《Darkhelm (Grimdark Progression Fantasy)》


 Chapter #1 - "Let There Be Ale"

    It would be very easy, Daine Orban, Knight of the Road, thought, to lose perspective now.


    There had just been too many village halls. Too many earnest, sun-reddened faces. Too many discordant, insistent demands for her attention over too, too many years.


    It was not that her role had become unnecessary or redundant ¡ª far from it. She found herself with more to do now than when she took her first step on the Road all those years ago. It was just that, day by day, tale by tale, complaint after complaint, it had all become hauntingly, banally familiar.


    Had it not been one of Old Gant¡¯s host of unwritten rules that, come the third Tour, the excitement of it all would pall?


    ¡°But that¡¯s for starry-eyed wanderers with dreams of slaying dragons and banishing warlocks,¡± he had cackled. ¡°Not for the cynical ones like you, Daine Darkhelm. Not for the ones who really know their business. No illusions for you, love, are there?¡±


    She had grimaced and dipped her head in acknowledgement at the nickname, knowing she was in truth one of those dreamy wanderers. That she would gladly spend her blood and her lifetime on the King¡¯s Road. It was, quite simply, the right thing to do. She had accepted her peers¡¯ mockery, good-natured, and otherwise, knowing all would be well once on Tour. Her justifiable reputation for morose taciturnity would be neither here nor there once she began fulfilling that sacred duty.


    On days like this, though ¡ª and were they not all days like this recently? ¡ª that time of na?vet¨¦ felt a world away.


    With a sigh, she refreshed <Intimidation>, drew the short sword at her hip and began swinging it, almost absentmindedly, as she spoke. The petitioners awaiting their turn instinctively stepped backwards under the pressure of the aura of this legendary knight in full plate and helm. ¡°You will appreciate I feel more than a touch of scepticism at these claims, Lord Trellec. I see your son in front of me.¡± She made a casual gesture with her blade toward the skinny, sullen youth of ten or eleven with a bloodied nose. ¡°A boy who has, I sense, had more than his share of scrapes over the years. To speak plainly, he does not possess the look of a defenceless victim. But I have been wrong about such things before, and I accept there may be more to this incident. I then turn to his assailant¡± ¡ª a nod to a small, sobbing, bundle of clothes wrapped in her mother¡¯s arms ¡ª ¡°who seems somewhat miscast in her role as the aggressor. So, what do we have? A slip of a girl assaulting, without provocation, a Lordling twice her age and more than twice her size. It seems an unlikely tale, does it not?¡±


    The older man in the delicate red-and-gold robes did not quite manage to keep the sneer off his face. He looked around the wooden hall, raising his arms to encourage comment from the group of villagers waiting silently behind him. Dozens of pairs of eyes intently studied the floor. ¡°That is not the point, my Lady. It is not for you to parse such things. There is right, and there is wrong. And there is the Justice of the Goddess. This girl, a commoner no less, struck my son, and blood was spilled. We have innumerable witnesses. I fail to see the complexity here. You must do as is required.¡±


    Yes, she thought, eyeing Lord Trellec and finding him rather too pleased with himself. All too easy to lose perspective.


    It had all gone as she had dreamed for those first few years. She would travel the Road, and she would deliver judgement: there were bandits to be slain, corrupt officials to be toppled, and monsters to be rooted out. Most villagers were happy to see her. Of course, some would resent her intrusion into their lives, but that was to be expected, and there had been more bouquets than brickbats in those early days. True, there had been violence ¡ª more often of late, now that she thought of it ¡ª and she had done things over the years which troubled her.


    But that was the role she had chosen. And she did it well. Since those first few days, she had never turned her face from what needed to be done, and she would not do so today.


    The casual swinging of her sword fell, unconsciously, into an old training pattern. ¡°As you say, Lord Trellec. As you say. Right and wrong. And the Justice of the Goddess. And blood. But that¡¯s the trick of things, don¡¯t you see? That is why we are charged to make our Tours and why the Goddess travels with us when we do. Right and wrong. How do we tell the two apart? A Lordling has his nose broken, which is certainly a matter for a Knight of the Road. We can¡¯t be having that sort of disorder in the outlying regions. One bloody nose in the West leads to smashed windows, leads to riots in the town, and, before you know it, we will have venerable elders with their heads on pikes and the commonality dancing toward the palace with pitchforks and ill intent.¡±


    The excited hubbub that had greeted Lord Trellec¡¯s call for justice hushed to a tense silence. All that could be heard was the hum of Daine¡¯s sword as it carved ever more complex shapes in the air.


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    ¡°But there are other matters also for Knights of the Road. Some of us ¡ª not so many nowadays, to be sure, but enough of us to make a difference ¡ª look askance at young Nobles throwing around their weight in what may be considered to be an inappropriate manner. It may be felt that any . . . retribution that came the way of a young gentleman overstepping his boundaries would be entirely proper. I feel the need to mention that some may feel a wise father would deliver his own justice when coming across such a matter and should not seek such wide attention¡± ¡ª Daine indicated the crowded hall ¡ª ¡°for unfortunate, youthful indiscretions. Indeed, I seem to recall, Lord Trellec, that you chose not to attend my last Tour: were heard, if rumour be true ¡ª and is it ever? ¡ª to describe this Court as a ¡®backward, tyrannical ritual of which we would do well to be rid.¡¯ I may be misquoting, of course. My age, you see. You have the reputation of a clever and thoughtful man, sir. Thus, I may find myself questioning your motives this day.¡±


    The sword paused its intricate spirals, its tip hovering in front of Lord Trellec¡¯s son. The boy stared at her without emotion, seemingly able to ignore the blade inches from his face. She said, ¡°Noble blood has been shed ¡ªand for that, as all know, there is a dire penalty. But you ask for the execution of this girl in compensation for a bloody nose, my Lord.¡±


    Trellec raised his chin. ¡°That is the law, my Lady.¡±


    Dain nodded. ¡°So, it is. And, as that is the law, this ¡®backward ritual¡¯ finds it should grant you what you seek.¡±


    There was a soft sigh in the room, undercut by the sobbing of the condemned child. Her mother, eyes huge at Daine¡¯s words, tried to comfort her.


