Copyright © 2025 Max Shepherd

All rights reserved.

The right of Max Shepherd to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, design and patents act 1988

This edition first published in Great Britain 2025

ISBN: 9781036910808

Book cover by Darko Tomic

Cover typography by Smashed-Grid Studio

www.max shepherd.blog

For my sons, Rajko and Luka

Contents

1. Hektor

2. Lars

3. Hektor

4. Lars

5. Tom

6. Draygan

7. Hektor

8. Tom

9. Lars

10. Tom

11. Goran

12. Tom

13. Hektor

14. Lars

15. Goran

16. Lars

17. Tom

18. Lars

19. Draygan

20. Lars

21. Draygan

22. Hektor

23. Lars

24. Lars

25. Tom

26. Sara

27. Tom

28. Lars

29. Hektor

30. Tom

31. Lars

32. Goran

33. Draygan

34. Goran

35. Hektor

36. Lars

37. Hektor

38. Lars

39. Draygan

40. Sara

41. Tom

42. Sara

43. Draygan

44. Hektor

45. Tom

46. Draygan

47. Tom

48. Lars

49. Hektor

50. Lars

51. Goran

52. Porenzians

53. Tom

54. Sara

55. Draygan

56. Bojan

57. Hektor

58. Tom

59. Sara

60. Goran

61. Draygan

62. Sara

63. Hektor

64. Lars

65. Sara

66. Tom

67. Draygan

68. Hektor

69. Lars

70. Hektor

Epilogue

Chapter

Chapter one

Hektor

Hektor pushed into the salt wind, blinking dust. Patience. He crouched low, trying to ignore his hammering heart. Beneath the old wall, he slowed, pressing into the shadows. Here, he watched his prey: an overweight market trader wearing a stretched, yellow tunic.

His breathing became shallow. Do not rush, he told himself. Justice will come.

The man moved. He followed. As he turned a corner, he met the crowds. The yellow tunic slipped out of sight. Voices and chants rose above the red-tiled rooftops; local Porenzians, hooting, bearded Istarans in their idiotic fur. The city was a riot of nations. All were here for the Games. They pushed and wrestled towards the arena. Restaurants threw open their hatches; drinks spilled, and laughter rose. Children played, their innocent voices screeching with the promise of blood.

Someone pushed at him, grinning, and announced with a wash of wine-sour breath, “Prince Draygan just announced! He’s fighting!”

The Archon’s son was an arena newcomer, and a known devil with a blade. Any other time, the hearsay would have interested him. Not today. Hektor carefully pocketed his knife, pushing the drunkard away. The yellow tunic was nowhere to be seen. He pressed into the crowd. The alley opened onto a square surrounded by columns. Speakers stood in each corner dribbling their rhetoric, gathering listeners like flies to old fruit. Local women in hooded shawls sold eels and oysters. A Vestian merchant kicked at a dock-worker carrying her wares. Another was sweating, selling his grilled peppers. Like most who lived in the city, this man was clean shaven, lips cracked by the sun. You thought you lost me. Hektor withdrew the knife once more.

“Oil and spice!” The man yelled, “Peppers white and red!” So loud.

“It’s him,” said a voice. Sara.

He sighed. “You should have stayed at home.”

She ignored him, moving alongside to glare at a man who seemed to think he was finally safe. “You should have stayed at home. I can avenge myself.”

Her bruising was fresh. Green eyes were fierce beneath a puff of flesh. An untied braid was a failed attempt to conceal her injury.

She caught his look. “Be safe, then. Be fast.”

“I will send him to the Dark,” promised Hektor, narrowing his eyes. “A soul for the damned, may the Undergod wreath him in chains.” It was a prayer of sorts, and a threat. Hektor’s gods and the pantheon of the local isthmus shared a respect for the Bright, yet the Drenian gods, Dje and Suh, were in constant battle, one of land and one of sea. Life and death. Peace and anger. To wish a man chained in death was to wish his soul eternal suffering.

A flag dropped behind the speaker. An announcement. The man on the podium was from the Senate. “Citizens!” he shouted. “The Games begin!”

Sara reached down and grasped his free hand. “You have enough power?”

Hektor nodded. This close to the Bright Line beneath the arena, the sliver of stone strapped to his chest hummed with power. He felt it; a warm, soft comfort. It was strength and speed. It was healing if the wound was minor, barely a shred of what the fighters would enjoy in the Games, and certain death if anyone discovered it. Of all things, the stone was a tool for vengeance. “You should leave now,” Hektor warned.

“If you are here, I am here.”

“Then watch from a distance,” he urged. Just as he had watched her two days ago at the Senate, when they had petitioned for justice. He had borne witness, proud. Her voice was a song; her injuries stark defiance before the pristine council. “He did this!” she had pointed to the accused.

“Witnesses.” The council had insisted, “Proof?”

The judgement was swift. Incidental. The council did not care, nor would they ever.

Hektor took a deep breath. “If I am caught, then run.”

She nodded. Faded from his side. The man in the yellow tunic moved with the people towards the arena. Towards power.

Hektor kept close. Graffiti spread across the sides of government buildings, the tall free houses, and the ancient Duom. High letters praised the Archon, calling him a hero. Istarans were accused of humping their mothers. More forceful pieces of scrawl separated other political nonsense. Freedom died on Drenian beaches, was a splash of red paint.

“You, ah, stopping to eat?” asked a server from one restaurant, her tone suggesting she’d rather he didn’t.

“I’m looking for someone,” he began, but the server shook her head.

“Nothin’ to do with me,” she said. “You eat or you get gone.”

He made his way with the masses to the harbour, towards the bigger boats docked against the wharves and piers. Smooth hulls bobbed on the calm water. Drenian islanders worked there: strong men and women who unloaded produce, hauled in the day’s catch, working with the ropes and nets every hour of daylight they could manage. The pay was paltry. Hektor felt both pride and a certain amount of shame.

He walked on.

“Pepper, young lady?” The man tried to entice a rich-looking tourist. “Plenty of time yet. The Istaran team will be busy combing their hair!”

Wrong, thought Hektor, though the woman had not seen. He heard a disturbance. Nearby, soldiers moved the crowds aside, making a wide path for the Istaran fighters. They would walk along Vestia Way, enter the grand amphitheatre, and the Games would start. Time was running out. The soldiers would be vigilant.

Hektor slowed. Careful now. He turned. All eyes were on the foreigners, the fighters in their furs who howled and hooted. Istarans. Nobles with stones on their chests to dwarf the one on his own. The crowd was baying. Some threw fruit. All attention was away from a woman buying a pepper. Hektor remained calm, watching. He waited for the woman to move.

The hilt of the knife was slick in his palm. Except it was not a knife. Not in the strictest sense. It was a weave. Three strands of wire wound around each other just so. They would channel the power from the stone. It had to be perfect, and Sara had woven them for this very purpose, an expense of metal greater than they could afford. She had given her thoughts to that argument already, pointing to the bruises, the cuts, the beating she had suffered. “What price for these?” she had asked.

Closer still to the Bright, to the power beneath the arena, and Hektor’s stone was another heart. The weave-knife charged with promise, alive in his palm. I can smell him, thought Hektor. The vendor’s yellow tunic was fraying and faded. The man was poor. He breathed him in. Smoke, stink, and above it all the oily sweetness of the man’s wares.

“Vengeance,” Hektor whispered.

The man turned. His chin fell slack. Yes. Me again. People surged around them. It made them an island. They were close as brothers, sandals rooted to the huge harbour slabs. The sliver of Noble-stone over his heart pulsed. A rosy glow coursed through the wire running beneath his vest. The weave of the knife grew hotter than fire. His knuckles burned. He thrust for the heart.

And missed. The crowd’s mood had changed. Silence claimed the voice of even the bawdiest reveller. A nearby Istaran stumbled, ruining his aim. The weave should have pierced and cauterised, a tiny, deadly wound. Something secret, innocuous, bloodless, and final.

Knocked aside, the knife went awry. A blaze between their embrace scraped a black line across the stinking tunic. Hektor smelled grilled meat. Burnt hair.

In the sudden silence, the man screamed and pushed him away.

The charge in the sliver of Noble-stone faded to nothing. Hektor stumbled back, weapon useless. Run. Every strained tendon ached with the desire, yet sense won out. If I run, they chase. He backed away. The wounded vendor was screaming. No one cared. Not a single tourist, soldier, or citizen paid attention.

Because someone was ascending the steps of the Darkening Chair.

Chapter two

Lars

Lars Larson, captain of the Istaran team and trueborn Noble, walked tall. His head was high. He grinned and waved. The procession marched along Vestia Way; a wide, straight road leading past the Darkening Chair and towards the arena. Onlookers pressed between the trees, hurling insults. Some threw the odd piece of fruit. Soldiers removed the more boisterous, a line of whom guarded the entire way.

“These same people were smiling and kind, selling us peaches and bread in the market not two days past,” Metaxes, handsome as a peacock, shook his head.

“And now they’re rabid as animals,” Lars waved all the same, doing his part as the gladiator team marched onwards. He had to raise his voice over the noise. “I blame it on inbreeding. Have you heard the podium speakers here? Sun-bronzed Nomani talking through their beaks, apologising for the war, their tongues so far up the Nobles’—“

”—Anatomy?“ Metaxes supplied.

Lars nodded, smiling broadly at the onlookers. “Aye,” he replied.

“They’re all toads,” Jelena supplied.

A tomato sailed from a sea of waving arms. Lars dodged. “Exactly,” he agreed. “Useless fools spouting rhetoric. Bilgewater served as wine. The people lap it up, nod and agree, thinking they’re bettering their damned souls. Then they go home and get drunk on grappa and beat their wives and talk about killing those very same Nomani in that God cursed war. Then they pass out with their feet in their own piss. Hypocrites, all of them.”

“Porenzians,” said Metaxes. And that settled it. Right enough. Istara, Vestia, Porenza: they were all mainland cities. All had the same history, the same gods, the same enemy in the war. Yet they could not be more different. Put any of the local, weak-chinned, fish eating Porenzians in the mountains and they would freeze. No beards on their faces, no hair to shield the wind from their eyes.

Lars pulled his own matted hair and tucked it behind his ears. He’d scraped some red clay through it, daubed the tips of his beard. Like blood, he figured. It was a ritual procession, the walk to the sands, and he wanted to look as fierce as he felt. The insults and the jeering were part of the whole thing, and in Lars’ opinion, the tradition was better than a kick in the teeth. Better than any hard labour. Certainly better than war. He slapped Metaxes on the back. “We’d have been rotting in caskets on this same road seven years ago. Now look at us!”

“Seven years ago I was twelve,” Metaxes grinned.

“Pups,” Lars laughed. “The lot of you!”

Vestia Way ended. His warriors were clear of the crowds. Lars turned. He waited for the rest of his team to pass until he was the last man. He walked backwards, raised his arms, and raised both his middle fingers. With a last grin, he spun around and followed the rest into the fighters’ gates. Of all the allied states, Porenza was the worst. Rope hauling fish stinking beggars, too proud by far. He walked with his team into the belly of the grand structure. But they know how to put on a show.

White limestone lined the corridor leading into the depths of the magnificent structure. He caught up with the team. It was dark, and together they hunched low until a glow appeared on the walls. Soft at first, gradually becoming lighter. Light-weaves pulsed in rhythm to his own quickening heart.

“This is it!” he called. His voice echoed against the walls. Pointless banality, but he wasn’t above such things. “Are we ready?” he asked.

Jelena whooped. The rest of his team followed suit, all except the boy, Lucic, whose shoulders sagged beneath the glow. The corridor’s undulating, Bright-powered light was mixing with that of day. They were nearing the Waiting. A room aptly named, held from the sands by nothing but an iron gate.

“Scared, Lucic?” Lars asked, moving closer. “Boy, you don’t know fear.”

“Sod off,” came the whispered reply.

Lars recalled words from home. The boy’s father, the perpetually red-robed Istaran Archon, gripped his hands earnestly. ‘Look after Lucic,’ he had implored. Lars had sworn he would. But then lies were free. Easy as breathing. He would as much waste time looking after the brat as he would fall on an enemy’s lance, or jump in front of an arrow. Some battle-worn tenets made him laugh. Look after your brothers. Never leave a man behind. Rubbish. Walking the sands might not be physically dangerous, as such. Any wound could heal beneath the power of the Bright Line in the Porenzian Basilica, eventually. Even a deadly blow. But the pain was real. Any sensible creature would avoid it, and so Lars would avoid the idea that altruism played any part in combat. No. He would stick with the strongest, Metaxes and Jelena. Together, they would hunt and kill the slowest of Porenza’s gladiators. Then they would eliminate the rest one by one.

The weakest on his own team would suffer, as they deserved. Good luck with that, Lucic.

His gaze settled on the white daylight pouring from a narrow hole in the roof. A gong sounded from beyond the walls. He knew then that the great gates were opening, that citizens and tourists alike would soon pour past the Darkening Chair and into the seating tiers.

His warriors paced. Some sat.

After some time, a soldier came through the corridor. He wiped sweat from his forehead and trembled the words, “Sorry, sirs, ladies ...”

“Ladies?” Jelena smirked.

“Out with it,” Lars commanded.

“A delay,” the soldier went on. “Please, a little patience.”

Porenzians. “For how long?”

Chapter three

Hektor

Hektor retreated further. He slowed, then stopped.

“Help me!” wailed the pepper seller, pointing, “He’s after me. Someone!”

“Someone help that man.” A voice called. Shut him up, they meant.

The Darkening Chair was atop a flight of steps, an ominous monolith obscuring the entrance to the five tiers of the arena.

Sara found him. She slipped an arm around his waist and whispered, “Were you seen?”

He squeezed her close. No.

They watched. What else was there to do? The Chair was black as the promise of thunder, flanked by twin statues of the Iron Titan and the Violet Lady. No one came close to the steps. Ever. Not unless they were Nobles, or else had nothing left to lose. Even the Istaran and Vestian tourists were shy before the grim ascent, groups of them hanging back, whispering.

“He’s getting away,” Sara breathed. And there was nothing they could do.

The pepper seller was in the arms of a friend, hauled away from all those gawking at the long steps. Sara guided Hektor in another direction. Towards home, and he knew why. But a voice inside said, watch.

The steps narrowed at the apex, funnelling onto a stone platform upon which was the single greatest cause of death in all Porenza. The Chair itself. A memory formed. The steps beneath his own feet. It hurts, he thought. Even now.

Sara pressed her lips to his ear. “We should leave,” she said, sensing his discomfort.

Hektor shook his head.

A lone figure made their way to the top. A voice nearby called rhythmically, “Dark-en-ing!”

The chant grew as harbour workers took notice, drowning the cries of wheeling gulls. The entire seafront soon took the chorus up. “Dark-en-ing! Dark-en-ing!”

“Make it,” whispered Hektor, “You brave fool. Make it!”

It was a man. A short, skinny local, by the looks of him. Beardless.

If the man were a Noble—and judging by the rags he wore, he most certainly was not—then the Chair would grant him power. He would become Brightened, able to draw the power running like giant veins beneath the city via a Noble-stone. His eyes would change colour in the presence of the Bright, and he would win the opportunity to fight for prestige and riches. As a common man, the Chair would almost certainly kill him. Hektor shivered. He fastened his eyes on the poor soul, willing him luck.

People pressed closer. Shops and bars emptied up and down the seafront. Hektor hated crowds, but he felt he owed the man his attention. The chant drowned any other sound. The figure faltered halfway up the steps, turned, terrified, and looked out. Hektor noticed sweat, the frayed edges on the man’s sandals, and the half-shaved stubble on his chin. Desperate, thought Hektor. Desperate and unprepared. This man would die.

“My love.”

“A moment.”

The figure turned, almost at the summit. The chant continued, slower now, quieter.

Hektor watched as the man gazed out for a last time, heavy eyes cast not on the watching people, but on the sea beyond. Flags on each tier fluttered back and forth. The statue of the Iron Titan stared out beside him, and the Violet lady stood haughtily on the other. The skinny hopeful hesitated in front of the Chair for a long minute, then with a shout sat upon it. Heavy silence fell. An intake of breath.

“Dje grant him grace,” Hektor whispered.

The Chair changed. Its colour went from dark grey, burnished by the sun, to a deep, blood-saturated red.

They looked like roots. Curling tendrils emerged from behind the man’s head. They were physical manifestations of the Bright. They grew from the stone itself, pulsing gently pink. The man closed his eyes, his lips moved. The Lines grew closer.

Hektor tensed. The Lines touched the man’s skull, digging into his black hair. They pulsed brighter, and Hektor thought for a moment, for one auspicious moment, that the man might become Brightened. A new Noble for the ranks of whatever city he hailed.

The scream that ripped from the man’s throat told differently. “They are coming!” he shouted, his voice torn from the depths of his stomach. “Titans! They are coming!”

Hektor frowned. Visions at the moment of death on the Chair were not uncommon. Some said the Bright granted foresight. Titans. It was the fourth mention of the legendary creatures in as many weeks. The more bloodthirsty onlookers cheered. Most simply dispersed or went back to their meals or drinks. Hektor remained where he was, watching the man die. The small body went rigid, back arching, feet thrust forward. The Lines held him tight as the clutches of the Undergod, and in a white flash they snapped back into the Chair. Released, the man slid to the floor, dead. Soldiers, well used to such an occurrence, marched upwards to remove the body.

Chapter four

Lars

Lars peered through the heat-haze beyond the bars. Enemies waited at the opposite end of the sands, fear or courage in their heart. He would soon find out which. The debacle on the Chair had finished. The stands and seating tiers were almost full.

“Stones on,” he commanded.

Someone looped a leather cord over his shoulders, across his chest and around his waist. Within the pouch above his heart, he felt the Noble-stone pulse. It was a conduit to the well of Bright beneath the sands. A piece of God himself, if the cults were to be believed. Lars did not. It was power, nothing more. He would use it. A sound buzzed inside his ear; thoughts, or if he chose, conversation with anyone else wearing a Noble-stone. At other times, when men were not using the place to hack each other into pieces, the arena was a hub for communication. Lars shut the noise down, suppressing all those thoughts except for those broadcast by his team.

-Hear me?

-Hello, Jelena.

-Checking in! came another voice. It was one of the older fighters, Ziril. Lars faded the reception for that one. Too much chatter.

He turned to his team. They all knew their job, even Lucic. He had drilled tactics for different scenarios over and over on the dust of the training ground at Istara. His team had shed rivers of sweat, and slowly they had meshed. They were good. Lars knew it. He was not one for speeches, but they had their place.

He frowned and chewed over some likely words. The team was right in front of him. He could have spoken. Instead, he used the connection forged by the Noble-stone on his chest, speaking directly into their minds. The fight was fast approaching, their blood was up, and a little encouragement never hurt.

-Line up, he commanded. There were nine of them. Three of them were old soldiers, Nobles who had survived the war. They grinned at him. Old Ziril even winked. They’d heard it all before. This was for the younger ones whose bruises came from training, not the hammers and blades of true enemies, whose bones didn’t rattle and groan every time they moved.

-Team, he said, -We’ve won before, and we’ll win today. Couldn’t see much through the gate, but the sand looks clear. Won’t be many obstacles, and there won’t be much cover. Stick together, stay tight. We take them one at a time. Novak, Karla, he nodded at two of the newer members, a brother and sister who’d recently braved the Darkening Chair. -You both take the bows, cover our entry. Aim straight.

The last of the women on his team, Gorga, spoke out loud, “Should we beware harming the audience?” She was lithe and strong, from a respected Istaran family. She should have known the answer.

Lars wondered if the question was for the youngster’s benefit. He faded the Noble-stone’s connection, silencing his thoughts and replied out loud, “They have nets, mesh and such to protect them. We can’t harm the crowd. Lucic,” he pointed at the boy. “You skirt the edge. Try to get behind them. Cut some ankles if you can.” Should keep him out of the way, at least. “Jelena, you’re the quickest. Draw full power from the Bright, run the other edge. Don’t engage until you’re needed. Ready?” he asked.

They grinned at him. Even Lucic. Noble-stones glowed, filled with energy from Porenza’s deep well of power. Yes, they were ready. Lars smiled back. “Good.” In the Bright, he added, -Fight well.

The noise beyond the room increased. He turned back to the gate, eyes on the sand. The reverberation of sound buoyed him, an insistent ululation. It was an old song. A battle song, and he’d heard it plenty. In the old tongue it sounded more frightening, but a rough translation still did it justice.

Sailors we, born of sea,

Sing, sing, as we-

We cut them down,

Our enemies. Valour! Valour! Victory!

He whispered the words as they gathered in volume and pace. In his mind, he remembered. Walls of leather and bronze, men at their finest. The charge, the pride, and then the heaving wash of sweat, blood, and death. He saw the prow of a trireme cresting the waves of the Canyon Sea, spears bristling on deck, storm clouds gathering, men singing still.

Compared to the war, he thought, gladiatorial combat was the easiest thing in the world. The gate lifted. He stepped forward.

Sand and dust. Nothing more. Simple and beautiful. He felt it between his toes. There was no design. No trees, no walls, just open space, ripe for killing.

Soon, the fighting would start. But not yet.

“Warriors!” came the voice. Lars expected it. The speaker was Porenza’s ruler. Hero of the war. A man likely to rule for generations yet, and even as Lars disliked the place, and yes, the people, he had respect for their Archon. He’d even met the man once in an army camp in the Istaran foothills. Bloodied, they were. The Archon had given him a flask of something strong. They’d spoken of the fighting. He doubted the man would remember. “Friends,” the voice went on, quieter now. Lars’ knuckles ground white upon the hilt of his sword. Not long now. “On this, the seventh anniversary of the secession, the seventh year of peace and prosperity, I give you, the Games!”

-Go. Blazing sunshine, the heat of it. He gripped the leather scabbard at his waist and drew his father’s sword. Upon his chest the Noble-stone flared, crystalline, clear as glass anywhere but here. It was hot upon his skin, vital as blood. The power beneath the amphitheatre concentrated so that the stone burned pink.

Lars built his pace, cresting the wave of sound echoing around him: a thousand voices and him alone, surging ahead of his team. He was alive, blood hot, heart singing.

But he was not stupid -Cover! he warned, and veered left. Arrows fell into the path he would have taken, sputtering on the sand.

The stone on his chest allowed for more than simply regeneration. It took a great deal of practice, but with the power so close, he could move faster, see further. His skin tingled. Toughened. His sword hummed, the edge as keen as could be. Beside him, a figure shimmered past, armour as bright as a mirror. Could only be Metaxes.

-Three to our right, Metaxes said. They went the other way. Towards easier prey.

More enemies appeared, dancing their own way, armoured, dust writhing around them in pockets. They had split into groups of three. A spear flew at him faster than expected. He moved, heard a scream. One of his team was down, and yet no two swords had touched.

-Closer, he sprang forward. Metaxes and another followed. They skirted the edge of the oval area. The song of the crowd had dampened, more sombre now, a breath held short. Somewhere, someone was slowly drumming. A war rhythm.

The dust cleared. An arrow took one of the Porenzians in the throat. He heard Karla’s whoop of delight in his mind, and sent back -Good aim! Send more!

Steel clashed to his left. A warrior appeared. Armour covered his thighs and forearms and nothing more. He was alone. Lars paused and regarded the soldier. He saw an old face with a heavy brow, no sign of humour. It was the Porenzian captain, hair white before his time, eyes lined and angry: Goran.

“You old dog,” the Porenzian warrior said. “Face me, man to man.”

Lars stepped forward, Metaxes at his side.

-Circle left, he told Metaxes, and attacked. His sword was a lance, jabbing at the enemy’s exposed abdomen. Old Goran was good, however. The jab missed.

Metaxes leapt, cutting from the left. Lars followed on the opposite side. His sword was parried but the kick that followed was not. He pressed forward.

“Coward!” Goran yelled, stumbling. The Porenzian captain’s shoulder bled freely, then healed before their eyes. The light of the Noble-stone on his chest dimmed.

Lars did not bother wasting breath on a reply. He kicked again, and the man fell. Metaxes stepped, balance perfect. His sword was invisible as it fell, and the slash that opened Goran’s throat was too much for the stone on his chest to deal with.

-One for the Basilica, Metaxes smiled. -He’ll wake up angry as bees on a boil when he’s healed.

They waited as runners climbed from the stands, wiry men, fit and agile. They dragged Goran’s body away. The sooner they got it to the main Bright Line in the Basilica, the less scarring there would be. Wait too long, and the body wouldn’t heal at all.

-It’s him! Came Jelena’s voice. -The Archon’s son. He’s... oh God...

Then nothing. Lars took a moment. The tiers of the amphitheatre were quieter. That was not normal. Anger at his treatment of tough old Goran? What happened to Jelena?

-Hello?

-Jelena? Added Metaxes. They received no reply.

Sand was settling everywhere, kicked up by what must have been a mighty clash at the other side of the arena. For now, he and Metaxes were alone. Ahead, Lucic was being dragged to the gate, a trail of blood his only farewell. The dust settled further. The quiet remained.

“Something strange is in the air,” Metaxes said.

Lars had to agree. He could finally see. The tiers above him were full, each man and woman quiet, expectant. They were on their feet, all stretching their necks to look at a figure standing alone not twenty paces away. “Big lad, isn’t he?” Lars noted, then shouted at the figure. “We’re over here!”

Draygan approached, and Lars had to admit the boy moved well. The Noble-stone on his chest was beaming, filled with power.

Lars crouched. He heard his breath hiss through his teeth. He felt the sun on his cheek. The weight of expectation sat upon him like a mountain. Draygan moved like a panther, bounding rather than running. No talk this time, then.

-I’ll go high, Metaxes said. His armour had lost its shimmer.

Lars trusted Metaxes: a young man who trained every day, who lived to fight, moved like quicksilver, always in balance. A friend.

Dead before his blow even landed.

Lars spun away. Draygan’s second sword scored a line along his arm. A warmth spread from his chest as he turned. He felt the cut on his arm healing. Back up. Faster. The boy hit him, over and over. Between the rhythm of hammering steel, he spied the body of Metaxes. Draygan’s eyes betrayed nothing.

Lars defended on instinct alone, no time to counter. He was tiring, despite the power coursing into his veins. The stone on his chest could only achieve so much. He looked past Draygan. Shouts and cries once more filled the air. The crowd sensed the end.

He needed space. The pressure was relentless. He lost his balance and rolled back. Blessedly, Draygan did not follow. He got to his feet slowly. Playing for time. Damn, he was tired. “You’re good,” he said.

Nothing.

“Almost as good as the Archon,” he ventured.

The boy’s shoulders stiffened.

There it is. Lars went on, “You might even be his equal.”

Draygan stepped forward, “This is my victory,“ he said, and lunged.

With a roar, Lars pushed forward into Draygan’s attack. The stone gave him all it had. Any cut he received now would bleed like any other. It was idiocy, but he was damned if he would lose. -Die! he yelled into the Bright. Flames filled his mind, sweat stung in his eyes. He saw soldiers around him, comrades falling. Memories betrayed him. A blow stung at his legs and he fell to his knees.

Sailors we. Odd song, he thought, for people who loved the mountains. The wind punched from his lungs. An icy feeling. A slowly fading realisation that a sword was in his chest.

Draygan left it there. Stepped back.

How about that? Lars thought. Draygan’s Noble-stone remained full, bursting with rosy power. The boy hadn’t used it at all. He was that good.

Lars’ vision failed. He felt sand upon his cheek, blood in his mouth, in his beard. The crowd roared, the sound swelled and faded. Everything faded.

Chapter five

Tom

Tom Valerian stood on the podium. Councillor, philosopher, teacher: he was all these things and more. Today, he was a speaker. A glorious tradition. He raised his arm, his lungs full. The sun beat on his proud chin, a warmth to inspire.

Yet words would not come. Luckily, he was alone. Absent was the bustle, the thinkers, the learned, and yes, even the hecklers. What will I say? He wondered. His homeland, Noma, considered all allied cities barbarians. The Decuria and the other lords across the water would scoff at his worry. But they were wrong. Porenza was learned, even by Nomani standards. And after Draygan’s performance, they would expect a worthy speech.

Draygan. Tom smiled. The brilliant young man would be leading the procession from the arena at any moment, wreathed in victory. Lulian would be there, as would Rhain, Tom’s friend and Draygan’s combat teacher. All would expect him to perform. Praise, humour. It had to be right. Rhain especially would laugh if he stumbled. He could hear the big man now. “You flowery poets!”

The words would be said in jest. Partly. He liked Rhain, but the man was a soldier, a man who never seemed to understand when his words might hurt.

“I will tell the tale of the war,” he whispered. “Of Draygan as the old Archon reborn.”

The empty Palazzo mocked him. The right words would not come. He knew the problem. He had been part of the assembly that month, obliged to rule on cases of civil unrest, disputes and the like. Two days ago he had ruled on a case against a Porenzian market vendor. The man had attacked a Drenian girl. Tom knew the outcome in advance. The whole damned chamber knew it. The vote had carried for innocence.

What am I a part of? He had asked himself. It chewed at his mind, interrupting sleep, souring the joy of wine. More importantly, the memory hindered his ability to think. It made it impossible to plan the damned speech!

“I will speak of Draygan as an example to follow,” he whispered. “A paragon of justice in a difficult time.” A time when a girl suffered a beating and nothing was done. Damn the Dark. How could he talk of justice?

He had rushed from the arena early to get a feel for the podium, to soak in the dust and the heat which bounced from the white walls around him. To be free of the screaming mob. He clicked his fingers. Inspiration, he thought. I need only the seed of an idea and I will ... wait. The Palazzo was not empty.

A young man with brown, tightly curled hair was running from one side to the other. Tall and muscled, eyes like coals. “Wait!” Tom called. The young man was a Drenian islander, and Tom recognised him. It was the imposing fellow who had escorted the girl from the council chambers. “It is providence,” Tom whispered to whichever God was listening. He kissed the tips of his fingers, a sign of thanks. A chance to right a wrong.

He stepped from the podium. “I say!” he called. “Wait a moment!”

Happily, the two young Drenians had a case. They needed only help and witnesses, and Tom had enough sway with the locals to secure both. He would catch the young man, clear his conscience, and clear his mind. Then the words will come. He knew it.

The Drenian was heading towards a street at the south of the square, aiming for an alleyway that cut to the side of the large, colonnaded forum building. He was moving away from the direction of the Campus fields, away from the revelry to come. Tom’s curiosity grew. He followed. Two grooves ran into the paving, worn deep by a century of wagons taking fish from the harbour to the stables outside the city, the goods to be dispersed further inland. Tom walked quickly along one runnel, keeping his feet balanced along the worn edge.

Sound carried erratically in the streets. Sometimes the noise from the cheering masses behind him bounced and reverberated, and it seemed as if he were still part of the enormous crowd.

The Drenian was making his way to the market. Strange. Most of the vendors took the day off, or else had packed their wares and headed to the fields. “Hello!” he shouted. He wished only to do a good deed, and yet his fortunate subject was running away.

Not so fast! Tom thought with a smile.

Chapter six

Draygan

Upon greater men than I ... Draygan thought. Their backs as mountains I climb.

He walked arm in arm with his father. They floated, it seemed. Past the soldier pines and their needle-like tips, on pavement worn by poorer feet than his. Tom was not on the podium, which bothered him. Maybe he will talk on the field.

His father seemed not to notice, roaring, laughing, shouting to old soldiers and old friends. His adoptive father, that was. The Archon. A man whose shadow cast across all the allied states, whose presence was like a legend of old given life. Whose shadow now fell upon Draygan.

This is my moment, Draygan thought. And yet here we are.

“My boy!” cried the Archon, “This is my boy! Did you see him?”

So loud, drunk not with wine or grappa, but pride, although the Archon would surely welcome the liquid embellishment to come. They moved at the head of a vast host, an army at his heel, in love with him. If Draygan was honest, he felt numb. Where is the joy? The euphoria?

He pressed against the sweaty side of his father, carried inexorably towards the fields and celebration. Rhain, his combat teacher, was at his other side, a hand clapped to his back. Between these men, he felt small. The sun beat upon his brow, scored the line where his helmet had recently sat. As he was pulled from the last of the city residences, onto the grass and the mud of the vast Campus fields, he pictured his victory.

The old Istaran. The surge of the Bright. The pulse of power waiting unused upon his chest, a Noble-stone beating like a second heart. The words of his team, and the sword as he thrust it into skin, muscle, and the life housed in such forgiving flesh.

“I thought it would be harder,” he said.

“Eh?” asked Rhain.

Maybe he had whispered. Or perhaps the singing of the crowd, the shouts and the laughter had drowned his observation. “Killing a man,” he went on. “Tom counselled me as to the ethics… that the Bright will heal. But it is not ... you see—“

Rhain leaned down, frowned. “Can’t hear you, lad, speak up! You okay?”

“I thought that the Istaran’s body would be more robust. And yet my sword slipped between rib and sinew, sank into his heart like a stone in water. Are we so fragile?”

Rhain laughed, as if it were a joke. Another clap on the back. “I’m going to get you a drink. And a woman. Don’t let the old man see you maudlin, you hear? Or Tom, for that matter. Today’s your day, Draygan.”

Draygan turned from the old warrior. My day.

He looked at his father. The man was of an even height, and yet more somehow. In Draygan’s mind, he always looked up. Beads formed on the Archon’s temple, dripping towards the corner of his mouth. Here was the man who had forged the treaty that ended the war with the Nomani. Here was the man who transcended race, or politics, or love for his son.

Draygan shook his head. They were almost at the roped-off section of the Campus fields. The grass was green with recent growth, ready for the stamp of a thousand feet. Traders had set up stalls. Food for all.

A soldier lifted a rope. He ducked under, pushed by his father and Rhain. Another soldier thrust a tankard into his hand, gestured at a dais at the end of the sectioned off square. Tables surrounded the area, filled with meats, cakes, and barrels of what must have been wine or beer. He went towards the wooden platform, a step ahead now, free from the crush of his father’s arm. Why am I so angry? This is my moment.

And yet.

His father climbed up after him.A firm hand clasped upon his shoulder. So close. He wanted to shrink away. Back at the manse where he had grown from boy to man, this sort of contact was foreign as the mountains. The embrace was a sham.

“One day, son,” the Archon said, eyes crinkling. “You will have all this.”

Draygan looked at the beaming masses. A multicultural mix of several wartime allies, interspersed with a few Drenian islanders, all pressed against the ropes. Their joy at his victory was obvious, an honest jubilation. His father was right. This would be his. The responsibility. Something inside him lifted. A tension eased from the taut muscles of his back. He looked at the people, at his team as they ducked beneath the ropes and helped themselves to small treats and savoury snacks. He saw them grin at him. He saw them raise their hands.

A mouthful of strong beer settled his resolve. I can do this, he thought. For them.

Lifting the tankard again, he took a huge swallow. He forced his cheeks up, a smile pulled across his face. He showed his teeth to the crowd, opened his mouth wide and shouted, “Porenza!”

They responded, calling out in sporadic, hoarse cries. The call rippled from one end of the Campus fields to the other.

His captain, Goran, approached. The old soldier raised a tankard of his own, gave a small bow, mouthed the word. “Porenza.”

Alongside Draygan, the Archon squeezed. An acknowledgement. The old man knew him too well. He squeezed back and thought, you are welcome, father. But this is not for you. He looked across at the people. There were more and more filling every space, crushing the grass to red Porenzian mud. The people.

His people, in time. I do this for them.

Chapter seven

Hektor

The market was empty of trade. It was as if the wind itself had abandoned the place. He gave the knife and the sliver of stone to Sara, useless now the charge had gone. “Home,” he urged. Methus and Micho would be waiting. “Tell them I’ve gone to the fields.”

She nodded. “Make it final, this time.”

In the market, alone now, Hektor looked around. The few traders lounged, feet upon their counters, small cigarettes rolled between their lips giving off bitter, narrow swirls of smoke. News of Porenza’s victory had spread before him, from window to alley, sweeping the city clean of people faster than a Bura wind, carrying them to the fields of victory outside the city limits.

He kicked a woven basket. It bounced along the dust and stones and came to rest against a food stall. He looked up, saw the white peppers, saw the thin lips, the oily hair, and the slashed, charred yellow tunic.

The man backed away.

Hektor plucked a pepper from the stall-front display. He threw it in the air and caught it, hefting its weight before taking a huge mouthful.

“You leave here, you get gone! Help!”

“You should have gone to celebrate,” Hektor advised around a mouthful of fruit. His fist crashed into the vendor’s face. Pieces of pepper flew. His knuckles splattered in pulped mush, and clear juice ran along his arm. Hektor swallowed, throat gorged. The fruit tasted bitter, but then this was a bitter deed.

“I didn’t do anything!” the vendor mewed. “It wasn’t me, I swear!”

I was there. Hektor cast the baskets to the ground. Produce tumbled. He climbed over the table. The vendor backed up against the rear of the booth. If the walls had been cloth, or canvas, the man would have escaped. As it was, the sides were wooden and sturdy.

Trapped, the man shook, pressed against the back corner of the tiny space. “She stole from me!” he begged.

The first blow doubled the bastard in two. Breath smelling of sour apples and old tobacco whooshed out, and he crumpled to the floor. “She stole?” Hektor asked. “I know the wages they pay my people, the spit they cast our way and call sustenance, the alms scattered by the council to douse our anger, barely enough to sate the clawing in our stomachs. She stole to live.”

“Theft—“ the man held his hands out in defence.

“Life,” Hektor corrected. took hold of the greased hair. “You may never understand, but you will suffer.“ He made the man look into his eyes. “This is for Sara,” he said, and powered his fist forward.

The man’s nose cracked on the first blow. It gushed red after the second. A scream accompanied the third impact.

“Hey!” someone called in the distance. Hektor did not stop. He felt an eye socket crack. He felt teeth loosen. He pulled the man higher and pummelled his ribs. One gave, then another.

Chapter eight

Tom

Tom saw the first punch. What in the Dark ... “Hey!”

Such anger. He rushed forward. The Drenian wasn’t stopping. Fists hit like hammers.

“I’ll get the Regiment!” he called. The soldiers who policed the city.

The young man paused as Tom drew closer. “Tell them to bring an empty sack,” he looked at the overweight trader, then hit him again. “A big one.”

Tom’s heart sank further. I just wanted to help. He slowed, at a loss. A part of him wanted to leave, to run for the nearest soldier. But he could not. Tom knew he could not walk away and still be able to look in a mirror. Good for nothing morals.

He charged.

Dust billowed where his feet fell. He might have closed his eyes. The impact, when it came, juddered through his shoulder. The Drenian fell to the side of the booth.

With one rapid movement, the young man was on his feet. He looked at Tom in open surprise, then turned back to the bleeding vendor.

“Are you crazy!” Tom shouted, reaching for him.

There was a moment then, an odd moment when the air stilled. During the confrontation, Tom had ignored the sound of the distant masses. Most of Porenza would be on the Campus fields enjoying the entertainment. Where I should be. It was silent, however. The quiet of the temple, or the grave. It was wrong.

The air felt thick somehow. As if his skin were being pressed. His ears popped.

The others felt it too. Both looked into the sky, briefly ignoring a situation that had been a hair’s breadth from murder.

A dull boom echoed into the empty market. The wounded victim pushed himself backward, groaning. A slow line of orange carved across the blue expanse of open sky, then sped up, enlarged. It streaked downward and disappeared behind the maze of tall houses and washing lines. The explosion that followed was a thunderclap. Tom ducked, wincing at the sudden sound. A shockwave rumbled beneath his feet.

The injured man stood warily and backed away. He pointed, expression clear. This isn’t over.

Tom and the violent young Drenian looked at each other. The lad pointed into the sky. Behind Tom, three more streaks of fire appeared against the azure blue, and a strange whining sound pierced the air.

“What are they?”

“Nothing good,” prophesied Tom, and ducked again. One of the fiery lines vanished further into the city. A roar of sound fluttered the canvas awnings and shelters. He looked back at his companion. They were alone in the market. The young man’s eyes were wide.

They were dark eyes, and they shone like deep pools, little specks of light reflected there. Tom had seen them recently in anger. Now he saw a depth of something else. A pink halo around the iris, flashing suddenly and then fading away.

It was the sign of a Noble. The barest hint of colour.

“Sweet Lord,” he breathed, as the colour faded. “You sat in the Chair.”

Chapter nine

Lars

Lars stopped. There was a hollow feeling in the air. It felt like a pressure change, like ascending too quickly on the ropes at the cliffs by his home. Rather than just experiencing the sensation in his inner ear, he felt as if his whole body were being slowly pressed inwards.

With the feeling came a sense of danger, sudden and inexplicable. “Something is wrong,” he whispered.

Everyone felt it. The steady buzz of conversation stopped as if cut by a knife, then started again, building up to a babble of questions.

Jelena walked over, confused. “You feel that?”

As the pressure eased, Lars caught sight of an object in the sky, a small dot slowly gaining size. The war. Siege weapons on the decks of boats, flaming balls screaming from the sky. He crushed the memory. The object was too large for that.

Others had seen it, a tide of unrest rippling outwards. It was fear. As simple as that. The quiet before battle that rings in your head. The object grew larger still, a bright trail arcing across the heavens.

The Campus fields waited, watching. It fell towards the city, disappearing behind the spire of the Basilica. Immediately a dull, distant explosion rent the air, and Lars swore he felt the ground move.

Another three objects appeared. One was closer than the others.

“Guards!” shouted the Archon. Was this an attack?

Lars could not take his eyes from the sky. He focussed on the largest object. “Coming right for us,” he muttered. No one was moving. He drew a huge breath and shouted with every shred of air in his lungs, “Run!”

He turned and ducked under a rope. Most milling citizens had a stronger sense of their own immortality. They hampered him as he pushed and shoved himself away from the onrushing object. His escape presaged a flood that surged away from the Campus fields. He looked over his shoulder. The ball of glowing orange covered the last several hundred paces from sky to ground in a heartbeat. The shockwave hit at roughly the same time as the wall of sound.

He saw Jelena lifted as if by a giant hand, blond hair trailing like a streamer. Lars flew alongside. Weightless. I am going to die, he thought. The only sound was a loud wash in his ears; the only sensation was the wind rushing across his face and through his hair. Then he landed.

Pain had never been so welcome. It meant he was alive.

He picked himself up with relief, noting that his legs still worked. Others around him were not so lucky. Someone was screaming in pain. Someone else was sobbing. The sound muted, as if he was underwater. A woman yelled for help and Lars looked at her, struggling to make out her words. He saw the child near her chest. I need gauze, he thought, bandages, alcohol. He suddenly felt ashamed in his relief. He approached the woman and put two hands on her shoulders. His ears were ringing. He had to shout to hear himself. “I will help!” he promised.

Jelena stumbled into him, and together they found their feet. The young warrior was bleeding, a trail leaking from beneath her scalp. “Hurt.” she mumbled. “You?”

Lars had to read Jelena’s lips. His shoulder was seizing, he realised. It was nothing compared to the plight of others. “Not hurt,” he shouted.

Together, they moved. To find help. Answers. Anything.

“Who leads here?” a voice asked. A high-pitched, moderated tone. It pierced the failure of his hearing. It stopped him dead.

He looked around. The competitor’s area lay smashed to pieces; surrounded by slowly fading licks of flame. Bodies lay strewn around the dark patch of ground where tables of food and drink so recently sat. The voice came from a figure standing serenely in the centre of the circle of destruction.

Jelena blinked. She stumbled, faint.

Lars caught her. He stared at the strange being. Flashes of memory, a teacher in his youth saying, “The Titans were the sons and daughters of the Gods.” He saw in his mind a mosaic on the floor of the old temple at Istara, a simple pattern surrounding a figure from myth. Taller than a man. Ridged skull. A warrior of unparalleled strength. No. Such things were impossible. He squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them, the thing remained. It cannot be.

Whatever the thing was, it was not human.

Jelena was in shock, swaying next to him. Close by, others visibly trembled. Some backed away. Behind the strange being, a line of soldiers formed.

Its voice sang out once more. “Who leads here?”

A man in a red cape walked forward. Brave as any man alive. Blood dripped from a cut over his eye. He stamped out flame on his way, and loud enough for Lars to hear, with the same voice he had used in the arena, he proclaimed, “I rule here. I am the Archon of Porenza!”

The thing in the centre of the clearing was tall, Lars noticed. Taller than any man. It raised a hand and pointed at the Archon.

“Wrong,” it said.

It reached towards the blackened ground. Something materialised in its open palm. Mud fused into solid rock. Sods of grass buried beneath the impact emerged as if pulled by an invisible hand. The soil flattened, lengthened. Lars thought he saw the exposed end of a bone lift from the ground before it moulded itself into the shaft materialising within the creature’s grip. In the centre of the beast’s chest, a soft, pink glow gently pulsed.

Impossible. Lars blinked again. A Noble-stone? Working outside of the arena?

It stood up. Its new spear emerged, fitted with an arm span of sharp flint, long enough to spit a full-grown bullock. The beast’s arm drew back.

The Archon stepped back. A fighter still, veteran of combat, he knew danger when he saw it. He was also drunk, dazed, and not nearly fast enough.

The thing’s arm snapped forward. The spear blasted through the Archon’s chest and pinned his body to the sun-baked earth.

Lars shrunk inside. He took another step backwards, letting go of Jelena. He stumbled over a man whose breath came in ragged gasps and found himself on the floor. A woman, Vestian by the cut of her dress, crawled towards him, her eyes pleading. “Help me,” she whispered.

“Who leads here?” the thing asked.

The only response was a strangled cry of challenge from his left. He turned and saw the youngster. Lucic? The boy had finally found his courage.

“Going to pass out,” Jelena mouthed, sinking to her knees.

The woman crawling to him stopped. Her forehead rested on her outstretched arm. Jelena was next to him. Head wound, thought Lars, before his young friend lost consciousness. Behind him came the sound of sobbing. A peripheral concern. He could not tear his eyes away from the thing that had killed the Archon, and the fool boy who was running to attack it.

Lucic screamed as he ran, fist wrapped around what appeared to be nothing more than a paring-blade. In his other hand was the snapped leg of a wooden chair.

The soldiers behind the massive newcomer were moving, finally torn from their shock, but not before Lucic had his moment of glory.

It lasted less than a dozen heartbeats.

The thing gestured at the flailing youth. Was that a smile? It was hard to tell. Something tripped the boy. Grass, and a yellow-flowering weed that had grown in an instant from the dry ground, wrapping his ankles. Lucic fell hard. He reached down, tried sawing at the obstacle with his knife. The beast clenched a fist. The chair leg in the boy’s other hand grew thorns. It rooted, pinned Lucic’s arm to the floor, fattened and twined inexorably across his body, constricting. Lucic screamed. Louder, and longer than before. Then he stopped. Fool boy, Lars grieved. Barely a wisp of beard to his cheeks, barely a breath of foreign air in his lungs, and the son of the Istaran Archon was dead. Look after him, Lars.

The thing turned to the soldiers, content to wait.

The soldiers were not alone. At their flank were the surviving members of the Porenzian and Istaran teams. Most of them, anyway. Jelena was unconscious by his side. Lars tried to move. A part of him knew it was idiocy. Don’t be a fool … but he could not stand idle whilst his team fought. He readied himself to fight and then saw the woman crawl closer. Her hand found the strap on his sandal. “Help me,” she croaked. “Please.” There was a huge cut on her arm. The bleeding was appalling. Ahead, the soldiers marched forward.

The Campus fields were quiet. Expectant with the promise of violence. “I beg you,” the woman whispered. He helped her to a sitting position, gathered her in his arms. Another cut bled on her thigh, red soaked into the ground behind her. A trail of fading life.

Lars closed his eyes. He could taste blood in his beard. This is a man’s wife, he thought. A mother. A sister. Lars considered his own family waiting for him in Istara, and his heart almost broke.

“I’m here,” he said, opening his eyes, gathering the poor woman closer. “You are safe now.”

“Attack!” shouted the commander, “For the Archon!”

The Istaran team was without weapons. Still, they were deadly. Lars had trained them himself. He hoped at least one of them could get close enough, avoid the beast’s strange powers, and get hands on it.

They did not get the chance. It raised its arms, palms to the sky, and pebbles rose from the ground. Round, chalky stones trodden into the mud lifted, hovered, and then, as the thing clapped, loosed like a barrage of crossbow bolts into the massed ranks.

Soldiers staggered, some crumpled. Lars’ team members—and the Porenzians—were in nothing but linen and hemp, their clothing no match for the projectiles. Men and women fell, soundless. Ziril, Karla. All of them. The survivors retreated. Others fell to their knees. The last three men raised their swords and ran forward in a futile charge.

That’s Goran, Lars thought, recognising the ceremonial armour of one soldier. The captain of the Porenzian team. Honour until the end.

Two of the soldiers fell as the beast clenched long fingers, their breastplates crumpling as if it held them in two great fists.

Goran was the last. He slowed. So close. The captain attempted to swing the sword. His fury escaped from his throat in a shout of agony, and mid strike, the sword stopped moving. His own armour trapped him as rigid as rock. The beast, it seemed, had frozen the metal around Goran’s very limbs.

“No,” it said. And took a step forward. It placed a hand upon the helmeted head, gently, fatherly.Then it simply pushed. Goran fell.

It turned in a full circle, that curious smile upon its lips. “I will ask one last time,” it said. “Who. Leads. Here.”

Someone else approached, a smaller man. He stared at the thing, then sank to his knees. “You lead here!” the man shouted, his face buried in the blasted ground.

“Yes, I do,” came the voice. The figure turned and walked towards the sprawling mass of Porenza. As it passed the bodies of the Istaran and Porenzian teams, it stopped. Its head cocked to the side, and it looked at the Senator. “These have old blood,” it said. “You will bring them to me, alive or dead.”

Jelena stirred.

Lars clenched his jaw. In his arms, the woman was motionless and limp. He hugged her close.

The creature spoke one last time. The voice was soft, yet filled the Campus fields. It said, “I am Vortigen. Any who leave will die.”

Chapter ten

Tom

Tom took an involuntary step back. The young man closed in again, hot breath, and those eyes!

“What do you mean I sat in the Chair? Why were you following me?”

“I am Tom Valerian,” he replied calmly, backing away. It stood to reason the young man would hold his secret dear. A Brightened Drenian! Me and my big mouth.

“I should kill you,” whispered the youth, leaning over him.

Tom found himself pressed against the booth. The Drenian radiated danger. He said, “Your secret is safe. Who would believe me even if I spoke? How can I convince you?”

“You cannot,” he frowned. “You can convince Methus. Come.” He gripped Tom’s shoulder, then with an iron strength propelled him forward, away from the market and towards the fish district.

Tom did not argue. Behind him came a crumbling, crashing sound. A building collapsed. Screams fluttered towards them, sounds of pain carried on a hot breeze. “We may be in some danger,” he warned. Was it the Nomani? His countrymen summoning an idiocy to finish what they started all those years ago?

The Drenian did not reply. Nothing but silence and a steady hand to guide him as they moved. Tom considered running, and then pictured those long, muscled legs. The youth had the same build as Draygan and would catch him in an instant.

They moved through the fish district. The streets were empty. Shops rarely remained open during the Games. The fresh catch was in wooden crates: mussels from yesterday’s rope haul, and salted cuts of some flatfish or other. Tom wrinkled his nose at the smell. Soon they were beyond the district, further into the twisting streets leading towards the harbour.

“Stop,” the young man said. Tom obeyed.

The harbour was deserted. They crouched in the mouth of an alley. Fishing boats lined against the stone quay, mooring ropes flat in the water. Gulls wheeled and dived around the vessels, their cries echoing. Under the noise were other cries; sobbing, begging, and then finally as they peered along the long harbourside, screaming.

They both tensed, but continued forward. Further along the seafront was a blackened circle spread across the white stone, as if a great fire had died there. “What the Dark is it?” Tom wondered aloud.

“Quiet.”

A figure strode into view. It was tall. Tom watched as it walked by, the gait fluid and measured. His breathing became shallow. His heart beat faster. The thing was bald, with an elongated skull. Bony ridges formed along bare shoulders. Its head snapped towards them. It lacked hair and stood far taller than any man he had seen, yet the thing was certainly female.

It looked into the alleyway and a small smile split two full lips.

Titan, thought Tom. He had sketched the beings as a child, drawing their mythic battles against ancient humans upon any piece of parchment he could find. They had fascinated him before more sensible pursuits overtook his learning. And here he was, looking at one. “Of all the things in the world,” he whispered.

