

Realizing Danel had no intention of joining him, Dachah thumped his jug on the table and threw his hands in the air. “It wouldn’t kill you to share a drink with me.”

“We don’t have time.”

Dachah snorted, his glare as icy as frozen shards glowing in winter moonlight. “And whose fault is that? It’s been years. You owe me an explanation.”

Danel lowered his chin. A thickness in his throat burned. Unless he found the key to defeating the immortals, his good-for-nothing physique was all he could offer, and he hated it. He hated it so much, he’d pushed everybody he cared about away.

“Fine,” Dachah said and shuffled his stool backward. “But afterwards, you must promise to come see me.”

They both understood what ‘afterwards’ meant and the unlikeliness of this possibility.

“Fine.”

Dachah rose and retrieved an arrow from the mantle. “Have you seen anything similar?”

The shaft, crafted from light wood, had fletching in off-white with a purple shimmer. At its tip, instead of bone or flint, the maker had fashioned the arrowhead from an unrecognizable metal—a strange choice of weapon for someone so formidable.

“How many did he kill?”

“The Nephilim killed no one. He never got the chance.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The giant sent a band of human warriors to the south towers. While they preoccupied my men, the Nephilim slipped through our defenses, using the trees to hide his advance. By the time word reached the stronghold, it was too late. The giant had arrived at the city border. Chaos ensued. I twisted this out of his eye socket myself. Men swear a woman on a rooftop released the arrow. They’re saying she’s a rogue Chashmalim.”

“That’s impossible. And besides, Chashmalim don’t need arrows.”

With the power they exploited, they had no need of weapons. And one going rogue was inconceivable.

Dachah ran the fletching through his thumb and forefinger as he inspected it. “Who else, besides a Watcher or another giant, could slay that monstrosity?”

The question sounded more like an internal thought spoken aloud. A question of which Danel also desired an answer.

“What about their Wielders?”

Dachah grimaced. “There was no evidence of their particular gifts. So I’m guessing none came. And before you ask, after the giant fell, his warriors retreated. They’re dead. We couldn’t risk word returning to their master.”

Nothing Dachah was saying made sense. A lone giant had marched into Anat with only human warriors and no Wielders, which suggested his original intention wasn’t to attack.

“And the woman that the men saw, the rogue?”

“Disappeared before the giant’s head hit the ground.”

He considered asking where the body went but decided the answer wouldn’t change anything.

Danel rose. Chashmalim or not, if they had any prospect of discovering the truth, he needed to find the woman, and fast. He was halfway across the room when he realized he hadn’t asked his brother the most obvious question. He tucked his thumb into his woolen weaved belt. “Do you know why he came?”

“More fighting men arrive every day. I’m guessing they heard we are increasing our numbers.”

All these years, Danel had kept track of his brother and was aware of his exploits in recruiting men. If he’d still been War Chief, he’d have done the same.

“It was good to see you, Dachah,” Danel said as he turned to leave.

“There’s a place for you here if you want it.”

Danel swung around. The sudden movement caused pain to burst from his old wound and fork along his arm to his fingertips. As agonizing as it was, it was incomparable to the severity of the force striking at his chest. It was a lifetime ago. He didn’t want to remember. A voice he’d not heard in ages screamed inside his head, reminding him he couldn’t escape what he’d become.

“You took my place,” Danel accused.

Bitterness stung his tongue. Vile and twisted. He didn’t even believe the words he’d flung. As Danel’s frustration spiraled, he snatched hold of something their father once said. When the accuser roars, stay silent. Don’t fall for their trap and react without thinking.

Dachah grimaced, biting back his retort, revealing he also remembered their father’s lessons. In truth, Danel knew that Dachah had never coveted the title or the responsibility it brought. And yet, his rise to War Chief after Danel’s downfall was the best outcome for everyone.

There was no softness as Dachah asked, “What will you do now?”

Ever the warrior, Dachah was strategizing. What he left unsaid was, The Watcher will send others, and I know you can’t fight.

“Keep an eye out for one of my scribes.”

***

Anat’s northern quarter accommodated the scribehouse, and the fastest way to reach it was to cut through Tenby Market. If there was anywhere in the city where rumors spread, besides the raucous beerhouses, which he had no desire to attend, Tenby Market was his best hope.

The last time he’d visited, he’d spied a dazzling necklace and purchased it, intending to give it to Lori as a pledging present. Danel’s time spent warring with rival clans wasn’t the only thing to become severed when the lad’s axe had cut into his flesh.

If left unchecked, his memory still evoked images of Lori waiting by his bedside, her delicate hands resting on even softer thighs. He’d not only failed at being the warrior he was born to be…he’d failed her. Whichever angle he relived the agony, the outcome never changed. She’d died in the fire because he’d lacked the strength to rise above his shame and let her stay.

He arrived at the market as the last remnants of dusk bowed to the night. Warehouses, with oil lamps flickering through reed shutters, surrounded the square. Clustered together, they created a rickety timber wall, breached only by narrow alleyways connecting the area to the rest of the city. Merchants, with flapping animal-skin canopies erected over their wares, spread out in rows. He sighed at the sight of eager patrons squashed into the remaining space. With a steady flow of ships docking in the bay, trade here never ceased.

If he had to linger in this blasted peddlers’ paradise, he needed a spot that shielded his shoulder and protected his purse, so he searched for the safest route to somewhere where he could lean with his back to a wall.

Dachah was right; there was no way Danel could fight. He couldn’t even bear people jostling against his shoulder. His reputation in the border wars might still carry weight at the stronghold, but here—nobody gave a bean’s buttocks about his past heroics.

It didn’t take long to spy a route. A left-handed pickpocket trailed behind a right-handed baker carrying a basket full of bread. As the baker labored, his swishing robe exposed a weighted purse knocking against his thigh. There was a time when Danel would have grabbed the pursuing thief’s scruff and intervened. He cursed, knowing two things. If he raised the alarm, the gossipers’ attention would fall on him, and his lack of action now was going to cost him silver later. He followed the pair, keeping in the wake of their path.

A merchant yelled, “Dumizid dates and pistachio bakes. Come get your nut cakes.”

Danel handed over a silver token and retreated to the outer wall on the northern edge of the market. Leaning with his good shoulder, he picked out the pistachios from a surprisingly tasty mersu cake.

As expected, talk of a mysterious woman felling a giant sizzled in the spittle of swift speaking lips. Before long, he’d overheard several retellings of the giant’s demise, in varying degrees of exaggeration. One theme stayed the same—the woman. Everyone believed she had done it, though they debated her identity. Some insisted only the Queen of the Dead possessed the power to slaughter a giant. Others argued it was one of her consorts, or possibly Ninlil, goddess of the wind and mother of Death. They said she’d commanded the wind to guide the arrow to her target, and her long dark hair blowing in the breeze was proof. He listened to two women debating if Nanshe had crossed the waters, delivering justice. The eldest dismissed the idea with a wistful wave, saying Nanshe’s dream diviners would have foretold this.

In speculation’s breathless pauses, he caught whispers of the woman being a Chashmalim from those with the nerve to utter their name. Everybody agreed. The woman had disappeared over the rooftops, just as Dachah had described. Nobody knew her destination, leaving Danel with no idea how to find her.

He shoved the remainder of crumbling pistachio cake into his mouth, brushed the crumbs off his robe, and slipped into the alleyway. He hoped Patar had found better success listening to gossip in the beerhouses, because whoever the woman was, she’d erased every spare moment they had.

2

The first time Danel had stood before the looming doors of the scribehouse’s gatehouse, he’d been a broken man. All his life, he’d trained to become Anat’s War Chief. A role he’d expected to uphold until death. With no hope of returning to the fields of blood and champions, his dilemma caused him to turn his attention to what remained—his mind. He’d not given the previous scribehouse elder any choice but to allow him entry. His alternative—scrounging as a beggar.

As he shoved through the door in the gatehouse, any harbored hope of uncovering the key to the immortals’ downfall descended faster than a raptor diving for a rabbit. But still, he had to try.

Apart from the stronghold, the scribehouse was the only other building in the city with impenetrable mud brick wall defenses. From each side of the gatehouse, a high wall circled the complex. After Danel’s arrival, he’d insisted on erecting wooden ramparts so scribes could access the top of the wall.

The complex itself had three courtyards linked by narrow pathways. The pathways weaved between timber structures, which housed supplies used to create clay tablets and other tools of their trade. Except for the temple situated on the far side, the casual visitor might describe the complex as an underwhelming sight. Regardless, visitors never entered, so they were unaware that the scribes lived, worked, and studied underground in a series of interconnecting chambers.

Danel ducked into the closest entrance. He ignored the tunnel leading to his bedchamber and weaved through sconce lit tunnels until he reached the chamber dedicated to storing clay tablets yet to be deciphered. Many of which came from beyond the desert to their south, where the closest immortal, the Watcher who Dachah believed had sent his son to spy on Anat, had taken up residency.

Over the years, his belief in finding the key to overthrowing the Watchers and their Nephilim horde amplified. He’d never denied his desperation or how his eagerness to prove his worth twisted into a compulsion. He had not voiced it aloud either. With each mystery he unraveled, his satisfaction was short-lived. Any knowledge gained always led to a world of things he didn’t understand.

By the time Patar appeared at the chamber entrance, Danel had clay tablets spread everywhere and was running out of space.

Without glancing up from his labor, he asked, “What have you learned?”

It was the foremost question Danel had been asking the scribes since he’d discovered they were deciphering the wedge-shaped symbols found on clay tablets smuggled from the immortals’ strongholds. Until his arrival, the scribes had speculated on such things as why the God of Deep Mines required a continuous supply of goats. An intriguing question considering the numbers. But how many goats the immortal owned and what he did with them would not win them an advantage.

Danel had pressed them into teaching him how to decipher the symbols, and in turn, he taught the scribes strategies of war. It had taken two years for him to be elected as an elder and another two years afterward to become their leader.

Danel narrowed his eyes and continued scanning the tablets for symbols that stood out from the rest. The problem, as stack upon stack of tablets confirmed, was the immortals kept too many damned records. Everything from day-to-day activities to endless lists of items they’d traded.

There were other records relating to star maps that made little sense. In recent years, mention of the mysterious Voice of Thunder had piqued Danel’s interest to the point of obsession. The immortals wanted him dead. In response, Danel centered his focus on ancient prophecies and unravelling the Voice of Thunder’s identity.

He was confident of one thing. When the Watcher discovered news of his son’s death, he wouldn’t be sending an army of giants and female Wielders to conquer and enslave. He’d be sending them to obliterate.

The lingering scent of stale beer clung to Patar’s robes, and Danel eyeballed him to see if he’d been drinking. Dark shadows harassed the skin beneath his eyes, but there were no signs of intoxication.

“Out with it then. What are the fools saying?”

He turned his attention to a stack of disorganized clay tablets leaning against the wall by the exit. The latest additions, he supposed. He half-listened while Patar relayed his findings. His thoughts were racing ahead, filling in gaps, planning his next steps.

“Wait. What do you mean, she’s still here?”

“I saw her this morning sitting on a rooftop near the docks.”

Danel thrust up from his kneeled position so fast that the pain almost dragged him to the netherworld. After a few deep breaths, he said, “Why didn’t you begin with that?”

“I thought you—”

“Never mind. Which building? What does she look like?”

Patar’s cheeks flushed, and his hands clasped his robes. “It’s hard to say. She was wearing a dark, hooded cloak. I assumed she was waiting for a ship to appear on the horizon.”

He was halfway along the tunnel, Patar’s soft boots scuffing the stone behind him, when he said, “Because of the giant’s death, the Watcher will seek retaliation. Go to the stronghold and tell my brother the scribes will coordinate the city’s evacuation. When you return, gather the elders in the temple.”

***

A high sun, promising a blistering day, greeted him when he emerged from the tunnel. Danel blinked, squinting until his eyes adjusted. To his dismay, last night’s breeze had abandoned the day.

Compared to most, he wasn’t fast, but as he rushed through the windless streets toward the harbor, the idleness of his spectators didn’t go unnoticed. It was as though the heat had drained their energy, leaving lazy, hazy people sheltering in doorways and under canopies.

When he reached the docks, the reek of fish and seaweed mingled in the welcome breeze, and the only living thing Danel spied on the rooftops was squawking seabirds squabbling over fish guts. Unlike the city, the docks were a bustle of activity. The piers and the ships tethered to them were the foremost reason for Anat’s success. This coveted port had caused countless wars. Friends and foes, a precarious balance. As soon as those from other territories realized the impending danger, they’d flee on available ships, leaving Anat’s citizens to fend for themselves.

He grimaced, searching for a route less busy, wiped sweat from his forehead, and started asking people milling around if they had news of the woman. Men untangling nets said they’d seen her leaving the docks. As he tried to get more details, two of the three insisted she’d followed a young pickpocket into a side alley.

He spent most of the day winding through alleyways narrower than the scribehouse’s tunnels. As he searched, he considered if Dachah had rounded her up for questioning but dismissed the idea. The elusive woman was smart. Too shrewd to get caught and too bright to waste time following a delinquent thief into darkened alleyways. Feeling a fool and conscious that the elders were waiting by now, Danel veered in the direction of the scribehouse.

***

Compared to the rest of the city, the scribehouse temple was grandiose and extravagant. However, the structure wasn’t really a temple since the builders hadn’t erected it to serve a god.

It was reminiscent of one though, with circular steps leading to a majestic cedarwood entrance, depicting twelve golden-winged guardians on each of the doors. Past scribes had painted a large flowering tree and all manner of unfamiliar winged beasts on its external walls. He recognized a few from the clay tablets’ detailed descriptions of the unseen realm.

Inside, freestanding gilded lamps stood in even intervals between tables, reed chests, and benches. Resplendent winged guardians decorated the white painted walls. And when the shimmering light caught them, their composition might fool someone into seeing movement.

A large circular wooden table reigned in the center. Throughout the years, sunrays, spearing through small openings high in the ceiling, had cracked its once beautiful grainy face. Three of the four elders were sitting on creaking benches arranged around it. Ragaz, a tall slender man with crease lines on his brow, paced back and forth off to their right.

As Danel sat, Barah said, “We were just discussing how to protect the tablets.”

It didn’t surprise Danel that Barah was the first to speak. Being the shortest of the scribes, what he lacked in stature, he made up for in leadership. He was a charismatic man, confident, a contender for leader before Danel superseded him. Not that he’d ever held it against Danel.

Ragaz paused from pacing and knotted his hands.

“What of the tablets?” Yamin asked.

Ever the studious one, Yamin’s presentation was immaculate. He kept his dark hair swept back, and his blue robes were in perfect alignment with the white robes worn underneath. Danel had never seen him disheveled.

Barah, Ragaz, and Yamin’s voices merged into a murmuring mixture of cautious enquiries and speculations. The remaining elder, Gareb, kept silent, and Danel noted his scarred knuckles bouncing against his thigh. Like Danel, Gareb understood that regardless of the Watchers’ immortality and incomparable power, Dachah would never surrender the city. They were a people of war. A people who’d been fighting for centuries—longer. A people who observed their target and found their weaknesses. Vengeful. Violent. Victorious.

While the elders debated, Danel’s mind raced through countless possibilities. Every single one ended the same—defeat. He frowned. His pulse pounding on the side of his neck intensified, even though he tried several times to swallow the sensation away.

The elders had chased their ideas back to the beginning and begun again. Danel had heard enough. “We all know successful defense is impossible. We must evacuate.”

In unison, the scribes’ shoulders lowered in collective defeat. They knew Danel well enough to realize he’d never suggest this plan before weighing every other option.

Taking their silence as agreement, he said, “Barah, you and Ragaz take half the scribes and begin transferring the tablets to the salt caves. Start with the most sacred and use the tunnels. We don’t want spies discovering what we’ve done.”

“Why not secure them under the temple?” Barah asked.

“Hiding them here is too obvious. Leave now. The rest of us will begin strategizing on how to convince everybody to abandon their homes.”

The thought alone knotted his stomach. It wrestled against every dictate his father had ever instilled in him, reminding him how they never surrendered the ground. Even contemplating the idea suggested dishonor. A likelihood he feared the people of Anat, even Dachah, might never understand.

***

It was long into nightfall before they had a plan. With the marshy wasteland to the west, desert and an immortal empire toward the south, and the sea at their backs, they had no alternative but to flee east over the mountains. A daunting route, but not impossible, thanks to trade trails.

Danel, along with Yamin and Gareb, spent the remaining hours before dawn collating a list and pressing the names of guild leaders and others of importance into soft clay. Success relied on city leaders convincing the people not to stay.

They’d almost finished when Yamin asked, “What about the thieves and the prowlers?”

Gareb’s mouth pinched, and his expression soured. “They have no alliance.”

Out of the forty or so scribes, Gareb was the only one Danel had known from his past life. Unkempt wavy brown hair fell to his hefty shoulders, and his untamed beard was sun-bleached.

Danel wasn’t positive that the thieves had no alliance, but he couldn’t provide a thief’s name.

“Are you certain?” Yamin pushed.

“Of course I am,” Gareb replied, his tone rising with his annoyance. “They think only of themselves.”

Gareb was closer to Dachah’s age than Danel’s. He’d fought in the border wars until losing the lower half of his right leg. A leg that remained motionless while his other leg bobbed to the rhythm of his agitation. Danel wondered if the rumors were true, in that his wooden replacement made for a lethal weapon in a beerhouse brawl.

Unfazed by Gareb’s sneering, Yamin’s gaze wandered to Danel. “Somebody must speak for them,” he said. “What about the Acquisitioner who speaks to the wind?”

The door creaked, and Danel glanced over, surprised to discover Patar entering with a tray of fresh lobster.

“Lobster for breakfast?” Yamin asked.

“That depends on your outlook. Cook says you’ve been up all night and forwent your evening meal. She refused to let it waste, and I wasn’t brave enough to argue.”

Danel refrained from stretching his aching spine. “Tell her we said thank you.”

Patar placed the tray on a side table and retraced his steps toward the exit.

“Before you go,” Yamin said. “Seeing as you dislike arguing, you can settle a debate for us instead.”

Gareb’s nostrils flared, and Danel had to give Yamin credit for not shrinking away as most men would.

Yamin ignored the distinct sound of cracking knuckles. A half-smile simmered on his lips, which he made no attempt to suppress as he asked, “Do the prowlers and purse-snatchers have a guild?”

“I wouldn’t call it a guild—”

“But they have someone.” Yamin cut in. “The one the fools believe can speak to the wind, perhaps?”

Patar’s eyes flicked back and forth over the table, first focusing on Yamin and then on Gareb. It wasn’t the first time they had caught him dangling in the net of their opposing opinions. If left to run its course, they’d force him to choose, making him decide between them who was the victor. Danel was going to intervene when Patar chuckled.

“Nobody finds Ammo unless he desires to be found. You’re best talking to Zed. He hangs out near the harbor in Tiamet’s Trouble.”

Danel’s eyebrow arched. Not because he’d mentioned the infamous beerhouse or said the name of the Acquisitioner, who was as elusive as the wind. Everyone on the known continents had heard of him. Nor did his brow rise because of the incredible skill with which Patar had deflected Yamin and Gareb from himself. What shocked Danel was Patar’s awareness of somebody else from the world of prowlers.

In answer to Danel’s unspoken question, Patar shrugged and said, “Pig-skin trade has slowed.”

With the last name etched into the clay, Danel dismissed the elders. He expected every person listed, including Zed, to attend a meeting at sundown.

3

Danel traced his hand along the rope securing the merchant ship to the harbor. According to rumors, the giant killer was still in his city. But unlike the mysterious woman of whom he kept searching, the ships he’d expected to have sailed showed no sign of leaving.

Days ago, the city’s guild leaders had spent more time fiddling with the latches on the Temple’s reed chests than focusing on Barah. After two nights without sleep, Danel’s patience had frayed. In the end, their protests and excuses died on their breaths, and after assuring their support, they’d left. Danel had yet to see any evidence of their preparations. In an uncanny twist, Zed happened to be the pickpocket who’d stalked the baker in Tenby Market. A deadly glare from Danel, and Zed kept his nimble fingers to himself.

The wind gusted, and ropes lashed at ship masts as though using the momentum to attempt an escape. An unsettling sensation gnawed in his gut. And it had nothing to do with the weapon-clad man approaching.

“Dachah.”

“It’s nice to see you, brother.”

Dachah’s grim face clashed with his words. Stubble graced his masculine jaw. Eyes matching Danel’s, always scanning for threats, surveyed the docks and the harbor. It was so natural, less noticeable than breathing.

“Did you want something?” Danel asked.

“My men say you’re here every morning. Are you wanting passage on a ship?”

Danel ground his teeth. “I’ve been searching for the woman.”

“A woman?” The shadow of a grin almost graced his face.

“I’m not talking of a woman to heat my bed. I meant the giant killer. Have you found her?”

“Sadly not. Though I’m sure she’d heat my bed rather well.” Still no smile, though a gleam briefly lit his eyes. “So, you aren’t considering passage on a ship? Because if you need help—”

“I don’t need help.”

He had no right to feel aggrieved. Dachah was looking out for him. Beneath his harsh exterior, he cared. They weren’t a people who fled, and Dachah considered the notion a personal slight on his ability to defend the city.

In all his time as War Chief, Danel had never faced a foe as terrible as an immortal with an army of giants and monstrous beasts. He reminded Dachah so. Dachah still hated the idea of evacuation, but he relented, believing Danel would leave the city with the other evacuees. His concern hit Danel in the gut harder than any fist ever had.

He’d not be fleeing. He wasn’t afraid to die. Still, a senseless death was a fool’s exit—one which he refused to accept. If an unseasoned youth could creep up on him, then he’d have to try and do the same with his enemy, making sure to choose a weapon that would hurt the most.

Ignoring Dachah’s offer of aid, he asked, “Have your scouts seen any movement in the desert?”

“Not yet.”

He’d already estimated the time it would have taken for the giant and his warriors to return across the desert, knowing by now his absence was sure to have raised suspicion.

If there was one man left standing by his side when the time came, Danel knew it would be his brother, but it didn’t stop him from having a dig back. “Maybe if their delay continues, you and your warriors will have time to abandon the city as well.”

Dachah snorted. “You always did fight fair. If you need me, you know where I am.” He started walking away and hollered, “And don’t forget your promise.”

“That wasn’t a promise!”

His brother didn’t even turn his head.

***

When Danel returned to the scribehouse, raised voices echoing from the cooking chamber caught his attention. Tabbachah, a woman of aging years, hefted an enormous pot over the hearth as she cursed. Propped against the salt barrel was her cane, which she used to make sympathetic merchants offer her a better price.

“I’m not saying you lost it,” Patar said.

“Of course I never lost it. It was that thieving, scrawny, purse-snatcher who swiped it.”

“What’s going on?” Danel asked.

The cook whirled, a large stirring spoon in her hand. She pointed it at him with more ferocity than he’d experienced on any battlefield. “You won’t be having lobster tonight because a rusty-capped child near the docks stole my purse.”

“What did the Enforcers say?”

“The same as him.” The cook’s lip peeled back into a sneer. “He said I must have dropped it. All this talk of giants…and whispers of a thieves’ guild, and everybody is digging tunnels. Have you ever heard such nonsense? Nobody is giving a goat’s horn about justice. It’s all grab, grab, grab anything of worth.”

He paused with the bread he’d snatched off the table halfway to his mouth. If a thieves’ guild was emerging, he’d need to warn Dachah. The cook, slamming the spoon on the table, jolted him back to her plight.

“I believe you,” Danel blurted.

She glared at Patar, but her wide smile and the glint in her eye said she was going to erupt into victorious declarations, which Danel had no desire to hear.

He sunk his teeth into the bread and ripped off a chunk. Between mouthfuls, he said, “I’ll sort you another purse in the morning.”

He retired to his bedchamber and had made it halfway across the room to light the oil lamp when he realized he wasn’t alone.

“Don’t turn.”

The first thing he noticed was the subtle scent of leather. “You’re a hard woman to find.”

“And why is a former hero turned master of the scribehouse searching?”

Danel adjusted his robe, which had slipped from his shoulders.

“I said don’t turn.”

He hadn’t intended to disobey. Muscle memory had caused his body to shift into a less painful position. “And if I do, will you stick an arrow in my eye?”

“Not from this distance.”

No, from this distance, she’d take a more intimate approach. Perhaps shattering his mind with what he feared most. She’d waited in the shadows and shifted without sound, a sign of remarkable skill. Positioning herself between him and the door, she had him trapped. Old habits never left, and though he stood no chance, he inched closer, not to his bed where he’d hidden the quartz-stone dagger under his mattress, but sideways toward the chamber pot and the throwing blade secluded in the crevice behind it.

The same blade landed with a thud near his leather-skinned boot.

“Looking for this?” she asked.

Her voice betrayed a little admiration but not her motive for this visit. He found himself admiring her too. Not many would go searching so near to his chamber pot. He was still alive, so he suspected she didn’t want him dead. At least not yet.

For now, he’d stay compliant and see if she’d confirm whether she’d killed the giant. “You’ve doomed us. Why?”

“If I told you, it would have happened anyway, will it make it any easier?”

No denial.

“You speak of destiny.”

“I speak of an enemy with a nefarious plan and of one who will liberate humanity.”

“You mean the Voice of Thunder?”

“Yes, but he is still a boy, yet to become a man.”

“So, what hope do we have now?”

“Your heart is set on destroying evil, but what if evil desires the same thing?”

The woman was talking in riddles. He fought the urge to shake his head in the hope of gaining clarity. “You’re a fool if you believe evil desires to destroy itself.”

The silence in the room became thick; he’d have found it easier wading through quicksand. So many questions flipped through his mind. Each one, if spoken, exposed how much he didn’t understand. He was reluctant to give her the upper hand, and yet he had to learn where the woman’s loyalties leaned.

“Are you a Chashmalim?”

“My power is my own.”

A harsher edge and lower tone underlined a hint of contempt. He gathered she didn’t appreciate the Chashmalim either. Taking a risk, he asked, “Who are you?”

When the woman never replied, Danel turned and found he was alone.

4

Danel spent the little time he had left pouring over undeciphered tablets, which hadn’t been taken to the salt mines. As he did so, he replayed his conversation with the giant killer.

She hadn’t denied that she’d doomed them. He gathered the enemy she referred to was the immortal to the south, but what was his nefarious plan besides avenging his son? Whatever his intention, Danel refused to believe evil desired to destroy itself.

She’d given him no answers other than confirming her belief in the Voice of Thunder’s existence. But the prophesied one wasn’t coming to save them. As far as saviors went, they only had themselves. He sighed. Maybe she’d shared more than he’d first realized.

So caught up in his thoughts, he almost missed the image etched onto the back of a tablet listing sold herbs. Someone had drawn a garden with a tree resembling the one painted on the temple. Several unfamiliar symbols were surrounding it. Excited, he jammed the tablet under his good arm and rushed from the chamber to see if their likeness were also depicted on the temple wall.

The sun had yet to awaken. The painting on the temple was shrouded in shadows and grays. Frost shimmered on the courtyard stone. While he debated returning to his bedchamber for a warmer cloak, movement near the gatehouse stole his interest. Little clouds, rising from a dark silhouette, puffed into the air. It surprised him to find Patar pacing across the courtyard as though he’d just returned from the city.

“You’re out late,” Danel said.

Patar jumped. His startled expression making way for annoyance.

Danel retreated a step. “My apologies, I meant no offen—”

“It’s true. They’re not leaving.”

“What?”

“All of them.”

“All of who?”

“The guild leaders. I went searching for the woman and learned they have convinced everybody the enemy isn’t coming. And even if they arrive, the people have got it into their haughty heads: if a woman can kill a giant with an arrow, then they also have a chance. It’s true. I’ve wasted all night in the beerhouse trying to convince the fools otherwise.”

Danel raged. The guild leaders had chosen fat purses over the lives of everyone in the city. If he’d still been War Chief, he’d have broken every single one of their damned necks. He wondered what Dachah would make of the news and if he’d consider him as much a failure as he considered himself.

“And when our enemy attacks, what about the women and children? Are the guild leaders expecting them to fight as well?”

“It’s as the cook said. They’ve begun digging tunnels and hideouts underneath their homes.”

Danel growled. In the drifty, tired reaches of his mind, he recalled the cook mentioning something about tunnels. He’d been so exhausted, and then the giant killer had trapped him in his room. He’d slept little since her cryptic message, not to mention the immortal’s impending retaliation. “They have Wielders. They will burn our people alive.”

Danel marched to Barah’s chamber. The scribes, those who’d become like family—men who he cared about, they weren’t like him and Dachah. If the people refused to leave, he knew they’d insist on staying. Without waiting for Barah to make himself decent, he opened the door.

Ignoring the sheets on the floor and the scribe kneeling on the bed, Danel said to Barah, “Wake the scribes. Send them into the city. Tell anyone who will listen to gather supplies and return to the scribehouse. Tell them we’re leaving at nightfall for the mountain pass.”

***

After the guards had wasted his time at the entrance, Danel walked in to find Dachah's room empty. Frustrated, he rushed to the courtyard and grabbed the first guard he spied. “Where is the War Chief?”

The warrior was lanky, a dark cloak hanging off his sloping shoulders. Unlikely to survive long on a battlefield, but good for keeping watch, Danel supposed.

“There’s a rumor spreading through the beerhouses. They’re saying giants have encamped where the desert meets the marshes. He’s gone to find the source.”

“What about the towers and the scouts?”

“They’ve reported nothing.”

A rumor in the beerhouses was most likely false, but Danel’s instinct was roaring.

He’d checked three beerhouses and found no sign of Dachah before he realized what had ignited his intuition. It was mid-morning, and the birds which chirped and twittered from nests in the reeded rooftops were silent. Missing. They’d flown from the city.

Danel picked up his pace and appealed to anybody who would listen. “Get to the scribehouse. They’re coming.”

Laughter fell from scornful lips. No longer entering every beerhouse, he cursed his shoulder and his useless arm.

“Dachah!” he yelled.

It was no use. Even if Dachah were nearby, he’d not hear Danel’s voice over the bard who was singing. To his relief, he caught sight of blue robes and called out. The scribe didn’t halt. Danel braced his arm against his ribcage and began running.

“Yamin. Yamin.”

Yamin pivoted, and on seeing Danel, held out his hand to prevent passersby from encroaching on the space he’d carved out.

Breathless, Danel caught up to him. “They’re coming. Warn the scribes. Tell them to return to the scribehouse. Then they must leave right away.”

5

The first sign of their arrival was the fiery streak spearing through the sky near the southern tower. For a moment, Danel caught sight of the river slinking through the marshes.

An alarmed voice coming from behind slashed through the air. “They’re here.”

People emerged from merchant buildings while still filling their sacks with their purchases. Beerhouses emptied, and a wave of bodies rushed through the narrow alleyway, knocking Danel into a reed hut. He cursed and attempted to shield his shoulder.

People crowding the alley parted and cheered as several young men armed with axes and blades hurried past, running for the stronghold.

“Fools,” Danel mumbled. Before the spectators regrouped, he said, “Follow me. The scribes can help you escape.”