    ¡°But, in calling down the Goddess to witness that judgement, other crimes ¡ªperhaps ones of which you are entirely, innocently, unaware ¡ª may well come to Her notice.¡±


    The outstretched sword did not move from its place in front of the youth¡¯s face. Daine¡¯s brown eyes, seemingly so tired and unremarkable a few moments ago, now glowed with the power of the summoned Goddess. ¡°Are you quite convinced you want judgement in this matter, Lord Trellec? Once summoned, the Goddess can be implacable in such things.¡±


    Trellec looked considerably less sure of himself than he did barely half a bell earlier, when he pushed his way to the front of the supplicant line dragging his son¡¯s ¡°assailant¡± with him.


    Suddenly, he dropped his head, unable to withstand the weight of her Goddess-given power pressing down upon him for a moment longer and cleared his throat. ¡°I wonder, my Lady . . . well, now that I have properly considered the matter, whether this is not more a case for the village Constable? In retrospect, it was just the shock of things, I¡¯m sure. I am sorry to have troubled you with such a trivial matter. Master Flynn will be happy to take this off your hands for a less extreme remedy.¡±


    ¡°But it is in my hands, Lord Trellec. You brought it to me. And here it sits, like a turd on a Naming Day cake. What shall we do about this turd, Lord Trellec?¡± The sword continued to be held, without wavering, in front of the nose of Trellec¡¯s son. Yet the boy did not show an ounce of fear throughout. Few even those thrice his age, would be so collected in the circumstances. ¡°Blood has been spilt, my Lord, but mayhap there is more to discover about the events that led to that outcome. Should I sound the judgement of the Goddess?¡±


    The boy held her gaze; wholly defying the Goddess¡¯ regard. She stared back at him, not quite amused at his impertinence but intrigued nonetheless. He was either entirely innocent of what she suspected or . . .


    The silence stretched out. She could see that Lord Trellec was unwilling, or perhaps constitutionally unable, to withdraw his case in front of so many witnesses. She could feel him prepare to do whatever it took to save face in front of his neighbours, even if that meant sacrificing at least one child. She had met his type before. The death of children, even his own, would not squat for long on his aristocratic conscience.


    Daine cursed softly. Even after all these years, she still had not learned how to compensate for her low Charisma. She had gotten by too easily by upping the ante. Had become too comfortable in her capacity to dominate to ever accept the possibility of compromise. She had not left him room enough to back down. ¡°Sometimes a sucker deserves an even break,¡± Gant rasped in her mind. Sometimes they did, but not today, it seemed.


    She began to channel <Divine Justice> to deliver her doom when the mother of the crying child took a step forward. ¡°I would, my Lady, petition for a mutual closure of this case. The young must be able to make mistakes, and I am sure my Belle meant no harm. And whatever Drunnoc may have done¡± ¡ª her eyes shifted to the dead-eyed youth who stared impassively back at her ¡ª ¡°well, boys will be boys, and no more needs to be said.¡±


    The tension in the room audibly broke. A clever woman, Daine thought. Everyone, even Lord Trellec, should be able to accept that with no loss of status. An admission of fault on both sides with nothing more needing to be said. Or done.


    ¡°¡¯Boys will be boys¡¯? I¡¯ve found that to be true. At least until I brought it to a halt. Permanently, and on more than one occasion, if memory serves. Lord Trellec? It is your complaint. Should I accept the petition for mutual closure, or do we see whether a ¡®boys being boys¡¯ defence survives the judgement of the Goddess?¡±


    For a heartbeat, it seemed Lord Trellec would not accept the lifeline. Then good sense won the battle with pride, and he bowed low. ¡°Of course, my Lady. I would be happy to see such a conclusion to this disagreement. I misspoke and gladly withdraw my complaint in the spirit of mutual closure.¡± He pulled his seemingly reluctant son toward the door and exited with a swirl of retainers and hangers-on. The boy ¡ª Drunnoc, was it? ¡ª kept his eyes fixed on her the whole time. ¡°¡±Boys will be boys¡± indeed.¡±


    She ended <Intimidation>, slipped her sword back into its scabbard, and Daine Orban, Knight of the Road, the Lady Darkhelm of a hundred tavern tales, on her third Tour of the West Coast and well into her fifth decade, smiled for the first time that week. ¡°Excellent. Now, let there be ale.¡±

 Chapter #2 - "Should Have Cut His Thumbs Off"

    ¡°You should have cut his thumbs off.¡±


    Daine raised her eyes to settle on the man who had sat, unbidden, opposite her. Considering the volume of ale she had quaffed, such focus took an effort worthy of a Knight of her renown.


    She vaguely remembered him from a previous Tour. Ceyn? Cryn? It was some such name like that. One where the letters performed a noise they had no business making.


    She disliked words. Could not trust them. Could not rely on them to do the same thing, day in, day out. Once something was spoken, regardless of the original intent, its meaning could end up being entirely different.