“Follow me,” hissed the Drenian, and turned.

“It’s impossible,“ he insisted.

“They’ve been saying it,” the youth corrected. “Those dead on the Chair for weeks now. Titans, they said. Before they died. Come away, foolish man.”

Curiosity was one thing, but loitering in the face of obvious danger was quite another. The lad may have radiated violence, but the thing by the seafront was something else entirely. It was death, and Tom knew it.

“Come!” the Drenian insisted.

He did not need telling again. Together they ran. His new companion was quick as he had imagined, speeding away. He found something else out then. He could keep up. Though his muscles burned and his throat torn from ragged gasps, he somehow found the pace to follow. Fear was a remarkable fuel.

Eventually, they arrived at a narrow oak door. The young man knocked quietly and a metal shutter slid open. Two small eyes peered out. “Oh hey, Hektor!” a voice exclaimed in a whisper. Locks clicked, bolts clanged, and the door swung open.

The sprint exhausted him. He sucked in great gulps of air, hands on his knees. Hektor, he thought. So that is his name. Tom’s sweat-soaked shirt clung to his skin. His cheeks were as likely red as churned Porenza soil. There was no time to recover. Hektor hardly seemed bothered by the flight and grabbed the front of Tom’s ruined garment, pulling him bodily into the dark opening. The door closed quietly behind.

Chapter eleven

Goran

He had thought it a dream at first. Flickers of flame on the grass were like spirits coming to taunt him. As swift as the snap of a bowstring, the greatest man he had ever known was dead on the ground. He only truly knew he was awake as the beast’s words rang into the Campus fields, “ Any who leave will die.”

No dream. The voice had been shards of ice in his skull, spoken by a monster who made the mistake of letting him live.

How am I alive? Goran gazed upwards as the sky slowly filled with the brightest of Porenza’s stars. He had been immobile most of the day, unable to move. As the hours wore on, a blacksmith meticulously cut him from the fused armour.

As his helmet was removed, he saw medics and helpers tending to the worst of the injured. Three more blasts within the city followed the impact heralding the beast. Four then, in total. Some brave souls journeyed towards the city centre to find help. They had not returned.

Any who leave will die. The declaration had been ominous, causing much debate. The time not tending the wounded therefore was taken with conversation. Leave where? Those who remained on the fields did so through fear, as well as a desire to be of service. Once he was free from the armour, Goran helped, bandaging and washing and worse until he was filthy. He did not mention his own injuries. I will show no pain. A gentle touch to his chest hurt like a dagger thrust. At least one rib strained. I am stronger than this.

“We should go,” said Quintus.

Goran shook his head, hiding a wince. The old senator had been repeating such a maxim for hours now, but had not moved a single step from the fields. Goran wondered at the man’s courage.

“The Senate must convene,” Quintus went on. “And more, captain ... this Vortigen. It said something about those with ‘old blood?’ I think it wants Brightened men and women.”

“Threatening me, Senator?”

“No!” Quintus held his hands forward, palms up, placating and scared. “I simply meant ... we should go to the city. There should be discussion!”

“Of course,” agreed Goran. It was lip service. I watched my friends die, he thought.

The Senator was too cowardly to leave on his own, too cowardly to suggest outright that Goran was sought by the new Lord of Porenza. A deep breath brought forth a fresh spasm of agony. He whispered, “Go away, Quintus. Or help. Either way, shut up.”

He could not abandon those who might need him. A whimper sounded at the base of the hill where the worst of the injured rested. Cries and groans were not uncommon. Goran moved slowly down the slope towards a figure he recognised. It was the Archon’s boy, Draygan.

The young man was dying. One of his lungs was punctured. Goran suspected there were worse injuries below the skin, a seeping blackness that killed. It was a poor reward. Goran glanced to see an older woman with white-blonde hair cradling the young man. He recognised her as one of Draygan’s teachers, Lulian. He looked away. The scene was private.

Slowly, lights sparkled in the city below. The Basilica was visible already, lit by light-weaves, glory for all to see. Other buildings lit by the Bright snaked from the Basilica. The glow seeped from shuttered windows, from booths and shops. Light from restaurants illuminated courtyards ready for early diners. The tendrils mirrored the flow of Bright Lines beneath the city, webbing from the arena and Basilica like tributaries from a river.

Rhain, the old warrior who taught Draygan, came to stand close. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

He had to agree. Soon other lights joined the glow of Bright-power. These were muted, flickering from a distance. Oil lamps came to life, picking out the roads and houses in the poorer quarters and tenements. The docks and harbour were mostly dark. Here and there a drum fire was lit. Goran could imagine Drenians singing by the flames, always softly, stories of the God and the Undergod, Dje and Suh, the children they long ago sired who became men and women, able to straddle both land and sea. A harmony that wrenched the heart, that sang of home as much as lifted in prayer.

Further from the sea, dots of illumination lit the slums. Stone-rimmed fire pits would be cooking suckling pigs, families banding together and selling the meat to passers by. As the night wore on, the olive oil smell of the slums would fade. Grappa would pass from hand to hand all through the twisted alleys and narrow roads. By midnight the slums would be drunk and singing far less eloquently than those sombre sailors by the sea.

“Beautiful,” Goran agreed. “But looks can be deceiving. There is evil among those lights.” He closed his eyes. There would be no singing tonight, no drum fires or charred meat. There would be fear instead. Plenty of it.

Rhain cleared his throat. “There’s talk,” he said. “Folk say the beast looks like the Iron Titan, the statue next to the Darkening Chair. How the ridges on its skull are as those on the reliefs on the Duom by Vestia Way.”

“A Titan,” said Goran. He shrugged, then nodded towards Draygan. “Go to him, Rhain. He’ll need you.”

The big man wiped his eyes. “Nothing I can do.”

“You can be with him.”

“Aye,” said Rhain, and went to the boy’s side.

Goran looked at the city again. Memories surfaced of his wife. So close, my love, he sent the thought as a prayer into the distant lights. We were nearly together once more.

He wondered how the city would react. The Archon had united Porenza against all odds, created the Senate to limit his own power, housed the displaced refugee Drenians and listened to the voice and will of the people. But his work was unfinished. In bad times, the city would clench like a fist, fraught with blame and the threat of violence. Famine was blamed on immigrant farmers. Plague was caused by foreign islander disease. And now the Archon is gone.

“We should go,” repeated Quintus, sidling close once more.

“Go then,” Goran finally snapped. “I am not stopping you.”

“Together I mean! We will be safe together.”

“Are you so eager to meet this Vortigen? Or others like him? Senator, I saw it fashion a solid spear from nothing but grass, mud, and stone.”

“The Senate … “

“Will be as useless now as they have ever been.” Goran strode from the conversation, leaving the man standing, open-mouthed.

He trudged down the hill, past Draygan, past the surrounding group.

“Captain, I am coming!” Quintus called.

He turned for the last time. “Stay and help these people. They need care, not governance.”

“But–”

“–That thing just butchered my team. Men and women I’ve known for years. Eillian was my goddaughter, did you know that? I am going to find it, Senator. I am going to kill it.”

“You cannot fight a Titan!” Quintus pleaded.

“A Titan? We do not know what it is. And I do not care.”

Quintus shrank back. “Perhaps I should help with the wounded.”

Goran nodded. “Perhaps you should.”

A small group bustled nearby. They were babbling, talking too fast. He moved closer to hear.

“A wall!” one of them said. “As high as the arena!”

“What is this?” asked Goran. He had to grab the man to make him pay attention. “What have you seen?”

“A wall,” the stranger repeated. “We ran. As soon as it killed the Archon, we made it as far as the northern boundary, except, where there used to be earthen works, now it’s grown. The land is pulled to the sky, it grows black and brown from the very earth, a sheer, impossibly high wall.“ The man’s eyes were glassy, he looked towards the city. “We could not find the end of it. There is no escape.”

Goran ignored the concern on the surrounding faces. A wall, he thought. Walls could be climbed. But first, the city. Quintus was hovering close. He put a hand on the man’s chest and shoved him backwards. “Leave me alone.”

He walked around the injured, their wounds packed with mud and gauze, their broken bones wrapped with more hope than bandages. He coughed. A small wheeze which rattled from his chest, twisting into a heave that stabbed against his injured ribs. From there it blossomed into a headache so painful his walk became a shuffle. I am stronger than this.

As he neared the city, he began to sway. His vision blurred. Something was wrong. Since the war, headaches had plagued him. Sickness, blinding pain. Not now, he thought, blinking. One foot went in front of the other. He would reach the city.

Chapter twelve

Tom

The dark hallway funnelled towards narrow stairs. In the gloom, Hektor pushed him forward. I should be delivering my speech, Tom thought. This very moment. He placed a hand against the cool wall, his lungs heaving from the run.

“Move,” Hektor commanded.

Tom clenched his jaw. I would have spoken about courage, he decided. He wondered if he would be missed. If Lulian would look for him, or Rhain.

“I said move.”

He obliged, legs shuddering on steps worn smooth by generations of use. Close to the top, a young woman appeared, framed in one of two doorways leading from the upstairs hallway. Her injuries were healing, changing her appearance. He recognised the defiance.

She looked past him to the young man. “Did you find him?” she asked.

Hektor nodded. Slow acceptance, no shame or apology.

She moved from the doorway, glancing briefly at Tom, then continued towards Hektor. She lifted her arms, wrapping the large Drenian in a tight embrace. “Is he dead?”

Tom supposed it was a private question, yet in the small space he heard clearly. He turned, embarrassed, and closed his eyes. The crowds will be cheering this very moment, he thought. Someone would have been handing him a glass of sweet Porenzian wine. The field workers would come in from their Kazun houses; to celebrate, to dance. Draygan would have embraced him.

“Well?” Sara asked again.

Tom opened his eyes, clearing his throat. “The man is alive. Assuming you are asking after the pepper seller at the market.” A man now seeking revenge, most likely. A circle of violence.

“I know you,” she said, releasing the young man. “You ruled against us.”

“I am Tom Valerian. And I followed the law.” Now to save my skin. “Young lady. Sara, I recall? I would have taken your case, except now ... “

Sara interrupted, “Will he suffer?”

“The man at the market?” Tom replied. “Nothing that will not heal.”

“Someone stopped me,” Hektor added.

She took the young man’s hand and ushered Tom forward. She pressed at his back and spoke, voice delicate as a spring flower. “Next time I’ll take the knife,“ she said, “And I’ll carve his heart from his chest.”

Oh.

Tom was silent as he followed the two upstairs to a room which might have been called a kitchen. The young man’s anger and the young woman’s violence were nothing new. Each was a symptom of suffering. Of war. He knew older folk who fought and survived. Plenty of them shook in the night, woke up sweating, and flinched at the sound of metal on metal. He had no right to judge those uprooted from their home, drawn across the sea, torn from their families. Who knew what they’d endured?

An older man was lifting a kettle from a stove. “More tea!” the man said, then narrowed his eyes as he saw Tom. “Hektor, who is this?”

The rest of the room was more like a workshop, albeit an illegal one. For one thing, an exposed Bright Line ran the length of the back wall. It pulsed through cracks torn into the mortar. Weaves plunged into the glowing mass. A workbench littered with various spools of wire, clamps, thick gloves, and other implements butted against the far wall.

“He helped me.” Hektor moved to a small slit in the wall: it was a channel for an archer back when the city was in its ancient infancy, when marauders would sweep from street to street, scythed by an armed militia. Peering through the gap, Hektor had larger concerns. “Methus, there is something out there.”

“Eh?” Methus asked. His eyes never left Tom’s. The Bright Line gave his face a rosy pallor. “What you see in this house, told to the Senate, would have us hanged.”

Hektor came from the window. He placed a hand on Methus’ shoulder. “It can wait.” Even the little boy in the corner took notice. “Something is out there. And it is not of this world.”

Sara took over from Methus and poured tea. She asked, “What do you mean?”

“Did you not hear the explosion?” Hektor asked, “A sound so violent it shook the very ground. There is a beast at the harbour.”

Methus frowned. “What? We heard an explosion, yes. Tanning factory? Forge igniting on the Billows again?”

Tom laughed. He could not help himself. He had known scientists at the university who were so absorbed in their work they would ignore hunger until they fainted. Clearly, Methus was such a man. Tom said, soon turning serious, “Hektor and I saw a being who ... well, it is difficult to explain.”

“They did not look human,” Hektor supplied. To his credit, he did not sound defensive. He merely stated it as a fact. Tom could not help but agree with the sentiment.

“What?” asked Methus, clearly unsure where the joke was coming from.

“This him?” asked the child, turning the chalkboard around. Upon the black slate was an impressively accurate, though vaguely childish drawing of what Tom had earlier seen stalking the waterfront.

“It was female,” Tom said. “But yes, very similar, young man.”

“I called Micho.”

Tom smiled. “Well met.”

“What?” Methus repeated, completely at a loss.

Tom said, “Porenza has a visitor,” and shook his head at the absurdity. “Like a Titan. Ridged, elongated skull, taller than a man.”

“Him kill the man. Say we die,” Micho stated. He put the slate back down and continued to sketch.

Hektor put his hand above the board, halting the child’s further artistic endeavours. The large Drenian then uttered a musical string of words, which Tom could not understand. Micho sang a quick burst back and Hektor then asked what Tom assumed was another question. Micho nodded.

Hektor turned to Tom, then Methus. “Was Micho at the Campus fields?”

“Aye, I told him to get us some food.”

Hektor frowned. “He says he saw one of them kill the Archon.”

Silence.

“I must go,” said Tom, standing. “My student, you see … my ward. He is Draygan. He will need me …” Any response failed before a sudden sound from the city outside. A crashing, hollow sound. More of them?

Another sound came. Marching feet. Sandals slapping upon slabs of stone.

Methus shook his head. “We’re safer here tonight. You included. Tom whoever-you-are.”

Short of ideas, Tom sat down again. Absurdly, the speech came to mind. I would have spoken about war, he thought. Of Porenzian resilience in the face of significant change. Because change was coming. The Archon was dead. There were things in the fields, upon the stones of the harbour. “I will stay willingly,” he promised. If he could not find justice for these people in the assembly, perhaps there was some comfort he could provide now. The Gods test me, he thought. They ask, and I will listen.

Chapter thirteen

Hektor

Hektor barely slept. The night was humid, uncomfortable, and filled with sound. Nomani soldiers shouted in their nasal language. Screams echoed from alley walls. Drenian curses would have raised a smile if not for the fear in their voices. He stretched, dressed quickly, and made his way to the kitchen.

Sara waited with the rest of them, gathered at the table once more. Even the newcomer, Tom, had made himself at home.

He sat, accepting with thanks a bowl of oats from Sara. As he ate, he thought of the beast at the harbour. He remembered the man on the Darkening Chair. Hektor had watched him as he died. He had heard him cry out the words. They are coming!

Sara was looking at him. “To the streets?” she asked. She had heard the shouts of fear last night, too. The voices of their countrymen.

“Yes,” he said. No question.

“Now, hang on a minute.” Methus knocked on the table. “Who knows what’s out there? And you heard Micho. Even the Archon wasn’t safe, rot his soul.”

“He was a great man,” admonished Tom. “He united Porenza. Gave Drenians homes.”

“Homes?” Methus snorted, digging a spoon in his oats. “Half a life, eh Hektor?”

Hektor nodded. Philosopher, or magistrate, or whoever the man might be, Tom would never understand. Hektor lifted a sliver of Noble-stone from the table. “You know what this is?”

Tom wavered.

“I sat upon the Darkening Chair. I lived, and a sliver is all I earned.”

“Some mistake, perhaps.”

Methus shook his head. “You think they’d give a Drenian a full stone?”

“It is the law.”

Hektor simply stared. “Once, perhaps. Dren mined this.” He rolled the piece over his knuckles, contemplative. Standing, placed it against the Bright line. A tendril of colour leaked into the object for all to see, fading just as quickly when he took it away. “These made us rich, before the conflict. Then the plague hit. The mines collapsed and soldiers came to Drenian shores. It was the start of the war. A dam breaking. A reason for all states to blame Dren for suffering they made themselves.”

Sara sipped her tea.

“The war is long over. The Senate would recognise your place. You have only to reveal yourself!”

“Are you trying to convince me, or yourself?” Hektor raised an eyebrow. “Maybe they’d welcome me with open arms. Maybe,” he nodded. “Or maybe they’d call the regiment. Maybe they’d wring my neck themselves.” Hektor threw the stone into the air, caught it and tucked it into a pouch at his chest.

“They treat us worse than dogs,” Sara stated.

Tom frowned. “The Nomani protect this city according to the treaty. Charity arrives from Vestia to the docks every week, food, cloth. And can you blame the tension? Hektor ... I saw what you did to the man at the market.”

Sara stood. “Careful, now.”

“Enough,” said Hektor. Because it was true, and he knew full well Sara would more likely push Tom Valerian back down the stairs than hear any more.

“Agreed,” said Methus. “And don’t think I’ve forgotten your curiosity. No more talk of going outside. If something got to the Archon, it could get to anyone. I don’t like it.”

Try to stop us, thought Hektor. He took Sara’s hand and they stood to leave. He had given up long ago placing his fate in other’s hands. If there was danger in the city, he needed to know more. They walked together to the door. He turned back. “Keep Micho inside. We will not be long.”

“Well,” Methus spluttered, “be careful!”

A redundant entreaty, yet it pleased him. Methus cared.

“Enquire after Draygan, if you can?” asked Tom.

Hektor nodded. Before they left, he pulled on a vest to cover the stone upon his chest.

In the street outside, Sara pressed close. They both knew this escape was as much for each other’s company as understanding the atmosphere in the city. It was the first genuine moment together since parting ways in the market.

They walked eerily quiet streets, hands clasped. “Are you okay?” he asked.

She shrugged. A waft of cooked meat drifted down from an alleyway. A lady shouted at her child. Sara stopped to pet a cat that crossed their path. “Did he at least suffer?” she asked again. Her hand entwined into the cat’s fur, a languid, relaxed movement. “Tell me he suffered.”

That thirst in her, a revenge never sated. He knew it well. He understood it. “I was wrong,” he said. “We were wrong to steal in the first place, to retaliate. To offer them what they expect of us.”

She turned, offered him the bruise on her cheek. “You see this? I’m not okay, Hektor.”

Hektor sighed. “He suffered.”

She nodded, ushering the cat away, then stood. They walked a way further. Parallel to the fish district was a road called Kruhska, from an old Porenzian word for bread. Bakers and cake-makers lined the row, alongside jewellers, of all trades. The mix attracted a richer clientele. He and Sara were the only Drenians in sight.

Istarans in their incongruous trim, Porenzian natives in their tunics and cut-trousers; all gave them a wide berth. They received glares, and worse, glances of sympathy. This was a mistake, Hektor realised. His nose had convinced him away from the smell of the fish district, yet he had not considered the alternative might be a more sour flavour altogether.

“Steal me a ring one day,” Sara said.

“I’ll pay for one.”

She smiled at him, thankfully choosing to ignore their reception. “Either way. Make me a wife. Give me children. Brothers for Micho. Sisters.”

What a thought. He dreamed of the day. “The moment will come soon,” he agreed. “We will leave this place. It will happen. And there will be no more … “ He waved a hand at the people who made way, the doors that closed before their passage, “No more of this.”

The road ended at the harbour front. He slowed, pulling her hand so that they were in the shadow of a drinking house. The smell of beer filled the air, old and stale, washed away with the salt of the sea. Along the harbour, just before Vestia Way, people were gathering.

“Darkening?” Sara guessed.

“People gather for the Chair,” he agreed, straining his eyes. “But not usually so many. Come, keep to the shade.”

He led her along the harbour front. The restaurants were empty. People were shouting at the end of Vestia way. He saw waving arms. A large ship—the vessel that plied livestock trade between Vestia and Porenza—butted against a wharf. The deck was full. Passengers leaned out to witness. They too were shouting. Begging.

A scream erupted.

It sounded from beyond the corner where the side of the Duom hid the flight of steps to the Chair. Usually, with any Darkening, the people would chant, their macabre fascination reducing a person’s death to a sideshow, a moment of entertainment. It made Hektor sick. But this he had to witness.

Another scream ripped out, one of anguish rather than pain, a wailing wrench of pure emotion.

They crept beneath the umbrellas of a broad cafe, around urns filled with seasonal flowers and benches normally occupied by rich Vestian tourists. They stopped as the Darkening Chair came into focus. All the way up the steps, lined front to back, two abreast, were Drenians.

“Why?” Sara breathed.

The beast was atop the steps. The one he and Tom had seen. “Look at the people lining up,” he said. “They are bound.”

Vines wove around their hips, latching onto wrists and thighs. The closer he looked, the more he saw movement, struggle. His people tore at the twining greenery, kicking out. With each desperate surge, the vines seemed to grow, binding them ever tighter, forcing their steps.

The creature above them stood tall with her arms in the air. Long, tightly muscled limbs moved in a languid, relaxed motion. It was a dance. The vines lifted a man and placed him gently upon the chair. Many pressed forward, bellowing their displeasure. Those with free hands threw missiles at the beast. Stones, rocks. Anything they could find.

The creature cast an expressionless gaze upon locals who gathered to protest. It pointed with splayed fingers. Something shifted in the air. Hektor was too far away to see clearly. More screams, cries. Untethered people scattered in all directions, running as if their lives were in danger. As they cleared the base of the Darkening Chair, Hektor realised the people were justified in their fear.

Several bodies lay still. He could make out blood. Pools of it.

“She is controlling the vine. It grows.” Sara said, “She is making them sit in the Chair. We must help, Hektor! We must free them!”

The stone on his chest responded. It surged in his blood, a warmth. A heavily bearded Istaran fleeing the creature’s attack passed them. His mouth hung agape. “Run,” he gasped. “She is gathering your kin. You mad, young, fools. Run!”

Sara squeezed his hand.

Near them, set up as if expecting a day like any other, was a table. Upon it was a knife, blunt, useful for spreading butter rather than killing, but it would have to do. Hektor took it. Speed, he thought. Grant me haste.

He watched the vines snake around another body, “I’ll kill you!” screamed the man, limbs thrashing, “Witch! Devil!” The vines looped under his arms, lifting him, twining around his neck and choking away the anger.

Hektor ran forward. A low, hard sprint which Sara struggled to match. The stone faded all too quickly.

Is this it? He was close now. The beast turned. Run … the fleeing Istaran had advised. Never. People were dying.

“I go left,” Sara shouted from behind, veering around the corner of the Duom.

As she closed the distance, soldiers emerged. They must have been marching from the arena even as he and Sara made their way forward. They formed a line before the steps. Sara halted, wavering.

Hektor gripped his knife. Around, he thought, and ran with another burst of power at their flank. They wheeled. Behind them, the beast smiled.

He turned to see Sara struggling with an armoured Nomani, desperate in his clutches, stabbing with a knife of her own, kicking. To no avail. Hektor abandoned his route and went back for her.

“Stop!” ordered the Nomani.

He ignored the command and closed fast. He crashed into the man, knocking him backwards. Sara pushed herself free.

The soldiers on either side drew their swords. Sara scrambled backwards, found her feet. Hektor backed up. Power! he asked of the stone, but it was too much, strength seeped into his muscles and the stone faded entirely. He held the knife. A meagre, pathetic threat. Behind the soldiers, the Chair claimed another victim.

“Traitors,” Hektor spat.

The man winced. He knew it. “Orders,” he replied.

A dull, hollow booming sound came from the harbour waters. The soldiers turned, as did Hektor. The boat whose bulkhead had butted at the wharf was listing at an angle. A huge, splintered hole was in its side. The deck passengers were shouting desperate questions, pleas for help.

As he watched the boat, a large object arced overhead. Like an arrow, only enormous. It smashed into the side of the boat. The shaft, easily as big as a bolt from a Nomani war-machine, made another hole just below the waterline.

The soldier grabbed him. “Look here,” he hissed. “The Senate is negotiating, you see? Talking with the big, crater faced savage who killed the Archon. First order we hear: keep the Chair clear. Round up Drenians. What race are you, lad, eh?”

Is he offering a way out? Hektor thought fast. “I am ... Makhedian.”

The soldier nodded. “Thought so. Makhed. Horrible place. Be sure to shout it out, hear me? You’re a big, dirty Makhed runaway.”

Hektor nodded.

The soldier sheathed his sword. “Off with you then.” He pushed Hektor backwards into Sara, who stumbled.

Sara wavered.

“Back away,” the soldier hissed.

Hektor’s eyes fixed on the people trapped on those steep, hateful steps. I am so sorry. He turned, the sliver of Bright at his chest cold now, useless. Sara followed. Every step from the Darkening Chair was a betrayal. As they fled, he sent a promise back along the Kruhska. He sent it past loaves on their stands, necklaces, and people who could never understand his pain.

I will return, he promised. I will.

Chapter fourteen

Lars

For Lars, mornings were precious. In the Istaran mountains, dawn smelled like pine and granite. Porenza—away from the fish district, at least—was softer, with a fragrance more like rain upon dust. Lars breathed it in. Twenty-three people had died yesterday, and four more overnight. He savoured the aroma and thanked the Bright he was yet amongst the living.

Metaxes had not been so lucky. They had found little enough of the man, nor the woman he had been flirting with. The lithe warrior had been a friend, yet Lars could think of nothing more eloquent than the epithet, at least it was not me.

He supposed he should have felt more. Yet in life, as in the war, survival was all. Before the enormous damned thing fell from the sky, he had been—admittedly—in a mixed mood. Mingling with the common folk had taken the edge from his anger after the arena loss. He was a veteran, but more: he was a simple man who felt better being with those who had grown up knowing hardship. He was at home with men and women who understood life was not always fine food and good wine.

Then the thing came. He had watched Lucic throw his life away and seen his entire team slaughtered thereafter.

The thought struck him again. Not me. At least it was not me. He would have been dead attacking that thing. There was not enough healing weave in all Porenza to deal with the wreckage at the Campus fields. No. He had stayed back and survived, and that was all there was to it.

The Senator in charge had organised a group to bring the bodies of the Brightened men and women to the city centre, including his dead team. The thing, the Titan? had said something about “Old blood,” by which the Senator had taken to mean ‘Noble.’ It seemed like a good guess. So far, no one had suggested surviving Nobles submit themselves. Lars considered it a matter of time.

It was a mess. The dead, the bloodied, and my team. Damned fools, all of them. Attacking a creature from myth without thought or care. He shook his head. He had taught them better than that. Should have been with them, a quiet voice told him, but he crushed the idea.

Some of those who left yesterday had returned with a medically trained group. He had heard someone question them. It appeared they were from the university. That thing then, Vortigen, did not apparently mean them to stay at the fields. Perhaps the threat of death was for anyone leaving Porenza and its surrounding land. He had heard talk of a giant wall which had appeared beyond the surrounding countryside. Huge and sheer, emerging at the very limit of Porenza’s Bright Lines.

Either way, it was useless. Lars was Noble. He was a winner, a war hero, and he was damned if he was going to let anything stop him from going home. His wife would worry. His boy would miss him.

The only difficulty in Lars’ mind, therefore, was how to get home without falling foul of the big, dangerous creature that had speared Porenza’s Archon like he was a target at a fayre. If stories of the wall were accurate, he would need rope, or a bloody long ladder. He needed to return to the city.

“Almost ready,” Jelena said, packing the last of their gear into a small satchel: salvaged strips of seared, salted beef thrown clear from the impact site, and a pair of carving-knives. As weapons, they were pitiful. Every other sword had twisted in the attack, rendered useless by the Titan’s control of the Bright.

“One last thing.” Lars made his way to a small group huddled at the base of a grassy mound. The knot of people mostly ignored him. An old fighter gave him an appraising look, then went back to staring at the boy who lay unconscious, half covered by a stained white sheet.

A woman with white-blonde hair and a lifetime of scorn lines upon her face said, “You are the Istaran. You must get to a powerful Line, call your countrymen for help!”

He knew her. One of Draygan’s teachers. Lulian. He had seen her parading the boy before the Games on Vestia way. “Is that an order?” he asked.

Lulian scrunched her nose. As if his presence was a smell she found insulting. “You know it is not. It is a duty ... “

“Fine, I’ll do it.” He knelt to look at the prone figure beneath the sheet. He was a big lad, handsome, and on the sands yesterday he had made Lars’ entire team look like a bunch of stick waving children. Send for help. Words came easy. He’d do as he damn well pleased, sending for help on his own terms, if at all. Lars asked, “How is he?”

“What’s it to you?” asked the thickset one, who looked like he wanted to pick a fight.

“Rhain, he is only being friendly,” Lulian cut in.

“I’ll bear that in mind,” Rhain growled.

“Well?” Lars insisted.

“He is alive, somehow,” the old woman said.

“Get him to the Basilica. Hardly as if the mighty Draygan will have to wait.”

The group looked uneasy. Rhain said, “The Titan is in the Basilica. We heard they’re killing anyone who gets close.” The old fighter looked at a medic. “Maria, you passed the Basilica on the way here, did you not?”

“They’re killing the injured, too,” whispered the young woman. “I saw it. Same as at the arena.”

Lars rolled his sleeves to the elbow. “And you want me to go there? Strap on a Noble-stone and have a chat with any listening? We’ll see.” No chance. He ordered, “Make room.” Maria shifted backwards, and he moved close. He let out a breath and pulled the sheet away to reveal the boy’s bare torso. “I heard someone earlier mention a collapsed lung.”

Maria said, “Maybe. And some sort of other internal injury.”

“Maybe,” Lars growled. Amateurs. Boys and girls with a year of schooling thinking they’re competent. Madness.

“Just what do you think you are doing?” asked Lulian. Lars ignored her. He leaned over the boy and put an ear to his chest. The breathing was fast and shallow, the heart rate elevated for an unconscious patient. But no bubbling or scratching. He ran a hand over the boy’s lower rib cage, prodding the area under his stomach.

Finally he looked up, “His lungs are fine. Two broken ribs, and probably he’s ruptured his spleen. A wonder the pain hasn’t yet woken him.”

Maria opened her mouth, clearly ready to offer a counter opinion. Lars looked her way. “If you stutter some drivel about bubbling breath, I swear I’ll leave him to die.”

“I only studied for a bit,” she admitted. “Sorry.”

This time, he said it aloud. “Amateurs.”

Rhain spoke up. “Can anything be done?”

“Without help, he will die.”

“Can you help, then?” asked Rhain, calmer now.

Lars shook his head. He considered the boy. “Without a healing weave, he will need opening up. I can do it, maybe, but look. My hands are filthy.” He held them up as proof. “And even if they were not, Draygan would wake. The shock of the pain would likely send him either insane or straight to the afterlife. Worse, my knife is better for carving cooked ham than surgery. If by some miracle I sealed off the arteries, somehow opened the sac around the organ, then miraculously removed the pulverised mush, he would still die of blood infection.”

“I knew that!” said Maria, stepping in once more. “Alcohol would disinfect it, right? My parents own ... Well, they owned the Corso Vinotek on the three corners. I could go there, find some grappa. Would that help?”

Lars regarded her once more. “No,” he said.

“Are you here to torment us, then?” snapped the white-haired woman.

Lars raised an eyebrow and considered leaving once more. He took a moment and said, “No. Get him to a Bright Line. Find a Noble-stone. Even with a lesser weave near a source of power, I might save him.”

Rhain stood up. “There is a Bright Line at the Nomani barracks. They have wire. Plenty of it.”

Lulian still appeared sceptical. “You would help him? Why?”

Jelena added from behind him, “Yes, Lars, why are you doing this?”

“Because I owe him,” Lars said. “Once he is back to full health, I am going to shove the overgrown puppy into the arena and cut him to ribbons.”

Chapter fifteen

Goran

It was late morning when Goran saw the barracks. His head was pounding so hard he could barely walk.

He slumped in the shade of a fig tree. Overripe fruit lay scattered upon swollen, exposed roots, attracting flies and other insects. His ribs burned, his neck was stiff, and his nose felt so full of blood there may as well have been a grappa cork in each nostril. In short, he was in no condition to fight. A fly landed upon his lips. He swatted at the thing for a time. It kept returning. Eventually, he gave up.

I’m delirious, he thought.

There were noises coming from the parade ground, whimpers. A creature. One of them. It was practically nude, nothing but a thin strip of cloth covering its waist. It walked towards the barracks wall holding a Nomani soldier with a strength that made the unfortunate man seem light as a newborn. The thing snapped the soldier’s neck and cast him at the barracks gates. A challenge to all inside.

Goran gripped his sword hilt. A will to fight surfaced, a desire for revenge. Except, the naked murderer outside the barracks was the wrong Titan. The one called Vortigen killed the Archon ... not this one. A combination of his rapidly developing fever and a vague logic that this creature was not his quarry made him pause. Goran slumped back.

The gates opened. Nomani troops emerged in lines: three files of three in excellent order. Having fought in the war, Goran knew Nomani martial skill was high, their discipline exemplary. Individually, they were adequate warriors, yet together—Goran had little doubt—they could destroy the abomination before them. Nomani soldiers had been enemies once. Then a nuisance, their presence in the city by ruling of the treaty. Now he wished them strength.

He counted an entire squad: thirty men. They continued beneath the lion-head cap stone and fell into two divisions, three rows of five, armour burnished black, spears levelled. As they advanced, they broke into further units of three. It was a fair strategy, designed to attack the creature from as many angles as possible.

From nothing but the dust in the air, the Titan gathered black armour of its own. Particles drifted from the ground and solidified. Clumps of it slapped onto bare flesh and stretched out. The roving mess spread across its body and formed plates and intricate links. The helm arrived with a flourish, crawling across the thing’s face, smothering its shaven head and leaving the barest opening for its face. A red gem sparkled above its nose.

The Nomani attacked.

At first they made contact. Goran heard the metallic scrape of spear-point against armour and inwardly he rejoiced. After the first few encounters, the Titan sped up. Its movements became more fluid; it found a spear of its own from dust and air. Soon the first Nomani died.

Nothing more touched it. The units of three attacked with heart-swelling courage, yet after the first death, there came many more. Goran closed his eyes. When he opened them, the spear in the thing’s hands had become a sword. The beast moved like a spider. It darted everywhere, the blade another limb flicking back and forth, cutting and parrying. It paused rarely, moving between men until none remained.

That is when the relief hit him. Had he tried to kill the thing, he would have died. He watched as it hunted through the dead. It picked one up and studied its eyes. Another of the fallen soldiers lost an arm to the Titan’s curiosity.

The gates of the barracks opened once more. A lone soldier emerged with a white flag.

The Titan held the severed arm in one hand and casually waved an acknowledgement with the other. “Come,” it said, and more soldiers followed. “Kneel,” it sang in a high, jubilant tone. “Kneel before me or die.”

The soldiers capitulated. One after another.

At that point, Goran had seen enough. He pulled himself to his feet. He left the flies and the old fruit, the smell of blood and the groans of the last dying man. As he turned his back on the massacre, he finally felt shame. It was a sensation no logic could smother. He wore it with the knowledge only one thing could assuage his guilt. The death of these things. But first he needed rest. He needed warm blankets, a bucket of ice and plenty of fluid, or else vengeance would fail before nothing so mighty as a damned fever. Add frustration to the mix then, he thought, and shuffled his way towards the centre of Porenza.

His own living arrangement was a villa on the outskirts of the city. It may as well have been in the far north since the wall emerged. He lived alone, no wife, no daughter. Not that it mattered. At that moment, his home seemed a lifetime away. I just need to rest.

As he walked, his mind drifted. He was the captain of a highly respected team of Brightened Nobles, and one of the finest swordsmen in the region. Goran breathed a sigh, which turned into a series of racking coughs. He was a hero to strangers. But who did he have? The most important people in Goran’s life died in the war. Brothers had taken their last steps on the beaches of Dren when the Nomani claimed the right of conquest. Many fell beneath the waves; allied freedom bought with the spilled blood and gasping breath of those long fallen. Now fate had taken his team.

He stumbled and thought, survival takes its toll. From the sludge of his memory, he saw his daughter’s face.

Fever. By the gods, I miss her.

In his delirium, he heard his wife’s voice, echoing from a time just after the war. “You’ve changed,” she had said. “Where is my Goran! What have you done with him?”

He put one foot in front of another, a slow march. Food, he thought. Shelter.

His wife was there, suddenly behind him, leaving him all over again. “I was so happy when you returned,” she said. “But you didn’t, did you?”

He shook his head. “You’re not real.”

“No one came back,” his wife sobbed. “No one. She died, Goran! Our baby died and you weren’t even there!”

He knew Porenza well enough, yet had no idea where he was going. His memories and hallucinations moved his feet faster than his logic, and they took him once more towards the Darkening Chair. The place where, years earlier, he had thought to end his life. Follow her, he thought. Follow my daughter …

At the start of Vestia Way, some way before he reached the Chair, he collapsed.

Chapter sixteen

Lars

Four of them carried Draygan to the city: Lars, Jelena, Rhain, and Maria, the medic. The last of the four kept delicately dabbing the boy’s brow, a useless habit, but he didn’t begrudge her the action. After helping fashion a crude stretcher, the rest of those surrounding Draygan had left.

Lars spied one small group on their way to the wall, just visible as a line beyond the hills in the distance. Others forged a more hopeful path towards the sea. Perhaps there were boats or ships readying for escape.

Lars’ grip was firm. Although the boy was light enough between them, the body was an uncomfortable burden. Not least because Lars’ side of the stretcher was Vortigen’s giant spear, washed with the blood of the Archon of Porenza. Gruesome, but it was all they could find.

“Who buried him?” Jelena asked.

Rhain replied, “The Archon? Couple of senators took the body.”

Lars had seen the procession earlier that morning precede them into the city. He wondered how likely a state funeral would be. Not very, he concluded.

Soft grass was a cushion beneath his sandals. The sun shone with a warmth that spoke of better days. People wandered around on the fields in a state of shock, yet to look briefly, you’d think nothing was wrong at all.

A butterfly landed on the sheet covering Draygan. Bright red wings. Huh, Lars thought. It walked along, tiny feet crawling across the fabric, oblivious.

“What do you think they want?” Maria asked the group. “Those things.”

The medics, scholars, and the soldiers from the city had told strange, harrowing stories. Lars did not know how much was hysteria and how much was accurate. It did not matter. Several things were certain. Four beings that could mould solid matter as if it were nothing but soft clay had taken over the city.

‘Titans’ people were calling them, but to Lars, the name did not sound quite right. Titans were stories, statues, or mosaics on temple floors. They were not murderous, ridge-skull giants who fell from the sky.

Death and destruction had followed their arrival. They were cruel. Barbaric.

“Think we can pay them off?” asked Lars.

Maria gave him a judgemental look.

The four creatures, according to her, had taken residence in the Basilica. No one is getting healed, he thought, and wondered at the sense of carrying Draygan back. He had his doubts about the Line at the barracks. A healing weave, improperly used, could be fatal.

“Or maybe ask them nicely?” he went on. “They’re at the Basilica, right? Probably praying to their mothers and fathers, asking what brought them to this fish-stinking hole. Think they’ll lend us a weave or two?”

“Or a ladder,” Jelena muttered. “To scale their brand new wall.”

Rhain picked up the pace. He did not turn as he spoke. Lars gathered the distinct feeling he had annoyed the old fighter. “You know what one senator said?” Rhain asked, “He said Drenians on the docks are being forced to sit upon the Darkening Chair. There’s a female Titan. She’s lining them up like it’s a game. And you have the gall to joke?”

“So our news is from a senator? A coward?” Lars suggested. “Those fools wouldn’t know the truth if it were a dog that bit them.”

Maria shook her head. “I heard they are from the north, far beyond Istara. I heard they are going to take us all back as slaves.”

If he were not carrying the stretcher, Lars would have thrown his hands up in despair. “God-spawn living in the northern mountains, now, are they? Girl, there’s nothing up there in the true north but savages, idiots, and their savage idiot children.”

The young medic glared at him.

Lars scoffed at her judgement. As if I give a damn. The group were on a steady, grassy decline. The city spread before them. Red roofs and the Basilica spire. The grand amphitheatre was a dark smudge in the distance, and the Canyon Sea a shimmering silver beyond.

“Whatever they are, whatever they want, we must oppose them,” announced Rhain.

“Save me from fools,” Lars muttered.

Rhain stopped. The stretcher and its burden wobbled. The old fighter turned and poked a thick finger into Lars’ shoulder. “All the way you’ve been nothing but bad manners.”

“Stop!” Jelena ordered. “Stop this. Come now. I like a tousle as much as the next girl, but fighting amongst ourselves will not help Draygan.”

Lars heard her, but could not help one last word. He brushed Rhain’s finger from his jerkin and said, “I watched my team die. Men and women I’ve fought beside for years. Do not test me.”

Rhain seemed to accept Lars’ anger. He nodded, turned, and continued onward. They were almost clear of the fields when he replied, “We’ve all lost people, Istaran.”

The march continued slowly, and thankfully, in silence. The Campus fields faded into the north-western slums. Lars had the impression that on an ordinary day, the narrow, dusty streets and half-crumbled old buildings would have been bustling. Today, the winding roads and walkways were empty.

Frightened faces looked out from small windows. When Lars managed eye contact with an open-mouthed local, he flashed a smile. The face disappeared. Porenza was on the sharp edge of fear. They kicked up dust as they emerged onto the main road towards the barracks, but it settled quickly. Everything was just flat, waiting. Lars didn’t like it one bit.

“It is a ghost-town,” Maria said.

She was right enough. They passed a closed shop. Lars looked at the hand painted sign showing a joint of meat. The owner seemed to have abandoned business for the day.

The verges on the sides of the roads soon became richer and neater, but remained as empty as ever. Lawn replaced bare earth, and pretty little statuettes overcame the crumbling pottery and furniture that incongruously adorned the outside of some dwellings. Lars asked, “Are we close?” His foot was sore.

“Not long,” answered Rhain.

“I should make my way to my family’s Vinotek,“ said Maria. “After we find the barracks, that is. I am needed there.”

Lars ignored her. He reached out as they slowed their pace. He probed Draygan’s neck. There was a pulse, weak, but present. He lifted an eyelid and grunted as the boy’s pupil dilated.

They left the slums behind and skirted the northern edge of what Rhain informed them was the northernmost residential area. Home to ship captains who managed Porenza’s oil trade, estate owners, and the richer wine-merchants. The villas were single storied, attractive little places with the same, ubiquitous red-tiled roofs.

“Barracks up ahead,” Rhain noted.

The roads were indeed straighter here, perhaps the only place in all Porenza which fell victim to any sort of regimentation. Wide, flat blocks paved the avenue, and their footsteps clicked loudly. Soldier-pines flanked opulent residences, tips swaying in a breeze that the dusty ground did not feel.

“I know the commander here. Fought against him on the beaches at Dren,” Rhain began. “We should … “ He stopped.

A large fountain had obscured the view until now. Beyond it was an open parade ground, and beyond that, the barracks building itself. The square was littered with bodies.

“Back,” ordered Lars.

Rhain was immobile. There was a brief struggle as Lars pulled the stretcher and Rhain held firm.

Jelena and Maria simply stared in awe at the carnage in front of them.

The bodies were Nomani. Each was armed and ready. Most had their swords drawn. A line of bodies near the front had fallen, tangled amidst their long, barbed spears. Limbs were at odd angles. Mouths were agape.

Maria vomited on her own sandals.

Lars did not have time for disgust, for within the bloody massacre stood one who was evidently still very much alive. It was one of them.

The four of them fell quiet, but for some coughing from the young medic.

The creature was wandering amidst the dead, aimless. It picked up a body, a random, curious action. It looked at the tangle of limbs, moved the limp skull side to side before flinging it away. The strength of it.

It stopped. Looked up. Its eyes were now on the four of them.

They lowered the stretcher. “Maria,” Lars said. “You said you needed to be somewhere?”

The girl fled, and Lars could not blame her.

Jelena looked at him. Her expression told Lars enough.

“I’m not leaving Draygan,” Rhain whispered.

“Then you’re on your own.” No way I’m facing that thing. “Come on,” he beckoned Jelena. They backed away towards the pines, towards cover.

Rhain stood above the inert form of Draygan. The Titan approached.

Chapter seventeen

Tom

“I’m going to get him,” Methus said. The old man’s fingers twitched.

I recognise that. The man was grasping for a non-existent sword. Or else he was a drinker too long sober. Probably both. To calm him, Tom allowed, “Hektor seems capable.”

“Micho,” Methus called, ignoring him. “Come on little man. We’re going out.”

“Methus, stop.”

“Gonna find him,” Methus bristled, searching through the pile of weaves on the workbench as if he’d lost something important. “Shoulda been back by now,” he shouted once more, “Micho! Get down here.”

“I can get Hektor a Noble-stone.”

“Where is that damn boy, he ... what?”

“A full one. When Hektor and Sara return, I’ll explain how. I can get him one. On one condition.”

The old man had found the wire. He rolled it between two fingers, calmer now, but still fidgeting. “I ain’t giving up the Bright Line.”

“I do not expect you to. You are safe, as are your secrets. My condition is this: tell me about Hektor. Tell me how he became Brightened.” It was an attempt to calm the man. But the offer was genuine. Draygan would help him secure a stone, Tom was sure of it. “What made him brave the Chair?”

Methus put the wire down. He sat, fished into a pocket and withdrew a cigarette rolled in discoloured paper. He said, “A real stone? truly?”

“My word is my life.”

Methus nodded. He fumbled for a while before grasping another weave. This one he raised to the end of the cigarette. The loose end touched the Bright, and the cigarette was lit. Acrid smoke billowed. A calming breath, Tom imagined.

“Well ... I s’pose a story can’t hurt. I’ve pieced this together, mostly. Hektor ain’t the most talkative. Sara told me some, what she could, anyway. See, most boys arriving from Dren and the other islands try out on the boats. Not our Hektor. Instead of breaking his back for one of the local merchants, Hektor thought he would try out for soldierin’. He was big, even then. But young. Head full of all those ideals. He’d found a girl, you see, our Sara. He wanted to provide for her, to protect her and her baby brother.”

“Did he try out for the militia?”

“Worse. Tried out on the parade ground. A Drenian in the regiment. Can you imagine? He was fourteen, though the Nomani that day hardly cared. They whipped the child up and down the dusty square. I spoke to a soldier who took no part, a good man. He recollects a big lad, barely walking from the humiliation, body a mass of bruise and laceration. Even if he wanted to work the docks at that point, I ain’t sure he’d have managed. To the dock workers, he was a jumped-up boy with ideas above his station. The ship owners saw a dull-wit wasting a solid pair of shoulders, too wild anyway to strap to an oar. To his friends, he was a failure. Sara just loved him. You reckon Hektor was good with those judgments?”

“Only the last,” Tom answered.

“So he lashed out. But not after some thinkin’. Took his time to recover. Fed Sara and her little brother. Micho must’ve been a baby at that point, and honestly, I don’t know what they’d have been without Hektor. He waited some time to heal, then he went back to the Parade ground, took up a staff and knocked on the doors of the barracks. Once the gates opened, he challenged the officer on duty. No bloody aim apparent. The officer laughed until he realised Hektor was serious, then he beat Hektor all over again. Next week Hektor went back. He’d still have been sore, no doubt, but Sara says he lasted a minute or two longer before being dragged from the barracks.”

“What was he doing?” asked Tom.

Methus waved a hand. “Listen. He waited another month, trained every day at the gymnasia jumping the ropes. He grew stronger, then returned. Sara watched him collecting his broken fingers and smashed lips. She told me most, and let me tell you, those soldiers found a game of our boy. They thrashed him. Badly. There weren’t many grown men who could take such a beating and walk away, yet Hektor did again and again.

“I s’pose he aimed to prove he would suffer anything to become one of them. Grand, futile gesture. He don’t talk about it. Ashamed, though he’s no right to be. Anyway, poor Sara saw it all. She watched her man suffer and could do nothing. One day, she got to the barracks before he did. She begged the officer. Begged him to turn Hektor away, anything but the mindless savagery.

“The game was getting better for the regimental officer. Now he had another fool Drenian, and worse, she was young, pretty. Beautiful, even. And the walls of the barracks were high.”

Tom returned his wine to the table. “They could not have,” he began.

“I wouldn’t have put it past ’em, but no. They had their fun another way. The officer, at least. He kicked her to the dust. And then when Hektor arrived, ordered him restrained. The officer called Sara a thief, a harlot. The rest of the regiment watched as he broke every one of her fingers, as if in some sick demonstration of a girl’s place in this world.”

“Damn the Dark,” whispered Tom.

“Some soldiers, most of ’em to their credit, carried Hektor and Sara from the barracks, across the parade ground, and eventually laid ’em at the foot of the steps to the Darkening Chair. Why there? I dunno. They lay there all day, untouched, and remained unconscious until the early hours. I know this next part because I saw it myself. I was working on the steps that day, you see? Hektor woke up first. I saw him kneel, silent as a rock over Sara’s body. Then he mounted the steps.”

“Suicide,” said Tom.

Methus nodded. “Yep. But like no suicide I ever seen. He was so focussed. I hauled from that cursed throne in my years thousands of bodies, saw maybe ten men in all become Brightened, and all the while grew sick of it all. Worse than the war, in some ways. Until Hektor came along.”

“How does nobody know of this?” asked Tom. The Chair was on public display. It seemed impossible that no one had seen Hektor walk away, Brightened.

“It was early. Reading hour, we liked to call it. Who comes to end their life at the turn of morning? Simply put, we were alone. Hektor got to the Chair, screamed in rage and pain and waited for the Lines to dig his skull, creep into his soul and draw life from his blood. They made contact. I waited with a book next to the soldiers on guard, bloody bored by it all. At the base of the steps, Sara woke up.

“Hektor saw her rise just as those pink tendrils made death’s first touch, and he screamed again, not from pain. I watched his eyes darken and then close. When they opened, they flashed with the iris-halo you’ve seen for yourself. The colour comes rarely o’ course, but at that point it burned. Hektor tore himself from the seat and the soldiers with me followed. That’s when they pushed him. Shouted they’d kill him. No Drenian should be Brightened. They were terrified of punishment, I think. I couldn’t stomach it either way.”

“What then?” asked Tom. “Did the soldiers follow?”

“They shouted and threatened, except Hektor was coming round by then, and I kid you not-at-all his bones were glowing. I swear enough of that glow leaked off to heal a bit of Sara, too. Soldiers took to running away when they saw that, and I took him and Sara home.”

“He glowed.”

“He did. I had a few weaves in my pocket. Used to pass the time with them with that sliver of stone Hektor wears. Yearned for the days when I was back in university, I s’pose. And I had a Bright-damned glowing Drenian. Well, the weaves in my pocket fused into a molten mess and burned through my coat, and I’ve been trying to figure out what happened ever since.”

“You said he was different.”

“Aye. The first and only time I saw it. Not since. Nothing like even the fighters in the arena. They can channel the Bright, but nothing like Hektor that night. Been trying ever since to recreate it. Every weave I can think of, different lengths, different thicknesses. Even some new ones when I have the courage or the money. You get us that stone like you promise, and we can leave Porenza forever. Live like kings if we want. In peace. Free.”

After a moment, Tom asked, “And what of the officer? And the soldiers at the Chair?”

Methus shrugged. “The soldiers kept their lips sealed. Speaking out was worth more than their job. The Senate charged the officer and barred the barracks to all but enlisted men from then on.

“They charged the officer?”

“Fined and dismissed.”

“They just let him go?” asked Tom.

Methus smiled without humour. “Peace accord. Funny thing. Political immunity or some such rubbish. Anyway, dock workers found him with his throat cut a month later.”

Tom said, “I see.”

“You think you do,” replied Methus. He held up his hands. “Oh, I would’ve brought my case to the Senate, lobbied for true justice. But no. Didn’t get the chance. Not least because I was in trouble, too. Soldiers at the Chair claimed I’d left my post, and I guess I did. Couldn’t exactly say I ran after a Brightened Drenian, could I? And oh, the officer got his dues, but not from me. Sara asked about him and in my eternal wisdom I told her. She found him. She did it.”

Tom sat back. As he was digesting this information, he heard the downstairs door opening.

“Finally,” Methus breathed, standing up.

Sara came through the workshop door first, sweating, wild. “They are killing them,” she said. “Methus, my people. The beast is killing them!”

Chapter eighteen

Lars

Rhain’s road ended here. Lars knew it, and next to him, Jelena knew it.

The old fighter stared at the thing that slowly, gracefully came closer.