In the mayhem, he couldn’t tell if anybody followed or if they were just traveling in the same direction. He glanced over his shoulder a few times and was disappointed to see random people entering reed huts to seek shelter underground.

Fires erupted in the city, revealing the steady progression of their enemy as they advanced toward the harbor. Danel veered into a cut through to avoid the flames. As he returned to the scribehouse, every flame licking over the rooftops seemed to hurl the same voiceless accusation. You left Lori. My searing touch set her free. He felt he was about to lose his mind when a child’s cry caused him to halt.

“Shh. Please, please stay quiet.”

Danel tracked the source of the pleading and located a woman sheltering in a doorway. In her arms, she held an infant wrapped in a cloak.

“What are you doing here?”

A foolish question. One he regretted as soon as it slipped out. If she had anywhere else, she wouldn’t be here. He didn’t wait for her reply, preferring to hold out his hand. “Come with me.”

The woman nodded, shuffled onto her knees, and clasped his hand.

After entering the scribehouse courtyard, he guided her and her child toward Barah, who was ushering a small line of people inside the temple. “Go with him,” he said.

Barah stilled, his eyes questioning.

“Don’t wait for me. Keep them moving.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to check how much time we have left.”

From his position on the scribehouse’s defensive wall, Danel noticed that in places, the flames had already reduced buildings to nothing more than embers. It left an unusual simmering path snaking through the city, which curiously turned black, making Danel wonder what provoked the fires to burn so fast. Those hiding in underground tunnels stood no chance.

He’d seen enough and retreated to the temple. The invaders were heading for the stronghold at an alarming pace, and it was vital he sealed the tunnel’s entrance. After pushing through the cedar doorway, he searched among the gasps and the hyperventilating for stillness, but all he saw was utter chaos. Scribes and panicked people bumped and shoved each other as they clambered for space.

He spotted Patar and yelled above the noise. “What’s the problem?”

“Not sure. The people followed Ragaz and Gareb into the tunnel, and then the line halted. Barah has gone to find out what’s happened.”

The scribes had already pushed aside the central table and the stone slab beneath it, which concealed the entrance to the network of tunnels running under the city. The crush of bodies surrounding their escape route created a wall which Danel had no ambition to breach.

He imagined someone had collapsed and another was trying to tend them. “Go,” he called to Patar. “Find the obstacle and help Barah unblock it.”

Danel leaned his good hand on a smaller table nearby, pushed up onto his knees, and stood. “Hush,” he whisper-shouted to the crowd. “If you want to survive, you must be quiet.”

The people’s heads turned in Danel’s direction. Eyes white, they searched him for their salvation. He longed to climb down and shield himself from their evaluations. His head lowered. There were no words to convey the regret he harbored. I’m sorry didn’t undo the injustice, but he mumbled it anyway.

Bows twanged outside, and a thousand arrows, carrying men’s whispered secrets, hissed through the air. The thuds as arrowheads speared into raised shields matched the sound of torrential rain. The attack on the stronghold had begun. Dachah had superior defenses. But Danel couldn’t tell how long their towered fortifications would hold against giants. If he had any chance of sneaking up on his foe, he needed to leave while they still kept their backs toward him.

He sat and slid off the table. Unable to do much else, he returned to the temple’s doorway. The giant’s war cries rose above the battle din, but the groans of men he knew were dying went unheard. Closer, a shriek of unadulterated rage sliced open the night, knocking into Danel’s very core.

A deafening rumble shook the city, and Danel willed his mind to stay calm. The familiar clank and chink of blades hitting helmets and shields followed soon afterward. They’d breached the stronghold. Danel knew too well the crack of breaking bones and the sucking squelch of blades pulled from fatal wounds. He ached to be at his brother’s side and sink his blade into his enemy, but he couldn’t leave while the tunnel entrance remained exposed.

To his relief, the queue near the hidden stairway had thinned. Whatever the cause, Patar had fixed the blockage. People started fleeing, but not fast enough. He was running out of time.

He had to go—now.

As the din of battle quieted, the temple’s ambience returned to its natural echo, and it relieved him that only Patar remained.

“You’re not coming, are you?”

No. After I’ve done the impossible and secured the stone with one hand and shut you inside, I’m going to stick my dagger in our enemy’s heart. “Someone has to stay and seal the entrance.”

Patar got on his knees, fingers gripping the stone slab. “I’ll help.”

***

Silence was their only warning. The city had fallen. He hoped Dachah had survived but feared he hadn’t.

They’d just finished heaving the slab into position and dragged the table over it when a strong, confident voice interrupted the quiet. “Send out your leader, or we will burn you all.”

Danel had run out of time. He let out a gentle sigh, expelling the truth, which he’d hidden. Stabbing his enemy from behind had never sat well with him. He rose and adjusted the quartz dagger secured in his belt. A weapon designed for close contact—personal, intimate, and deadly. It had been years since he’d stabbed a weapon into flesh. A mix of hatred and elation expanded from his heart. Not a fair fight, but one he intended to wage.

He unhooked the clasp securing his blue robe and passed the robe to Patar. “Use it to cover yourself. While I distract them, slip out and join the others.”

“There’s time. We can bar the exit and slide back the stone.”

Danel smiled. “My body may be weak, but never my heart.”

Patar’s quivering chin almost made Danel into a liar.

Forgoing the hug he clearly desired to give, Patar straightened, pushing his shoulders back. “If I’d been a warrior instead of a scribe, it would have honored me to fight by your side.”

Danel laid his palm on Patar’s shoulder. “You’d have been a terrible warrior. Regardless, the honor would have been mine.”

Aware that delaying might provoke an attack from the enemy, Danel retreated toward the door. As he did so, he slid his belt around his waist. Satisfied his dagger was out of sight; he tucked the thumb of his limp arm into his belt. He hoped those less astute might neglect to see his defect, although without his over robe, he couldn’t hide the small hump on his shoulder.

He paused with his hand on the door latch, and keeping his voice low, he said to Patar, “We’re hard to kill. Believe me; many have tried. So, if you see my brother before I do, tell him I said he’s a damned good War Chief.”

Danel opened the door and walked to the rim of the fifteen steps leading to the temple’s courtyard.

The sky glowed as if the sun had burst in anger. And yet, the sun still lingered below the horizon, unable to witness the ruin. Distant smoke spiraling from burning ships in the bay declared the city’s destruction. Where timber and mud bricks once stood, debris now mourned with the ashes.

He tried to pick out recognizable landmarks but could identify nothing. Bile rose in his throat, and swallowing couldn’t flush it away. If the half-breeds and traitorous humans at their sides hadn’t killed those hiding in the tunnels, then the smothering smoke surely had.

In the courtyard and a short distance from the base of the steps, blood splattered shields, dented by a hailstorm of arrows, reflected the amber light coming from the burning city. The shields and wall of red-haired giants carrying them made for an impressive sight. The giants’ shoulders heaved as they breathed. Pear-shaped maces, clubs, and other bashing weapons swung like pendulums from their meaty fists. None paid him much attention, and their disregard was disturbing.

The golden rush of wings, wings resembling those painted on the temple walls, soared over Danel’s head. His instinct to avoid searing pain overrode his compulsion to duck. The beast’s underbelly was also golden, and the fur, along with its wings, was splattered with blood. Its massive feline-shaped jaw was the bloodiest. Not its own blood. The beast’s shadow rippled over the courtyard’s stone floor. As it descended behind the giants, Danel spied the rotting head gripped in its talons. No longer mounted on the pole, its hair and chunks of flesh had disintegrated, exposing bone.

Standing in front of the giants were five women, wearing dark blue wraparound tunics and dark leathers covering their legs. Wielders. Trained to fight, not only with weapons but with their unique blend of magic. The stronghold was a heap of rubble. Every mud brick from the scribehouse’s surrounding walls had fallen. It appeared as if the only building still standing was the temple from which he’d just come. The destruction of the city’s foundations confirmed at least one of the Wielders manipulated the earth.

A flame flickering on the palm of a woman with braided hair proved her affinity with fire. Her gloating grin made his head rush with anger. He knew in that instant, even without being on opposing sides, he’d still despise her. She sidestepped, and a hooded man, one blade sheathed across his back and another grasped in his hand, marched forward with confident strides.

Danel marked him straightaway. The one who’d feel his dagger.

“Come,” the man said.

Danel stumbled down the steps and staggered. He wasn’t even putting on a show. It was as if his shoulder sensed his intention and stiffened in protest. As he straightened, he got a better look at his rival. Younger than he’d first assumed. In his prime. Thick black hair, unkempt and swept to the side. Sooty smudges stained his face. A face concealing what his blue eyes did not—remorse. An emotion Danel never expected to find.

“What is your name?”

Danel wiped at the sweat prickling his top lip. His voice came out like a whisper from the dry air catching in his throat. “Danel,” he answered.

The man studied him as though discerning Danel’s entire life just from his name.

Danel searched as well. He’d seen the faces of countless men before they’d tried to slay him. Militant, bold, savage. Challenging gazes, curled lips, bared teeth. Some exhaled as if preparing to suck out his soul. The tongues of others stuck out sideways like they aimed to taste it. Some bragged. Others cursed. Few kept silent. Not a single assailant had ever lifted their eyes from their target—until now.

Danel wasn’t sure what to make of the man. He appeared to be shielding himself from those protecting his back while exposing his inner self to the enemy facing him. He revealed no sign of hesitation or weakness, only recognition and understanding.

The man lowered his head near Danel’s ear. This was Danel’s chance. This close, even with his offhand, a blade in the neck promised success. But he hesitated. As soon as he drove his dagger into his enemy’s heart, his death would follow. The giants and Wielders waiting behind their leader ensured it. He didn’t fear death, but the longer he stretched this, the better chance Patar had of escaping. Besides, the man hadn’t yet killed him, proving he wanted something.

“I hope your god receives you. Tell me, what is his name?”

Danel was about to dig into his obsession with names when he recognized the undeniable truth. This man didn’t wish to kill him. He was seeking assurance that Danel’s god would accept his soul when the time came.

Your heart is set on destroying evil, but what if evil desires the same thing?

The cryptic words spoken by the giant killer forced their way into his mind. Is this what she’d meant, that this man desired to destroy evil? The thought was unthinkable, and yet Danel’s gaze flicked to the waiting giants and Wielders. Were they accomplices or enforcers here to witness the fulfilment of this man’s orders? Danel’s guts told him if they weren’t watching, the unfolding events might have a different outcome. If this conflicted man wished to destroy evil, why the delay?

There was no scenario where Danel stepped away from this courtyard alive. If he struck first, he suspected the Fire Wielder would most likely cause his end. But what if…

He saw no harm in sharing his god’s name, and so he told him, “He has many unspoken names, though some call him the Cloud Rider.”

The man’s gaze flicked heavenward, his eyelids closing as his mind processed the information. It was as though invisible rain fell, showering him in relief.

The man whispered, “When you meet him, tell him I had no choice.”

The next words the man whispered were so quiet—Danel struggled to hear them. As he spoke, Danel envisioned a boy, drenched and surrounded by slick mud walls. The boy glanced up, and lightning flashed across a storm-gray sky.

He is but a boy, yet to become a man.

Danel was staring at the mud-covered face of the prophesied one. Beneath the boy’s brokenness was a stubborn heart filled with determination. One comparable to Danel’s own. Together with the vision and the message the giant killer had spoken, Danel understood.

“A quick death is all I can give you. I wish I could do more.”

With reluctance, Danel blinked the vision away.

The man’s anguish was indescribable. Did he not know about the one prophesied to save them? Danel’s heart was thudding so loud he wondered if his enemies could hear it. This unlikely man was his ally, and if given a chance—he’d make every attempt to destroy the immortals from the inside.

The man’s left foot inched backward, strengthening his stance, and Danel seized the opportunity. He called to any survivors who might hear him while alerting the man about the one who would one day save them. “Wait for him, his voice is like thunder.”

The man’s eyebrows lifted, proving he itched to have his questions answered. Neither had time, not unless this man was prepared to risk raising suspicion.

The only sign the man gave before he blanked his features was the press of his lips. He locked eyes with the beast carrying the giant’s head and announced, “For the death of Zamani and as a testimony to Shemyaza’s power.”

The swing of the man’s blade was the last sound Danel heard.

Cully Mack is a fantasy lover and student of myth, so it’s no wonder after completing her Masters in English Literature and Creative Writing, she combined the two into the Voice that Thunders epic fantasy series.

When Cully's characters aren't invading her mind with unresolved conflicts and plot twists, she brings herself back into the real world, where she enjoys traveling, reading, and walking her dog deep in the English countryside.

When Heads Roll is a paraquel, expanding on a scene taken from her first novel, A Voice That Thunders.

To discover more about the man who chopped off Danel’s head, the thief who stole the cook’s purse, the Acquisitioner who speaks to the wind, and the mysterious woman who may or may not be a Chashmalim, click here.

AGAINST THE TIDE

By D.W. Hawkins

“No guts. No glory. No legend. No story.”

Max’s damned knees hurt.

They always ached these days, especially after his morning hike. The blasted things felt like rocks grinding together in a bowl of sand, and he swore he could hear his tendons stretching as he walked. Pain was a constant companion for him, no matter how far he ran to escape it. It crept into his bones, upset his digestion, and kept him awake in the hushed hours of night.

Even in this remote mountain range on the fringes of civilization, under an idyllic sunrise that painted the clouds in vivid hues of purple and orange, his ghosts haunted his memories. They followed him on his morning hikes, filling his mind with the sounds of battle—explosions, screams of agony, and the zip of bullets cutting the air. Max kept his back turned to vengeful spirits and his feet moving in the opposite direction.

He could never outrun them, but it was important to stay mobile. Of all the lessons he’d learned in his fifty-five years, the most critical was to keep moving. Walking kept a man’s heart beating long into his silver age, and stepping the right way was even better.

Max’s path took him into the mountains near his hut. He walked this trail each morning, hiking to meet the dawn at a place he’d dubbed Sunrise Cliff. There was something serene, perhaps mystical, in meeting the sun every day. Max was no monk, even if he preferred to live like one, but he couldn’t deny the feeling that came over him as he stood watching the daylight creep over the mountainous horizon. Morning poured over the land like golden paint, changing jagged, shadowed peaks into snowy summits and valleys blanketed with greenery. Max breathed deep of the mountain air. It tasted of mist, conifer, and minerals.

He hesitated on the verge of breathing deeper, of drawing in that chaotic energy that always beckoned. Part of him longed to experience it again, to revel in the lightning rushing through his veins. The sky yawned at the edge of Sunrise Cliff, inviting and expansive.

Max sighed, turning away from the precipice. He put aside his walking stick—a gnarled piece of hardwood he’d polished over the last decade—and got to work. It was important to keep moving, after all.

His routine of one hundred squats wasn’t kind to his knees. He’d long since broken his push-ups into four sets of twenty-five, and even that made his shoulders ache. Still, he pushed through the exercises, straining to reach the various positions his workout required of him, until his body shook with fatigue.

“This is supposed to feel good,” he grumbled to the walking stick. “It hurts worse every Night-forsaken morning.”

The walking stick said nothing, of course. It didn’t need the power of speech to be a smart-ass. Being a constant irritant was the only talent the gnarled piece of wood could claim. It rested where Max had laid it, a smirking cast to its shadow.

Max snorted. “I know, I know—I’m getting old. You don’t have to look so damn smug about it.”

He sat for a time, listening to the wind and drinking long sips of water from a battered canteen. Max ran his thumb over the drab-colored sleeve holding the bottle, as if he could rub the invisible stain of earlier years from the fabric. Dark blotches still decorated the threads, but it was hard to tell if they were dirt or blood.

“Best to leave ghosts in the past,” he grumbled, tossing the canteen’s strap over his shoulder. “Come on, stick—let’s get our feet moving. What? I know I have to carry you, you lazy shit.”

Snickering, he grabbed the irksome staff and rose.

A sharp stab in his lower back made him pause halfway through the motion, knees still bent. He leaned on the walking stick, holding tight to stay upright. The pain faded after a short eternity of deep breathing, and Max righted himself.

“Don’t say a word,” he growled to the stick as he set out for home. “Not a damned word.”

* * * *

It was clear something was wrong the moment Max rounded the narrow path to his mountainside home. Max’s house was little more than an underground bunker with a single room built atop the entrance. In these dangerous hinterlands, Hex storms were frequent, and a stone shelter was necessary. The shack was old and crooked, but it had everything Max needed—somewhere to hide from a storm and a place to lay his head at night. Nobody came calling, even from the village in the valley, and he liked it that way.

That was the entire reason Max liked it.

The meandering path from Sunrise Cliff was hidden, if one didn’t know where to look, so Max saw his open doorway before any would-be bandits spotted him. Shadows moved inside his home, doubtless rummaging through his belongings. There were no lookouts.

“Why would a thief hike all the way up here?” he grumbled to the walking stick. “Bloody fools. Not a word from you, either. Keep quiet.”

The stick said nothing, but its grains held a snickering cast under the morning light. Stupid thing.

Max shifted the gnarled length of wood in his hands, holding it near the bottom like a quarterstaff. It didn’t protest at being handled in such a vulgar grip, not that Max would have listened. He didn’t need it for walking—not every day—but a tall stick was always useful.

Even if it was a smart-ass.

He picked his way down the narrow path, stepping wide of the gravel patches and dried pinecones. Years of treading on the damned cones had given him an almost supernatural ability to avoid them—the only thing worse than sore knees were lacerated feet—and he reached his front door in relative silence. Steeling himself for a fight, Max slipped through his doorway, the walking stick tight in his hands.

The thief turned out to be a boy no older than eleven, wearing white robes and a patterned purple hat. He had olive skin, and his clothing marked him as one of the people from the village. He was too young for the forehead tattoos the Awakened Few got when they passed into adulthood, but he was obviously from their community.

Sighing, Max lowered the stick. He ignored the snide way it settled into his grip.

The kid didn’t turn at Max’s entrance. He was much too interested in the strongbox he’d dragged across the floor from the foot of the bed. Max’s blood ran cold to see the boy digging through the remnants of his past, but he marveled that the skinny whelp had budged the chest at all. Max’s knees killed him every time he moved the monstrous thing.

The trunk had a drawer built into its top, which the brat had thrown aside. Thick coats of drab-colored canvas lay scattered around the cabin, wadded with uniform shirts and other pieces of clothing. The boy had tossed his old boots against the wall, and even as Max watched, he flung another shirt over his shoulder. Max ground his teeth—his belongings shouldn’t be treated with such disregard. Maybe they were just stained uniforms sewn with patches from a forgotten time, earned by a man with a different name, but they were his.

They were treasures no one else would understand or value.

The boy paused in his rummaging, gasping as he came to the bottom. He straightened, coming out with a polished medal shaped like a seven-pointed star. A bit of solonite in the center emitted a subdued orange glow, and the star was attached to a short blue ribbon. With his other hand, the youth pulled a dagger from the chest. It was long and arrow-straight, and like the medal, it had a core of solonite forged into the blade. The skinny intruder leaned back on his knees, holding the weapon to the light.

“Gods, take me Nightward,” he breathed. “This is—”

“None of your damned business,” Max finished.

The boy yelped, spinning and leaping over the chest in a single motion. He moved like a squirrel, lithe and faster than a blink. He’d somehow snatched an armful of Max’s belongings—a bag of coins, though not the valuable kind, a few pieces of wadded clothing, and the dagger and medal. The lad clutched the stolen goods to his chest, backing away.

“Now, now,” Max said, brandishing the stick, “you don’t want any trouble. Just leave my property and go.”

The boy frowned, his eyes flashing between Max and the door.

“Don’t be a fool, kid.” Max thumped the stick on the floor. “You’re from the valley—your robes and hat give you away. You can’t run far enough to hide from me, so drop my stuff. I’ll forget this ever happened.”

“Everyone says you’re a Hexweaver!” The words tumbled from the whelp’s mouth in a rush, as if he’d been holding them back with his teeth. Max couldn’t tell if it was an accusation or an excuse. Either way, it was dangerous for the youngster. The Awakened Few abhorred the Hex, and they treated it and anyone who used it—or even came into contact with it—like abominations.

“People say lots of dumb shit.” Max glared, brandishing the walking stick again. “They probably should have told you I eat little kids, too. Especially stupid little kids who sneak into my house!”

The boy backed to the wall, eyes darting to the doorway. He clutched Max’s possessions to his chest like a shield, bringing the blade of the dagger near his face. It was obvious the lad had never held a knife in his life—even with Max blocking his route of escape, he didn’t think to raise the weapon.

“This…this is military stuff!” The thief tightened his grip on Max’s belongings. “Things from—”

“You have no idea what you’re holding, boy, and you need to watch that blade before you cut out your eye.” Max shook the stick at the kid, and for once, the smart-ass kept its feelings to itself. “Now, if you don’t drop my things, I’ll thrash you something fierce. Something real fierce.”

He wouldn’t—Max didn’t believe in hurting kids. The thief didn’t know that, though. Thankfully, the stick stayed quiet.

The brat narrowed his eyes. “You’ll have to catch me first, old man. I’ll tell the Elders you hurt me, and they’ll send the Sacrificed after you!”

“Then I’ll thrash them, too, kid, and—hey!”

The cunning little rat bolted, feinting steps to either side. Max raised the stick on instinct, but the boy was swifter. He ducked under Max’s warding thrust and was behind him in an instant, headed for the door. Max cursed and tried to trip him, but the whelp was again too quick. He hopped the sweep and slipped out the doorway, screaming in fright.

“Come back here, you little—!”

Max started after the boy, but his damned knees were already sore from the morning’s hike. The boy was off the porch and heading for the village trail before Max made it out of the house. The kid tripped on something and tumbled into the dirt, the gathered belongings tumbling from his grasp. Grinning, Max hurried to the edge of the porch, but the lad recovered too fast.

The boy swept the fallen items back into his arms—almost cutting himself with the dagger again—and stumbled to his feet. He almost went down again, and the medal tumbled to the ground, bouncing in Max’s direction. The kid lurched for the gleaming medal, but Max acted on instinct.

Sucking in a breath, pulling a wisp of energy from the Hex, he burned.

The medal flashed with orange light and zipped toward Max, flying out of the boy’s range. He fell again in his attempt to grab the medal, though he didn’t sprawl as he had before. Max caught the glowing piece of metal just as the whisper of Hex winked out, but the boy met his gaze before the telltale glow of Hexburning faded from Max’s eyes.

The boy froze, his mouth going wide. Max made to say something, but the boy yelped and scrambled to his feet. He was sprinting down the path before Max could gather his breath, running for his village like the Night itself was chasing him. Max’s solonite dagger was still clenched in his hand.

Max grimaced. “Damn.”

* * * *

It was late afternoon when Max left for the valley. The walking stick came with him, as it always did, and he carried his old canteen over his shoulder. He’d traded his shoes for the boots that the boy had discarded—tough footwear was imperative for a long walk, and the hike to the village was one bastard of a journey. Max’s knees let him know of their disapproval with every step.

The walking stick thonked against a rock in the path, sending vibrations through Max’s hand.

“You think I don’t realize that?” Max glared at the stick. “The whole reason I came here was to avoid shit like this. Thieves and robbers and bloody pickpockets—I know, I know. You don’t have to keep saying it.”

The stick was silent, but it had a smirking twist to its grains.

“Don’t start with that mess again.” Max snorted, shaking his head. “I don’t want friends. Don’t need friends. Don’t appreciate anything to do with any friendly gatherings or joyful occasions.”

The stick scraped against the dirt.

“What—you think I should let this go? I can’t allow intruders to steal into my home whenever they please!” Max shook his head. “No, I will not make things worse. What do you think happens when that runt goes to his little friends and tells the story of how he outsmarted the crazy old man on the mountain? What happens then, you wood-brained fool? Right—they all come for a piece of their own. And we’re not having that, no sir, we are not.”

The stick twisted in his hand as Max tapped a root in passing.

“I don’t care if they are a bunch of religious zealots, and I don’t care what they say about me.” Max scoffed, giving the stick a sidelong glare. “I’m not a part of their community, and I don’t want to be. Alifa will still trade for provisions, and that’s all I need. Only a fool turns down good business, and not everyone in the village is foolish.”

The walking stick was quiet, but it had a grim texture under Max’s hand.

Max sighed. “Don’t worry. We’ll be fine. We’re just going to talk to their Elders and get my stuff back.”

The stick scraped against the dirt again.

“They won’t recognize the dagger. These people are neutral by policy. They’ll want nothing to do with it, even if they realize what it means. Yes, I know I need to retrieve it. Obviously. Why would you say something so obvious? I’ve half a mind to carve a new walking stick that doesn’t fill my ears with stupid comments.”

The stick thumped a root on Max’s next step.

“Bah!” Max chuckled. “I’d like to see them try that. They only tattoo their own, that’s the way I understand it. Those fools can hate all they want, but they’d best keep their tattoos to themselves. I’ll tell you that right now.”

The stick left him in blissful silence for the rest of the trip.

The walk was enjoyable, under the circumstances. His boots were still familiar on his feet, nice and snug without being too tight. Wearing them took him back to other times. Darker times, but better times, too. There were few ghosts near his heels today, but they were always behind him. He felt them there, even during a sunny stroll to town.

Max didn’t resemble the man who’d worn those boots before him. He still had the dark brown skin, but his once-raven hair was turning to silver, both on his head and in the short beard he kept on his face. The beard was the first casualty in Max’s war with aging, surrendering to gray before his fiftieth year. Caring for his hair was difficult in his mountain home, so he chopped it himself. Chopping was the correct term, too, given the results.

He wore an old pair of uniform trousers—they had remained thick and sturdy for years, though the drab color had faded. The League Forces got a lot of shit wrong, but they made durable pants. Max shook his head, banishing his musings on the past, and quickened his step. Memories drew his ghosts nearer to his heels, and confronting them was the last thing he wanted to do.

Sunset turned the mountains to shades of orange and purple, complementing the vivid bands of color in the sky. The path widened as it meandered into the valley, and the little village of farmsteads clustered around a stream at its end. The sun still cast flickering reflections on the frothing waterway, and Max stopped to take in the sight.

Grinning, he bent and snatched a stone from the dirt. It took effort to straighten—his damned lower back—but he shifted the walking stick to his left hand once he was upright. Max peered into the brush clustered beside the path, measuring the distance. He bounced the rock once in his palm, caught it from the air, and lobbed it at the bushes.

A satisfying thump and a pained curse rose from the underbrush.

“I see you, Savad!” Max bent to pick up another projectile, cackling. “Why in the Night are you hiding in there like a thief?” He whipped his second missile at the same spot, and another yelp sounded from the dense undergrowth.

Still got the aim. Time hasn’t dulled that.

A short, stocky man in dun clothes stumbled from the woods. His shirt was the tattered remains of a once-white robe, and he’d tucked it into cast-off trousers two sizes too large. He wore a thin ammo belt over his shoulder, packed with single shots for the long rifle clenched in his hand. He came out scowling and rubbing his head.

Savad was in his early twenties—barely older than the whelp who’d broken into Max’s house, by his measure—and olive-skinned like the others in the valley. Instead of the flowing forehead tattoo worn by most of the Awakened Few, Savad had pictographic symbols marring both his cheekbones.

“Why’d you do that, you old bastard?” Savad growled, waving to the surrounding underbrush. Other boys, near to Savad’s age and younger, rose from the bushes, shouldering rifles of their own. They traded uncertain glances, their barrels swinging all over the damned place.

“What in the Night do you mean why?” Max scowled at one of Savad’s companions. “Hey, you little rat shit! Yes, you. Point your barrel at the ground before you shoot your buddy in the back of the head! You want to see what his brains look like under the afternoon sun?”

The boy paled and pointed his rifle downward.

“You don’t talk to my men like that!” Savad marched over, thrusting his chin out as if Max wasn’t half a foot taller and liable to punch him in the face. “I knew you were trouble ever since you came here—”

“You couldn’t pee past your toes when I came here, boy.” Max lifted his own chin, looking down at Savad while forcing the younger man to glower upward. “I was haunting these mountains when your parents were still sneaking around for sweet loving, so don’t take that tone with me, kid.”

Savad’s scowl deepened. “This time you’ve messed up, Outsider. The Elders left word. You’re to be rounded up and taken to the village.”

Max scoffed. “Oh? And who’s going to round me up? You?”

Savad crossed his arms, but his furtive glance to the lads behind him betrayed his bravado.

Max cackled. He really put effort into it, too. Really poured the evil into the guffaws and snickers.

“What in the Dark is so funny, old man?”

“I don’t know which is worse,” Max said, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye, “that the Elders are sending you to do their dirty work, or that you think you could get it done in the first place.”

Savad stiffened. “It is our sacred duty to—”

“Right, protect the village and all that.” Max snorted, waving the youth’s foolish objections aside. “You sully your hands with violence so they don’t have to. Real fucking noble, Savad. Congratulate yourself next time you pass a pool to gaze into, though if you did, the reflection might frighten you.”

Savad’s face reddened, his lips curling into a sneer. “At least I’m not an Outsider like you.”

“That’s funny.” Max leaned on his walking stick, towering over Savad. “They allow me into the village. Don’t say a damn word to me when I go there to trade. When’s the last time they let you past the tree line, Savad?”

Savad’s glare could have been carved from stone. “We exist to protect those who live in the light of the gods. Don’t you dare—”

“What, Savad?” Max stepped closer, forcing the youth to step back or speak to Max’s beard. “Dare what? Want to know something I noticed the last time I came to the valley?”

Savad’s lip quivered with anger. “What?”

“Lots of old men down there.” Max grinned. “Lots of firstborn or second sons. No third sons, and certainly no fourth sons. Know what I did see, though? The village is just bursting with young ladies. Some of those farmers have four or five wives—did you know that? Girls half their age, married off pretty soon after they get their heads tattooed, I imagine. Plenty of daughters, too. I saw one fellow with long silver hair who had an entire train of women tending to him. You ever wonder what that’s like, Savad?”

The lads standing behind Savad shifted, glancing at the ground or into the valley.

“What about older brothers, Savad?” Max bent to stare into the boy’s eyes. “Got any older brothers? Why is it, do you think, that every one of your men—and that’s funny enough, calling them men—are third sons, fourth sons? Maybe even fifth sons?”

“Some must be sacrificed so others are protected.” The words came out of Savad’s mouth, but they had the deflated sound of disbelief behind them.

“Protected from what, Savad?” Max shook his head. “Having your pick of your neighbor’s twelve daughters? Getting a brand new wife every two years? Lording over the farm while all those young women work the fields for you? How terrible, Savad. You should be so proud of yourself. Hope your gods reward you in the afterlife, because chafing your nethers in the bushes for the rest of your life just to keep me out of the valley sounds ridiculous.”

Confused frowns went around the outcast adolescents, and Max shook his head. Despite their general stupidity, he felt sorry for Savad and his band of fools. Most had no education when they were abandoned at the edge of town, freshly tattooed and bereft of basic survival skills. This life outside of civilization was all they knew, and the doom those self-righteous prigs in the village pronounced upon them was not a forgiving existence. Max had heard plenty of lonely gunshots in the night, and he’d found boys like Savad’s crew with their own rifle barrels stuffed into their mouths. Even the walking stick kept its smart-ass comments to itself on those days.