    It was the reason ¡ª at least, she acknowledged, one of the reasons ¡ª she travelled alone. Bards might sing countless odes to the origin of her name: Darkhelm. But none of them mentioned any companions. Depending on the source, it was held that she perpetually wore the visor of her black-iron helmet down because she was horrendously scarred; that the helmet had been deformed in a titanic struggle with a dragon and hence could never be taken off; that her silence when wearing it was the result of a mighty Wizard¡¯s final curse depriving her of a voice. The reality was, of course, far more prosaic. She wore the helmet with the visor permanently down to dissuade conversation. Words could not be twisted if they were never spoken.


    She wished she had it on now.


    Although probably not. Helmeted, storied warriors in village taverns raised conversations all on their own.


    Warming to her theme, ignoring the uninvited companion who continued to speak, she reflected that words had caused more strife across her Tours than any giant, orc, or enemy action. She had lost count of the judgements she had made where words had been used to mislead the unprepared: property stolen, funds misdirected, assassinations ordered. More often than not, the whole span of human cruelty came down to the malicious misuse of words.


    With a snort that startled her unwanted guest, she recalled her habit of posting judgements on the door of the Church of Dawn in whatever hamlet she found herself in. She had liked the formality of that action. Had thought it prevented people from ¡°forgetting¡± her meaning once she moved on. At the very least, she trusted that the words of the Goddess would be enacted when given written form. It had been somewhat of a shock when she learned how rarely the orders she¡¯d written occurred as intended.


    How Old Gant had howled when she¡¯d come to him for advice. ¡°If you make the judgement, you¡¯re the one to carry it out, Darkhelm! You don¡¯t write the truth and expect the Goddess to spring, fully formed, from your quill. She may be divine, but the rest of us surely ain¡¯t.¡± Laughter dogged her for weeks following that. Anything told to Old Gallant Stonehand in the strictest of confidence would be broadcast news. But it had been worth it. From that moment, she had learned her lesson: words were slippery.


    The untrustworthy man ¡ª was that fair of her? She shouldn¡¯t let her sour mood run away with her. He couldn¡¯t help the role he was given. Call him the changeable man; that was better.


    The person sitting across from her whoever, whatever he was, spoke again. She wished he wouldn¡¯t. Or, at least, would find someone else to do it to.


    ¡°Goddess knows there would be testimonies of support enough. He¡¯s always been a bad one, has Drunnoc Trellec. Doubt he was even born when you last came through. That¡¯s been plenty of time for him to have earned a thumb-pruning a hundred times. And there are rumours that we don¡¯t know half what he has been up to. His father¡¯s coin, you get me? Much silence can be bought with a deep enough purse. If you¡¯d taken action today, even at the cost of the Acas girl, you¡¯d have been cheered to the rafters for it. Her mother would tell you the same if you asked her. The greater good and all that.¡±


    This man with the changeable name ¡ª still not being fair, Daine ¡ª was not the first to seat himself opposite her with such a tale of Drunnoc Trellec. At least the others had read her mood accurately enough to bring a couple of full tankards with them when they imposed themselves. It would have been rude to reject such generosity. She did wish they¡¯d leave off with all the talking, though. It was getting that she¡¯d have to do something about it. And she wasn¡¯t sure she had it in her tonight.


    Daine stared significantly at her empty cup, and the man took the hint, scooping it up and retreating to the bar. She watched him go and nodded to herself. She did recall whatever-his-name-was from early in her second Tour. He¡¯d been younger then, of course, but there was still much around the eyes of that earnest man who¡¯d asked for judgement concerning his father¡¯s estate. He was a Tailor, she remembered, and a good one. Had some sort of unusual Skill that increased the durability of his wares. His shop had been flourishing, and he did not seek redress for any financial benefit. He was troubled, that was all, by a sense of something that was not as it should be in the way his father had passed from the world. She¡¯d liked that about him: there was nothing mercenary in his heart when he raised the complaint. On the contrary, he had been genuine in his concern. And she had seen little enough of that recently to be touched.


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    She¡¯d found in his favour. Memories of a young widow who had been rather too eager to speed up the day of her inheritance stirred, unwelcome, in her mind. The Goddess had been clear about her guilt, and the execution had been swift.


    That widow had cried at the end. There¡¯d been a lover ¡ª wasn¡¯t there always? ¡ª and a promise of a better life overseas. But funds to set up the venture were needed. All in advance, of course. And the lover would have to set sail without her, perhaps with another, more generous partner if she could not raise the required sums. She had become desperate and acted out of ¡°love.¡± With the deed done and an estate mortgaged to the hilt, it went without saying that better life did not manifest. ¡°But he sent me such beautiful letters,¡± she¡¯d sobbed. ¡°I had to do it, or I would have lost him.¡±


    Words. They were slippery.


    She¡¯d hunted the lothario down. Blood was also slippery.


    Now that she thought on it, unless she was mistaken, the Tailor had gifted her a cloak in thanks. She didn¡¯t usually accept such things, it gave the wrong impression, but she¡¯d liked him, and the giving of it mattered to him. Was it the one she still wore? She thought it might be. Fine work indeed, to have survived ten years on the Road. Did the man opposite her think she consciously chose to wear it on her return? That would explain his belief that he had the right to her ear. She had been on his side before, after all, hadn¡¯t she? She would retake his side again, surely. He clearly believed that she could be used to further whatever passed for an agenda in this place.


    None of them ever understood. There was no side. There was only judgement.