Lars pulled Jelena into the shade cast by one of the larger soldier pines. He knelt behind the massive trunk, leaned out, and focussed. He willed Rhain strength.

His palms tingled. The feeling before a fight. Cold, breathless. Time became stretched and mangled. He felt as if he were moments from the blood burst of action, eyes bulging, everything alert. Except he was not the one fighting.

Rhain and the Titan circled.

He shut out the gull cries, ignored the bird’s curious inspection of fresh blood and the grim feeding that was sure to follow. He ignored the columns of the barracks, each one carved with the name of past commanders. More soldier pines swayed in a kind of dance around the grounds, yet he had eyes only for the creature, ears only for the sound of its feet softly moving.

Rhain’s oversized opponent stalked forward, dressed in some sort of ceremonial looking armour. A broad blade strapped across its back, and a red stone sat between its eyes, decorating the nose-guard of a black helm. It was broader than the one named Vortigen, and equally tall.

Rhain came to the balls of his feet and extended his left hand.

Lars looked for weak spots in the beast’s armour and found none. The eyes were Rhain’s best hope.

Several feet away, still circling, the creature stopped and drew a massive blade. The metal rippled in the morning sun and a flash briefly dazzled his vision. The thing seemed to peer down at Rhain from a great height. He is going to die, Lars thought. Not on some foreign battlefield. No blood-soaked, salt-blasted deck of a boat at sea. No sand between his toes. Rhain would die here. The man’s home. In Porenza.

The distance between one old soldier and another did not matter. Lars recognised Rhain’s smile and knew. He was ready.

The thing said, “I am Demetes.” Its voice sang high in the fractious air. The sound was pure and clear, and it jarred Lars to the bone. The thing waited.

“Let’s get out of here,” hissed Jelena.

“Just wait,” replied Lars. “Man fought his whole life. A stranger, but enough like a hundred others I knew. Deserves to have his story told.”

Rhain stopped circling. He seemed to accept the brief introduction, acknowledging the ritual. “I am Rhain,” he said.

“This one is broken.” Demetes nodded to Draygan, who writhed in pain.

Lars watched Draygan shudder and twitch. The boy was only semi-conscious, eyes fluttering open and closed. An involuntary groan gained volume from Draygan’s throat.

“He is injured,” agreed Rhain.

“I would claim it.”

“Him,” Rhain corrected in a low voice. “And you will not have him whilst I live.”

“Very well,” replied Demetes. The thing then took a stance similar to Rhain’s own, and something odd happened to its armour. The black metal, once solid, even beautifully wrought, was changing. Armoured pieces scraped together. Rivets became translucent and vanished. What once was black metal drifted away like ash in the breeze. Soon a gust lifted a great billow of dark flakes from Demetes’ body, and the armour disappeared entirely, crumbling to nothing. “Do you require a weapon?” it asked finally.

“Just fight me, damn it,” Rhain approached slowly.

Demetes planted its own monstrous blade into the ground as if sheathing the thing. It sank to the hilt. Then, without armour, and unarmed, Demetes attacked.

Rhain barely sidestepped in time, evading a blow only through years of drilling. Lars barely saw the thing strike before Rhain was already out of the way. Rhain’s own low roundhouse kick followed automatically. The thing raised a shin in time to block. It looked like kicking a tree trunk. The kick bounced. Rhain broke away.

“That’ll bruise,” Jelena remarked.

“Quiet.”

Rhain circled once more. He lowered his left hand slightly, hoping to provoke a head kick. It came, and the old fighter rolled beneath it at the last moment. He dipped his level and grasped the creature’s knee, surging upwards and dumping the thing to the ground.

“The leg,” Lars whispered. His own muscles were responding with the flow of combat, mirroring the other fighter’s movements.

Rhain curled a hand around the beast’s thigh, twisting his body to sit on the inner knee-joint. He failed. With its other leg, Demetes hooked Rhain’s neck. For an ordinary man, the move would have been unlikely, the flexibility required for the manoeuvre impossible to defend.

Rhain flipped onto his back, and the creature moved to the side. It gripped Rhain’s arm quickly, the hand like a clamp on his wrist. The other arm slid beneath. Rhain fought it, but the thing was strong as the tide. It found the lock and moved. Lars saw the elbow snap and shouted in anguish.

In the square, Rhain bellowed his reply.

“Your bones are quite weak,” commented Demetes. It let go of the arm. It twisted once more around Rhain’s body. The warrior rolled with it, but the useless arm was his end. A thigh pinned his neck, and Lars watched Rhain’s other wrist snap.

Rhain screamed again. An elbow crashed across his jaw.

“Stars in a bright, blue sky,” Lars whispered. He watched Rhain’s head loll to the side.

It was moving again. Rhain was powerless to stop the arms snaking around his left knee. His foot bent outward, and the knee joint popped.

“Very weak,” added Demetes.

Rhain tried to lean forward, his teeth flashed in an adrenaline grin of pain and shock. Suddenly, the weight lifted from his useless limbs. Demetes stood up.

“You were quite talented,” the creature said, and stamped a foot down upon Rhain’s chest.

Lars physically recoiled. He heard Jelena mutter.

Rhain’s rib cage imploded inwards. The foot came down again. And again.

“Okay,” Lars breathed. “Now we can go.”

Chapter nineteen

Draygan

Draygan woke several times. His back was cold. He was on some sort of stone slab. There is something behind my ribs. It was a catch every time he breathed. Like a bubble that would not burst.

Each time too there were shadows, shapes. He saw monsters in the darkness.

This is a dream. Nothing more.

If only that were true. He tried to breathe, and there was that catch, that impossible little impediment to a full-breath. Two of them were leaning over him. His breathing came faster, and he began to sweat as they pulled weave from his arms, lifting him like a child and unwinding the wires wrapping around his abdomen.

He wheezed a question through fear which threatened to thump the heart from his chest, forcing it from his throat. “What are you?”

The smaller one cupped his chin, fingers pinching like a spider’s legs. The nails scratched his neck. “Oh, you wake. You dream of such things! Who am I?” it mused, turning his head right, and then left. It studied him. Another one came close. Female. She seemed to sneer. He could not read her expression at all. Skin stretched across her face. All wrong. The smaller one grinned. It seemed delighted to see him. It repeated, quieter this time. “Who am I, you mean? A question! I call myself Astryx, and this is Genia. Others have called us Titans. I like this. As Gods we are suited.”

The other one, Genia, licked her lips. He glimpsed a row of sharp teeth. She put a hand on Astryx’s head, stroked it gently, and then she left.

“Lay back,” Astryx ordered. “Your mind is weak. Submit to the Bright. Embrace it, become one with it, and Lord Vortigen will reward you.”

Vortigen?

The thing let go of his chin and placed a hand on his chest. Breathe, he thought, closing his eyes. He allowed the creature to force him down on the slab once more. This is a dream. He was shaking.

A wire draped across his brow. A kiss, a warmth, a weave he did not know. He pulled in a breath. That was the last he remembered.

Some time later, they removed the wire. He opened one eye, hoping to all the gods they would not notice.

The Basilica interior had changed. In the centre of the domed space, the Bright Line—capable of holding the most powerful and complex healing weaves in all Porenza—emerged as if ripped from the ground.

Genia faced it. She swayed, moving her hands in a way which reminded him of a dance, although not one he had ever seen. She was oblivious to his interest.

The leader entered. “Draygan. Archon,” it said. “I am Vortigen. Stand.”

There was a pull from this Titan, an almost magnetic charisma he could not deny. “Please,” he managed, swinging his legs from the slab. He wobbled on his feet, suddenly aware he smelled of urine. “I—“

Vortigen stepped closer. “People fear power. They fear rule. It is the way of things. Some will rebel. Are you one of these?”

“No,” he answered. “But—“

“Follow me and I will show you paradise.” Vortigen glanced at the pulsing Bright Line. Genia turned her implacable gaze his way, and the two Titans shared a look. In Vortigen’s hand was a Noble-stone the colour of ruby; deep, saturated with energy.

“Take it,” Vortigen insisted, holding the stone.

Draygan’s palms clenched into sweaty fists beneath the red robe. He took a step back and spoke on, even as his voice trembled. “I wish to speak with the Senate.”

“And you will,” Vortigen leaned forward, close enough for seduction. A faint smell filled Draygan’s nostrils, like burning. “But first, take the stone.”

Draygan prepared himself. He sat back upon the slab of granite and took the Noble-stone.

“We come from another place,” Vortigen said. It placed a thin, bony finger on his forehead. “A world much like your own.”

Draygan’s vision blurred, fading from white to colour, and then shape. He was somewhere else entirely. Paradise, Vortigen had said.

He was standing. I recognise this place. The harbour-front was the same shape as the one at the central Laguna. The smell of the pines was familiar, and that line in the water, as the azure sheen fell into deep blue, he would know it anywhere. The Canyon Sea.

It was the same, and yet infinitely more. Beautiful ships the colour of ivory sat serenely on the gentle swells, their hulls inlaid with gold or twinkling lights. A line of trees edged a promenade, clipped so that they looked like clouds, and the Titans were everywhere. They walked languidly, in no hurry; taller, stronger, and dressed in flowing silks, cloth which wrapped them across one shoulder and along the waist. They wore jewellery, and he could hear laughter on the vanilla scented breeze. Somewhere beyond the line of trees, a soft song was playing on some foreign instrument. The notes were haunting, beautiful. “It is heaven,” Draygan said. Somehow, the fear had vanished.

“It is home,” corrected Vortigen.

Draygan realised Titans in this paradise could not see him. He looked down at his own body and saw only a gossamer smudge where there should have been torso and limbs. “Are we really here?”

Vortigen was far more solid. He walked towards a building made entirely of glass. Within were plants of various colours, all arranged around benches and small pools. The Titan put its hand on the glass and pushed its arm through. The glass did not break. “We are not here. This is a memory.”

Vortigen drew his hand back. The Titan studied long, narrow fingers. It seemed lost in thought.

Draygan asked the obvious question. “Why did you leave this place?”

Vortigen smiled. “My world is filled with beauty, with colour, yet its power is nothing compared to your own. Our coming is the last, greatest hope for our worlds to connect. We risked everything so that our people can share their knowledge, so that we can trade our culture, our beauty, and grow together with a power this Porenza has hardly begun to realise. There is such promise to your world. If only you knew. We need your people, Draygan. We must find the one whose blood will open the greater gateway. And who better to find this human than the trueborn Archon?”

Draygan opened his eyes, once again in the Basilica.

Genia was still there, moving her body, massaging something invisible. The twirling trunk of the massive Bright Line responded. It had pushed from the ground, slow as syrup, twisting. Yes, he could imagine it looping over, touching the ground on the other side. It could become a gateway.

Draygan thought of paradise. Then he thought of his father. He thought of the stories of war, the bloodshed. There is more to this life, he thought. The paradise he had seen, the image of what Porenza could be, it called to him in a way that nothing ever had.

Chapter twenty

Lars

They went north. Away from the murderous creature, away from the death of a man who deserved better, far from the ruined Campus fields. They passed the first of the olive groves, rolling vineyards, and an occasional hill smothered with ripening barley. My foot hurts again, Lars thought. He wondered why the Bright had not healed the blister. Or perhaps this one was new. “I’m getting new sandals when I get home,” he said.

“I’m getting rat-faced drunk when I get home,” Jelena replied. “I will be back in time for my cousin’s wedding, from my mother’s side. Bas, you remember him?”

The only thing Lars could think about was the death of a good man, and creatures with the powers of Gods. Despite the images of Rhain’s mangled body seared into his mind, Lars went along with Jelena. Probably best to focus on something else, he thought, and replied, “The one who talks about himself?”

“That’s the one! Insufferable little turd, constantly spewing a whole torrent of insults so minor that they never seem to deserve a reply. In hindsight, I add up the conversational toll of dear cousin Bas and wish I had gone back and hit him.”

Lars chuckled. The conversion was helping. “He spoke to me at your Brightening. Even as you walked up those steps, heart in your goddamn mouth, your idiot cousin would not shut up about some cloth import. Why does every trader and his mother ship the stuff nowadays? Hardly seems like Istara has a linen shortage.”

Jelena shrugged and kicked a small stone from her sandal. They were nearing the northern edge of the city, one more rise, and then they would be upon the wall. “God knows. It is a shame anyway. I like weddings.”

“I can’t picture you in a dress.”

“I’d be all pretty,” Jelena said. “I’d grow my hair out, twirl for the good young boys who stayed home to farm.”

Lars raised a hand and made a shushing noise against further conversation. Something was coming.

Jelena ducked down as commanded. Tilled fields surrounded them, furrows of red mud on one side and rows of tied grapes on the other. Lars nestled into a dip in the land, knees pushing into the clay. He sympathised with the poor souls who would have had to turn such heavy ground. Back in Istara, for training, he had once yoked each member of the team to a plough and forced them up and down a hill. It had been shattering. He crouched lower. He could hear it now. Fast footsteps. Someone running.

The hill before them marked Porenza’s border. Beyond the border was the solid, dark mass of the new wall. It was twice as high as the tallest rampart on the highest keep. It appeared utterly sheer.

A girl appeared further down the track. She was running along the red ground, wearing a short, blue shift. She was barefoot and raced up the long incline as if a fire followed. Lars silently urged her forward. If the girl made it to the wall, then those big, soft-voiced murderers might not keep them here after all. Jelena might still make the wedding. He might still see his wife and son.

“Almost there,” Lars said.

The girl put her hand on the shiny surface.

When the arrow came, it fell like a diving kitewing hawk. A dot behind them in the clear blue sky. The arrow had more pace than the smoothest shaft from the largest bow drawn by the strongest man. It tore through the little blue dress. Her body speared against the black wall as surely and fatally as the Archon on the Campus fields.

“Bright save us,” muttered Jelena.

“More like a spear with feathers than an arrow,” added Lars. “Come on. Let’s walk. See if there’s a gap, or, hells. I don’t know. Maybe we’ll find someone else more successful.” Someone not so dead.

They made their way from field to hill to furrow and narrow river. From the tip of Porenza to the city’s most south-western point. At every stage, there was the infernal, never-ending wall. They walked until dusk. Others had tried to escape; several more bodies impaled by the massive arrows. Some had loose rope, coiled and forgotten at their feet.

“Well?” Jelena asked.

Lars shook his head. “We will go to the docks,” he announced.

“Istara is inland, you realise.”

“You see any siege equipment lying around? We’re not getting over, or through that wall. No way.”

The sound of wheels clattering on a loose axle came from up ahead. An approaching wagon. A blind summit crested in front of them, flanked by two solitary walnut trees. Lars stopped to wait for the wagon to appear over the rise. He said, “We will rest tonight, then take a ship to Vestia in the morning. We will make our way north and back around the isthmus.”

“Through Medonia. You know they take sheep for wives and tell their grubby children bedtime stories about Nobles eating infants?”

“Have you been to Medonia?”

“No.”

“It is as bad as you make it sound,” Lars said. “Bunch of savages. How anyone could live in a city without the Bright I do not know.”

Soon, the wagon appeared at the top of the hill. Jelena and Lars moved to the side of the road and waited as it passed.

The driver pulled on the reins and the rickety old thing stopped beside them. The man asked without introduction, “Have you seen a girl come by here?”

“No,” said Lars

“All dressed in blue. My daughter,” insisted the man. “I have been searching since this morning. Surely she came by?”

“I am sorry,” said Jelena. She meant it.

The man hung his head. He cracked the reins. The mule took another lick to get moving and finally pulled the wagon away.

“Let’s find somewhere to rest,” said Lars. They had been walking all day. The stables were naturally outside the city. The mule was likely one of the only load-bearing animals within the new wall.

They soon reached the summit of another rise. Sapling fruit trees withered in the summer drought, their leaves crinkled and dry. Porenza once again stretched before them, the Canyon Sea molten with the setting sun.

Lars imagined himself on the deck of a boat or a ship and pictured the choppy swells which made their way onto the three Lagunas of the city. He pictured the storms that sometimes blew through the channel of water and shuddered. “I hate this place,” he said.

Chapter twenty-one

Draygan

Draygan stood before the projection of the map of Porenza. A marvel. A use of power unknown until the hunched Titan casually wrought it from dust and smoke.

“You will do as they command,” said Draygan to the waiting soldiers, pointing to a place on the map. Does my voice waver? “Take your men here.”

The lead soldier cleared his throat. “The church?” he dared to ask.

Astryx stepped forward. It turned its smile to the man. “A church! Is that what it is? In our world, it is an altar, one of five. Five conduits of power, and a focus.” It placed a hand on the soldier’s shoulder. “Your name?”

The man was red, trembling. Draygan was sure of it. Would he run? He would not blame the man. “Evidius,” the soldier blurted, “Should I take them now?”

The silence stretched. Astryx leaned, staring into Evidius’ eyes. It loomed so close, Draygan imagined the soldier could smell the thing’s breath. Eventually the Titan sprang away. It waved an airy hand, “Yes! Yes. Take your men at once. Dig until you reach a Bright Line, follow it to where it is thickest, and excavate what you find there. The gateway will not work unless we expose all five altars.”

Evidius wasted no time. He bolted from the room.

The map held Draygan’s attention. “You mention five. I can see … three? The church, and I suppose the Darkening chair. Then there is the Line at my father’s house; he only ever used it to talk to old soldiers in other cities. Reminiscing about the war. His brothers, he called them.“ Draygan trailed off. His father was dead. Gone. Killed by the Vortigen, he had discovered. A loyal son would avenge his father, a voice inside whispered.

“One is here,” Astryx stabbed a finger through a nondescript house nestled on a narrow street beyond the fish district and the western residences. Its hand moved to the arena, finger resting in the dead centre of the sands. “Another is here. Powerful, oh so powerful!”

Vortigen entered. The Titan stopped when it saw the map. Not a feature on its face so much as twitched. “Tomorrow,” it said.

“It will take time to dig the last altar,” Astryx began.

“We will find the Stoneheart tomorrow.” The Titan turned to Draygan.

Draygan stood. Like a faithful dog. He quelled the intrusive thought and asked, “How can I help?”

Vortigen banished the map with a gesture, then opened its palm over the table so that another projection appeared. It was a face, vague. A man whose eyes shone with colour.

Draygan shook his head, “A Noble? Not a man I have seen ... he looks Drenian.”

“Drenian?”

“Allies in the war, ravaged by Nomani occupation because of the Noble-stone mines.”

“Tell me about the people. The Drenians.” The projected face faded.

“They live mostly in the tenements. They worship different gods. Dje and Suh, the God and the Undergod.” I am rambling ...

“Go on.”

“One of the sea, one of the land, in constant battle. They believe that—“

Vortigen waved a hand. “Enough. Gather your Senate, spread the word; All of Porenza will meet here tomorrow when the sun is highest. We will find the promised Drenian. We will show them the power of their gods.”

Draygan nodded. It was an easy enough task, but he knew the people of this city. “And if they refuse the summons?”

The Titan chuckled. “Demetes has claimed the right to any who disobey.”

Chapter twenty-two

Hektor

Abreeze of dust and salt drifted lazily through the window. It almost seemed normal. Except today the Nomani were showing all Porenza their cowardice. Soldiers entered homes, questioning the lives of innocents, friends. In the early hours, he heard windows smashing far along the street. A strange voice had filled the air. “ Show yourself, Stoneheart!”

An image of men and women on the Darkening Chair seethed, fresh in his memory. How can I combat this? It was an impossible question. One he was determined to answer.

He felt weak. Drained. He stroked Sara’s hair until she awoke.

“Good morning,” she said, her voice that single note higher, tuneful with sleep. He loved her for it.

“Good morning.” He let his hand drop to her shoulder and leaned in. He kissed her neck. She nestled close.

A rattling, insistent knock interrupted them. Unlike much of the back of the house, Hektor’s room had a window. The Bright Line running through the building did not reach this high, therefore there was no pink glow to disguise. The knocking grew louder. It was not from his door, but from the alleyway outside. Someone shouted in the street. Hektor made his way to the window.

“What is it?” Sara rolled over, resting her elbow on the thin pillow.

Hektor shrugged. “I am not sure,” he leaned over the windowsill. One thick hand gripped the wooden shuttering-bar, and the other dusted a dead fly from the old white plaster. Below him, across the alley, Hektor counted four men, each one hammering at the same time on a different door. They each wore a white sash across a loose red tunic. The garb represented the council. “Senate men,” he told Sara.

He focussed on the man closest. To his left, someone else leaned from their window. It was a pretty woman, the young mother living next door with her family and parents.

She called, “What is happening?”

The Senate man turned around. Hektor saw the man’s eyes narrow as they alighted upon his face. Hektor stared back.

The door before the Senate man opened. His focus turned to the occupier, an older man with perhaps some Drenian, or more likely Makhedian heritage. The old man said something that looked like a question, though Hektor could not hear clearly.

The Senate man was loud enough for them both. He shouted above the home-owner’s head, “By order of the Lord Vortigen, all citizens will gather before the Darkening Chair when the sun is highest. Failure to comply is death!”

The old man shrank from the voice. He asked a ponderous question.

“Failure to comply is death!” repeated the Senate man, and marched to another door ahead of two of his comrades, each shouting identical summons. The old man retreated into his house. The door closed.

Hektor watched the young mother next door. Their eyes met.

“Did you hear that?” she asked, fear etched in the line of her jaw.”Stay inside,” he advised, then eased back into the room. He asked, “What do you think?”

“I’ll listen to a croaking frog with more interest than I’d listen to the Senate. You think we should follow their whim?”

“I should find out what is happening.” An open-ended statement. He wondered what she would think of him leaving. Of any course of action other than helping the people they had seen tangled, helpless.

Sara pushed herself into a sitting position. She rubbed her eyes. “Go. But do not go because a senator asks.”

“I will be safe,” Hektor announced. I have the stone, he thought.

She was silent as he left the bedroom. He descended the stairs.

In the workroom, he found Tom. “I could not sleep,” the man admitted.

“Yesterday you promised Methus a Noble-stone.”

Tom rubbed his eyes. “I aim to fulfil that promise. Draygan will help us.”

“Come with me, then.” Hektor turned to leave. “If this Draygan is anywhere, he will be at the gathering on Vestia Way. You can take me to him.”

Tom followed wordlessly alongside as they left the house. This man has courage despite his fear, he thought. Hektor noted a lack of scars, a lack of calluses on the hands. Not a soldier, not a warrior. But there was confidence. He had seen as much when the philosopher interrupted the attack at the market. The man had not fought, not recently, nor in the war. He was still a fighter.

Hektor clapped him on the back. “Stay close to me, Tom Valerian.”

Chapter twenty-three

Lars

They did not reach the docks. After spending the night in an old barn, Lars and Jelena made their way back to the city, to men and women who spread the news of a gathering.

The new rulers of Porenza had called an assembly at Vestia Way. Word on the streets was fearful, yet most everyone wanted to know something, and Lars internally echoed the sentiment. Not only that, but Vestia Way looked directly onto the docks. There was no chance of escaping by boat when the entire city was watching.

“We’ll listen to them, and then we’ll hide.”

“We’re getting good at hiding.”

Lars grimaced, “Only until the crowds clear, then we get away.”

At the back end of Vestia Way was the broken wall of the Duom, rebuilt from an old temple. Images of Titans, of all things, decorated the old brick. On the other side was a shop that sold trinkets and carvings to the visitors who arrived on the Vestian boats. It seemed as good a place as any to stand: far enough away from the arena to escape quickly, but close enough to see.

A fountain bubbled at the base of the old wall, and at the foot of the fountain was a man who had slept the entire night on the stones, delirious, in a pool of his own vomit.

“Captain?” Jelena asked, peering at the curled figure. She grinned and turned to Lars. “That’s Goran. The Porenzian captain.”

Sure enough, it was the honourable fool he had killed on the sands, and who had then attacked the beast called Vortigen on the Campus fields. Breath oozed from the unconscious man’s mouth, a line of dribble on his tunic. Goran was in a bad way, oblivious to the gathering of Porenzian citizenry. Not noticed much of anything, Lars thought, considering the sorry state Goran was in.

More people were arriving along the front of the harbour, pushing and shoving, but quietly. Fear was in the air, a tension hard to define. Though the captain was obviously in need of help and the citizenry had mostly walked by, ignoring him.

Some people, Lars thought. It confused him. One person walking past another in trouble would often help. Yet if a person fell in a crowd, then all would gawk, slow their stride, and rarely a single hand would offer aid.

Behind Goran, Lars looked at the raised, faded reliefs of Titans. The mosaics showed God-like figures wandering around the blossom strewn, golden halls of heaven, and there, faded now, was the Violet lady who, according to legend, had cast the Bright upon the world. He wondered how old the building was. Scaffolds supported the leaning, half-crumbled walls. He wondered if historical preservation in Porenza was for posterity or use. Actually, he revised, I don’t care. Whole place can go to ruin if it likes.

“Come on now, drink up,” Jelena said. She cradled Goran’s head in one hand and held a wet rag in another.

Lars sat next to the delirious captain. He draped an arm around the man’s shoulders, careless of any injury. “He actually fought well.” Lars said, appraising Jelena as men and women ebbed and flowed in a daze around them. “Idiots rarely fight well.”

“He is not an idiot,” Jelena said. She leaned to wipe Goran’s brow. It was getting hot again and the gathering throng was not helping. She dabbed once more. “He is ill.”

“Who is the medic here?” Lars patted Goran’s shoulder. “I am. Just keep dribbling water into his mouth. He will be fine. Dehydrated, and definitely an idiot. No depth of fever is so severe a man would crawl to a fountain and fail to drink a single mouthful.”

Jelena cupped another handful of water from the fountain in question. She poured it carefully into Goran’s mouth. Most of the liquid bubbled back through the corners of slack lips and wet Goran’s tunic even further. Thankfully, he swallowed a little.

“Goran, you are getting my arm wet,” Lars said.

Goran stirred with a dry, wheezing cough.

“There’s my man! Are you awake finally?”

“Water,” Goran croaked.

Jelena obliged, pouring another handful. This time, Goran managed a complete swallow.

“Can you get up?” Lars asked. The address was about to start.

Goran cleared his throat. He mumbled something and looked across at Lars with confusion.

“Well?” Lars asked. “Gods, you are slow-witted.”

Goran shook his head. His eyes cleared, and he placed a hand on his chest. He eyed the moisture on his palm, remnants from the handfuls that had poured from his mouth. “You killed me,” he croaked.

“I did. In the arena. Chopped you up like old wood. And now I have saved you.”

The captain blinked and rubbed his face. “Help me up,” he said, and tried to stand.

The area was becoming oppressive. Even the space around the Darkening Chair, usually clear, filled with men and women.

“It slaughtered the soldiers,” Goran said. He leaned against Lars, his weight making them both wobble. “All of them, lives devoured like kindling in a fire.”

“Is he still delirious?” Jelena asked. “Was he at the barracks, you think?”

Lars frowned. “Are you delirious?”

“I am not.” Goran took a deep breath. “A creature forged armour from black flakes of thin air and utterly destroyed a full regiment of Nomani. I must stop them.”

“We saw the aftermath. And you can’t stop them on your own,” Lars said. “If I had a full bloody army of veterans, I would not try it.”

Goran found a reserve of strength. Whatever fever gripped him now faded. “You remain a coward,” he broke from Lars’ support.

Lars frowned deeper, his body relaxed and alert.

“Easy now,” said Jelena. “I’ll happily listen to talk of suicidal rebellion after we hear our new masters actually speak. Who knows? They may turn out fine.”

Lars relented. “Misunderstood probably.”

“Exactly.”

“You two are fools!” Goran backed away.

“Stop,” said Jelena. She raised a hand before Goran could lose himself in the crowd. “Stay with us for a moment. Whatever happens, however weak you still are, you can fight. And so can we. There are Noble-stones in the arena. We can use them if we get the chance. There is sense in staying together.”

Goran wavered, but returned to their side. He propped himself against one of the old columns. “For now,” he said.

“And you’ve got maybe the only sword outside the barracks. I could use it, hm? I’m very good with a weapon. You’ll see. Half a chance, I’ll shove it so far up the Titan’s rear end that … “

Goran interrupted, “I’ll stay. But the sword is mine.”

“Suit yourself.”

Lars’ hand rested on his hip. Talk of weapons. His hand kept slipping downward, searching for the pommel that was not there. He felt hemmed in, eyeing the locals pressing slowly around them. The more people there were, the slimmer the chance of escape. Still, the old Duom was a good place to stand.

He looped a thumb into his belt-strap and clenched his hand into a fist to stop its natural searching. He pictured his blade. It was resting in a caravan with the rest of Istara’s retinue, camped outside the city to adhere to the peace-accord following the war. Such a simple piece of law. It read that every city must garrison at least three regiments of another city’s soldiers. In Porenza, there were nine in total. All Nomani; haughty, proud, and until now actually becoming a part of Porenzian culture. Similarly, in Noma, across the sea, there would be an equal garrison of Porenzian soldiers. Much good they would be from so far. It meant that as an Istaran in Porenza, outside of the arena at least, he would remain unarmed. His scavenged knife was useless. He would rely on fists and feet if the need arose. He liked to fight that way, anyway.

As a boy, he had hated the blade. He remembered mornings in the cold of late autumn, swinging at the post by the old apple tree. His father had watched. The old man had a huge grey beard, hair so wild that folk called him wolf. When the blade dipped, the willow switch fell. If he paused, his legs were whipped. If his feet were not set just so, a boot knocked him to the ground. He pictured his blade again, leaf shaped and ornate, yet sturdy and sharp as a scholar’s wit. He saw the pommel in his mind and even now, the smell of old apples and wet leaves blossomed in his mind. The old man was dead now, and good riddance.

He glanced at Goran. “Drink some more water, captain. Splash some on your tunic too. You stink.”

“I apologise.”

Jelena said, “Quiet. Look.”

The low buzz of conversation rose and then halted entirely. Lars supposed most of the urban population was here, waiting, wondering what they would hear. It was strange to be in a place so full of people and yet hear nothing so loud as a collective breath, a small rustle of cloth, and even the buzz of late summer insects.

Upon the dais before the Darkening Chair, a man appeared. It was a senator with a rank high enough to earn a modest olive wreath across his brow.

“Quintus,” Goran hissed.

The man raised his hands and bellowed with the practised voice of an orator, “Citizens! I give you—“ the man turned with a lavish gesture. Before him, a creature ascended the steps. ”—Your Lord, Vortigen!”

An incomprehensible smattering of applause rippled out. Someone even laughed.

“One in the tower,” Jelena whispered.

Lars looked up. To the left was a column of white stone rising to a point high above the top tier of the arena. A balcony ringed the apex of the tower, and upon it was Rhain’s killer. Lars could just about make out that the Titan held a massive bow-stave.

He remembered the girl who had died at the edge of Porenza’s border, and wondered if from the top of the tower, the Titan had a line of sight. Before the beginning of the week, he would have dismissed such a thing as impossible. Evidence of the power of these beings had revised his thinking. “I see it,” he said.

“I am Vortigen.” That same soft, high-pitched voice carried across the whole of Vestia Way and into the harbour with little difficulty, and despite being quieter, it pierced Quintus’ booming oratory. It stepped up next to the senator and waved a massive hand. “Porenza is mine. The power of the Bright is mine. Your armies and your Senate are my arm and my voice. Heed them. If you oppose them, you oppose me. Heed them or die. Attempt to leave Porenza and die. Follow me, and you may live. Hail Vortigen.”

The last was breathed across the crowd in a sibilant whisper. ‘Hail Vortigen’ wormed into Lars’ head and seemed to stay there. The Titan made a gesture towards the bottom of the steps, and another of the beasts ascended.

Goran lurched drunkenly forward. “Hold on there, Captain,” Lars held Goran’s shoulder with one hand, his grip enough to halt any progress.

Goran turned sharply. His sword was halfway from the scabbard. “It killed the Archon. It killed my team. It must die.”

“Wait,” commanded Lars. For once, Goran obeyed.

Chapter twenty-four

Lars

Vestia Way balanced on a blade edge. Lars could feel it, the souls of all those around him caught between fascination, fear, and the urge to run.

The one walking up to the Darkening Chair was thinner. It reached the top, stroked the arm of the cursed throne lovingly, and then turned to the populace. Similar to Vortigen, its voice carried. “I am Genia,” it said. “Submit to the Bright. Come to me, those who would live in paradise. Come! And I will deliver. Come, people, and know peace!”

“What the Dark is she babbling about?” whispered Lars.

“She wants people on the Chair,” whispered someone who had overheard. “She made the dockside Drenians do it yesterday. Whole boatload back into the arms of their great drowned Suh.”

The last of the Titans came next, smaller than the other three. At this distance, Lars could not make out its expression, though he was sure it was smiling. It ambled up the steps in a far less stately manner. At the top it turned, “I am Astryx!” it shouted, cheerful. It put a hand on Quintus’ shoulder. The senator shrank from the touch. Astryx went on, “We are not your enemies, but your saviours! And when the gateway between our worlds is open, oh how we will rejoice! Our people and yours! Hail Vortigen!”

“Ominous, isn’t he?” Jelena said. “Gateway?”

Other whispers and smatterings of furtive conversation rippled across the audience.

Quintus waved his hands, again demanding attention. “Citizens! I present our most esteemed new Archon, by appointment of Lord Vortigen, hero and lawful successor … “

A voice interrupted the senator, “Draygan!” Lars did not recognise the source, but he recognised the figure climbing the steps well enough. Sure as morning, Draygan reached the top, stood there bedecked in the Archon’s robe, haughty as a virgin sister of the old religion and healthy as an ox.

“Draygan, no. Not you,” whispered Goran.

Lars spared a glance for the man. The captain looked crestfallen, weak, and just about defeated. Should give Jelena his damn sword then, he thought.

From the platform, Draygan searched for the owner of the voice.

Quintus restored some order. He pushed the olive wreath further up his brow and shouted, “Citizens, I present to you, the new, most honoured council of Porenza!”

There was no clapping this time. The crowd, like an eager audience at a playhouse, sensed drama.

The Titan in the tower raised his bow.

“Time to leave,” Lars said.

“A moment,” whispered Goran, unable to take his eyes from Draygan.

The Titans next to the Chair, Vortigen and Genia, stood side by side, impassive.

“Lars?” Jelena said.

“Not a clue,” he answered.

Quintus raised his hands again. “By order of Lord Vortigen, heed the soldiers and the Senate. Heed my voice! Look around you. Any citizen who is Drenian by birth or descent, come to the front. Any who worship Suh and Dje, come forward and rejoice! No harm will come to you!”

“Come,” urged Genia, her voice rippling through the sun’s heat. “Know peace.”

Jelena gave her opinion concerning the truth of the Titan’s words, shouting onto the length of Vestia Way at the top of her voice, “Horse crap!”

The present Drenians clearly agreed. Lars was taller than most of the people before him, and he noticed dark haired islanders melting away, finding the alleyways and the openings to the edges of the wide road. One big man was ducking low, surrounded by two or three others who were doing their best to shield him.

“That is right, come forward!” Quintus urged. He was clearly unaware of the forthcoming exodus. Lars backed away. The crowd was moving like a living thing now, and the air was suddenly too heavy to breathe.

A big Drenian lad was approaching.

Lars looked past the youth, up at the giant on the tower. “Oh no,” he said. The thing had drawn back an arrow the size of a spear. Like the others, its voice carried, “I am Demetes!” it shouted.

“You,” he hissed. “Flee for your life!”

The lad’s head snapped up. A flash of rose speckled each dark iris. Lars thought his heart might stop. “Brightened,” the word fell from his mouth.

The eyes flashed, they turned and saw the arrow. Then the youth ran.

It was the loose stone that broke the dam. The giant on the tower swung the bow. All at once, everyone tried to scatter. The massive arrow tore through the air—past the Titans on the dais before the Darkening Chair—and hit a man whose shawl had fallen back. His hair flicked, and he was dead before the arrow tip plunged into the baked ground.

Lars had seen enough.

Chapter twenty-five

Tom

“Demetes!” the Titan in the tower shouted and drew back the cord of its enormous bow. “Know my name!”

The arrows came in perfect rhythm. Like the slow beat of a dockside skin-drum they fell, and each one claimed a life. A fleeing body pushed him sideways, separating him from Hektor in a moment. He turned his head and a blonde curl dropped before his eyes, wet with the sweat of his brow and the sweat of the crowd.

He was temporarily blind. He was aware of the screams, the yelling, the boots trampling the paved ground and the booming sound of another arrow landing. They were not simple wooden shafts, but objects of terror wrought from stone, brick, and iron. Demetes was manipulating the very fabric of the arena with the power of the Bright, shaping impossibly heavy shafts. That they flew was a miracle in itself. The damage they inflicted was terrifying.

“Hektor!” Tom called. He had not seen the boy in long moments. The huge archer was targeting Drenians.

“Valerian!” a woman’s voice. He recognised it, a fellow teacher. Lulian?

The hair parted from his eyes once more and he could see. It did him no good. He jostled left and stumbled. He would have fallen if not for the crush. A shattering noise sounded close by. Something stung like a whip upon his cheek. He saw a wet splash of red flick across the face of a skinny man whose eyes were wide and scared. The man did not notice. Blood stained his teeth, his mouth open in silent shock.

The man vanished, wrenched to the side as a clearing appeared in the crush of bodies. Into the void stepped Astryx. Smaller than the rest, it was still a head taller than any man. Tom pushed back. There was nowhere to go. Astryx looked at him, the small eyes wet, shining. Little pink spots swam in their depths.

The terrified audience swarmed, a maelstrom of bodies, yet none could approach the Titan. It licked its lips and pointed at Tom. A spot of blood dripped from the end of its finger and splashed onto the ground.

Another missile exploded to Tom’s right. White chunks of stone sprayed from the impact and struck without prejudice. A haze of chalk dust mired the long road, and for a moment Astryx was gone.

“Tom, this way,” a hand plunged through the dust and grabbed his shirt.

As the dust cleared, he spied the Titan holding an overweight local, a shipwright by his dress. Astryx was smiling up at the terrified figure.

In seconds, he was free from the staggering crush. Draygan pushed him against the side of the steps to the Chair. “Stay there,” Draygan instructed. “You will be safe.”

After a time, the chaos faded. The archer’s ruinous arrows spent. The other Titans prowled amidst the fallen bodies. Injured survivors cowered, and others who were simply too afraid to move stared at the beasts, mouths slack. Alleyways clustered with the final few citizens sensible enough to escape. There was more violence there, of citizen on citizen, terrified as they pushed their desperate way from the slaughter.

Quiet settled. Tom looked dumbly at his feet, at paved ground washed in the blood of others. Somehow, he had escaped with nothing but a few cuts. He heard distant crying, and the screams of circling gulls. It smelled of dust and iron. He looked up. The dead huddled in little groups. Drenians, mostly.

A wave of pain boiled into his throat, and a sob escaped. He looked at the slowly falling billows of powdered stone, the lumps of red-flecked mortar, and the toll the arrows had taken. Genia, the slim one, was working with the Bright, weaving vines around the dead. Tom looked up into the tower. The huge archer was gone.

“Can you stand? Are you hurt?” Draygan loomed over him. A long Archon’s robe draped his shoulders, cut to shape. It hung just below the knees. A wide sash of gold tied the garment to the waist.

“You are so clean,” Tom said.

“This shouldn’t have happened,” Draygan explained.

Tom interrupted. “They killed your father.”

The boy mouthed words, but no sound came.

Tom continued. “The Titan speared his heart. He gave you everything, and now you kneel to his killer? These creatures have no moral centre. They will force those who have survived today upon the Darkening Chair. Innocent men and women. Did you know that?”

“Yes. Tom, I … I cannot fight them. Not yet. They have such power. I will wait. I will know when the time is right to act against them.”

“Look!” Tom stabbed a finger at the wreckage of Vestia Way. Most had fled now, and in the aftermath he could see more Drenians, figures old and young, all trapped in vines which had grown from the gaps between the slabs.

Genia walked to the writhing forms, gesturing, moving the vines, manipulating the growth so that her prisoners lined in front of her. They were helpless, those who had not been quick enough to run. “Look at what you endorse!” Tom said. The vines retreated. The female Titan studied her prisoners. She put a hand under the chin of a tall woman and smiled at the fierceness of the stare she received in return.

“What happened to you?”

“Tom,” Draygan let a sigh escape. “Tom, you do not understand. Come with me. Please. I will explain.”

“Those Drenians … “

“They only need one of them! One life, and then they will be gone. I am responsible now. For all Porenza.”

He is scared, thought Tom. I am the one on the ground, bleeding, attacked, and yet he is truly, deeply afraid. “I taught you,” he whispered. Is the failure mine?

Soldiers emerged from the arena gates. They gathered the dead together, loading them onto carts which had appeared uncannily fast. It was almost as if a mound of corpses were the expectation.

In a swaying, snake-like motion, Tom rose to his feet. He followed mutely as Draygan led him away from the Titans.

It was a short, silent journey. His mind reeled, unable to accept the horror of the past few moments. They went past the fish district. The smell of salt and brine was a mixture he hated, yet just then was a sharp reminder of all that was once good. Draygan kept walking, skirting the ancient wall of the old temple and the row of soldier pines. They emerged onto the trinket shops that bustled around the entrance to the western Laguna. Shops which once were busy were now quiet.

But not empty. Despite the threat of death, some citizens had opted to stay away. Or perhaps they were never told? The restaurants and canopied bars near the Laguna were mostly empty, yet a few servers remained. One even tried to lure them with a menu. It defied belief.

The server beckoned them in, her babble still following them even as they sat down. “Enough, we are sitting,” Tom finally snapped at the lady as he took a seat.

“Sir?” she enquired.

“You have the freshest rope mussels, the finest, thickest steaks, and wine made by your own mother. So does every other damn seafront restaurant. Do you even know what just happened here? Are you so oblivious?”

The server bristled and left, casting the drinks menu upon the white linen.

Draygan sat. He smiled, nervous as a scolded child. The boy’s cheeks were red. “She will spit in whatever you order,” Draygan said.

“And I will make you eat it. Draygan! Tell me that all is not as it seems.” Tom placed both hands on the table. He closed his eyes briefly. “Your father—“

“I never really knew him, you know. Not like I should have.”

“He is, was, still your father.”

The declaration finally roused a spark from his former pupil. Draygan replied, “Whoever he was, he spent no more than one hour a week with me for as long as I can remember. He spoke of nothing but the glory of that damned war, how it changed him, shaped him. How I could learn from it and nothing else. And do you think I was adopted, cherished, and spoiled through love? I am Noble, Tom! I am a prize. Do you think I did not know this?”

“He loved you.”

Draygan balled his fists and pushed them into his eyes. “He may have. Yet he did not raise me. He gave me only what I would have earned myself. He gave me you, Tom. And Lulian, and Rhain. You taught me to know myself. You taught me to believe in my talent, to believe in the essence of who I am. I will do what is best for Porenza,“ he waved a hand and said in a voice Tom hardly recognised, “They showed me paradise.”

“Draygan.”

“They are from a world just like ours, did you know? Only ... more, somehow.”

Tom was silent. The server came back and stood expectantly, moodily. Tom waved her away.

“Sir, you must order if you want to sit here.”

“Coffee,” said Draygan. The woman left. “Well?” he asked.

Eventually, Tom said quietly, “They are evil.”

It seemed to make Draygan squirm. Tom would rather the boy were angry again. Anything was better than the fear haunting his eyes. Draygan took a breath. “How many discussions have we had on such things? I sat with you by the pool at the villa when I was barely a man, at the foot of the palm tree. You remember? We argued long into the night and your position was this: there is no good and evil. What is good for one is often evil for another. Tom, there are entire libraries devoted to the debate, you know this! Does the ant not see a man as evil who disturbs his nest? One man. They need one man, and then they will be gone.”

Tom listened and wondered at the depths of his own failure. “I taught you,” he repeated.

“You taught me well.”

Tom shook his head. “I am a philosopher. I argue, I delight in debate, but belief is different. These Titans are evil, Draygan. Sometimes life is black and white.“ How to make the boy see? “I saw your biological mother once, you know.”

“She died in the war. You must have been—“

“I was thirteen years old,” Tom replied. He nodded thanks for the coffee. He watched the steam rise from the small cup, studying the swirls and eddies reflected in the dark liquid. “I was what the Nomani call an equite, a squire of sorts. Our regiment was deep in enemy territory, sowing discord, acting just like the barbarians we claimed to oppose. I hated it even then. One day we came to the outskirts of Porenza, and there in the fields I watched as a woman climbed onto one of the siege defences. She screamed at us, cried at the top of her lungs, risking her life alone to call us the tyrants we so clearly were. Even though the war had not truly begun, she needed no philosophy to denounce us for what we were.”

“You met my mother? I cannot believe it.”

“I never said I met her. I said I saw her. Listened to her. I heard the passion of a woman whose moral core was stronger than a fragile peace. She knew! Your own mother knew right from wrong! Would you see me hurt, Draygan, like Porenzians of the past? Or even today’s victims on Vestia Way?”

Draygan shook his head. “Death is a necessary, unfortunate by-product. It is for the greater good. To return home, to join our worlds, Vortigen needs to open a gateway in the Basilica. A replica of the one from where they are from. And the key to the gateway is the blood of one they call Stoneheart. It is a part of their legend. You are safe. You see? The Stoneheart is Drenian. Stay out of their way and you will be safe.”

“I need time to think,” he said. Internally, the cowardice crushed him, the reasoning borne so clearly from self-preservation. He asked, “Where can I find you if I need you?”

“At the Basilica.”

Tom stood up. One last thing. He had promised, after all. He pointed to Draygan’s heart. To the stone resting there. “You think you are still worthy of that?”

A reddening of the boy’s cheeks was his only answer.

“You’ll give it to me,” Tom said, holding out his hands. “If you love me at all. If there is a shred of respect for your teacher, you will give me the stone.”

There was a hesitation there. Confusion, perhaps. The young man could simply take another from the Basilica. “Ever one for symbolism,” Draygan began.

“No games.” Tom’s hand remained outstretched.

Draygan reached beneath his tunic. He hefted the weight of the thing, then, with a sigh, he handed it over. “Keep it safe for me.”

“When you are worthy, you will own it again.” He placed the stone in his pocket and left.

“I will be worthy!” Draygan called.

Tom pretended not to hear.

“I will!” came an echoing cry.

As he turned from the seafront, past a shop selling badly carved game boards and stylised pieces, someone whispered his name again. “Valerian.”

It was Lulian. He ducked into the shop to see her standing hunched in the cramped surroundings. Boards and designs fought for space on the walls and on the old wooden counter. In the dark, Tom could tell she had been crying. “Oh, Lulian,” he said, and held her.

She sobbed gently into his shoulder, her face buried. She did not let the tears run their course, but looked up, “Draygan?”

“He is with them.” Tom bowed his head.

“Then we failed him.”

Tom nodded. It was the truth. “What of Rhain?”

“I do not know. He left with the Istaran when they took Draygan from the fields. Oh, Tom. What will we do?”

He ran a finger behind her ear in the gloom, and gripped the back of her neck, an old Nomani gesture. It meant affection. “We will stop them,” he said.

Chapter twenty-six

Sara

Methus sat on the workbench. On his face, behind his greying beard, was a small smile. Around him was evidence of his last attempt at a charge weave. Broken, twisted pieces of wire scattered between callipers and pliers. The vice was wide and empty and a thin layer of steel dust had spread liberally across the thick, gnarled wood. Behind the bench, the Bright Line blazed through the crack in the wall.

Sara was clearing things away, her movements careful, assured. “You said you saw people die.”

“I saw it and I ran,” he said. “Like everyone else.”

Sara swept a small pile of debris from the floor and dropped it into a sack in the corner. “Yet you smile.”

Methus grinned, a manic edge to the corners of his mouth. “We are leaving, Sara! I figured it out. After that evil son of a whore spoke, after the new Archon sold his soul and when the archer began his butchery. I was watching. We’re leaving this broken place.”

She stood up and smoothed the front of her dress. “I saw the aftermath of the massacre. From Gallery street I heard the arrows fall. I went into a tall, empty shop and I watched from the highest window. Methus, I watched friends die today.”

“The archer is the key. D’you hear me?”

Sara ignored him. She said, “I saw a woman impaled who worked with my mother at the docks. She gave us coins once, when we were hungry. Her face always crinkled in a smile. I saw a man split in two. A man who trained with Hektor at the ropes. A friend. So, please do not be so happy today. Please.”

Methus’ grin fell, though a sparkle remained, a tautness to his cheeks which raised bristles on his beard. “I’m sorry.” He hopped from the workbench and swept a hand across the surface. “But Sara, I figured it out. Hektor?”

Hektor sat silently on a rickety wooden chair in the corner, Micho asleep across his chest. “Yes?”

“Put Micho on the blankets and come here, please. It has been a long, tough morning, I know, but … please. I saw somethin’. I must know if I’m right.”

The small boy snored softly. Hektor remained impassive for a time. He finally stood and placed Micho’s curled little body on the messed blankets next to the chair. The child snuffled lightly but did not wake. Hektor approached the bench.

“Hold this,” Methus said. He handed Hektor the sliver of Noble-stone.

“I cannot charge it beyond a breath or two,” Hektor began. “We have tried.”

“I know,” Methus replied. It would need a powerful Bright Line, such as the one in the arena to function. In all moments since Hektor’s Brightening it had been nothing but a pretty, disk shaped piece of crystalline glass. Useful for small things.

Hektor remained silent. He ran his thumb over the stone’s edge.

Methus smiled again, despite Sara’s wishes otherwise. “I was watching the archer. Did you notice a gap in the rhythm of his arrows?”

“I was running.”

“As was I, yet I noticed. There was a break. I turned and looked. The big one on the tower reached back and plunged its hand into the stone for another arrow. Nothing happened. It missed a beat because it used the same hand to grip the balcony surrounding the tower. The railing wraps around the Bright Line. You see? You know what it did? It slashed its own palm with those long nails. It drew blood, then it reached back. Its eyes glowed, and its chest glowed. Hektor, these beings are Brightened. They store power. The way they do it is this! They bleed on a Line. I saw it,” he raised two fingers and pointed, “with my own eyes.”

Sara approached the bench. She saw Methus’ idea. And Hektor will listen. She placed her arms around Hektor’s waist, then turned to Methus. “You think Hektor should do the same?”

Methus laughed, the manic edge returning. “Yes! I should have thought of this long ago. If I am right, then it ain’t how we create the weave that’s important, but who is holding it. Noble blood. I’m an idiot for not seeing it before now. You see? Only a Noble, or someone like Hektor, can channel Bright power. He needs to charge the stone himself. It ain’t the weave, but the man!”

“What do you wish me to do?” Hektor asked.

Methus gathered pieces of wire from the top of the workbench. “Stay there, for the moment at least.”

“People who touch Bright Lines get hurt. Especially Nobles.” Sara said. Badly.

Methus ignored the warning. “Hektor is more than a Noble. Now, make a holding weave.” It was a simple idea, and one that had failed many times. A holding weave was a kinetic weave looped back upon itself. It was the strongest, most common and least malleable weave. Once both ends attached to a Line, it went rigid, and that was that. In the past, Sara and Methus had tried over and over to use such a weave to power the stone, to no avail.

She took a shaky breath and nodded. Her nimble fingers began to cross and weave three separate strands. “Cap the end?” she asked. A capped holding weave was nothing but stored potential energy. Malleable and dangerous.

“Yes,” replied Methus.

Sara made a twist at the end of the weave and then placed it in the vice.

“Wait. Not the vice. Give it to Hektor.”

She looked dubious, but passed the strand.

Hektor took it. Wire in one hand, stone in the other. He watched them both work. “This is a last resort,” he said. “If this goes wrong, I will suffer.”

Methus laughed again, manic. “It will work,” he said.

Once the table was clear, he stood back, motioning Sara to follow. “Hektor, cut the hand that holds the stone and place it against the Bright Line.”

A small voice in Sara’s head spoke. Please work.

She watched Hektor approach the opening in the wall. She had seen him hold the stone to the glow many times. He never gained more than a second or two of charge. Sometimes Methus held wires to the Line using tongs. All attempts ended in failure. A charred halo reached from the open, glowing crack in the mortar. Testament to the danger.

Methus nodded him forward and Hektor picked up a blade, scoring a cut above his smallest knuckle. At the last second, the piece of stone in his hand seemed to leap towards the Line, jerking his body forward. It clamped onto the power of the Bright, and Sara watched his muscles shudder, a ripple across his skin like the aftermath of a sneeze coursing across his cheekbones and shooting through his arms. The sliver in his palm burst into colour. The blood on his hand mirrored the life within the stone and hummed with its own vibrant glow.