“Listen,” Max said, softening his tone, “I was already going to the village. You didn’t have to hide in the bushes like highway robbers!”

“The Elders asked us to bring you to the edge of town.” Savad’s voice still quivered with anger, but he wouldn’t meet Max’s eyes. “How else would we make you go?”

Max gave the boy a flat glare. “I just told you—I’m headed there now. You don’t have to make me do anything. And you should stop listening to those fools in the valley. You’d all be happier if you left these mountains for good.”

“But the gods—” Savad started, but Max scoffed, and the youth fell silent.

“How do you know what the gods say, Savad? There are a million deities out there, and every damned one of them has some group of people to worship them.” Max swept a disapproving glare over the boys, the same thousand-foot stare he’d used in his military days. They wilted. “I say any god who wants you to suffer for no good reason ain’t a god worth following. You should escape from this valley. Take charge of your own lives, that way you can stop hunkering in the woods, waiting to ambush old men.”

“We wouldn’t have shot you,” Savad grumbled, crossing his arms. “But we have a job to do.”

Max made a farting noise with his lips. “You get paid for a job, Savad. When’s the last time those folks in the valley gave you anything but grief? And listen here—remember this, all of you—don’t you ever, not in your damn life, point a gun at something you don’t mean to kill. That rifle in your hands ain’t a toy. It’s a tool meant for one purpose—killing. You respect that or put the damned thing down forever. You understand me?”

To Max’s surprise, the boys all muttered assent, even Savad.

Max cleared his throat. “Now, then—I imagine this is about that kid. I didn’t hurt the little runt, if that’s what he’s saying. If they think they’re going to punish me, they better think again.”

Savad narrowed his eyes. “They need you as a witness.”

“A witness?” Max sniffed, his prepared indignation fading. “Oh. Well, I guess they figured out what happened, then. All I want is my property. Don’t care to see the lad punished. He’s just doing kid stuff, you know. I imagine it gets boring out here for youngsters.”

Savad frowned. “According to them, the boy touched a Hex-cursed blade. Their letter said you saw it or had something to do with it. They think he’s tainted.”

Max’s indignation rose right back to the surface. “Damn.”

* * * *

The entire town, or most of it, as much as Max could tell, was gathered in a semicircle around a stage in the village square. The men wore white robes and colorful hats, while the women sported flowing dresses patterned with vivid color. The crowd leaned forward with eager expressions, their curious eyes fixed on the center. One woman sobbed, and her cries cut over the silence of the gathering.

Max shifted, her crying making him itch. He’d never been able to stand the sound of it, but he knew the depth of emotion powering those sobs—the fear of a mother for her child. The woman in question wasn’t much older than Savad, and she clutched to a man in his forties who stared over the proceedings with a grim expression.

The Elders were a trio of two wizened, wrinkled men and one woman. They had pinched, disapproving faces, one and all, and Max swore they could have been distant cousins. The scowling old bastard with the dark, drooping mustaches had the same pointy nose as the silver-haired matron. All three sported tattoos on their foreheads—little diamonds surrounded by flowing, interlacing lines. The Elders sneered down at everyone from a table on stage, as if dealing with this matter was distasteful.

The young thief stood before the platform, sparing a terrified glance at the crowd every few seconds. It was like he could feel their expectation, sense the way they leaned forward to hear the words of the Elders. The whole damned thing made Max sick to his stomach.

Upon the table, resting on a sheet of dark fabric, was Max’s solonite dagger. The scowling man with the drooping mustaches hovered over it, his hands covered in black leather gloves that extended to his knobby elbows. His fingers wiggled like little spiders over a meal, though he dared not handle the weapon, even with those gloves. The twisted core of solonite that ran through the center of the blade glowed in the setting sunlight, illuminating the wrinkled face of the Elder in subtle orange tones.

“Your name, Outsider?” said the man with the gloves. His attention drifted to the dagger, and his fingers wiggled again as if he itched to touch it.

Max cleared his throat, drawing the attention of the whole gathering. “You can call me Max, I suppose.”

“You suppose, or that is your name?” The man leaned forward, eyes narrowing.

“I suppose.” Max shrugged at the man’s sneering expression. “I just came for my belongings.”

“This boy,” said a blubbery man with wrinkled jowls. He jabbed an angry finger at the thief. “Do you know him?”

The lad glanced over his shoulder at Max, wincing. Sweat beaded on the kid’s forehead, and he shivered under his threadbare robe. His mother kept sobbing, and her cries echoed in Max’s ears. The whelp turned enough to reveal wide cuffs around his wrists and ankles, and the chains between them made tinkling noises as he moved. They’d shackled the little shit like someone from ancient times, as if they were marching him to a headsman. His wrists were almost too narrow for the restraints.

Max narrowed his eyes at Fat-Jowls. “I know him, sure. Why?”

The gathered townspeople fell to mutters at his reply, and the Elders shared a long, private glare with each other. Maybe the old bastards could communicate without words, shooting their thoughts at each other like creatures from fantastic penny novels. They certainly resembled demons, with their wrinkled necks and beady, disapproving eyes.

Drooping Mustache raised a gloved hand, bringing silence to the gathering. “This dagger is clearly the work of Hexweavers. It is a weapon built for Hexweavers. We are not so ignorant of the world, Outsider, that we cannot recognize them. You claim this blade is your property?”

“It’s mine.” Max lifted his chin, matching Mustache’s scowl with one of his own. “And I want the damned thing back.”

Muttering rose from the crowd, and somewhere behind him, a woman gasped. Max ignored them. Instead, he peered at the kid. The boy’s robes were thinner than others gathered around the table, and they were made from meaner fabric. His parents were young, and the way they clutched to one another spoke of their concern.

“Where did you acquire this weapon?” asked the matron sitting to Fat Jowls’s right. Her lips twisted when she said the word ‘weapon,’ as if it was distasteful. “We forbid Hexweaving in our community. It is a curse, as is everything that grows from its tainted roots.”

Mutters of agreement rose from the townsfolk.

“I don’t live in your community,” Max said, raising his voice over the crowd. It quieted at his words. “I don’t care what you forbid. I want my damn knife back. My other stuff, too.”

The townspeople muttered again, and Drooping Mustache had to bang his fist on the table for order. Max leaned on the walking stick, grinding his fingers into its grains. The stick didn’t like these people, and Max had to agree. The quicker he was gone from this valley, the better.

“This boy,” said the matron, using the same amount of disgust for the word boy as she had for weapon, “stands accused of touching a Hex-wrought item. He claims you are a Hexweaver, and that you turned your cursed powers against him. Is any of this true?”

Max glanced at the boy, who only winced and slumped in his shackles. The fools had put the youngster in chains, Night take them. He was a thief, sure, but kids did stupid things sometimes.

“The boy is confused,” Max said, raising his voice so the entire gathering could hear. “I’m not a bloody Hexweaver—”

“Yet you carry a Hexweaver’s weapons,” piped Fat Jowls, grinning like he’d scored a point in a game. He reached under his seat, huffing at the effort, and emerged with the bag of coins. Max winced as the man upended it, spilling the contents across the table. Fat Jowls stabbed a finger at the coins, wrinkled neck jiggling in triumph. “Explain those, Outsider!”

The coins weren’t coins, just like Sunrise Cliff wasn’t Sunrise Cliff. They were elliptical and rounded like stones. Some were smooth as river pebbles, while others had knobs or spikes. They were made of dark, ugly metal, and there wasn’t a merchant in the world who’d accept them for payment.

Max winced again as the crowd erupted with gasps and shouting. A solonite dagger could be a keepsake—solonite was valuable even to normal people. The coins, though, were the unmistakable tools of a Hexburner, and were useless to anyone else. If you threw them at someone’s eye, they’d hurt, but a Hexburner could send them hurtling toward a target at blinding speed. There was no other use for them.

“You want an explanation?” Max shouted, turning his head and paying the townsfolk a good scowl. He spun back to Fat Jowls and offered him a rude gesture. “There’s your explanation! You have no right to demand anything from me.”

“These are the tools of a murderer!” spat Fat Jowls, eliciting excited murmurs from the crowd.

“I was a soldier, you old lizard!” Max snarled before he could stop himself. “Not a murderer.”

Drooping Mustache waved the townspeople to silence, but they only quieted after he seasoned his gesture with a glare. “We are a peaceful people here. We do not choose sides in war.”

“Do I look like I’m fighting a bloody war?” Max gestured to his clothing. “I came here unarmed—,” he glared at the stick, imploring it to keep its stupid mouth shut, “—and I’ve never carried weapons into your valley. I came to get my stuff, and that’s it. Now, if we can hurry this shit along, I’ll take my property and return home.”

“We had you brought here,” snarled Fat Jowls. “And your cursed items are the least of our concerns! There stands the matter of the boy, and whether your filthy blood trophies have tainted him.”

Max ground his teeth. “The kid never touched them. The coins were in that bag you were so happy to dump everywhere, and my dagger was wrapped in an old shirt. Little shit didn’t even know what he took.”

Fat Jowls made a scoffing noise, but Drooping Mustache waved him to silence. “Then how did he come to possess these items? According to his parents, who brought this matter to our attention, he showed up at home, screaming that a Hexweaver was following him, and he was carrying these…things. How did this happen?”

Max grimaced. He’d always been a fast talker when the need arose, skilled at hurling insults, but he’d never been a good liar. Lies had to be persuasive, had to make sense, and they had to be easily remembered. A good liar made people want to believe them, and Max didn’t have what others might call a charismatic demeanor.

Still, he could tell by the electric tension in the air that a lie was needed. The crowd leaned forward, silent and eager. They may as well have been sharpening their knives, mouths slavering for blood. The whole thing made Max sick to his stomach for the second time.

“I…met the boy in the trails, up on the mountain.” Max raised his chin and tightened his grip on the walking stick—it had better keep its mouth shut. “The kid’s robe was too thin for the weather up there, so I took him back to my hut and gave him some old clothes I had in a trunk. I just…handed him the wrong bundle. When I realized what I’d done, I came to retrieve it.”

Fat Jowls snorted. “And the boy’s tale about being chased by a Hexweaver?”

“Just a fanciful story.” Max smiled, making the expression especially wolfish for Fat Jowls’s benefit. “I told the kid some war stories, that’s all. Maybe he got spooked on the trail.”

“Spooked,” repeated Drooping Mustache, drawing the words out with disbelieving patience, “on the trail. You suppose the lad was frightened by his shadow?”

“He was probably scared you old lizards would eat his insides when he returned, I don’t know.” Max shrugged as the crowd chuckled behind him. “I just want my stuff. The boy did nothing wrong. Why don’t you wretched corpses let him out of those chains? Bloody disgraceful, the lot of you.”

Fat Jowls went red in the face. “What we do is of no concern to you, Outsider. You will respect our authority—”

“Or what?” Max sneered at the man. “You plan on waddling down here and enforcing that respect yourself? I doubt it. You’ll just have those boys in the woods do it for you.”

Jowls trembled with anger, and his crimson cheeks deepened in color with every word. Max met his indignant stare with raised eyebrows and a relaxed expression. Part of him hoped the blubbery old reptile would rise from his seat and try something. The crowd mumbled, filling the air with tension.

Drooping Mustache cleared his throat. “We should focus this conversation on the matter at hand. Your testimony is that the boy never touched the items?”

“That’s what I said.” Max held Jowls’s angry stare for a moment before turning a bland expression to Mustache. “Not going to repeat myself. He’s innocent, so let him go.”

Mustache sniffed. “His innocence is not yours to decide, Outsider, no matter how you want to threaten or bluster. He was in possession of the items when he came to town, and it was hours before you appeared on the mountain path. Hours when the child could have handled the cursed items and picked up their taint.”

“What taint?”

Mustache made a dismissive gesture and raised his voice over Max’s objection. “Your knowledge of what happened ended when the boy left your sight. You have no idea if the lad touched them during that time. For that, we must turn to his parents.”

The crowd fell to muttering, and all eyes turned to the crying mother. She stiffened, shooting a concerned frown at her husband before favoring Max with a fearful glance. Max met the father’s gaze as he stepped forward, moving to a spot near his son. Max didn’t change his expression, but he put as much weight into that look as he could muster, willing the man to understand his intent.

Make the right choice, by the Night. Don’t let them do…whatever they mean to do to that kid.

Fat Jowls regarded the man, tightening his lips as if faced with an offensive task. “Yohanned—that is your family name, is it not? You’re Adeem’s second-born son?”

“Abbad is my given name.” He raised his chin, sparing a quick, worried glance for his boy. “And yes, Adeem is my father.”

Drooping Mustache favored the man with a sympathetic smile. “And how is he faring with his sickness?”

“It keeps him abed most days.” Abbad nodded to the old woman at the Elders’ table. “Though, he is well cared for.”

“The matter of concern,” grumbled Fat Jowls, “is whether your son handled these…items.” Jowls gestured at Max’s belongings, face twisting with disgust. “When he ran home today, he was carrying this dagger in his hand, was he not?”

Abbad shot another glance at Max and squared his shoulders, facing the Elders. “The knife was wrapped in a shirt, like the Outsider says. It fell out when he handed the bundle to Liya, his mother. That is when we sent word to you.”

Fat Jowls glared. “You understand we have convened these proceedings under the eyes of the gods?”

Max snorted, but no one paid him any attention.

“And you know the Hex is a curse from the gods,” Jowls continued, “infecting all who touch it? You understand that if the boy is carrying the taint, it could endanger everyone in the village?”

“What taint?” Max repeated, raising his voice over the stunned gasps of the crowd. “The whole damned world runs on Hex-tech, and no one’s been tainted, you bunch of old cowards!”

“You will remain silent!” snarled Jowls, half rising from his seat. “Or, by all that is holy—”

“What?” Max said, stepping toward the table. “Go ahead—slither down here, you rotten old snake!”

Stunned whispers filtered through the crowd, but Fat Jowls just stared at Max, face reddening to deeper shades of crimson. He took a deep breath, smoothed his white robe, and settled into his seat. The old fool would do nothing—these Awakened Few were pacifists—but part of Max wanted the mouthy bastard to forsake his religion and come snarling for his blood. The stick longed to crack the asshole across his kneecaps.

“Order!” called Drooping Mustache, raising his hands over the muttering crowd. “We will have order here! Do not forget your oaths!”

“My son is innocent!” Abbad shouted over the din, bringing everyone back to their senses. “You can ask his mother, too, if you think my word is worthless. Liya?”

Liya—the woman who had been sobbing just moments before—stepped forward with a resolute expression. Her eyes were bloodshot from her tears, but her sorrow had been replaced by determination. She stood tall next to her husband and intertwined her fingers with his.

“My husband speaks the truth!”

“There you have it,” snarled Abbad, scowling up at the Elders. “Three witnesses have confirmed it—that is our law.”

“We cannot accept the word of an Outsider!” shouted Fat Jowls. “Especially a suspected Hexweaver!”

One day I’m going to trip that sour old bastard in the street.

“Where is that written?” Abbad said. “No such rule exists!”

“Abbad is correct, I’m afraid,” Drooping Mustache said, holding up a hand to forestall Jowls’s indignant objection. “We hold no monopoly on truth, Elder Harif. The Book of Isha says—”

“I know what it says, Kazem.” Jowls slumped in his seat like an angry child, his wrinkled face pinched with anger. “You don’t get to sit there and lecture me about the Holy Word. You fools want to welcome the taint into our community? Into our very homes? Fine. The Outsider is clearly lying, and Abbad wishes to protect his son. They are working together.”

“I don’t know the boy’s parents,” Max snapped, glaring at Fat Jowls. “And if you call me a liar one more time—”

“You’ll do nothing,” Drooping Mustache said, raising his voice over Max’s threats. “These are holy proceedings, as Elder Harif has explained. We are not violent people here, but we do have levers to pull, Outsider. If you continue with your outbursts, we will exile you from the village. Living in these mountains is a difficult experience. I can’t imagine you could make it without the food you come here to buy from time to time, so please, moderate your tone.”

Max ground his teeth, but for once, he kept his mouth shut. The stick did, too.

“The boy should be tattooed,” said Fat Jowls. “He touched that dagger, and we all know it. You endanger everyone he meets by allowing him to skirt his punishment.”

“Do you have more evidence, Elder Harif?” Drooping Mustache gave the larger man a thin smile. “If so, please present it.”

Fat Jowls glared at Mustache, but he slumped into his seat and remained silent.

“Very well.” Mustache sighed and turned his attention back to the meeting. “In that case, strike the manacles from young Umit, here. He is free to return home.”

Two men came forward and bent over the boy’s restraints. They removed the chains, and the whelp slipped out as soon as they were opened and ran to his parents. Liya wrapped him in a hug, and Abbad put his arms around both. He glanced again to Max, and Max met his eyes. A silent understanding passed between them, and then Abbad ushered his family away. The boy, Umit, shot one last bewildered look at Max before they disappeared into the crowd.

“As for you, Outsider,” Mustache said, bringing everyone’s attention back to Max, “you may, of course, collect your…possessions. But understand this—we ban these items from the village. These are weapons of war and are anathema to us. Take them, please, and go.”

Max obliged, gathering up his things with a few choice glares for Fat Jowls. The crowd dispersed, and though Max had hoped to exchange words with the boy’s parents, they were gone by the time he’d gathered his dagger and coins. He considered stopping by and speaking with Alifa—he could use some cabbage and onions—but night was fast approaching and he needed to hike back up the mountain.

His knees didn’t thank him for the effort.

* * * *

Max woke in a start, senses flaring. His heart pounded, but his vision was slow to clear. Where in the Night was he? Nothing but darkness greeted his eyes.

A loud thump-thump-thump rattled the frame of his old door, and Max was out of his bed in half a second, rolling onto the floor. He tumbled into the walking stick, and both of them fell in a clatter. A few tense breaths brought oxygen to his brain, and the cobwebs in his mind retreated.

His door jounced again as someone pounded on the other side.

“Max!” came a familiar muffled voice—Savad. “Max! Are you home?”

“By the bloody Night,” Max grumbled, slowing his breathing to calm his beating heart. He’d dreamed of old days, and the thumping had awakened his instincts to seek cover. He had expected those habits to dull as he aged, but his time alone in these mountains had only sharpened them. Would the war never leave him? Was he doomed to startle at every loud noise for the rest of his Night-forsaken life?

“Max!”

“I’m coming, damn you!” he shouted over his shoulder. Max snatched the walking stick from beneath him and used it to lever his tired bones to an upright position. His knees crackled, and he did a quick stretch to straighten his back. He glared at the stick before shuffling to the door. “Not a word from you. One peep, and I’ll burn down the tree that spawned your sorry length.”

The stick said nothing.

Max yanked open the door, revealing a disheveled Savad framed by starlight. The boy was never in a state of cleanliness, but he looked especially frazzled. Max peered at the horizon—there was no predawn glow gathering over the mountains.

“Savad,” Max sighed, “it’s either too early to wake or too late to be beating on my Night-forsaken door. What the shit do you want?”

Savad blinked down at Max’s shirtless body. An immediate spike of embarrassment made Max’s neck grow hot. He had no scruples about being half-naked. His torso was still muscled and whipcord-lean, but old scars and bullet wounds pocked his skin.

Max scowled. “You going to speak, Savad?”

“Sorry.” Savad shook his head. “You were a soldier, right?”

Max allowed his scowl to deepen and said nothing.

“Listen—there’s something you need to see.” Savad gestured toward the side of the house. “We need your help.”

Max frowned. Savad had never given him anything but irritation and dirty looks.

“Let me get a damn shirt.”

Max went back into his cabin and pulled a garment over his head, not caring much about what it was. He stomped to his water bucket and rinsed the taste of his nightmares from his mouth. When he was ready, he grabbed the walking stick and headed outside.

His feet froze in the dirt at what he found in the path.

Savad’s boys held a man at gunpoint, their rifles trained on him from three sides. The fools were standing in each other's fields of fire, but that wasn’t what made Max’s heart thump. The fellow they were holding wore a gray uniform with three black bars sewn just over his left shoulder. He had a pistol belt around his waist, but the holster was empty. Suspenders extended over both his shoulders from the gun belt, each one full of various emptied pouches.

“By the fucking Night,” Max breathed. “Where did you find him, Savad?”

“There was a group of them.” Savad stood away from the prisoner, cradling his rifle like he wanted to use it. “They…they killed Nasim. Rajab and Saud, too.”

Max glared at him. “What?”

“We fired back.” Savad raised his chin, a vengeful light filling his eyes. “Killed one of them. Wounded two more. We outnumbered them, and they surrendered.”

“Where are the rest of them?”

“The boys took them to the village.” Savad planted his rifle butt on the ground and crossed his arms, glaring at the prisoner. “To the Elders.”

Max pinched the bridge of his nose, taking deep breaths to slow the pounding of his heart. The fools. They had no idea what they’d done.

“Where did you find them, Savad?”

“Who are they?” Savad gestured at the disarmed man. “They’re obviously soldiers. You should see the weapons we took from them.”

“Where did you find them, Savad?” Max stepped closer, commanding the boy’s attention. “In the mountains? In the valley? Where?”

“In the hills south of the village.” Savad frowned. “Max, why are you—”

Max raised a hand, cutting Savad off, and marched over to the prisoner. He knelt to the man’s level and met his eyes. The captive had pale skin and dark hair, and blood ran from a welt on his lip. He had a dun patch on his right shoulder—crossed rifles under the stylized Hand of the Prime. On his left arm was another patch depicting a diving hawk with the number ten between its upraised wings.

“You’re a scout?”

The soldier only glared in reply.

“See this patch with the hand, Savad?” Max nodded to the symbol in question as Savad stalked closer. “Those crossed rifles mean he’s a skymarine.”

“What’s that?”

“He’s a ground troop, but he’s attached to an airship squadron—tenth, by the patch on his right arm,” Max said. “That hand above the rifles? That’s the Hand of the Prime. You and your merry band of fools captured a Dominion scout.”

Savad shared a concerned glance with his crew.

“You on foot, boy?” Max poked at the Dominion soldier with his walking stick. Again, the prisoner made no reply. Max turned to Savad. “I’ll bet they have a ship near the place you found them. Maybe a Rock Jumper or something smaller. How many of them were there?”

“Six, counting the…dead one.” Savad crossed his arms, trying his best to take on a commanding air. “The rest were taken to the village, but I marched this one up here to show you.”

“Those fools in the valley will love that.”

Savad shrugged. “Well…maybe I’m starting to think you’re right. Not about everything, but maybe…maybe some things.”

Max nodded, a wave of dread souring his mood. What in all the Night had brought Savad into the path of Dominion skymarines? What were they doing in these mountains?

Max spun back to the captive. “You—why did you come here?”

The man said nothing.

“They were watching the village when we found them,” Savad said. “They shot at us first, but we outnumbered them. We didn’t find any…what did you call them?”

“Rock Jumpers.” Max peered southward at the mountains across the valley. “It’s a small aircraft, easy to fly. You don’t need to be a pilot to figure one out, so Dominion attack squadrons give them to their scouts.”

“So…what does that mean?”

“It means you have to find that vehicle, Savad.” Max turned and stalked toward the house. “And we should head to the village before those old reptiles do something stupid. Let me get some water—we need to hurry.”

* * * *

Savad stopped when they reached the edge of town. Max walked a few steps before he realized the boys were standing still, and he spun on them with a scowl. The captive glared at everyone, but he made no sudden movements.

“What?” Max said.

“We can walk no farther.” Savad raised his chin, grounding the butt of his rifle. “We are forbidden.”

Max huffed an irritated breath. “That doesn’t matter anymore. Come on.”

“The gods—”

“Savad,” Max said, marching up to the lad, “let me level with you. This village is lost.”

Surprised looks passed between Savad and his boys.

“There’s only one reason an attack squadron sends out scouts like him,” Max said, nodding to the captive skymarine. “They’re either looking to move an army through the valley, or they mean to claim this territory and round up a fresh batch of slaves. Which is it, boy?”

The prisoner said nothing, and Max just shook his head.

“See how he’s being so tight-lipped? He doesn’t want to reveal his orders. There’s a reason for that, kid.” Max grabbed the skymarine by the shoulder and shoved him forward. “I can’t guard this bastard on my own, so you’re coming, Savad. You and all your fools, too. The Night take what the Elders think. Soon enough, it won’t matter anymore.”

Savad and his lads traded uncertain glances, but they followed.

The entire town had gathered before the raised table of the Elders. Startled gasps went through the crowd as Max and Savad appeared, pushing the captive skymarine ahead of them. Men in white robes and women in colorful dresses melted from their path, fingers touching the tattoos on their foreheads. Hisses and boos followed Savad, and someone even shoved one of the boys. The lad did nothing in return. He plodded forward, expression blank, eyes on the prisoner.

So much for pacifists. Bloody hypocrites.

Max emerged into the cleared space before the table and planted his walking stick in the dirt, holding it like a sorcerer in a story. Savad pushed the captive to his knees beside two of his companions, and the three of them traded silent nods. The wounded pair must have been elsewhere, probably being fussed over by a local healer with poultices and bandages.

“You,” Fat Jowls snarled as Max stepped into the square. “I might have known you’d be involved in this calamity.”

“You’d best be glad I am, too.” Max met the man’s glare with one of his own. “None of you old bastards would know what to do.”

Jowls drew himself up to reply, but the matron gave his shoulder a calming touch, and he deflated. Drooping Mustache, sitting at Fat’s other side, rubbed a hand over his tired features and regarded Max like he was a boil that needed lancing. The three prisoners knelt in the grass before the Elders’ table, scowling at the boys who held them at gunpoint.

“What do you know of this?” Drooping Mustache gestured at the soldiers. “Did you bring these men to our valley?”

Anger heated Max’s tone before he could control himself. “I didn’t bring these bastards here, you old fool. I fought for the other side.”

“The League of Sovereign Nations?” Mustache nodded as if Max had unveiled some great secret. “Perhaps they are pursuing you. We are far from the lines drawn in your war with the Dominion. Your presence here is the obvious anomaly that explains their coming.”

“You’re a bloody fool,” Max snarled. The crowd broke out in nervous muttering, and Mustache bristled at Max’s words. Max couldn’t care less. “You think the Revealers would send scouts after one man? They didn’t know I was here. Savad says they were watching the village. Did you take his report, or were you too appalled by your taboos to speak to him?”

Mustache glared at Savad, and Savad pinned his gaze to the dirt.

“Why have you come, Outsider?” the matron said, peering at him like an old crow. “If these soldiers know nothing of you, then this matter is none of your concern.”

Max raised his chin. “I came to make sure you didn’t make a mess of things.”

“Make a mess of things?” Fat Jowls leaned over the table, his cheeks reddening. “Who are you to question us, Outsider? You said it before—you are not part of our community. So hike back to your hole and leave us to our business.”

“Come down here and make me.” Max grinned. “Let’s find out how many steps you take before you need to sit.”

Jowls’s face reddened further—it was so satisfying to see him angry. He raised a meaty finger and sucked in a breath to reply, but before he could muster the words, a woman appeared behind the table. She wiped blood from her fingers with a white cloth, leaning close to the Elders for a whispered conference. Max and Savad shared an uncomfortable glance.

Fat Jowls cleared his throat and raised his hands after the woman’s departure, bringing the buzz of conversation to an abrupt silence.

“The other two will live!” he shouted over the gathering. “Linafa has bandaged their wounds!”

The crowd gave a collective sigh, and scattered cheers accompanied the peppered noise of clapping. Max shook his head and shared a grim look with his walking stick. These idiots were cheering their own demise.

“You, sir,” Mustache said, gesturing to the captive Savad and Max had brought with them, “what is your name?”

The skymarine shot a quick glance at Savad’s boys, who still held him at gunpoint. “Sergeant Havers.”

“And why are your men in our valley?”

“Are you hunting this man?” Fat Jowls shoved his meaty fingers in Max’s direction, eyes alight with glee. “He was a soldier, like you. Perhaps you wish to arrest him?”

Sergeant Havers looked at Max, and Max replied with an evil grin.

“No,” Havers said. “The crazy old fool is telling the truth. We are hunting no one.”

“Then why are you here?” Drooping Mustache raised a bushy eyebrow and waved an irritated hand at Savad. “Lower your weapons, by the gods! They are forbidden here!”

Savad’s boys went from grim-faced guards to chastised youths in a breath, their rifles pointed at the ground. Sergeant Havers narrowed his eyes, glancing between the Elders, Savad’s crew, and Max.

“Many thanks,” Sergeant Havers said, rising to his feet in a languid motion. “My men and I are escorts, forward elements of an honor guard for a diplomatic mission. These boys,” Havers nodded sideways at Savad, “attacked us without provocation.”

The crowd of onlookers jeered at Savad and his crew, hissing like a bed of snakes. Savad went red in the face, but he remained silent, glaring at the ground between his feet. Elder Fat Jowls sat back in his seat, grinning from ear to reptilian ear. Drooping Mustache banged his fist on the table, but it took a few moments to silence the townspeople.

“If this is true, we will remedy the situation.” Mustache shot a grim look at Savad, but none of the boys raised their eyes. “Can you prove your words?”

“He’s lying!” Max grabbed Havers by the elbow, tugging him sideways so the Elders could see the patches on his arms. He was lean and muscled under Max’s grip, and he jerked his arm free with an ice-cold glare. “Look at these patches! This man is a skymarine! He’s not a bloody escort, you fools! He’s a forward scout!”

Jowls made a loud scoffing noise. “You expect us to believe you? And your proof consists of these arcane military symbols? No one here can verify your story, and you’ve long ruined your credibility. We knew you were lying about the boy, Outsider. Why would you tell the truth now?”

Max snorted. “You were so keen to take your needles to that poor kid, weren’t you? Couldn’t wait to tattoo his hand and treat him like an outcast. If I was a younger man, I’d march up there and thrash you until sense filled your skull just to save it from my fists!”

Jowls pounded both his hands on the table, pushing himself to his feet. “You dare!”

“Don’t listen to these old fools!” Max spun to the crowd. “These troops were in the hills for a reason, and their fleet can’t be far behind! They’ll have a Dominion Cruiser—that’s a carrier ship, the fucking bane of the skies, for those who don’t know! It will have multiple squadrons of attack vessels under its command and entire companies of Revealers!”

“Silence!” roared Jowls.

“They’ll round up everyone here and send you to their slave camps!” Max continued, waving a dismissive hand behind him at Jowls’s objections. “Pack up your lives and flee northward!”

“Shut him up!” screamed Jowls, his voice breaking.

A man grabbed Max by the shoulders, but Max was still spry enough to deal with unfriendly hands. He spun, using the walking stick to lever the fool’s grip away, and tripped him into the dirt. His friends took quick steps in Max’s direction, but he hefted the walking stick in a fighting stance, and they retreated.

Mustache banged his fist on the table over and over, but the crowd was beyond calming. They surged forward like an angry tide, abuzz with questions or curses for those at the center of the square. Savad’s boys turned their attention from the captives to the townsfolk, holding their rifles across their bodies as if the weapons could shield them from the mob.

“You are exiled!” screamed Jowls, pointing a meaty finger at Max. “You cannot spew your lies here! Remove him!”