    He sat down again and presented a filled tankard. Her irritation at his presumption ¡ª probably undeserved, she recognised ¡ª sparked. ¡°You¡¯re telling me you need a Knight of the Road to keep your children in line? That¡¯s the tale you want me spreading on my travels? ¡®All is well in the West, provided enough of us carry out hourly visits to stop door-knocking, apple-scrumping, and the like.¡¯ Thought Westerners were made of stronger stuff. At least you used to be.¡±


    The man wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and glanced furtively about him before leaning in. If he were about to say something unpolitic about his betters, he must have been both mad and a fool. Five men, all in Trellec¡¯s red and gold, were conspicuously lurking within earshot. At least two were armed; the rest were probably simply better at hiding it. None of them caused her any concern. Low-ranking Men-at-Arms. Maybe the odd Serjeant-at-Arms mixed in, if Trellec was seriously thinking about making an issue of what occurred earlier. She hoped not. Such a confrontation would be beneath her.


    That said, the least of them would be more than enough to deal with a Tailor, no matter how skilled he might be with a needle and thread. In her darkening mood, if he were to bring them down upon him by being indiscreet, there was little she was minded to do about it.


    He leaned forward and whispered, ¡°Drunnoc Trellec¡ª¡±


    ¡°Take care with your words, whatever your name is. If these walls don¡¯t have ears, those men surely do. It¡¯s been ten years since my last Tour, and I am heartened to see you well. I would that it stayed so. I have no wish to ride through in the future and hear of the mysterious death of a Tailor that needs investigating. You may feel safe opposite me now, but in a few days, I won¡¯t be here. Ten years is a long time until I¡¯m back. You¡¯ve surely got enough years on your back and brains in your head to know better than to thumb your nose at power and seek to hide behind my skirts.¡±


    Hurt bloomed behind his eyes. He paused for a second to gather his thoughts. ¡°My name¡¯s Cenwyn. I thought, after what happened before ¡ª¡±


    She had been cruel, unnecessarily so, with her words. She¡¯d have liked to blame the ale, but she thought dimly that it was more than likely just her. At least, how she had been of late. Casting backwards for a kinder version of herself to share, she tried to soften her voice. ¡°Ten years is a lot of wronged men in small taverns buying me drinks, sir. But, yes, Cenwyn, I do remember you. Faces and judgements, I don¡¯t forget. Names, though? They have started to wriggle free.¡± She smiled to break the tension. ¡°See if you can do better when you get to my age.¡±


    The hurt faded to be replaced by ¡ª something she could not entirely read. ¡°My Lady, I was right when I came to you back then, and I¡¯m telling you, I¡¯m right now. Drunnoc Trellec is not going to let what happened today stand. He¡¯s going to seek a fearful reckoning.¡±


    ¡°The boy? You overstate, sir.¡±


    He silenced her with a raised finger. When was the last time someone had the wherewithal to stay her in such a manner? ¡°Please, my Lady, hear me out. Things are not what they seem in this village. There are currents to the tides that flow here, of which you need to be aware. I see those men in their bright livery and their swaggering noise, and I tell you that their purpose is to hold your attention. Those who know where to listen have heard tell of four outsides in the alley and three sent to the woods to dog your path. And not the usual dregs we see around here. There¡¯s been a call for serious talent to linger in the fog. And the coin offered to make it worthwhile.¡±


    Cenwyn leaned even farther forward, his words barely audible even at the intimate distance. ¡°You were right in what you said. Ten years is a long time. It¡¯s a long time for us to live without judgement. You may think your time on the Road brings order to chaos. But I tell you, Lady Darkhelm, you and your kin are a brief candle in a long night. You pass through, and we are grateful, but the blackness will take you. In your wake, we live in the shadows with those who seek to do harm. In the face of that, your light is too little and oftentimes too late. We deserve more, but we will take what we can get. I would not have your light snuffed out. There¡¯s a dire need for you and yours in the world.¡±


    Her already sour mood was in danger of tipping into something she, or more likely someone else, would profoundly regret. ¡°What are you telling me, sir?


    ¡°I¡¯m saying you should have taken Drunnoc¡¯s thumbs when you had the chance.¡±

 Chapter #3 - "Dead Before Sunrise"

    Today was not the first occasion Fion Trellec had cause to bemoan his decision to become a father again.


    With his other children, it had been easy.


    In his heart, he knew that his long-lamented Briar had been entirely responsible for the smooth management of the Trellec household. It was just that he had become used to the parade of clean and dutiful children presented periodically for his approval and had thought he played some role in that achievement. His children had grown up largely out of sight and gone on to make something of themselves in the world. Fion had told himself that their success demonstrated the good sense of his hands-off parenting.


    But with age had come some little wisdom. That he had not seen any of them since remarrying was a growing matter of guilt. He was not too proud to admit the estrangement was largely his fault.


    His second wife ¡ª second in every way possible, he now recognised ¡ª managed to embody everything Briar was not. Where she had been understated, Trivian was all excess. Where he had become used to calmness, his days were now spent trying to quell towering rages.


    He now well understood, with rueful appreciation, the breadth and depth of bounty offered as her dowry. Her father must have been dancing a jig to get her out of his hall.


    Nothing was ever quite right for the second Lady Trellec, and those in the village had quickly learned that House Trellec was no longer one on which to call. Old acquaintances made excuses to avoid social visits. Cherished, long-standing staff found other, less confrontational positions. Piece by piece, his old, comfortable life was dismantled and replaced by something peculiarly dissatisfying.


    Nevertheless, even with all that disappointment, things would have been acceptable. That is, if it had not been for Drunnoc.


    Even in the womb, he had deeply affected Trivian with his malevolence. He did not just kick; he attacked with vigour and focus. Once born, everyone whispered about how unnerving it was to hold a baby that stared as if seeking to identify weak spots. When he was not biting, he was pinching. When not crying, he was screaming. Fion was sure that much of Trivian¡¯s unhappiness had, at its root, the incessant torture of Drunnoc¡¯s presence through early childhood.