“Praise the Bright,” Methus breathed. “Take your hand from the wall.”

Hektor obliged. It maintained a healthy glow for another heartbeat, then faded. The wire took longer.

“try to bend the wire, Hektor.”

He tried. It was rigid. No amount of force seemed to affect the small weave. Hektor looked up, and this time he smiled.

Sara saw the look in his eyes. She heard Methus whoop, watched as Micho stirred with the sudden noise, then she turned back to those eyes. The determination. The colour. Power, she thought. A tool to leave Porenza. But when was power ever used sensibly?

Methus was dancing around the room. Poor man. He had not yet guessed. Dead Drenians on Vestia Way. Others marched as if in the Undergod’s grip to the Darkening Chair, hunted in their homes. People whose lives were difficult, and who would suffer even more.

Hektor will not leave them to their fate, she knew. He will not run.

Chapter twenty-seven

Tom

There was a kitchen at the back of the shop, the entrance hidden by a curtain. Like the front of the shabby store, the rear was equally haphazard. Fortunately, it was clean. Upon one unit, Tom found enough stacked dinnerware to feed an entire regiment. Small wooden carvings dotted cupboard tops, charms to Dje for luck and harvest. More decorative plates hung upon the wall, nestled between Istaran rugs and loops of garlic.

Tom picked his way to the table and put down his findings. “The bread is fresh. They have pickles, ayva, and salted herring.”

“Leave the herring.”

“Agreed.” Tom gathered the food, and they sat at either side of a surface barely larger than Tom’s bedside table back at the villa. Their knees touched below the rim, and he chuckled nervously.

“I missed your speech, Tom,” Lulian said. “Was it a good one?” She surveyed the clatter. “This is cosier than I would have chosen.”

Tom took a bite and shrugged around a mouthful of bread. “I never got to speak at all,” he admitted, “And this place will be cosier still if the proprietor returns.”

Lulian shook her head. “This is Jem’s place. He is not returning.”

I am chewing through a dead man’s food. The thought made him pause. He remembered Jem from the harbour side, a charismatic figure who cheered on the boys and young men as they trained at the rope gym. A man who handed out food and drink at the end of a long, hard day when those same boys returned from work. Jem would probably not have judged them. Tom swallowed the bread and reached for a pickle. “What happened to you? Were you on the Campus fields?” he asked.

Lulian told him of Vortigen’s arrival. She detailed the events quickly and finished with a description of how she had come to the city to seek help and to find Draygan. She said, “I am surprised that any who worship Dje turned up at all. I saw Drenians and other believers on the docks. The Titan—Genia—forced them onto the Darkening Chair.”

“I have heard the same.”

“How many died today, do you think?”

Tom closed his eyes. He heard again the rhythmic crash of stone missiles, the screams and the running. “I do not know. But I think I know the reason the Drenians, or indeed anyone at all, came to hear the Titans speak. Fear, of course, but more than that. I think they came in hope. Hope that these things had a reason, a purpose. Some logical answer for their crimes.”

“They have a reason,” Lulian said. “And more than just this ‘gate’ they and the Senate keep harping on about. More than just this Stoneheart.”

Tom raised an eyebrow.

“A theory only.”

“Go on.”

Lulian put down her small crust. She said, “They are isolating us for conquest. How many Nobles have you seen since the things landed?”

Tom thought. “None. I hear most died on the Campus fields.”

“Indeed. But not all. They’re cutting off communication. Silence the Nobles, silence Porenza.” Lulian pursed her lips. “We need to find someone Brightened. Preferably with a Noble-stone. Communication is the key. We tried to send for help at the Campus fields. We must try again.”

Tom nodded. “Suddenly, the giant wall around the surrounding countryside makes sense. The only reason they are isolating Porenza is because they must be vulnerable. If enough people were to fight back?” Tom sat back in his chair. “I know of a clever man, and a young Drenian who, whilst not strictly a Noble, might help. And wouldn’t you know,” He reached down, pulling the Noble-stone from his pocket. He placed it on the table. “I have one of these.”

Lulian’s eyes widened.

“The Titans said they are looking for his people. I’d guess he was their target at the Chair. Their Stoneheart. I will show him to you. Soon.”

They ate in silence. Finishing her small meal, Lulian said, “A funny thing is happening in the slums.”

“Other than their sense of decoration?” Tom laughed at his own joke. A fleck of red ayva escaped his mouth and landed on the table. His laugh faded. Today was not a day for humour.

Lulian looked at him. “Yes. Other than that. I went there before the gathering today. They are sheltering Drenians.”

Tom leaned back further. How about that? Porenza barely tolerated Drenian refugees, an attitude Tom firmly opposed. The slums were particularly narrow-minded. Even considering such a disaster, it was fascinating. “Are they being paid?”

“You are the philosopher.”

Tom thought for a while. He smiled. Maybe people in the slums had seen true evil. Like a mirror turned upon a person at their worst, the people in the slums could see their bitterness as petty, and had found their humanity. Well, perhaps the change is not so poetic. Still, if Lulian was right, there was hope for Porenza after all. “I am glad for it, whatever the reason,” he said.

They finished eating. Tom stood and cleaned his dish in the small sink and then wondered, will this dish ever see use again? Lulian joined him, picking up a cloth. He said, “This may be the most pointless activity we have yet undertaken.”

“Jem would not have had us leave a mess.”

Tom nodded and finished washing his plate.

Chapter twenty-eight

Lars

So much for taking a boat.

They fled Vestia Way to the pine groves around the eastern Laguna, then skirted back towards the harbour along the rocky shore. Even this close to the sea, he could still smell the sticky, living resin of the grove, the crushed aroma of green needles and fallen cones. The seawall was roughly the height of a tall man, emerging naturally from the rocky outcrops and white boulders reaching into the blue depths. Remnants of birds’ nests clung to narrow fissures. Tufts of grass grew here and there. The occasional dabbed chalk of childish graffiti scrawled across the smoother sections of stone. One fresh piece of chalk read ‘Death to the Titans!’

Towards the harbour, the evidence of boat wreckage was all about. Timber floated to the stony beaches. Split planks poked through rock pools and littered the southern edge of the Laguna where the current usually left only seaweed, old barrels, or crates discarded by merchant vessels. Crabs scuttled over the mess.

“Do you think any of them made it?” asked Jelena.

“No. And even if I did, I would not make the attempt across those waters.”

“This is useless,” Goran complained, his strength returning.

Lars picked up a stone and threw it into a wave. The splash disappeared in the foam as the wave crashed. “And what useful thing can we do?” he asked.

“Vortigen must die.”

Jelena laughed. “As much as it pains me to say this, I agree. The leader and the others. Put them in the stinking ground. If we keep running around, we achieve nothing. I say we fight.”

Lars threw another stone. “We will need help.”

“More bodies behind which to cower?” Goran sneered.

Lars flicked a stone at Goran’s head. He missed. “Carry on and I’m pitching you into the sea.”

Goran shook his head. He was standing with one hand on the lip of the seawall. Iron hoops studded the harbour stonework, metal hammered into rock. Wet ropes lay coiled and forgotten. Goran looked over the wall again, staring at the land of the harbour as if his eyes could transport him across the open ground. The lithe Titan was there. Genia. They had seen her in the distance prowling around by the Darkening Chair.

“Well?” Lars insisted.

“I just know the way you fight, Istaran. That is all. No honour.”

“Honour takes root where those who praise its virtue die. Honour is for fools.”

“A coward’s words.”

“Jelena, am I a coward?”

“Not that I can recall,” she said. “Stood up to my mother once, didn’t you? She worried about me getting frazzled in the Chair. You told her I was fighting or whoring and that she could choose, and then you threw a shoe at her. Only, no. She threw a shoe at you.”

“I didn’t say you’d be a whore,” Lars corrected. “Only that your Noble blooded heritage would make you a target for ambitious men.”

“Exactly. Married off. Same thing. If I weren’t Brightened then she’d have sold my womb to the highest bidder,” Jelena turned to Goran. “Took courage to dissuade my hideous mother, to let me fight, to train with Lars. Let me tell you.”

Lars turned to Goran. “There you have it. Setting old women to rights like a warrior saint. And even as it pains me, I agree. The only way out of this fish stinking hellhole is through those Titans. That means I need you, and you need us. Damn your honour. We’ll fight because it makes sense.”

Goran was silent. He looked to the harbour front at the soldiers: men in armour who had cleared most of the fallen already.

Lars took the silence for agreement. “We can’t fight them alone,” he repeated.

Goran said, “There is only one way to gather help without hunting high and low.”

I know it, thought Lars. Jelena was equally aware. Noble-stones, when worn in places of power, were also communication devices. Lars was used to tuning out such background noise. Messages from one centre of power to another were frequent from the likes of the Basilica and the arena. Even between cities. It was the only sure way to communicate with those who might fight back. On the Campus fields, the old woman, Lulian, had suggested it. He had scoffed.

Now, despite the danger, it seemed the only way. He would find a powerful Line, a Noble-stone, and cast a message to Istara. His countrymen would come to his aid. Vengeance for his fallen team would be swift.

“So we find that help.” He turned to Jelena. “And no dithering. No more running around. Our team fell at the Campus fields. The Porenzians are gone. I believe we are the only Brightened Nobles left in Porenza. We need to find a stone. We need to get the word out, and soon. Before this gateway opens.”

Jelena nodded. “Think we’ll find an army to scale the wall and kill them all in time for my dear cousin’s wedding?”

“There’s a Noble-stone right over there,” Lars said. “In a room that looks over the sands.”

Goran had come to the same conclusion. “The arena.”

It was so tempting. Lars took a deep breath. “We’d never make it.”

“We might have a chance,” Jelena said. “We would be stronger there, too. Faster. If they find us, or trap us, we could fight.”

“We’d get bloody murdered, and you know it. Look at that,” Lars gestured to the Darkening Chair, and the Titan who stood before it. A being who could probably sever limbs from their bodies with nothing but a thought. Behind the Titan there were two regiments of soldiers, and who knew how many more inside the arena.

He moved next to Goran and looked to the harbour front. The Nomani soldiers, under the guidance of the Titan, were keeping the open area in front of the Darkening Chair clear. Genia marched the Drenian prisoners once more up those cursed steps. Screams rolled across the harbour walls, begging, crying, and wailing. Men, women, even children.

Lars grimaced. He looked at Goran. “Well, old boy? It’s your city. Clearly the Darkening Chair is out, as is the arena. Where else?”

“There are other places of power in Porenza,” Goran said. “Not near as strong as the Basilica, or the arena. I think there’s a church on the edge of the eastern border, although it may be outside that huge Dark-cursed wall.”

“Any others?”

Goran nodded. “After the Bright Games in Medina, I communicated with the Archon. He liked to remember the war. We spoke that day. If I recall correctly, he told me he was communicating from his home. A Manse in the heart of Porenza.”

Lars nodded. It was perfect. “What are we waiting for? Captain, lead on.”

Chapter twenty-nine

Hektor

The basement was home to many things. First, there were the spiders that made their webs in damp corners. They were fat things, swollen and sated. Then there was the mouse that knew a secret way beneath the stairs, which lived in the dark underground room and fed on those spiders, the fallen or the weak.

Mostly the basement was Hektor’s. A quiet place.

It would have been too dark for most men. The barest glow found its way between the gaps in the slatted door, down the stairs and into the gloom. It was enough for Hektor to see perfectly well. He was at home with every corner, every raised slab of flooring and every creature who shared the small space.

A bag hung almost to the floor in the centre of the room, filled with packed sawdust and straw, all surrounded by a hand-width of sand. Hektor rained blow after blow upon the bag, leaving great, fist-shaped dents in the hemp cloth, knuckle marks in the sand beneath.

Hektor recalled the first time he had seen the bag. Two years ago, a time of great shame, but also growth. Methus had shown him the room, and had said, “You want to learn how to fight, you do it here.”

Hektor had been wary but determined. He remembered the mantra like a chant, and he muttered with each movement. Left, left, right. Roll your hips! Hit straight! Are you fighting a dwarf or a man? Move. Keep moving. Not just your feet, move your head, do not make yourself a target. Keep punching! Straight left. And again. Move. Left, right, hook, uppercut. Again. Close now! Knees! From the waist!

The voice was his, but the words were stolen. A week after Methus showed him the bag, he’d sent him to the rope gymnasia by the docks. With towels and a barrel of water, his task was nothing more than watching and passing out a drink or a towel if anyone asked. Back at the house, in the basement, he had practised the movements he had seen, echoing the punches thrown by the men and boys at the harbour. Slowly, it felt right.

Now he did not need the mantra. His movements flowed from his muscles alone, his mind clear. He’d hung several replacement bags since that first hesitant punch, and as he worked around the gloom, throwing kicks, elbows, punches, and short crashing blows with his forehead, he was aware it was softening, and would probably need replacing again soon.

The door at the top of the stone steps opened, and the darkness lifted. He stopped, arms wrapped around the bag. He gave it one last pat as if congratulating a friend and moved away.

“Only me,” called Methus, feeling his way down the steps.

“What is happening?”

“Need a candle down here, I swear I’ll trip,” grumbled Methus before answering. “One of the traitorous senate men knocking on doors across the street again. A wonder they aren’t strung up. Other than that, nothing.” Methus picked up a heavy metal coil and poked both ends through a gap in the mortar. Warm yellow light sprang all at once through every fissure and every little hole or crevice in the rock. A rhythmic, soft pink pulse raced across the glow.

“Has Micho been baking again?” Hektor asked, gesturing at the sack Methus was carrying. He picked up a towel from the thin wooden bench lining one wall and wiped his face.

The old man placed the sack on the floor, held the base, and gently tipped its contents onto the stone. Bundled wire fell out. Alongside the coils and strands, Hektor noticed a harness of some sort. Last came the Noble-stone sliver. “Sara and I have been working,” Methus said. He threw Hektor the harness. “Put this on.”

Hektor turned it one way, and then another, trying to figure out how he was supposed to wear it. He stopped what he was doing. “Methus?”

“The top bit. There. Put your head through that. That’s right, now your arms,” Methus adjusted the leather straps and buckles. He moved to Hektor’s back and pulled a strap, then clapped both hands on his shoulders. “How does it feel?”

Like I am dressing for somebody’s sordid fantasy. “Silly.”

Methus laughed, tugging at the shoulder straps, adjusting as necessary. “We used to wear these during the war. Cheaper than armour and better than a scabbard. By the Dark they chafed.”

None of them spoke of their pasts. Not with any detail, anyway. Methus’ experience of war was no exception. Hektor sat on the bench to listen. “With the regiment?” he probed tentatively.

“Aye. It doubled as a weighted vest for training, too. I removed the weights, made some adjustments.” He chuckled again. “There was this big-built local kid, no older than you. Hells, no older than me. ‘Hod’ we called him. He never knew why. It’s because we’d place slivers of brick into the pouches before training runs, weighing him down. You should have seen him squall when he finally found out. I swear I never laughed ... never ...” He shook his head.

“He never made it,” Hektor guessed.

A shrug. The reminiscing was over. “Is it comfortable?”

Hektor moved his shoulders and tried a light combination on the punch bag. “It will chafe under the arms,” he said.

“I can put some padding in, maybe move the cinches across the chest instead. But, good. It looks good.”

“It does not look good.”

Methus picked up the small Noble-stone sliver from where it had been resting unobtrusively on the floor. He placed it into a leather pouch sewn onto the harness which rested in the centre of Hektor’s chest. Methus said, “Fortunately, you’ll be wearing a shirt over the top. We can’t have wayward eyes seeing your heart glowing, can we?”

Hektor placed a palm over the crystal. He only then noticed thin weaves of intricate wire webbing out from the pouch, threading in and around the leather.

“Put your arms out.”

Hektor silently complied.

From the spools of wire on the floor, Methus unravelled and attached individually weaved sections to the harness. The wires stretched along his arms in such a way that they mirrored his veins.

“What kind of weave is this?” Hektor asked.

“Power,” Methus replied and coiled a loop around Hektor’s wrist. “Kinetic, really. The weave that pumps Porenza’s water, that keeps the billows working at the foundry. Not as easy as a heat weave, but safer, I’d say. I have interwoven it with short sections of holding weave. For durability—or, I should say—Sara did. It is the pattern of the very Bright Line that runs through our walls. There are more,” he said as he worked, “that Sara and I are working on. But right now let us see what we can achieve with this,” Methus began wrapping his hands, cloth going around his palm and between the gaps in his fingers. After tying the cloth, Methus attached separate pieces of wire along where the tendons would be, looping the wire back across the cloth. It took a while, and once he was happy, he repeated the process with the other arm. “Well?”

Hektor made a fist. He shrugged.

Methus smiled. “Touch the Bright Line.”

He recalled the pink fissure in Methus’ workroom on the second floor. The Bright Line here was weaker, a fact that made him no less concerned.

“Touch it with your wound and hold it for a minute,” Methus said. He seemed excited.

Again, it was as if his hand was drawn to the pink flashes which rippled in the gaps of the uneven stonework. Upon contact, the faint glow vanished and a deep, steady pink light suffused the small basement. He felt the same tingling sensation that was both warm and shiver inducing at the same time. He turned and saw Methus stare into his eyes and knew that they were sparkling with their own little specks of light. “Long enough?” he asked.

Methus waited a moment. He peered at the stone bound tightly in its pouch, nodded in satisfaction at the bold colour on the crystalline shaving and said, “Yes. That should do.”

Hektor released his hold, and the light changed back again. The colour of the stone held.

Methus let out a shuddering breath. “Dark,” he said. “Now, hit the bag.”

Hektor moved to the punch bag. He dropped naturally into his favoured stance, left foot forward, right hand up and left shoulder by his chin. “Lightly?” he asked.

“However you like.”

Hektor snapped out a sharp right.

Even as he threw the punch, he felt a buzz from his chest and a shock course through his arm when his fist met the bag. His knuckles flashed with a sudden, almost painful warmth.

Sand went everywhere. The remains of the bag slid down the far wall. The chains on the ceiling jangled furiously against the stone. Hektor coughed and blinked as the sand settled.

He curled both hands into fists. The glow on his chest had faded to a soft wash of colour. “It works,” he whispered, and grinned.

The door at the top of the steps creaked once more and Micho ran down. “Hey Hektor,” he said. “That man. He knocked at the door again.”

Hektor asked in Drenian, “Who is back? Describe him to me.” That man. It could be anyone.

Micho replied in the same language, “The blue-eyed one, speaks like a lady, long ear of summer corn. You know the one.” Ear of corn. Hektor smiled. It was an old Dren phrase meaning yellow-haired and was not entirely polite.

Hektor turned to Methus, who looked between the two, none the wiser. “Tom Valerian is at the door,” he said.

Methus did not look entirely surprised, nor as unhappy as Hektor might have expected. “Micho, let him in.”

The child left as quickly as he arrived.

“Well, then,” said Methus, and opened a cupboard in the wall next to the stairs. Shelves lined the deep space; each stacked with rusted pots and pans, pieces of wood, ceramic bowls, and a host of other unused items piled up and forgotten. Methus hummed as he swept the shelves’ contents onto the floor, where they clattered and banged along the sandy ground.

Hektor looked on, confused.

Halfway up the steps, just as Hektor was about to follow, Methus turned and pointed to the junk. “Train,” he said.

Hektor stopped where he was. He lifted a kettle and felt wires tense along his arm. The metal was still in good condition. He studied it and felt the will to act rise from somewhere deep in his stomach. The Bright hummed in his blood and his hand convulsed. The kettle crumpled in his palm like a winter leaf.

Chapter thirty

Tom

He knocked again.

“Are they expecting us?” asked his companion.

Impatient, same old Lulian. A familiar note of condescension had once again emerged in her voice, clipped behind her every word. She must be feeling better. It was a relief. Or else she was disguising her shock.

His own mood was changing like the wind at sea. He kept picturing the Drenians wrapped in vines near the Darkening Chair. The people who had fallen. His mind kept on repeating old phrases at him, philosophical entreaties. They buzzed between his ears, clamouring in his mind for attention. No good decision has its roots in anger… and one which he should have said to Draygan: Find a person who claims to be truly good, or else claims that there is no such thing as a moral extreme, and there you will find the seed of evil.

A slat in the door slid across and he recognised the child’s wide eyes in the narrow gap. “Can we come in now, young man?” he asked.

“Methus, he said yes,” the boy replied. The door opened. Micho stood in their way. With a flash of a grin and a little bob of the head, the boy stood aside. He could feel Lulian raise an eyebrow. They reached the centre of the hallway. In front were two sets of steps. One flight went up into the kitchen and living space, another went below ground. Before they reached the end of the hallway, Tom heard someone shuffling from the basement, and then a voice shouted, “Hold on!” It was Methus, who appeared in short order. He ran up the steps, out of breath. “Tom,” he said, and smiled widely through his beard. “You came back.”

“Methus, this is Lulian.”

Methus appraised the woman.

Tom was aware of the impression Lulian might give. Tall, ageing, yet regal and handsome in her way. He felt a twinge of jealousy.

“Lulian,” Methus said. He turned to the child. “Micho, you never mentioned a lady.”

Micho shrugged.

Lulian spoke up. “Valerian said you have a man who is Brightened.”

“Straight to the point, eh?” Methus threw his hands in the air and turned to walk up the stairs.

Micho closed the door.

Methus made another gesture, urging them to follow, and said over his shoulder, “I suppose it won’t matter now either way. Brightened or not, any who worship Dje are in danger.”

Tom followed Methus up the stairs, running his hand along the rough wall.

Micho fell in line and tugged the side of Lulian’s dress. “You old,” he said.

Tom burst into laughter, and was pleased to see a little smile curl into Lulian’s harsh expression before she swatted the child’s hand away.

“And you are rude. I will teach you manners.”

“Planning on staying, then?” Methus was at the top of the stairs, holding the door to the kitchen open. “I hope you brought food, because you’re going hungry otherwise.”

“Better than that!” Tom called up. He reached the top of the stairs and moved past the open door, settling himself around the table. The others followed suit. He placed a linen sack on the table and removed the Noble-stone. “A promise kept,” he said.

“Good man.” Methus banged the table and repeated, “Good man! Dark, I could kiss you. See that, Sara?”

“Are you always in such a good mood?” Lulian asked. She unstoppered a jug of wine from a shelf. Making herself at home as usual.

Sara appeared from the doorway, eyed the wine and helped Lulian with some glasses. She sat down and handed them out, saving a small cup for Micho. “He is not always so happy. No,” she looked at Methus pointedly.

Lulian poured the wine and Methus took a sip. He let out a satisfied sound and raised the glass in Tom’s direction.

It really was good. A Noma red. They had taken it from Jem’s shop. Just as he raised the glass for another mouthful, a crash sounded from below.

“It works then,” Sara said. She tipped the glass to her lips and downed the liquid in one long measure. A flush coloured her cheeks and made the lower lids of her eyes swell and darken.

“You thirsty hey?” Micho said.

Sara ignored him. She placed the glass on the table and Tom refilled it. She asked, “Well, Methus? A theory proven,” she nodded at the new, much larger Noble-stone. “And all the power we could ever need.”

Something was going on here. The dim light made Methus’ teeth shine from within his beard, the smile there fastened tight as if unwilling to leave.

Methus took a gulp of his own wine and looked around. His eyes found no support, and they settled on Sara. “It works,” he said. Another metallic crunch punctuated his words, the sound below them.

The young woman pushed herself from the table. She glared once at Methus, then at the refilled glass, and marched from the room. They were silent, listening to her footsteps tap towards the second story. The Noble-stone rocked gently on the table, as if possessing a life of its own.

“Is this a bad time?” Lulian asked.

Methus lost his humour. “It’s our path out of this place. That’s all that matters.”

Tom was silent. He had explained Methus’ workroom and the exposed Bright Line to Lulian on the way. He cleared his throat and fingered a chip of wood coming away from the table.

Lulian considered Methus for a long moment. The silence grew. “Your reticence is childish,” she finally announced.

Methus brow clouded.

These two are made for each other, Tom thought. Before Methus could bluster another reply, Tom said, “I could have gone straight to the devils in the Basilica, bared your secrets and bought our safety. You trusted me not to. We all saw what happened on Vestia Way. You may not have known or trusted us fully in normal times and I would not blame you, but things have changed. If there is something else we should know, please be candid.”

Sara’s voice travelled down the stairs. “Tell them, Methus.”

“What I have done, it goes beyond today, the possibilities … “

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Lulian sighed.

Tom interjected again, “The philosophies I practise are those I would die for. Methus, even if not for the evil of these things, these abominations, you have my silence from here until I am no more. Trust us.”

Methus’ face softened. He tapped a finger and glanced at Micho, whose last nod made Methus smile once more. “Fair enough. We charged the stone.”

“Explain,” said Lulian.

Methus nodded, “Pushed against a Line, or near a powerful one, you all know the effect,” he leaned forward. “Healing, greater speed, strength. But only there. Only at places of power. And only for Noble men and women. After the Chair, I always thought it was something more. And so has Sara. We’ve been working for two years now. We believe the stones can be an independent power source.“ He paused and leaned back. “Today? We succeeded.”

“Truly?” Lulian asked. One more wonder in a week full of them.

“Portable power.” Tom narrowed his eyes. Methus had explained that it had happened to the stone before, when he had first found Hektor. He said the boy’s very bones were glowing. If Tom was honest, he had been dubious. The long-term effects of such a discovery were worrying. Entire communities might spring up anywhere. He pictured ships sailing further than they had ever dared. He frowned and imagined it being used as a weapon. “The possibilities are endless,” he said.

“It is not as grand as all that,” Methus explained. “You see, the power is confined to those who can channel it. Brightened men. Nobles. The only subject we have is Hektor, a Drenian. Unique. Perhaps the ability is his alone.”

“It must be why those things are hunting his people,” Lulian commented.

“Taking them to the Darkening chair,” Tom added.

Methus nodded. “I believe so.” Another crash came from the basement and a fine powder of dust shook free from the ceiling. Methus jumped and grinned, then turned to the child. “Micho, fetch Hektor”

Tom waited.

Soon, Hektor appeared in the doorway.

“My goodness,” Lulian whispered.

He stood so solid it was as if the wooden frame warped around him. The windowless room was naturally dim, yet the rose glow which pulsed from Hektor’s chest cast shadows in his eyes. In those hollows, two small halos of colour shone. Bolts of power coursed away from the pulsing heart like lightning striking water, rippling along the wires covering Hektor’s arms.

“What have you created?” asked Tom.

Methus stood. He ignored Tom and asked Hektor, “How is your progress?”

The young man stood sentinel for a moment longer, then moved into the room, human once more. “My hands,” he said, raising them, palms facing up like a supplication. The steady glow from his chest faded.

“Get a cloth and some bandages, Micho,” Methus said.

“Is something wrong?” Lulian asked.

Methus did not turn around but muttered, “Youthful enthusiasm.”

Tom stood up to have a look. Hektor’s arms and hands beneath the darkened wires were shiny with blood. Methus cupped them as if they were fragile as injured birds. He unwound the bloody cloth to see the damage.

Tom said, “I can stitch if you need?”

“It is true,” said Lulian from the table. She took a sip of wine and pulled her chair in as Micho rushed past with a white cloth. “Valerian has the needle delicacy of a well-schooled angler.”

“I am fine,” Hektor rumbled. He did not remove his hands from Methus’ gentle grasp. “The Bright has taken care of the worst.”

Methus grabbed Micho’s cloth and wiped the blood away. “Let me see,” he said, mostly to himself. “How bad were the cuts?”

“Bad.”

Now that the worst of the blood was gone, and there had been a lot, Tom saw the lacerations were shallow. The most severe of the wounds had stopped bleeding, and a mass of pink tissue covered the rest, as if the skin had been healing for a week.

Methus hummed to himself. “Sit down, sit down,” he said. Tom obeyed, as did Hektor. Methus passed over his glass, half-full, and motioned for Hektor to drink. “I will need to redesign the way the wires cross, I think. Perhaps run them over leather.”

“A riding glove, perhaps?” asked Lulian.

“Something like that, yes. Did it hurt?” he asked Hektor.

“It did. Now it just tingles.”

“Well. You can take a beating. I know that much already.”

Lulian raised an eyebrow.

That sounded wrong. “Not what you think,” he whispered to Lulian, as Methus carried on talking.

“But you need not take such punishment. Plus, the more damage you take, the faster the power in the Noble-stone will fade. Hmm. This will need tinkering, and you will need teaching.”

“Noble-stone?” Hektor asked.

Tom nodded to the object on the table. “I found Draygan,” he said. “I took it from him.”

Hektor frowned, thinking. “You mentioned teaching?”

“We are teachers,” announced Lulian.

“The best,” agreed Tom.

Methus rubbed his beard. “Not quite what I meant. How is your understanding of movement dynamics? Or paired forces?”

“Poor,” Tom admitted. Next to him, Lulian said nothing.

There was a silence in the small room, punctuated only by Hektor, who took a moment to drain the glass. He let out a satisfied breath, placed the glass on the table, and then clenched both fists. A little spot of blood dripped onto the table.

“You’ll clean that or hear from Sara,” Methus said.

“I have a feeling I will be answering to her, anyway.”

Methus shrugged. “She knew the consequences. Even without these devils, there would’ve been danger.”

“Dynamics?” Tom asked, referring to Methus’ earlier question.

“Nothing too complex,” Methus waved his hand. “Our large lump of young violence here will need to know the consequences of using this power. Hektor, you punched the bag from the ceiling. How did your arm feel?”

“Fine.”

“Damn right it did. The force transferred. And what a force it was! The power went from the Bright, through your arm, and into the sandbag. Now, say you hit an object that does not break. The strength of the wires will hold, but the force will transfer to your arm, and your bones—strong as they are—will shatter from the impact.”

Hektor cleared his throat. “My finger, actually.”

“Hmm?”

“I broke the bench in the basement. My arm went through and I hit the floor. My finger broke.”

“And healed, clearly.” Methus reached across and probed the bones in one of Hektor’s hands. “But unnecessarily. I do not know what dangers we will face escaping this place. Yet I know this. We will need every shred of power that the Noble-stone can hold, and injuring yourself needlessly is a sure way to waste it.”

There was silence.

“I am sorry,” Lulian finally said. “Escape?”

“Far, far away,” Methus replied.

Tom placed a reassuring hand on Lulian’s back. He cleared his throat and said, “Methus, we have the means to fight. With the Noble-stone, we have the means to save Porenza.”

“We?” Sara stood in the doorway. Five heads turned her way at once. “We? Say it properly, stranger. You mean Hektor.”

“Sara,” Hektor began.

“No, Hektor,” she moved into the room. Hektor stood. She placed her hands on his cheeks. She said no more, but simply looked into his eyes. A tear fell onto the ridge between her nose and cheek, and rolled onto her lips. “I know you too well,” she whispered.

Eventually, Hektor took hold of her wrists and gently lowered her hands. He turned to them and said, “Methus. I will not run.”

“We owe these people nothing.” Methus began.

“Drenians are dying. Because of me.”

Methus’ brow clouded like a coal-smoke sky. “We don’t know that! Is this what you want, to fight and die?” he asked. “I’ve seen what happens when young men run off to battle with nothing but dreams of glory in their stupid heads! Don’t you think I know what happens?”

Sara replied quietly, “It is Hektor, you old fool. How could it ever have been otherwise?”

“No!” Methus banged the table. “Not again,” he said, quieter now. His eyes searched Sara’s, then Hektor’s. He hung his head.

“We can win,” Hektor told him.

Methus drew a deep, shaking breath. He lifted his head. “I will need to adapt your harness. Because believe me, whilst power is useful against monsters, it won’t nearly be enough.” He rose to leave, taking the wine bottle.

“Wait,” Tom placed a hand on his shoulder.

Methus stiffened. “Are we going to solve Vestian hunger, too? Bring back the Drenian rains? What more, Valerian?”

“Just one more thing,” said Tom. “In the arena, stones are used to communicate. Scholars from across vast distances share discoveries; emissaries and ambassadors communicate with their homelands.” He turned to Hektor. “Young man, try the stone. If you can talk to the outside, we can get help.”

Hektor frowned. “I hear nothing.”

“Try.”

Hektor nodded. He closed his eyes and placed his hand on the Noble-stone. “There is… no.”

“You hear someone?”

He frowned. “No. Something else listens, not someone.” His eyes opened wide. “Them.”

Lulian stood, “Block them. Do it! Now!”

Hektor stumbled. He put a hand on the wall. In time, he relaxed. “I think. Yes. It is silent now.”

Tom shook his head. “So much for sending for help.”

Chapter thirty-one

Lars

Petals littered the path to the Archon’s manse.

“Hibiscus,” said Lars, and bent to pick up a pristine blue flower.

Goran stopped between the wrought-iron gates. He placed one hand on the marble post, hesitant to enter. He called out, “Fighter, doctor, and botanist. You are a man of many talents.”

Lars did not mistake the challenge. He did, however, ignore the invitation to list his many merits. Instead, he let the flower fall back to the small, white stones. Goran’s sandals crunched along the path. When the Porenzian captain was close, Lars said, “I am no botanist.”

“A gardener then, perhaps?”

Lars shrugged, refusing to be drawn by the barb. “In the medica, sometimes a man or woman would walk through our halls, wailing and snivelling. ‘I am dying!’ they would cry, ‘Heal me!’” Lars raised his hands theatrically. “After a month, even the worst student can spot a person who mistakes a case of the sniffles for a terminal disorder,” Lars kicked a large drift of blue petals that had stacked up against the edge of the path, pushed by the easterly wind. The flowery bushes lined the path completely and were only just falling victim to the last gasp of summer. He continued, “Hibiscus go to seed after they flower, a pulpy, sweet, and cloying seed from which we strain a juice you might know better as ‘healing mallow’.”

“My mother swears by it,” Jelena said, and bent to catch a whiff of the flower. She frowned at the lack of scent.

“Is it very potent?” asked Goran, inspecting a bloom.

“It is damn near inert, though is a marvellous cure for those who walk this world calling hillocks mountains and puddles the bloody ocean.”

“I knew a nice boy in Istara,” Jelena began. “Poor chap, afflicted by the most virulent weeping sores. I gave him just the tiniest sip and wouldn’t you know… “ she laughed as Lars threw a handful of white stones at her.

“Enough of this,” said Goran. “We will attract attention.”

What a perfect paragon of joy, Lars thought. He increased his pace, however, hastening towards the building at the end of the path. The manse was a flat-fronted, window-strewn block of sheer opulence. Blackened timbers ran below the first tier of tall windows, concealed partly by large clay urns filled with annual flowers.

The front door looked heavy. “I don’t suppose you learned how to pick a lock in the medica?” Jelena asked.

Lars paused. He studied the building up and down. “No. I did not. There are guards here usually, I believe.”

Goran nodded, “There would have been, when the true Archon was alive. In fact, I had the honour of serving guard duty once during the festival of Effias, during the Archon’s name day. I asked for it after my service in the far north, after we ratified the allied secession from the mountain cities.”

“Bitter fighting that. My uncle still speaks of it,” Jelena said.

Lars grumbled, “Anyone that would actually ask to stand guard during the Effias must have an imagination equal to the size of their—“

”—I beg your pardon?“ Goran frowned.

“I am with Lars,” said Jelena. “As a secession survivor, my uncle asked for a room full of prostitutes.”

“Did he get them?” Lars asked.

“He got one. Well, he got the money for one and a frown from Istara’s Archon for free, but he was happy enough. Mother tried to shield me from the talk of it, except news of my randy uncle spread amongst my family like gossip tends to.” She smirked. “I hear he had a lovely time.”

“The door,” insisted Goran.

He is right, thought Lars.

Jelena walked up to the great oak barrier and tried the handle. It creaked up and down, and the door did not budge. She looked around with a scowl before barging it with her shoulder. She tried again with equally little effect.

Lars approached a window and banged on the toughened glass. “Well, if there are no guards outside, then I am going to assume there are no guards inside.” He dropped to his haunches and worked a curbstone free from the side of the path. “Give me a hand here,” he called.

Jelena came to help, and together they lifted a length of the chalky stone. Red earth and smaller pebbles trapped beneath the stone fell to the ground as the curb came loose. Lars brushed the detritus off, and alone he hefted the curb stone to a window. It was heavy, and he powered his shoulder into the throw.

“You cannot!” Goran hissed, once the crash of falling glass had subsided.

“Just did. Come on, somebody may have heard.” With a gloved hand, he punched the rest of the glass out, thankfully loosened by the impact. He climbed through the opening. Jelena followed.

With some trepidation, Goran climbed after.

Lars found himself in a drawing room. He checked his arms and legs for cuts and found none. A bookshelf lined one wall, full of large and ponderous tomes.

“Quite the scholar, your Archon,” said Jelena.

Alongside the books, a desk with a statuette of an owl stood pushed against one wall. Three comfortable looking padded couches faced the centre of the room, under which lay a handsome rug.

“And a man of taste,” Jelena added, nodding towards the rug.

“Istarans, ever known for our beautiful loom work,” grumbled Lars. “We should invade a region or two, splash a little notoriety upon our comfortable reputation.” He was pleased to hear no remark from Goran other than a small, inaudible muttering, and he moved towards the door.

The door led into a hallway. On pedestals lining each wall, at even distances, were curious miniature models. Each was roughly the size of half a grape barrel, and each was a replica of the arena. Despite the size, the detail was astonishing.

Goran bent towards a model. On the miniature arena floor was a replica of a castle battlement, each tiny turret decorated with an individually painted flag. He traced a delicate finger along a marble parapet.

“These are quite remarkable,” Jelena whispered, stopping at each model. “I recognise this!” she pointed.

Lars joined her and smiled when he saw the model. The arena floor was an open field, studded with pits and gullies. A miniature, but very much alive red oak stood in the centre, and around it lay swords and spears no larger than needles. “So the Archon commissioned this one. It was one of my favourites.”

“You beat the Spalizian Bright team here, when Farrin was captain,” Goran said.

Lars chuckled. “I hid beneath this very tree, me and Metaxes. He took a spear to the leg, yet kept fighting. Moved around them all like a ghost.”

“I should have remembered the trick from our most recent encounter,” said Goran. “Farrin spoke highly of the tactic.”

Lars recalled Jelena had taken an arrow earlier in the contest. “Metaxes feigned death. They thought I was the only one left, such an open area. Why would they not? I evaded, dodged, and brought the last three to the oak where Metaxes poked them full of holes.”

Jelena chuckled. “The wound in his leg drained his Noble-stone almost to nothing. He remained immobile as a statue. The crowd that day was so quiet. As if a single whisper might give our man away.”

Lars’ smile dropped. Vortigen’s landing had killed Metaxes. With a sigh, he said, “He was a good fighter, and a good man.”

Goran cleared his throat.

“Fine, fine,” Lars walked away from the model. “We’ll find a Noble-stone. All available haste.” At the end of the hall, he stopped at the last model. Swirls of sand ebbed within the tiny model, powered by the Bright, though he could not see how.

Lars had enjoyed himself on those sands before Draygan had stopped him. His hand twitched in memory again, the image of a sword from his childhood flashing in his mind. He shook his head and turned away to walk up the stairs.

He passed two floors. The Noble-stone used for communication would be at the apex of whatever Bright Line ran through the building. He looked through each door lining the hallway at the top of the house, searching for the telltale glow. After two bedrooms, a bathroom with an exorbitantly large tub, and a perfectly preserved child’s nursery, he came at last to a map room.

A healthy, pink glow suffused the area. The room was neat; drawers and cabinets lined one wall, holding, Lars presumed, drawings of the coast, the surrounding lands and provinces.

In the centre of the room, upon a small pedestal, beneath the twisted, root-like protrusion of an exposed Bright Line, was the Archon’s Noble-stone.

“Rare to see one of these outside of the arena.”

Goran moved to the glowing object. “I will try first,” he said, and placed his hands on the crystal surface.

Chapter thirty-two

Goran

Goran’s vision clouded, then burst bright white. Soon, the numbing brilliance faded into colours, shapes, and the strong sensation someone was watching him.

This is not how it works, thought Goran. In the arena, he would feel strength, stamina. He would hear others connected to the Bright, and would sort them in his mind, deciding which connections to keep or discard. He expected a lesser sensation in the Manse.

Instead, he was dreaming. A strange, unpleasant dream. The only connection Goran’s mind made was to pure instinct. This dream was dangerous.

Move. In his dream, he dropped and rolled. It was a smooth, practised motion, and he came to his feet with one hand outstretched, eyes darting left and right. No one was there. The corridor swept out in a long curve, the smooth walls painted with pastoral scenes rising from ground to curved ceiling. This is real, he thought. Where am I?

The corridor was in fact a large circle. He knew, in the strange way dreams allow, that four entrances cut into the walkway, each leading into a domed centre.

The feeling of eyes on his back did not fade, and so, despite his need for haste, Goran was wary. His instincts spoke at once. How rigid is this place? Is it my dream? Can I control it? Armour, weapons, cover. He placed a hand on the wall. It rippled, and he concentrated. His chest grew warm and all he could think was that it felt like he was a gladiator all over again.

And in the arena, there was power.

-You are a natural, Captain, came a voice. It echoed from the walls of his consciousness.

For Goran, the increase in stamina and energy was like being encased in wool, a slow, odd pressure which built around his entire body until he could move faster, see further.

The rippling on the wall deepened, and he felt that pressure now, aware his hand was sinking into the mural. He grasped, tried to imagine a weapon, yet when he pulled his hand free, he came away with nothing so martially magnificent as a handful of wet leaves. The painting on the wall depicted as much.

-Most interesting, said the voice. -I was an hour into Vortigen’s mind-palace before I tried such a thing.

Goran moved along the corridor, studying the images closely. He passed pictures of countryside, much more pastoral than Porenza’s groves and pines. Further, there were images of people at work: a fishwife gutting the remains of a morning catch, a woodsman felling trees, a painter sketching a nude young woman.

The axe looked promising, and he noted it, but did not take it. He was becoming comfortable with the dream now, and the power it seemed to give him.

“Who are you?” he shouted. “What is this place?”

There was no answer.

Further along the wall, near where a door led into the central room, was a battle scene. Goran smiled, crinkles appearing in the corners of his narrow eyes.

The battle in the painting was all but over, the winners standing with swords raised in shouted victory. Their armour and their weaponry looked magnificent, shining in the sun against a grey sky. The dense feeling rushed around his skin before he had even stepped close, and he closed his eyes in concentration, stepping his whole body towards the scene on the wall. The constricting, wool-like envelopment soon faded, and he felt the heavy comfort of leather pulled snug, then metal draped over the top, covering his torso, arms and legs. Finally, the chinstrap of a helmet clamped his jaw and crept across his skull, joining to the plate across his shoulder blades.

“Lars!” he called, “Jelena?”

Nothing. As he stepped away, he heard the joints of the armour scrape smoothly, the sound of oiled edges scything beneath sudden metallic footsteps. The mace dragged from the painting last of all, emerging with a faint tug, as if vaguely unwilling to leave its former home. Goran stood in armour that seemed made for him, as familiar as if he had fought within it for years, in hundreds of battles. I am ready, he thought, and raised his visor. He marched through the doorway, golden and resplendent. And stopped.

“They said someone would come.” Draygan stood in the centre of the room, his words echoing around the vaulted dome. He was armoured similarly, though the metal shone with a deep, angry red. He held a sword loosely at his side. “I admit, I did not expect my captain to be the first.”

Goran walked forward. They were alone. “What is this?” he asked. “Where are we?”

Draygan’s expression was blank through the gap in his helm. “This is a dream, of sorts. Vortigen has shown me possibilities within the Bright that you wouldn’t dream of. This,” he gestured at their surroundings, “is real. It is somewhere else. We use Noble-stones to communicate with words. This is just an extension of that. We are sharing a mind, Captain. I have willed you here. With Vortigen’s help.”

“You are their puppet?”

“You think I have a choice!” Draygan shouted, he advanced a step, then faltered, calmed himself. “I am learning. I am doing what I must.”

“Is it dangerous here?”

Draygan drew a shaky breath. He shrugged. “As in the arena, wounds hurt. And if you die, you wake up.”

“And if I don’t die, do I stay here?”

“You are in my power. So long as I desire.”

Goran hissed, “Traitor.”

“I do as I must, Captain,” Draygan said quietly.

Goran scowled, “Any who would side with the killer of his own father is no man in my eyes! The Archon deserved more. Prepare yourself, boy.”

Draygan twirled his sword lazily. He said nothing. His feet moved smoothly into a fighting stance and he waited.

Goran ran forward. His armour allowed an excellent scope for movement. He dropped his visor, and as he neared Draygan, he pushed from each foot as it landed. Draygan would have to guess from which side the attack would come. He kept low, his head ducking in rhythm, his mace held relaxed before his eyes.

He closed the distance from Draygan’s left side, away from the sword. The mace came from his hip, sweeping at the scaled armour along Draygan’s ribs. It was blocked smoothly, and he stepped easily to his right.

Goran was ready for the riposte. He dropped beneath the swinging blade with his shoulder, dipped low, and charged into Draygan’s chest before the blow could land. He tried to jam an elbow into the visor. Draygan turned his head, and they fell in a metallic, crashing heap.

He held the mace. Through his visor, he grinned. Draygan had lost his sword. Goran pushed off and stood quickly, circling towards the fallen weapon.

“Give up,” Goran said. His voice sounded flat within the helmet.

Draygan stood slowly. He raised his fists. “I am better than you,” he said.

“More skilled, perhaps.” He kicked away the sword. “But not better.”

“Oh? Show me.”

Goran had fought long enough not to be baited so easily. He approached with care. Draygan backed away and Goran closed, smashing the mace upon an outstretched forearm. The boy grunted and tried to dash close. Goran was ready, circling smartly away, hammering twice more at Draygan’s right shoulder and biceps. The red armour dented.

He kept the mace moving, kept his body away from those arms, and knew, almost beyond doubt, that he had won this fight. It was gratifying. “Not long now,” he said.

“True,” Draygan replied. The boy was breathing heavily, clearly in pain. “In fact, Demetes is likely drawing his sword as we speak.”

Goran halted his circling. He lowered the mace. “What?” he demanded.

“I told Vortigen it would be an Istaran first. I was wrong, but it does not matter. I told him the first attempt would come from my father’s house. Vortigen told me to wait. To keep you occupied,” Draygan paused. “Nothing to say, Captain? I am right, then. Not long now indeed.” The boy began backing away.

Goran spat on the floor and threw the mace. He removed his helmet. He needed to return to Lars and Jelena, and felt sick about what he was going to do.

“Farewell, Captain.”

He paused, “Draygan?”

“Yes?”

“I have to know. Why?”

The young man removed his helmet. Handsome. Golden hair shook free, and those eyes, purple glinting in the iris. They were utterly full of sorrow, “I… Just… Go. Captain. You do not have the time,” he turned, and said no more.

Goran picked up the sword. With gauntleted fists, he held the blade so that the needle-sharp point rested in the crook between his chin and neck. Then he fell upon it.

Pain flashed. He woke up.

“Well?” asked Lars.

Goran shuddered. “They are coming.”

Chapter thirty-three

Draygan

Draygan opened his eyes as if breaking from deep water. His sharp breath took him by surprise. As did the teardrop resting in the corner of his eye. He was in the Basilica, as usual. Practising his manipulation of these spaces in his mind. He had been crafting the scene gifted him by Vortigen, and had been moulding the pictures upon the walls when he had felt a familiar tug, very similar to a thought connection in the arena. He wished it could have been a stranger. I’m sorry, my friend.

“How many?” asked Vortigen, his silk voice soft, luxurious even.

“One. It was my old captain, Goran. He is indeed at the Manse.”

Vortigen waited, taut as a drawn bowstring.

“My Lord.” Draygan added.

Vortigen smiled and paced away across the mosaic floor. Its feet were delicate on the small tiles, sliding in effortless grace despite its massive size.

Draygan heaved himself from the slab. “Lord,” he said. Vortigen did not turn, but stopped to listen. “I would ask for mercy, if I could. My captain is a good man.”

The cape around Vortigen’s shoulders fluttered as the thing finally turned. That thin smile was ever present, the face and small eyes narrowed in curiosity. “Pathetic creatures you are. Mercy is for those who, through their strength, might deserve it. This captain of yours is weak, and will die.”

Draygan bowed his head. “Of course.” I cannot save them all.

They were alone but for the Nomani soldiers, who stood guard at the entrance to the magnificent building. The soldiers were rigid, scared as lambs before a burning brand. They stared out into the square. Draygan knew they were listening. It did not matter. For they are weak, he reminded himself.

Vortigen placed a huge hand on his shoulder. Its head craned down on a thick neck. Draygan avoided the eyes and looked at the hand, at the oddly pointed nails and the slender fingers. Vortigen said, “Demetes is at the Manse as we speak. He, at least, will fight your man fairly.”

Draygan understood. The other two would simply kill him. Astryx would have been the worst. With him, Goran’s death would have been slow. Genia would have simply done straight murder, as efficiently as possible. She was at the docks, fortunately, with the Drenians. Astryx would be wherever his odd whimsy had taken him, conducting whatever grim study he had immersed himself.

Draygan took a deep breath and watched Vortigen’s back as the Titan strode away. Vortigen spoke after a time. “Remarkable,” it said, studying the hole seeping light at the apex of the dome. “How a place such as this remains standing.”

“The arena has been in Porenza for hundreds of years.”

“Not this building. Porenza itself. Filled with creatures from across your globe, bustling around a port as if trade might bring them riches, all equally oblivious to the power resting beneath the very ground.”

Draygan frowned. “We have been using the Bright for generations.”

“We?” Vortigen asked, “You mean they. And you are wrong, young one. The creatures here have not used the power, they have scraped it, filed the barest edge from what could create—even in these creatures’ feeble minds—the most astounding of miracles. If only they knew. All those who covet power would attack this city repeatedly and without mercy. That is to say, any leader who has ever lived.”

Draygan looked up at the light, as if to divine the source of Vortigen’s perspective. “The port cities did go to war. The Atoesh Empire demanded right to the Bright, and we—I am sorry—Porenza, rebelled.”

“Successfully, I gather,” Vortigen shook his head, the movement slight and slow. “Yet if all men on this land mass had died for the right to the power here, still it would have been a poor effort. One petty squabble, and then a pointless series of gladiatorial immersions. Noble blooded men and women sinking themselves into the mind of the Bright, simply for amusement? It is astounding, disgusting. Laughable.”

Draygan nodded. Yes, Lord.

Vortigen twitched. There was that smile again. “Ah,” he said. “Can you feel that? It is Demetes. His elation sings across the stones. Something marvellous has happened.”

Chapter thirty-four

Goran

With only one sword between the three of them and two knives that would struggle through a loaf of fresh bread, Goran was not confident about the prospect of combat.

The Manse was quiet, mostly. Straining his ears, he was aware of rhythmic crunching sounds. Footsteps upon the gravel path outside.

“Is there a back door?” Jelena asked.

Goran peered through the open door of the map room, only his head poking around the corner. He whispered back, “There are three exits.”

“Intruders!” the song of a voice travelled faintly up the stairs.

“No time,” said Lars. “Get that window open.”

Jelena pushed the bolt aside and raised the latch upon the sill. She eased both hands beneath the wooden frame and lifted. There was a small squeak. It had not been opened, it seemed, in some time.

“Prepare yourself!” came the voice again.

“Hardly using the element of surprise, is he?” Jelena muttered. The window finally rattled upward, leaving a gap large enough to squeeze through.

“It will be the one from the tower at Vestia Way,” Goran said, coming to the window. “It killed an entire regiment at the barracks’ parade ground. Like a whirlwind with a mind.”

“We saw the aftermath.” Lars remembered. “It must have been brutal to see.”

Goran did not answer. I wish I had seen nothing. Footsteps were on the stairs at the end of the hallway.

“Come!” Jelena hissed. She climbed out and found a thick-stemmed climbing plant curled to the left of the frame. She swung out and half fell, half shimmied down the twisted vines.

Lars and Goran followed. They did not share a word, but hit the ground and ran to the wall at the end of the garden. There was a willow there, yellowing leaves brushing the lawn.

“Stop, or die.”