“Piss off, you old slug!” Max shot the Elder a rude gesture. “I’m telling the truth! If you want to save your families, flee the valley! Go north, to Telaran!” He threatened another man who came near him with the walking stick, making him retreat. None of the others moved toward him, but they gathered like hungry scavengers.

“Order!” shouted Fat Jowls, his voice cracking again. “Order, damn you all!”

“The hermit is mad!” Havers boomed. “There is no fleet waiting over the horizon!”

The people closest to the square shushed those behind them. As the words of the Dominion soldier echoed in the valley, the crowd calmed to a muttering, shifting mass. Havers shot Max a quick smirk.

The cunning bastard.

“This maniac and his miscreants attacked my squad without warning. We surrendered to avoid further bloodshed, and these madmen stripped us of our weapons and gear.” Havers nodded toward Savad. “This one seems to be their leader. He said he needed to ‘show me to the old man’ before he marched my men away at gunpoint. I thought they were going to separate and execute us, but when we reached the home of the ‘old man,’ I realized he was a League veteran. He probably harbors resentments, and he must have passed his prejudice to the others.”

“I knew it.” Fat Jowls turned to Drooping Mustache, shoving an accusatory finger at Max. “He’s been sneaking around in those mountains, spreading his corruption to the Sacrificed.”

“Sneaking?” Max scoffed. “I don’t sneak anywhere, you slimy bastard.”

“Please, Sergeant Havers, continue,” Drooping Mustache said, raising his voice.

Havers grinned, putting on a humble air, and half-turned so the crowd could see him. He struck a handsome profile with his dark hair and strong chin. His smart, snappy uniform and relaxed posture made Max feel suddenly naked in his dirty, faded clothing.

“This militia—whoever they are—searched us and took our gear. You’ll find our orders where they piled our belongings in the woods. We are deployed on an escort mission for a Dominion diplomat. They sent my team ahead to discover a path through these mountains and into Telaran.”

Max narrowed his eyes.

“We had just stumbled on the village when we were beset by gunfire.” Havers grimaced, looking at the ground. “One of my men—a friend—was killed without warning. They shot him through the neck like an animal. He died in my arms.”

Indeed, the man had bloodstains on his uniform sleeves that Max hadn’t noticed. He winced, glancing to Savad. The boy glared at Sergeant Havers, his face drained of color. His eyes were full of rage, and the muscles in his jaw worked as he ground his teeth.

“You killed three of my friends!” snarled Savad. “Saud was only thirteen! He didn’t even know how to shoot!”

Havers turned and met Savad’s challenge, his gaze cool and unfeeling. “My men are better trained than yours. You opened fire, and the first exchange went bad for you.”

“We surrounded you!” Savad took an unconscious step toward Havers, and Max moved into his path. The lad was squeezing his rifle with a little too much anger, and the last thing they needed was a public murder. Savad’s eyes slid right past Max, remaining locked onto the Dominion scout, but he halted. “I wanted to kill you myself! But I spared you!”

Havers shrugged a shoulder. “You still shot first.”

“That’s not how it happened!”

“Why is he being allowed to speak?” Jowls said to the other Elders, waving his hand in Savad’s direction. “His kind belongs outside the village! They marched in here with weapons of war and bragged about murdering people in the hills! This entire debacle is their doing!”

Shouts of agreement rose from the crowd, and another round of hissing filled the air. Savad scowled at the townspeople, but he and his lads took a fearful step backward. Max shot an angry glare at Sergeant Havers—the man was favoring him with a cold smirk—and tugged Savad aside.

“Is it true, what he said?” Max growled into the boy’s ear. “Did you find written orders on him? On any of them? Maps? Anything like that?”

“We found papers.” Savad jerked his arm out of Max’s grip. “But…but we didn’t stop to inspect them.”

Max winced, glaring at the sky in frustration.

“We were more worried about our dead brothers!” snarled Savad. “Only three of us can read anyway, and…and I didn’t think about it.”

“Next time, think about it.” Max signaled Savad’s boys closer—the crowd was growing angrier, and the Elders chattered in a secret, reptilian conference. “Listen, this mob is about to turn against us. You two,” Max pointed at the youngest whelps in the group, “get back up the trail and find those papers. Gather everything you confiscated, guns and all, and take it to my cabin. Get the rest of your little gang and meet us there at sundown. Go, now!”

The lad glanced between Max and Savad. “What if someone tries to stop us?”

“You see that rifle in your hand?” Max shoved the gun against the boy’s chest. “Threaten them with it. They’ll step aside. You might have to fire a round in the air, but don’t kill anyone. Got it?”

The boy traded a look with his companion and gave a hesitant nod. By the Night, they were no older than fifteen. Max’s ghosts crowded close behind him, but he gripped the walking stick tighter and ignored them.

“Go, kids! Hurry!” Max waved the boys onward. “We’ll see you at dusk!”

Savad nodded, and the two lads sprinted away. Havers watched them depart, narrowing his eyes. He shot a cold smirk at Savad, and Max suppressed the urge to march over and take his stick to the bastard’s skull.

“We can’t leave without getting justice for my brothers!” Savad growled, pointing an angry finger at the Elders. “They’re going to set them free!”

“There’s no justice in this world, Savad.” Max hefted his walking stick and stepped closer to the Elders’ table. Jowls saw him coming, and the three old lizards ceased their whispering and raised their hands for order. Silence descended, and an eagerness filled the air like the smell of rain before a storm.

Drooping Mustache cleared his throat. “Sergeant Havers?”

“Yes?”

“Allow me to extend our apologies for this…incident. The Awakened Few abhor violence of any kind. But the Sacrificed are a…different story, sadly enough. We cannot repay you for the life of your man, but we can set you free and offer you the hospitality that should have been yours from the beginning.”

Havers smiled, affecting a respectful bow. “Of course. And thank you for your judgment.”

“These miscreants, on the other hand,” said Jowls as people removed the ropes binding the Dominion troops, “have committed murder! They brought violence into our village and have tainted us all with its presence!”

Angry mutters of agreement came from the villagers.

“You’re all exiled!” roared Fat Jowls over the cheers of the townspeople. “Leave our valley and never return!”

Clapping rose from the mob, and it shuffled forward like a hungry tide inching up the beach. Savad and his boys shot fearful glances to Max, shifting in place. Max calmed them with a gesture, glaring at Sergeant Havers. The man rubbed his freed wrists, shooting Max a covert grin.

“Come on, Savad,” Max said. “Forget these fools. They’ve rung their own death knells, so them let them dance at the sound. We should leave before things get ugly.”

“Before?” Savad gripped his rifle, eyes boring into Sergeant Havers’s back. “Those bastards can’t get away with this! They just…they just can’t!”

“They have, Savad.” Max pulled the youth along behind him. “Come on.”

“That’s right!” howled Jowls, laughing with open glee. “Get out! Get out and never return!”

Max ground his teeth, feet freezing in place. He spun, shooting a murderous glance at Fat Jowls that cooled his gleeful fit to silence. The cheers from the crowd persisted, and Max used his old military tone to project his voice over their blabbering.

“Hey, Sergeant Havers!”

The Sergeant turned.

“I hope you can face your gods when you meet them.”

Havers shook his head. “There is only one god, old man. The Prime walks and breathes.”

“Long may he live,” intoned the two soldiers standing behind him.

“And the Eternity Line? Where’s that, these days?”

“Ever moving.” Havers grinned. “Until all creation lies under His Dominion.”

“And the people?” Max leaned on his walking stick, not even pretending to smile. “Will they live under His Dominion, too?”

The smirk on the Sergeant’s face never wavered. “In time.”

“Right.” Max turned, but a pair of townspeople blocked his escape. Savad and his remaining boys crowded in behind him, and Max met the eyes of one of the men facing him. It was Abbad, the father of the runt who’d broken into Max’s house.

Abbad winced. “Do you speak the truth?”

“Abbad!” A thin man in a white robe gripped Abbad by the shoulder. “Would you really trust this man’s word? You saw what happened!”

“I saw, Ahmin.” Abbad shared a blank glance with his friend. “I believe him.”

“Abbad! Brother, please, just—!”

Abbad held up a hand. “Outsider?”

“It’s true.” Max nodded. “The Revealers will be back, and they’ll have friends. The kind of friends that gun you and your family down in the street. If you’re smart, you’ll take yourself and everyone you love northward.”

“What is the Eternity Line?” Abbad peered over Max’s shoulder at Sergeant Havers. “You asked him about it.”

“It’s the border of the Revealed Dominion,” Max said. “Basically, it’s a line on a map drawn by their mad god. That’s what started the last war—their god, leader, whatever he is, decided the Eternity Line had moved north just because. And you heard his reply when I mentioned it, didn’t you?”

Abbad nodded, narrowing his eyes at where Havers was speaking to the Elders.

“Take your family and leave.” Max stepped forward, and Abbad moved aside to clear a path. Max made to walk through the press but paused on his way. He gave Abbad a weighted look. “You care about that boy of yours. I saw it in your eyes.”

“Of course, I do!”

“Then take him and that pretty little wife away from here.” Max shot one last glower at the Elders, who were calling for food and drink to be brought to the Dominion skymarines. “This village is lost.”

With that, he pushed through the crowd. The walking stick glared at him the whole way, but Max ignored it. The villagers cleared a path for him, and Max led the disheveled militia out of town.

Hisses, insults, and disgusted expressions were their only parting gifts.

* * * *

“No, they are not my friends,” Max muttered to the walking stick. “And you quit with your snide commentary. I’m not in the mood today.”

He stared over the valley from his porch, watching the creek that meandered beside the village sparkle under the dawn. Were those fools waking up in fear? If they were smart, they were gathering their belongings.

“Not my damned problem anymore.” Max turned and stomped toward the side of the house. The walking stick caught in the space between two boards and twisted in his hand, stopping him in place. “Night take you! Why’d you do that? I told you before—I don’t need friends, don’t want them, and I don’t need your horseshit this morning! Now, come on. I’m tired of arguing about this.”

Savad and his boys had slept on the grass beside the mountain path. After their nighttime hike to the other side of the valley—a fruitless search for the scouts’ vehicle—everyone was exhausted. Max’s knees hurt something fierce, and the rest of him was little better.

He lumbered to the pile of confiscated weapons and gear. Four Dominion long rifles and two repeaters lay in a row, along with load-bearing vests with patches full of extra magazines. Beside those was another mass of various implements—first-aid pouches, three cans of sausages, and a leather folder the size of a traveling book. Max knelt and opened the snap on the binder. He pulled out a folded piece of heavy paper and spread it on the ground.

It was a map of the unclaimed lands Max and the villagers called home. It took Max a few moments to orient himself to the map, turning in circles and shifting around its corners until he was pointed in the right direction. The Elders’ valley was only one of many secluded areas in the vast range. North of his mountain—a big bastard marked ‘Ridge 38’ on the chart—was a broad stretch of craggy peaks and near-impassible terrain.

Beyond that was a region known as the Floating Hills. A perpetual Hex storm scoured the area, caused by a confluence of Hex energy and massive solonite deposits. It was represented by a giant shaded zone on the map with numbers printed in its center—altitude and size estimations for the tempest. Telaran, the closest League-friendly nation, was north of the storm-ridden badlands. It seemed an impossible distance on paper.

Grimacing, Max returned his attention to the wild mountains he called home. He scanned the lowlands and rivers depicted on the map, eyebrows raised. In several valleys—eighteen, as Max did a quick count—were rough circles in red ink. Numbers were scrawled inside them with notes in a tilted, scratchy hand.

One read ‘healthy commerce with neighboring village’ beside the number eight thousand. In another valley was a smaller red circle and the words ‘no apparent contact with the outside.’ They were communities—other towns, like the one near Max’s home. The Dominion had scouted the entire region, noting everything from population estimates to trade routes through the passes. The largest valley, a wide river basin protected on three sides by tall peaks, had a square written in the same red ink. Max peered at the notes inside the square.

Natural defenses. Calm weather patterns. Good access to water. Possible base camp?

“Night take us all,” Max muttered. “The Revealers are moving north again. It’s another invasion!”

He scanned the entire map, but he didn’t see a border indicating the Eternity Line. His stomach clenched—that meant it was likely beyond the map’s boundary, claiming Telaran and everything south of it for the Dominion. On the bottom of the map were more handwritten notes.

Native population would provide a compliant labor force to support military operations. They are non-violent heretics and quick to surrender. Light resistance from insurgents in the hills is possible, but these bands are scattered. They will be easily hunted down and eliminated.

“Hunted down,” Max grumbled, “like they’re talking about animals.”

“What’s that?” Savad’s voice said from behind Max.

Max nearly jumped out of his skin, but he settled for standing with a wince and glaring at the young man. Rubbing his sore back, Max stepped aside. Savad walked over and looked. Judging from his expression, the map meant nothing to him.

“Those are the papers we found on Havers and his men?”

Max nodded. “It’s a map. They were making notes for an invasion.”

“That…that can’t be right.” Savad frowned, crouching on his haunches to get a better look. “Didn’t you say it was weeks to the Floating Hills? But it’s…it’s so small.”

Max shrugged.

Savad blinked. “So…this whole thing is our valley? The green part?”

“No.” Max pointed out the lowland beside “Ridge 38,” complete with its own red circle and scrawled notes, though they were incomplete. “The little marking here? That’s your village. We’re on the mountain where it says thirty-eight. About here—,” he jabbed at a point with his finger, “—on the southern slope.”

Savad shook his head. “That’s…that’s impossible.”

“The world’s a big place.” Max frowned at the boy’s wide-eyed, despairing expression. “You’ve never seen a map, have you?”

Savad shook his head again, still staring at the paper.

“Damn, kid, listen—”

“No, I understand.” Savad rose on unsteady feet. “I’m just a stupid boy who lives in the woods. It’s just so…so big.”

Max winced, nodding. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. Those people…they kept you in the dark. Most of the villagers are probably just like you—unaware of the outside world. I’ll bet the Elders know, though. They certainly recognized my weapons when they saw them.”

Savad took two steps backward, wavered, and fell on his rump. He stared straight ahead, eyes tearing with unspent emotion. No sobs came bubbling out of him—thank the nameless gods for that—but the tears rolled down his cheeks, leaving streaks of moisture over the dirt on his skin.

“You were right.” Savad lowered his head, wringing his fingers through his filthy hair. “Gods, you were right about everything.”

Max only grunted in reply, wincing at a lump of sympathy that rose in his throat. “I didn’t lie, kid. I don’t think anyone’s right about everything, but I told the truth as I know it.”

“And…those soldiers.” Savad raised his bloodshot gaze and met Max’s eyes. “What you said—that they’ll come and kill or enslave everyone.”

Max nodded.

“Gods protect us from the Dark.” Savad reached to his forehead, where the Awakened Few made little religious gestures over their tattoos. Savad had no tattoo on his head, but he mimicked the motions. “How long do we have?”

“Maybe a day.” Max shrugged, wincing again as he admitted his worries. “Maybe hours. Since your boys captured their scouts, and those damned fools in the village allowed them to walk away, their squadron commander will send units here to contain the intelligence.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that everyone in this valley—including me and you, kid—has to be killed or enslaved.” Max took a deep, frustrated breath. “They can’t afford anyone leaving with the information, so they’ll move as fast as possible. We could hear their engines by midday, maybe the evening. Dawn tomorrow at the latest.”

Savad’s eyes widened, but he said nothing. He was silent so long that Max’s proximity grew awkward, so he shuffled back into his home to gather a few things. A man’s body had needs in the morning, and if the day brought the excitement he expected, he’d want to have those matters outside his concern. Besides, Savad needed time to think.

He left the boy to his musings.

* * * *

The sun was three hours from its noon apex when Savad poked his head into the cabin.

“The townspeople are coming!”

“What?” Max nearly fell over as he straightened—his back catching again. He lumbered to a standing position, grumbling in pain, and wiped a sheen of sweat from his brow. “You mean they’re coming here?”

Savad nodded. “Jarif said there are dozens! With animals, too!”

“Damn.” Max couldn’t keep a somber grin from loosening his scowl, but a realization tempered his satisfaction. “Wait—you said dozens?”

“With animals.” Savad shrugged. “That’s what Jarif says.”

“How did he see them from the top of the ridge?”

Savad’s cheeks reddened, but he raised his chin. “I set him on watch farther down the hill. Him and two others.”

“Good thinking, kid.” Max patted the boy on the arm and grabbed his walking stick. “Let’s find out what these fools want.”

It was the matron who appeared on the footpath, mounted on a compact horse that was barely more than a pony. Abbad and his brother Ahmin trailed her, each riding mounts of their own. In their proximity to the Elder, it was easy to spot the family resemblance, and Max huffed with realization. Other families came behind them until the mountain path was full of white robes and colorful dresses. The baying of animals from further down the trail signaled the presence of their herds.

Max raised an eyebrow at the matron. “So, you chose to flee, after all.”

“Harif is a fool.” The elderly woman shrugged a thin shoulder. “But he has cousins who keep him seated on the council, and others who think his words hold merit.”

Max nodded at the throng of people. “How many did you convince to follow you?”

“Not enough.” Anger twisted her wrinkled features, and she grimaced in the valley’s direction. “Sergeant Havers convinced Harif that he means to bring his wealthy diplomat through our village, and that he stands to gain something from offering hospitality.”

“When were they allowed to leave?”

“Last night.” The matron patted her pony’s neck as it shifted in place. “Two hours after sundown.”

“Then we don’t have long before the Revealers appear.” Max sighed, resisting the urge to grind his teeth. “You have no hope of outrunning them. You understand that, right? They’ll have Screamers. Skiffs. You know what those are?”

The Elder shook her head. Behind her, her sons shifted in their saddles, trading worried glances.

“Screamers are small attack craft,” Max said. “You can hear them coming from a distance—it’s the sound their engines make—but they’re armed with machine guns, and sometimes, larger munitions. Skiffs are low-flying troop carriers. They’re slower, but they can carry thirty of those skymarines you met last night. You hear any airships overhead, you get under cover as fast as your feet will move. Best you leave your herds—they’ll give you away from the air.”

“Our animals are our entire way of life.” The matron raised her chin. “How would we feed ourselves? Establish a new home? When we reach safety—”

“No, you don’t understand,” Savad said, snatching the map from the ground and holding it before him like a talisman. “They’re not just a scouting party! They mean to conquer the valley! It’s all right here!” Savad spun to Max, gesturing at the woman. “Tell her!”

Someone in the throng hissed at Savad, and the Elder raised her chin as if the very sight of the boy was offensive. She waved the people behind her to silence. When the commotion abated, she pinned Savad with a glare. But for the first time, the lad didn’t quail under its pressure.

“He’s telling the truth.” Max nodded toward the paper in Savad’s hand. “Can you read a map?”

The matron winced, shaking her head.

“Well, if you trust my word enough to lead an escape, then know this—the Dominion is returning, and they mean to conquer. They’ve scouted the entire region. Counted the heads like cattle. There’s a large valley southeast of here they want for a military base. This isn’t an incursion—it’s an invasion.”

The old crow sighed. “I tried to tell them. Tried to convince them. But they wouldn’t come.”

“Leave your animals here,” Max said, stepping forward. “Your wagons, too. You people need to run, not migrate. Go to Telaran—League troops are stationed there, if I remember correctly. It’s your only hope for safety.”

The matron shook her head again. “We cannot cross the Floating Hills. The Hex storms would taint us, if they didn’t kill us outright.”

“Well, there’s nothing but impassible mountains to the west,” Max said, pointing in that direction. “The Revealers have scouted the lands to the east. For all we know, they lie under Dominion control. And to the south? The same thing. North is your only choice.”

“The Hex storms—”

“By the Night, woman,” Max growled, throwing his hands wide, “those Hex storms will protect you from airborne pursuit. Take your people north or be hunted through the mountains like animals. Those are your choices.”

“Please, listen to him.” Savad stepped toward her, proffering the map once again. “Just look here, you’ll see—”

The Elder recoiled from the boy, and Abbad and Ahmin directed their ponies into Savad’s path. Savad backed away, trading glares with the brothers. Hissing rose from the refugees, but it was half-hearted.

“You do not approach me!” The matron smoothed her dress, her cheeks reddening with anger. “You are Sacrificed! Your place is to—”

“You don’t get to tell that boy his place!” Max was stalking forward before he realized what he was doing, and the stick had settled into a fighting grip of its own accord. Abbad and Ahmin backed their horses away from Savad, blinking with surprise. “You abandoned him a long time ago! Left him on the slopes to be eaten by animals! You don’t get to tell him a Night-forsaken thing!”

“He was sacrificed for the village that gave him succor!” The Elder pointed an imperious finger at Savad, though she still refused to look at him. “Some must suffer so others can live!”

“You didn’t give him shit! Not him and not the others!” Max scoffed. “You self-righteous bastards couldn’t even bring yourselves to leave them food in the wintertime! Not even blankets! Had to do it my damn self!”

Savad spun on Max, blinking. “That was you?”

“Everything has changed!” Max stalked past Savad’s astonished gaze and met the matron’s eyes. “You lead these people north, you hear me? Because if you don’t, you’ll be condemning them to death or slavery. They’re depending on you, and for once in your Night-forsaken life, you’re going to protect them—all of them, including Savad and his crew.”

Protests rose from the refugees, but the Elder remained quiet. She met Max’s angry stare with an indignant frown, and the moment stretched between them while everyone else erupted. Savad and his crew said nothing, but they cradled their rifles and nursed injured expressions.

Even now, these bastards couldn’t care less for them.

The Elder held Max’s gaze and narrowed her eyes as the protestations calmed.

“We will go north, as you suggest.” Her lip twitched between a blank line and a disdainful sneer. “But the Sacrificed are not our concern.”

“You prickly old—” Max started, stepping forward, but Savad stopped him with a hand around the arm.

“Wait,” he snarled, “what about the rest of our people? How many stayed in the village? It must be…I don’t know, I’m not good with numbers. Hundreds, right?”

Max softened his tone and nodded. “A couple hundred at least, kid.”

“And what?” Savad crossed his arms. “We’re just going to let them die?”

Max grimaced. “Those fools won’t listen to me, and they sure as the Night won’t listen to you. They wouldn’t even listen to one of their Elders.”

“What will happen to them?” Savad looked toward the valley, and nervous mutters rose from the throng of villagers. His crew shuffled closer to Max and Savad, and even the matron shushed her people so she could hear his response.

Max sighed. “The Night should take me for being the one to tell you of the Revealed Dominion. They follow the Prime—a living person—whom they believe is a god. The only god. Since you’re all heretics, according to them, the commander of the attack squadron will send a company of Revealers to the valley. The Revealers will round up everyone in town and demand they accept the Prime as their god. Those who accept will be taken to a slave camp. They’ll kill anyone who offers the least bit of resistance.”

Savad’s face twisted with impotent anger. “There must be something we can do!”

“Kid, you can’t fight what’s coming.” Max grounded the walking stick. “Revealers are a special unit in the Dominion military. They’re chosen for the strength of their faith and their willingness to follow orders. You don’t have their training, and you damn sure don’t have the weapons. The Revealers will slaughter you.”

Fearful mutters rose from the gathered villagers. The Elder’s horse danced back and forth, and she held a quick conversation with her sons. After a few tense words, she lifted her hand for silence, and people in the crowd shushed their neighbors.

“We shall flee, as you suggest. I fear we can wait no longer.”

“That’s the smartest thing you’ve said all day,” Max muttered under his breath. The stick glared at him, and he sighed and raised his voice. “Listen, if you take this footpath by my house, it will lead you around the eastern side of the ridge. There’s a fork in the trail—it’s hard to see, but if you’re observant, you can pick it out—where one route leads further up the hill, and the other goes down a saddle. The lower path heads into the northern passes. I hike this mountain every morning, and that’s the only passable way north I’ve seen. You’ll have to go single-file, but it’s better than cutting through the brush.”

The matron made a gesture of gratitude over her tattoo. “Thank you. We’ll take whatever provisions we can carry and depart. May the gods protect you.”

She shot Savad one last disgusted glance and turned away to confer with her sons. Abbad caught Max’s eye and offered a short bow, and Max nodded back. After instructions were passed down the line, the throng of people moved past Max’s hut. They clutched bundles, babies, or keepsakes. Each one of them regarded Max and Savad’s group with fearful glances, but they shuffled by in silence.

As the tail of the column disappeared on the trail, Max turned to Savad. “You, too, kid. Boys—take those rifles you lifted from the scouts. They’re better than the ones you’re carrying. You’ll be a rear guard, so you’ll need reliable weapons.”

A lanky boy with light blue eyes stared toward the valley. “Nobody in my family left with Elder Karina. They’re still down there. My older brothers, my sisters. My parents.”

The other lads shifted, kicking dirt with their heels or looking at the ground.

“Kid, if you think they’ll heed your warnings, you’re free to run down there and give it a shot.” Max shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe they’ll listen. But I doubt it, as much as it pains me to say it. You’ll just get yourself killed, and no one will thank you. Best you follow the old crone and her people.”

“What about you?” Savad stepped up to Max. “When are you going to leave?”

Max sighed again, grinding the butt of the walking stick into the dirt. “Don’t bother with me, kid. Worry for yourself. Now, start moving. You don’t have much time.”

Savad crossed his arms.

“Go on, now.” Max waved the boys down the path. “Better grab some food from whatever the townspeople abandoned. You’ll need full bellies for the hike.”

Savad’s crew gathered behind him until the entire group stood in front of Max. Some looked at him with expectation. Others glared at the valley, cradling their rifles against their shoulders. None started toward the leftover provisions.

“What in the Night are you doing?”

Savad met his eyes. “I’m not running away. My people are still down there. Even if…even if they don’t care. They need us.”

The others growled their agreement.

“And I want to know your plans.” Savad squared his shoulders. “We’re not leaving you here, either.”

Max scoffed. “I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

“Then why haven’t you left?” Savad pointed at the path. “Why didn’t you leave last night? You told everyone in the village to run. You would have been deep into the mountains by now, and I bet you could escape if you wanted. So why are you still here?”

Max sighed again, his shoulders slumping. The stick watched him, expectant patterns prominent in its grains. He glanced toward the valley, at the homes lying under the midmorning sun. There would be women walking to the creek to draw the morning’s water and old people too infirm to walk at all.

Kids would be playing after breakfast, unaware of the danger hurtling their way.

Max’s ghosts gathered at his back, pressing closer than ever before. He could almost feel their icy hands on his shoulders, their whispered breath against his ears. A chill spread down Max’s body. Emotions warred in his chest—regret, anger, indignation, despair…and resignation.

Max turned to face his ghosts, but he found only Savad’s crew and their eager gazes.

“My damn knees hurt, boys.” Max shook his head, fighting a lump in his throat. “Truth is, I’ve been running for a long time. Running from the past. From the future, too, if that’s something a man can do. But I’m tired, by the Night. This is my home, and I’m not going anywhere.”

Savad nodded. “Then we’re not running, either.”

“Kid, didn’t you hear what I said before?” Max glared at the lot of them. “We’ll be out-gunned and outnumbered. If you go down in that valley today, don’t expect to walk out.”

“We are the Sacrificed.” Savad clutched his rifle. “This is what we’re meant to do.”

“Kid—”

“Don’t call me that.” Savad set his jaw, and his boys straightened behind him. “Not anymore. I know what you think about us, about our people, but that doesn’t matter. The Elders don’t get to make my decisions, and neither do you. The villagers—our families—won’t fight for themselves. We are the only ones who can. The only ones who will. So I’m heading into that valley today, and the gods can decide the consequences.”

“You’ll die, Savad.” Max shook his head. “You’ll all die.”

Savad’s eyes blazed. “My body may die, but my soul will rise through the storm.”

Max grimaced and made to argue, but a glance at the walking stick stilled his tongue. The stick was right—he couldn’t order these lads any more than the Elders. His words were as empty as theirs in the face of that burning light in Savad’s expression. Max had seen it on countless young men. It had driven most of them to their doom, and the war had extinguished it for the rest. Regardless, his arguments would fall on deaf ears. They had purpose, and to them, it was everything.

“Go inside, will you?” Max gestured toward his cabin. “Bring me that big bastard of a trunk on the floor. I’m getting too old to move the damned thing.”

Savad frowned, but he waved to his boys—his men—and two of them went into the hut. They emerged a moment later, straining to carry the chest between them. Max walked to where they’d staged the confiscated gear and nodded to an empty space on the ground. The lads dropped the trunk where he’d indicated and backed away.

Max knelt and undid the latch—he never kept the thing locked. He’d refolded his belongings after the theft. Old uniforms were pressed into tight, thin squares, and he’d packed his personal items with the precise attention of a soldier. Max sighed and started tossing things out.

He threw his uniform shirts to a couple of youths whose threadbare clothing had nearly rotted away. He had two sturdy pairs of boots, and those went to Savad and one of his friends. Pants were given to others in need, along with random implements from his time in the military—a trio of old canteens, a medical kit with bandages and sewing needles, and a pair of large binoculars. The boys distributed them as they saw fit.

Max reached the bottom, where he’d stacked two black wooden cases. He pulled the first out and set it aside, waving away the hand of a curious lad who was expecting another piece of clothing, and laid the second one beside it. Taking a deep breath to steel himself, he opened the boxes.

The first contained the dagger the runt had stolen, along with its twin. Their solonite cores glowed with orange light, and Max could sense their energy against his palms, a subtle vibration of the chaos they held within. A worn weapons harness lay between the daggers—it had two sheathes, two holsters, and several pouches attached. Lying with the twisted harness was the bag of coins.

In the second case was a pair of semiautomatic pistols. The guns were old and unpolished, but the gleaming solonite patterns laid into the barrels marked them as Hex-tech. Four magazines rested in cutouts beside the weapons. The tips of the bullets stacked inside glowed with more orange light.

“By the Dark!” Savad gasped.

Max donned the harness, pulling the straps over his shoulders. Tightening them around his baggy shirt was awkward, but he got everything in the right place. He loaded the two sidearms and strapped them into his holsters, adding the extra magazines to their respective pouches. The daggers went into their sheathes next, and Max opened the bag of coins.

“There’s something you should know before you follow me into that valley today.” Max started taking handfuls of the coins and packing them into empty pouches, dividing them by their shapes and sizes. “It’s true what they said about me. I am a Hexweaver. A burner, to be exact. Kinetic, if that makes a difference.”

“I…don’t know what kinetic means.”

“It means I burn the Hex to move stuff around.” Max paused as he reached back into the first case. His medal, the seven-pointed star with a glowing solonite core, was the last piece that remained. He gazed at it for a long moment before tucking it into his pocket. “Kinetic energy is my specialty—that’s energy that moves things, to explain it in simple terms. I can burn a touch of thermal energy, but not much.”

“All the gods beyond the Dark,” muttered one of Savad’s crew. “He’s tainted! It’s true!”

“There is no taint, kid.” Max rolled his eyes. “The whole bloody world uses Hex-tech, and no one’s been tainted yet. That’s just your dogma speaking. But if anyone wants to change their minds and follow the Elder, you best decide now.”

Savad glanced behind him. While some lads muttered prayers or made signs over their foreheads, none spoke against Max. Savad nodded, and Max breathed a sigh of relief, though he wasn’t sure why. Better if these boys had been so disgusted by his presence that they fled northward—it would have kept them alive.