    ¡°Boys will be boys,¡± that upstart Knight had said. Fion disagreed. He knew boys, had been one himself, and he knew that his youngest son was something different. Fion had been no paragon of virtue in his youth. More than once he¡¯d felt the sting of the old Steward¡¯s stick. But Drunnoc? He was something other. There was a predatory presence lurking behind those flat eyes. He did not mind admitting that, at times, he feared it.


    As he had grown, the boy had begun lying as quickly as breathing. Fion had lost track of the times he was, against his inclination, absolutely convinced by sincerely expressed regret for one heinous act or another. Lord Trellec was not a man given to na?ve self-deception, so he could not understand his recurrent shock when the same thing would happen the following day. That lack of genuine remorse, while knowing the advantage in displaying its simulacrum, was most troubling.


    Likewise, he was all for his boys enjoying hunting and fishing ¡ª did not their trophies still line the walls of his hall? ¡ª but there was something sinister about how Drunnoc went about it. Indeed, rarely was enough left of the animals he caught for mementoes.


    And that wild pack he called his ¡°friends¡± . . . Geril. Blount. Yorul. All several years older and all lesser sons of the other High Houses. None of them had any of the restrictions on their behaviour that came with a responsibility to the family name. They had all the wealth, all the arrogance, and none of the humility that must attend such power. He had heard stories of each of them that quite chilled even him. If it was possible, he felt that those jackals were encouraging Drunnoc to wider and wilder excesses.


    In his more reflective moments, Trellec genuinely feared for a world in which Drunnoc grew to prominence. It had taken all of his considerable will not to hand him over to that damned Knight and be done with it all. But Drunnoc was his son, and, as the bitter voice in his head reminded him, the only one around that he could still call his.


    With a crash, his boy entered the Banqueting Hall, startling the retainers in attendance. ¡°I want her head!¡±


    Life had been much more manageable when his children were seen and not heard.


    Fion raised his cup for one of the hovering servants to refill. He recognised it was an indulgence, but eating alone in the giant space was one of the few pleasures he had left in life. He waited until she had returned to her place against the wall before addressing his son. ¡°Drunnoc, she is a Knight of the Road. Even if we had the capacity in the Keep to attempt something untoward, the political fallout would be seismic. I do not wish to bring down our House because you cannot control your darker impulses for a few days. The Darkhelm is an irritant once every ten years. I may have thought to use your indiscretion this morning to demonstrate the cruelty of this method of justice, but that was a miscalculation. It seemed to me, in the moment, that the casual slaughter of a young girl over such a slight thing would bring the Houses together against these barbaric Tours. But you were not the right foundation upon which to build that castle. That was my error. Thus, we will keep our heads low until she leaves and things can return to normal.¡±


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    The second figure that had followed his son into the Hall now spoke. ¡°She humiliated him. In front of the whole village! She should never be an irritant for Drunnoc again. People need to know what happens if they disrespect him.¡±


    Trellec turned to look with distaste at Veron Geril, one of the least appealing of Drunnoc¡¯s ¡°friends.¡± As solid as Drunnoc was wiry, as stocky as his son was tall. Trellec could never shake the feeling that he needed a wash after spending time in the young man¡¯s company. If the rumours were true ¡ª and for the money he spent on unearthing them, they had better be ¡ªLord Geril spent almost as much of his wealth as Fion to keep news of his own son¡¯s misdeeds from public view.


    Trellec suppressed his habitual sneer when speaking to Veron. ¡°I rather think it was his having his nose broken by a child half his age that caused the humiliation.¡± He turned his eyes back to his son. ¡°Drunnoc, we¡¯ve spoken of your responsibilities as the heir to High House Trellec, and they do not involve fighting with every waif and stray in the village. Put the Lady Darkhelm out of your mind. If we had anything like the power to do something about her on our own, she would not be Touring the village in the first place.¡±


    ¡°You are afraid of her!¡± Drunnoc¡¯s wheedling voice grated across Trellec¡¯s nerves. He raised his eyes to one of his favourite tapestries that ornamented the walls of the hall. He¡¯d always found something oddly compelling about that depiction of the fall of House Irketh.


    ¡°Am I afraid of going it alone against someone who speaks, quite literally, with the voice of the Goddess? Yes. Yes, I absolutely am. If you are not, you have even less sense than I credit you. Had I allowed you to have been called to judgement today, there would have been nothing I could have done to protect you. Should a quarter of what we know you do in secret have become known, the Knight would have killed you where you stood. I flatter myself that my good name has managed to keep the worst of your behaviours from wider knowledge. Believe me when I say that would have been nothing in the face of the Justice of the Goddess. These Tours will continue until the Houses choose to act together against the vicious imposition of the Crown¡¯s will. Until that moment, this is our reality. Meekly, we must accept it and seek to avoid unnecessary strife.¡±


    Veron¡¯s face darkened with rage. ¡°We are Noble born! The Houses cannot allow her to do as she pleases to us. To submit in such a craven manner is pathetic. ¡°


    ¡°Lordling Geril, if you choose to address me again in such a manner, I will remove your tongue.¡±


    Veron was immediately silent. It was widely understood, if not openly discussed, that the seemingly pleasant older man in his ridiculous robes of red and gold had, in his youth, demonstrated a significant capacity for violence. ¡°Apples and trees, my son. Apples and trees,¡± his own father had often said cryptically when the topic of Drunnoc¡¯s behaviour was raised.


    A chilling silence descended around the hall. A servant nervously crept forward to refill Fion¡¯s goblet, pointedly ignoring those of the two boys, and withdrew to her place behind his chair.