Goran turned. The thing had stepped from the window, somehow creating a platform from the wood of the plant he had descended. The bark tangled and turned until it became a living balcony. In the creature’s hand was a great-bow similar to the one it had used in the tower, though this one appeared to be made from the same vine, small pieces of red brick capping the ends. The arrow resting by its chin was opalescent, shimmering, its entire length wrought from the glass that had once been in the window.

They stopped.

“I am Demetes. Arm yourself and know glory!”

Arm yourself. “He seems awfully keen for us to bear weapons,” Goran said.

The creature, once it had seen them stop, jumped from the balcony. It landed lightly, one hand brushing the soft grass before it came to its feet. The bow fell to the floor, taking quick root in the mud of a flowerbed.

Goran whispered, “Outside the barracks, it killed men with weapons similar to those they wielded themselves.”

“It killed that big brute, Rhain, with its bare hands,” Lars said. The thing was drawing closer.

“Rhain attacked it with his bare hands,“ Jelena said. “And it utterly ruined him.”

It stood before them, resplendent in silk. Rings and jewels studded its bare torso, and a plume of leaves reached from the top of its crinkled skull to the nape of its neck. It was huge.

“Who will die first?” it asked, and fell into what Goran recognised as a Bruin stance, hands low to guard against the takedown, chin tucked into the shoulder and feet flat.

Jelena looked at the thing’s hands and shook her head. She put her knife away.

“Sword down, Captain,” Lars said.

Goran stood his ground, though he knew Lars spoke sense. The sword was part of him. Combat was blade against blade. Some battles are fought differently. He sheathed the weapon.

Seeing their non-aggression, Demetes relaxed. It stood taller and said, “If you will not fight, I will bring forth a bow once more, and upon the will of my Lord, execute you one by one before bringing your blood to the embrace of the Bright. Choose.”

“Ideas?” Jelena whispered

“Go find your stick,” Lars yelled at the beast. “And shove it where it’s dark!”

As good a reply as any.

Demetes nodded and stalked back to the flowerbed. The bow resting there had turned into a small tree.

“Soon as it summons a weapon, attack. Three directions. Whoever lives, see if you can put a bread knife in one of its beady little eyes.”

“We will not live,” Goran said. His voice was flat.

Demetes placed his hand on the little tree, drawing it once more from the ground.

Soon, Goran thought, I will see my daughter. He tensed, moments from a desperate escape. “Wait,” he whispered.

Demetes had frozen.

The Titan’s head whipped into the air. Its hand fell from the bow. The emerging bowstring snapped and twirled around its arm, small buds forming along the tendril.

“Do you feel that?” it asked. Its face had split into a grin. “He is here!”

Lars spread his arms, halting Goran and Jelena. “Who is here?” he asked.

A small tear curled from the corner of Demetes’ eye. “The one closest to our blood! We have been searching for him for many, many ages. The Stoneheart. Do you not feel him? He draws from the Bright like Thorus of myth, as if the tip of his horn were dipped into the ocean! It is Him! He who is destined to end my life. Stoneheart!” With that, Demetes threw its head back, spread its arms wide as if in the throes of some private ecstasy.

“Back away,” Goran hissed. The thing appeared dazed, its mind clearly elsewhere.

Jelena’s instincts were quicker. Faced with the beast’s odd bout of euphoria, she had faded into the bushes at the back of the garden.

Lars was close behind. “Mad,” he whispered. “Now run.”

Chapter thirty-five

Hektor

He left Sara curled in the blanket. She stirred, then fell back to her pillow, face pushed into the fabric, hair bunched around her shoulders.

Hektor knew Methus would hear him leave. It was evening, but not late. He wondered what the old man would make of it. Perhaps he will assume an ill-considered evening run. It would not be the first time Hektor had left at such an hour, though never in such dangerous circumstances. He closed the door slowly, easing the heavy oak shut. It creaked before closing. It always did.

The air was fresh. A marked change from the damp, humid summer evenings. He breathed deeply, filling his lungs, and set off at a slow jog. The thick tunic would have been uncomfortable, and he was thankful for the change in temperature. Clothing was for cover, not comfort. It had to be thick, densely woven, and dark, or the glow of the new Noble-stone would have shone through.

The weight sat above his heart, filling his muscles with a curious energy. At the Bright Line, he had not even had to cut himself. It was as if the Bright recognised him, knew his blood even beneath his skin. He was becoming attuned somehow. And he liked it.

He was fit, hard, and used to exertion, yet the Bright-power gave him more. He did not understand it, and was not entirely sure Methus did either. The power flowed from the Noble-stone, and then through the wires which rested beneath his heavy sleeves. It ran down the length of his loose hemp trousers. At no point had the power entered his body. Yet he felt it. He felt the pulses quicken along the breadth of his chest, coursing through his muscles like licks of flame. It lent an urgent energy to his stride.

The alley ended at a junction that split left and right. Every other time he had run this way, he would slow, widen the arc of his run and speed out of the corner. This time, he did not slow down. He felt, rather than calculated the trajectory required for the manoeuvre. As he approached the wall, he leapt. The outside of his left foot wedged into a crack in the stone at full speed, propelling him upward. He twisted in the air, angling his body towards the alley leading off to the right. His left hand grazed the wall, and his feet gripped the wall as if running on solid ground for one, two, three full steps before he sprang away and landed. He brushed against the building on the opposite side of the narrow path, jumped a rain barrel left outside a doorway and carried on along the polished stone. In the narrow stretch of sky above his head, only the stars were witnesses.

He kept an even pace through the maze of alleys, stopping only when he reached the start of the fish district. The paths between buildings widened here, making it more likely that someone would notice his presence.

The evening prior, Methus’ young neighbour had come by. She had stayed for moments only, yet with her presence came a warning: stay indoors. She had spoken to Methus of her brother, a soldier in the Nomani guard ordered to patrol the slums, the Drenian docks, and the other poorer quarters of Porenza such as the tenements. The regiment was looking for Drenian iconography. Doors daubed with prayers to Suh and Dje were smashed down, kicked open. Houses were ransacked. Any found hiding within were taken.

“The soldiers are punished if they do not do what those creatures say,” the woman had said. But he knew that. He had seen those same soldiers, witnessed the Titan forcing his people onto the Darkening Chair. He had heard their screams. Stay indoors. Hide. It was good advice. Hektor clenched a fist with a strength that would have crushed bone. Good advice for most people.

He crouched in the shadow of an awning. He was about to run again when another sound creaked across the street, a window shutter opening.

“You there!” A fierce whisper.

Hektor looked up to where the voice had emerged. There was nothing but a shadow.

“Get off the street, you fool!” The window banged shut.

He turned back to the street. It was empty. A breeze muted the salt tang. Market stalls were husks, waiting for a catch that would not arrive. Hektor crouched low and moved forward quickly. He stuck to the shadows.

Before long, he was at the mouth of the same alley he had first seen Genia. The harbour stretched across the front of an inky sea, quiet and empty. If the creature was there, she was not showing herself. A cloud obscured the moon.

Go, he told himself. The tables and wide shades of the harbour restaurants were his cover. He moved forward, quiet as the swollen waves. He crept over a low wall separating two establishments, past more tables with chairs upended. The Senate building loomed, its colonnaded front stark and proud. His hands felt from column to column, drifting across carved images of powerful men from the past. The night shrouded everything.

A clatter of armour came from the alleyway, and he tensed, crouched low on the seed strewn ground beneath a palm tree. There were three of them. Nomani. Low whispering reached his ears.

They stopped by a chain railing that looped in front of the columns, not ten paces distant. Hektor made himself as small as possible. Even should they look in his direction, he was fairly comfortable. He was used to remaining unseen. Used to eyes sliding from his own. This night was no different.

One of them laughed, and he caught snippets of their conversation.

“ … Came to bed easy enough … “

“ … Do not care … “

More laughing. Hektor leaned forward, wincing as a seed beneath his heel cracked. The men did not notice.

“ … Big one watched … Drenian … stinking … “ There was more laughter, then the voices quieted once more. One of them took something from a satchel and passed it around. Hektor heard chewing.

He stood. Sneers from the past echoed in his head. Angry cries on distant beaches; the sound of waves, of desperate men and women, and through it all, the song of Nomani cruelty. He shook the thoughts free and walked forward. “Nomani,” he said.

They turned, one of them slowly, the other two faster, their hands coming quickly to the hilts of their swords.

“Where are the Drenians held?” He walked into the open and stood before them, hands by his sides.

“You escape, eh?” one of them asked.

“Stay where you are!” hissed another. They approached, spreading out.

“Think you’d get far, did you?” the first one asked. There it was. The sneer.

Hektor retreated a step, falling once more into the shadow of the tree. He felt something fizz from the Noble-stone, a thrill. One spat a Nomani curse and Hektor felt as if tiny needles were pricking his skin. His eyes flashed, and for a moment everything was ablaze, the whole harbour visible as daylight, albeit lit by a pink sun. The soldiers had seen. My eyes.

All three drew their swords.

Right foot behind you. Left hand forward. Do not wait! This is not a game where you take your turn! Hektor burst forward. His left fist darted for the soldier in the middle. The man raised the sword by instinct, and it killed him.

The glow from the Noble-stone spread along his arm as he threw the punch. His fist collided with the flat of the blade as it swept upward, the power of the blow forcing the sword into the soldier’s face.

The power crackled from his heart to the tips of his fingers. He moved in the darkness faster than sound. The next sword swung towards his neck. Every nuance in the soldier’s battle cry was clear as it ripped from his throat. Hektor dodged to his right. The sword missed by a hand’s breadth.

The force of his own blow swept the soldier forward, tangling briefly with the other.

Hektor stepped back. He let them separate. “Where are my people?” he asked again.

One spat at his feet. They both attacked. He parried a blade with the holding weave on his forearm and felt his wrist give way. The momentum turned him round, and he lifted his leg, rolled his hip and chopped the turn into a low kick. It hit the soldier’s greaves just below the knee, and Hektor felt the leg snap like a twig. The man screamed.

The other advanced, thrusting at Hektor’s stomach. He stepped aside. The punch, when it came, crumpled the soldier’s helmet. From this one, there was no scream.

The soldier with the ruined leg raised a hand. “Spare me, please. Mercy,” he gasped.

“Drenians,” Hektor repeated, a third time.

“At the pier,” the man shuffled away. He was in obvious, considerable pain.

Hektor made a fist, aware of a slight tingle as a small bone in his wrist knitted back together. He felt his right kneecap slide back into place. He wondered what had happened to it and when.

Run.

He left the soldier on the ground. As he emerged from the shade of the tree, the wounded man began to shout. Other soldiers, if they had not heard the fight, would certainly hear the screams. He ran faster. He kept to the shadow of the Senate building, dashing along its broad steps.

Ducking low in front of more drinking houses, he weaved in and out of the statues in front of the Duom and could not help himself as he passed the Darkening Chair, turning to look up at Iron Titan, the Violet lady, and the terrible throne in between. It sat empty, the steps before it beckoning. It tugged at him, or tugged at the Noble-stone. He could not tell which.

He tore his gaze away and ran on, towards the end of the harbour and the growing sound of rigging slapping against caulked boards. Closer, and he heard slow footsteps, scraping armour, and the lonely wail of a scared child.

Then he saw them. Trading boats from other allied cities pressed against the pier, their wooden sides acting as walls. Nomani soldiers stood guard or paced across the decks. Other soldiers were sentinel before the night, spears pointing at the sky, faces to the sea. There were perhaps thirty of them. An entire regiment. On the cold stone of the pier, between the soldiers and the sea, were hundreds of people dressed in rags, mostly asleep. Drenians.

Parallel to where they lay huddled was another pier, the distance of a thrown stone across the water. Upon the pier was the rope gymnasia. Hektor eased himself around the ropes extending from the barges; some loose, others pulled tight and attached to the boats on either side of the wooden jetties.

He stepped around holes cut into the wood, where other ropes had been latticed across. He climbed quietly over a length of plank nailed into the ground. The whole place creaked and groaned in the dark, the wet boards slick beneath his feet.

He planned to get close and swim across to his countrymen.

He stopped. From the eastern Laguna, he heard the prisoners awaken. Soldier’s shouted questions, and then a larger voice eclipsed them all.

“I feel you!” It shrilled. “Come to me!”

The one with the arrows, the enormous Titan. Hektor watched as it sprinted with inhuman power the length of the harbour. It skidded to a stop before Vestia Way, framed before the Darkening Chair. A pink glow was upon its chest.

Hektor crouched lower, his heart thudded at his ribs. The Titan was far away, and he was in shadow.

And yet it was looking right at him.

Chapter thirty-six

Lars

They crouched in an archway, huddled together, sweat barely dry. Their flight from the Manse had been without thought or true direction. A silent, relief ridden stumble from alley to alley, doorway to doorway. They avoided a single Nomani patrol and ran until the air grew cool, until lights appeared in top floor windows. “Time to rest, I think,” said Lars.

The arch covered a crumbling alley. A relic, it seemed, built from thick blocks of limestone. A carving of what appeared to be a dolphin graced the keystone, and a copper plaque bore an inscription which Jelena laughed aloud at.

“Nothing is funny about today,” Lars said. Although he had seen plenty of fools giggling after battle, flush with the realisation they hadn’t died.

Jelena ignored Lars and read, “… A thousand years ago. Porenza was protected by the castle which once stood beyond this arch. The Ebulun Empire ruled here for a generation, and the dolphin carving depicts their God.” She stopped reading aloud and carried on silently, running her finger along the words and laughing once more. “It says they were ruled entirely by women.”

“A strange society,” Goran mumbled.

“Sensible, more like.”

“Men were probably too busy pleasuring all those dolphins,” Lars added.

Jelena finished reading. “A society,” she said, finger tracing the last line on the inscription. “Whose decisions were made entirely free from the burden of male genitalia.”

Goran took a deep breath. “It does not say that.” He walked to the other side of the arch. His scabbard caught on a jutting stone and he stumbled, earning another chuckle from Jelena.

She said, as he walked away, “Come on now, Goran. We’re sorry.”

We’re bloody on edge, Lars thought. He ignored the Porenzian captain and sat down, back against the arch. His blood took longer to cool these days. Teeth ground together. “I almost felt glorious back there,” he said. “Idiot brain, finding noble reason in, essentially, suicide. I still cannot believe we escaped.”

Jelena shrugged. “Thank whatever capricious God made our would-be executioner a cheek chewing lunatic. What was that he said about a Stoneheart? Like we wear in the arena, you think? A Noble-stone?”

“Something about fate. I don’t know. He was insane. Girl, you look drawn out. I am a mess, and you are babbling.”

“Every breath tastes like the first ripe grape from the vine,” Jelena admitted. It was a battle saying, a prayer of thanks, in a way. A phrase she would have heard from Lars more than once. She stood and ran her hand over the arch. “I exist a moment longer to marvel at the absurdity of existence, the beauty of our past, and the dull conclusions Porenzian historians call good scholarship.”

“We need rest,” Lars repeated. His beard itched like insects were crawling into it. Red daub still caked into his braids. And I need a wash.

Goran stopped ahead. “There is a door here!” he called. “It’s open.”

Jelena took another glance at the plaque, shook her head and held a hand for Lars. They gripped wrists. Lars stood, and they followed Goran’s voice.

The arch led onto a narrow, curving street. The stones of the castle that years ago had graced the soil were now part of more modern buildings. Houses rose from foundations which would have held a structure many times their size, and in order to make best use of such strong footings, locals had built outward as well as up, so that balconies leaned out over the alleyways and almost touched above their heads.

Someone was singing, and the sound drifted down, sweet and quite at odds to the danger which had settled like a blanket upon them all.

“Here,” said Goran again, and Jelena saw him, pressed into a doorway, door held ajar.

“I would kill for a drink,” Lars said, and shoved past.

Jelena closed the door to a darkness soon pierced by an oil lamp. Goran stood in the new light and blew out the taper before discarding it in an iron bucket set there for the purpose.

“Anyone home?” Lars called. The sound echoed up the steps at the end of the hallway and bounced back without reply.

“The Corso family lived here,” Goran said. He elbowed past Lars and sat on the second step, blocking the path upstairs. His voice fell quieter. “Around the corner, a little way from the arch, is a meeting of three streets. Wooden tables with high chairs surround each corner. The family, a husband—a good man—his wife and two daughters serve local wine there. The eldest daughter makes a sugared Baklav to melt in your mouth as fast as her eyes might melt your heart.”

“Stirring.”

“Lars,” Jelena admonished. “We met her.”

“Huh?”

“One of those daughters is a medic, yes?” Jelena asked. “Skinny girl. Not a piece of meat to her.”

Goran nodded.

Lars remembered. It came to him. The girl who carried Draygan with us. Who kept babbling about grappa and wine and her medica training. “She said her parents owned a wine place,” he recalled.

Goran took a deep breath. The lamp light cast shadows below his eyes. “When the beast fell from the sky, the Corso family were serving wine in the roped area on the Campus fields. But for Maria then, they did not survive.”

This time, Lars was silent. He bowed his head and patted the stone wall. “She’d been crying,” he said. “Talking too fast. Kept mentioning her family. I thought her useless.”

“She would have been in shock. Mourning her loss,” continued Goran. “So when you find your pillow, and your bed, and tomorrow, perhaps some wine and Baklav, show a little respect. Remember the family sundered so that we might enjoy a peaceful night.”

Lars cleared his throat. “You made your point.”

Goran shrugged, as if it suddenly didn’t matter. He turned, taking the stairs one at a time. Lars followed with Jelena shortly after.

Upstairs was a living area. A deep, comfortable looking sofa butted against the wall, covered in a sheet. A cushion rested invitingly at one end. “It will do,” Jelena told Lars.

Outside, the moon had pushed through the veil, fat and white in the purple sky. “Beds further up, most likely,” he remarked.

Jelena staggered to the couch. “Upstairs is too far. Near death earlier was a stressful experience.”

Lars left her to it. He found another room along the hallway. If I do not sleep now I will pass out, he thought, and focussed on the rug in the middle of the room as if it were the only object in the world. “Good wool, that,” he muttered, and sank to the ground.

Chapter thirty-seven

Hektor

Storm lamps sprang to life all along the front of the harbour, and the figure marched in his direction. Fatigue struck. Hektor reeled, and his vision narrowed. Like getting up too fast, he thought, and dropped to the sodden planks. The night faded from clarity to darkness. He stayed in the shadow of a wooden rail. Two urns flanked him. Night insects drifted from the greenery. They buzzed lazily around, attracted by his breath and sweat. He would have raised a hand to swat them away, but the thing was prowling.

“Where did you go?” it sang. “Show yourself!”

He felt a tickle beneath his nose. His fingers found blood, a thin line from his right nostril.

The light from the Noble-stone died. A weight settled on his shoulders and his heart beat with a new, heavier rhythm. Not fear, nor the boiling in his muscles at the prospect of a confrontation with the Titan. Rather, it was his shame.

“Draw the power, Stoneheart! Show yourself!”

The lanterns warned of an approaching storm. The low moon was smothered by cloud. Hektor stole a glance around the urn, spying the Titan as it stalked up and down the harbour. Across the water, the Drenians pushed even closer together, hunched away from the giant with a fear Hektor could only guess at.

Lightning lit the cloud tops like a mountain range. Some far off god of thunder cleared his throat. A storm was coming. It would be a bad one.

With the failure of the Noble-stone, the Titan slowed its search.

There was a Bright Line nearby. Hektor’s blood sang with the promise of it, a longing of sorts. Difficult to ignore. It can see the power, Hektor realised. Drawing from the Bright was exactly the beacon Demetes would need.

Backwards, Hektor eased from his hiding place. The shadows wreathed his shoulders like a cloak.

The Titan stopped by the Nomani at the pier. Hektor faded further from what seemed an angry discussion. He was almost at the corner of the Senate building when Demetes let forth a roar and grasped one soldier by the neck before flinging him into the sea. The Titan whirled, and with an amplified voice, asked, “Are you a coward, Stoneheart?”

Today, thought Hektor as he left the prisoners, I am. When Demetes’ back turned, he stepped into the doorway of an alley leading from the Senate building. Hektor had meant to save the prisoners. Now he was running all over again. He could just about see them. Small boats were closing their hatches for the storm. A voice cried out for speed against the coming onslaught and more lights sprang up within the vessels. Hektor shook his head, and wondered how life could go on when people were being herded like cattle before their very eyes, how sailors could remain working when a beast from myth tore through the harbour buildings like an animal. He wondered what the boat captains and crewmen had made of the succession of his countrymen who had perished upon the Chair. They will suffer, he thought, and wondered whether the promise was one of anger.

Soldiers looked out to sea, studiously ignoring the Titan, who had now picked an alleyway and moved further into the city. The soldiers were wary of the soaking they were about to endure. Drenian prisoners remained huddled together. They would know all too well what a storm might mean. He pictured waves lashing over the stone jetty, ropes flinging and whipping in the wind, fishing vessels smashing against each other not ten paces from where the prisoners huddled.

He shook his head a third time and turned from the sight. Soon, he promised himself, and this time knew the promise was a true one. The walk back to the house was tense. The dead soldiers were gone. He heard barked orders calling above the rising wind. Each time he came to a Bright Line his skin tingled. The stone lurched above his heart. The power was so near, and yet so was the beast. He could hear it, sometimes so close that he bolted into another doorway, or the shadow of a soldier-pine. It called to him as surely as the Bright, its voice pitched in challenge rather than seduction. If anything, it sounded amazed he did not show himself.

His skin prickled in the cooling air. Despite the danger, no alarm sounded. No high-pitched voice called for his death.

He unlocked the door to the house as the first fat drops of rain fell. With a heavier heart than even the fatigue of earlier had wrought, he went up the stone steps to the kitchen.

Methus sat at the table, wine before him. Drunk, bleary-eyed and with a burned out roll of tobacco between his lips. He said, “Selfish, damned … “ and stopped there. The old man turned his head.

Was he crying? “I went for a run,” Hektor began. The anger in the old man’s eyes stopped him from his lie. He spoke again. “To the docks. To save them.”

“Well?” Methus choked. “Did you save them?”

“No,” Hektor admitted, and lifted his vest to show the lifeless Noble-stone.

“Damn you to Dark. You steal. You fight at the market. You leave without a word tonight. Alone. You damned selfish fool.”

“I’m sorry.”

Methus slammed a fist on the table, halting Hektor before he reached the stairs. “Used to drink to forget. Without the drink I’d ... dream of soldiers, burnished bronze. Death. I’d sit by the Chair and drink, and it would be me and the night and nothing else.” He filled Hektor a glass, pushed it back across the table. Some spilled. Neither of them cared. “Right now I don’t know why, but I’m drinking, and I remember.”

“I should see Sara,” he began.

“You’ll damn well listen! I left Porenza when I was as young as you.” He stabbed a finger. “Know that? I was strong, too, in the forests and the beaches, sweating, swearing at you sorry lot as you boarded the boats.” Methus shook his head, one eye half-closed. “I hated you. Every space your people took was once for a friend, dead defending a land that wasn’t their own because the Drenian Isles were strategic, don’t you know? Because the mines were a prize worth saving.”

“What changed?” Hektor asked. Sara and I arrived, he thought. And Micho. A family.

Methus simply shook his head, drained his glass, and whispered, “Get out of my sight.”

Chapter thirty-eight

Lars

Lars woke up. A girl’s finger pushed against his lips. Eh? His groggy mind struggled to make sense of where he had fallen asleep, and who in the Dark had their finger in his mouth.

“Shh,” she said. She looked right at him, earnest as a fawn and damn near as small. “They’re coming.”

He pushed her finger away and rubbed grit from his eyes. “Who’s coming?” he asked. Then he saw her. The medic had found her way home.

Her eyes widened in equal recognition. She stepped back. She turned nervously towards the door and then looked back at him. “Soldiers,” Maria said.

He heard a crash from the street outside and the scraping of metal against stone. A dawn light filtered in from the alleyway window. He heard an urgent whisper from the street below.

“Nomani?” he mouthed.

She nodded.

“Armed?” This got another small nod, and he wondered how many there were, if they were after him and, more importantly, whether there was a sword among them which would suit his grip.

He threw the rug from his shoulders and walked to the window in a low crouch. He heard another intake of breath behind him, whipped his head around sharply and realised the girl was looking at his naked backside. You’ll see worse, he thought, and went back to the window in time to see the streets soaked with rain, a downpour he had missed. Worse, five armed men were splashing through puddles into the house opposite.

“Dark,” he muttered and spied his clothes on the floor. He pulled on as much as might give him a little dignity, found the useless little knife, and hoped it would be enough. He brushed past the girl and went into the corridor, knocked twice on another closed door, hoping Goran was behind it, and then went to the stairs.

He realised that there would probably have been much more effective weaponry in the kitchen, had he bothered to look, and cursed his sleep-addled mind for failing to check.

“Lars?” it was Jelena, stumbling from the living room. “Storm keep you awake?”

“No. You wouldn’t have picked up another cleaver or two, would you?”

“What?”

“Get your blade. We’re going to find ourselves some new kit.”

The soldiers had finished checking the house across the alley, or else there were more he hadn’t seen. The door to the Corso residence swung inwards.

Lars heard one of them whisper, “Check the first floor.”

Jelena crouched, tense. She raised an eyebrow. Now?

Lars shook his head. He heard them on the steps attempting to be quiet, impossible in armour. He could count the footsteps now. They were all on the stairs, formation ruined. They might look good, these Nomani, but they were field fighters. No good in tight places.

He nodded to Jelena, and stepped into view, barring the top of the stairs.

“Gentlemen!” he greeted. “Are you lost?”

The first soldier was four steps from the landing. He halted, opened his mouth, but did not get the chance to speak. His neck snapped backward as the full force of Lars’ heel met the front of his helmet. The first soldier crashed into the second, who stumbled backward. The third braced himself in time, dodged past the falling tangle of limbs and shouted a redundant warning. Lars wasted no time. He cast the small knife aside and jumped forward, extending his foot in the same kick, a simple snapping motion which was lent far greater force with his full weight behind it.

As he fell, he sent a prayer to each extremity. Please don’t break.

Six of them crashed towards the front door. It took a long moment before any of them moved. Lars lay on his back across another man’s greaves. He watched from the corner of his eye as Jelena came bounding down. She landed heavily and immediately pushed her knife beneath a soldier’s chin strap.

Jelena’s hand came back red. Amidst the shouts and groans, she found another exposed piece of flesh. The knife juddered against a lower rib. The soldier screamed and Jelena shouted as she punched the blade in again. Dirty work. The length of steel found a gap between bones. The struggling Nomani’s scream turned into a bubbling cough.

She’s doing the job for me. Lars’ hand shot out and grappled a soldier’s wrist. The soldier had gone for his sword. Lars’ other hand pulled the helmet down, so that he was for the moment blinded. Shoddy design, he thought, useful for formation and nothing more. And a good thing too. He used the motion to come to his knees, hand still gripping the other’s wrist. His legs slipped around the soldier’s neck, and it was a minute before the crush of his thighs finally did their work. The man went limp.

Lars stood and patted himself down. Nothing broken. Jelena was breathing heavily, wiping gore from her hands. “Work up a sweat, did you?” Lars asked.

Jelena whipped her head around. She gave up wiping her hands and flicked them at a fallen body. “My blood is on fire,” she said. “Nice tehp, by the way.“ It was the name of the front-kick. Usually, it was a holding blow designed to distance an attacking opponent. Against an unaware adversary, however, and with the added advantage of height, the tehp had been like a battering ram.

Lars noted the speed of her words. The young woman’s eyes went wide as they surveyed the five dead men. A small giggle escaped. “Are you okay?” Lars asked.

Jelena was grinning and shaking. Shock, Lars thought.

“It’s just … it’s just … “

Lars approached and eased the knife from her hand. “Different from the arena,” he said, and patted Jelena on the arm. “Different when you realise they’re not getting up again, eh? Go sit down.”

“I didn’t even think about it. I just pressed the knife. And … and … ”

Lars surveyed the mess. The soldier nearest the stairs had lost his helmet entirely, and though the puncture mark of Jelena’s blade was clear, the neck was also at an angle which would have made further breathing and movement unlikely.

None of them had time to draw a sword. Lars studied the weapons, relief and sour memory fighting for a place in his mind.

Goran came down the stairs with ruffled hair. Maria clung to his tunic. “Were we attacked?” he asked.

“I killed them,” Jelena said, voice quieter than before.

“Sort of attacked,” Lars said. “It may have been their intention. We didn’t stop to ask. What we have are swords and armour.”

Goran digested this. “These men may have been innocent.”

Lars shrugged. “Weren’t so innocent dragging the dead from Vestia Way. Or rounding up the people to go there in the first place.”

Goran nodded, then picked at the armour. “It is a start, I suppose,” he admitted. He looked at Jelena. “Are you okay?”

Jelena closed her eyes for a long moment, then opened them. She wiped blood from her forearms and nodded. “I am. I’ll be fine.”

“You warned me of the soldiers,” Lars nodded at Maria, hefting a new sword in a familiar grip. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” she said. “The boy, the one we were trying to save. Did he make it?”

Lars pictured Draygan in his new Archon robe. “In a way,” he said.

Chapter thirty-nine

Draygan

Tom had told him once. “ Power is equal to danger, both for those who seek it and those beneath it.”

They had discussed the idea. Tom had spoken about a cruel king who had governed the Barban Empire, widowing wives and orphaning children as if it were his sole intention of rule. It was a favourite tale of woe to pause the dreams of proud young Nomani. The Barban’s had a culture of thinking and learning which dated back centuries. At the height of their power, with the greatest army the world had ever seen, the cruel king had invaded every surrounding landmass, marching until he and his men were no more and the Barban nation was in ruins behind him.

Draygan had countered. “Power can be good,” he had argued. “What about the power of a mind, or thought? Surely such power is worth pursuing?” It was a bold position, and despite Tom’s interest, Draygan felt he had argued poorly.

Neither of them had given the Bright Lines as an example. The Lines had just seemed there. Part of life. Power, of course, but hardly dangerous. If Vortigen were to be believed, they were the single most powerful source of usable energy in existence. Draygan shuddered. Vortigen had laughed as he hinted that with improper use, the Lines had enough power to destroy not just Porenza, but everything. No worldly pebble would remain unturned. Those had been his words.

It was almost time for his duty: sitting near the emerging gateway with a Noble-stone and listening for the escaped Nobles who might send for help. A woman sat on one of the healing benches, one of the Senate’s most important members. Rebels had attacked her in the slums.

“Are you feeling better?” he asked.

“The Bright gives,” she swung her legs from the bench and ran her hands through her hair. She pointed to the Noble-stone in his hands. “Chasing rose-eyed shadows again? How pointless.” It was the reason she had been in the slums, looking for the Brightened Drenian, who, if found, was to be reported and then left absolutely alone.

“Once we have him, we can govern as normal once more,” he said. “And may I remind you that you are talking to your Archon?”

She laughed. “Right.” Then she wandered away.

His robe hung limp upon a wall-mounted hook. After the storm, the morning had gone from cool to scorching, and wearing it seemed not only wrong but impractical. He had not exercised properly since the Titans had landed, and honestly, he felt out of shape. Silly, he thought, and flexed his shoulders, admiring his arms as he sank into the chair. I am still a force. But something did not feel right. He was not blind enough to know that the title of Archon was simply that. A title. He knew that a single showing on the sands did not make him a hero. There would be no progress until the Titans left Porenza peacefully. I will do whatever it takes, he promised himself.

In the middle of the room, the arching Bright Line was nearly complete. He rubbed his thumb upon the Noble-stone, a faint pink glow responding to his touch. There was that word again, power.

He reached for the space Vortigen had shown him. A place in his mind where the Bright facilitated communication. He saw a whiteness at the edges of his vision. He felt the power of it, avenues leading away in his mind, open doors, invitations.

My captain, he thought. Where are you now?

Chapter forty

Sara

Hektor had returned. The Noble-stone worked.

She eased from the bed, careful to let him rest. Fatigue thumped behind her eyes, the residue of worry lingering like old grappa. She made it to the kitchen, fixed a small breakfast, and sat. She swallowed stale bread with some difficulty, forcing it down with a sip of water.

After a time, she heard movement upstairs. Lulian came in and offered a sleepy smile, somehow perfectly presented.

“You slept through the storm, then?” Sara asked.

“I was quite comfortable. Thank you.” Without command or question, the strange lady filled the kettle and put it on the stove. It was the sort of easy familiarity that made Sara uncomfortable.

Hektor was next into the kitchen, tense and expectant. Methus followed. The old man shook his head wearily. “A man makes his own decisions,” he said.

They reconciled, then. She had heard them argue.

Micho came next. “I wake lady,” he said. “She a mess. Fix up good though, hey?” The boy smiled and pointed at Lulian.

Lulian bent down to tug at his ear. “You were ever so helpful,” she agreed. “Singing outside my door just as the storm finished.”

Methus asked, “Is Valerian coming?”

Micho shook his head. “He not eat. Hates Folenzi. No wonder.“ The little boy grimaced.

“Could you get him?” Methus asked.

“Sure!” Micho hopped from the chair. In a few moments, he returned with Tom behind.

“I have a feeling this morning will be one of decisions,” Tom stated. He rubbed his eyes, and they fell upon Hektor. “We should get started.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Methus echoed, coughing into his hand. He waited, bleary-eyed as Lulian handed out the last of the coffee. He took a sip.

They were silent, expectant. She shrugged, filling the silence. “Hektor took to the streets last night with the Noble-stone.”

Lulian and Tom frowned in roughly equal measure.

“A risk I did not endorse,” Methus picked up.

“I failed,” Hektor said simply.

“You came back alive,” Lulian replied. “A success.”

Sara caught the judgement in her words, yet agreed with their meaning. Perhaps that explains how I feel. Relief, even pride. Not anger.

Methus was calmer than expected. He said, “What is done, is done. Explain what you did. I must know your limits, how the stone reacted, how you used it. How long it lasted. Tell me.”

Hektor obliged. His recount of the night was simple, without embellishment, and more powerful for it.

“I can adjust our workings,” Methus said.

“More time touching the Line as well?” Sara asked. We can add more weaves, she thought, holding weaves as armour, heat weaves, although the danger would be high.

“One moment,” Tom said, interrupting her thoughts. He asked Hektor, “We spoke about teaching before. It bears mentioning again. Have you had any formal training?”

“I can fight.”

Methus frowned. He turned to Tom. “Hektor has not properly trained nor had exposure to anything resembling gladiatorial combat, if I take your meaning correctly,”

“You say you fought three Nomani soldiers whilst unarmed?” Tom asked, to which Hektor nodded. “And you came away unscathed. Young man, if we had the time, we could make you a force. Alas, we do not. And though Lulian and I may be the last who can truly train you to fight these things, even then you would be limited. Regardless, we have no time.”

Sara could see Hektor becoming agitated at having his shortcomings discussed. “They’re right,” she said.

“I do not mean to discourage you,” Tom began.

Sara held up a hand. “You are right, but you are also wrong.” She turned to Lulian and put a palm on the table. “Explain to Hektor what you would have taught.”

“Meditation,” Lulian said simply. “The stronger your mental presence when harnessing a charged Noble-stone, the better you control its power. You react quickly, move more smoothly, fighting as if time is an ocean for you, and nothing but a droplet for your enemy.”

She watched Hektor’s anger dissipate, replaced with interest. Lulian, for all her wisdom, did not know Hektor. Sara asked Hektor, “Did you let your emotions rule you the second time you went to the Nomani barracks, after you were beaten so badly? Or the third time, or the fourth?”

Micho patted her arm. The little boy pointed to his head and said, “Hektor, he strong here too.”

“And Tom?” Sara asked.

“Yes?”

“What would you have taught?”

“Philosophy. Belief. Self-knowledge. It is what strengthens your body in the arena. Your belief is both the fortitude of your armour and the force in your muscles as you strike a blow.”

Hektor actually laughed.

“What is it?” Tom asked.

“Belief. I have belief,” Hektor said, and laughed again. “I do not need to be told of my conviction. What else is there?”

“Endurance,” Lulian said, earning another laugh. She continued, “Combat, artistry, and strategy.”

“Only the last two are lacking,” Methus said with finality.

“Micho draws better,” Sara agreed.

“And going out on your own last night was hardly a sensible decision,” Lulian added.

“Agreed,” Methus said. “Fact remains, though. You would have taught what is known. Hektor is ready.”

“I am here,” Hektor reminded them. “And I am more than ready.”

“But we are not,” said Sara. “Let us work. Let us perfect the weaves connecting to the Noble-stone. Let us—“ She stared at the wall. “What’s that?”

It was a snake of ivy. It grew before her eyes, crawling between the cracks on the wall. She stared in fascination.

“Vines,” Lulian whispered.

Methus stood. The chair fell over behind him. The ivy twitched, snapped around as if looking at him, and then dropped, lifeless. From downstairs, Sara heard a sound like grinding stone.

“The back door,” Sara said. “Now!”

They moved.

“Sara!” Hektor begged. His hand reached for her, a shadow from the doorway.

She shook her head. “I will come soon. Go! Take Micho to safety. Do not waste a second more. Run, my love!”

He waited, but only for a moment, and even in the darkness, she saw pain in his eyes. Save them, she silently implored.

She lingered. Hand on the wall. Knots and lines in the doorframe felt like boulders and canyons beneath her palm, and the sound of her steps echoed like last night’s storm. A Titan was coming. The ivy twitched and flailed, just as when it wound around the ankles of those trying to escape the massacre on Vestia Way. Then, she had watched, safe in a tall building.

Safe, she thought. She had told Hektor to go. She watched the ivy twist from a crack in the mortar and knew beyond doubt a Titan was coming through the wall. I am far from safe. She clutched one hand in the other, fighting to control a bone-deep tremor. She would buy them as much time as she could manage.

She backed towards the door. There was not a sight or smell in the room which her senses did not grasp, her every fibre ached. It was, she imagined, what the last moments of her life might feel like.

She heard the front door slam shut and sighed. Where are you? For surely it was coming. The pots and pans in the kitchen clattered together. A vine crept out from beneath the stove and whipped back and forth. She walked towards it. In her palm was a kitchen knife, long and razor sharp. Her tools were perfectly kept.

She slashed at a vine and heard a high-pitched laugh behind the rapidly developing thicket of greenery and movement. More vines pushed a table against a wall. They parted where the crack in the wall had been, and there it stood.

She dropped the knife and gestured at the ivy. “You do not need this.”

It inclined its head. The ivy pressed against the wall, leaving the kitchen mostly as it was, only wrapped in a growth which would have otherwise taken years.

“I will comply. What do you want from me?” she had seen it looming over the dead on Vestia Way. It had eviscerated them. It had been gruesome, but she had watched, honouring their last moments. After a time, she realised it had been studying the bodies. This Titan thought itself a scholar. For Hektor to keep Micho safe, she would give it what it desired.

The hole in the wall closed with a grinding billow. It took a step forward. “I want to reach into your body and feel the chambers in your heart,” it said. “I want to look inside your eyes.”

I will not tremble. “My eyes,” she said. Her voice did not shake.

“I will take them from your head.” It took another step. “But first, tell me. Where is the Drenian? I felt him. He was listening.”

“Would it help if I lay on the table?” she asked.

It laughed again, delighted. “Yes! It would help. I will start with your right arm. Your vessels are so strange, the weave, linear at first, hides a fascinating complexity.”

She walked to the table, aware that her heart was pounding. It thumped so hard it was a wonder she could not hear it. Her scalp felt cold, like she had pushed her head into a cool basin of water. She climbed onto the table, knowing that her dignity, outwardly at least, was in peril. As if decorum matters now. At last, she lay on her back and stretched her arm out. “Like this?” she asked.

“Exactly so.” It loomed over her. “Was the Drenian here?” it asked again. “I can feel the Bright Line. I wonder if you have seen him?”

“Bright Line?” she asked.

“No matter. We will find him. He will open the way. Now,” it ran a finger along the veins protruding from her skin. “I have not yet studied a willing subject.”

She thought of Hektor. Her skin prickled. Her breathing deepened into the pit of her stomach until she felt she might pass out.

The thing pinched her thumb between two of its long and dexterous fingers. It lifted the digit and her arm raised. It let go. “Before I begin, you will remove your jewelry,” it said.

She closed her eyes. Her voice finally cracked. “Of course,” she reached up to unbutton her tunic, determined to remain in control. She ran her hand along the collar to where the clasp of her necklace rested beneath her tied hair. Her eyes snapped open.

A dark blur exploded into the room. The wooden door frame hung from its bracket in the stone. A smear of blood marked the entrance. She sat up fast, pressing herself against the wall. Upon the wall opposite, Hektor pinned the thing against squirming vines.

“You!” it exclaimed. The Titan struggled in Hektor’s grip. The vines echoed the movement, thrashing, churning. “Unhand me!” it commanded.

She saw Hektor grin, watching as his grip around the thing’s wrists tightened. Ivy wrapped and coiled around his calves, winding up and over his shoulders. Still, he did not let go. She saw the knife. Before she thought to rush for it and help, the vines seeking to trap Hektor burst into cinders. A pulse lit his face and in a heartbeat, every piece of ivy in the room was nothing but ash on the kitchen floor.

She heard its wrist crack. It screamed.

“Hektor, do you have it?” Methus surged into the room with Lulian. Between them, they held coils of wire.

“It is mine,” Hektor’s teeth clenched in a death-like grin. He punctuated the statement by pulling the thing forward and slamming it against the wall.

“Get it to the stove, quickly now!”

Hektor threw it with brutal force and then covered the distance from the wall to the stove faster than she could follow. Once again, he pinned the thing down, splaying it over the iron hobs. He pushed his face close and stared it in the eye. It is scared, she thought. A darkness inside her—some damaged part of her soul—wanted to laugh aloud.

Methus and Lulian approached warily. Wearing thick gloves, they disconnected the stove from the Bright Line, removed the heat weave and arranged the new wires, plunging the ends into the exposed vein. The wires burst into glowing life and Methus wrapped them around the Titan’s arms, legs and neck, before attaching them back into the Bright Line.

Hektor let go. It fell to the floor and lay on its back, rigid.

“Charge up again,” Methus said.

Hektor placed a palm onto the Bright Line. The Noble-stone on his chest crackled.

“If it tries anything, kill it.”

Hektor nodded. His fists pulsed, an aura of power hot from his skin. He loomed above the bound thing on the floor.

Tom came in. Sara saw his eyes widen, then his gaze met hers. “Sara, my God, are you okay?”

She reached up and redid her top button. Was she okay? A lump formed in her throat. She tried to answer and shook her head. She looked once more at the Titan, then took another step backwards, pressing into the wall and sliding to the floor. She hugged her knees. Thoughts were impossible to contain. The darkness of a ship’s-hold, screams in the night, hunger, and the fists of angry soldiers … beaten, degraded. She had curled around Micho, protecting him, but she had been a child too. Nothing but a child.

“Sara,” said Tom, bending to his knees before her. “You are safe.”

There was a reply in her mind that did not reach her lips. The only sound she could manage was a sob, and then another before the tears came. I am stronger than this, she thought, as her vision blurred.

Chapter forty-one

Tom

“You will die … so slowly.” The thing heaved against the pulsing weaves of wire. They held. The only sign of tension was a rose glow where it struggled against the binding.

A crack would appear in the stone. In seconds, ivy would burst into the room. Hektor dealt with every twisting vine. He was getting better every time. Tom looked up and said, “Hektor, the ceiling.”

Hektor grinned. “I know it. I feel it now, before I see it.”

The Titan heaved. Hektor looked up at the spike forming just above his head. It grew downwards, like a rock growth Tom had once seen in a cave.

It was halfway. “Hektor?” Tom said again.

“Watch,” the spike came to within a hand’s breadth of Hektor’s eye, then it shuddered and changed direction, aiming towards the thing which had created it. The rocks crunched and ground their way to the floor, tipped in a point which now aimed roughly towards the thing’s genitals.

“Hektor,” Tom said again. I sound like a parent.

The stone retreated into the ceiling. “I am stronger than him,” Hektor said.

The Titan seethed. “Vortigen will flay the flesh from your bones.”

Methus approached. “Is your leader more adept than you at manipulating stones and vines?”

“He is far greater!” it shrieked.

Sara seemed to have rallied. She stood shakily, placing a hand on Hektor’s shoulder and moving alongside. She stepped close, waving a hand for silence. “May I ask a question?”

It looked at her without apparent emotion. It could have been thinking literally anything. Most disconcerting.

Sara asked, “What is your name?”

It sank back and seemed to consider. “I am Astryx,” it finally said.

A baseline, Tom thought. Clever girl. Shared information, shared confidence.

“What do you want with Porenza?” she asked.

He waited like the rest and frowned when Astryx did not answer.

“Where do you come from?” she asked.

“Far, far away. Further than any distance or time your meagre minds could encompass and closer than the embrace of death!” it laughed maniacally.

“How did you get here?” she asked.

Quick-fire questions were another excellent tactic. Tom had once read a treatise on non-violent interrogation, and Sara was proving to either be a natural, or else she had read the same book.

“The Bright!” it laughed again, high pitched, and then thrashed against its bonds once more. “How else?”

“What do you want with us?” Sara asked. It was a repeat of her earlier question.

“I want to study you.”

Evasion. Tom thought. It was likely part of the truth, for Astryx, anyway. “What does Vortigen want?” he interrupted. Sara frowned.

“Ask him yourself.” It struggled with renewed vigour.

Hektor banished two more invasions of ivy and a thin line of glass which was close to invisible. This one he redirected through Astryx’s left hand. The thing shrieked in pain.

To Tom’s surprise, Methus did not immediately admonish him. Instead, he asked, “Is Micho upstairs?”

“He is sleeping,” said Lulian. She had retired with the boy earlier, in order to both set him to rest and calm herself.

Methus lifted a chair. He set it close to the bound Titan. Perched on the edge, he looked down into its eyes. Behind him, Hektor stood sentry. Methus said, “If you will not answer our questions, I will cause you pain. Do you understand?”

It clenched its teeth. “I am no stranger to pain.”

“The knife, Sara,” Methus extended his hand without looking.

Really? Tom thought. “You would not.”

“He should, and he will,” Sara said. She picked the knife from the floor and laid the handle in Methus’ palm. “Do you know what it would have done to me if not for Hektor?”

He could guess. Still. “It is unconscionable. Kill it, by all means, but to torture the thing? We should not stoop to such a level. We have our souls to consider, our humanity.”

“It is not human.” Hektor growled. “And it is doing far worse to my people.”

“Hush,” said Methus, calming them. One of the table legs snapped before their eyes. Strands of wood split from it, splinter sharp.

Hektor quickly righted the break. “I can feel it,“ he said. “It is terrified.”

“Tom,” Lulian said gently. “This is not revenge. This is about saving our lives. Not our souls.”

Tom struggled. Can I let this happen and look at myself afterwards? Astryx stared at him, and he wondered if it was imploring him to help. The ridges on its skull and its tiny eyes were less expressive than a statue. Eventually, he said, “Do what you must. I will have no part.”

“Are you leaving?” Methus asked.

Tom shook his head. He picked up another chair and set it against the far wall. “No. I will not run when a decision is hard. Either I fight you for the safety of this devil, or I stay here and, through either action or inaction, accept complicity. Leaving is not an option.” He took a deep breath and sat down. He continued, “Ask your questions. I will accept the stain you force upon my soul.”

Chapter forty-two

Sara

The sound of a scream was nothing new. Sara had heard worse.

Astryx was in pain, without question, but not genuine pain. Its cries contained outrage, for one thing. They still conveyed an emotion greater than pain itself. Astryx was still capable of thought, and so its screams were as much communication as reaction.

Upon the seas, crushed in the bowels of the huge boats which took them from the horrors of Dren … those were screams. She remembered a woman who delivered her child in the dark, and the wet, and the stink. Long since used to the heat, the crush of bodies, the woman screamed as the tiny life emerged. Then she wailed, a sound like her heart escaping through her throat with the realisation it was not a life after all. That was actual pain. The silence after was even worse. The tiny body was another dead thing cast into the sea. Just like all the others.

Compared to that, Astryx was a spoiled brat. An infant crying over a skin graze.

“Are you okay?” Hektor asked.

She realised she had stopped cutting.

“Sara?” Methus asked. “Shall I take over again?”

I’ve seen your shaking hands, thought Sara. I am more suited to this butchery. “No,” she replied. “The blood, the smell. It just reminds me of leaving Dren.”

Even the Titan fell silent.

She shook her head to clear the memories. “I am surprised by how weak it is.”

“Weak!” it shrieked. She shrugged and continued to run the small knife along its arm. It screamed again, like a hawk’s cry. Oh, shut up.

“Keep going,” Methus said. “Deeper, if you can.” She barely heard him above the din.

“I will tell you nothing!” It vowed, like this was the worst she could inflict.

“Oh,” Sara replied, “but you already are.” She followed the sinewy growths beneath the skin and stopped her cut only when she reached the wrist. “Watch the biceps,” she said.

“I will feel any change,” Hektor promised.

The first time, the thing healed its wounds. She saw muscle unlike any human or animal. She cut again. The third time, she asked Hektor to block its healing. He failed. Manipulating its body was apparently a power the Bright forbade. Instead, she just kept cutting until Astryx realised keeping the wound open would mean less suffering.

“Remarkable,” Methus inserted the forceps.

The thing was odd, with blood as red as theirs, yet which congealed more quickly. Globules of the stuff were making a mess on the floor. Its skin was tougher, a little leathery, hairless, and smooth. The most interesting part, by far, were the bands of sinew.

Methus lifted the forceps into the light, gripping tightly. Astryx squeezed shut its eyes. It whined in what Sara could only assume was an attempt to escape suffering. It was almost laughable. Methus examined a taut piece of coiled tendon. “Could we duplicate this?” he asked.

Sara bent closer. Flecks of dark matter floated past her face. A piece landed on the tip of her nose. Ivy turned into ash. She blew it away.

“I need to charge again,” Hektor said. He leant over her and reached into the Bright Line.

She pressed back against him, bathed in his warmth even as her attention was elsewhere. “It would be difficult,” Sara replied, answering Methus. “I think that—“ She paused, examining the tendon-like growth, ”—I think that, yes. I could make this thing.”

“Would drawing it help?” Hektor asked.

“No. Well, yes. But it is unnecessary. I can recreate this.”

“Take one of its eyes next,” Methus said. He drew up a chair and sat on its edge, leaning forward just above the thing’s feet. “Might be weaves in there for better vision. And then, I think, we should look at its heart.”

Lulian made a noise in her throat.

Astryx writhed, moaning incomprehensibly. The weaves holding it were as solid as Hektor himself.

“My God, Methus,” Tom whispered from the corner. Sara looked at him, averting her eyes a moment from the wound. Not weak, she decided, but a slave to his values, a man who would rather die of hunger than steal a crumb from a glutton so that he might live.

Sara’s knife hovered expectantly over the little orbs. “We do what we must,” she explained. “To learn. To fight.”

Tom had turned pale. Pain, she thought. So much of it lately. She moved the knife down. Somehow, Astryx moved its head sideways. The weave across its forehead flared pink and Hektor, behind her, grunted. She lowered the knife again.

“Wait!” it cried, like a toddler.

She obliged. “Yes?”

“Vortigen … will … kill you all,” it laughed aloud, a mixture of madness and fear.

The knife hovered, and she looked at them all. Tom stared back. He judged her. Lulian closed her eyes.

“Sara?” Hektor asked.

Methus was engaged, still staring at the incision upon the arm, the weave-like tendons there. He looked up at her, finally noticed the impasse, and the knife in her hand lingering over its heart. He saw her intent. “We learn so much more whilst it lives.”

“Kill us all?” she asked the thing, ignoring Methus.

“Yes!” it shrieked.

“Perhaps. Though you will not see it.” She pushed the knife into its chest. Right to the hilt. It screamed again, and this time, the pain was more visceral. She heard sheer panic and absurd denial, like music. It struggled, and the wire moved again. It flared, then the colour drained from the wire, and drained from its eyes. The scream died in its throat. She held on, the handle wet in her palm.

There was silence.

“Finally,” Tom said, standing. “A defensible decision.”

Hektor touched the Bright Line, then placed his hand over the thing’s heart. “It is dead.”

The last blob of syrupy blood struggled from the wound in Astryx’s arm. The muscles relaxed. Now it could no longer heal, Astryx was at her complete mercy. “A dead subject is still a subject,” she said. “We have a lot to study.”