“Right, then.” Max grimaced. “We’ve only got hours until the Revealers arrive. That’s my best guess. We can’t beat them in a stand-up exchange, but we have a few advantages they don’t.”

“Like what?” Savad said.

“We know this valley better than they do.” Max adjusted the straps on his harness. “And we don’t expect to live through this. A man is never more dangerous than when he’s forfeited his own life.”

“Don’t we want to win the fight, though?” asked a dark-eyed lad with dirt-smudged cheeks. “Isn’t that the whole point? How do we win if we don’t…you know…win?”

Max turned to regard Savad’s ragtag militia. “Not every battle is won by beating your enemies in a gunfight. Sometimes the fight is a ruse, a distraction from your true objective.”

Savad narrowed his eyes. “To give the villagers a chance to escape.”

“Savad has the problem by the ears.” Max hooked his thumbs into his harness—an old habit that brought a flood of bittersweet memories. “Despite how they feel now, when the bullets fly, the townsfolk will run for their lives. It’s instinct. They train the Revealers to take advantage of that, and they’ll post fire teams on every route of egress to kill anyone who flees.”

“So, what do we do?”

“Two things.” Max counted the objectives on his fingers. “First, we clear a path for the villagers—the one leading here. I want the eight best marksmen hidden somewhere on the northern hillside facing the village. Find a spot that offers concealment from the air but a good view of the northern edge of town.”

Savad nodded to one of his men, and the other went about choosing a crew for the job.

“We’ll need another squad—four or more rifles—stationed on the west end of the village where they can flank the Revealers. We probably don’t have enough men to put a fire team on the east side, and the west has higher ground, so that’s where they go. Again, put yourselves somewhere with good visibility.”

“What about you?” Savad said, picking out three boys for the western fire team. “What will you do?”

“I’ll be down in the valley, right in their faces.” Max cracked his knuckles one by one. “I’ll be drawing their fire so the villagers can escape—and so you boys can pick off the Revealers when they’re not looking.”

“I’ve never killed anyone before,” said the dirt-smudged youth who’d spoken earlier. “I…didn’t even shoot when we had that fight with those scouts. I just…couldn’t.”

“That’s normal, kid.” Max shrugged a shoulder. “Don’t feel ashamed—you’re just human, like anyone else. Things like that happen on the battlefield more than you’d think. That being said, it won’t get easier. If you live to have nightmares about what happens today, then good—it means you’re alive.”

The boy looked at the ground between his feet. “I don’t want to be a coward.”

“You’re no coward.” Max shook his head. “You’re standing here now, knowing what it means, and that’s a brave choice.”

“But how do I do it when the time comes?” the boy said. “How do I just…kill someone like that?”

“Aim high center mass.” Max tapped the middle of his chest. “That’s here. Squeeze the trigger, don’t pull the trigger, and watch your breathing. Narrow everything down to those mechanical actions, and you’ll get through it. As for the motivation…well, maybe you’ll see something today that will spur you to action. I hope not, by the Night, but it’s likely.”

Savad patted the youth on the shoulder before turning to Max. “What about the timing? How will we know when to start shooting?”

“Don’t worry, kid.” Max fingered the hilt of one of his daggers. “I’ll make it obvious.”

* * * *

The Revealers came soon after midday.

Despite expecting them, when the whine of Hex-tech engines drifted over the valley, Max had to suppress a surge of dread. His instincts urged him to run and hide under the nearest tree, but he suppressed that, too. Grunting at the pain in his lower back—the damned thing wouldn’t leave him be, even today—Max used the walking stick to lever himself to a standing position. He shared a quiet look with the stick. It had no smart-ass quips, only anticipation.

“No sense in questioning things now,” he muttered to the stick. “We’re here, and we’re not turning back.”

It had only been an hour past when, after making a quick plan with Savad and the others, he’d walked into town and planted his backside on a stone near the square. His eyes drifted to the western hills, and he peered into the shadows under the trees. There was no sign of Savad’s men, but they were hiding somewhere on that ridgeline.

Max had chosen the emplacement of the northern team himself—they would guard the escape route, and theirs was the most important mission. He’d erected stakes at their fighting positions to make it easier for them to understand their lanes of fire. Crowds of villagers would be running toward them at full speed, so he wanted to ensure their rifles were pointed in the right direction.

“I know I can’t do it for them,” he said to the stick. “I can make damn sure they’re ready, though. Wish I had forty trained soldiers of my own, but wishes are light as air and worth the same.”

Elder Harif appeared, dressed in an immaculate white robe and a flat cap with colored bands decorating its sides. He hurried a group of younger people along, each bearing an offering in their hands. His cheeks reddened when he recognized Max, but while his jowls quivered with irritation, he walked past without a word.

Drooping Mustache brought his own retinue, each person holding a separate item. He spotted Max from across the village square and frowned, his expression darkening with concern. Max pointed to his ears and then to the north, hoping the man caught his meaning.

Hear that? Best run in the opposite direction.

Instead, Mustache ushered his people along, and they hurried toward the south side of town. The fools were bearing gifts for the wealthy “diplomat.” Max shook his head—the Revealers would bring gifts of their own, but not the kind the Elders expected.

A crowd gathered, and Max called more warnings. No matter how he implored everyone to turn and run, he drew only confused and worried glances in reply. Mothers clutched their children closer to their skirts, and fathers offered him angry scowls. Max gave up trying before his voice went hoarse. Sometimes, people had to see the danger for themselves.

A Screamer broke over the southern ridge, flying low over the valley. Dominion Screamers were inspired by the cavalries of old, like mounts from a twisted Hexbuilder’s dreams. The pilot straddled the machine like a horse, but the similarities stopped there. While some aircraft designs focused on conserving energy and lengthening effective range, Screamers were built for speed and maneuverability. The damned things were little more than saddles mounted on giant vortex rotors with a few spin-drives to help it turn while in motion. It had small, articulated wings and a pair of large caliber machine guns mounted on its rounded nose.

If the Screamer is here, there must be a Cruiser within range.

The Screamer buzzed Harif’s greeting party, sending hats flying and colorful dresses fluttering. It turned and did a circuit of the town, pointing its nose—and its machine guns—at any group of people it found. It didn’t unload with the weapons, though it left frightened yelps and mutters in its wake. After two laps of the village, the Screamer gained altitude and entered a holding pattern over the valley. Its engine continued its eerie wail, drawing the fearful gazes of the townspeople.

If I tell them to run now, they might, but that Screamer would gun them down.

A pair of Skiffs appeared over the southern ridge. They were wide-bellied airships that resembled boats flipped on their decks. They had stubby wings near the aft engines and a second set near the nose, and all along its armored sides were fighting positions for skymarines. A raised platform stuck from the prow, complete with a mounted machine gun. The aft deck had a similar design, though its gun was larger. The skymarines manning the weapons trained them on the villagers, but no one fired.

The first Skiff did a circuit of the village, stopping at three separate points to allow marines to disembark. They slid from ropes tossed over the sides and established positions on every route leading out of town. It deposited two squads on the north end of the valley, and the soldiers spread out through town, beating on each door they passed. Anyone still inside their homes was marched out at gunpoint and ushered toward the square.

Max shared another glance with Drooping Mustache—he’d gone as pale as the clouds.

The second Skiff came to a whining halt at the southern edge of town, extended spidery mooring legs, and settled to the ground. A door near the aft fighting platform creaked open, and a man wearing a gray and white uniform appeared in the hatch. Max was shuffled aside by villagers being herded into the square, and the crowd swept him along before he could spot more than the uniform.

The threadbare blanket he’d wrapped around his shoulders hid his weapons from sight, but he had to take care to keep the townspeople from brushing against him and dislodging his pistols. The walking stick held the press at arm’s length, but the frightened mob pushed Max down the major street and into the square, where the Elders held court.

A loose line of skymarines marched behind, shouting at the villagers to keep them moving. Each man had a long, wicked bayonet affixed to his barrel. They yelled and kicked dirt and thrust with the weapons, herding the townspeople like pigs to the slaughter house.

Max glanced to the west—no sign of Savad or his men. The Screamer circled overhead, emitting its eerie wail. Max allowed the villagers to get past him and into the square, stepping backward so that he ended up near the edge and close to the advancing soldiers.

Their eyes were cold, expressions grim. Even as they shouted orders, their lips twisted with disdain. One of them smacked a man with the butt of his rifle when he didn’t move fast enough, and terrified shouts erupted from the crowd. They flowed away from the Revealers like ants, but the skymarines kept advancing. Max went with the flock, keeping well out of bayonet range.

The greeting party was on its knees on the south end of the square. Each one of them knelt, fingers interlaced behind their heads, eyes making furtive glances in every direction. Harif cowered amongst his retinue, beads of sweat rolling down his face. A bruise swelled his lip, and he wept openly.

A tall, lean man stood in the center of the gathering, protected by a ring of skymarines. He wore a gray and white uniform, complete with polished black boots. He had light skin and brown hair, and his eyes burned with an intensity Max had rarely seen. Captain’s bars shone on his collar, and the patch on his left shoulder with the Hand of the Prime marked him as a Revealer.

“This,” he yelled over the clamor, “is a glorious day!”

The people fell silent, though it took more shouting and a few cracks with rifle butts before the excitement was controlled. The Revealer captain climbed atop the Elders’ table and regarded the crowd with a stiff smile, his hands clasped behind his back. A polished pistol rode in a black leather holster on his belt.

“As I was saying, this is a glorious day.” The captain made a praying gesture. “Your people stand on the precipice of a new age! A golden age for you and everyone you love. The Prime lives and breathes, and he has chosen you for his flock!”

“May he live forever!” shouted the skymarines.

“The Eternity Line advances, as it was always meant to do!” barked the captain, stretching his arms outward as if to embrace the villagers. “All the world will one day fall under His care, but today…today you have the honor. Today, we shall reveal the truth to you.”

The only response was sobbing, mutters, and an uncomfortable shifting in the crowd.

“The Prime lives! He walks and breathes! He exists here, among us, and it has always been so!” The captain spun toward Elder Harif, pointing at him with all five fingers as if his hand were a knife. “Discard the gods of your fathers! Cast aside doubts and irrelevant traditions! The truth is here! Now! And a choice must be made! There is only one god, and we are His messengers! Repent your old ways, discard your superstitions, and be welcomed into His care, into His world.”

Drooping Mustache raised his fist. “Your Prime is a Hexweaver! No god would use the Hex! He would have no need! Your god is false! False, I say!”

Max winced as the crowd went silent. Tension filled the air, but no one dared raise their voice. The captain glared at Drooping Mustache and drew the pistol at his side.

“Behold, the truth.” He cocked back the hammer. “There are no gods, only the Prime!”

Cold as a snake, the Revealer raised his arm and shot Drooping Mustache through the head. The Elder’s body went limp as a rag and crumpled. His retainers, now covered in his blood, threw themselves to the ground, arms covering their heads. A man who’d been behind Mustache fell, hand flying to his chest, and the townsfolk erupted with screams.

Max was jostled back and forth as people tried to flee in every direction. The soldiers standing guard beat at the crowd with the butts of their rifles, and a few shots rang out, prompting more shrieks. It took more examples of violence to get things under control, and a fearful mutter hung over the mob like the whimpers of a frightened dog. Max spotted Harif in the chaos—he was on his knees, blubbering over the corpse of a gray-haired woman in a patterned orange dress.

Max’s heart twinged, despite how much he hated the man. No one deserved to be brutalized, even people like Elder Harif. Clenching his jaw, Max turned and started shouldering through the press. He pretended to be making his way to a downed villager near the northern barricade.

His movements went unnoticed, but he kept a careful eye on the soldiers. They trained their barrels on the villagers in front of them, thrusting forward with every shouted command. A careless trigger pull—or an intentional one—was only a twitch away, and the Revealers were ever hungry for blood.

Max reached the downed villager as the crowd fell into a tense hush. He knelt beside the man and leaned over the body—he was dead, but Max had known that. Still, no one should leave their corpse staring at the sky, so Max covered his face with a discarded hat. Reaching inside the blanket around his shoulders, he undid the clasps holding his weapons in their sheaths.

“Now you see the choice that lies before you!” the captain shouted above the press. His voice was muffled at ground level, absorbed by the fearful bodies standing in the square. “Join us and bask in the light of the Prime, or be cleared away like garbage! All who live within the Eternity Line must accept the truth or be pushed beyond the borders of civilization!”

Max closed his eyes and steadied his breathing. It had been years since he’d burned the Hex for anything more than tricks. At his age, it was easy to burn too much, to pull a deadly amount of that chaos into his body. Every Hexburner paid a price for using the power. Burn for a few seconds, and one might suffer a quick head rush when releasing the Hex. Burning for longer would bring on euphoria and a state like drunkenness. But if a Hexburner overused his powers, he could blow up his heart, cause an aneurysm, or tweak something in his brain that made him fall into a prolonged stupor. Max had seen it all.

“Will anyone else speak against the Prime?” the captain said. “Stand, if you doubt the truth of His existence!”

“I know, damn it,” Max muttered to the stick—the stupid thing always interrupted at the worst times. “I know the risks. If I burn myself out, then so be it.” Max closed his eyes again and re-centered his mind. “I don’t like getting old, anyway. So just shut up.”

Max breathed in and seized the Hex.

“Choose!” called the captain. “If you accept the Prime for the divinity He is, fall to your knees! Beg forgiveness for years of ignorance, for generations of running from the truth!”

Max’s blood boiled with energy, and his muscles felt charged with lightning. He kept his eyes closed—the orange glow would reveal his powers—but his mind picked up every shift in movement around him, and it translated into a blurry cloud of sensations. It wasn’t sight, but an extra sense of the space around his body. Max had always imagined that a spider must feel the same at the center of its web, receiving each twitch of its victim’s dying throes.

“Kneel!” barked the Revealer captain, his words reading in the Hex as an expanding bubble. “Beg! You will be given this chance, and this chance only, to repent the sins of your pasts! Kneel, and be reborn!”

Frightened murmurs ran through the crowd like an electric current. People fell to their knees, dislodging their neighbors in their attempts to surrender. A soldier fired his weapon in the air, eliciting a fresh wave of terrified whimpers from the villagers. The Revealers started screaming—Kneel! Kneel! Kneel!—and threatening anyone too slow to move.

It wouldn’t be long before the gunfire began. Some brave sap would get the idea in their head that defiance was in order, and the Revealers would answer with bullets. Max planted his stick in the dirt and levered himself upright. He felt exposed as he stood, like a solitary tree rooted against a Hex storm.

“You!” snarled a nearby guard. “On your fucking knees!”

Max opened his eyes as the soldier—a square-jawed man with blond hair—reared back to strike with the butt of his rifle. Their gazes met, and the Revealer balked, scrambling backward. He bumped into two of his comrades, grasping at their uniforms in surprise.

“Hey, assholes!” Max tossed his stick at the three of them, turning it sideways. “Hold that for me!”

While the stick was in midair, Max breathed deep from the Hex and burned.

“Hexweav—!” shouted one soldier, but it was all he could utter. The old gnarled walking stick, smart-ass as it was, glowed with an orange haze and zipped at the skymarines with accelerated force. It slammed into them with a loud thwack and bowled them head-over-heels. The crackle of breaking bones accompanied their tumble into the dirt, but Max had no time to survey the aftermath.

He spun to the fourth man as the soldier was drawing aim and grasped the barrel of his gun, jerking it aside. He burned again, imbuing his left fist with energy, and punched the Revealer thug in the face. Max’s hand left a glowing orange trail through the air and hit with a sickening crunch. Blood and teeth sprayed from the soldier’s mouth, and he collapsed in a heap.

Max turned to the terrified, gaping villagers and pointed to the now-unguarded path. “Run! Run for your lives!”

“Hexburner!” shouted the officer, waving to the soldiers in the square.

Max leapt for his walking stick and burned again, zipping toward it with stomach-clenching speed. It had been too long since his last fight, and he overshot the stick by a good meter and a half. He had to scramble back to where it lay and snatch it from the ground as the villagers fled. The intermittent pop—pop-pop of uncertain trigger pulls peppered the square, and the entire mob ran for the unguarded path in mindless fear.

Savad and his boys better be ready.

Max gripped the stick in both hands and hopped upward, burning Hex and sending his body hurtling through the air. He alighted atop the village temple—the tallest building in the valley—and burned more Hex to soften his landing. The rooftop had a spire for cover and overlooked the square, so Max had an excellent view of the chaos.

Revealer soldiers fired into the fleeing crowd, their attacks no longer uncertain. Some sighted down their barrels and popped measured shots at the Awakened Few, their expressions as relaxed as if they were at the firing range. Others attacked with less care, and the rest scanned their surroundings, likely searching for Max. While the villagers on the northern end of the square were sprinting over open ground, those closest to the Revealers were still struggling to free themselves from the press.

With a start, Max recognized Elder Harif in the crowd, his rounded bulk wrestling with one of the Dominion soldiers. A group of younger women and children fled behind him, pushing against the backs of the mob but making no headway. Max spared only a moment to wonder at the man’s bravery before hefting the walking stick.

“Sorry about this,” Max growled as he aimed the staff like a javelin. “I know—I don’t like him either, just keep quiet for once!”

Max threw the stick like a spear from an ancient tale, arcing it toward the soldiers wrestling with Harif. He burned the stick’s momentum, sending it zipping downward, trailing an orange glow in its wake. It connected with a loud crack, and the Revealer crumpled, tugging Harif to the ground with him.

As soon as the stick left his hands, Max drew one of his pistols. The wardscript on the gun burst to light at his touch, and Max could feel the energy contained within the unspent rounds of the magazine. They glowed like thirty little stars to his senses.

Now you bastards will learn why Kinetics are a terror on the battlefield!

“There!” shouted the Revealer captain. He leveled his sidearm at Max. “Atop the temple!”

Max darted toward the spire, seeking cover, but his damned knees gave out with a throb of pain. He sprawled to the roof, barely keeping his pistol in hand, and had to burn some energy to keep sliding. Bullets chewed through the spot where he’d fallen, leaving a trail of splintered wood.

“By the Night!” Max labored himself to a crouch, careful to stay behind the steeple. “It’s been too damned long since I’ve done this.”

Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, Max drew the other pistol.

With an agility that would have impressed even his younger self, Max spun around the edge of the tower and leapt from the rooftop, guns leveled at the square. He burned, sending his body hurtling in a sideways arc. The townspeople were running headlong to the north, pouring out of the village like ants escaping a flood. The soldiers, however, turned their attention to Max.

Rounds zipped past him as he returned fire, the solonite ammunition leaving orange trails through the air. Max burned every round as it came from the barrel. He curved his shots sideways and downed two at a time, sent glowing bullets through objects used as cover, or amplified their vibration to cause maximum pain. For a glorious moment, he was as graceful as a comet burning through the sky.

He smacked into a building with a mind-jarring impact and fumbled the pistol from his left hand. He burned on instinct, directing part of the force away from his body, and plunged through the wall as it shattered in response. Max hit the floor, tumbled across uneven boards, and bounced into a narrow hallway. The landing, despite his ability to shrug off such impacts, was hell on his bones. Had his teeth always vibrated so much in a hard fall?

Max groaned and pushed his body upright. He threw himself to his belly again as bullets zipped through the hole he’d made. They hit the opposite walls in the house with little thwip-thwip noises that raised the hair on the back of Max’s neck. Dust peppered him, and he crawled toward what he hoped was an exit.

The whine of the Screamer’s engine buzzed like a vengeful spirit overhead. There was the rattle of heavy caliber machine guns and an answering scream from the villagers. More bullets zipped through the hole, and Max pushed himself across the floor with a snarl, burning for motion. He slid over the uneven boards, each one smacking against his belly.

He hurtled through a door, breaking it free of its hinges, and flipped as the empty air embraced him. Burning to reverse his motion, he sank his feet into the dirt and leapt upward. A glowing nimbus surrounded him, and he left a trail of light in his wake. Gunfire sounded from the men below, but Max burned harder and flew with greater speed. The wind screamed in his ears, and with the Hex imbuing him, he felt like an angry bolt of lightning. By the absolute grace of chance, he’d kept hold of one Hex-wrought pistol.

The Screamer banked on the south side of the valley, wheeling northward for another pass on the villagers. From Max’s height, the pilot was visible, straddling the frightening machine and stretched to reach the controls in front of him. Max shot at the Screamer, but his gun clicked empty after just three rounds.

The pilot looked up and met Max’s gaze as the bullets came near to hitting his aircraft. His face registered a moment of alarm, but he was deep into his maneuver, and he returned his attention to the controls. Accelerating with a metallic wail, he righted the Screamer and swept low for another strafing run.

Max snarled—he hadn’t been fast enough. His body descended, and he kicked, windmilled, and waved to get moving in a forward direction. It was useless. Max couldn’t fly; he could only agitate energy and redirect force.

Still, he didn’t have to wait. Max burned toward the ground, changing his leisurely fall into a stomach-clenching dive. He hit with enough force to liquefy his bones, but he channeled it into the dirt instead, raising a cloud of dust with a noise like a thunderclap. Leaping again, he hurtled in an arc over the fleeing villagers. Bullets zipped past him, but he was moving too fast for even the luckiest shots to land.

The Screamer descended just ahead, flattening its profile to employ its guns. Max was going faster than the aircraft, and his mad leap would take him over the Screamer’s path. He pulled one of the solonite daggers from its sheath and burned harder, streaking higher into the air. The pilot whipped past underneath, focused on the civilians. Max spread his arms and let the dagger fall, flipping his body in a graceful arc until his feet pointed sunward. The world lurched until the ground was an afterthought—the Screamer was the center of Max’s universe.

Snarling under his breath, Max burned the solonite that was forged into the blade.

The dagger burst alight with an orange glow and zipped away. It left a curving trail of light as it corkscrewed after the Screamer. The aircraft opened fire, and the shrieks of the townspeople came to Max’s ears with the roar of the wind. Focusing on his target, Max burned harder, and the weapon emitted an eerie whistle as it flew.

It struck the pilot without a sound, but Max felt the impact through his senses. The man tumbled from his seat, and the Screamer spun as it buzzed over the heads of the fleeing villagers. It crashed into the trees on the northwestern slope, ripping apart with a metallic clamor.

Max growled in triumph and completed his flip, pointing his feet at the ground. In the air, outside the grim claws of gravity, he felt young again. The Hex roared in his veins, filling him with life. For a fleeting, excited breath, he was his old self, a younger and more confident man. A man without the invisible weight of years holding him down. A man who Max barely resembled, with his graying hair and haunted eyes.

That man was dead—he’d never left the battlefields that had forged him. Only Max remained, and he was but a shade of the man he had been. He’d always known the reason his ghosts kept so doggedly to his heels. He was a ghost himself, and they were calling him home.

Max came down ahead of the villagers, channeling the force of his leap into the dirt. He made a miniature crater where he landed, and for once, his knees didn’t buckle. Burning a whisper of Hex to lift himself from the hole, he hopped to the lip of the pit and leapt southward, back toward the village. The fleeing townspeople screamed as he zipped overhead, but Max only replied with more shouts to keep going.

The hair-raising tickle of air and the thwip-thwip of near-misses peppered the space around him. Max drew his arm over his face in an instinctual movement and burned for the sloped rooftops in town. His ears filled with the roar of rushing wind, and more bullets whizzed by his head. He sent his force downward as he hit the roof of an abandoned home, breaking through in a shower of splinters and noise. His body tumbled into the rooms below, and he landed on a rough mattress, shattering the bedframe and collapsing the wooden floor.

He bounced into the bedroom wall, and while his Hex burn absorbed the blow, it jarred his pistol loose from his hand. Max cursed as he came down, his feet scrambling for purchase along the collapsed boards. He lurched to his gun and recovered it, dropping the empty magazine while marveling that his fingers still remembered the motions. Bullets tore through the building while he pawed at his harness, and one of them grazed a searing path across Max’s right forearm. He yelped in pain—his hands had damn sure forgotten that sensation—and rolled into the depression he’d made in the floor. The walls thwacked with the impacts of enemy fire, but Max was below the danger line.

“Stupid old man,” he muttered, whipping a second magazine of solonite jacketed rounds from its pouch and loading it into the well. He chambered a round and rolled to his knees, careful to keep his head low. “You should have died years ago.”

He grimaced as he examined the graze on his arm—a streak of burnt pink flesh welling with blood. It was bright and red against his sweaty brown skin, but it wasn’t debilitating. It might bleed onto the fingers of his firing hand, but that was all.

“Already burned enough Hex that you’re the least of my concerns,” Max muttered to the wound. He ducked as a round whipped through the window and struck the mattress, sending a cloud of stuffing into the air. Cursing, Max crawled to the edge of the depression on his belly.

Voices yelled outside the building—a fire team readying to breach the entrance. Max rolled over and gathered his sore body into another crouch, suppressing a pained growl. He kept his head low, scrambling from the bedroom and down a short hallway. The corridor opened into a large sitting room with a bar separating it from the kitchen. A flimsy wooden door led to the front yard, and a pair of tall, thin windows flanked the exit. Forms in gray uniforms assembled on the other side, weapons held ready.

Max straightened, doing his best to ignore the knee-buckling twinge of pain in his lower back. He growled, using the wall to stay upright, and pushed himself to a standing position. The fire team leader called a command outside, but Max heard only muffles over the sound of his beating heart. He took a deep breath, kissed the barrel of his gun, and dashed through the sitting room.

Max took two powerful steps and leapt at the door, burning hard.

He hit with his legs extended, directing his force straight through the opening. The feeble barrier snapped from its hinges and hurtled outward, Max pushing it with his feet. His burn kept him moving, and he plowed through the soldiers, scattering them with impacts powerful enough to crack the wood under Max’s boots. The door tilted toward the ground as the energy was expended, and Max pushed off, righting his body and burning for the sky.

He fired careful shots at the breaching team as he rose through the air, burning the solonite rounds with more focus. They zipped through their targets in orange flashes of light, curving to reach the Revealers from impossible angles. The squad was down after just six bullets, but Max’s senses spiked with alarm as a large shadow flashed in his periphery.

A Skiff banked over the village in a lumbering turn, both gun platforms trained in Max’s direction. Max burned toward the ground, his throat tightening, but it was too late. The roar of heavy gunfire split the air. A terrible burst of light and noise erupted from nearby, and Max was sent tumbling.

His body burned of its own accord, forcing energy outward the way a child pulls their hand from a hot surface. The world twisted and flipped until it was nothing but dark blurs and flashes of empty sky. The grass met him with an impact like a thunderclap, and his skull filled with invisible stuffing.

Dirt pattered to the ground as Max blinked his eyes. He lay in a wide crater, Hex turning his veins to rivers of flame. His bones ached like he’d picked a fight with a vengeful staircase. He rolled to his side, searching the displaced earth for his pistol. It was gone.

“What in the Night did they hit me with?” Max coughed into the crook of his arm as he struggled upright, leaving bright red droplets on the fabric of his shirt. He grimaced—the Hex was already affecting him. He was too damned old to burn so much, too tired to be crawling out of a dirt crater of his own making. He was too cynical to give a damn about a bunch of people who wouldn’t spit on him if he was burning. “You should have been gone a long time ago, you surly old shit.”

He uttered a grim laugh as he drew his remaining dagger. The stick would have loved to see him like this. It would have had a litany of inane commentary.

Gathering his intestinal fortitude, Max crawled from the hole and stood. The Revealer captain, who had been advancing on him with another fire team for support, halted and leveled his pistol at Max. The soldiers spread out behind their officer in a semicircle, training their rifles on Max. Max smirked at the captain and indicated the dagger with a shrug. The Skiff circled overhead, keeping its guns pointed at the square.

Your move, asshole.

“I read of you in the report, Hexweaver.” The captain gestured with his pistol, pointing the barrel over Max’s body like a grim measuring tool. “Captain Raush’s scouts said you were just a crazy old veteran. They mentioned nothing about you being a Hexburner.”

Most of the villagers were gone, having fled up the mountain path. Max spared a glance in their direction, wincing at the bodies that lay on the trail. He hadn’t saved them all, but at least some had escaped. If he ended here in a hail of bullets, he could die with that knowledge.

And he’d pissed off the Revealers, which was always worth doing.

Max shrugged at the captain. “Shall we get this over with, or you plan to keep flapping your gums?”

“Drop the weapon and give yourself up.” The Revealer captain straightened his arm, pointing his barrel at Max’s forehead. “Or don’t—to tell the truth, I much prefer to—”

The captain’s head exploded in a cloud of blood and bone, and his body went limp. The thwip of passing bullets followed the distant pop of gunfire, and two more Revealers fell to the ground. Max was so dumbfounded that he stood, gaping, while more rounds zipped past him. When his wits asserted themselves, he cursed and darted for a nearby building, burning to get clear of the danger.

Savad and his lads! They got into position!

Max took a moment behind the cover of a wall to catch his breath. His heart beat into his ears, and his veins blazed with energy that his body struggled to contain. But he clutched to the Hex, breathing deeper from the chaotic force. He was well past the point of letting it go.

Grasping his remaining dagger, Max ripped a pouch of coins free from his harness. With the Hex roaring inside, he stalked back around the side of the building. The bodies of Dominion soldiers were scattered amongst the dead villagers, but not enough to make a difference. More Revealers crouched at the corners of walls or lay prone on rooftops, squinting at the western slopes and trying to decide where to shoot. Now and then, one fell to a distant shot or huddled further into cover when a near miss tickled an exposed extremity.

Max tossed a coin into the air and burned the small lump of metal, sending it zinging through a pair of soldiers crouching in the shadow of a nearby house. He sent another coin through the skull of a rifleman lying on a rooftop, curving it sideways so it ripped through his buddy, too. Another soldier, clued to the danger, spotted Max and returned fire, forcing him to jump aside. Bullets thumped into the ground just behind him, but Max soared out of their range and tossed three coins back in response. They flew straight through the corner of a building, bursting through the wood with splintery explosions, and hit their targets with meaty thumps.

“Back to the Skiff!” barked one of the Revealers. “Retreat!”

Max grinned, a surge of hope warming his chest. He threw coins at retreating skymarines, downing them one by one, as they ran for the safety of their transport. The Revealers didn’t flee like a terrified mob, much to Max’s displeasure. They were trained soldiers, and they formed a rear guard with alacrity. The men fell back in teams, their comrades firing at Max in controlled bursts and forcing him to seek cover.

A sharp lance of pain burned through Max’s right hand, and he stumbled just as he’d turned to run. The misstep cost him, and another round ripped through his left thigh, turning the whole damned leg to jelly. With a startled cry, Max pitched to the dirt. He got blood on his cheeks when he raised his hands during the fall—his right palm was mangled and bleeding with gusto. He tried to clench his fingers and couldn’t, growled as the attempt made the wound throb, and then cowered as bullets peppered the ground next to him.

Max struggled to crawl, but his leg protested with a dull pain of its own. It still worked, by the Night, but it was agony to get his body moving. Max burned the Hex, pushing off with his toes, and slid across the dirt like a tumbling stone. He hit a few bodies on his way, throwing him into a haphazard spin, and lost every one of his weapons. His harness snapped loose, and he finally landed in the crater he’d made earlier.