    ¡°For the removal of any doubt, let me be completely clear.¡± A few of the servants staggered as <Our Master¡¯s Voice> pressed down on those in the room. Drunnoc was the only one who appeared to be unaffected. Fion¡¯s mood was not improved by that development. ¡°I do not want to hear another word about Daine Orban from your lips. She is beyond us, and I forbid you from using any House resources in poorly conceived revenge plans: the treasury is closed to you. Indeed, on reflection, I do not want any other word from you at all for the evening. Remove yourself. Both of you. And try not to cause any embarrassment until that damned Road Knight is beyond our borders.¡±


    With as much dignity as they could muster, Drunnoc and Veron fled from the Hall leaving Fion to complete his meal in blissful silence.


    The glares of those few servants still loyal to House Trellec went unremarked upon but not unnoticed by Drunnoc. Veron knew that his friend was adding them to the extensive list of slights for which there would, eventually, be recompense.


    *


    When they were far enough into the depths of the Keep to avoid being heard, they slowed their pace and retired to the shadows.


    ¡°Well?¡± The querulous, somewhat peevish tone of voice Drunnoc used when speaking to his father had gone. In its place was something almost deathly in its flatness.


    Veron only grinned. Besides Drunnoc¡¯s friends, no one understood him. They looked at the size, the thuggery, and the tantrums, and they thought they knew everything there was to know about him. ¡°Bully without a brain,¡± they¡¯d decided. Certainly, that was the view Drunnoc¡¯s father held. But there was something else there that hardly anyone got to see, at least not more than once. His soul possessed a reptilian coldness hiding underneath that brutish mask.


    While Fion Trellec congratulated himself on keeping Drunnoc¡¯s misdeeds secret, the father only found out about that which the son allowed to be noticed. In the last few years, his little group of friends had established quite the infrastructure to abet all manner of secret crimes and cruelties. It was amazing what could be achieved with indulgent parents, unlimited funds, and the lowest possible expectations regarding conduct. At this stage their names were whispered with fear throughout the village and beyond. And yet, even now, only a select few were privy to the true face of Drunnoc Trellec.


    It was safe to say, had that girl from the morning not possessed an unusually vibrant survival instinct, as well as sharp elbows, there would have been little of her left to sob in front of the Lady Darkhelm. There would have been no tearful public reunion with a mother who dared deny an underage Drunnoc service at the tavern a year or so back.


    If revenge was a dish served cold, Lordling Trellec liked his both icy and exceptionally bloody.


    ¡°Well?¡± Drunnoc asked again, drawing Veron¡¯s attention back to the present.


    It had been quite the afternoon for Veron Geril. He had been tasked with locating any talent, local or otherwise, that was confident or desperate enough to cross paths with a Knight of the Road. Although he had long lost his surprise at the things people would do for money ¡ªit was so easily obtained, why were people so curiously needy for it? ¡ª he was astonished at his success. From those who had come forward, he felt he had chosen wisely, distributing his ¡ªwell, Drunnoc¡¯s ¡ª resources liberally to outfit a series of lethal encounters.


    He was aware of the famed resilience of those who walked the Road. However, he had been unimpressed by the old woman, with her threadbare armour and soft voice. The Tours were an antiquated system of justice just waiting for a new generation to banish them to the past. In the face of what he had prepared for her, he did not feel this particular Knight of the Road was likely to offer trouble.


    ¡°Everything is as we discussed. Darkhelm will be dead before sunrise.¡±

 Chapter #4 - "Bemused, Albeit Short-Lived, Surprise"

    A meaty hand thudded down on the table.


    ¡°There¡¯s people who ain¡¯t too happy with you.¡±


    Daine looked up into a forest of ginger hair. In the middle of her talk with Cenwyn, one of Trellec¡¯s retainers had finally found his courage to upgrade ¡°conspicuous lurking¡± into ¡°active intimidation.¡± Although, as he was not the biggest of them, nor by the smell of his breath the most sober, his aggressive approach merely suggested an attempt to test the water.


    ¡°I imagine so. Usually means I¡¯ve done the right thing. But we¡¯ve got that in common, at least.¡± If he had an expected response in mind, that was not it. Through the tangle of hair, she watched a frown form. ¡°Whoever encouraged a man of your colouring to serve in red and gold seemed determined to expose you to ridicule.¡±


    The big man tried to wrest the conversation back toward the script he had prepared with a visible effort. ¡°You¡¯d get back on the Road right now if you knew what¡¯s good for you.¡± He then took a course of action which, had he been less in his cups, he might have recognised as a touch unwise. Still leaning on the table, he reached out and poked Daine in the shoulder.


    With a single fluid movement, she drew a knife and slammed it into the middle of his hand, pinning it to the wood. With her other hand, she grabbed a handful of his beard and brought his head down with a crunch into the corner of the table. The big man¡¯s eyes rolled up into his head as he sank to the floor, and Daine yanked the knife free.