He feigned calm, but Methus had turned a shade of grey. His mouth chewed around something. Probably his tongue. She remembered after her attack at the barracks years ago, Methus had been the same. He had bandaged her hands and stitched the worst of her cuts. All business and practicality. She was aware of it, but found it easier to close her eyes, feign unconsciousness and let him get on with the work. When he had finished, when the healing weaves were on her chest and he stood back, she had allowed her eyelids to flutter. She had seen him staring at her blood on his hands. She watched them shake. His jaw had been working around something invisible then, as well. Sometimes the greatest pain is inside, she thought.

“We have a lot of work to do,” she said.

Methus snapped back. “Yes,” his eyes gained their focus, and he observed the dead thing once more for what it was: a tool.

“It is definitely dead?“ asked Tom.

Hektor nodded. “Life faded from its heart. It is no more.”

“Then I think I need some air,” the philosopher replied, excusing himself.

Chapter forty-three

Draygan

Draygan could create places that existed; constructs in his mind that felt, smelled, and tasted real. Moments from his memory became parts of the palace in his mind. He was learning. It is what I do best.

“Your control is better,” said the Titan. “I expect you will find our missing Nobles again.”

They were in private gardens behind the northwest corner of the amphitheatre, surrounded by the walls of what used to be an old university building. Draygan remembered a rich family had lived there. He guessed they were dead or hiding. Plum trees edged the lawn, and an old brick fire-pit was in one corner. A blaze flickered in the grate beneath. Draygan could smell cooking meat.

“These are delicious,” exclaimed Demetes, chewing through a huge mouthful. He was standing by the fire. A terrified senator handed him plate after plate of cooked boar. The Titan’s appetite seemed endless. “No wonder you do not exterminate them!”

Vortigen sat at the head of a table in the centre of a neat, green patch of lawn. “Join me, young Archon. Do you feel the Bright? Can you draw it from such a distance?”

Draygan moved away from the fire and sat at the table. A new Noble-stone was ready upon his chest, waiting for that buzzing sound, the cue that a Noble was reaching out to communicate. He closed his eyes. Warmth spread from above his heart. Power seeped into the crystal, suffusing his limbs. It was just as if he were on the sands, a strength surging in his breast, a longing, sudden and volatile. He wanted to fight. “I can feel it,” he said.

“Sink into your mind. See the place you have created for any who cast their thoughts through the Bright.”

He opened his eyes, “Alone?”

“Help yourself, Archon, or leave.”

Draygan nodded. He closed his eyes once more, willed his vision to sink somewhere inside himself, where the whiteness lay. It was like questing for communication but more internal somehow. His breathing deepened, like meditating with Lulian. The whiteness expanded. He lifted a hand. This time, it was solid. Yes, he thought. I can do this.

The stark surroundings in his mind blossomed. Colours erupted, smells bursting into his mind like a memory.

He was back at the Manse. Perhaps it was the smell of food. His father was there, as if he were alive, looming at the head of the table. This is so real, he thought. The Archon was making his way through a plate of venison, a prize from a hunt earlier that day. Istaran rugs adorned one wall, books lined another. That strange stuffed owl was there, a joke, his father said, but one he had failed to explain.

He saw a younger version of himself. A scared version. A boy who hid from a father who had returned from a victory he would not stop recounting. His father was charismatic, affable, and yet in his quieter moments, anger had taken hold. For a man who loved to speak of the war, he was blind to how it had changed him.

Draygan may have lost his biological parents, yet his suffering was not unique in the Manse. The Archon had lost his true born daughter, had lost his wife to the plague, and had nothing to show for his legacy but an adopted son. Anger was in the air of that house. Every room charged with it.

Stand up to him, Draygan thought. Say something!

But the boy from his vision could not hear. The Archon finished his plate. “You still here?” he asked, eyes watery, cheeks red. “Off with you.”

The younger version of Draygan rose, hesitated, and then left.

The memory faded, whiteness returned, and with it a scream. Pain seeped into his head like oil in water, building pressure behind his eyes. The scream sounded again, an alien sound. It was one of the Titans.

“Human!” called Vortigen.

He woke from the immersion to see Genia rushing into the garden, furious. Her mouth pulled back with a snarl and her knees were bent. Cat-like, she prowled the edges of the landscaped lawn.

Vortigen was on his feet.

Demetes wandered over. Boar juices ran from the corners of his mouth, dripped down his chin and onto his bare chest. His tongue ran along his lips. His eyes were glowing. “Did you feel it?” he asked.

Draygan looked from one to the other. “What happened?”

Flowers in bloom withered and died. Genia made a sound no human could match, a multi-toned scream, rage incarnate. The leaves on the plum trees turned blood red. They shredded to dust, floating to the ground.

Vortigen clenched his fists, smashing them onto the table. Cutlery and plates flew into the air. Wood splintered.

Demetes laughed. “Our brother Astryx is no more. Glory to the fallen!”

The stone on Draygan’s chest faded. The last of the ashen leaves crumbled at his feet.

Chapter forty-four

Hektor

Thick blood seeped from the flesh. It oozed around the edges of the knife, congealed and solidified.

Hektor had been aware of the failing spark in the dying Titan. The pulse of power was richer than the Bright, but smaller, more precious. A piece of life. Hektor felt it shrink, fade, and then disappear.

Methus and Lulian knelt next to Sara, offering comfort as she bent over the body. Her breath was even, her hands steady. My Sara. He wanted to console her, but he saw her pain. The way her hands rubbed each other, restless. Her blood was hot, her anger alive.

“Sara,” he began. What was that?

The room felt small. As if the walls were leaning in. A distortion smudged his vision. He could not tell if it was the Bright or the world that shifted, but something had changed.

“What is it?” asked Methus. The man missed nothing.

Hektor stepped unsteadily towards Sara. He helped her to her feet and wrapped her in an embrace. She looked into his eyes with the same question, her anger fading. Then she looked down. “Hektor? Your chest is glowing again.”

He stumbled. Her added weight caused them to hit the wall. He squeezed his eyes closed. What is happening?

Methus sprang to his feet.

Hektor said, “I sense a presence. It is growing in strength. A… feeling. A recognition.”

“What feeling?” Sara extricated herself from his grasp.

He remembered the huge Titan who had found him at the harbour. The thing had sensed him somehow.

“Hektor, damn it,” Methus said. “What feeling?”

“Rage,” he replied. He saw the Titan in his mind. Saw its eyes find him in the dark. “We are in danger. We must leave.”

“Now?” asked Lulian. “What about Tom?”

“Right now. Gather what you can.“ He collected wire, a knife. The others followed his example. He rushed upstairs and scooped Micho into his arms. The boy was half asleep and nuzzled into his chest, mumbling. “I dream about castles … “

“Shh,” he soothed. He ran back down, and as he passed the door, the others were ready. “The slums,“ he said. “I will meet you there.”

They heard a sharp clanging sound. Something heavy hitting stone. Sara led the way downstairs. The rest followed. Hektor passed Micho to Methus. As they spilled into the street, another crash sounded, closer this time. A bestial howl rose above the salt wind.

Tom was there, staring above the rooftops. “Did you hear that?” he asked.

“Go to the slums,” Hektor urged. “Look after Micho. Run!”

“My villa,” Tom said. “Training facility. High walls. You know it?”

There was a man who saw sense. “I will find it.”

They bolted, all except Sara. She stared at him, her eyes wide. He shook his head and mouthed the word, Go.

Then he turned back. The entire building shook. He went back in, steadying himself on the walls as he rushed back up the stairs and into Methus and Sara’s work room. The Bright Line throbbed, angry; it seemed to twist, like it wanted to escape from the wall. No time to think. He placed his hand on the Line, filling the Noble-stone. The surge of power lanced into his mind, straining the tendons in his neck. He ground his teeth with the shock of it, and felt the emotion again, like a rush of water filling his mouth, his lungs, his nose. He choked with the bile of it, a rage such as he had never known.

The house shuddered. The floor threatened to bring him to his knees. Part of the roof sheared away, and for the first time, sunlight spilled into the dust and gloom. Move. He ran from the room, down the stairs, steadier now. The Bright lent him strength, precision, and he all but slid to the front door, awash with light. He turned left and right. Sara and the rest had gone.

He would have given thanks to Dje, if not for the Titan waiting for him.

-I see you, said Vortigen.

The Titan raised a hand to the house, teeth bared, fingers stretched. It looked at him, then lowered its hand. The rage faded.

Hektor was trapped. His whole body felt on the verge of action; a hot, combustive force longing for movement, for combat, yet the Titan held him in its thrall. Its narrow eyes locked onto his own, and Hektor knew one fact beyond question. If he ran, he would not run far.

-I have you, came the voice. It grew from his chest, buzzed between his ears. He shook his head, tried to see a likely alleyway, a doorway. Anywhere to make his escape.

He found no avenue. No way past the Titan. He could sense a way to reply, a way to form words in his mind. But what would I say? He simply waited. The house behind him shuddered. If the beast attacked, he would fight.

Instead, it raised its other hand.

Hektor was expecting it. He had seen the vines entangle his people on Vestia Way, had felt the ivy from Astryx as it found the cracks in the walls of his home. When Vortigen raised its fist, Hektor closed his eyes.

The tangle of leaves and wood erupting from the floor could not find purchase. A command to the Bright brushed them aside. He stepped forward, limbs free, and completely missed the other working the beast had wrought. The house.

It had separated entirely from the buildings on either side. Solid stone crumbled, sliding from cracked mortar and muddying the air. He sensed the foundations beneath the walls turn from a solid mass into something softer, more pliable. It is affecting my mind, he realised. I should be terrified. Rock seeped into the surrounding earth. The building swayed. Everything he owned in the world was on the brink of collapse. So why am I so calm?

A crunching sound filled his ears. Vines found his legs and arms, carrying him clear as three stories collapsed into nothing. Hektor had been stronger than Astryx, foiling every attempt the Titan had made at binding him, hurting him. Now he reached with his mind and found nothing but detachment. He strained against the torpor, tensing every fibre of his being as the vines as they carried him closer.

It was useless. The power in the Noble-stone had finished. The Titan knelt before him. Vines constricted. Something in his chest snapped. He felt a lance-like tendril puncture his shoulder, squirming into his flesh.

-You will come with me, Stoneheart.

The rage of Vortigen was gone, replaced by joy. It was the satisfaction that evil derives from pain, a thrill more akin to sickness than pleasure. Underlying it was another emotion, from … where? Another kind of joy. Hektor strained at the vines, attempting to wrestle free with his body rather than his mind. The secondary emotion became stronger. A rapidly approaching bloom of pure jubilation, a joy more savage, more real than Vortigen’s.

-HE IS MINE.

Another voice. A war in his head, an argument in a language he could never know. The vines shook upon his arms, first constricting, then loosening.

Demetes ran from the end of the road with a speed that defied logic and then leapt at Vortigen.

The vines fell at Hektor’s feet. Vortigen flung a hand at the new threat, halting Demetes’ flight. Air curled, solidified in pockets, streamers that tickled the ground, stabbing the rock beneath Demetes’ feet.

Hektor, free now, backed away a step. The strange calm lifted, and a will to act surged in his blood. The struggle between the Titans was escalating, building alongside the mounting pain in his own chest and shoulder. Desperation from Vortigen, righteous anger from Demetes.

Vortigen whipped its head towards him, aware of the sagging vines. Hektor stepped back further, stumbling. The Noble-stone seemed to buzz, a small reminder. A sliver of power remained.

As the Titans struggled, he ran.

-RELEASE ME

-He escapes!

Thoughts faded as he moved. Emotions boiling in the air became whispers. He ran. With the power of the Bright, he was faster than any man alive. His feet pounded a war drum rhythm on the streets; he turned through alleys and roads, leapt any obstacle, slowing for nothing, not even the agony of his wounds. Porenzians gasped, stumbled from his path. In the market he leapt, the Bright carrying him high above the awnings and pitches, the booths with the canvas sides and wooden walls. He landed amidst a group of women who screamed at the intrusion, scattering as he took off once more.

His legs surged, arms pumping. The tendons in his neck bulged at his skin, pulling from his jaw, and even with the stamina lent by the Bright, his breath tore ragged from his chest.

He ran and ran. In the slums, his feet slowed. His heart thumped his broken ribs like blows from a fist. As the Noble-stone faded, he felt one last emotion, a distant, brutal appeasement, knowledge that the Titans were together, and coming for him.

The feelings stopped. A violent fatigue swept his every joint, heavy on his shoulders. His head hurt. His shoulder bled freely. A drop of rain hit the end of his nose. Clouds gathered in silence above, without notice or leave. Another smattering of rain flicked at the dust of the slums, the smell of it bursting around him: old plants, life. The slums turned and twisted. He stumbled, knowing for sure the Titans were close, but unable to feel them. Slate and brick heaped together at every corner. Chairs lined the side of one small dwelling. He stumbled. I’m so tired.

He fell against a paint daubed wall. He cast his mind, a futile search for another Bright Line, doomed to failure. The Titans would be here any moment. They were faster than him. Much faster.

A door opened. “Big, dumb ... get in here!” A hand grabbed the crook of his elbow, hauling him inside. He had no time to judge the mismatched interior, nor the kitchen that followed. He closed his eyes; his mind and body slumped, shattered with fatigue. “Don’t stop there!” the voice said. Local accent. I recognise this man.

The man swept a rug from a wooden floor, beneath which was a trapdoor. The stranger lifted the ring to reveal a dark flight of steps. “In,” he ordered.

Hektor stepped down. The man pushed him, urging him on.

“You’re not safe out there. Gods-damned, dumb, islander idiot. Go on, get down. Get down I said!” Hektor tripped into the cellar as the stranger kept on. “Soldiers out there, round you lot up each morning since the monsters smashed up the place. One of ’em prowls round here too, an awful thing, big as a door. That’s it, in you go.”

The darkness swamped him. He smelled bodies. Lots of them. A light appeared from a corner of the room, silhouetting a crush of people. His people. The light grew brighter. It illuminated a sheen of sweat on a face, hastily turned away. It picked out the eyes of a child who stared in shock.

The stranger came forward. He pushed Hektor to a corner, to where there was space for him to sit. “So,” the stranger asked. “Who are you?”

Bodies moved, shifted. They whispered Drenian phrases mixed with local dialects. The light found a gap between them, shining on the stranger’s face.

He felt a spark of the Bright flash in his eyes and knew for certain that each iris shone pink. His heart sank.

The man sighed. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

It was the pepper vendor. The brute who had chased and beaten Sara, who still wore the bruises of Hektor’s revenge. An enemy who reached up and touched his own cheek, a sure reminder of their connection.

Hektor licked his lips. How does this go? Maybe violence. Maybe not. He saw the man’s indecision.

Others in the room moved away. The man shook his head and finally harrumphed in resignation. “Stoneheart. Our bloody saviour. Of course it had to be you.”

Chapter forty-five

Tom

He made them run as fast as they could manage. Methus flagged quickly. The old man bumped against walls and stumbled over cobbles. The child in his arms cannot help. Thankfully, Sara went to him and took Micho. She let the boy hold her shoulders, hoisting him like a pack. They ran on.

Tom led them around the market, then angled north, away from the Palazzo and towards the slums. He heard a disturbingly familiar sound, that of a building falling, and gasped, “Hurry!” but it was no use. Lulian was older than she liked to admit, and even without Micho, Methus was slow, unfit.

Then the rain came. Tom slowed. He pointed to a gap in a row of tall houses. The space seemed carved from the stone. Somewhere that once must have been home to a fountain, or a bench, but was now empty. Cover, he thought. It would do.

“Stop here,” he breathed, as the downpour intensified. “We’ve come far enough.”

The others caught up. Sara lowered Micho.

The boy looked at her. “You quick,” he smiled.

Tom ruffled the boy’s hair. “Gather round,” he said, and they obliged. “Closer. Sara, go to the back with Micho. Hide your face.” A downpour would not dissuade the Nomani, or indeed the Titans from their patrol. He could not risk them being caught.

They huddled close. The temperature plummeted. They pressed together, shivering in the deluge.

“We should move,” Lulian said.

Tom nodded. The pause had given him time to think. “I’m going back to the house. I’m going to find Hektor.”

Sara opened her mouth. He put a hand up to forestall any objection. “Hear me out. He knows we are going to the villa. Lulian? Take everyone there. Hide in the basement if you have to.”

“I’m coming with you,” said Sara.

“It’s not safe.”

“I will not abandon him.”

I have no time for this. “Sara, you’re Drenian. If any Nomani, or God forbid a Titan sees you, then we’re both lost. I can move unnoticed. I am Nomani. I have a much better chance alone.”

She wavered.

He pressed on. “Go with the others, protect them, make the villa ready for when Hektor returns. Okay?”

“He’s right,” Methus said.

“Come with us, Sara,” urged Lulian.

“Get food somewhere,” added Micho. “I hungry.”

That seemed to do it. Sara held his arm, her grip tight. “Find him,“ she urged.

He nodded once, turned, and ran back the way he had come. He raised his hood and concentrated on the smothering grey, at any hint of movement, any sound of feet upon wet stone.

Chapter forty-six

Draygan

Clouds stacked up against the rooftops. A gust of wind tore at his cloak. Draygan felt rain in the air and imagined it hitting the Canyon Sea, a turbulent, persistent lash of water that would mist towards the harbour and the Laguna. If he hurried, he would make it to the villa before the worst arrived. He would find Tom there. He needed to see his teacher. Their last conversation had not gone well.

Instead of walking along Vestia Way, and therefore the Darkening Chair, he went towards the Billows, a road busy with much of Porenza’s artisan industry. True forges and tanneries were outside the city, yet it paid such institutions to maintain a presence here, for both the tourists from across the sea, and local merchants. The shop-fronts were mostly rustic showrooms, and as Draygan walked, he wondered why he did not come this way more often. He liked the place, liked the heat from the smith fires, the smell of oil, the sawdust, and the workhouse cheer.

Men often shouted from one establishment to another, rough workers delighting in their profanity. Not today. The city was tense.

He stopped at a place where metalwork hung for sale along the exterior wall. Brooches, daggers, and the like. A man sat hammering at an anvil, more show than necessity. Draygan opened his mouth to introduce himself.

When the man looked up, his eyes widened. He dropped the hammer, stood and scurried backwards into the safety of the shop.

Draygan felt a presence behind him and turned. There stood Genia. “I was looking for you,” she said. She reached behind his neck and grasped the knot fastening his robe.

He struggled in her grip. In full view of any who were brave enough to remain a witness, she cast him to the floor. She is going to kill me, he thought. Instead she simply said, “Follow,” and walked in the other direction, towards Decuma road, a residential district.

He stood and obeyed. What other choice was there? It was the time of day when people were about. Decuma road housed many of the vendors and helpers who worked the market, and sure enough, as he turned onto the wide, long road, he saw them, scores of them, bustling and chatting. Here, life went on.

Genia turned to him. “Revenge,” she said. “For my brother.”

Draygan watched in horror as she strode towards them. Some noticed. He watched doors bang closed, sensible citizens silently slipping away. Others stood, watching Genia approach. It raised a sinewy hand. All along the road came small puffs of dust. Tiny holes appeared from solid stone walls, from which snaked long strands of wire. Weaves. Hundreds of them.

The far-too curious locals ran. Faster, thought Draygan. Go! He longed to help, to run to them, yet his legs had anchored, the words in his throat strangled.

The weaves coiled, twisting, wending their way towards the frightened citizenry. Faster than they could evade. Wrists, necks, and ankles were bound. The weaves tangled around those too slow, too infirm to escape.

Wires coiled like vines. Men, women, and children lifted from their feet. Former allies. Some Istaran, most Porenzian. All utterly helpless.

They screamed, desperate in their struggles. The closest to him was a young man whose fear and anger shone. “Archon!” he shouted. “I hope you burn in fiery hell, you traitor!” The man wrenched his hands, kicking at the weaves around his limb. But it was no use. “I hope you burn!”

A whisper of wind breathed along the road, herald of the storm to come. Those who were bound looked to him, to each other. A fierce, resigned quiet settled. He followed the Titan, sandals stumbling over cobbles, his poise gone. “Stop this,” he breathed. “They are innocent!”

“Traitor!” A woman’s voice.

Genia halted her advance. The weaves locked rigid. The dust from where they erupted from the buildings settled. Cries from an infant found his ears, and Draygan begged one last time, “Please, they are my people!”

Someone began to pray.

Genia raised her arms. “Burn?” she asked. “Yes. Burn.”

The weaves went from a dull bronze to a warm red. Soon they glowed. He closed his eyes. Cries of rage became screams of pain. The stink of cooked meat filled Decuma road. Draygan sank to his knees. Look at them, a small voice said.

They writhed, skin blistering. Flames licked at hair. Weave sank into flesh. The youngest fell silent, sagging like dolls in a wiry embrace, heads lolling. Screams faded as they burned. Draygan watched, appalled.

“Stop this,” he whispered.

Genia’s arms raised. The weaves glowed from red to white.

The last to die was the one who called him traitor. No scream from this one, only pain and hatred. Draygan held his gaze even as fire crawled across skin. As the man died, Draygan allowed himself to look beyond. The rest were silent, smoking husks. Bodies no more, but pieces of charred, ruined flesh. His people. His countrymen. How I have failed them. A drop of rain touched his hair. Another smacked the floor next to his foot, fat with the promise of more.

The weaves retreated. The people, what remained of them, dropped unceremoniously to the cobbles. Genia walked on. Her feet ground the remains of ruined flesh into the stone. He was powerless, mute. A numb paralysis prevented him from lifting so much as a hand in opposition. He found he could do nothing but follow as the rain came down.

At the end of the road, her rage appeared spent. “Heat,” she said. “So simple a weave. So useful.”

“They were my people,” he said, tears falling from his eyes.

“Weak human. They killed my brother. What did you think would happen? Be gone.”

Attack her! His mind screamed with the dregs of his courage. But he could not. He shuddered, aware of the power tethered within the Titan’s body.

He fled.

Chapter forty-seven

Tom

Aguesthouse leaned over the end of the street, a forge, once. From a bell-vine covered balcony a man bent across the alley and shouted, “Ho, Valerian!”

He almost tripped. The man was looking down at him with ruddy cheeks just visible beneath a thick, Istaran fur coat. “Markus?” he asked. It was the only senator he actually liked. The man who had booked him for his first address at the public square. He shaded his eyes from the thick drops and stopped. “Markus!”

“What are you doing on the streets?” the man shouted down. “Quintus sent a messenger. Some disturbance on Decuma road. A mess … Don’t go there, you hear?”

“What happened?”

Markus clenched his jaw and looked away. “Where are you heading, Tom?”

To where we murdered a Titan, was the truth, though not a fact he would safely share. “The harbour?” he phrased it as a half-question.

Markus motioned for him to come closer, and he walked over the wet stones until he was just below the balcony. Drips fell on his upturned face.

“Don’t go there either.”

“Why?”

“Quintus ordered the Drenians dead last night,” he said. “All of them. A threat to the new establishment. They rioted, then some of the Nomani actually helped them! I think they all got sick of it, you know? After all that’s going on. It was Nomani against Nomani and there were Drenians and even some of the market men got involved. You know how they like a brawl. Anyway, the big one, Demi-something?”

“Demetes,” Tom called.

“That’s the one. He appeared, and one thing led to another, and anyway, this morning? Don’t go there. The Nomani are still clearing up the mess.”

“How many Drenians died, Markus?” Tom asked.

“Of the prisoners? Damn near all of them, the way I hear it.”

“Home it is then,” Tom said. “Thank you for the information.”

Markus grimaced, clearly wishing the conversation could have been happier. He waved and disappeared back into the guest house.

He passed Decuma road on his return. He saw the bodies. The charred remains. He walked in a daze, the cries of families washing over him as surely as the rain. This had to stop.

It was not long before he was back at Methus’ house. The building, a small but firm piece of a proud city, was reduced to rubble. It looked as if someone had pulled the roof through the ground floor. Blocks of stone scattered across the cobbles. A patch of greenery—vines—lay wilted in a heap in the centre of the street. He recognised the growth as the vine the Titans were fond of creating. He searched the rubble as best he could.

“Yours?” a passer-by asked, nodding at the wreck that had once been Hektor’s home.

“Someone I know,” corrected Tom, and pulled a large block from a pile where the door had been. It was heavy, and he dropped it.

“Don’t bother,” said the man.

He’s right.

“Should have seen those two Titans running, like their backsides were strapped to heat weaves. Came from over here. Guessing this is their work?”

Tom stepped from the rubble. He dusted his hands and asked, “Running? As in, running away?”

“Chasing something, more like. Furious, they were. I hid inside a doorway. They were flinging people aside like they were wheat-sacks.” He shook his head. “Thought it was only the Drenians they were getting, but no. Good, honest folk catching a Dark time of it. I ask you.”

Chasing something, Tom thought. Or someone.

He thanked the man and left the ruin of the house. Hektor had escaped.

Tom made his way back along the fish district, back through the market. If he could not find Hektor, then perhaps he could get a message to him.

After a short walk, he reached the palazzo where he first met Hektor; a place where orators could talk to the populace, to either educate, discuss, or inform. The only requisite for speaking was that it should enrich Porenza, and Tom was proud to have been part of its history. An audience was often fickle. In his younger days, audiences had heckled, pelted with fruit, even physically pulled him from the platform. He used those moments to improve. He became acquainted with the joy of it, the challenge. After practice, the people responded well to him. He loved them for it. Pride, Tom Valerian? He shook his head.

He walked through the milling crowds. Restaurants and bars were here aplenty, but they were not the main reason for the mass of people. The square was a centre point for roads and alleys which led to many places; the market, the slums, the Bellows, the harbour and fish district. It was where people met and talked. It was where he knew he needed to be. The cut-off columns at the corner of the square were the traditional place for speakers, and they were empty.

He strode towards one of them, never more certain.

A Massacre on Vestia Way. Dead families on Decuma road. Drenians slaughtered in their hundreds.

It has to stop.

Wooden steps spiralled up the column, so that when he stood upon it, he was twice the height of those around him. It was calculated that way, an elevation which did not give the speaker false grandeur, but conversely made them feel exposed. A level meant to inspire humility.

My speech, he thought. He had been here before. The day he laid eyes on Hektor. The day the Titans came.

Tom raised himself up and felt nothing but purpose. This is how it should be, he thought. “Porenzians!” he began. Some faces turned his way. They looked scared. Do not involve me, they seemed to say. “Porenzians! I am Tom Valerian, and today I watched the rain come in from the sea.”

This was safe ground, and more of the crowd stopped. In fact, he had only known of the rain as it splashed his face. But then, what was a speech without some artistic licence? He caught the eyes of those listening, and continued, “I walked the slums, and saw the pride there. I saw grandmothers cover their tender crops. I saw mothers ushering their children from the streets and I saw men, husbands and fathers making their houses safe against the rain and the wind.”

He paused, gauging the reaction. A few cheers sounded, and someone whistled from the back of the gathering.

In a louder, hard-hitting tone, he shouted, “I saw men and women praying for the dead on Vestia Way! I saw a tragedy, and yet I saw the will of the people to carry on! Because we will not cower! But this is not who we truly are,“ he said. “Porenza is more than our response to suffering. In these days of suffering, I see more than tragedy. I see small things, which when combined are what make Porenza great! The market vendors who stock their wares from sunrise to dusk, heedless of the midday heat, the farmers who toil under the same sun, pouring their sweat into the earth so that we may eat, that we may drink! Our people, all of us, we are strong because we care! Because we are Porenzians! And we will not falter!”

Someone shouted, “Ever do any farming, Valerian?”

He did not recognize the voice, yet he laughed as if the joke were the accomplishment of the morning. “Me? Just give me a plough, give me a scythe. Give me nothing and in our hour of need I will use my bare hands! I may not have farmed, or fought, but if Porenza needs me, if our children and our brothers and sisters might go hungry, then I will work without hesitation. I will fight. I will work and toil with great pride, for I am Porenzian,” he said the last quietly, and the people hushed with him.

There came a shout, “Thought you were Nomani!”

He pointed to where the question had arisen and cocked his head with a smile, as if caught out. “By birth,” he shrugged, and laughed again. “But not in here.” He thumped his chest and rose back up to his full height, serious once more. “On Vestia Way the arrows fell, there was death for all. Indiscriminate suffering. I cried that day for my people. By the harbour, Drenians died. Men and women who work alongside us daily, who are as much Porenzian as any of us. My people. Today, on Decuma road, all men and women were the victims. All of them, my people! I tell you all, we are one. My heart is Porenzian.”

An audience was a strange thing. A man could speak with passion and clarity about the greatest philosophy, and discerning folk would walk right by. A man could be persuasive and effusive, yet if he could not convince a large enough group to listen to his first sentence, then he would interest no one. An audience, Tom knew, loved company far more than it loved to be entertained. Where there were ten people listening, no matter the subject or performer, soon there would be twenty, and then a hundred. A man could sing through a list of his kitchen utensils, and if enough people stopped, more would follow.

Tom had his crowd. People listened, their curiosity piqued. Who is this man? What is he saying? They would ask among themselves. He had them. “I am Porenzian,” he repeated, “Once, there was war! My country and yours. But no longer. We have a new enemy, and we will fight as one!”

“Tell that to the soldiers!” A tall man screamed, “They ain’t my people! They’re bloody killing us!”

“It is they who we must fight! They are no longer Nomani, but the enemy. I am no longer Nomani. I am Porenzian and I care. I care that the olive harvest rots on the trees. I care that the beaches are empty of laughter, and I care that the wine from the vineyards has stopped flowing. Does anybody here miss the cool taste of crisp Porenzian white on their lips, fresh as the sun goes down? Does anybody miss talking with friends and family without fear or worry?” Of course they did.

The cheers grew louder. “So do I! This city, this way of life, all of you—“ He waved an encompassing hand, ”—I would fight to keep this.” Faces angled up towards him, all pressed together. He looked them over and pointed to a fervent looking woman in the second row, “Would you?”

“Yes!” she shouted.

“Yes!” he repeated, and pumped a fist. He looked over the crowd again, choosing four or five targets. “Would you fight for the fallen?”

“Aye,” came the reply. He asked another couple in quick succession, and they answered immediately, swept up in the moment. “Yes!”

Next was an old orator’s trick, he cast his head back and forth, catching as many eyes as possible, in a heartbeat he held their silence in his raised fist, and it would have felt as if he were addressing them all personally, “Would you fight for freedom?” Tom asked the crowd one last time.

They roared at him. He held up a hand, and they hushed again. His face became angry, and he leaned forward. “I would fight. I will fight,“ he raised his voice then, ending in a crescendo, “Yea, and if Porenza needed, I would die for it!”

This time, the roar was deafening. “I will return tomorrow with a champion!” he shouted above them. Please let it be true. “I will return with one who will lead us! We will cast aside this tyranny! We will reclaim our lives. Tell Porenza there will be no more death unless we demand it. There will be no more oppression. Tell your friends! Your brothers and sisters! Tomorrow we will fight, and Porenza will be ours once more!” Hektor, he thought, I hope to God you hear this.

Before him was a sea of pumping fists and contorted faces. “Go!” he urged. He stepped back. “Go now, and I will see you all, and many more, upon the crest of the midday sun.”

The group who listened had their own mind now, and dispersed, talking excitedly and hurriedly. Fear seeped into their ranks, he felt. But he had done his work. Tomorrow they would come, and for better or worse, he would end this thing.

He descended the steps, largely ignored. Only one man found him, and stood, barring his way. Draygan.

“I’ve been looking for you,” Draygan said, his face ashen. “That speech was madness, Tom! They will die, all of them. What have you done?”

“More than you,” Tom said, and pushed past.

“Wait!” Draygan called. Tom stopped.

He turned. “Yes?”

“I need to talk.”

There was pain in the young man’s eyes. Or remorse? “The time for talking is done. I have said my piece. I have issued the challenge. Tomorrow Porenza fights.”

Draygan shook his head. “You condemn the city.”

Tom looked at the boy who was once his student, his friend. He said, “Try to remember who you were, Draygan. I hope I see you here tomorrow. I hope you are with us.”

Chapter forty-eight

Lars

Lars chewed through the last of the fig. A little of the juice was on his chin and he raised his arm to wipe it with his sleeve. Wrist guard, he remembered, and lowered it.

“That’s disgusting,” Jelena stated.

He raised an eyebrow. “You try eating one of these without dribbling.”

“Not that, the skin. You eat the skin,” she made a face.

“When did you get so delicate?”

They were almost upon the church, close enough to see detail on the columns holding the portico above the door. The stone was grey and cracked, green at the edges. Whatever paint may have adorned the columns had long since faded.

The building was small and round like most churches of the old religion, and the porthole windows, once likely a feature of the place, were now absent. Only jagged teeth of glass poked from the rounded frames. Like evil little eyes.

The place put him on edge. The pines and the great, looming wall above the church plunged the place into shadow. About twenty paces away, he realised he liked the place even less. It was not the building, particularly, but the full regiment of Nomani soldiers filing from the doorway. He stopped. “Damn.”

“Oh, damn and death.” Jelena agreed.

Goran kept walking, his stride measured and purposeful.

“Get back here!” Lars hissed.

Goran turned and shrugged. “Run if you like,” he said.

His palm itched for the hilt of a sword. Apples. Rotten apples. Every single time. He heard his father’s words, ‘Swing Lars! Set your feet! Thrust, and again! And again! SET YOUR FEET!’ At sixteen, he had beaten his father until the man could not walk. He had stood over his tormentor. Then he had left, fallen apples squelching under his heels.

At eighteen, his Brightening year, he had travelled to Porenza to take his turn upon the Darkening Chair. There were three that year, and he had been last. He remembered squirming, his eyes on the crowd. His father had been there, down by the harbour. He had calmed. His only memory of his Brightening thereafter had been locking eyes with his father, who suddenly seemed so small, so frail and shallow. I feared this man, he had thought. It was the last contact they had. He heard his father died in some bar-room brawl in some cesspool outside of Revi. Old man had avoided the draft for Dren’s defence, somehow. The coward. Good riddance.

None of that stopped the memories fluttering like moths every time he laid a hand on a hilt. He swallowed the last of the fig, drew the blade, and banished the sour taste in his mouth.

“Wait up,” he jogged to Goran.

Jelena followed.

The Nomani arranged themselves in a curving line, tips pointed inward.

“Leave the talking to me,” Goran said.

“You don’t think we’re diplomatic enough?” Jelena whispered and drew her sword. The line moved closer.

Lars grinned. “Probably for the best. The only thing worse than Porenzians are the Nomani. I’ll negotiate with my blade rather than my words, and they’ll have the better deal for it.”

“Halt!” Goran boomed. To Lars’ astonishment, the soldiers wavered, and then they stopped.

“Form up!”

The edges of the line faded back until the row was straight once more, and Goran walked slowly out to meet them.

Lars followed behind. He stopped just far enough away to hear. Goran stood at ease, his sword in his scabbard. He turned his head deliberately from one end of the line to the other, his judgement clear.

“Swords!” thirty blades whispered from their scabbards.

“Is he mad?” Jelena whispered.

“Always a possibility,” Lars agreed.

Goran walked to the end of the line and slowly made his way along. He pinched the blade of one man’s weapon, scrutinising it, and stared into the man’s eyes. “Name, soldier?”

“Fabius, sir?”

“It is ‘Captain,’ soldier. Fall out, see me in my command tent after drill.”

“Ah… tent, Captain?”

Goran smacked his hand to the top of his helmet as if the world were full of imbeciles, and he was the only one that suffered for it. “Let me guess, the canvas did not arrive?”

“No, Captain. Sorry, Captain.”

“Fall out, soldier.” The man sheathed his sword, saluted, turned smartly and then practically ran into the church. Goran completed his inspection without further word or incident. Then he stepped back and faced them again.

“Who is Trigintus here?“ Lars recognised the Nomani term for a commander of thirty.

“Captain.” A man from the centre stepped forward.

Goran nodded and returned a salute. “At ease. Your name?”

“Evidius.”

“Trigintus Evidius, your men present well, and you have turned out neatly and quickly. Tell me, how is your command?”

“Two days and nothing but digging. Dull work.”

“Anything… strange? Anything I should know?”

Evidius raised an eyebrow. “Such as two Istaran Nobles on the loose? Odd couple, so I hear. And a Porenzian gladiator?”

Goran’s eyes narrowed. It had been a fickle plan, at best. He had hoped his tone of command would bluff them through. This commander, Evidius, apparently knew better.

Evidius broke into a grin. “We were told to look for you. Fear not,” he turned to his men with a look of complete pride, then spoke once more to Goran, “You are in no harm from us. Our orders are to unearth a Bright Line. The big Titan in charge said that, exposed, the Lines are more powerful, that it would help them open their gateway somehow.”

“Okay,” Goran allowed, wary.

Evidius went on, “So we get on with it. First day, a couple of farmers tried to make it past that infernal wall with ropes and hooks. They lived on the other side, I’d guess. My men tried to warn them. You probably know what happened. Those big, damned arrows. I got the men together, and we decided that if we see you, or any crap-out-of-luck Drenians, then we keep it to ourselves.”

“Good of you,” said Lars.

Evidius shook his head. “It’s not about being good. This thing, these Titans? It’s not right.”

“So you’ll help us?” asked Jelena.

“Depends. What do you want here?”

“We’re going to get word out,” Lars said, “find some Nobles listening in Istara, or one of the other, lesser Brightened cities. For that, we need the Bright Line and a Noble-stone.”

Evidius smiled. “My men know the way of things. If anyone else comes by to ask, however,” he pointed to Lars and Jelena. “You two are professor and pupil and you, Goran, are a simple soldier. Come, the Line is in the church. We almost have it out.”

Lars’ relief was palpable. His hand let go of the hilt. At a command, the soldiers behind Evidius filed back into the church. Out of line, they looked tired, less sure of themselves.

“Will you follow me?” Evidius said with a smile. “You may, ah, put away your weapon now, professor.”

Lars nodded, his face serious. He sheathed his sword with practised ease. “Lead on, my good man,” he said. Goran, he thought. You have some damned fine luck.

“Hurry, if you want to miss the rain,” Evidius said, looking into the distance.

Lars had forgotten about that. He followed the man’s gaze and saw that clouds had massed into a grey blob, and streaks of rain were already washing the distant fields.

Inside, a soldier showed them the partially excavated Line.

“Late morning, I’d say,” Evidius said. “It’ll be out by then. Should be enough power to connect after that.”

So the men worked. And Lars rested. He sat with Jelena in one of the church’s side doors, watching the rain come down. A soldier broke open a flask of grappa.

“That smell!” Jelena said, eyeing the flask. “Hung like a mountain fog over the Corso Vinotek. Pass it here.”

All Porenzian alcohol is poison, Lars thought, but the stress of the last few days could use some softening. He took the flask after Jelena had taken a mouthful, frowned, and sipped it with a wince. “Gah, it’s horrific.”

Goran frowned. “Are you sure this is wise?”

“Who gives a toss about ‘wise’ in times like these?” Lars replied, and passed the flask back to Jelena, who took a swig so deep it made her eyes water.

The night grew dark. The rain softened. They withstood the judgement of Goran and bravely matched the generous soldier drink for drink. Lars hadn’t even asked the man’s name.

“Long day tomorrow, I’d guess,” the man said.

“Aye,” Lars agreed, and passed the flask. The drinking was far from jovial. It was a ritual. A farewell, perhaps.

As the last of the soldiers retired for the night, they finished the last drop. The three sat, watching the night. Their thoughts were their own.

It was a long time before Lars felt his eyes drift closed.

Chapter forty-nine

Hektor

“It’s you,” the man said, jabbing a finger at the Noble-stone. “God damned ... you.”

Hektor had a choice. Attack or escape. This was the man who hurt Sara. His hands itched for the Bright, to draw power and crush this man for good. Or he could wait.

“The Stoneheart, they calling you. Bloody Drenian. Figures.”

Hektor stood. Slowly. A threat, but a calculated one. “Why are these people here?” he asked.

In a moment that shattered both the tension and the interest of the watching Drenians, the vendor actually laughed. “Damned if I know,” he said. “Come on, follow me. I’m not keeping the Stoneheart in some basement.”

The man opened another door, slipping through it into a long, dark corridor. “Coming?” he asked.

Hektor was already on his feet. A huge Drenian stepped up to him, leaned over, and spoke with a thick accent. “Go with Bojan,” the man said.The corridor led downward to another small room. A mark of the slums, if there were such a thing. Rooms after rooms, space salvaged wherever possible. Hektor could hardly move for the stacks of wooden crates, and the stove whose chimney angled diagonally across the entire room. Elsewhere were the frayed, glowing ends of light weaves. The room was thick with the lack of ventilation. The man’s body odour had lingered and amassed into a stench which made him gag.

“Sit down,” the man said. “I’m Bojan, if you want to know.”

Hektor sat. The Noble-stone pushed up on his chest, and he smoothed his tunic over it.

Bojan raised an eyebrow. “Oh, no use hiding it,” he said. “You’re the man. And here you are. Figure we should talk.”

“You said you would kill me,” Hektor recalled.

“Yeah, well, look where that got me.” Bojan rubbed his eye again, a narrow, swollen slit, black in the dim light. The crooked, obviously broken nose completed the bruised ensemble.

Hektor leaned forward. “You need to tell me why those people are in your basement.”

Bojan nodded. “I guess I do, else you’ll break some more teeth, eh? No, no, don’t worry. I’ll talk, threat or no threat. Got myself into this, and truth told, I could use your help. Yep! You heard that right.”

“Okay … “

“See, I sell peppers. Always have. My father owned a field outside Porenza, and when the old sack of wrinkles died, it became Bojan’s field. Mine. I got no wife, but I got some friends. I know a rich woman in a villa. Go there sometimes. I got this half-decent place. And I know where I’m going in life—that is—until a big, angry Drenian came along.”

“That’s me, I suppose. Ruining your day.”

“Don’t get all whiny. Yes, you. I shouldn’t have beaten the girl. Not so harshly. But she stole! I had a right. And then you came, left me a goddamn mess, and then they came. If the world didn’t turn on its head, I would have hunted you down and killed you, boy, and thanked God for one less thieving Drenian in the world.”

“Are you convincing me to help you?” Hektor asked, “It’s not working.”

Bojan held up a finger. “That’s not how it turned out. I saw that flash in your eyes. And then the things came. I saw one by the docks. Killed my brother when it landed. Wrapped him up on the harbour and squeezed the life from him. Not even Drenian. The next day I’m at home, up top, crying my eyes out if you must know, hurting like hell. My face and my soul. Anyway, this young girl comes running along, tearing this way and that. She was terrified. Just like that slip of thing, your girl, who, I’ll say it now, I’m sorry for.”

Hektor clenched his jaw. “Thank you,” he allowed.

“I shouted from my front porch, asked her where she was running to. Drenians in the slums? It was outrageous. Instead of running away, she ran towards me, stumbled in and fell over, then crawled like a mad thing into the corner where she shook like a leaf. From there, I was at a loss. I looked out. Saw a bloody devil walking along the road, steps light as air.

“Next morning, the girl woke up in the same corner. I threw a pepper at her and then went to work. When I returned home, there was a little boy with her, and two old women. All their big white eyes, wide as beggar-bowls. Told them to get out, held the door open, only that’s when the light shone on the little boy. Saw his face burned all along one side. And one of the old women cradled her arm, freshly broken. So I let them stay. Figured, just for the time being. Gave them some more peppers.

“The day after that, there were more. The neighbours figured it out. Word spread and somehow, Gods know how, I became popular. Beyond understanding. Food started getting left at the door, bandages. Women from the washers came and helped me clean up.”

Poorly, thought Hektor. But he was beginning to understand.

Bojan went on. “Men around the slums, the richer sort who before offered me only their sneers and judgement, now offered their strength, their money, and slowly the number of houses round here sheltering the Drenians grew.”

“So you are protecting them?” The pepper seller. He could scarcely believe it.

Bojan nodded. “And somehow I’m their leader. I’m the one who they listen to. I told them… see. I told them I’d find you, told them I knew you, which was a lie. Gods have a sense of humour, I suppose. I told them you’d come and show them how to fight back.” He spread his hands.

Hektor stroked the frayed arm of the old chair, the material rich, but used. “I’ll help you,” he said. “But I don’t need to tell my people how to fight back. They know, Bojan. Believe me. Every day of their lives is a struggle.”

“You’ll take over though? These people look up to me ... I’m not you, okay?”

“Keep them safe until I return.” Hektor stood.

Bojan came to his feet, moving to block the door. “Where are you going?”

Stood too fast, he thought. His vision swam. He needed a Bright Line to fix his ribs and his shoulder, or else he would be useless. “A villa. High walls. A Nomani philosopher lives there.”

“I know it,” said Bojan. “Hey, are you okay? You look sick.”

He sat back down. The chair swamped him. “Long day,” he slurred.

“Stoneheart?” Bojan asked.

But he was exhausted. Thoughts faded, and he slept.

Chapter fifty

Lars

In what felt like moments, Lars’ eyes opened again. Oh hell, he thought. He went to wash his face, stumbling, still drunk. He took a sip from the basin and immediately heaved the liquid back onto the church floor. “Sorry,” he mumbled, thoughts cast to any god who might have seen such blasphemy.

Lars could barely hold down his own spittle. “Where’s Jelena?” he asked a soldier.

“Disappeared into the pines,” the man said, grinning. “Said she needed to relieve herself. She pukes louder than a market man shouting.”

“Thanks for the image,” Lars replied. He waited at the basin until Evidius found him.

“You mentioned your medical training last night,” the Trigintus said.

Lars frowned. “I did?”

“Among other things. You also wouldn’t shut up about the Istaran rug trade, and you challenged ten of my men to an arm wrestle tournament.”

Jelena returned, a shade paler than her days in the sun would suggest. Lars called over, “Did we arm wrestle?”

She shook her head. “Just drinking.”

Evidius took a sip of his own from the basin. He wiped his mouth with a cloth pulled from his belt, and said, “Rugs and competitions aside, you were quite clear. If not a warrior, you would have been a doctor.”

“A good one,” Lars agreed.

Evidius clapped him on the shoulder. “Sober up then, Istaran. Whilst you’re here, you’ll be of use.”

Three of the regiment harboured injuries. It took Lars an hour to see them all properly, and throughout, they could not quite accept his expertise. They saw his warrior’s physique and his matted beard. His eyes were bleary, and he was shaking. Perhaps working hungover does not inspire confidence either, he thought.

“Dr Larson is a renowned physician,” Jelena announced to the last patient, having finally regained the power of coherent speech.

The man was squirming. It was a private concern. Great. “You have something wrong with your genitals?”

The man nodded, eyeing Jelena.

Oh, for goodness’ sake. “Jelena, you’ve seen a man before, right?”

Jelena shook her head with a grin. “Only rumours.”

The soldier looked between them, red cheeks, tired eyes. “Drop them,” Lars ordered, pointing to the soldier’s underwear. He burped, winced at the smell. They were in what had been the priests’ quarters in the church. The soldier, the last of the three, was shy.

Finally, the garments came down and Lars leaned close. “By God,” he said. “You’ll father no children.”

“What!”

Lars looked up. “Because you’re so ugly.” It was one of his favourites, and he rolled back with laughter. His hangover thudded, and his laughter turned into a wince.

“That is … is … “

“You’ve got a sweat rash, man. Get some air to your privates, find a looser pair of undergarments and stop complaining. Now, where has Evidius got to?”

“By the Line,” Jelena said.

Of course he was. Lars waved cheerily at the man and beckoned Jelena to follow.

“You think this will work?” Jelena asked. “Considering what happened to Goran last time?”

Lars did not reply. It was the best chance they had. The excavated Bright Line was in front of the altar. They stopped before the stone plinth and quieted their conversation.

“Gentlemen,” Evidius said. He turned to Lars. “Are the men well?”

“They’ll live.”

Evidius smiled. “Good. And … are you well-rested yourselves? Can I get you some more water? Perhaps a fig?”

“Water would be nice,” Lars said. Evidius snapped his fingers at a young soldier and the man ran off.

“Corso’s grappa is quite renowned. Now, is there anything else you need?”

Lars shook his head, “Just the Noble-stone.”

Evidius walked behind the altar. It was a simple block of granite. A crack along the centre seeped a soft, pink light. Rubble piled behind the altar, and here Evidius stopped. “You will not need a stone,” he said. “The crown was already attached to the Line, as we were informed it would be. It serves a similar function, I would guess.” He lifted something onto the altar.

It did indeed resemble a crown, but not one which would easily fit a human head. It was more of a helmet, and the pink tendrils which wound back into the rock were ominously similar to those on the Darkening Chair.

The ridges inside the helmet looked uncomfortable. Light pumped into the headpiece.

Jelena asked, “Will it work?”

Evidius shrugged. “You’re the Noble.”

Goran approached. “Remember, if you find yourself in a dream, you must take your own life. Do you understand? A dream means imminent danger.”

“Right,” Lars raised an eyebrow. “We’re prepared as we’re going to be. Evidius, your men are ready?”

“Upon my command, we can leave immediately.”

Jelena looked warily at the crown. “Lars?”

“Give it here,” he took the piece. It came easily, the attaching Lines snaked over the rock as if coated in oil. He turned and sat with his back to the altar, took a breath and put the thing on his head.

The world went white.

“My father was an outstanding leader,” came a voice. “A hero in battle, I am told.”

Lars’ vision had not yet settled, and the voice disorientated him.

“I barely spoke to him when he was alive—“ who is that? ”—but he was pleasant enough to others. A good man who adopted a Noble son, taught him nothing of love, but more than enough about the value of obedience.”

Lars felt his ankles and wrists. Ahead was nothing but wooden beams. He realised he was on his back, staring at a ceiling, tied and unable to move.

“Vortigen has been teaching me. Welcome to my creation.”

Lars shut his eyes again and summoned his will, attempting to feel the weaknesses, the malleable parts of his binding. There was nothing. The ties around his limbs were of simple rope, and held fast under his most concerted pulling and thrashing. “Show yourself,” he growled.

The boy approached.

“I am commanded to keep you here,” Draygan said. “To find your location and send Genia.”

Lars thought of a few curses, rounded up the worst and spat them into Draygan’s face.

“She is the most cruel by far,” Draygan walked away, but kept talking. “Worse than Astryx ever was. At least the Titan had a scientific reason behind his cruelty. Genia is just empty. She follows Vortigen without question, and her methods are always, always brutal. In some ways, she is more violent than Demetes.“ Lars wrenched at his ropes. Draygan returned to his field of vision. “That won’t work. I designed this place. You are my prisoner as completely as we are Voritgen’s. Yes. Genia is the worst, and she is coming for you. You know what she did when Astryx fell?”

Lars’ thoughts raced. He was strapped-up tight, that was for sure. Could he strangle himself somehow? No. The boy had done his job well. His only tools were his words. Damn the Dark.

Draygan went on, “She stared the full length of Decuma road, from one end to the other, and every single person she saw she burned. I watched her. After, she even explained the process, as if seeing it was not horror enough. She said, ‘a simple heat weave, Draygan, see how I twist it, see how I call the Bright?’ and yes, I watched. I watched as living weaves grasped victims, consuming them by flame from within. Their bodies became nothing but char and ash. She did it for vengeance. For the rage she felt. On nothing but a whim.”

Lars heaved once more. Useless. What was worse, the boy sounded insane.

“She may have murdered those people for vengeance, but me? I was worse. I watched and did nothing. I called it a lesson.”

The table beneath his back was cold, smooth, without blemish. Lars shifted, trying to find a snag for the ropes, anything. It was useless. Time for another tactic. “You’re the Archon’s son,” he began.

Draygan laughed, a humourless sound. The sound of pacing feet came with the simple words, “I am the Archon.”

There was a raw hopelessness about the boy. Like he had given up. Lars might have expected fervour, or at least pride from the figurehead of Porenza’s new regime. Instead, there was only loneliness and sadness. “What will the beast do when she finds us?” Lars asked.

“Oh, you will suffer. Or perhaps you will already be dead. Soldiers are coming too. There is a reward for the capture of the last of the Nobles.”

“Why?”

“Old blood feeds the gateway. It opens a path between their world and ours. We will trade our power for a share of paradise. That is all I have been told.” The boy loomed over him again. An ornate dagger was in his hand. “If you escape, what will you do?”

“Find you, boy, and put that dagger somewhere darker than your palm,” Lars grinned. So much for talking his way out of this.

“You’ll have to get past a regiment of Nomani.”

“Aye.”

“And Genia.”