Max had time to emit a pained groan before the whine of the airborne Skiff circled overhead. A muted thonk puffed from the transport, and the ground beside the hole erupted with a flash. Max rolled aside to cover his face, but all that hit him was a shower of dirt. The buzz of the Skiff’s rotors receded, though the rising tone of its engines suggested it was banking into a turn.

“Stupid fucking thing,” Max muttered as he rolled to his back and checked his leg—he was shot through the thigh, and the wound had already soaked his pants with blood. “Did they have to bring a damned grenade launcher? Bloody unfair.”

He continued to curse as he undid his belt clasp. The harness was destroyed, his weapons scattered, so he had no use for it anymore. He shook the shoulder straps loose and fashioned them into a makeshift tourniquet, growling with pain as he tightened it above the wound. It was especially difficult with one hand, but the buckle made the motions manageable.

Max had just finished and was taking a breath when Savad appeared at the crater’s edge.

“He’s here!” the lad shouted, waving to someone behind him. “Hurry!”

Two more boys slid into the depression, oblivious of the smoking hole left by the explosive round, and grasped Max under his arms. They hauled him up before he could protest, dragging him up the side of the crater with his heels in the dirt. Max cursed and tried kicking his feet to stand, but the tourniquet made his left leg as numb as wood.

The walking stick would have loved that one.

“You shouldn’t have come down here!” Max growled as they dragged him over the ground. “You were supposed to stay in the hills!”

“And what—you plan on walking out of this valley yourself?” Savad scoffed, jogging behind the two boys who carried Max. His hands clutched to his rifle, eyes darting left and right. “You’re wounded! The soldiers are running away! They’re hopping on that…thing…that brought them here!”

“That’s not good, damn it!” Max snarled, trying to wrestle his arm free without success. He thought of burning to get the lad to release him, but that would topple everyone to the ground. “Run faster!”

“How is this not a victory?” Savad shook his rifle with every word. “We won! They’re retreating!”

“If they make it back to their fleet, they’ll report what happened here!” Max grimaced—the boys’ grip under his arms was painful. “They won’t send a company of Revealers this time! They’ll send more Screamers! Maybe a Hexburner of their own, or a damned Coldeye!”

“But…the villagers fled!” Savad frowned, anger furrowing his brows. “We killed people! And you’re telling me it was for nothing?”

“We have to get them all, Savad!” Max growled. “Or stop them from returning! We have to take out those—”

A shadow flashed overhead, and the Skiff appeared over the nearby rooftops. Max tried to call a warning, but he was too slow. A distant thwomp coughed from the Skiff, and the air transformed into searing flame and deafening noise. Max burned instinctively, using the Hex to protect his body, but he didn’t have the capacity to absorb the full force of the explosion. He registered a blinding moment of light, a breath of darkness, a sound like knives boring into his eardrums, and finally an impact that filled his mouth with dirt.

Max groaned, raising his head from the ground, and spat a mouthful of blood. His body shook, and a wave of vertigo threatened to upend his stomach. He sucked deep breaths of air, hoping to clear the haze from his mind. All it brought was a thick, acidic taste as he breathed in the vapors from the blast. Coughing, he spat more blood and steadied himself.

“Savad!” Max’s voice came out as a croak, and he cleared his throat. “Savad!”

A coughing gurgle sounded nearby—a wet, choking attempt to call Max’s name.

“Savad!”

Max lumbered to his feet, powered only by dread and the Hex still burning inside him. He couldn’t put any weight on his left leg, so he stumbled through the murk until he found a form lying on the ground. It wasn’t Savad, but one of his men. Only his torso, wrapped in dirty clothing, remained. The boy stared at the sky, his eyes milky and gray.

“Max!” came another insistent cough.

Max followed the noise through the fading smoke, lurching with more desperation. He found Savad lying on his back. The grenade had taken both his legs, and a piece of shattered wood poked from his chest. He sputtered, gaping at the sight of Max and his lack of injuries.

Fighting a sickening surge of despair, Max fell to his knees beside the boy. Savad gave Max a bewildered look. His mouth worked to speak, but his lungs wouldn’t cooperate. Savad’s hand came up and grasped Max’s collar, drawing him close. Max steadied his expression and met Savad’s eyes—he deserved that much.

“My soul,” Savad hissed, forcing the words through the blood filling his chest, “will rise…through the storm!”

Max just nodded, holding his breath against a lump in his throat. Savad tried to say something else, but the effort proved too difficult for him. It was never pretty when a soldier was killed on the battlefield, and even less so when they were so Night-forsaken young. Max waited with Savad until the end, grasping his hand through the agony of his final moments. He died ugly, and Max watched every second, absorbed every painful detail.

When he stood, the sounds of the other transport starting its engines seemed a ghostly thing. The world felt closer to an unseen veil, as if Max had passed nearer to death by courting it. He stared down at Savad’s sightless eyes, his hand throbbing.

No sense in wrapping the wound now.

Two of Savad’s militia ran into the smoke, but machine gun fire from one of the departing Skiffs drove them away. Max stood amidst the falling bullets, staring at Savad’s face. He’d died with a terrified, pained expression. It wasn’t fair—he’d been abandoned by the people who should have treasured him, and he’d perished, choking in the dirt, to buy those same fools extra time to flee.

It seemed a vulgar sacrifice in the grand scheme of things. Against the Prime and his ever-advancing Eternity Line, the never-ending war that scarred even this secluded, idyllic landscape, and the designs of powerful people who would never know Max or Savad or anyone who died in this nameless valley…it felt so wasteful. It was hard to tell whether the bitter taste in Max’s mouth was due to the blood or his fury, but it was there, all the same.

He barely heard the other lads from Savad’s militia crying over his body. When they turned to him for orders, shuffling about with bewildered expressions, all Max could do was stare at the departing Skiffs. Once they flew over the southern ridgeline, there would be no catching them.

“We can’t let him die in vain.” Max spun to the closest lad and grabbed him by the shoulder. “Take the rest of the boys and go.”

“But—”

“Listen, damn you!” Max clutched the youth’s shirt in an angry grip, shaking him until he stopped pulling away. “There’s nothing you can do here. If those Skiffs report back to their command, your skies will be full of Screamers. I can buy you a day, maybe, but I need to go now. And so do you.”

The young man—Max couldn’t remember his name—glanced to Savad’s body. “But…aren’t you coming with us?”

“I’m done running, kid. I told you before.”

Max glanced around the ruined village square, scanning the smoking holes, the wrecked homes, and the bodies lying forgotten in the dirt. He spotted a large, white-robed corpse, its back riddled with bloody holes. Grimacing, Max trudged over and bent to examine the face—it was Elder Harif.

The stick rested nearby, and Max retrieved it from atop the body of a Dominion soldier. His chest had a single bullet wound with singed edges, and though Max had no love for the Revealed Dominion, he winced to see the results of his own handiwork. Sharing a grim look with the walking stick, he limped to Savad’s crew.

“Here,” he said, tossing the oldest boy his walking stick. “Take care of that, will you? He’s a smart-ass, but he’s tolerable on most days. Just…take care of it.”

Max swallowed that insistent lump in his throat and turned away, peering at the sky.

“Wait!” the kid said. “What about the villagers? They won’t listen to us without you!”

“They won’t thank you for what you did here today, either.” Max was unable to keep the anger out of his voice. “But we didn’t do it so they’d accept us or give us thanks, did we? Doesn’t matter what they want, kid. You get your asses into those hills and head north. Watch each other’s backs. Do your part to see that Savad didn’t die for nothing. I’ll do mine.”

The lad set his jaw and nodded.

Max released him, and he started shouting orders. He and the others moved through the debris, checking for wounded and supplies. Max forced himself to stop watching—they’d have to make their own way now.

Focusing on the distant Skiffs, Max leapt into the air on his one good leg and burned hard for the mountains.

* * * *

The air roared in Max’s ears and pushed his hair back against his head. The Hex raged inside him, filling his body with so much energy that it seemed he should burst into flames. An orange nimbus surrounded him, brightening every time he burned for more speed, and his senses were full of lightning.

His path took him on a curving arc over the mountains, and they spread like a folded blanket of evergreen valleys and snowy peaks beneath him. Max would have marveled at the sight when he was younger, playing in the sky as all youthful Kinetics were wont to do. But he had no time for sightseeing, and his excitement was as dead as his former self.

The Skiffs flew meters below him, banking into a wide eastern turn as they crested the southern ridge line of the valley. Max allowed his burn to fade for a second, sensing the point in his fall when he was traveling more forward than up, and burned harder in that direction. The wind tore at his clothing as he poured on the speed, hurtling high over the Skiffs as they completed their maneuver.

From above, the slow-moving aircraft resembled the boats for which they were named. They had curved prows and flat sterns with armored sides, but the tops of Dominion Skiffs were open to the sky. They were designed to be mobile fighting platforms and troop carriers more than attack ships, and they had trouble navigating the wind currents in the mountain passes.

The rearmost craft was full of soldiers, some lying wounded on the deck. One spotted Max and called his friends to arms. Others ran to man the guns, which they’d likely abandoned once they thought they were out of danger.

“Big fucking mistake!” Max growled, burning downward at a frightening speed.

He screamed through the air, glowing like an orange comet. The deck of the Skiff rushed up to meet him, and Max channeled the force of his dive into the machine as he landed. A wave of crackling energy spread outward from his impact point, causing the ship to rattle and vibrate.

An engine burst with a muted thwomp, tearing itself apart as it was shaken to pieces. The rotors shot free of their bolts and ripped through the nearby soldiers, taking them down with cries of terror and the scream of shearing metal. Armored plates blew outward from the hull, tumbling as the wind embraced them.

The tourniquet on Max’s thigh snapped.

Max pushed off from the deck, burning more Hex to reduce his weight. He lifted from the Skiff, its momentum carrying it forward while he floated above. The rear-mounted gun passed under his heels, and Max kicked from the barrel with his good leg, burning to add power to the blow. It was tough to counteract the force from the remaining engine and the float-matrix in the Skiff’s hull, but Max channeled a river of energy, heedless of the effect it would have on his body. With the damage sustained in Max’s landing, the powerful Hex-burn was too much for the floundering aircraft. Treetops smacked into the bottom of the ship, and she went down in the forest, leaving a debris-littered ditch in her wake.

Max burned to gain altitude, but he was still moving forward, having absorbed the ship’s momentum. Blood pattered into his face—droplets from his leg wound caught in his motion-burn and floating around him. His thigh stung, but he couldn’t worry about the bleeding.

The second Skiff was ahead, banking to follow the contour of the mountain pass. Max growled in frustration—he’d need to push off again to pursue the ship, as his own path was taking him toward a peak at a greater speed than he’d realized. His leg ached, and a moment of vertigo washed through his body before he controlled it with a few deep breaths.

Losing too much blood. Not long until I’m dead, no matter how hard I burn.

There was no sense in worrying. The tourniquet was gone, and he couldn’t fashion a new one. The realization brought no dread or surprise, just more resignation.

Max burned harder for the approaching mountainside, meeting it feet-first and pushing off like a swimmer changing directions. He channeled the force of his flight into the rock and leapt with all his dwindling strength toward the distant Skiff. Teeth clenched against the pain in his thigh, he burned more Hex than he’d ever pulled before and streaked after the fleeing craft. Everything turned a bright shade of orange, and the glow from his body reflected from the treetops. He was lit up like a miniature star, leaving a trail of light and shimmering electricity in his wake.

Bullets whipped past him as he neared the Skiff. Max was struck on his right shoulder, and the impact sent him into a spin in the last moments of his flight. He hit the deck with another instinctive burn, the force he’d meant to channel into the ship now protecting him from the fall.

His arm was limp after the bullet strike—he bounced over the appendage like it was a useless sausage pinned to his body, and he didn’t feel one tickle from the impact. He smacked into a soldier, and they fell into a confused pile of pain and twisted limbs. The man growled and kicked as he tried to extricate himself, and only Max’s internal Hex-burn protected his ribs from breaking.

Max tried to wrestle his own body upright, but the younger man had more muscle and vigor. He heaved Max to the ground and punched him in the side before scrambling away. Max’s leg sent a shock of pain all the way up his back, and he yelped in a moment of weakness. Dizziness overwhelmed his stomach, and his hesitation allowed the soldiers to get their bearings. One rushed forward and kicked Max in the gut, making him sputter and heave.

Another skymarine delivered a boot to Max’s face, and his vision blurred. He held to the Hex, clutching it with his mental fingers like a man holding a branch in a flood. If he lost his connection, his body would flag, bringing the fight to its end. He curled into a fetal position, weathering the repeated blows until someone started shouting commands.

“Get back, damn you!” a voice barked over the excitement. “Kill him before—”

Max kicked at the soldiers’ legs and got lucky, connecting with an ankle. He burned the man’s momentum as he fell, and the bastard smacked into the deck with a wet crunch. His skull split like a dropped melon.

“Move!” the voice commanded again, and the skymarines scrambled away.

Max struggled to his feet, powering through the pain in his lower back, and wavered as he stood. His head felt like a balloon attached to his shoulders by a string, and his limbs quivered with exhaustion. He couldn’t feel his right arm beyond a dull sensation of its presence and the sting of his wounds, and it barely responded when he tried to move. His leg was soaked in the blood from his bullet wound, and every halting step was damp and sticky.

The soldiers backed away, some training rifles in his direction. Max grinned, showing the Dominion bastards his teeth. He lurched toward the closest one, burning more Hex to stay upright and reaching with all his flagging muscles for the soldier’s arm. Moving inanimate objects was easy for Kinetics, but the inherent energy in the human body resisted manipulation by Hexweavers. It took more power to move a person, and Max had to touch them first. All he needed was the slightest contact.

He was airborne for a glorious second before invisible lances jabbed into his torso. They hit him from three directions—quick little punches that barely hurt going in. The pain always came in the moments after, when you realized you were hit. Instead of flying into the soldier in front of him, Max dropped to the deck of the Skiff.

His torso felt impaled by impossibly long sewing needles. He landed on his belly, struggling to breathe. The job of flipping himself over almost defeated him. It took a monumental effort from his one good arm—his hips weren’t cooperating—and a series of sharp, shallow breaths, but he finally accomplished it. The sky greeted his orange-tinted sight as he collapsed on his back, and Max let out a breath in triumph. It came out wet and bloody, and caused an agonizing coughing fit.

Max raised his head. The marines stood in a semicircle. Some pointed weapons at him, but the others only stared. Max laughed for no good reason, which brought on more bloody coughing, and tried to struggle to his feet.

Some stupid asshole shot him again, this time sending a round straight into his gut. Max crumpled with a wordless cry—he could feel the bullet lodged inside him, hot and excruciating. It made breathing even more difficult, and darkness crept to the edge of Max’s sight. His heart thundered in his ears, beating harder than it ever had.

His medal laid nearby, fallen from his pocket during the struggle. Max clenched his teeth and reached, but a booted foot crushed his hand to the deck before he could touch it. His hopes of burning the solonite in its center and using it as a weapon burst into a million pieces.

The soldier leveled a pistol at Max’s face, his expression full of anger. “You killed three of my friends. I would know your name before I return your gifts to the Prime.”

Max sputtered as he laughed—the fools believed all Hexweavers got their powers from their mad god, which was about as crazy as believing the Hex was tainted. The soldier didn’t enjoy the joke—he pressed the gun closer to Max’s face, as if the proximity mattered one whit.

“Your name!”

Max grinned, showing the man his bloody teeth, but he said nothing. He laid his head against the deck, looking at the sky. It would be a sight more welcome than the barrel of an enemy’s gun. The clouds beckoned to him, and he laughed again, thinking of Savad.

The soldier leaned down and backhanded Max with the pistol, sending more stars dancing through his vision. It was hard to tell if the strike had damaged anything serious with the blood already filling his mouth. The pain seemed muted and distant, like the clouds rolling past him in the sky. Max blinked his eyes after his sight cleared, and they alighted on the aft deck, where a massive machine gun was mounted on a stand.

Not a machine gun—that damned grenade launcher.

Max followed the mount to the base of the weapon, where three ammo boxes, larger than those needed for small arms, rested on the platform. It took a moment for the significance to sink through his thickening wits, but by the time the Revealer pressed the pistol to Max’s temple, he was grinning ear to ear.

“Your name, I said!” the soldier growled, grinding the barrel into Max’s head until the pressure was painful. “And what is so damned funny? Keep laughing, and I’ll make this harder than it needs to be. Give me your name, and I’ll make it quick. Painless.”

Painless—now that’s funny.

“Do…what you want…to my body!” Max hissed through his teeth. “My soul will rise…through the storm!”

The soldier scoffed and straightened, shaking his head. He extended his firing arm, bringing the barrel in line with Max’s eyes. Max stared into its depths, but he didn’t brace himself for the end. At this range, there was no hope of curving the bullet away from him, and no Kinetic on the planet could resist the force of a round entering their skull. It was impossible.

But Max could burn a slight measure of thermal energy. He couldn’t ignite a house, but smoldering a campfire was a different story. He reached toward the distant box of grenades, struggling to spark the munitions. Thermal energy didn’t respond to him the way kinetic energy did, and burning even a trickle of Hex into heat was an effort equal to lifting a concrete block.

“Die then, nameless and alone,” said the skymarine. His gun arm straightened, his eyes narrowing as he aimed in the second before firing. Max braced for the impact, wondering how it would feel when the bullet landed. Would it hurt, or would everything just go dark?

A brilliant flash and a sharp concussion rattled Max’s entire body. One moment, he was staring down the barrel of his own demise, and the next, nothing remained except a tinny ringing in Max’s ears. Even the wind ruffling his bloody clothes felt distant.

The world started spinning, blue sky and jagged peaks flashing past him in a blur. The Skiff appeared in chaotic glances, burning as it fell. Pieces littered the air surrounding Max, tumbling toward the ground like escorts on his final journey. Max would have spread his arms and burned if he had the fortitude, but his body felt foreign and heavy. As his strength ebbed, he released the Hex.

The rush of drunken giddiness that came in its wake made him feel as if he were floating. Regrets bled away as Max fell Nightward, surrounded by bodies and wreckage. The wind embraced him like an old friend, and he entertained a final surge of excitement at having danced with her again. If spirits awaited him on the other side, then so be it—he’d done what he could, and he’d face them with pride.

In the windy moments before impact, peace finally found him.

D.W. Hawkins haunts the badlands of southern Arizona and Sonora, Mexico. Sightings in the wild are rare, and this creature should be approached with caution. If you insist on pursuing this dangerous animal, you can find out more about him by visiting his website.

You can also follow him on Facebook, Instagram, BookBub, and YouTube.

ONE LAST BREATH

By Andy Peloquin

“Legends never die. Their body may leave this earth, but the example lives on forever. The inspiration lives on forever. The spirit lives on forever. The legacy lives on forever.”

One last sculpture. Dumont had begun to regret his promise to Alderman Sellaire more with each day that passed.

He could no longer swing his mallet with the same vigor he once had. Every movement of his arm sent pain—like shards of glass grinding against his bone—flaring through his shoulder and elbow. His age-gnarled hands ached with each impact of hammer against chisel. His strength waned faster than ever, until he could only put in an hour, perhaps two, of work before his weary body demanded rest.

A younger, spryer Dumont would have looked on in horror at the withered husk of a man who sat working on the creaking wooden scaffolding. The white in his hair and beard were not solely the work of the marble dust flying from beneath his chisel’s edge, and the lines of his face put those he etched into the block of stone to shame. Even the steady tap, tap, tap of his sculptor’s tools no longer echoed with the precision and confidence that had made the name Dumont of Doudràc renowned around Nysl—and, to hear Fabien tell it, beyond.

But Dumont had committed to the work, and so, work he did. Slowly, every hour feeling more laborious than the last. Yet day by day, the hundred-foot-tall sculpture took shape.

Dumont leaned back and examined his latest alteration. The nose wasn’t quite right. Too long and pointed at the tip. Frowning, he leaned forward and tapped hammer gently to chisel, careful not to gouge or chip the stone.

Once, such a task would have been easy. He’d taken to the stonemason’s hammer far more easily than he’d learned the sword and shield. But with the passage of time, even the smaller exertions grew more difficult. Swordsman knew his life had been challenging enough before dotage had settled like a stifling blanket about him.

“Master Dumont, sir?” A young man’s voice drifted up from the ground. “It’s time for the noon meal, sir.”

Dumont gave one final tap of the hammer and examined his handiwork. Better. The slight rounding at the tip of the nose, with the merest hint of a groove that accentuated her full mouth. That was how she’d looked.

A faint smile ghosted across his dust-covered lips. Victoire would have hated it. He, however, found it oddly reassuring, seeing that face staring back at him from the marble.

“Sir?” The youth’s voice came again.

“Coming, coming.” Dumont kept the irritation from his voice with effort. Victoire had always scolded him for allowing his work to consume him. Told him he ought to look after his health in equal measure to his art. But this wasn’t that. He’d had to finish this one detail—after his meal, sparse as it was, he would need rest before resuming. And he had to make sure the nose was just right before his strength flagged.

Everything had to be perfect, if it was to be his last sculpture.

With a sigh, he set down his hammer and chisel and turned away from the pristine white face regarding him through stone eyes both gentle and kind. He’d spent nearly a week on the eyes, but it was worth it. They were just as he wanted them—just as he remembered them.

Glancing down, he found a well-muscled, dark-haired young man staring up at him with worry etched into his heavy brow.

“There is only one thing worthy of pulling me away from this work today, Balegar,” Dumont said, his voice stern and his eyes narrowing. “Unless you have it—”

The brawny youth grinned and hefted a small white cloth sack. “Fresh out of Master Aubert’s ovens.”

Dumont nodded approval. “Good lad. Now help me down from here.”

With effort, he heaved his body off the scaffolding and onto the wheeled board that had been his only mode of transportation for the past four decades—ever since an Eirdkilr axe had taken his right leg off at the thigh and infection had claimed the left. The exertion left him more exhausted than he cared to admit to Balegar—or himself. The simple act of lifting his legless torso a hand’s breadth off the scaffolding taxed his weary muscles and sent sharp, stabbing pain through his crystallized joints.

Once situated, Dumont scooted his way toward the pulley lift Fabien had built for him. The wheels underneath his board needed grease desperately; they squeaked and whined relentlessly. He’d have Balegar see to the task while he ate. The youth had no skill with a hammer and chisel, but Dumont had other uses for the apprentice.

“Ready,” he called down to Balegar. With a nod, the young man hauled on the rope and began lowering the lift upon which Dumont sat.

As he descended, Dumont inspected the details he’d already finished: the long, graceful neck, which tapered into slim shoulders; the unfinished chest, where a specially shaped lump of marble waited for him to put the final touch to her sternum; the unadorned gown he’d spent hours chiseling to perfection, cutting it just low enough at the neckline to draw the eye without spoiling the maiden-like purity of the knee-length fabric. He was proud of that fabric, of the life he’d imbued it with, as if the stone itself flowed in the breeze. He’d had to make the statue’s calves and ankles slightly thicker than he’d wanted—necessary to achieve a sturdy base—but he suspected Victoire wouldn’t mind. She’d never cared much for her appearance. Which, in its own way, had made her even more beautiful to him.

When the pulley lift settled on the dust-littered ground, Dumont wheeled his board toward the small wooden bench placed ten paces away from the statue. A craftsman couldn’t merely examine their work up close; stepping back to the perspective of those who would pass it daily enabled him to spot any imperfections.

He was tempted to wait for Balegar—the young man’s thick muscles would lift Dumont far more easily than Dumont could lift himself—but his Legion-bred stubbornness won out, as always. With effort, he hauled his body up onto the bench and sank back against the warm, smooth wood with a sigh of relief.

While Dumont relaxed, Balegar set to work unpacking the midday meal. He was a big lad—at fourteen, he already towered head and shoulders over most men in Doudràc—and moved with exaggerated caution, as if afraid of his own prodigious strength. Dumont liked the young man’s gentle nature; indeed, it was that temperament that had convinced him to take Balegar on as apprentice. Well, that and the promise he’d made to Victoire to look after her sister’s only son. Without a father—at least none Victoire had ever named to him—they were the only family Balegar had.

“I heard Alderman Sellaire is stopping by to see your progress, sir.” Balegar settled on the bench next to Dumont and handed him a chunk of fresh-baked rosemary bread filled with soft goat’s cheese and roasted garlic and peppercorn paste. “I think he’ll be pleased that the face is nearly finished.”

Dumont took the food without a word and lifted his gaze to the marble statue. Sunlight set the pristine white stone gleaming, and the passing wind seemed to ruffle the woman’s gauzy gown. It was a masterpiece, even he had to admit as much.

But the face…it wasn’t quite right. Not yet. He studied it more closely. He was satisfied with the nose and eyes, but the mouth needed more work. Those full lips didn’t quite capture the vivacious, mischievous humor that had always danced across Victoire’s face.

“And if he’s not,” Dumont said wryly, “he knew what he was getting when he asked me to carve the statue.” He looked to Balegar. “Best lesson I can teach you, lad. Better than how to swing a hammer or spot cracks in the stone. Always work until the job’s done right. Never settle for anything less than your best.”

“Yes, sir.” The young man took a bite of his bread and chewed, his expression solemn. He took everything Dumont said with great seriousness. As well he should. Dumont had a vast amount of life experience and no one else with whom to share it. Not since Victoire had gone to the Long Keeper’s arms.

Dumont also bit into the meal and was rewarded with a mouthful of Master Aubert’s finest flavors. Years spent eating Legion-standard hardtack, gruel, and dried rations had given Dumont an appreciation for a well-prepared meal. Nothing could ever compare with Victoire’s cooking, but even she had admitted no one in Doudràc could bake a loaf quite as well as Master Aubert.

For long minutes, he and Balegar sat eating in silence, an island of calm amidst the midday hustle and bustle. Ox carts, horse-drawn wagons, and hand-barrows flowed in and out of the city’s gates just twenty paces behind him, rumbling up the east-bound street to Doudràc’s marketplace or clopping merrily west toward the main square and city hall. The dull drone of conversation echoed all around Dumont, the sound oddly peaceful. When on the scaffold, the world faded, drowned out by his single-minded focus on the stone. But it was in moments like this that he was reminded that life still went on.

Not his life, certainly. That had ended the day Victoire had breathed her last, lying in bed next to him. He’d pleaded to the Long Keeper to take him, too, so they could be together in the Sleepless Lands. But when the sun had risen, he still lived.

The world had continued turning no matter how long he shut himself within his cottage. He’d refused every patron, dismissed every request, even from Princeps Gaspard, telling himself he could not create when the only thing he’d loved in this world had withered before him.

But this was his chance. He’d known it the moment Alderman Sellaire had come asking him to sculpt the Maiden, goddess of purity, devotion, and festivities. A chance to live one last time, to create one last work of art, and to forever commemorate Victoire.

“Master Dumont!”

The sharp nasal voice cut into Dumont’s thoughts and banished what little appetite he’d possessed. A moment later, the man to whom the voice belonged strode down the west-bound street, cane tap-tapping on the cobblestones and the permanent scowl twisting his thin lips.

“Alderman,” Dumont said, inclining his head with what little respect he could muster. He’d served under great officers and grand generals—men like Commander Dyrund and General Traighan of the Princelands, Captain Thibaut, even Princeps Gaspard for a few short weeks—and suffered beneath the scorn and disdain of arrogant, universally despised superiors. Sellaire, Alderman of Doudràc, didn’t quite muster the same hatred as Sergeant LeMathieu, Dumont’s first drill sergeant, but he fell far short of great or even good.

Alderman Sellaire leaned heavily on a silver-handled cane, an affectation for which he had no need, believing it, like the gold-buttoned black frock he always wore, gave him a distinguished air. Like most in Doudràc, Dumont simply thought it added to the man’s paunch and accentuated his jowled chins, ruddy feature, and round nose.

More than once, Dumont had contemplated carving Sellaire into a sculpture of Garridos the Apprentice, the rotund god of coin and ventures. Point of fact, that notion had given rise to his idea to use Victoire’s features in his current masterpiece.

Alderman Sellaire came to stand in front of Dumont, attempting to loom large as he stared down at the sculptor. The effect was ruined by Balegar’s enormous height—even seated, the young man was nearly as tall as the Alderman.

“Well?” Sellaire demanded.

“Well,” Dumont said, his tone calm. He added no more, simply met the Alderman’s gaze.

Sellaire’s scowl deepened. “Let me guess.” He folded his hands across the silver handle of his cane, his tone dripping irritation and haughty disdain. “You’re going to tell me it’s not yet finished. Again.”

“Your guess would be correct.” Dumont kept all trace of emotion from his voice. “It is not yet finished.”

“Why the fiery hell not?” the Alderman snapped. “I told you last week that I needed it completed yesterday. Just as I told you the same the week before, and the week before that, and for the better part of three months now.” He huffed. “The Shearing Festival has come and gone, as has the Autumn Harvest celebration. At this rate, I expect you’ll tell me that it won’t be ready in time for Midwinter Eve!”

Dumont stared up at the man. “If that is how long it takes, yes.”

“Blessed Mistress, that will simply not do!” Sellaire threw up one hand, lifting his eyes to the heavens. “As I told you when I commissioned this sculpture, this was to be completed in time to commemorate the passing of summer. When you said you needed more time, I assumed a few more weeks would suffice. Now, nearly a year later, you are telling me it’s still not done and cannot tell me when it will be completed?”

“No, Alderman,” Dumont said simply.

“Do you have any notion of how much this is costing?” Sellaire snapped. “Not just the alderman’s coffers, but all of Doudràc!” He launched into a tirade about the exorbitant amounts spent procuring the hundred-foot-tall chunk of marble, transporting it across half of Ellestini, and paying Dumont’s fees—both the initial payment to secure his services and the ongoing stipend for his work.

Dumont stopped paying attention—the Alderman tended to be long-winded at the best of times, and this was far from his best. He simply stared up into the man’s reddening face and watched his lips moving without truly hearing his words. It was an old soldier’s trick, one that enabled him to tune out the dross spilling from his superior.

He only began listening again when it looked like Sellaire was winding down, running out of wind. “…and that is something neither of us want, I assure you! After all the time and coin invested, it would be such a shame for the project to end thus.”

While he had missed the particulars, he guessed the Alderman had made a threat or leveled an ultimatum of some sort. Yet he remained unfazed. This man had nothing on Sergeant LeMathieu, not a fraction of his vitriol or cruelty.

“You’re right, of course,” Dumont said, his tone placating.

For just one moment, Sellaire’s expression grew triumphant, as if believing he’d won whatever argument he thought they were having. Dumont was almost sorry to take the wind out of the man’s sails. Almost.

“But I was just telling Balegar here,” he clapped the young man’s beefy shoulder, “that there’s only one way to do a job. The right way. Isn’t that right, Balegar?”

The lad was big and strong, but he still reddened under Sellaire’s scornful gaze. “Y-Yes, Alderman, sir,” he mumbled. “Master Dumont says to work until the job’s done right, to never settle for anything less than the best.”

Sellaire opened his mouth, but Dumont continued before the Alderman could snap at the embarrassed Balegar.