    In the silence that followed, one of the man¡¯s fellows took a hesitant step forward before catching her eye, pausing, and retreating with palms raised in the universal signal for ¡°I have reconsidered the advisability of my actions and would like you not to hurt me.¡±


    Daine looked over at Cenwyn and reflected on his words. ¡°I agree with you, Master Tailor, ten years is too long.¡± She wiped the blade on the back of the prostrate man, replaced it in her sheath and stood tall. ¡°No matter how many stories they hear about us, there¡¯s folk who just can¡¯t keep it in their heads between Tours. I¡¯m a Knight of the Road, and you all¡± ¡ª she raised her voice, powerful with <Intimidation>, to carry across the room ¡ª ¡°you all need to remember what that means. Me, and those like me, make certain there¡¯s a reckoning. We might not be there to stop it, but we will always give answer for it. You do not get to tell us what we should care about. Not now. Not ever.¡± She stood and brushed down her rumpled clothes. Any effect of the ale was long gone ¡ªpurged by the activation of her <Barroom Brawler> Skill¡ªand that irritated her more than the behaviour of Trellec¡¯s man. ¡°I was here ten years ago and will be here in another ten. Some of you may think there¡¯s all sorts of deeds that can be achieved in that time. That it is worth the risk. But while you¡¯re about it, remember this promise: I will see you soon.¡±


    She bent low to whisper in Cenwyn¡¯s ear. ¡°I¡¯ll think on what you said, Master Tailor, but hear me when I say judgement is never ¡®too little.¡¯ Not for those who deserve it. It¡¯s not much, but it is what the Goddess promises us all.¡± Then, turning back to Trellec¡¯s men, she opened her arms wide. ¡°Any of you still think this is a good idea?¡±


    They stared at her dumbly, then down at the man sobbing at her feet, as did the rest of the tavern.


    ¡°I¡¯m glad. Now, I¡¯m going to step outside for a moment and give anyone waiting out there the same chance I give you now. Live another day. Collect your friend and run back to Lord Trellec. Tell him he best mind his manners the next time I come through. I¡¯ll be checking. And that man¡± ¡ª she indicated Cenwyn, whose eyes widened in dismay as everyone turned to regard him ¡ª ¡°better be the healthiest, happiest Tailor in town when I¡¯m here again. He so much as pricks a finger, someone needs to be there to kiss it better.¡± She winked at him, and the crowd parted around her.


    The Men-at-Arms hesitated for a few moments. Within them warred two different fears ¡ª that of being the recipient of Daine¡¯s displeasure against the certainty of what awaited them back at the Keep should they fail their mission. Eventually, in grim, silent agreement, they all filed out after her.


    As Daine¡¯s eyes quickly adjusted to the darkness, she sensed the opening of the tavern door behind her: Trellec¡¯s men hovering at the threshold. Either those men were blindingly stupid, or they were more afraid of Trellec than they were of her, which was a new experience. She favoured brief moments of instructive violence, as they often forestalled this sort of situation. That this one had not, suggested that maybe there was more to what Cenwyn had said about Drunnoc Trellec than she thought. That would need considering.


    A sudden hiss from her left jerked her back to the moment. She turned and caught the downward swing of a long knife in the palm of her hand, wincing as it cut to the bone. With a sharp tug, Daine disarmed the attacker and had a moment to appreciate their startled expression before she struck them, hard, across the face with the pommel. The figure ¡ª a small woman in black ¡ª sailed back into the darkness, neck broken even before she hit the alley wall and slid into a crumpled heap.


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    Daine dropped the long knife just before the wound healed around the blade. That had happened several times before, and, as well as looking ridiculous, it hurt twice as much to pull it free. Blades were infinitely preferable to arrows, though: she absolutely could not be doing with Archers.


    As the cut closed and she felt the bones knit back together, two strong arms closed around her and began to squeeze. It was a worthy attempt to pin her arms to her sides and expose her to a third man who was approaching quickly from behind with a dagger. It was clearly a tactic that had worked for this pair before ¡ª enhanced by a talent for <Grapple> ¡ª and, against a different opponent, would have doubtless found success again. However, what Daine lacked in sociability, she more than made up for in brute Strength.


    With ease, she broke the bear hug before reaching over her shoulder to drag the startled man over her back. His feet hit the ground and he stood, somewhat surprised at this turn of events, in front of her. In that position, he provided an effective, if reluctant and entirely temporary, shield for the subsequent knife attack. When she felt the impaled man sag, she shoved him firmly in the back. He flew away, taking his unfortunate ex-partner with him. The two of them hit the same spot on the wall as the first assassin and joined her in an unmoving pile on the ground.


    With raised eyebrows, Daine turned to regard those still hovering around the tavern door. They all avoided meeting her eyes. Then a shout from the alley caught her attention. She turned just as a ball of fire flew from the darkness to strike her in the chest. In quick succession, three more fireballs followed, each hitting Daine, who grunted in pain at each impact. However, as soon as they struck the Knight, the flames vanished in wisps of smoke. From the expletives she heard, rapid dissipation was not an anticipated effect from the spellcaster.


    There was a brief pause, and then a white-hot tide of flame rolled toward Daine, engulfing her, and causing the cobbles beneath her feet to glow.


    A young red-haired girl stalked from the shadows, fire roiling from her hands. She shrieked words of power with each step, pulling in every source of heat from the surrounding area: every hearth in the village went cold, every torch, every candle went dark, and frost even started to form on the outside of buildings.


    Those watching from the tavern murmured their surprise. What the Fire Mage was attempting was a significant summoning, quite beyond anything witnessed in the village for many a year. Thus, in the face of such a show of pyromantic strength, the Knight¡¯s indifference to the conflagration was somewhat comical. As if on an evening¡¯s stroll, she slowly advanced toward the woman, stooping to pick up the discarded long knife, flames trailing above and behind her as if she were a meteor.


    There were myths of demons used to elicit screams of joyful terror from children on certain nights of the year. The joy came from the knowledge that such things did not exist, and the terror grew from fear that, perhaps one day, they just might. No one who watched Daine¡¯s slow, fiery walk across the courtyard that night would ever again question the existence of such monsters.


    The Lady Darkhelm paused in front of her assailant. The Fire Mage¡¯s blue eyes widened with panic, and she poured more and more of her soul into the spell, as if she could change her rapidly shortening future by will alone.