“Anything made of flesh can die.”

Draygan leaned closer. “Very well. When you wake, leave immediately. Genia will be close. You will have your chance tomorrow in the centre of Porenza, the square where better men than us are raised to speak. My captain will know where. Tell him … tell him I am sorry.” With that, Draygan plunged the dagger down.

A searing pain erupted between his ribs. His teeth ground together and he screamed, the sound echoing from the whitewashed dream and into the reality of the church.

“Lars?”

“Run,” he said, tearing the crown from his scalp.

“Again?” Jelena was already moving to the church door.

“Now!” Lars said, “Everyone, Goran! We’re going.”

Several minutes later, Lars led a column away from the church. Evidius’ soldiers were quick to comply. They knew their business, and like their commander, they were solid men.

He led them away from the giant wall, skirting the road under the grey shade of the olive grove. He held up a hand and the group behind him stopped. Lowering his hand, he gently lay on his stomach. With some minor scraping of metal on cloth, the rest followed suit.

Along the row of gnarled trunks and dipping branches, some distance away, there moved another group. They marched along the road with obvious haste. At their head was the beast Draygan promised.

Genia.

Chapter fifty-one

Goran

“Agateway?” Goran asked. They moved once more under the shade of twisted, salt-gnarled oak. The beach washed at their ankles, foaming upon smooth stone.

“That’s what the boy said.” Lars held his helmet in one hand, his sandals in the other. As he walked, he kicked, splashing at the shallows.

“Anything else?” Goran asked.

“Something about sharing the Titan’s paradise.”

It sounded to Goran like a whole handful of horse turd. Aloud he said, “I see.” He would have asked more. Lars, however, had wandered towards Jelena.

Further along the beach, the young Trigintus, Evidius, stepped alongside, tightening a cinch on his breastplate. “You fought on the Isthmus during the war?” he asked.

“I did.” Goran replied. “Is that a guess?”

“I fought as well. Nomani father, Vestian mother. Don’t worry, I fought on your side. We met once aboard the Apollino. We were to relieve you and sail the trireme to Revi.”

Goran remembered. He had refused to relinquish command, certain he had spied an enemy sail on the horizon hours earlier. “I took the relief force as auxiliaries and scouted the bay south of an old fishing village. I cannot remember the name.”

“Versa. That was the name of the village.”

Goran smiled. “So you were there. You must have been young.”

Evidius nodded, “I was young, and you were brilliant. You found the enemy ship, the forerunner for a fleet of many more. You led the attack yourself. By the time the rest caught us, we were lighting warning beacons all the way up the coast.”

“Our reinforcements arrived just in time.”

“And another battle went to the allied states. It was an important moment in the war,” Goran smiled once more, this time in memory. His refusal to relinquish command was an offence which should have seen him stripped of rank. Instead, his land-based superiors had taken credit for the action and sent Goran promptly back into action.

His thoughts returned to the present. The small column of men followed him and Evidius as they drew to the end of the curving Laguna. To their left, the sea washed grey upon the muddied rocks. He turned to the young officer. “So you remember me. What is your point, Evidius?”

“I knew even before the Titans gave orders for your capture that I would not obey them.”

Goran nodded. “Both of us traitors then, hm?”

Evidius chuckled. “I recognised you as soon as you called halt two days ago. How could I not? You impressed the men, too. They know the stories. They found your attempt at command a testament to your character. It took bravery to do that. We could have killed you.”

“Who gave the order for my capture?” he asked.

“Vortigen himself. After I left, I was told by Quintus too. The senator begged me to look out for the three remaining Brightened men in Porenza, the traitors who had yet to defect to the new regime. He suggested we might be punished if you were not found. The orders were very clear, very direct. And then he tells me that among the three, is you. The man whose actions on a boat when I was just a boy inspired me to become the man I am today.”

“And who are you?” Goran asked.

“A man like yourself,” Evidius said. “The word traitor does neither of us justice. I am a man of honour. Captain, and my men are with me. We’re going back to fight for what is ours, are we not?”

Goran breathed a sigh of relief. He had hoped the young commander would help further. “We are, Trigintus. May God smile upon our hearts.”

“Your decision may have saved Porenza; you disobeyed an order. I disobeyed a Senator yesterday, and I hope that my decision will prove equally well considered,” he offered his hand.

Goran took it. It was not a warrior’s grip, nor any grasp of soldierly understanding. Simply, it was a handshake. An agreement between men. They walked on.

Before them, the city waited.

Chapter fifty-two

Porenzians

It started slowly. The speech which spawned the rebellion was like a great shout, a truth shattering into a thousand whispers. Only words, for the time being. Yet words had power.

“Someone is coming,” an old fisherwoman said, by the harbour. She leaned on a post by the quay and whispered it to a girl with tears in her eyes. The fisherwoman put a hand on her shoulder.

“A hero?” asked the girl.

The old timer nodded. “Aye, and we’ll stand beside them.”

A day ago, the frail little thing was a stranger. Whole families had died in the massacre that killed the last of the dockside Drenians, and she’d found the waif picking through the pockets of the dead, hunger overcoming grief. Back at the old fishing boat, she’d fed her and listened as the tears finally found a way out. The little girl cried herself to sleep.

This morning the harbour was clean of bodies. The heavy rain had washed away the blood. Word of the retaliation had reached the fisherwoman from the market that afternoon, as she surveyed the meagre catch. She passed those words forward. “A hero will lead us so that we can avenge your family.”

The girl nodded, wiping a tear.

Elsewhere, three men sat at a table which rested, crooked against the wall of the old Corso Vinotek. Between them, they worked their way through the best bottle of Porenzian white they had ever tasted. “Tomorrow, so they say,” one said.

“About bloody time. Nomani raided the slums yesterday.”

“Scum.”

The third banged his hand on the table. “It’s the Senate’s fault. Should have put a stop to it straight away. I’m going to enjoy watching them hang.”

“I’ll do the hanging myself,” another put in.

“We beat them once! I took an arrow in the war. Dark, I know how to kill the scum.”

From a balcony overhanging the alley, above an ancient archway, a young woman listened. She clenched her fist and thought, are we fighting back? Finally? She went into the attic and rummaged in a chest, laying hands on her father’s sword. Touching the weapon was forbidden. Until now, she had always done as she was told. Her father was gone, however, and as she lifted the surprising weight from the chest, she thought, I don’t think he will mind.

Word spread to a Nomani squad patrolling the Palazzo. They whispered the news. Some soldiers found fresh resolve, others were simply confused. Their formation broke into chaos as men marched out of time.

“Officer!” a Senator called from the steps of the old cathedral, “Get your men in line!”

Demetes heard. The bones of his inner ear restructured themselves, and a blinding pain shot down his spine. A fizzing sensation soon muted the pain, and far off conversations became crystallised. He listened to a server whisper over a plate of watermelon. He listened from atop the tower for a long minute before changing his inner physiognomy back to how it had been. The pain was less this time, and he exulted.

Death would come tomorrow.

There was not another living warrior who could match Demetes, but one. “I killed your people, Stoneheart. By the water, I tore them apart. You did not come. I found you, and you ran. Why were you waiting? Will you come to me tomorrow?” Only the Bright knows. Yet one thing was absolute. I will die at your hand, he thought. And I will know the glory of eternity.

Just off an alley leading from Decuma road, a white-haired woman left an empty house. She bustled from the open door with an armful of wire. The door was stiff and her hands were full. It refused to close.

“Let me help,” said one of the old men playing on an Archon-board across the narrow street. He rose and shouldered the door onto the latch. “That was Jem’s house,” he said. “Old boy never fixed it.”

The woman nodded. “We will honour him,” she said. “I knew him. I miss him.”

“He’d want you to have that,” the man nodded at the wire, “Jem never kept a thing to himself that someone else needed more. You use that wire and keep yourself warm.” The man leaned in close, and Lulian smelled strong alcohol. He whispered a secret to her, of a man who had lit a flame beneath Porenza. He spoke of hearing a Nomani in the public square, and how the news was everywhere. The old man was delighted to find someone who had not yet heard the news. Tomorrow we will fight back. The old man shook his stick in the air and smiled, drunk.

Lulian reeled. There was only one Nomani who might inspire such a thing. She thanked the man, who went back to his game with a wave and a wink. With the wire in her arms, she hurried to where Sara and the rest were hiding. From there, they made their slow, careful way to the villa. Tom Valerian, she thought. What have you done?

Later that night, in a basement near a villa at the edge of the slums, a group of nearly fifty men and women crammed together and listened as a pepper seller spoke. “I have seen your leader,” he said. “Tomorrow he will fight the devils, fight the Nomani and free Porenza.” The pepper seller looked at the mass of eager faces. “I know him. We are friends. He will show us the way!”

Chapter fifty-three

Tom

The words spread like fire.

A missive that ran on the voices of youths. A salve to a wounded city. We fight back! Whispers became shouts thrown along alleys, cast from open windows. The words darted into the market, bounced along the Billows, along Gallery street, on the tongues of old men for whom rumour was richer than wine.

Tom walked slowly. Men and women recognised him. They lifted their chins and raised their fists. Through the slums, soldiers patrolled.

“Valerian!” one of them shouted.

He pretended not to hear, turning away. The villa was close by.

The gate was open. It swung forward at his touch. Palm seeds crunched under his sandals, the fountain in the pool bubbled, and yet it was all so different. “Methus!” he called. Nothing. “Lulian?” Surely they should be here by now.

There was no answer. His words fell flat. Leaves and loose pebbles covered the slope running down towards the basement, dropped during the storm. No one had deigned to pick them up. He looked at the doors to the base of the slope. The room beyond was where Rhain would spar with Draygan. He imagined their laughter, their easy banter, the bruises they gave each other, worn with pride. He silently sent a prayer to the old soldier. You are in a better place, my friend.

The villa stared down at him, accusing. Most of the window shutters were open, the balcony awnings flapped, and he decided that if the others were in the house, they were unlikely to answer a shout. He made his way to the steps. The front door swung open with the slightest push.

Nothing was out of place. He searched everywhere. The living quarters were a little dusty, but Rhain’s maps were still on the walls and the fired clay tea set seemed recently used. The training rooms were untouched. He checked his own room last to find a book face down on his bed, a practice which had infuriated Lulian.

Tom read the title, ‘The Meditations of Sevis Valerian.’ It was one of his favourites. He flipped through the pages and randomly stopped on a passage. It read, ‘Nowhere can a man find a more untroubled retreat than his own soul.’ He closed the book. Did he believe those words? It was hard to say. He took it and left.

He had planned to look in the slums. As he reached the steps from the front door, He saw them, easing around the front gate as if fearful of touching it.

Sara turned sharply. She relaxed when she saw him and came forward. “Gave a talk, did you?”

“I … Hektor escaped. Whatever happened at the house, he got away.”

She shrugged, then gripped his shoulders. “We know. News of your speech is spreading. Hektor will hear the words.”

“Where were you?” Tom asked.

Lulian answered. “Detour for materials.”

Sara added, “To create a weapon for when Hektor returns, weave he can use. We learned so much from Astryx.”

“Plus,” added Methus, “We needed to keep Sara hidden. Nomani soldiers are out in force.”

Sure enough, the young woman was in a heavy shawl, Micho bundled up similarly. Lulian continued, “Your words at the public square travelled faster than our feet, Tom Valerian. Whispers have a speed in Porenza that could outstrip the fastest arrow ever loosed. I hope you know what you have started.”

Methus set down Micho, who ran excitedly to the pool. The boy began kicking the water. The old man approached, a wry smile on his face.

“I thought you would be angry,” Tom admitted.

“Anger is for avoidable idiocy,” Methus said. “Like Hektor running off to the docks before he knows the difference between a weave and the end of his ... anyway. I can get angry about local folk blaming Drenians for the plagues or the weather or bad fishing. Few years ago I seethed watching desperate sods march to their death on the Darkening Chair. But this? This is different. You said the words, and people listened. Porenza needs to fight, and so it needs Hektor. I’m not angry, I’m motivated. There is a Bright Line here?”

“By the table,” Tom said. “It runs from the basement.”

Sara placed a satchel on the wooden surface. Lulian added a bundle of wire.

Tom sat, and the rest settled on the benches. Behind him, Micho lowered himself into the water for a swim.

“Is he safe?”

“Swims like an eel.” Sara smiled.

“Hand me a weave,” Methus said. “The day is fading, and there’s work to do.”

Tom watched as Sara and Methus twisted and wove the wires together. They discussed various parts of Astryx’s anatomy, the curious arrangement of weaves inside the beast. They set about recreating what they had seen.

“Anything I can do?” Tom asked. He felt useless. Weaving was beyond him.

Thankfully, Methus nodded. “We need a better harness. Find me a weight-vest, riding gloves, a skullcap. Find me anything that Hektor can wear, anything that we can attach a weave to. Remember, whatever you find, he needs to move in it.”

“No armour, then.” Lulian said.

Methus shook his head. “The Bright is all the armour he’ll need.”

Chapter fifty-four

Sara

She waited for him, her exhaustion battling with her desperation to see him return. She leaned on the balcony, watching as soldiers roamed. Clashes erupted in the night, and shouts. Her eyes drooped. Night drained like slow-moving ink from the horizon.

The grit in her eyes blurred the emerging morning. When he walked through the gate, she almost thought it was a dream.

He looked up. Smiled.

She moved as if in a dream, back through the sliding wooden door, down the marble of the winding stair, past pictures and frescos of meaningless history. Through the larger, sturdier front door. Her feet were cool on the stone, their touch light, measured. A citrus tree, potted on the steps, burst its heady fragrance into the cool of the morning. She sank into his arms.

“I found our people,” Hektor whispered. “Alive.”

She nuzzled him. No talk of this. Not yet.

“Hundreds of them. When I woke, I spoke to… a man. He told me tomorrow we will fight back. Is it true?”

Just one more moment. He had his arms around her. She thought of thatched roofs. Sand on a beach, far from Porenza. Sea the colour of crystal. She thought of meeting him in the alleys of Porenza, a boy then. She thought of the man he had become, and she squeezed. “I don’t ever want to lose you,” she said. She looked at him, saw his concern. She was rarely like this. But how often has death been so near? So heartbreakingly likely?

“We will win, Sara. We have to.”

A platitude. She had grown up hard. She knew it. Moments when she simply wanted his strength—for him to hold her and nothing more—confused him. He was used to her sharp edges, her lack of compromise. And he loves me anyway. “There is a plan,” she said. “Methus and I have been working. He has your new weave-suit in the basement. I believe he might still be there, asleep at the bench we set up.”

They came apart. “The basement?”

“This way,” she said, taking his hand. She led him down the ramp, past the palm tree and over the pebbles which tickled her feet.

Another door in the basement opened into the villa’s interior. Tom was there. He smiled as they entered.

“Ah,” he said. He held a small cup of steaming coffee and went to sit on a chair by the bench. “The wanderer returns.”

Sara shook Methus, who had indeed fallen asleep. “What?” he mumbled. “You… Hektor!”

Once Lulian and Micho were present, and after Hektor had explained about the Titans and the Drenians in the slums, Methus held the suit up. “Pocket at the front,” he said. “Of course. Should hold the Noble-stone more secure. We’ve attached the weaves we found inside Astryx. One of them looks like a heat weave. It ran the length of its arm. Thick. Complex, and if I had to guess, I’d say volatile. Be careful. Do I need to say that? You will not have too much time to practise, okay? But you should be able to move better. We’ve armoured you more. Plenty of short lengths of holding weave. We found how to flex it. Give it pliability. A gift from the Titan’s tendons.”

Tom looked away.

Sara ignored the philosopher’s reaction, focussing instead on Hektor as he took the suit. “Try it on,” she said. “Tom told the people that we will fight today.”

“I cannot charge the Noble-stone,” Hektor said. “They will find me.”

Lulian nodded. “We have thought of that as well. Several places around the city have hidden Noble-stones. The Titans can only sense you when you charge one, yes?”

“That seems to be true, or when I focus in a particular way? Honestly, I am unsure.”

Lulian frowned. “You need to know. These Noble-stones around Porenza, you must go to them. Charge them. Call the Titans, then leave. We must lure them from the rebellion. Give the rest of Porenza time.”

Methus nodded. “You see? So that when you finally do charge the Noble-stone in your suit, they will be more wary. Hesitant to chase shadows.”

“And that is when you attack,” said Sara. She saw him nodding. Sounds easy, does it not?

“I drew a map,” said Tom. Sure enough, on the wall behind him was a rendering of the centre of Porenza, worked in chalk. “You go here first,” Tom pointed to a large building on the edge of the slums. “Following—“ he ran a finger along a mark, ”—This.”

“The Line leading to the market,” said Methus.

“One more Noble-stone at a senator’s house,” Tom said, pointing to another place on the map. “A man called Markus. He is with us.”

Hektor studied the route. “First, I must gather the people. They wait for me.”

“We will go with you.” Sara said.

He shook his head. “You go with Tom to the square. Help him. Organise the people. We need an army, not a mob.”

“There will be many soldiers,” Lulian said. “Word will have reached them, too.”

“There are many more Porenzians,” Tom added. “And if what Hektor says is true, many more Drenians. Hektor, do not act until you absolutely have to. Charge the stones and run. Meet us at the square, and then we all coalesce at the Basilica.”

Hektor nodded. He looked alive and vital in a way that Sara could not have easily described. No longer a man who steals for his family. She bit her lip. He is a warrior who fights for us all.

“I am ready.” Hektor lifted the suit, wires meshed along the fabric. He placed it over his head and pushed his arms through the sleeves, into the gloves. He flexed, clenched a fist. Methus tied another piece around his waist.

Sara placed boots in front of him. He pulled them on, remaining still as Methus connected the weaves from his hip to his calves.

Hektor lifted one leg, then another. He turned, jumped once into the air.

“Good?” she asked.

He smiled. “Perfect.”

She went to the old vest, removed the Noble-stone, and placed it into the pouch on his chest. As she pushed it in, adjusting the straps, she leaned forward and whispered, “Fight well, my love.”

They heard a scream. It was in the distance. It meant one thing. The resistance had begun.

Sara looked at Tom and Methus. There was a question in her eyes.

“I told them midday,” Tom began. He sounded unsure.

“A rioting population will rarely keep a schedule,” Methus said.

Sara nodded. To the square.

They grabbed weapons gathered from the night before. Methus had a cudgel, Sara a bread knife, and Tom a cleaver strapped to his thigh. Micho stayed in the doorway, something small gripped in his hand.

“Be safe, little one,” Hektor said, and knelt, hugging the boy to him.

“Let no one enter,” added Sara, bending low to kiss him on the head. “If we do not return?” Sara pursed her lips. She did not have an answer.

“I fight them,” Micho grinned, holding up the sliver of Noble-stone, the one Hektor had once thought to use for vengeance on a guilty pepper seller.

“Where did you get that? Put that back,” Hektor admonished. “And no, you will not fight them.”

Micho nodded. “Okay. I run away somewhere, grow up just like you. No worry.” The boy waved and closed the gate.

“Ready?” Tom asked.

Hektor nodded. Methus draped a heavy cloth robe around his shoulders.

Sara approached him. She reached around his neck, pulled the hood up so it covered the wires threading beneath his hair. In the hood’s shadow, she kissed him. “I’ll see you soon,” she said.

Chapter fifty-five

Draygan

Apart of him shrunk from the changes in the Basilica. Where once there had been seats, an altar, and healing benches for wounded warriors, now there was nothing. The central light pouring in through the hole in the domed roof remained, the shaft spearing onto a sculpture that was entirely new: a grotesque, giant weave of Bright Lines arching over and burrowing back into the ground. The gateway was complete.

Draygan shuddered. It was unnatural. Worse were the bodies encased within the pulsing strands of power. At some point, Genia had placed them there, using her power to encase corpses like some macabre burial. His team members, and the Istarans, too. Killed on the Campus fields. “Noble blood is nectar to the Bright,” Genia told him.

He supposed his turn would come.

Vortigen had spoken to the most loyal soldiers and senators last night. All had listened, enrapt, as the Titan revealed its plans. It had placed a hand on their heads, shown them a vision, presumably, and they had gone one by one onto the arch. The undulating mass of rose and pink and red had absorbed them. He had watched their eyes, a mixture of fear and awe. As the Line flattened against the back of their heads, he saw a look, fleeting, of sheer ecstasy.

They had all gone, except for him. To feed the place where Porenza and Vortigen’s world would join.

“I need you still,” Vortigen said, and placed a bony, icy hand on his shoulder, like a father to a son. “When the time comes, the strength of my home will flood from the gate, and you will know culture and civilisation as never before.” Draygan bowed in acceptance. “The talk is everywhere,” he said. “The Drenian is coming.”

Vortigen smiled. At least it looked like a smile. It said, “The one with Bright in his blood returns to us. When I cut his throat and drench his soul upon the Lines, the gate will open.”

“You know this from your… prophecy?”

“You may think of it as such,” Vortigen said, his high, musical voice holding a note of amusement. “He is the one she promised us, yet he is not paramount. If he cowers from his destiny, or Demetes kills him too early? Then so be it. The gate will still open, and many more humans will die. There is nothing in this world to stop me.”

Draygan bowed again, backing away. He turned and left the Basilica. On the colonnaded frontage, he stopped and surveyed the mob. He heard whispers from the people, a word here, a shout or an insult thrown his way.

“He is coming, traitor!”

“Hail, Archon!” Then laughter.

They gathered. He knew their purpose. They believed there was one coming who would fight. Draygan feared for them. They would not stand a chance against even Genia, who had returned late last night from the church empty handed, let alone against the rest. Even if the population rioted and Vortigen were not in control, then three full regiments of Nomani could quell any uprising, no matter how well planned. Rhain had taught him well, and Draygan knew beyond doubt that the violence promised from every face in every alleyway, every square and open window would be for nothing. He knew there was no proper plan, no cohesion. The people, his people, were going to be butchered like rats.

Draygan would pick up the pieces. He was still Archon. He breathed the morning air and trembled at the tension, the frisson of anger which rippled out to meet him. I only hope there is something to salvage.

Quintus came running up the steps. “Archon!” greeted the sweating senator. “There are more people gathering at the public square already, hundreds!”

The man wore his olive wreath crown, and all Draygan could think was, how vulgar. He remembered his cloak, now resting on the floor of the Basilica. Should he have worn it? “Senator,” he began. “Is each squad in position?”

Quintus bobbed his head. Draygan wondered if he would ever stop. “All squads, yes.” The senator looked around at the soldiers who flanked his approach to the Basilica. “Except these, of course. The people, they are like animals! They rushed me. I had to relieve these men for my protection. Astonishing, is it not?”

You ordered their friends and families dead, Draygan thought. The massacre at Decuma road, and at the harbour the night before, was a stain upon them all. Quintus seemed to think it was nothing but his sworn duty to carry out Vortigen’s orders, and he did so with a naïve thoroughness which almost matched the cold cruelty of Genia’s methods.

“Give me details, please.”

“Details?” The man’s mouth was open, like he had suffered a head injury.

“Where exactly are the squads? Tell me, so that I may know of your competence.”

“There is one right here,” he began, “and five on the way to the public square. Another three are in reserve at the harbour and one unaccounted for. They should have been at the church.”

One unaccounted for. Goran, he thought, and smiled.

Quintus took the smile as congratulation and puffed himself up. “Permission to report to Lord Vortigen, Archon.”

“Denied, senator,” Draygan replied. “Go back to the Palazzo. Soon we will need every man. There will be no unnecessary violence, do you hear me? Arrest anyone who makes trouble, but do not spill blood. Am I clear?”

“But Vortigen said … “

“Am I clear?” he asked again, his voice deepening.

“Yes, Archon,” Quintus saluted and left, his guards in tow. The senator reached the middle of the square. Then he stopped.

It began with nothing more dangerous than a stale bread roll. The offending projectile flew from one of the dining areas. It arced from beneath a large parasol and Draygan watched in fascination as it fell and landed on top of Quintus’ head.

The senator waded through his own troops, finding courage now that his only adversary was a single young woman. She stood atop a table with a manic grin on her face and launched another roll, which went wildly over Quintus’ head.

“Seize her!” Quintus said, and the soldiers rushed forward.

The Porenzians who, amazingly, had found time to drink and eat that morning, stood almost as one and formed a barrier in front of the woman.

The soldiers rammed the line with their shields, but the crush was too strong as more and more people joined the effort. The woman hurled abuse from the heaving mass, and another of her rolls found its target.

“Cut them down! By order of Vortigen!” he heard Quintus screech, and his heart sank.

“No!” he shouted. A scream drowned his cry. Swords scythed from scabbards, and the first splash of blood erupted from a man’s neck.

The woman halted her diatribe, and then she was screaming with renewed fury, urging her line of protectors forward. They were losing quickly to the swords of the soldiers, chair legs and dinner plates no match for blades and armour, innocents cut to ribbons for nothing. The woman somehow remained standing, cursing them all.

It would have been worse for the diners until a parasol tipped over and covered a group of soldiers. The crowd found somewhere to vent its fury at last, bludgeoning the men beneath the canvas without prejudice, fists breaking themselves upon metal. Stones and heavier objects came to bear until the writhing mess under the parasol was still. The rest of the squad retreated, having finally found some semblance of order.

The soldiers formed a fighting line, shields locked. The group at the restaurant seethed like a rabid dog, barely restrained by a leash.

“They are disgusting,” Genia said, and strode past him, quiet as a spirit.

“You can only push them so far, Genia.”

She ignored him. Her arms rose, and the restaurant changed. Wooden tables and chairs twisted, some grew lush leaves, and all took root in the bare stone of the Palazzo. The baying diners looked around, and some muttered, then screamed anew. The wooden pole of a parasol ripped itself from its canvas to reveal a barbed point. It came alive, piercing flesh wherever it struck, and not a man or woman could move from its assault.

Soon, whoever had lacked the sense to run from the scene was dead or else encompassed within the gruesome sculpture of verdant growth and twisted death Genia created.

The Palazzo quieted. The remaining soldiers stood frozen as Genia approached. Draygan could not hear her words, but the soldiers rushed with little decorum towards the direction of the public square.

She came back, and spared him little more than a glance. “More of the others will come?” she asked.

The Drenians. Should he lie? He decided that there was little point. She would know before long, anyway. He nodded. “They are being sheltered in the slums. I believe they will come.”

“Bring them to the Darkening Chair. The Bright will have their souls.”

Somewhere, another scream sounded, and a thin plume of smoke drifted lazily above the rooftops in the distance. Draygan felt cold.

Chapter fifty-six

Bojan

They marched together, Bojan and Hektor, as if they’d planned the whole thing, leading a vast column of Drenians and slum-dwelling locals. He couldn’t help glancing across. He walked alongside a person he once swore he’d hurt. The Stoneheart. Seeing him now, Bojan could only marvel. A long cape hung from his shoulders, covering strips of leather armour pierced all over with twisted wire weaves. A pair of makeshift gauntlets, clearly fashioned from blacksmith gloves, were upon each hand. The boy looked like a man. And the man looked dangerous.

“Are you okay?” Hektor asked, as the procession rounded a corner towards a residential crescent. Bojan tossed a pepper in the air, catching it awkwardly. “I’m not you,” he admitted. “Not a fighter, see. You learned that much already. This is what I am. I grow and I sell. And sometimes I judge too harshly, and … what am I doing here? I don’t belong here.” He would have slowed, except a large, gloved hand found the small of his back, urging him forward.

“You are more than I expected,” Hektor said. “A judgemental Porenzian, yes, but a man who has found his courage. His honour. Now, I gave you a map earlier. Are we close?”

“Yes,” he said, relieved for something to do, retrieving the map. “Nearly there.” The pressure on his back eased, and he pointed east. “This way. Follow Bojan!”

He soon navigated to the first of the hidden Noble-stones. He watched, awed at the sight of the Drenian and concerned by his compliments all at the same time. Hektor grasped the stone and charged the thing as if he was born with such power. Then together, they ran.

Honour? It was a new concept.

The resistance waited for them all along the route. Hundreds of people, old and young, emerged from doorways and basements, joining Hektor and Bojan as they left the slums. Some even saluted him. Behind them, back where Hektor had charged the stone, an entire side of the street exploded. One of the Titans had taken the bait.

“You’re still a big bloody lump of trouble,” said Bojan, blinking. He took a bite of pepper, trying to clear the quaver in his voice as he chewed. “After all this time, I still like the taste. They’re best grilled. Just a little oil, salt, and spice.”

The road from the slums widened into a flatter, broader avenue. “Forward!” Hektor called, and the army of the slums marched inexorably on. “Wait!” he commanded, “You, you, with me.” The Drenian grabbed several larger men, moving to another building shown on the map. The structure was higher than those surrounding it, with a small balcony. An old outpost used by the barracks to send messages about trade or troop movements. Or something like that. Dark if Bojan knew. The Noble-stone inside was little more than a communication device. Like all things used by rich folk, it was under heavy guard.

“Soldiers,” Bojan warned. Five Nomani sat at a table outside the thick wooden door. “On them,” Hektor commanded, and the wrath of the Drenian fell. One Nomani rushed to pick up the scabbard by his feet. Hektor got to him first, shoulder charging the man into the wall. Bojan winced. Hektor chopped a blow into the soldier’s ribs. The man wrapped an arm around Hektor’s neck.

Was he talking? He could hear the Stoneheart’s words as he fought, “Breath … move around, don’t let him match the grip.”

Except the soldier was strong, trapping Hektor’s head. The Drenian grasped the soldier’s waist, lifting him and slamming him onto the ground. The man held on. Around them, others struggled. Fists met flesh, thuds punctuated by the shrieking scrape of a blade on stone.

“I’ll help!” Bojan screamed, rushing in. A soldier kicked out, knocking him to the floor. Blood and pepper mixed in his mouth.

He heard another blade drawn, and muffled shouts. The man wrestling with Hektor squeezed tight, and Hektor sagged. With a burst, he snaked an arm beneath the soldier’s neck. He moved his body, angling to the side and jamming his shoulder into the man’s neck. He joined his hands and applied pressure of his own. Bojan shook his groggy head, watching as the soldier struggled before going limp.

“Shouldn’t have held on,” Hektor breathed, and kneed the man in the ribs for good measure before regaining his feet. His men forced the door open. “I’ll be a moment.” He went in, and quickly located the Noble-stone. Bojan was on his heels, close enough to hear a vibration from the glowing object. The buzzing sounded almost like words.

-Feel you …

-I COME!

After Hektor once more placed his palm on the thing, they retreated, leaving the stone where it was. The voices faded. Back outside, Hektor motioned for the rest to follow, running along the alley until he was once again at the head of the army of the slums.

“It is a weight upon me,” the Drenian said, marching ever forward.

“Talking to me?” Bojan asked, flinching. Of course he was.

“It pulls at my mind,” Hektor went on. “It longs for me to touch the Bright once more, to draw the power. But not yet. We cannot risk the wrath of a Titan. Not until we are ready. To the square!“ he shouted at his countrymen, “We march!”

At the barracks outpost, a terrible scream curdled the air. They continued on.

A sea of curtain poles, cooking knives and walking sticks followed. Some had inherited or else stolen some genuine weaponry. Bojan wondered if any of it would be of use. There is strength in these people, he reminded himself. “Porenza!” he yelled, and the chant was taken up. How about that?

An enormous Drenian, muscles like tar poured over boulders, came alongside. The man threw an arm around his shoulder and pumped a fist. He seemed to command respect from the rest, and there was another cheer before the chant rose once more, “Porenza!”

From the slums, Hektor led them to the market. They passed Bojan’s booth. He slowed. The awnings, the weaved baskets and the wooden walls were unchanged, waiting for him to return, to brush off the counter and begin selling. It all seemed so small.

Bojan cleared his throat. He wanted to say something, to apologise once more. Instead, he managed a wet cough and the words, “Another life. By God. Won’t be seeing this again.”

Hektor placed a hand on his shoulder.

There was a strange feeling in his stomach, and in his chest, like his heart was aching. He couldn’t figure it out. Couldn’t figure it all out.

Chapter fifty-seven

Hektor

After the market, Hektor angled north towards the square.

He made the army wait once more, a mass of them crushed at the sides of alleys. Too many to hide. He found the house, the balcony with the vines, and the man hanging over the railing. “Markus?” he asked.

“You bloody bet!” replied the senator. “Tom said you’d come.”

He went in. He greeted the senator, aware of worlds colliding. Hands clasped.

He picked up the stone. The one on his chest cried for the surge. It was his in a way that this one was not. He ignored the almost physical desperation and charged the senator’s stone. It filled.

-STAY. I AM COMING.

Hektor replied -I will be at the Basilica.

Acceptance. The Titan withdrew. He put the stone down and told Markus, “You need to leave.”

Outside, Bojan’s followers were multiplying. He joined them, more and more used to the sound and feel of the harness as he moved; the breath of metal on leather, the scratch of wires running from his boots, along his spine, around the knuckles of his gloves. He dared not look back now, and wondered if, as their leaders, he and the pepper seller would fall first. If only Sara was beside me. Except, no. He imagined her safe at the square with Tom, for the moment away from the violence the day promised.

He led them onto Decuma road. Many made signs, kissed their fingers, or blinked their eyes in prayer as they passed. Hektor whispered a word to Suh, a benediction for the Undergod. Carry these souls safely.

He slowed. So many bodies pressed behind him that the space between the shops and galleries became humid and cloying.

“You used to this heat?” Bojan asked, “You know, because … the forests. Where you’re from? They’re pretty hard to fight in, my old man said.”

Hektor ignored him. Some preconceptions were slower to change. “Up ahead,” he said. “Nomani.”

Bojan dropped the pepper. The soldiers were in lines, ten men across, stretching from one side of the road to the other. Resplendent in armour, they stood. Rank upon rank of them. Bojan slowed further. “Damn, it’s hot,” he muttered.

“Hotter than the fire,” Hektor agreed.

“Might give this a miss, after all,” said Bojan. He was sweating heavily, furtively looking at the alleys to the side. Escape routes.

“Forward, I think,” Hektor whispered.

Bojan shook his head.

“They follow you.”

Eventually, Bojan muttered a curse and raised a trembling arm. He swept it forward, only to be jolted from behind. Before he could choose differently, he and Hektor became the crest of a vast wave, jogging at the head of the largest insurgence Porenza had ever seen. Straight into the maw of a hundred sharpened blades.

Hektor clenched his fists, his feet carried him. His heart cried for power. There are Lines nearby, the stone seemed to screech.

I am strong enough without them. The crowd swept him forward. There were cries in two, even three languages. A Drenian with a voice like the deepness in the earth sang aloud.

More of his people took the song up, until it boomed along Decuma road, blasting before them like a ram. The soldiers stirred.

Moments before the collision, the singing man rushed ahead. He was bigger than Hektor. The man turned his song into an inarticulate bellow and crashed into the shields. Hektor followed. His fists met metal, skin split. Something hit his thigh hard enough to make him stumble. The rebellion pushed him onward. Men and women around him fell, blades lashing out, red splashes in the hot air. Many died, but the Nomani formation crumbled even as their swords fell.

Hektor kicked a Nomani, a high, pushing blow with the ball of his foot. The man went down howling, nose a mess. The gap he created was the start of a tide. Next to him, Bojan swept into the nest of blades and armour, useless as a pebble in a river. The pepper seller cried out. He almost went down. A Drenian woman helped him up, looping an arm around his shoulder. She urged him forward once more.

Hektor picked up a length of wood, another man’s weapon. He tried to swing. Someone blocked his arm, and he dropped it. A screaming Nomani fell before him. He jumped. Another hand grabbed his neck. It was a Drenian, and the man grinned before a sword cut the cheek from his face. The man let go.

Bojan, ahead, was screaming.

Is this what a battle is? His breath came in gasps. His heart felt like it might explode and he saw a face, a Nomani. No helmet. Hektor threw a punch, hard as he could. His hand broke with the impact.

They were through. Like a breath of clean air. The army from the slums forged ever on, trampling the Nomani who had not run into the side-alleys. Some of the resistance gave chase. The majority carried on, pounding a rhythm along Decuma road which soon, once again, turned into that familiar, thumping song. Bojan had made a thoughtless comment about the heat, yet there was a familiarity in the air and in the song he could not deny. Hektor could not help but think of home. They arrived at the public square in time.

“So many,” he breathed. People swayed in the crush, confused; some bloodied, some dazed, most simply staring at the empty column where Tom had recently spoken, waiting.

From an alley packed with people, a gap appeared. The crowds parted and Bojan yelled, “He is coming!”

Does he mean me? Hektor wondered.

“The speaker!” someone else yelled. There were shushing sounds. Bodies parted. Weapons held ready, lowered, and Tom Valerian walked alone towards the cut-off column.

Take the power, whispered the Noble-stone. It was time. The warmth on his chest drew him to a corner of the Palazzo. He pushed forward to where light weaves ran along the side of a wall and into a restaurant beyond. Following their twisted length into the establishment, then into the kitchens, he pulled a slab of black stone from atop a stove. The Bright Line beneath welcomed his touch.

In his mind, he felt them.

-There you are.

Outside, he craned his neck and watched Tom climb the small, spiral stair leading up to the podium. The philosopher raised his hands.

“People of Porenza!”

Hektor was still in the long garment, hooded. He walked forward and let the cloth fall.

It felt like his veins had leapt above his skin and burst into Bright-fire. His heart burst with the need to move.

Those around him pushed back. Gasps and indrawn breaths greeted the flash of rose light erupting above his chest.

He let the power seep into his muscles, crouched, and leapt. He cleared the crush, pivoted mid-air and landed upon the empty column beside Tom. Loud, he thought. He needed them all to hear. With the thought came an expansion in his throat. Something gurgling and twisting. It settled. When he spoke, his voice amplified, as if it came from a thousand throats at once. “To the Basilica!” he bellowed. Should I say more?

The host seemed alive, an entity which paused and heaved. As one, they moved, a visceral anger in the ranks. They needed no more words.

He felt the Titans.

-Wait for me, he told them. -I am coming.

He left the square. Faster by far than the crowd. The song from his people began anew. It washed over him, a wave following along the alley. It conjured images, half-remembered, of sandstone cities, spears, and painted arms. Dren, and the war which had torn his country apart was a distant, hazy memory. But the song was part of him. It was a cry to arms. His skin tingled.

The wires around his limbs buzzed and constricted. The pulse of power cooled his blood, drying his skin. His eyes changed. The alleys, the smashed doors and the broken windows gained sharp clarity. He stopped the surge, and the world came back, grit and dust and wet air. He turned a corner. The song followed.

One of the original Porenzian city walls led onto a squat tower, a remnant. A thin-leafed tree grew from a crack in the rock, shedding its leaves, too dry in the summer heat. Small though the tree was, it provided shade for the men beneath. Armoured men. Hektor stopped. It was another squad of Nomani.

“Set!” their leader yelled.

Hektor stood alone. He heard thumping feet some way behind. Reinforcements would not reach him in time. Good. The soldiers came at him as if they were moving through waist deep sludge, so slow he could study each of them and decide which of them might be a threat. There was one in the middle, a gnarled, older soldier. Like the one from the barracks years ago. Hektor had learned from his mistakes. He had grown in ways these Nomani could not imagine. Mine is the lesson to teach.

They locked shields. He felt the metallic touch in his mind. The materials seemed to know each other. He realised that with a command, he could fuse the metal. It was a risk he could not take. Too much power.

Instead, he put a hand on the old wall. A chunk of rock released to fit his gloved palm, a perfect little missile. He launched it at the soldier in the dead centre of the formation. The commander, he hoped. No time. He did not wait. He followed the rock.

The commander took the blow on his shield. It crumpled as the rock exploded. The soldier flew backwards. The bones in the arm holding the shield, Hektor knew without question, shattered.

Before the soldier fell, before the agony escaped his lips, Hektor was among them. Conserve your energy, he thought. Tom had advised him. Better to use creativity over power.

The first sword whistled in the tower’s shadow. The blade caught a falling leaf from the tree. Curious. He slipped from the blow. He was behind the soldier before the sword had managed even half its arc, and gentle as a breeze, he nudged the man off balance.

The sword met the rim of another soldier’s shield, and the two crashed to the floor. He brushed between another onslaught, three blades at once. One caught his shoulder and the Noble-stone flared. Stop playing.

He gritted his teeth as pain bloomed and died, then flung the back of his hand outward, catching the soldier’s helm. It was death for the man, and it was death for six more in half as many heartbeats. Eye, throat, throat. He aimed for the soft bits. Inner thigh, fingers.

The last one clutched his ruined hand. The sword flew into the air. Hektor caught it. I am new to this, he thought. He could punch, kick, grapple, and although the sword felt foreign, the job became much easier. More men rushed in. He heard their screams and anger as if from a distance.

They were becoming tangled. He cut left and right. The blows were sloppy, some with the flat of the blade, but were still effective. As the soldiers fell, he realised he had forgotten his mantra. His arm ached.

Like chopping wood, the key lay in precision, style and form. Hektor sucked in a breath. The thirty men were less, but they were still coming. He felt a blow on his back, and another across his temple. Worse, they had drained him almost completely. I need practice, he thought. I am no woodcutter.

The nearest Line, he remembered, was behind the tower inside a rich townhouse. He burst from the remaining soldiers, hoping he had enough power to escape before they gave chase. The door was already hanging from a hinge. He tore through the meagre obstacle and ran up the stairs. He could feel it, the power calling to his blood. It was there, behind a wall. The stone of the wall was no barrier to the last of his strength, his hand plunging through the rock and into the pink glow as if pulled by an invisible force.

From the front of the house, he heard the soldiers. They had followed. How unwise.

Chapter fifty-eight

Tom

It was terrifying. Tom lost sight of Hektor almost immediately. He saw Methus pushing, trying to make space. He saw Sara’s mouth form silent words. Then she was gone, the urgency of the masses a force for which there was no counter.

He climbed from the podium and stumbled. Someone bumped him upright, and another man screamed incomprehensibly into his face. The lunatic disappeared and suddenly he was with the mob, moving whichever way they took him, a pebble in a flood.

He reached to his hip. The cleaver was there. A boy tripped in front of him and he almost went down again. The boy screamed, and Tom and another man heaved the boy to his feet. “Are you okay?” he asked, but there was no answer, and the boy vanished. The surge moved towards Gallery street, splitting into the alleys and roads.

The temperature rose. Tom could taste the air, wet with the breath and sweat of those around him. The crush pushed him against the wall of a shop. He heard a window split and had to tense his shoulder to rebound. Further along the alley, two men slung their fists. More joined in and Tom tried to shout, “Stop it! Stop! Do not fight each other!” but he went unheard, and the scuffle turned into a brawl which soon reached from one side of the road to the other.

Glass shattered. Someone choked, scared or hurt. Another alley led away from the violence and he took it. His feet ached, pounding over and over on the stone. His limbs, bashed and jostled, felt sluggish and his hair plastered wet against his head. A breeze would be most welcome. But it was not to be. The heat steadily rose.

The alley led into another. He realised that just one alley further along was a square. People here were slowing, and he sensed their lack of assurance. “Stop,” he commanded, and those around him obeyed. He looked around. Somehow, Sara was with him.

Her breathing came in gasps, her chest heaving. “You’re fast, Nomani,” she said, and pointed. “You see there?” The people who were with them followed her lead, angling their necks to see a tall row of buildings. “The back entrance to the restaurants on the Palazzo is just around the corner. From there, we can skirt around the back of the amphitheater, by which time we are almost at the Basilica.” There were nods, and more than a little fear. She continued, “Follow me, slowly now.”

With the rest of them, Tom fell in behind her. “Where is Methus?” he asked.

“Lost him. He tried to follow Hektor.”

The road at the back of the restaurants was busy, but not overly so. It was the other side of the Basilica from where most had gathered and he and his new companions could finally get a breath of fresh air.

“What now?” a man asked.

Good question. From afar came ominous sounds, screams, and distant clashes of metal on metal surrounding their brief island of calm. A dull boom erupted. Smoke rose into the azure sky. Tom shook his head. He thought he heard a song begin.

“Well?” the man insisted.

“That alley,” Sara announced. “The western edge of the Palazzo. We will go there.”

The small following soon gained company. By the time they reached the end of the alleyway, and the back of the restaurants, there were around twenty men and women with them.

Sara led them to a restaurant.

Tom spoke up. “Anyone without a blade, there will be knives inside.” With that, his palm found the meat cleaver. Several men, acting upon the promise of a weapon, had already made their way towards the door. Booted feet fell on the lock. It splintered and soon the wood cracked. With another couple of solid hits, the door fell inwards. The men rushed in. Tom and Sara followed.

Darkness greeted them. There were no windows, only a gentle glow from light weaves tacked to the mortar. Most of the group rushed through the shadowy hallway.

Tom stopped and let them go. A stairwell rose to his right.

“Up?” she asked.

“Better view.” Tom suggested. “Just in case.”

Sara frowned. “A view? We’re here to fight.”

“You have a better suggestion?” He could see from her face that she did not. She feels powerless, Tom thought. Just like me.

“If only we had more Brightened,” she said.

“Or a hundred swords, or a Bright-damned army … Wait. More Brightened,” Tom repeated. “More Noble-stones. Sara. That’s it!“ He clenched his fists. The idiocy of it! How had he not seen?

“Tom?”

“The Noble-stones, Sara. Around the city, the ones we mapped for Hektor to charge and discard. Decoys to lure the Titans, yes, and they have served their purpose. Yet they are still there! Charged, waiting.”

She understood. She leaned against the wooden interior wall and slapped a palm to her forehead. “Hektor can still use them.”

“I know the man who has the closest. A senator called Markus. I’ll go. You get to the highest floor, look over the Palazzo.”

“I’m coming with you,” she said, and made to push past. A clatter of falling metal sounded from the kitchen, a shout, and then silence.

“Think!” he said. “Get high, watch for Hektor. If he comes, let him know that another Noble-stone will arrive. It could be the difference.”

Slowly, she nodded.

He clasped her shoulders. There was a strength in her that was far broader than her physique. He felt bones move beneath skin, and squeezed. “Wait for me,” he said.

She nodded once more. “Go,” she said.

Chapter fifty-nine

Sara

Alone, she walked into the dark. It was cooler here. After the sweltering crush of the mob, she even shivered. At the top of the flight of stairs, she opened a door into the restaurant owner’s office. A broad desk covered with parchment dominated the area, and a mess of empty bottles stacked against the far wall.

A hallway past a door next to the desk wound around to the front of the building. A slit in the wall marred a shoddy attempt at interior paintwork. She pressed her face to it and tried to glimpse the Palazzo through the slats. The view was marginal, and from the gap, she saw and heard very little.

There were shouts and crashes. But not the cacophony of battle. He is not here yet.

She continued onwards. A final set of wooden steps led to the top floor. They creaked with each footfall. She gripped her knife, sweat slick on the handle. The room at the top of the restaurant was huge, clearly the living quarters of whatever family owned the place, lavish in furniture, yet blighted by mess. Sara catalogued the wealth on display: an immense bed strewn with grubby pillows, a painting of a church icon obscured by wooden barrels carelessly heaped together. Such waste, she thought. The vulgarity of it.

Sara made her way towards the balcony at the front of the room. Easing the doors apart into brackets set into the stone, she winced. The sun found her eyes. With a hand across her brow, she finally understood the mute sound of expectation.

Before the steps to the Basilica, resplendent in bronze, were the Nomani. Hundreds of them, armoured and ready in deep ranks, the perfect barrier. Behind them curved the sun-splashed eastern edge of the arena. On the dais just in front of the entrance columns stood Vortigen, and next to him, dwarfed by the inhuman size of the devil and covered in its shadow, was Draygan. Tom’s former pupil.“He suits the robe,” she whispered, grateful Valerian wasn’t here to see the traitor.

Sara let her gaze sweep further across the Palazzo. A swarthy man—some bearded Istaran, it appeared—lay alone, dead on the ancient stones, his body pierced by an arrow from Demetes. Sara looked at the top of Basilica’s bell tower and saw the monstrosity, its bow taught and ready.

At the corner restaurant, a parasol had fallen over. It skittered over cast-aside benches, canvas acting like a sail in a brief gust of wind. It clattered further across a mangled foyer, knocking against a chair and again against the body of a Nomani, then blew towards the other side of the Palazzo. There, the people of Porenza gathered.

They pushed and jostled as if against an invisible rope, none of them quite willing to charge the empty ground. Sara held her breath. Hurry, Tom. She thought. The soldiers, Vortigen, and Draygan waited. Demetes stared along the length of a giant arrow. All Porenza waited as if in the hand of a capricious God, locked in a moment.

Whatever spell captured the people, it broke. Sara saw no signal. She froze, unable to look away, unable to help. An overweight dock-worker led the charge, his yell cut from the world by an arrow exploding through his chest. Bile rose in her throat.

More arrows fell, this time from the soldiers. The rabble of Porenza slowed. Stone shards, wooden shafts, and blood flew in equal measure. Aimless feet crushed friends and fighters alike. The noise of it … the wailing, the anger, the fear. It was terribly sad, somehow. The righteousness fostered by Tom’s speech had turned to horror in a heartbeat. The philosopher inflamed the people, and now they were going to die. Where is Hektor?

By the time they reached the soldiers the populace had slowed nearly to a walk. Their weapons, clubs and kitchen knives were useless. They fell, one after another.

The front line bent backward from the Nomani swords. A man turned, finding a gap where a stone arrow exploded. He pushed against the milling mob. The panic spread. Before the attack had claimed the life of a single soldier, the people of Porenza fled.

The arrows pursued them. Above the clamour she swore she heard high-pitched laughter. She squeezed the knife, backing away. Then she stopped. The alleys clogged, the dead and the dying strewn about the Palazzo like cast aside rags. She stepped forward, resolved to witness the failure of the city, and in amongst the horror of the dead and fleeing, she saw Demetes land.

The Titan jumped the full distance from the belfry. It fell into a crouch. With one hand to the air, a blade near as long as a man materialised in its grip.

She forced herself to watch. Hands on the iron railing. She narrowed her eyes. At one alley, the people were slowing their retreat. Soon they stopped entirely. Then they parted. That strange, expectant silence once more filled the Palazzo, and Sara knew exactly who she would see. My love.

“Hektor.” she whispered.

But it was not a single man who walked through the parted mob. It was not Hektor. Not even a Drenian. It was beyond comprehension. Through the people, half-garbed in Nomani armour, flecked with the red mud of Porenzian fields were two men, and by the looks of things, a young woman in ill-fitting armour.

They approached slowly, their helmets removed, their every movement a challenge. The retreating crowd stopped, turning to look.

“Well!” shouted the man in the centre. “You sack of maggots! Come and pick on someone your own size!” Then, even more inexplicably, the man threw down his sword and slowly stripped off his armour.

Chapter sixty

Goran

Pick on someone your own size? That makes no sense, Goran thought. Demetes was twice Lars’ height. It was more the sentiment, he supposed, which counted. He chewed the inside of his lip, knowing fully the result of Demetes’ prowess. The Titan had obliterated an entire regiment of trained Nomani.

As plans went, Lars’ idea was not suicidal as such. More like sheer lunacy. But then all else had failed. If they wanted to escape, it was the best plan they had.

Lars threw his weapon away first. Jelena followed suit. The metal clanged to the ground and Goran realised that even if he fell, his legacy would be for possessing the biggest stones of any man alive. As he undid his breastplate, he savoured the fact that the three of them must look like the most courageous group of fighters in history. Or the most categorically insane. Regardless, he hoped for a song with his name one day, at least. “I am Goran!” he bellowed, and cast the breastplate onto the ground with the swords. Hear my name, he thought, the image of his daughter blossoming in his mind. I am coming for you, my love.

Lars looked sideways and shook his head. He unbuckled his greaves. Next to Lars, Jelena removed the dagger from her belt and tossed it carelessly to the side, clearly not above theatrics of her own. She gave him an unsteady grin.

Lars shouted, “Are you going to use that sword, you coward? Or are you going to run away again?”

“Is taunting him part of the plan?” Jelena whispered. She was almost down to her under-tunic. Tight, wiry muscles stood out on her shoulders, across her back.

Demetes let the sword fall. Thank heaven for predictability. The handle separated from the blade, and the length of metal rippled and folded, becoming nothing more complex than a piece of torn clothing. The thing’s armour was barely there to begin with, yet what remained crumbled. Its helmet melted from its slanted eyes, and the face which Goran beheld was grinning.

“Madness,” Jelena whispered.