“There you have it, sir,” he said calmly. “Part of being a good master is teaching the next generation of craftsmen the right way to do things.” He had never truly taken to the master part of it all, and he had no illusions that Balegar would ever be even a half-competent sculptor. But if it shut down Sellaire’s insistence, he’d wield whatever weapon came to hand. Legionnaires never fought a fair battle. “Besides, Alderman, I told you as much when I accepted the commission. You remember that, do you not?”

Sellaire’s face darkened, and it looked as if he wanted to retort. Yet he seemed to think better of it and managed to restrain his anger. “Well,” he snapped, his spine stiffening and his expression going rigid, “you heard what I said, yes?”

“Of course, Alderman,” Dumont said, inclining his head. “And you have my word that it will be done just as soon as it’s done correctly.”

Sellaire stared at him as if at an idiot, but could find nothing else to hurl at Dumont. What could he say? He’d hired the sculptor for the job and had known exactly what manner of craftsman Dumont was. Without a word, he turned on his heel and marched back the way he’d come, his cane tap-tapping more furiously than usual.

Dumont watched the man go, but only for a moment. The spat had sapped the last of his strength. He was too old and tired to let men like Sellaire get under his skin. Call it his old soldier’s pride, he supposed. He’d always wished he could put men like Sergeant LeMathieu in their place—either with fists, blade, or mouth. Legion discipline had held him back then, but he was under no such constraints any longer.

With a sigh, he leaned back on the wooden bench and passed the last of his meager lunch to Balegar. “Here, lad,” he said heavily. “Have this.”

Balegar accepted the food gratefully—Keeper knew the young man was always hungry—and devoured it in a few bites.

Dumont waved the brawny youth off the bench and, when Balegar stood, he stretched out his body along the hard wooden planks. “I’m going to close my eyes and rest. Wake me in an hour, and while I’m sleeping, apply fresh grease to my wheels.”

“Yes, sir,” Balegar said around a mouthful of bread and goat cheese.

The moment Dumont’s eyelids closed, he felt sleep coming on quickly. It was the damnedest thing—he spent half his day wishing to rest, then tossed and turned throughout the night. The curse of old age, he supposed.

Well, he could afford to rest. More than that, he needed it. Needed to relax his tired muscles and let the tremors in his gnarled hands settle.

Just a little nap, he told himself, and he’d put in one last hour of work before his late afternoon drink with Fabien.

* * *

“One last drink, sir.” Fabien held the clay bottle toward him. “Just one more, and then I’ll let the big ox take you home.”

Dumont accepted the drink gladly. He didn’t miss the reddening of Balegar’s cheeks, even though his enormous young apprentice knelt ten paces away with his head bent to the task of cleaning the day’s dust off the chisels and mallets. Balegar was sensitive about his height—surprising, given his immense strength for one so young—and though he was as solid as an ox, he didn’t like being compared to one. Not even by Fabien, the man who spent most afternoons sitting on the bench next to Dumont.

Fabien gave a cruel chuckle. “What do you think?” he whispered to Dumont. “Four decades ago. Me in my prime. Don’t you think I could take him, Captain?”

“Odds aren’t good, Lieutenant,” Dumont said with a grim shake of his head. “You scouts never could fight worth a damn. Too busy riding away from the battle to take a proper hit.”

“Or too busy saving your hides by warning you of the enemy in time for you mud-eaters to form up into easy targets for the Eirdkilrs.” Fabien’s tone was sharp, but humor glinted in his eyes. They’d had this argument at least a thousand times over the years. As old friends tended to do.

Dumont spat the marble dust from his mouth and took a long drink from the clay bottle. The wine was Ellestini, but one of the principality’s cheaper offerings. The sort shipped across the Frozen Sea and given to the Legion troops fighting the Princelanders’ war. There were far better wines to be had at the same price, but something about the sour taste of the dark red vintage brought back memories of marching beside men like Lieutenant Fabien, Corporal Renaudin, and Sergeant Lagarde. Fine men who’d made Legion life worth living, and only some of whom had lived long enough to return home.

The wine served as a reminder that, even without his legs, Dumont numbered among the truly fortunate. Looking up at the statue, he felt even more blessed. He’d come home to Victoire and shared a long, happy life with his one true love. He lifted the bottle in silent salute to his wife.

“She’d hate this, you know,” Fabien said quietly. He, too, stared up at the statue, a wry smile on his age-lined face. “And, I guess, love it too.”

“I know.” Dumont chuckled. “That’s part of why I have to do it.”

The opportunity had been too good to pass up. The moment Sellaire had come to him with the offer, Dumont had just known as much.

No one had embodied the Maiden’s virtues as much as his Victoire. His wife had been as close to pure in heart and soul as existed in the world. She’d remained devoted to him for the long years he’d been across the Frozen Sea warring against the Eirdkilrs, and even after he returned home as half a man. She had sought every excuse to celebrate, to make merry, to laugh and bring joy into his life and the lives of everyone around them.

To him, Victoire had been living proof that the gods truly could love humankind. Now, he would commemorate her in stone, a tribute to his late wife that would watch over the people of Doudràc. One last statue, in her memory.

“It’s not quite right yet, is it?” Fabien said. The lines around his eyes and mouth deepened as he frowned up at the statue. “The face…it’s missing something.”

“It is,” Dumont confirmed, nodding. “But I’ll fix it.”

“Tomorrow.” Fabien gave a dismissive wave. “The sun is setting. Best we get our old bones home.”

Dumont laughed. “Speak for yourself!” His old bones did ache, and his shoulder pained him no end, but he’d be damned if he let the man who’d served as his scout lieutenant for nearly eight years know that. “I’ve half a mind to work through the night.”

“Just to prove you can,” Fabien shot back. “I know you, Captain. Stubborn as a mule, and not much better to look at.” He gestured up at the statue with a hand missing thumb and forefinger. “To this day, I still don’t know what she saw in you. Beauty like she was, she could have had the pick of any man in Doudràc. Even me.”

Dumont would have punched Fabien if he could’ve summoned the strength. Before he could shoot back a retort, Balegar’s voice interrupted.

“I-I think that’s it for the chisels and mallet, master.” The young man ducked his head, demonstrating a meekness at odds with his size. “I’ve swept up as much of the marble dust as I can too.”

“Good lad,” Dumont said, nodding. “That’s all for today. Help me get home and—”

“Forgive me, sir,” Balegar interrupted, surprising Dumont. “I-I’ve been wanting to ask for a while now.”

When no question was forthcoming, Dumont raised an eyebrow. “Ask what, lad?”

Balegar’s cheeks flushed, but he lifted his head to regard both Dumont and Fabien intensely. “What was it like, sir?”

Dumont frowned. “What was what like?”

“Battle.” Balegar’s broad jaw muscles worked, but he seemed to screw up enough courage to continue. “You both served in the Legion.” His eyes darted to what remained of Dumont’s legs. “Both fought the Eirdkilrs on Fehl and earned commendations from your commanding officers.”

Dumont frowned. He hadn’t said anything about his medals—had Fabien been talking to the young man behind his back?

“But what was it like, sir?” Balegar pressed on. “That day you…” He trailed off lamely.

“Lost his legs?” Fabien supplied.

Balegar flushed, but nodded. “It must have been a great battle. I’ve heard that there were thirty thousand Eirdkilrs attacking just a few hundred Legionnaires. That had the walls of the Bulwark not been so thick and high, the Princelands would have been destroyed.” He reddened a bit more. “That it was because of you that the Bulwark was saved.”

Dumont scowled. “Well, that’s just not true.”

“Yes and no,” Fabien said.

Dumont elbowed his friend, but that only served to encourage his former lieutenant. Fabien edged along the bench until he was out of Dumont’s reach, then, with a wry smile, continued speaking.

“First of all, there weren’t thirty thousand,” he said, “just three thousand. And there were a thousand of us. Well, nine hundred.” He snorted in derision. “The officers in command weren’t worth the spit on their boots.”

Dumont wanted Fabien to hold his tongue—he had no desire to relive that day—but the lieutenant had finished more than half the bottle of wine and had always loved recounting his years of service. He was one of the very fortunate few who’d come home with all his limbs and his head mostly right.

Unfortunately, Fabien seemed to sense Dumont’s irritation and leaped to his feet, evading the swiping slap aimed at his head. That clinched it. Swaying and gesticulating wildly with his free hand, he continued recounting the tale of the battle that had ended Dumont’s Legion career.

“You should have seen him, lad,” Fabien said, sweeping a hand toward Dumont. “Captain of Jade Battalion’s Eighth Company, the only full company left standing after months of attrition, desertion, and battle. He was there the whole time, stalking along the ramparts like the Swordsman Reborn, swinging his sword, bashing Eirdkilrs with his shield, even swinging an axe when his shield broke and he lost his sword in a barbarian’s gut.”

He mimicked the combat with the exaggerated motions of a drunkard, earning himself a glare from Dumont.

“And it was because of him that the Bulwark was saved that day,” Fabien continued. He tutted and waggled a finger at Dumont. “Don’t think to deny it. We all knew it. Even Commander Rousseau, though he tried to take the credit for it. You lost a great deal on those walls, but without you, we’d have been dead to a man.” He spread his arms wide. “And what a waste of this handsome, virile young man that would have been.”

“Pah!” Dumont glared and waved away the statement. He turned his attention away from Fabien and back to Balegar. “It wasn’t so much as all that.”

His words had no effect on Balegar. The young man’s gaze was fixed on Fabien, a bright gleam in his eyes. The sight filled Dumont with sorrow. He’d seen the same light glowing in Fabien’s eyes the day they joined the Legion—doubtless it had been in his own too.

The young man’s next words saddened Dumont, but came as no surprise. “When I’m old enough,” Balegar said, his voice ringing with conviction, “I’m going to join the Legion too. Serve the Swordsman and Ellestini.”

“You hear that?” Fabien said, giving Dumont a triumphant grin. “He’s going to be a Legionnaire!” He looked Balegar up and down. “And by the Swordsman, what a great big Legionnaire you’ll make.”

Dumont held his tongue; he knew there was nothing he could say to dissuade the young man. Indeed, if he spoke against it, he knew it would only fuel Balegar’s flames, had experienced that same fierce desire once. His father had tried to convince him not to enlist in the Legion but to instead join the Doudràc militia or Vinlord Pierrat’s knights. But the Swordsman’s priests knew how to light a fire within the young men they recruited to their ranks—in service of the god of heroes, they said.

Victoire would be disappointed, he knew. She’d wanted her nephew to take up Dumont’s current career, not the one that had taken him across the Frozen Sea and far away from her.

But he had time, yet. Balegar was just fourteen and would not be eligible to join the Legion for another three years. He’d have to be clever to talk the young man out of his military ambitions. And that damned fool Fabien would help him. The former lieutenant would get an earful from Dumont and learn to keep his mouth shut.

Tonight, however, Dumont was too tired to scold his friend or argue with his apprentice. The day’s labors had sapped his strength and his head spun with the sour wine.

“Come, Balegar,” he said, reaching out his arms to the youth. “Take me home.”

He could start the process of talking Balegar out of joining the Legion tomorrow.

* * *

Dawn found Dumont hard at work atop the scaffolding. He’d slept little, his bed hard and colder than ever. Even decades after returning home, the chill of Fehlan winters on the marsh hadn’t left his bones. Victoire had been the only thing to keep him warm at night. Without her, he found only fitful rest and little peace under the moon.

But the rising sun, as always, set Dumont’s spirits soaring. High above Doudràc, alone with his hammer and chisel and block of stone, with the warmth of morning and the brilliant glow all around him, he found peace and joy in his art.

Soon, the snores rising from the brawny youth sleeping at the foot of the statue were joined by the day’s hubbub. Carts and wagons rumbled through the city gates on their way to market, weaving among the crowds of shepherds, farmers, villagers, grape harvesters, fishermen, and woodcutters bringing their goods to sell or trade.

Some stopped to gaze up at the statue taking shape before the gates, but many simply continued on their way with barely a glance. They’d seen Dumont sitting in the same spot day after day, and the people, not given over to artistic pursuits, had long ago lost interest in the sculpture. In truth, it had been conceived by Alderman Sellaire as both an homage to the Maiden, favored goddess of Ellestini, and an attraction to draw curious art connoisseurs from around the principality and the rest of Nysl.

The morning wore on slowly, the heat rising and the marble dust growing thicker as Dumont chipped away at the sculpture’s face in his pursuit of perfection. Before he knew it, Balegar was calling up to him for a meal. His muscles ached, the throbbing pain in his shoulder and elbow somehow both sharp and dull, and his clothing was drenched in sweat.

“Give me a minute,” he called down to his young apprentice. “Set out the meal, and I’ll call you when I’m ready.” In truth, Dumont needed more than a minute—he’d lost himself so deeply in his work that he’d pushed beyond his limits. He doubted he could lift his tired body onto the wheeled board or push himself toward the pulley lift.

He leaned back against the scaffolding, closing his eyes and drawing in a long breath. A breeze ruffled his hair and clothing, whisking away some of the white dust staining his skin. Dumont drew in a deep breath, savoring the cool, sweet air heavy with the scent of fresh water. The scent brought back so many memories…all happy.

He opened his eyes and looked toward the river that curled around the northern edge of Doudràc. A glistening ribbon of dark silvery blue amid a sea of green pastures and yellowing wheat, the Ellestia River was as beautiful as ever. Victoire had loved it—so much, in fact, that not a day had gone by that she didn’t take a walk along its banks and dip a toe in the water. Even in the iciest winter, even when Dumont could not accompany her after losing his legs, she never failed.

One last stroll. Those had been Victoire’s last words. Bedridden for weeks and too weak to walk, she had awoken one morning, turned to him, and asked him to take her for one last stroll along the river. She’d died the way she had lived: with a smile on her lips and joy in her heart.

Dumont swallowed the lump rising to his throat. There was nothing he wouldn’t give for one last stroll with Victoire. Hand in hand with his wife, feeling the grass beneath his toes, the sun warm on his cheeks. To hear her laughter tinkle like the rushing river, to see her smile sparkle brighter than the sunlight flashing on the water’s surface.

That was it!

He tore his eyes from the river and turned back to the statue. His hands reached for the chisel and mallet of their own accord, moving with speed and precision that he had not managed in…perhaps ever. Not so much working the stone as simply letting it take shape, bringing out the life inherent within, letting free the image of perfection that he now saw with crystal clarity.

Balegar’s calls came again, but Dumont ignored them. He could not stop his work, not now. The vision filled his mind, brought into existence by his hands—hands that seemed to be fifty years younger, guided by arms that felt no pain, no limitation.

Again and again, the hammer tapped the chisel, the sharp steel edge carving into the marble. Dumont watched himself create from behind his own eyes, as if his body was controlled by someone else. He knew this feeling, the artist’s bliss. He’d heard other craftsmen and artisans speak of it, of feeling as if they were possessed by some foreign being—perhaps by the gods themselves—in their pursuit of creation. It was the closest mankind could ever come to divinity and omnipotence. He felt it now, and reveled in the sensation, as humbling as it was enthralling.

And then, as suddenly as it had begun, the bliss drained away, leaving Dumont once more the broken, aging sack of flesh and bone that he was. The sun was nearly set, the sky splashed with a glorious melange of red and orange flecked with brilliant gold. Dumont’s muscles and joints screamed, the pain far more intense than ever before. His hand had cramped around his chisel, his fingers suddenly weak and losing their grip on the hammer’s handle. He collapsed to the scaffolding’s planks, every shred of strength drained away, leaving him empty, as lifeless as the stone had once been.

But the stone was lifeless no longer. He lay on his back, staring up into the face—that perfect, beautiful, wonderful face—of the Maiden. Of his Victoire.

The eyes were stone, yet they seemed to glow with a sparkle far more alive than Dumont felt at that moment. He half-expected Victoire to wink at him, to see the little laugh lines form at the corners of her eyes. The nose looked just right, with that slight rounding and the shallow groove that descended toward the lips. Those lips! Playful, joyous, smiling with a contentment that radiated from the core of her being in a seemingly divine aura that touched all who saw it. The smile that had won his heart so many years ago—one he’d never grown tired of seeing, and now missed desperately.

It was perfect. He had captured her likeness in the stone, given it life in a way he had never believed possible. Though he’d lost her years before, he had carried her in his heart every day. Now, the people of Doudràc—and all of Nysl—would see the truth of the woman he’d loved, who had been the brightest light in a dark world. The Maiden herself in human form.

Closing his eyes, Dumont lay on the hard plank, surrounded by dust, and wept.

* * *

He did no more work that afternoon. He could not. His body betrayed him, his muscles giving out, his joints locked up. It took all Dumont’s strength to haul himself onto his wheeled board and make it to the pulley lift. He’d leaned against the railing as Balegar lowered him, then had the youth carry him to the small wooden bench.

Dumont nibbled at the remains of what should have been his lunch: a hardening crust of Master Aubert’s day-old honey cake, bits of smoked cardamom ham, a handful of dried nuts and apricots. Fabien would be along soon with the wine, he knew. The former lieutenant would see the statue and know the face was finished without having to ask. No one who saw those features would doubt their perfection.

Balegar finished cleaning his tools and sweeping up the dust, then took a seat next to Dumont. The youth stared thoughtfully up at the statue, his huge brow furrowed, lips twisted into a frown. More than once, he started to ask a question, but something about the marble face looking back at him rendered him mute. Dumont smiled to himself, glad his work had such a dramatic impact on the young man. He wanted everyone who saw it to respond thus—to feel the love and warmth and joy emanating from the Maiden…from Victoire. Few would recognize her face without its age lines, but there would be some few—graybeards like him—who’d know the truth.

“It’s not done,” he said quietly. “Not yet.”

The words shattered Balegar’s concentration. The young man’s head swiveled toward him. “It isn’t?”

“There’s one last detail,” Dumont said. He reached into his threadbare jacket and plucked out the cloth-wrapped object he’d carried on him every day since Victoire’s death. With shaking hands, he opened the fabric to reveal a small, simple pendant—a dark green emerald set within a cage of worked silver.

Balegar’s eyes widened, and he looked up at Dumont, then to the center of the statue’s chest with its unfinished stone. “I was wondering why you left that,” the young man said.

Dumont smiled. “I brought this back for her. From across the Frozen Sea. I bought it in Icespire, the Princelands’ capital city. The moment I saw it, I knew she’d love it.” He tapped on the emerald. “Green, just like her eyes.”

Balegar stared down at the pendant, his expression rapt, a distant look in his eyes, as if he envisioned himself on the war-torn continent of Fehl. Dumont cursed himself. Of course the young man’s imagination would twist the gem into a spoil of battle, plucked by Captain Dumont of Jade Battalion’s Fifth Company from among the corpses of the thousands of Eirdkilrs he’d killed in defense of the Bulwark. Balegar was too young to know the truth. He had not heard the screams of the wounded and dying, slipped on blood-slicked stone, smelled the fetor of loosened bowels and torn guts, seen men—friends and comrades—scythed down by the barbarians’ savage axes.

Dumont opened his mouth to dissuade the lad. Better Balegar be something else—anything else—besides a Legionnaire.

He never voiced the words aloud.

The clatter of metal-shod hooves interrupted him. Through the city gates behind him rode a troop of eight dark-cloaked horsemen accompanying a simple, well-built box carriage. The company pulled up immediately in front of Dumont and Balegar, the horses reined in to form a protective circle around the carriage. Five of the men remained mounted, not touching their hoods, but Dumont recognized the swords slung at their hips and the stiff-backed posture of fighting men.

The sixth, however, swung down from his horse and pulled back his hood to reveal graying hair, a salt-and-pepper beard, and a face with far more lines than Dumont remembered.

“Vinlord Gustavé,” he said, bowing his head respectfully. “I would get up to greet you—”

Vinlord Roland Gustavé, a powerfully built man, raised a strong hand to forestall Dumont. “Never one to stand on formality, were you, Captain?”

Dumont chuckled, then broke into a full laugh at the sight of Balegar’s goggling eyes and slack jaw. The young man couldn’t possibly have known that the Vinlord standing before him had once been Lieutenant Gustavé of Jade Battalion’s Third Company.

Vinlord Gustavé clasped Dumont’s hand—gently, despite his strength—his weather-and-age-worn face growing strangely animated. “Been too long, sir.”

“I’d say the same, lad,” Dumont said, grinning. “But such is the way of things, eh? Time passes, distance grows, and life continues.” He looked past the Vinlord toward the carriage. “Looks like your life continued quite well, my lord.”

Vinlord Gustavé glanced over his shoulder in time to see two children bursting out of the carriage and sprinting across the open ground toward him. He braced himself just in time to avoid being knocked over as the two younglings careened into his legs and locked their arms around his knees.

“Grandpapa, Grandpapa, is this it?” asked one, a sandy-haired boy with a face covered by either freckles or a speckling of fruit jam. Possibly both, given the purple stains at one corner of his mouth.

“Are we there?” asked the other, a girl nearly the spitting image of the lad, though with wilder hair and far fewer stains on her face. “You said we’d be there soon. Is this soon?”

Vinlord Gustavé laughed and tousled the children’s messy hair. “Yes, Valery, this is soon.”

“Which could not have come soon enough.” The voice belonged to a gray-haired woman who had emerged from the carriage and was now walking toward them, staring sternly at the two children clinging to Vinlord Gustavé’s legs. “Especially after someone decided it was a good idea to let Valery and Verne get into sweetmeats.”

“Hey!” The protest came from the well-dressed man who was helping a woman in a simple yet elegant gown descend from the carriage. “You know as well as I do, mother, that there was no other way to earn us a moment of peace.”

Vinlady Ginette pressed her lips into a thin line. “A few sips of fortified wine always worked wonders for you, Henri, dear.”

“Still does,” said the younger woman, squeezing the arm threaded through hers. “Has him out like a baby.” Her lips twisted into a wry smile. “Then again, knowing how these two slept, perhaps that’s not the right comparison.”

Henri Gustavé looked a great deal like his father, down to the confident smile and the way he was wholly enthralled by and subject to his wife, the lady Marielle. “Not the only thing that happened when you gave me fortified wine,” he said, a sly smile crossing his lips. “Or do you forget how these two came to be?”

Lady Marielle gave a theatrical groan. “Please, Henri, that is twenty-eight hours I will never forget.”

Vinlady Ginette came to stand at her husband’s side, helping him to balance as the twin children tugged at his legs, as if eager to play. “It has been too long, Dumont,” she said, giving Dumont a gentle smile that held a note of sorrow. “We wished to attend the funeral, but affairs of state kept us away.”

“It is kind of you to say so, my lady.” Dumont pressed a kiss to the back of Ginette’s hand. “She would have loved to know you were here.”

“We’re here now,” Vinlord Gustavé said, placing a hand on Dumont’s shoulder. “And, from what I can tell, it’s just in time, eh?”

The newcomers all turned to regard the statue towering over the city gates. Long moments of silence elapsed, and Dumont was gratified to see the expressions of rapt wonder appearing on the four faces. Even the mounted guardsmen—Vinlord Gustavé’s personal bodyguard—seemed entranced by the statue. They might not recognize the features, but there was no denying the perfection of the sculpture’s artistry.

The Vinlord and Vinlady, however, did recognize the features. Tears sprang to Vinlady Ginette’s eyes and she nestled into the cleft of her husband’s arm. Vinlord Gustavé swallowed hard, blinked twice, and shook his head. “Damn,” he whispered. With visible effort, he wrenched his eyes away from the statue and lowered his gaze to Dumont. “It’s…her.”

Dumont smiled. The Vinlord hadn’t seen Victoire in a decade, perhaps more, yet he recognized the face etched into the Maiden’s sculpture. He knew what Dumont had done.

“And who’s this?” Vinlord Gustavé’s gaze dropped to the seated Balegar.

“My apprentice, Balegar,” Dumont told him.

At the mention of his name, Balegar sprang to his feet and turned, red-faced, to bow to the Vinlord who was ruler over Doudràc and all of the Ellestini province of Mersàin.

Vinlord Gustavé appeared utterly taken aback by Balegar—as were most people who saw the young man for the first time. The Vinlord was tall and broad in the shoulders, even by a soldier’s standards, but Balegar stood nearly a full head taller and half again as wide.

“Blessed Swordsman, you’re a big one, aren’t you?” Vinlord Gustavé turned to Dumont with a surprised look. “Apprentice, eh? Needed him to haul this great big block of stone across half of Ellestini, did you?”

Dumont chuckled, and the color on Balegar’s face deepened. He was accustomed to the teasing—especially from Fabien—but this was his Vinlord making the jests and he clearly had no idea how to respond.

“How old are you, lad?” Vinlord Gustavé asked the young man.

“F-Fourteen, sir,” Balegar managed to get out.

“Fourteen!?” Gustavé blinked. “By the Watcher, that’s impressive. Come see me the day you turn sixteen, and I’ll find a place for you among my guards without question. Perhaps even train you up as a knight. Swordsman knows I can use strong men like you’re clearly shaping up to be.”

Balegar’s jaw dropped, and his tongue tied itself in knots as he tried to stammer out what Dumont guessed was gratitude and acknowledgement.

Something in the Vinlord’s words set Dumont’s mind to working. Gustavé had gotten better at hiding his worry, but Dumont had spent enough time around the former Lieutenant during their Legion days to recognize the tension beneath the man’s smile, the worry lines growing deeper at the corners of his eyes.

“With your permission, of course, Dumont,” Vinlord Gustavé said, inclining his head with more respect than a man of his aristocratic rank owed a man of Dumont’s station “I’d hate to deprive you of a skilled apprentice.”

“I’ll consider it.” Dumont kept his tone carefully neutral, his expression unreadable. He had no desire to send Balegar off to fight another man’s battles—either the Vinlord’s or the Legion’s—but if the youth was determined to take up arms, he could do worse than serve beneath Gustavé. He still had two years to sway Balegar from a martial career, as Victoire would have done.

“Perhaps a case of fine Mersàin firewine might sweeten the deal, darling,” Vinlady Ginette said, nudging her husband’s shoulder. “Or, if Fabien is still around, three cases.”

“Grandpapa!” The little girl clutching Gustavé’s leg had tired of playing with her twin brother and now tugged at the Vinlord’s coat. “Verne and I are hungry, and Papa promised us more sweetmeats when we arrived.”

Henri, a lord in his own right, held up a finger to his children. “I said in the morning,” he told them, his tone stopping well short of stern. “Because that’s when Master Aubert’s jam-and-butter scones are fresh and hot.”

“No more treats for tonight, darlings,” Lady Marielle interjected. “I expect you to be on your best behavior, which means falling asleep as soon as Grandmama tucks you into bed.”

“Yes, Mama,” the two children piped in unison, though their smiles were far more mischievous then cherubic.

A sharp, rasping intake of breath echoed up the street. “Vinlord Gustavé!” wailed a man’s voice in a tone of desperation and horror.

All eyes turned to find Alderman Sellaire hurrying down the lane toward them as fast as his portly legs could carry him, coattails flying and his cane clacking awkwardly against the cobblestones. “Forgive me, Vinlord,” the Alderman said, his tone effusive and dripping regret. “Had I known you were coming, I would have prepared to greet you properly.”

“Tut, tut, Alderman,” Gustavé said, dismissing the man with a casual wave. “The whole point of paying a visit to Doudràc in secret is to keep it precisely that, a secret.”

Those words nagged at the back of Dumont’s mind. There were very few reasons for Vinlords to conceal their movements and travel in disguise—none good.

“All I have been hearing about for months now is this statue,” Gustavé said, smiling. “It has been too long since I have seen the handiwork of Dumont of Doudràc in person. Not since I had the sculpture of my lovely lady wife commissioned for Mersàin Hall.”

“And much as I wish it were otherwise,” Vinlady Ginette put in, “I am afraid I must confess that this artwork is a far greater masterpiece than mine.”

“My lady is too kind,” Sellaire said, bowing deeply at the waist, as if he had sculpted the marble himself. “Alas, I fear that you have come too early.” He shot a glare at Dumont. “I am given to believe that the statue is not yet complete, and I have received no indication of when—”

“Tomorrow, in fact.” Dumont felt a little pang of satisfaction at seeing Sellaire’s shocked expression. “Just one final detail to add.” He opened his hand, in which he still held the cloth-wrapped emerald-and-silver pendant.

“It will be perfect,” Gustavé said, clapping Dumont—gently—on his shoulder. Dumont hid a wince at the glass-shard pain shooting through his joints.

“Tomorrow night, then,” Alderman Sellaire said, his face twisting into a smile of mingled delight and irritation. “We will hold a proper celebration, a feast in the Maiden’s name. You do us honor with your presence, Vinlord. I trust that you will be willing to preside over the revelry?”

Vinlord Gustavé’s expression grew pensive, adding to Dumont’s mounting concern. The Vinlord had come all this way in secret with his entire family—to see the statue, he’d said, but could there be another reason? One that had him worried enough that he would ride out of Doudràc so soon after arriving?

“It would be our pleasure,” Gustavé said, a smile brightening his aging face.

“Splendid!” Sellaire clapped his hands. “Then, if you would do me the courtesy, I would be honored to put you up in city hall. Our simple accommodations are far from the finery your lordships are accustomed to—”

“They will serve admirably, Alderman.” Vinlord Gustavé inclined his head. “And if you could provide my guards with food and stable for their mounts as well.”

“With pleasure, my lord.” Sellaire bowed so low his belly nearly scraped the ground.

Vinlord Gustavé turned to Dumont, a weary look in his eyes. It could have been from the hours of travel—the provincial capital of Mersàin was half a day’s hard ride away—his annoyance at Sellaire’s fawning, or the secret concern he harbored. Whatever the cause, in that moment, Gustavé appeared older than even Dumont himself.

“Until tomorrow, then,” he told Dumont, giving him the soldier’s nod.

“Of course, my lord.” Dumont inclined his head. “Until tomorrow.”

* * *

Despite his bone-deep exhaustion, Dumont found he could not sleep. There was simply too much to do. He had to finish carving the pendant and the last details of the Maiden’s chest, then apply at least the first coat of masonry sealant to protect the marble. He shouldn’t have promised it would be done—he was too old for someone like Sellaire to get under his skin—but some unspoken urgency drove him onward.

He had promised one last sculpture, and after yesterday’s labor, he knew it was as close to perfect as he could make it. Now, nothing remained but one final day of toil, and the masterpiece would be complete.

Balegar grumbled only a little when Dumont prodded him awake. The young man had grown accustomed to Dumont’s sleeplessness and took as well to being roused in the middle of the night as any youth who loved their sleep could be expected to.

It was shortly after midnight by the time Dumont once again sat atop the wooden scaffolding, tools in hand. The light of the full moon shining in the cloudless sky and the oil lantern at his side were more than enough to illuminate the stone upon which he set to work. All around him, the world was dark and calm, the only sound to break the silence the soft night breeze rolling off the Ellestia River and the gentle tap, tap, tap of Dumont’s mallet and chisel.

From the first swing of the hammer, Dumont sensed that his work would be different from the previous day. The artistic bliss did not come upon him—on the contrary, he found himself hesitant with each minute shift of the chisel, overly cautious with the hammer. His body, which had felt like that of a young, vibrant man just a few hours earlier, seemed to refuse to cooperate. Every movement sent pain flaring through his locked-up shoulder. Within half an hour, he had made only minimal progress on carving the emerald pendant into the stone.