“You can talk,” Lars said, misunderstanding.

Demetes raised its hands and looked around like a gladiator surveying a welcoming audience. “I am not a coward,” it said. “But I will honour your actions, not your words. Come, little people. Challenge the might of Demetes!” It fell into a stance Goran recognised, a balance intended for counter striking, hands splayed and held forward.

Jelena fell into a similar stance and inched towards the waiting giant.

He was aware of a thousand faces pressed into the mouths of alleys, in windows, and doorways. He looked past the thing and saw the Nomani, their mouths open to a man, discipline lost in what they must have assumed was the suicide of the century.

He copied the stance. An Istaran variation that felt strange, and if he was honest, he did not like it. His midsection felt exposed.

Not that it mattered. His gaze settled on the balcony above. There they are, he thought. He nodded his head imperceptibly. He turned his attention to Demetes. “Now!” he bellowed in a voice that once rang across the waves. The command carried over the stones and into the air.

He saw them emerge from the balcony, a tight, well-drilled group. Evidius’ men. Each with a bow of their own.

At once, the arrows fell. Real ones this time, honest shafts of ash with steel tips. They fell towards Demetes. Jelena grabbed a shield at her feet, discarded not moments before, and peeked, frankly terrified, over its metal lip.

Demetes span. The first shaft plunged into its shoulder and sank deep. Good hit! Goran exalted. Another glanced from the bony skull and Demetes whipped its hands around. In one fluid motion, it caught several shafts, spun, and hurled them back at the balcony like a bunch of tiny javelins. Goran could not see the effect, but assumed minimal damage, as Evidius’ men sent a return volley soon after.

Half of the arrows this time burst into splinters, but another one, an incredibly lucky, or incredibly well-aimed arrow hit the thing’s eye. It screamed in a warbling cacophony. “Cowards!” it yelled, and its remaining eye fastened on the four of them. More arrows fell, but this time, before they were even halfway, they burst into sawdust and clouded the air. It did not matter. Demetes stumbled. The Titan looked like it was going to topple.

The soldiers on the balcony faded back as Nomani raced to the front of the restaurant. Make it, he sent his hope with Evidius and his men.

“Time to regroup,” Jelena said. She grabbed her sword, slung the shield across her back and bolted. Goran was next to her in moments. “You think we did it?” he asked, breath coming fast. They were almost at the mouth of the alley, and once again, the people who had not yet fled parted to allow them through. Many remained armed, eyes blazing, willing to fight.They lost themselves in the ranks, and next to Lars, Goran turned, just another face to watch the dying creature. It reeled, hands clutching at the air. Another group, men and women with knives and hatchets, slowly approached. They knew the danger. They were wary, but they would finish the thing once and for all. Goran wished them strength. Behind them all, the Nomani remained motionless. The other one, Vortigen, watched along the bridge of his bony nose, impassive.

Somehow, Demetes stood. Goran’s hope failed. The beast raised a hand, and the rag by its feet fluttered into the air and straightened, once again finding rigidity atop the pommel of a sword which moments before had not existed.

The baying mob halted, then shuffled backwards. No. Goran thought. It cannot survive after all this! The thing raised its sword with one hand and clutched the arrow in its eye with the other. With another inhuman scream, it wrenched the shaft from its own head.

The crowd fell back further still. All except one.

“Oh bloody hell,” Lars said.

Others whispered around him, small cries and echoes of horror and sympathy. “Get away, child!” someone shouted.

Jelena could not look away. From the group of brave souls who came to finish Demetes, the only person left standing their ground was a child. A small Drenian boy; a waif, who must not have understood his own mortal danger, for heart wrenchingly, the child was smiling.

Everything went silent. Demetes’ screaming stopped. The arrow came free, black blood staining its hand. The child made a face, “You a devil!” the little boy shouted, and threw what looked like a small, rosy-coloured stone.

The object flew in a perfect arc—glittering in the sun—and found a way into Demetes’ open mouth. The giant dropped the sword. Both hands flew to its throat.

“On my honour,” Lars began.Goran could only agree. Such simple, overwhelming bravery.

Demetes fell once more to its knees. The remaining eye bulged, and it whipped its head around, finally collapsing, convulsing upon the ground. Its movements slowed. As it slowed, it pointed to the boy. Its chest pulsed once with a pink light. Then it died.

The boy stood alone. He was no longer smiling. He looked around, confused.

Behind the soldiers, Vortigen became animated at last. Its voice pierced every corner of the Palazzo. “Him!” it cried. “Stoneheart! The slayer of Demetes. Seize him!”

Chapter sixty-one

Draygan

But he’s just a boy, Draygan thought. Demetes had been a force of nature, and of all the Titans, was the one Draygan respected most. The thing had an honour system, of sorts. It had possessed the worst kind of strength, however, that of unfailing conviction. Draygan remembered Demetes’ words. ‘I will fight the greatest ever warrior.’ It had been like a mantra, a holy ideal. Demetes had hoped to face its equal and had died at the hands of a child.

“Seize him,” Draygan said, sick to his stomach. The Nomani started forward. The Porenzians were confused. Some were yelling at the child. One man made a dash and was bound by a rag, which fluttered once more into the air. It had been Demetes’ sword blade.

Genia walked slowly forward, waving her hand languidly. The rag constricted around the man’s neck. Two more came forward, and Genia dealt with them using more cloth, a strangling defence whipping back and forth. Men choked. She smiled at the boy, a wide row of little teeth stretched too far across her face. The child—for the first time—looked scared.

“Reserve, take their weapons,” Draygan ordered, hoping Vortigen would not intervene. No more killing. Please.

The last line of Nomani rounded up anyone who looked a threat. People could only stare, stunned. Another trio tried to save the child and died brutally. With the Nomani marching forward, and the threat of Genia, the people simply gave up. Some ran. Groups of Nomani followed.

Hands raised in surrender. The order for disarmament went out. Draygan looked up at the balcony from where the archers had loosed upon Demetes. Of the soldiers there, he saw no sign. Those on the Palazzo grounds who did not run had their blades and clubs cast into a pile. Two of the soldiers lifted the little boy by the arms and marched him up the steps. They put him in front of Vortigen.

“You will die very soon,” Vortigen told him. The boy thrust his little chin out, clearly struggling to hold back tears.Soldiers lined the remaining rebels up against the old cathedral, dragging corpses into another pile. It was efficient. Let this be an end to it. He hoped. One of the last struggling Porenzians was a woman. She thrashed about, vainly trying to wield a knife. A soldier backhanded her across the face and another twisted her wrist until she dropped the weapon. It was Lulian. She looked up, and their eyes met.

Draygan turned away. What could he say?

Vortigen was on its knees in front of the boy. It grasped the boy’s chin and looked deep into wide, hazel brown eyes. “You are not Brightened.”

“Hektor is. He come kill you,” the boy replied.

Vortigen ignored the comment and stood. “Genia!”

The Titan was in the Palazzo, rounding up any of the Drenians who had not escaped. She turned.

“Take him with the others. We go to the Darkening chair.”

“He is the one?” Genia asked.

Vortigen pursed its lips. “Do as I say.”

By the cathedral, Lulian was gone. Soldiers separated Drenians from locals, who stood forlorn. Draygan hoped Lulian was unhurt. Despite all that had happened, despite her judgement, he cared still. A squad marched forward, Quintus at their head.

“Report?” asked Draygan.

“We got him,” Quintus said. His eyes sparkled. He looked past Draygan and called, “Lord!”

Vortigen turned. There was a danger in his movements, and Draygan wondered whether Quintus had made a mistake.

“Yes?” Vortigen asked.

“We found him,” Quintus gestured at the soldiers. From within their ranks, two men stepped forward. They carried a man, a Drenian not much older than himself. He was big, athletic, and inexplicably covered in weaved lengths of wire which travelled up and down his arms and legs, disappearing beneath a thin tunic. The Drenian lifted his head, and Draygan saw the wire snaking around his forehead and behind his ears.

The Drenian looked his way and scowled. Draygan gasped. The eyes.

Vortigen sang a high note and joined the prisoners. He had seen the same thing. Little pink flecks of light around the pupils. “Two of you?” Vortigen asked. “I did not expect this. You will join the boy.”

“And the gate will open?” Draygan asked.

Vortigen turned, studying him, then gently wrapped a hand around his neck. “You will speak when I command,” it said, and with a flick, let go.

Draygan longed to strike. His muscles ached in need, but he did not. It was futile. When Draygan looked up, Vortigen had forgotten the encounter. It had moved on. Genia followed, and with them came the boy and the big Drenian. The two of them were close enough to share words in their native language, and Draygan could tell, despite not understanding, that the big one was angry.

The Palazzo cleared. Calm settled amidst the blood and dust. Even Demetes’ body joined the dead. The parasol which had blown across the ground before the fighting began settled in a corner of the square where it butted against the stone. Draygan searched the faces of the fallen. Lulian was gone. The three who had challenged Demetes were gone, and so was any spark of resistance. Draygan sighed. He walked down the steps and joined the Nomani force-marching the Drenians. He knew where they were going, of course. To the harbour. To the Darkening Chair. He wondered if there would be a shred of immigrant skin left in all of Porenza by nightfall.

Chapter sixty-two

Sara

Once the arrows hit Demetes, Sara retreated. Hektor had not arrived, and so she resolved to find him. And help him.

She took the steps from the restaurant’s top floor three at a time. Hurry, she urged herself, returning through the main living space, emerging finally to the ground floor.

From there she could make it onto the Palazzo, and at least do something. Find Hektor perhaps, or else she could fight. The thought made her want to vomit. She had the knife, and though she would use it without fear or remorse, she had never experienced true combat. Watching Hektor punch his bag in the basement was the closest she’d come to martial training. She had tried in the past to imitate him, laughing as she failed to recreate his balance, his skill.

She did not make it to the front of the restaurant. Soldiers appeared in the alley to the rear of the establishment. Nomani.

They had seen her. There was no escape. No time to run. She held the knife before her, grinding her teeth, trying desperately to remember how Hektor looked. I killed a Titan, she thought.

“Wait!” one man said. He was in… underwear? “We’re with you,” the man continued and stepped toward her, hand out, placating.

“You faced the beast,” she said, recognising him. “You stood before Demetes. That was … very brave.”

The young woman who had faced Demetes wiped sweat from her forehead. “None as brave as that boy. Damn the Dark. Just a kid.”

“I’m sorry?” Sara asked, as the lead soldier took the knife from her trembling hand.

The red-bearded one raised a hand. “Enough talk,” he said. “We’re not done yet. That was the first part. You have the barrels?”

A chorus of “Aye,” and “Yes, sir,” came from the rest of the soldiers, and two of them hefted a barrel as if to prove their words. Sara frowned. They must have left them in the alley before facing the Titan. Oil? She wondered.

“Come on then, move yourselves,” the man commanded.

She jogged alongside two of the soldiers, who hefted one of the heavy-looking barrels between them. They went through the restaurant, towards the front, leading back onto the Palazzo. “Do you have a plan?” she asked. “I can help.”

The man simply said, “Ask Evidius,” and carried on. Sara gave up. Evidius? She followed them through the restaurant, past scattered tables and folded rugs. Here they stopped and bunched together. A fire had been lit in the hearth, and the heat seared into the large room. The lead soldier came up alongside. “Are you ready, men?”

They nodded, eyes fierce.

“Girl,” the soldier said. “I’m Goran. Recognise me?”

She shook her head.

“Never mind. You said you can help. I have a job for you. See that wood pile? Grab a length, one that you can grip easily. Wrap the end in a tablecloth, soak it with some strong alcohol from behind the bar.”

“Okay,” Sara began.

“Then wait by the window. Watch. As soon as you see the barrels in place by the Basilica, light the taper and come running. You can run?” Goran searched her expression, nodding at the resolve he found.

“I can run,” she confirmed. Dje lend me strength.

“Towards the barrels.”

“We’re going to blow up the Basilica,” the other Istaran replied.

“With them inside,“ the older Istaran added. “Shall we?”

Goran grasped her shoulder. “I’m counting on you,” he said. “What is your name?”

She simply stared. They left, one by one. Even the Captain. Alone once more, she whispered. “I’m Sara.”

Chapter sixty-three

Hektor

Hektor seethed. Fool child!

When the Nomani had come blustering up the stairs, he had realised something. It was a rare flash of inspiration, and he knew Methus would approve. He knew the Nomani wanted him, that he was important to the Titans. Getting through every soldier was possible, but needless. Far better for them to take him to the Titans themselves. To be put before them when he was at his most powerful.

So he had charged the Noble-stone, and then allowed the power to settle. It was difficult to mute such potential energy, and it longed to escape, to flash along the wires and lend strength and speed to his muscles. He curbed the impulse, and when the soldiers appeared, he raised his hands and made sure his eyes were wide open. They had paused. Then he took a beating which rivalled any he had ever received.

It worked, though. Holding off the healing power of the Bright was an effort in itself, yet a worthwhile one. As fists and feet landed, he knew he would repay every blow. When the senator commanded him to be dragged to the Basilica, he rejoiced. The power vibrated within him, as if his chest were a hive of insects. He held it. And then, just as he raised his head, just as he saw the Titan, as he felt their mutual recognition, he also saw Micho.

What? With a word, any of them could hurt the child and he would not be fast enough to stop them. The new Archon was there too. All of them. His thoughts whirled, the power surged, and he barely held it. It flashed into his eyes. He knew Vortigen had seen.

And now they were taking Micho to the Darkening chair.

They gripped him as if he were a slave, hauling him alongside the child. He said to the boy, “What have you done? I told you to stay inside. Do you realise what you have done?”

“I kill him.” Micho protested.

Hektor carried on, “Kill who? This devil? It would wrap you in your own clothes so tight your guts would squeeze through your own mouth!”

“No! I did it, the big one! With your old stone, the one you wore when you see that man, little thing, no power. It took it. Got it in his mouth, cough, cough, cough. Then he dead. I am hero, Hektor, just like you,” Micho smiled. “Your turn now.”

They were almost at the end of the Basilica façade. Down the steps was Gallery street, a road where old men and women hung paintings of dubious quality, and seemed as interested in playing each other at Archon as actually selling anything they produced. Hektor usually avoided it. Of all the places in Porenza, the men there were least likely to welcome him. He pictured them smoking, hunched over their boards as if nothing was happening. It was a fantasy, but one which made him wonder. Who am I fighting for?

“Your turn now,” Micho repeated. “You close that door they open, hey? Okay?”

He stopped. The soldiers tugged at him, and the ones holding Micho turned to see what was happening.

Vortigen and Genia were ahead, deep in conversation. “Micho,” he said, “This time, find somewhere and hide.”

The boy nodded. His eyes gleamed.

It did not burst, as he had expected. Rather, the power seeped from the Noble-stone and into his body like syrup in his blood. It warmed him. It sought to heal, but he stopped it. His cuts remained open, the emerging bruises still purple on his face, but the wires sang, and he shrugged his captors off as easily as if they were children.

The soldier restraining Micho let go. His eyes widened. Hektor rammed his fingers into the man’s throat. The other one tried to pick Micho up and took a spine shattering punch to the lower back. Hektor heard his own voice slowly form the word, “Run!”

Before the syllable left his lips, Micho was off.

Vortigen and Genia, as one, turned. The female raised its hands, and he felt something happening to the soldier’s armour. Whatever the beast planned, he stopped it, and the humming sensation of material changed.

Genia gasped. A soldier attacked from Hektor’s right. He stepped aside, grasping the breastplate. He spun and launched the soldier at Vortigen. It was a dead aim.

The impact never happened. This time the change was faster than Hektor could sense, and the soldier’s armour crunched inward. All that remained of the human projectile was a ruin, a ball of bronze and blood and bone which flew over Vortigen’s shoulder. The Titan came forward, its hand out.

A chunk of rock tore from a Basilica column and flew towards him. The Noble-stone pulsed with warmth. Hektor closed his eyes, a blink which allowed him to feel the stone. It carved the air … no, air, which Vortigen continually solidified, pushed and lifted it. So that is how they do it.

He curved the path of the rock’s flight and it sailed harmlessly by. More stones followed, and those that came too close he crushed into dust. Hektor felt the onslaught. He tried to return missiles of his own, but even with the power of the new weaves, the attack against him was too much, from too many directions at once.

Soldiers rushed around him, some friend, some foe. He saw small groupings of Nomani raise their bows in aid, while others struggled towards the Basilica carrying barrels. He did not have time to question the sight.

“For the Stoneheart!” shouted a familiar voice. Bojan? It must have been, for the people fought the converging Nomani once more. Drenians lifted their arms, locals beside them, Porenzians all.

It was all he could do to deflect, evade, and press forward. Step after slow, dangerous step. He thrust his hands forward, the air coursing from the Bright around him, pulsing with power as he turned aside everything they threw his way. He kept going. To stop was to die. He projected a whisper of thought.

-Coming for you.

Above the sound of stone on metal, more high-pitched than even the cries of pain, came Vortigen’s laughter.

Chapter sixty-four

Lars

Lars watched as Evidius’ men carted the wooden barrels between ranks of enemy soldiers. Make it, he urged. You damned fine fools. Make it!

Half carried the wooden burden, sloshing the weight through a battle they could neither affect nor avoid. The other half acted as human shields as Titans flung their power. Flashes of Bright washed from the open entrance of the Basilica. Stone and mortar flew. The glowing Drenian responded, pressing forward, wading through the maelstrom like a man battling a storm. Soldiers around him ducked, running, flailing with swords, engaged by the rebels who remained.

“Ready!” Evidius shouted, having commandeered another troop of Nomani.

“Give me that,” Lars ordered a soldier, and took the man’s bow.

Bows angled high, the strings taut. Calloused, practised hands smoothly drew strings back to cheeks. Evidius called, “Aim for the Titans! Loose!”

The arrows flew. Once more they shredded into dust, or else burst into hundreds of curling whorls, as if in mid-flight passing through a giant lathe.

“Again!” Lars yelled, pre-empting Evidius. “Loose for your lives!” He plucked a shaft from the quiver by his feet, dropped to a knee, and aimed a shaft at Genia.

A perfect flight. He watched the arrow’s path, then watched it veer off into the sky. Cheating, bloody Titans.

Beneath the abortive onslaught, the barrels drew closer. The men carrying the burden held their heads low, their legs pumped, and they made it to the steps of the Basilica.

“Spears!” Evidius shouted. More enemy Nomani, either confused or else discovering their courage, threw shafts of their own at the retreating Titans.

The spears were blasted from creation. Billows of fine dust drifted in the air. It seemed useless. But the distraction was working.

Lars grasped for another arrow. He found the quiver empty. “Well?” he asked.

Jelena knelt beside him, her face smeared with sweat and dust. “I’d say we’ve done enough, wouldn’t you?”

“More than enough,” Lars agreed. The surrounding soldiers released another ragged volley. It seemed to slow Vortigen and Genia, reducing the power of their onslaught against the Drenian. The wires pulsed like veins upon the Drenian’s skin, thrumming with power. His heart was a pool of brilliant violet. Stoneheart, thought Lars, and grinned. It was beautiful to see. The Drenian took step after inexorable step, hands pushed forward, eyes glaring at the enemy. Vortigen’s laughter faded.

The Titan screamed into the opening of the Basilica, “Aid us!”

More Nomani poured out. A reserve force. They charged and immediately tangled with Evidius’ men. Barrels dropped in favour of drawn swords, and the battle once more raged.

Beside Lars’ foot, a final barrel rested. He gripped a handle. “Grab the other side, would you?”

Jelena took a deep breath. “Right you are.”

Dumbest thing I ever did. Lars thought, and struggled past the Nomani skirmish. Armour dented, and men screamed. “Keep at it,” he breathed. “Almost there.” The barrel jumped and jolted between them, its liquid-filled weight making progress difficult. They had to take each step at a time. A soldier broke from the melee and swung at Lars’ head.

He ducked right, holding the barrel. He waited for another blow to land.

Arrows arced overhead, fewer this time. One took Lars’ attacker in the throat. He turned and saw Goran lower a bow. The captain raised his hand. Last one, the gesture seemed to say. Goran dropped the bow and drew a sword, rushing to help the rest of Evidius’ men. The arrows were gone, yet instead of wooden shafts there came stones, pieces of metal. Lars saw a shoe thrown over his head. The people of Porenza were fighting harder than ever. Vortigen flung a hand backwards, and rather than change form, the missiles swerved either side of the Titans and clattered against the columns. “Almost there,” said Lars, and they heaved the weight up the last of the steps and waddled after the two most dangerous beings in all Porenza.

“How many other exits are there?” Jelena shouted.

“From the Basilica?”

“Yes!”

Lars’ breath was coming heavier with the effort. “How should I bloody know?”

Ahead, Vortigen and Genia stood tall, but the combined might of all Porenza, and indeed, the Stoneheart himself, pushed them back. As they stepped into the shade of the Basilica entrance, they threw a last, massive stone at the Drenian, a fighting retreat. To Lars’ horror, it hit.

The Stoneheart hurtled backward, losing every step he had fought, chest caved by the missile.

Our turn, I suppose, thought Lars.

The missiles stopped and Lars shouted over his shoulder. “Is this the only way in?” Jelena was right. He had to make sure the Titans could not escape.

Goran shouted something back, the sound lost below the din of moving soldiers. A barrel went rolling back down the steps.

Chapter sixty-five

Sara

Sara soaked the taper in alcohol. It took her a while, but she was determined to do it right. She stood by a grill connected to a heat weave. From there, it would be a simple matter to light the rags she had wrapped around the wood. When the barrels are in place, I come running, she thought. They must have had some sort of explosive inside, and they gave me a brand? Sara decided she would throw the taper when the time came, and Dje willing, kill at least one more Titan.

It was impossible to gauge the Palazzo battle. Soldiers were everywhere. The barrel carriers were struggling to clear the crush. Was that Hektor? Finally? Dust billowed. She struggled to see, to focus on the men carrying the barrels.

“I, I, I run away now,” stuttered a small voice.

Sara looked down. It was Micho, shaking. Something huge swelled in her throat. She knelt, gathering the boy into her arms. “What happened?” she whispered, wondering how on earth the child had made it through the streets unharmed. “Why are you not at the villa? Are you okay?”

The small body trembled against her chest. She crouched down, hugging him close. She dropped the brand and made shushing noises. “It’s okay,” she whispered. “You are safe now.”

“I brave,” said Micho. “Go home now.”

“Yes, yes,” Sara cooed. “Micho, what in the Bright are you doing … “ she stopped. She had taken her eyes from the Palazzo for barely a moment. She glanced back at the chaos outside. Everything had changed. She could no longer see the barrels. A man flew backwards through the air. She saw a slab of stone burst upon the figure’s chest.

Hektor! Wreathed in glowing wire. He sailed high and landed with a crash that would have killed an ordinary man.

She lowered Micho gently to the ground.

She crouched to look at Micho, Goran’s request for the burning taper forgotten. Her hands grasped the boy’s cheeks. Gently, but urgently, he said, “Stay right here, you hear me? Right here.”

“You help Hektor?” the boy sniffed.

“Always,” agreed Sara.

“Good thing. I stay.” Micho nodded.

She left the window and ran, shouldering through the swinging doors of the restaurant, and stumbling headlong into the Palazzo. She saw Vortigen, then she looked left. Goran and the others were too far. A Nomani was organising a volley of arrows, and spears came after. “Hektor!” she screamed, but it was no use. Her cry was one of many, of anguish, pain and the thrill of battle. She screamed again. “Hektor!” She turned.

Something there… From the corner of her eye. Too fast to avoid. She felt it hit.

A vague sensation of falling.

Then nothing.

Chapter sixty-six

Tom

The Noble-stone was a warmth in his hands. He held it close, tucked into his stomach, and he ran. He pushed, striking out where he had to. “Move!” he hissed, and kicked at a man who was in his way. I am sorry, he thought, yet he dipped his shoulder and charged through another group.

He saw Hektor hit by the flying piece of masonry. He saw the weaves fade.

He heard someone shout, a girl. Sara?

“I am coming!” he yelled.

Three fully armed Nomani were cutting at the crowd around where Hektor had fallen. Tom’s chest was on fire. I have never run so much, he thought, and powered the last short distance from sheer will, collapsing at the side of the fallen man. “Hektor!” he breathed.

The soldiers were closing in. A local man with an apron threw himself at the three of them with nothing but a meat hook in his hands. Such bravery. Tom took the faded stone from Hektor’s chest, replacing it with the other.

Eyelids flickered. Wires began to glow.

Hektor fought to his knees. Each iris flashed with power. Hektor thrust his hand at the encroaching Nomani, and they flew backwards, the bronze of their armour like leaves before a storm.

Tom’s heart soared even as Hektor flew towards the columns. The jump was powerful, gravity-defying, but it was not quite enough. Upon landing, the young man stumbled once more.

Just a little more, Tom thought. Sucking in a huge breath, he followed. The replacement Noble-stone was not totally full. The glow of it had been warm, but the pulse was slow. He hoped enough.

Soldiers fought each other, a skirmish where men could not discern an enemy from an ally. Tom powered up the steps, blessedly unharmed, and reached the entrance just as Hektor collapsed.

Lars was there with Jelena. Between them, they held a barrel.

“Help me with him!” Tom called, and rushed to Hektor’s side.

The Istaran wavered.

“Now! We must get him to the Bright Line!”

Lars turned to his companion. “If I’m not out in twenty heartbeats, you send that barrel in, you hear?”

“Lars … “

The Istaran growled, “Is that clear?”

The young woman nodded.

Tom did not have time for thanks. They grasped an arm each and hauled Hektor towards the darkness of the Basilica entrance.

They managed three steps before the rocks came again. Two missed him by a hair’s-breadth. Lars was not so lucky. He saw one glance from the Istaran’s temple, and another punched the old warrior in the gut.

Lars fell.

Tom struggled on. He managed another step, then someone else was beside him, helping. He did not see who. They moved further still. He dared not breathe.

The clash of battle echoed from the steps behind him. More missiles came from the Titans within the Basilica. Hektor’s chest heaved with a last flash of power. Stone hammered against the walls behind him so loudly his ears rang. He searched desperately to see if the other man helping him was hit. The man looked at him, equally shocked. It was Draygan.

Tom nodded. With an immense effort, they sped the last short distance and found themselves inside the Basilica foyer. They did not stop. Their strangled breathing filled the antechamber. They struggled through the arch and their shuffling footsteps boomed into the silence, echoing around the capped dome of the main room of the Basilica.

Chapter sixty-seven

Draygan

It should have been so clear. His life, that was. Somehow, it had all gone horribly wrong. ‘Be true to yourself.’ That was the line from the book he had been trying to remember, the sort of nonsense Tom would have torn apart. His old teacher was heaving alongside him. They were nearly at the grotesque manipulation which Vortigen called the ‘gateway.’ The battered Drenian was a dead weight, his arms barely holding across their shoulders.

There was no time to ask Tom his opinion. The man was in no condition for a conversation. ‘Be true to yourself.’ Such a simple command. Tom would ask the meaning of ‘truth’. He would have asked whether acting upon it was really in your own, or the world’s best interests. On its own, the quote was useless, yet it haunted Draygan.

Tom let out an involuntary groan of effort. “Almost there,” his teacher said. Step by step, they pulled the Stoneheart closer.

Even now he did not really know for whom this effort was for. Vortigen wanted this mysterious Drenian here, to open his throat in some ritual and pour his blood on the pulsing, twisted Lines. Yet Tom also struggled towards the same end. Surely he was against Vortigen? It made no sense.

“Stop, or die.”

Draygan stopped. Tom heaved. He looked into his teacher’s eyes, saw the question, the confusion, and knew his own face was a mirror. He simply did not know. It had all gone so wrong.

Vortigen floated across the room. Genia stayed where she was, arm extended towards the entrance. Stones and pieces of cloth shaped like darts slashed the air, piercing any who dared get close.

Draygan let the Drenian fall to the floor.

“Help me, Draygan, if it is the last thing you do,” Tom pleaded.

He looked at Vortigen. The beast dropped to a knee and placed its hand on the floor. Marble shifted beneath its palm and Vortigen lifted from the ground a smooth spear. The beast had killed his father with something similar. It reflected the glow from the gateway. Pink ripples playing up and down the marble. Vortigen stood.

“I’m sorry.” Draygan said.

Tom heaved the Drenian closer to the grotesquely warped Bright Line, one last effort before the spear flew from Vortigen’s hand. Tom screamed.

His old teacher fell.

No longer supported, the Drenian fell forwards. Draygan knew why those words had been spinning in his mind. ‘Be true to yourself.’ The truth, he knew, was simple. He was a coward. A slave to fear.

“Move the body.” Vortigen commanded.

Draygan obliged, taking a step towards Tom.

“The other one.” Genia breathed. “Move the Stoneheart away from the Line.” She paced the circumference of the room, appearing behind him. Draygan nodded, again shifting his effort to the Drenian. He leaned down to the mess of skin, blood, and wire, and reached a hand behind the neck.

The Drenian moved. The hand gripped his ankle and heaved. Draygan stumbled. His arm flashed for support and his fingers brushed the gateway.

The whiteness. It was like the dreams Vortigen gave him. He could not feel his body, could not see or hear anything other than the whiteness and a sort of low, insistent humming.

Then, like clouds parting from a ray of sun, he could see. This was unlike any dream he had experienced with Vortigen. He hovered, not bodily, but like some phantom, able to move without physical restraint. The land below was in darkness. Buildings rose like teeth from blackened, stony ground. It was Porenza, but not the one he knew. The coastline and the northern Laguna lapped with oily water. A hulking vessel jutted from the marina, sail bare, metallic hull rent with cuts and rust.

He hovered towards the Basilica. In this Porenza it was a temple, and the face above the arched entrance was that of a female, much like Genia, but with higher ridges on her forehead and two eyes which glowed with a stagnant, green light. Outside the temple, lines of the creatures waited, hunched and deadly. Some were as powerfully built as Demetes. They carried things which Draygan did not recognise, but which he knew were weapons.

This was the truth of Vortigen’s world. He knew it beyond doubt. It was anything but a paradise.

Far in the distance, a great explosion lit the darkening sky. Some of the Titans’ heads turned, and he saw teeth bared, weapons flashing and eyes narrowed in hate. A tepid, pink light washed from the Basilica entrance, and a woman emerged, the image of the carving above the arched doorway. She held up her hands, and some of the Titans filed forward. More explosions sounded, far in the distance. A flash of something streaked across the heavens.

The Basilica. The gateway. This was no shared paradise. The gateway could only be one thing; a means for the survivors of this tragic place to flee. It would lead more of them to his home, to the real Porenza.

He closed his eyes. This might not be a dream, nor a place he could mentally manipulate, but it still had power. He tried to feel for something to change, to feel with his mind. Anything. It was useless. The ground and the rock were as dead and cold as the grave, and no amount of will seemed to affect its structure. He moved closer to the buildings, flying above screams and pools of greyness, above broken metal and craters on the roads. He stopped at a place he knew. Where the Darkening Chair would have been. In this world, it was an altar, black with blood. Bodies stacked at the base of the steps. He scanned the faces and saw some were human, vaguely incorporeal. His old team. The Istaran team as well. They lay hazy, caught between realities, broken at the foot of the altar.

He felt something. It was the same tingling sensation. As if he were wearing a Noble-stone in the arena. It was weaker, nothing but a faded echo. Perhaps in this world, the power was nearly gone.

He hovered closer, and the glow surrounding the base of the altar struggled from a maroon red to a sickly, grey-rose colour. Muted power. He lay his astral body upon the slab and saw arms and legs appear from a gossamer torso. He lifted a hand from the rock and a black dagger emerged.

He plunged it into a heart which had only just begun to beat.

Back in the Basilica, he opened his eyes.

Chapter sixty-eight

Hektor

Hektor smelled something. Rain and heat. Life. The drops echoed in his mind and his memory. Magnificent trees stood sentinel around him. Insects buzzed. A great cat yawned, vanished into the darkness. Home. The sound of a waterfall, far in the distance, and a buzzing of whispers close to his ear.

“Get up,” they said. “You hear me?”

Hands grasped him, their touch as light as a night breeze, hundreds of them.

Something in his mind. Another place. His body there, and also not, laying prone at the foot of the Darkening Chair. Around him, reaching for him, helping him, were his people.

“Get up,” they said. A fierce sadness was in their eyes.

Another voice. “Hektor, lad. It’s time. Finish this.” It sounded like Tom.

He felt their strength, a river of hope coursing through his broken body. He saw Draygan laying upon an altar, oblivious of his presence. In his hand was a black dagger.

The world jolted. Pain returned. The cold stones beneath his body pressed at him like the dust of a training ground floor years past. They pressed like the damp, stinking boards of a ship’s hold on his infant body. The pain grew with the memories. But he was not finished fighting. Not yet. Slowly, simmering with the combined anger of every fallen Drenian, he stood.

Chapter sixty-nine

Lars

Lars watched Jelena unstop the thick cork. It came free with a sound that in any other place would have been pleasant. Alone, she picked up the barrel. It was obviously heavy. Heave it, he urged. You’re strong. Now lift ...

She struggled forward, step after aching step. The fighting was almost over, yet Jelena was the only soldier close to the Basilica entrance. Only she, just to the side of where the missiles emerged, could do what needed to be done.

His vision was fading. Wound in his gut. One on his head. Nearly there.

Jelena placed the barrel down. “I’m sorry, old friend,” she whispered, and put her foot against the wood.

That’s it. Roll it in. Do it. Set the world on fire. That’s my girl. A stone whistled from the entrance. Jelena stepped back. Another shard of marble clipped his ear. He saw the barrel as Jelena ducked just out of the way. A stone hit the wood. Lars reached a hand to a crack in the slabs, hauled himself forward. A trail of blood wet his knees, slippery in his wake.

“Lars!” Jelena called. “You’re alive!”

Just about. He reached another hand forward. His progress was achingly slow.

Jelena made a dash toward him, barrel forgotten, an attempt at aid driven back by another stone whistling by her shoulder.

Lars continued forward, finally close enough to be heard. He looked up at Jelena. “That was … more than … twenty damned heartbeats.”

She made a grab for him once more, and blessedly the missiles stopped spewing from the structure. She moved quickly, hauling him to safety.

He was bleeding from his stomach. There was a lump on his temple larger than a clenched fist. One of his eyes wasn’t working. “The barrel,” he wheezed. Then collapsed.

Jelena eased him to the ground, gently, but firmly. It hurt like hell.

She kicked the barrel onto its side. Liquid glugged from the opening, and she turned up her nose.

Right, Lars thought. Disgusting.

“How did I ever find the courage to drink this?” she asked and sent it rolling with another kick.

The opening to the Basilica followed a slight downward gradient. The barrel gathered pace, splashing a trail of the most potent grappa in Porenza. A last gift from Maria Corso’s family. The stuff, in Lars’ opinion, was poison, so strong that a hot breath would set it aflame.

“We need cover,” Jelena warned, pulling him aside. “That stuff is going to burn.”

And not soon enough, he thought, as he rolled over. Two men were running up the Basilica steps, heedless now of the surrounding enemy.

It was Evidius and Goran, who, with a combined shout of triumph, burst from the line of soldiers, each holding aloft a burning brand.

Chapter seventy

Hektor

Hektor clenched a fist and narrowed his eyes. The power surged within him. Before him were three beings who would die.

Draygan recoiled.

The new Archon was almost exactly his height, probably his age. Hektor would ordinarily have felt a challenge, just as he had when seeing the soldiers at the barracks when he was younger. It seemed a lifetime ago. There was no challenge in the other’s eyes, however, not anymore. Perhaps he would not kill this man.

“Little Draygan has suffered a change of heart,” Genia said. The thing had come full circle, and stood beside Vortigen, regarding them both.

Draygan swallowed. “I saw my friends at the foot of your altar.”

“Their souls have fed the void,” Genia shrugged. The action was disconcertingly human. It raised a hand. “Just as yours will follow.”

Hektor bowed his head. His hand moved to the glowing convalescence beside him. The power drew him much as the Bright Line in Methus’ workshop. With its touch, the pain faded.

He felt everything, most extraordinarily, he felt his own body in a way which transcended touch, or sight. He grew. His neck thickened. Bright incarnate burst like mist from his very bones. His muscles stretched and bulged against the wires which cut into his skin, glowing and merging with the flesh. The gateway to the Titan’s world, for he knew what it was, filled him with power. He felt Genia’s manipulation, tiny parts of the ground beneath Draygan shifting, grinding upwards to seek flesh. He gathered his will, blew a thin whistle of air, and Genia’s attempt failed.

Vortigen stepped forward. The long, bony fingers thrust out and Hektor felt a narrow vortex. A piece of bone traveled along the spiral. Hektor tensed once more. The focussed power of Vortigen was immense, and sweat burst upon his forehead as the bone fragment whispered close to his neck. Too close.

A strangled cry escaped Genia’s throat. Together, the last of the Titans threw everything. Stones loosened from the walls. He felt Draygan’s armour and clothes shift and constrict. Draygan stepped backwards. He felt the air thicken, then cool. A barrel rolled into the room and gently stopped. Vortigen snapped his head, judging it as a threat. At the beast’s command, the wood of the barrel exploded.

Draygan was behind him, the sword of the old Archon grasped in his hand. Hektor’s back tingled with the presence of an enemy out of sight. He closed his eyes. If Draygan moved, he would feel it. Liquid pooled on the floor, the cloying, acrid smell of alcohol filling the room.

“What trick is this?” Genia demanded.

Two men appeared, silhouetted against the open door, running with flames above their heads. Brave men, Hektor thought. Vortigen span, hand raised. He was too late. They threw burning torches. Drips of flame found the splashed liquid. The world turned red.

Vortigen covered himself, his cloak becoming ice. Genia blasted a column of air at the wall of flame. Hektor tensed, bending the very substance of the flames so that they curled away. A hand was upon his shoulder.

“They are distracted,” Draygan whispered. “Shield me. Now.”

Hektor obliged.

Draygan screamed, swept past, and attacked. His sword flickered and swept and pounded. His feet moved like a dancer and he cut faster than any man Hektor had ever seen. Genia retreated. She summoned a thin, stabbing sword, and she used it brilliantly. Yet as she dealt with flames, she could barely hold Draygan back. He would have beaten me, Hektor thought. Easily.

Vortigen thrust with the spear and Hektor diverted the blow, his own coil of air neatly entwining the shaft. He felt the Noble-stone drain, and then immediately fill with the power of the gateway. Vortigen sang in rage and thrust again at Draygan. This time, Draygan ducked the blow, sweeping his sword at the marble shaft. He then shoulder charged Genia.

“For Rhain!” Draygan shouted and kicked out. He slashed low and cut into Genia’s shins. A hissing shriek filled the domed enclosure. He cut a last time and his sword sank into Genia’s chest.

The Titan gulped. “No,” it managed, and stumbled against the steel.

Vortigen tried something powerful, something Hektor did not recognise. The marble spear dropped into composite pieces, and Vortigen cast his palms towards Draygan. A wind like the front of the strongest Canyon Sea storm coalesced around them. The flames of the fire roared along the edges of the domed room. Not, however, around Draygan. Hektor made sure of that. Genia looked at the figure before her, untouched by the sudden maelstrom. Her eyes widened.

“For Tom,” Draygan said. His sword whistled into the wind and the ridged head separated from The Titan’s body.

Hektor turned towards Vortigen and let the wind die away. Fire raged, tearing through fabric and wood and stone.

The last of the Titans turned to him. “You were meant to die!” Vortigen shrieked, and dashed forward. Hektor met the charge. They crashed together. He wrapped Vortigen in his arms, squeezed, and kept running. The thing thrashed, but it was no use. Hektor had made himself far stronger, Vortigen’s efforts puny in comparison. He charged, devil in hand, through a heat which would have scorched an ordinary man, and into the blue light of day. Then he leapt. The summer air embraced them both, and to all around, he would have been nothing but a glowing blur. They landed on the slabs of the Palazzo square, in front of the Basilica and the arena. In front of everyone.

Hektor raised a fist.

Vortigen bared its teeth. Its black tongue tasted air for the last time.

“For my people!” Hektor bellowed and smashed the fist down. A weave coiled around the middle knuckle of his right hand. Upon contact with Vortigen’s face, it exploded.

Hektor blasted clear. He turned in the air, curved the wind to ease his passage and healed the burns on his face and along his arm. He landed on his feet.

Everywhere there were faces. Nomani, armoured and grim, let their weapons fall. Residents peered from windows and alleys. Some tentatively raised their hands, curling their lips into smiles of sheer relief. The Drenians eased from the clutches of soldiers, shrugging off restraining hands. Their eyes filled with something, and Hektor could not really have said what.

“You are free!” he shouted. “Porenza is free!”

He turned full circle. A crater in the solid earth was all that remained of Vortigen, the Titan’s life extinguished utterly. People gathered, some cheered unbelievingly. Others walked towards the grave of their tormentor, peering into the smoking depth.

At the Basilica, Draygan emerged, with Tom Valerian cradled in his arms. The new Archon’s eyes were streaked black with tears. He knelt, laying the body gently to the ground.

Hektor bowed his head. A Nomani soldier approached him. “Is it over?” the man asked.

Hektor nodded. He felt his muscles return to normal size. The wires popped from his skin, their glow fading. He walked back to the top of the steps. A group of soldiers stood in his way.

He found the one he needed. “Do you have more barrels?”

The man nodded. He pointed to where the old Istaran captain sat on the steps. The gladiator’s face was a mess, and he was bleeding badly. Through what must have been obvious pain, the man cracked a grin. “Still need to light the place up? Nice to know we didn’t lug all these up here for nothing.”

Hektor took a breath. He had been in the dream with Draygan. He pictured the other Porenza, the darker, dying version of reality. It was something he never wanted to see again in his life. “Roll them all in. Burn it to the ground.” The gateway, or whatever it was, needed to be destroyed once and for all.

“Never liked Porenzian architecture anyway,” the Istaran said, words slurring. He groaned as he stood, bleeding liberally from a wound in his stomach, then put his foot on the barrel and pushed. It rolled towards the streaking flame, into the darkness, and exploded.

More citizens approached. There were questions, praise, and several hands reaching for him. He saw Draygan through the gathering throng, kneeling in despondence over his fallen friend. Hektor could only guess what the new Archon might be feeling.

“Are they gone?” someone asked.

“Praise you my child … “

“Hero!”

“A Drenian, would you believe it?”

Hektor shook his head. Sara. He pushed past them. The questions and the grasping hands followed all the way to the alley. He shrugged them away, ignoring them. Where are you?

A whoosh of flame roared from behind, and the press of people turned to watch the Basilica burn. The last of them gave up harassing him, and finally he walked alone. He followed the same route he had walked a thousand times. The whitewashed walls, the crumbling stone, and the wooden shutters passed in a familiar blur. The red-tiled roofs and the ancient slabs of Decuma road, the shops and the restaurants, the lines of washing strung from balcony to window, all of them seemed suddenly like one thing. Home.

Before long, he made it to Tom’s villa. He opened the gate and brushed a hand across the leaves of the olive by the low wall. He saw Micho. The boy was singing, sitting with feet dangling in the pool.

“Hektor!” Micho smiled, turning with two little crinkling eyes. “You not dead, hey? Not with Undergod?”

“Not yet,” Hektor smiled. “Sara? Methus?”

“They not here. Not dead either, I hope. Good thing. You just in time for dinner.”

“You made bread?” He could smell it. It made him happier than he could explain. “We’ll wait for them together,” he promised. Hektor closed the gate and shrugged the wires from his shoulders and arms. He kicked a length from his feet. Soon, there came the sound of footsteps.

The gate opened once more. “I saw you,” she said. An enormous bruise spread from her temple to her jaw. She limped, bloody, broken, but beautiful still. In seconds, she rushed into his arms, knocking him backwards against the wood of the poolside bench. She kissed his neck and his cheeks, her tears wetting his lips.

“It is done, my Sara. It is done.”

She heaved a sob into the hollow of his collarbone, and he lifted her into a hug. He set her down. He looked behind her. On the street, on the sun-hot cobbles, Methus was standing alone. He had a cut beneath his scalp which bled. A sword was at his feet, and he was shaking.

“Are you hurt?” Hektor asked, looking past Sara.

The shaking stopped. The old man hadn’t moved, but Hektor could tell by the crease in the corners of his eyes. He was smiling. “Not hurt,” he replied. “Proud.”

Epilogue

“Iwant to show you something,” Hektor said.

The city was drunk. Leaderless. Soldiers ran from citizens. Senators hid. Drenians sang. Fires were lit. It was the chaos of victory, of recrimination and violent fervour. Relief was a heady tonic. Yet they were safe enough. Beneath his cloak, Hektor’s heart glowed. He could feel the well of power, the beauty, the pain of it. The Bright, alive in his blood.

“Around here,” he said. “I saw him fall.”

They picked their way through bodies, past dead Drenian men and women, families kneeling in silence or tears. Revelry clashed with mourning. A select few Porenzians tried to restore order, to drag bodies somewhere more respectful than where they had fallen.

At the entrance to the Palazzo, a short, slightly overweight local man lay dead. His eyes stared sightlessly at the sky. In one hand was a knife. The other was open. Hektor searched around. There.

“What are you looking for?” Sara asked.

Beneath a discarded cloak. A crushed pepper. He picked it up, knelt next to Bojan, and placed it in his hand.

“This was the man who attacked you,” said Hektor. “He was called Bojan, and he saved more lives than any of us.”

Sara knelt. He could feel her tension, her confusion.

“I wanted to kill him,” Hektor said. “This man, right here. He is Porenza.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“He sheltered our people in the slums. He saved them before leading them against the Titans. Not me. It was him. If we run from a man like this, how can we change anything? A life away from here, away from the hate, and what do we achieve?”

“Hektor … “

“I am showing you this man who died for us. I’m showing you him because now I know. Porenza can change.”

She placed a hand on his head, fingers eased into his hair. A caress. Together, they stood. She said, “We’re staying, aren’t we? We’re staying at the very moment we have the power to leave.”

He placed an arm across her shoulder, pulling her close. He looked at the destruction, the fallen kin. Families that would never be the same. The buildings beyond. His life.

He kissed the top of her head. “We are staying,” he said.

***

It had been a week since the Basilica burned.

The fire crackled, lonely in the dark of the clearing. A spark landed in Draygan’s birch-bark bowl. “More flavour,” he said, and swirled the broth with a finger. A twig cracked some way off. Someone was coming for him.

He sighed. The sigh fell upon the breeze, rustled around the small clearing, sweeping aside leaves and caressing the small tufts of grass. Night was falling. He wondered who had finally found him. Soldiers? Would he fight them? He did not know. For so long, his life had been nothing but training, fighting. As Archon, he knew power. How he had longed for that. To show his father he was worthy. He sighed again. “Better they kill me,” he told the breeze.

“You think so?” came the voice. Lulian. She was carrying a rope.

He hunched inward towards the fire, hands huddled around his broth. Somehow, Lulian’s presence was so much worse than any execution squad.

“Not even a hello, Draygan?” She came and sat close by. Not too close. “You would think I might deserve a greeting, at least.”

He raised the bowl to his lips and took a shaky sip. Words boiled in his mind, making his arms, legs, and chest tremble. So many words he dared not speak. I am a traitor, kill me. I did my best! Forgive me. I hate myself. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.

“Your senate has called you a hero,” Lulian said. She placed the rope down and put her hands towards the small blaze. “They said it was your plan to kill Genia all along. That you were with us from the start.”

He coughed and lowered his eyes further.

“Of course, that piece of propaganda will last only as long as the senate itself. I give it a few days more, at most, before they are chased from the city or else killed, and you formally charged.”

“Tom,” he began.

“The funeral is tomorrow,” her voice softened.

He stared into the flame. “What can I do, Lulian?”

“Come home. Take your punishment like a man.”

No. He shook his head.

She picked up the rope. “Then do it yourself. Throw this over a tree, traitor, tie it around your neck and hang. Do the world a favour.”

“No!”

“No,” she smiled, then threw the rope upon the flames.

He knew the look in her eye. The accusation was right there. I am still a coward. “Will the Stoneheart come for me?” he asked. “For justice?”

“The Stoneheart is silent,” she said. “Despite Porenza’s wish to drape him with honours and riches, he remains in the slums, at the tenements. He rebuilds with the rest of them. A legend who fades into a man.”

He looked up. He could not quite meet her eyes, but he had found his voice at last, no stronger than the breeze which stirred, which made the fire spit at him. But it was a voice all the same. “So I am free?” He hoped she would not see the tears threatening his eyes. He squeezed them closed.

“Free to go where you please,” Lulian agreed.

He gave a small shrug. “Somewhere else.”

“Never again to Porenza. What will you do?” she asked.

This time, he looked up. A sliver of determination. He met her eyes, tears be damned, and promised, “I will be a better man.”

Lulian stood. She watched the last of the rope burn. She shook her head, and her parting words were sharper than any barb, truer than the death he deserved. “No,” she said. “I doubt that very much.”

***

Since the Basilica was no more, Lars’ healing had taken a damn sight longer than normal. His body was old, and it took time, but bandages and ointment still worked well enough. The headache faded.

More than that, Goran had insisted. “I’ll not spar with a broken man. Get better, and then you can fulfil the request I made in the arena, before any of this began. Fight me. Man against man.”And what a fight it had been.

Lars grinned. He heaved a huge breath, rubbed his knuckles, and sat down. Goran threw him a rag, which he caught and wiped the sweat from his forehead. They were on a hill, a grassy, beautiful hill with wildflowers and not another person in sight. His ribs ached like a donkey had kicked him. One of Goran’s punches had swollen his eye fully closed. He was also as happy as could be, for in the far distance was the city of Porenza.

The arena was squat and enduring as ever. The sea was deep and blue and calm as peace. Pines and olive trees and grapevines rolled out from the city, little stone Kazun houses dotted here and there. Pretty as a picture. Lars thought. And the last I will see it as long as I live. “Come with me,” he said.

“To Istara?”

“Istara first, then anywhere. I’ll bring my family. Who cares where, when you are with those you love? The world is beyond these hills.”

Goran considered. He sat down and regarded the distant city through a blackened eye of his own. “I have no friends in Porenza,” he admitted. “No family to keep me there.”

Lars laughed. “It’s because you’re so dull,” Goran opened his mouth to reply. But Lars held up a hand, “You’re wrong, anyway. There’s Evidius, for one. And Jelena would call you a loyal friend. At Tom Valerian’s funeral, your name was called, and the people cheered. Lulian mentioned you in front of the entire city. You talk of friends? In Porenza, you’d never pay for a meal or a drink again.”

Goran inclined his head. “I suppose,” he winced, pinching a lip which split as he spoke. His fingers came away bloody. “I still cannot believe Jelena stayed.”

“Her family is truly horrible. That Vinotek is empty, and I imagine there’s a young woman at the Corso residence who truly appreciates the help.“ Lars grinned. “So. Are you going back to that fish-stinking den of terrible memories and sour wine? Will you watch as they raise the statue of the Stoneheart and slowly forget there were men such as us?”

Goran shook his head. “I do not know.”

“There’s a place we can start,” Lars began. “It has a name only you can only know once the icy wind carves lines in your skin, when your feet find comfort in sharp mountain grass. You’ll know it when you smile at thunder roaring over the looming crags.” His gaze stretched out, as if he could see it. “The name of the place sinks into your bones. This paradise? It is called ‘home,’ my friend. Will you come with me?”

Goran stood, stretching. The years fell from his shoulders. “I will come. Enough war. Enough fighting. My friend, show me this world of yours.”

THE END

Acknowledgements

A massive thankyou to my first readers; my brothers, Jake and Lloyd, who are unfailingly generous with their time and insight. A huge thankyou to Liam Kirwan for reading this in its infancy, and to Ben Hope who smoothed away the rough edges. I can never be grateful enough to one friend above all: Stephen Aneljung Warren, whose enthusiasm, advice, willingness to read, chat, and support me throughout this whole crazy process has been nothing short of remarkable. I genuinely couldn’t do it without him. I count myself incredibly lucky to have such a friend.

I’d like to thank Harry Illingworth at DHH literary for giving me a chance.

This book wouldn’t be what it is without the love and support of my parents, Major and Fiona. Mum and Dad. Always in my corner.

An ongoing, heartfelt thankyou to my wife, Nina, the love of my life. Lastly, a hug to my boys; to Rajko and Luka, for whom this book is dedicated. Both promise one day to read this.

I honestly cannot wait.