He set down his tools and sat back against the scaffolding. What was it that stopped him? It wasn’t just the tremor in his tired hands or the muddle filling his head. There was something deep within him that simply rejected every attempt to finish the statue.

Staring up at the face glowing in the lantern light, he suddenly understood. He wanted to bring Victoire to life, but the moment he finished the work, he would be done. One last work of art…that was it. Everything that mattered would be gone. Done. With Victoire in the grave, this sculpture felt like the last piece of his life left to lose. And lose it he would, in a way. Once it was complete, it would have no need of him.

And what would become of him, then? What would propel him out of bed in the morning if he had no family, no friends beyond Fabien, no work to drive him onward?

He wanted the statue to be done—needed it done, as much as he needed to breathe, to eat—but there was a part of him that feared what his life would be after he completed it.

Dumont cursed quietly. “Silly old fool!” He shook his head, staring up at Victoire’s stone face. “You would have scolded me, my love. Told me I was foolish to let fear stop me from doing something great.” He reached a hand forward to touch the cool marble. “You’d have been right, as always.”

He picked up his hammer and chisel again and set to work with renewed determination. The fear was still there—he could feel it in his hands, his belly, his heart—but he refused to let it stop him. Just as he’d refused to give in to fear the day he plucked up the courage to ask the most beautiful woman in Doudràc to be his wife. Or the day he’d stumbled bloody and battered along the battlements of the Bulwark in a desperate attempt to keep his ragged Legion company from collapsing. Or the day he’d awoken to find his legs gone and his military career with them.

With every stroke, his movements grew more confident, the fear losing its grip on him. A smile toyed across his lips. It was as Victoire would have expected.

Half an hour later, the pendant was nearly done. Just the last few details to complete. He set his hammer and chisel down and drew out the cloth-wrapped jewelry.

The clatter of hooves echoed loud in the night. From his high vantage point, Dumont had a clear view of the winding road outside the city gates. Two riders in dark cloaks were galloping toward Doudràc.

Dumont frowned. It was too dark to make out much, but at a glance, they looked a great deal like the cloaked guards who had accompanied Vinlord Gustavé.

The two riders charged through the gate and reined in at the base of the statue. “You there! Boy!” one shouted down at the sleeping Balegar.

Balegar jerked awake—half-awake, at least—and stumbled to his feet.

“Where is our lord?” demanded the man. “Where is Vinlord Gustavé?”

“He is in city hall,” Dumont called down. Balegar was a deep sleeper and tended to wake in a disoriented state. If left to him, the guards’ questions would go unanswered for long minutes yet. “Guest of Alderman Sellaire. Take the west-bound road and you will not miss it. It is the largest building in Doudràc.”

“You have our thanks,” the guard said, once he’d caught sight of Dumont seated high on the scaffolding. With a nod, he wheeled his horse westward and galloped off up the street, his companion right behind him.

Dumont frowned. That couldn’t be good. Vinlord Gustavé had been worried enough about something to either tell his guards where he was going or to set watchers on the road behind him. It was what a soldier would do—leave trailing scouts to watch for an enemy attacking from the rear.

A chill ran down Dumont’s spine. Something was wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong.

In that moment, an alarm bell shattered the silence. Dumont’s head snapped toward the source of the sound. The riders couldn’t have already reached city hall, which meant there was another cause for the alarm.

“Master!” Balegar called up to him. “What’s happening?”

Dumont craned his head toward the west. There was no fire he could see, just the usual darkness broken by lanterns, candles, and torches scattered around Doudràc.

“I don’t know,” Dumont shouted. “But whatever it is, I need your help to get—”

His words were drowned out by a wave of shouts coming from the street leading to city hall. The sound was accompanied by the rushing of armed men—the Doudràc militia, called out tonight? Riding alongside them were the two dark-cloaked guards who had just entered the city.

And Vinlord Gustavé!?

“Close the gates!” the Vinlord shouted. “Seal them off, now.”

“But my lord,” protested one of the militiamen, who Dumont recognized as Master Claude the town blacksmith, “that gate hasn’t been closed in thirty-five years. I do not know if the mechanisms even work, or if—”

“Then bloody find out!” Vinlord Gustavé roared, drowning out the man’s protests. “You’re the blacksmith, aren’t you? Take the Keeper-damned wheelwright and do whatever you need to do to close the gates, now!”

Claude was the only man in town larger than Balegar, with shoulders like an ox and arms thick from swinging a hammer, but he obeyed Vinlord Gustavé without hesitation. He and Laurent the wheelwright split off from the gaggle of poorly armed and lightly armored militiamen and hurried toward the gatehouse that held the capstan that closed the heavy, iron-banded gates.

Dumont wanted to call down and find out what had happened, but knew he would not make himself heard over Vinlord Gustavé’s shouted orders or the tolling alarm bell. All he could do was sit on the scaffolding and watch the men prepare for battle. But what battle could possibly be coming to Doudràc?

“You, Balegar!” Gustavé’s eyes locked on the now fully awake youth gawking at the commotion. “You’ve got arms strong enough to swing a weapon.” He pointed to one of the stonemason’s tools that sat neatly arranged around the base of the statue. “Pick up that damned hammer and get ready to fight. You want to be a man of war, I see it in your eyes. Now is the time to prove it. Fight for me. Join my knights. Take up this noblest of causes!”

Dread sank in Dumont’s gut. He had no doubt what Balegar would say, even before the oversized youth turned to snatch up a heavy stonemason’s mash hammer. Gustavé was right—Balegar had had a look in his eyes, the look of a young man who’d heard too many tales of glorious war and battle heroics and who felt the burning desire to join the ranks of the great warriors and soldiers of Nyslian history. Tonight, he would be given what he most craved. There would be no coming back from that—if he survived to see the morning.

Anger, worry, and regret conspired to render Dumont mute. He could do nothing but watch helplessly as Balegar raced off to join the ranks of the militiamen forming up before the still-open city gates.

Dumont stared out over the city wall and into the moonlit darkness of the lands beyond Doudràc. He saw nothing—no shadows moving in the night, no flicker of motion, no glint of steel illuminated by starlight—but he knew the feeling settling over him all too well. The breathlessness, the knotting of his muscles, the wary alertness that gripped a man’s mind before a fight.

There would be battle—but who was the enemy?

“Dumont!” Fabien’s voice drifted up the scaffolding. Turning, Dumont peered over the edge and found his friend standing near the base of the statue, bent over, winded and huffing from running all this way from his house. “Can you…see anything?”

“Nothing,” Dumont said, shaking his head. “But what should I be seeing?”

“Men…of Sundran.” Fabien’s expression was grave—as grave as the old, battered Legionnaire’s breastplate and helmet he wore and the scabbarded short sword hanging at his hip. “They are coming…to kill…the Vinlord.”

Dumont’s jaw dropped. “What?”

Fabien lifted an ashen face toward Dumont. “Assassination attempt…against the Vinlord.” He sucked in a ragged breath; years of drinking and general sloth had sapped the endurance for which he’d been renowned during his Legion days. “Three of his own guards…turned against him.”

The blood drained from Dumont’s face. “Blessed Swordsman! What of his family?”

“Vinlady Ginette and Lady Marielle...are dead,” Fabien said, slowly regaining control of his breath. “Lord Henri and the children…are safe. The traitors were slain, but they are far from the Vinlord’s only problem. His guards, those still loyal, reported a column of riders racing this way. They wear no identifying insignia, but Sundran is the only principality brazen enough to act upon the Code of Blood.”

Dumont sucked in a breath. The Code of Blood was an ancient, barbaric practice that had not been utilized in Nysl for nigh on four centuries. Under its strictures, Princeps or Vinlords could lay claim to another’s title, lands, and holdings by ending the bloodline of their political enemy. But only by utterly annihilating the family line. If even a single relative—even a distant cousin—survived to bring charges against the perpetrator behind the crimes, the High Princeps of Nysl would in turn execute the guilty family and deliver their holdings to the wronged party.

It was a risky proposition and a brutal practice that had been outmoded, though the Code of Blood remained unabolished. Few Princeps or Vinlords would dare risk everything they possessed—not to mention their life and that of every living relative—in the name of enrichment. But Sundran was a harsh, rugged principality where few crops grew, vineyards withered without producing a single grape, and men and women starved to death in poverty and misery. Dumont had heard rumors that Princeps Bohette and the Vinlords under his rule practiced the old codes, but he’d never given them much credence.

But there was no time for doubt. Even as Fabien’s words sank in, a distant hum reached Dumont’s ears. He turned to look over the city wall and the lands beyond. Acid rose in his stomach at the sight of figures materializing from the darkness—riders galloping up the winding road that led to Doudràc’s gate.

“They’re coming!” he shouted, both as warning to Fabien and to alert the defenders preparing to hold the gate alongside Vinlord Gustavé.

“What in the wineless hell is happening with that gate?” the Vinlord roared.

A reply came from within the gatehouse, too muffled for Dumont to hear but Gustavé’s answering curse spoke volumes.

“Keep working at it, then,” the Vinlord shouted. “Get it sorted, or we’re all of us dead men!”

Dumont returned his gaze to Fabien, who had recovered from his run and now reached for the short sword belted at his hip.

“Fabien!” he called, drawing his friend’s attention upward. “What’s the point of holding? There are three dozen of you and—” He glanced over the wall again, counting dark shapes. “—at least twice that many of them.”

“Buying time,” Fabien said. “We hold them off here, they’ll have no choice but to pull back. Even the Keeper-damned Sundrans aren’t foolish enough to believe that a few score of them could cut through a town of Doudràc’s size. I’d bet a month’s wages they intended to ride through open gates and make their way through the dark to find the Vinlord and his family in bed. Now, if they see a show of force, they’ll have to reconsider.”

“And if they don’t?” Dumont demanded. Sundrans had a reputation for more than just their ferocity—they were often lawless, choosing to plague the more prosperous principalities as outlaws, highwaymen, and bandits rather than attempting to scratch out a meager living in their own. “If they force the issue?”

“The Vinlord’s already seen to that,” Fabien said. “Sellaire is helping Lord Henri and the children onto Germain’s boat. He’ll have them downstream and halfway back to Mersàin Hall by sunrise. There will be enough loyal men that they’ll be safe.”

Dumont nodded in satisfaction. Germain was young and strong, his shallow-draft fishing boat the fastest vessel in Doudràc. What few others in town knew was that Gerand, Germain’s father, had spent two decades as a smuggler on the river—and he’d passed those skills on to his son. If anyone could get Lord Henri and the twins safely away from this place, it would be Germain.

“If the worst comes to pass,” Dumont said, “would you—”

“Look after Balegar?” Fabien grinned and drew his sword. “Aye, I’ll watch his back, just as I watched yours all those years ago.”

A lump rose in Dumont’s throat at the sight of his old friend once more armored and carrying the Legion-issue short sword. The blade seemed to glow in the moonlight, a steel-edged reminder of the life they’d lived—and survived—together.

The old, familiar ache in Dumont’s chest returned. It had been nearly thirty years since last he’d felt it—the urge to swing a sword rather than a hammer, to take up arms in defense of friends, comrades, and country. The loss of his legs had rendered it dormant—he knew he could no longer fight, so there was no use wishing for it—and when it revived years later, Victoire’s soothing presence had kept it at bay. But now, that lust for battle came roaring back with a fury he could not ignore.

The swelling thunder of the approaching horsemen only served to fuel the fire burning within him. His eyes locked on the riders galloping up the trail toward the city gates. Gates which still stood open.

Dumont cursed silently. Why hadn’t Claude and Laurent shut the gates? Had the capstan been damaged or the chain rusted, rendering the mechanism inoperable? Or were they simply taking too long at the repairs? If they didn’t hurry, the riders would be through the gates in a matter of minutes.

Vinlord Gustavé, old soldier as he was, seemed to come to the same conclusion. Drawing his sword, he strode out through the city gates alone. The wall of armed men remained unmoving, forming a semi-circle in front of the gate. A pathetic army at the back of a Vinlord who might very well soon be fighting for his life.

The approaching riders, as if surprised by Gustavé’s appearance, reined in thirty paces from the gate.

“Hold, you dogs of Sundran!” Vinlord Gustavé’s voice echoed through the open gate and across the lands beyond, ringing with a power that belied his age. “Your treachery has failed. Here I stand, alive and prepared for battle. My family slumbers peacefully in the town behind me, and any man who seeks to harm a hair on their head will have to face me steel to steel.”

The dark-cloaked horsemen milled about for a moment, their mounts restless beneath them. Dumont could sense their hesitation, the uncertainty in the glances they cast at the Vinlord and each other.

“Turn around and ride away now,” Gustavé thundered, “and pray to whatever gods you worship that I never find out which coward dispatched you. But take one step closer—one single step—and I swear by the Watcher, that any man of you who lives through this night will face the Grand Princep’s justice for your crimes.”

Dumont’s gut clenched. Vinlord Gustavé’s voice left no doubt that he had the authority and strength to back up the threat. By now, the riders would have spotted the militia clustered around the open gate. Even mounted, their odds of taking the gate against an army of poorly trained townspeople carrying wooden shields and a motley collection of rusty pikes, swords, fishing spears, and tools were far from ideal. If they failed to kill Gustavé and eradicate his entire family here and now, they and their master would, indeed, face execution for their actions.

But the fact that the riders didn’t immediately retreat spoke volumes too—namely of their confidence in their superior numbers and, more than likely, their skill. Doudràc’s militia was no match for knights, men-at-arms, or guards of one of Sundran’s noble houses—which, judging by the quality of their horses, Dumont suspected they were.

And if they were commanded by one of the more avaricious, rapacious of the Sundran Vinlords—or Princeps Bohette himself—they would fear retribution from their own lord far more than the Grand Princep’s justice should they fail.

He felt the shift, like a change in the breeze or a subtle drop in humidity, a moment before he saw it. A sudden tension among the riders, a collective stiffening of spines, hands reaching for swords, and exchanged nods of determination. In near-unison, seventy-odd swords slid free of sheaths and a half-dozen crossbows appeared from beneath dark cloaks.

Dumont turned away, sick to his stomach. The twang of the crossbow strings echoed loud, followed by six thunks of bolts burying into flesh. The militia crowded in front of the gate gave a collective gasp, accompanied by a curse that had to come from Fabien. Two seconds later, a body thumped to the road and Dumont’s chest seized up—Vinlord Gustavé, cut down by Sundran cowards.

For a heartbeat, all was still. Every man of Doudràc was silent, the riders gathering their courage to charge the gate. Even the horses seemed to fall quiet. The world held its breath in anticipation of what came next.

“Charge!” a man’s voice roared from among the riders.

“Shields, to the front!” Fabien’s voice thundered at exactly the same moment. “Pikes behind!”

Chaos erupted behind Dumont. The drumming of metal-shod hooves, the stamping of booted feet, clanking weapons, men cursing and shouting. It was utter pandemonium, as was the case with every battle.

Dumont reached for his hammer and chisel. How he wished he could descend from his scaffold and wield the tools—or any weapon at all—in defense of his home, friends, and fellow townspeople. But he could not. An Eirdkilr axe had seen to that.

He couldn’t watch the battle. He wasn’t brave enough to watch his fellow men of Doudràc fall.

And fall they would. By attacking, the Sundrans had committed to the utter destruction of Vinlord Gustavé’s family. They would not stop until Henri—now Vinlord himself—Valery, and Verne joined Gustavé, Ginette, and Marielle in death. They couldn’t afford to. Only the utter annihilation of the Vinlord’s bloodline would save them now. The Princeps or Vinlord who had sent them, and who would ascend in the wake of Gustavé’s death, would be the only one with the legal rights to pardon them for their crimes. By the Code of Blood, it would not even be named a crime because these men were simply carrying out orders—and any lord had the right to command the death of those who threatened his rule.

The Sundrans had to kill anyone and everyone who stood in their way. Fabien, now commanding Doudràc’s defenses in the wake of Gustavé’s demise. Balegar, so desperate to be a soldier or knight that he’d left Dumont without a backward glance. Every man of Doudràc brave enough to take up swords and defend their homes. All would die in service to some distant Princeps or Vinlord’s greed.

Dumont couldn’t fight. Nor could he sit by and do nothing while battle raged below. There was only one thing he could do: he could work.

His hammer flew, his chisel carving into the stone with a speed and precision born of the urgency growing within him. All traces of his earlier hesitation fled. He’d been loath to finish the statue for fear of what would come next, of the empty life that would remain. Now, however, he was compelled to finish for fear that if he did not, it would never be done. It was not the fear of a man facing death—Swordsman knew he’d stared down the Long Keeper hundreds of times before—but that of an artist afraid that his life’s work would never be completed.

He worked at the stone, freeing the shape of Victoire’s silver-threaded emerald pendant from within the block of marble. It was the last piece of her he had to give to the statue, to Doudràc and all of Nysl. One last fragment of the woman who had been his everything for nigh on forty years, who had brought light into his dark world, who had brought him back from the brink of despair after he’d lost his legs. Victoire, who could very well have been the Maiden herself made flesh, deserved to be forever commemorated in this work of art.

And he had to finish it, now. Before it was too late.

He tried to lose himself in the art—oh, how he tried! Jaw clenched, teeth grinding, every muscle in his face tensed, swinging his tools with the same stubborn determination that had kept him swinging his sword that day on the Bulwark.

Yet he could not escape the sounds of battle. The screams of dying and wounded men. The cries of “Forward!” and “Push them back!” and “Fight, you prick-tickling cunts!” The snorting of horses at the smell of blood and the ringing echoes of clashing steel.

“Come on!” Fabien’s voice echoed loudest of all. “One last push, and they’ll run with their tails tucked—”

The words were cut off. Horror swelled in Dumont’s chest, and he could not stop himself from glancing over his shoulder. His breath froze in his lungs at the sight of Fabien staggering backward, a sword embedded in his throat, his own shorter blade driven to the hilt in the chest of a dying Sundran. Balegar was at the old lieutenant’s side, the head of his hammer bloody, his face and enormous arms scored with a half-dozen cuts, but his free arm was wrapped around Fabien, lowering him carefully to the ground.

In that moment, something within Dumont shattered. It was hopeless, he knew. One look at the struggling militiamen showed him the line was on the verge of buckling. He’d seen it too many times before, recognized the signs of an army about to be overwhelmed by a superior force. Legionnaires had died in droves beneath the flashing axes of howling, roaring Eirdkilrs. Now, men of Doudràc would fall beneath the slicing, stabbing swords of Sundrans—an enemy far less fierce, but no less bloodthirsty.

Fabien, his friend, his last link to the man he’d once been and the life he’d lost, had died. Balegar would follow too. In a matter of seconds, when the forces of Doudràc crumbled before the Sundrans, the young man Dumont had promised Victoire he’d look after would be cut down, trampled beneath the crushing boots of the bastards who’d slain Vinlord Gustavé.

Dumont felt the hammer slipping from his grip, his fingers losing their hold on the chisel. There was nothing he could do, no way he could stop the inevitable. He was nothing more than an old legless soldier sitting removed from the battle, watching the death of everything he held dear. Tonight, the last of what remained to him would be taken away.

Sorrow welled within him, and he turned his gaze toward the statue that had been his life’s purpose for the better part of a year. It was nearly done, he saw. Perhaps two or three strokes of his hammer, and the pendant would be complete, the last chunk of extraneous stone carved away from the Maiden’s chest. Victoire would stand watch over Doudràc—but a Doudràc she would not recognize after tonight.

Suddenly, he felt as if the eyes turned toward him, the lips shifted, and a small voice spoke into his mind, planting an idea—desperate, insane, yet exactly what Victoire would have wanted of him.

Without hesitation, Dumont picked up his fallen hammer, slid the tool into its ring on his leather belt, and hefted his legless body up onto his wheeled board. In that moment, every trace of fatigue vanished, replaced only by the cold, hard determination of a soldier fighting for his life and the lives of those at his side. He propelled himself along the scaffolding at a breakneck pace, the newly-greased wheels turning smoothly and silently, racing toward the rope pulley lift. The wooden platform sat on the ground far below—Balegar had been preparing to send up the masonry sealant—but Dumont didn’t care. He threw himself off the wheeled board and reached for the ropes hanging from the pulley.

His gnarled fingers closed around the ropes but couldn’t hold his weight. He slid thirty feet toward the ground at terrible speed, the hemp tearing up his palms and sending fire through his already pained shoulder and elbow joints. Somehow, impossibly, he managed to slow his descent despite the agony in his hands—until finally he stopped and hung there, swaying five paces above the ground and the splintered remains of his wheeled board.

Dumont had no time for relief or to acknowledge the pain. Behind him, the shouts and screams and clash of steel grew louder. The battle was nearly over. Doudràc would soon be awash with blood and death, the Sundrans riding down everyone who stood between them and their intended victims. A voice screamed in his mind to search for Balegar among the melee—the youth had to still be alive!—but he pushed it down, bent his attention to the task at hand.

He swung his body like a pendulum, summoning enough strength to haul himself high enough up the rope that he could loop it once around his wrist. When his weight collapsed onto the strained joint, pain flared through his forearm and down his elbow as his shoulder nearly wrenched from its socket. Yet he held fast, suspending himself from one hand while his other reached for the mallet hanging at his side.

Snatching the hammer from his tool belt, he drew it back and struck at the stone leg nearest him. The right leg was slimmest at the ankle—he’d chipped away as much marble as he’d dared without sacrificing structural integrity—but he’d built it to stand the test of time. A few blows of the hammer would never destroy what he’d created. Not even the heavy mash hammer Balegar had taken into battle could bring down the sculpture in time.

But as Dumont had been trained by his Legion instructors and years of battle to read an enemy for weakness, so, too, had he learned over the years how to analyze stone for impurities, imperfections, and seams. Some were hidden deep within even the most solid-looking block of marble, only visible as the sculptor chipped away at the external layers. The Maiden’s right knee had one such flaw—a vertical line that ran down from kneecap to lower calf. He’d been careful to avoid it, to leave enough stone to seal the fissure so it would never break. Now, it was this blemish for which he aimed.

His hammer cracked against the stone, the impact jarring his aching hands, tired arm, and stiff shoulder. Yet he swung again, and again, and again, not stopping until the seam was exposed for all to see. With a roar, he gave one final strike and the kneecap crumbled away to dust. A hairline crack ran all the way down the leg.

But the statue did not fall. He’d built it too well, and even with one of its legs giving way, the other held firm.

More screams echoed behind him, shrieks of pain and fear from men dying to protect their homes, families, and livelihood. Steel clashed, wood snapped, bones shattered, and flesh gave way beneath sharp blades. Dumont could feel every strike, taste the terror thick in the air, smell the blood now staining the cobblestones.

But he did not look back. He could not. With every shred of strength still within him, he swung the stumps of his legs back, then forward in a desperate attempt to gain momentum. Over and over, until his muscles screamed and his shoulder protested even the slightest movement. Gritting his teeth against the pain, Dumont gave one last swing, until his outstretched arm could reach one of the scaffolding’s lower levels. He released his grip on the rope and clung to the support beam for dear life.

A cry of pain echoed behind him—the cry of a young man. This time, Dumont could not stop himself from looking back. Balegar stood like a colossus towering above Fabien’s lifeless body, his hammer swinging in great, vicious arcs about him. The heavy, sharpened end of the mallet crushed bones, stove in helmets and breastplates, and shattered the swords swinging at him. Yet there were five Sundrans attacking him, and he was but a youth, untrained in the ways of war. His wounds were vicious, and at any moment, the dark-cloaked enemies would overwhelm him.

With a desperate surge of strength, Dumont hauled his dangling body up onto the scaffolding and crawled along the planking until he reached the left knee. This had no impurities, no fissures or weaknesses to exploit, but Dumont didn’t care. He set about battering at the marble with the same ferocity that his apprentice—the young man Victoire had charged him to look after—swung his own hammer.

Together they fought a battle in unison—Balegar against flesh and blood and hate, Dumont against silent, cold stone. The sculptor gave no thought to his actions, or what it would mean for his life’s work. He couldn’t allow himself to entertain anything beyond the simple act of swinging the hammer again. Again. Again. And again. One last blow, until…

The Maiden’s left knee gave way with a crack of shattering stone, and suddenly the entire statue shifted, knocked off balance by the removal of both supports. Dumont had only the briefest moment to realize the danger—to Balegar, who fought beside the open gate, to the other men of Doudràc, and to himself.

“Balegar!” he shouted with every shred of strength his failing body could muster. “Get out of there! It’s coming—”

Then the statue was toppling. Collapsing atop him, and the wooden scaffolding upon which he lay. There was no time for him to escape; pain exploded through his body, his head, his arms, and he was falling, falling, falling.

* * *

Dumont lay on his back, staring up at the sky. The stars were oddly bright, the moon seeming to glow silver-white. There were no clouds to obscure the heavens. Just the empty, dark expanse stretching out forever, with the pinpricks of light smiling down at the humans below.

He should have felt pain, he knew. He’d lost consciousness for a few seconds, but he was aware enough to recognize the sheer extent of the damage he would have sustained in the fall. The immense weight atop his chest was likely killing him—crushing bones, pulverizing organs, lacerating his vessels and filling his torso with blood. Indeed, breathing proved nearly impossible, so he simply stopped trying. He gave in to the icy numbness that had descended over him.

All around him, the world was silent. Perhaps he’d shattered something in his head, rendered himself deaf. Or the fighting had simply stopped. He hoped it was the latter.

It should have worked. He’d toppled the statue correctly, he knew—the evidence of that lay atop him, killing him.

Sellaire had been right to demand the Maiden’s sculpture be placed so close to the gate. The Alderman had wanted it to be the first thing people saw when approaching Doudràc, to step into the goddess’s shadow as they stepped foot into town. The hundred-foot-tall statue would have crashed into the wall, sealing off the gate. And, if fortune smiled on him and his fellow townspeople, killed most of the Sundrans attempting to force their way into the city.

But what of Balegar? He could feel no pain, yet dread, worry, and fear mingled in the core of his being. Had the youth evaded the collapse? Had he gotten away in time? Dumont had promised Victoire. He’d promised! Balegar had to have survived. If he hadn’t, if he lay crushed beneath the marble statue next to Vinlord Gustavé, Fabien, and the other brave militiamen of Doudràc, Victoire would never forgive him. Never…

“Master!”

Dumont’s heart was doubtless crushed and bleeding, but it gave a weak flutter of joy as the familiar voice reached him. A moment later, the heavy-browed face of his apprentice appeared above him. Blood dripped from dozens of cuts around Balegar’s cheeks, forehead, neck, and broad shoulders, mingling with the dust kicked up by the collapsing statue. Yet he was alive…so very much alive.

“No, no, no!” Balegar dropped to a knee at Dumont’s side, reaching for him, yet stopping, as if uncertain what to do, how to help. He was no soldier trained to tending battlefield wounds. Besides, Dumont knew he was beyond even the finest physicker’s aid now.

“Ba…legar.” It took a monumental effort of will, but he managed to raise a hand toward the young man. The fingers were bent all wrong and blood seeped from a deep gash in his wrist, but there was no pain. Only the warmth of Balegar’s hand closing around his. “Listen…to me.”

“I’m listening, Master,” the young man said, sobbing. Tears streaked the blood and dust on his cheeks, and he rocked back and forth on his knees, clutching Dumont’s mangled hand to his chest. “I’m listening. Just hold on. We’ll get you out of—”

Dumont summoned up one last burst of strength. “Listen!” He tugged at Balegar’s hand, trying to pull the young man’s head down closer to his lips. He could feel his spirit slipping free of his body, but he refused to go. Not until he’d spoken his final words. “One…last…lesson, my apprentice.”

Balegar leaned closer, his huge face filling Dumont’s vision. Dumont smiled up at him—the youth had fine, strong features, and a new fire burned in his eyes. It was the same fire that Dumont had seen looking back at him from the mirror after his first battle. A warrior had been born here, today. A hero, perhaps, if the gods were kind.

He would not talk Balegar out of a martial life, that much he knew for certain. Yet he could share the most important lesson he’d learned over more than seventy years of life.

“This world...is often cold…and dark, so dark.” Dumont swallowed, tried to clear his throat, but only managed to spit up blood. “So many men…seeking to do only…what benefits them…what puts gold…in their pockets or…food in their bellies.” He could hear his breath rasping now, his lungs wet with his own blood. He tried to speak faster to make certain he said what needing saying. “But don’t…you be…one of them!”

He closed his mangled fingers tighter around Balegar’s hand, squeezing with what little strength remained.

“Do…great…things,” he told the youth. “But…above all…be…good.”

The breath slipped from his lungs, and the world around him went silent. He could see Balegar’s lips moving but could not hear the young man’s words.

Dumont relaxed, the tension draining from his body. What a tired old body it was. So far from the man he’d once been, and yet…

And yet, he wasn’t truly all that far from the Legionnaire who’d stood on the battlements of the Bulwark and fought off three thousand Eirdkilrs. Oh, certainly far longer in the tooth, missing a couple of limbs, and with a plethora of wrinkles. But within, where it counted, he was still Captain Dumont of Fifth Company, Jade Battalion.

He smiled. That was as good an end as a man like him could ask for.

Closing his eyes, Dumont gave in to the inevitable. He embraced the cold, yet it became steadily warmer. He yielded to the darkness, but then a new brightness invaded. So bright he could not stop himself from opening his eyes.

The weight from atop his chest had vanished. The statue…had moved! Transformed from an inert block of stone into something new, something warm and soft and filled with life. More life than he’d remembered.

Victoire stood above him, her face ageless, her hair shifting between snow-white and the spun gold of her youth. She wore the low cut dress, which flowed around her long graceful legs. She smiled down at him, and in that expression, he saw love reflected brighter than the sun, moon, and all the stars combined.

“Victoire!” he gasped, his spirit soaring. “You’re here!”

“Of course I am, silly man.” Victoire laughed—how he’d loved that sound, done everything he could to make her laugh just so he could hear it. “Where else would I be?”

Dumont blinked up at his wife. His perfect, beautiful, brilliant wife—by the Swordsman, how he’d missed her! “Is it…time for us?” Tears of joy streamed down his cheeks.

“It is.” She knelt at his side and kissed his forehead. Warmth spread through him, soothing and gentle. “Hurry up. You and I have a stroll to take, my love.”

Dumont smiled and took his one last breath.

I am, first and foremost, a storyteller and an artist--words are my palette. Fantasy and science fiction are my genres of choice, and I love to explore the darker side of human nature through the filter of heroes, villains, and everything in between. I'm also a freelance writer, a book lover, and a guy who just loves to meet new people and spend hours talking about my fascination for the worlds I encounter in the pages of fantasy and sci-fi novels.

Speculative fiction provides us with an escape, a way to forget about our mundane problems and step into worlds where anything is possible. It transcends age, gender, religion, race, or lifestyle--it is our way of believing what cannot be, delving into the unknowable, and discovering hidden truths about ourselves and our world in a brand new way. Fiction at its very best!

Website: http://www.andypeloquin.com

AFTERWORD

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