    With the spending of her life force, the Mage¡¯s skin lost its lustre as if she were ageing thirty years in barely a moment. Her back bent inwards, causing her to stagger, and she stooped forward. Still, she tried, tried unto the last, to make that which would not burn catch fire.


    Daine waited patiently, politely, until the old woman ¡ª for that was what now stood in front of her ¡ª ceased her casting and hunched over, gasping for breath, staring at her hands in awful wonder.


    There were several moments of silence as the horror of the Mage¡¯s physical transformation settled on the observers. Then Daine spoke in a quiet, almost gentle, voice.


    Somehow, those softly delivered words carried to everyone watching. Faces could be seen crowded at every window on the street. The tavern had emptied itself around Trellec¡¯s men, Cenwyn at the forefront. It was as if every member of the village had come to witness this Mage¡¯s final moment.


    ¡°There¡¯s a tale in the South of the Cult of Tara. You may have heard of them. A wind cult, as it happens, but the same principle serves here, I think. They thought they could live wholly outside of judgement. That their abilities meant no one would ever be able to call them to account. They did appalling things with the power the gods had granted them. You would not think the ability to control air would easily lend itself to torture, to destruction, to slaughter. You would be wrong. They killed thousands for the cause of ambition with barely a thought. I tell you now what I told them. Those of us granted gifts have a choice. You have chosen poorly.¡±


    Daine swung the long knife experimentally, assessing its heft and weight. ¡°I should say, that look you have on your face right now, they had it too. Right at the end. I tell you this because, since my Tour through there, when the people of Darnak wish to express bemused surprise, they¡¯ll say: ¡®Well, I¡¯ll be a Priest of Tara.¡¯ Bemused, albeit short-lived, surprise.¡±


    Daine beheaded the woman with a swish of the borrowed blade.


    She turned to face the crowd, seeking out Cenwyn. ¡°Tell me, Master Tailor, do you think they will remember me the next time I come through?¡±

 Chapter #5 - "The Realm Needs Heroes"

    While varieties of humankind might be infinite, Classes were not.


    At least, that was how Old Gant said he had explained it to her parents. For most people, the paucity of life¡¯s choices was barely a consideration: families specialised in a Class and each subsequent generation simply followed in the well-trodden footsteps of their parents and their parents¡¯ parents before them. Of course, there were exceptions: every hamlet had dark tales of ¡°bad seeds¡± who rejected beloved family traditions to run away to one of the towns or, Goddess forbid, the Capital, but those exceptions merely proved the rule. For the most part, year after year, Bakers bred Bakers, Stonemasons had little Stonemasons, and so on and so forth until the end of time.


    ¡°But that does not need to be the fate of your little girl,¡± Gant had reportedly told them. ¡°For her, there are much greater opportunities out there.¡±


    Daine did not know what had first drawn his attention to her. Perhaps some aggrieved neighbour had complained about the Orbans¡¯ ¡°wild child¡± traumatising their children. More likely, Daine thought in her gloomier moments ¡ª and she certainly had enough of those ¡ª her exhausted parents had reported her themselves. Too strong, too fast, too hungry, too destructive. Whatever the truth, Gallant Stonehand ¡ª who was, at that time, already well on the way to earning his ¡°Old¡± honorific ¡ª had been summoned and had arrived, with great fanfare, to present the Orbans with the opportunity to sell him their fourth daughter.


    Daine liked to think they would have agonised over that choice. Gant had never said either way, but it made it easier to stomach if she could imagine long, tearful nights of debate, followed by months (years, surely?) of painful recriminations once she was gone.


    Not that it mattered.


    Truth be told, almost fifty years later, she could not even remember what they looked like. Had they loved her? Presumably. There were far easier ways to deal with a troublesome child than hoping someone would come by and offer them hard coin for her. That she was alive to meet Old Gant spoke of . . . something, did it not it? She could have asked them herself, swung by to visit on one of her Tours. But what would have been the point? ¡°Thank you, dearest parents, for selling me to the Kingdom¡¯s cruellest, more brilliant Mentors. Yes, I learned many ways to kill people. No, I would not recommend it. Yes, I am that Darkhelm. No, I do not especially enjoy it. How is Grandma?¡± Somehow, she could not see the reunion progressing in such a storybook manner.


    A few years back, she had been approached by someone, presumably from her part of the world. They¡¯d recognised her surname and wanted to know if she ¡°be an Orban of the Farming Orbans?¡± She had ridden on without pause, leaving him with a mouth filled with dust and a curse on his lips. But the question ate away at her in the long nights. Could she say she was truly an Orban any longer? Would she be good for anything on a farm more than pulling a plough?


    The Orbans, for generations unending, had been Farmers. Good ones, too. That meant lots of Strength, lots of Constitution, and a fair bit of Dexterity. Even for those with that Class, as evidenced by the interest of her unwanted questioner, Orbans were highly regarded for their physicality. Their sons were welcome to come courting at any hearth, and their daughters were seen as excellent breeding stock to supplement a family line. In many ways, it was surprising that Daine had been the first in their bloodline to show the potential for Class Evolution. Most families had stories of children gathered by someone like Gallant Stonehand, having displayed preternatural talent. Nevertheless, she had been a local first, and Gant had needed to deliver what he witheringly called ¡°the provincial talk¡± to her mother and father.


    ¡°One of my roles, appointed by the King himself, I am pleased to tell you, is to look out for children like your dearest Diane ¡ª sorry, Daine, is it? What a creative use of vowels! Never let tradition, good sense, or literacy stand in your way; that¡¯s what I always say! ¡ª who have the opportunity to have their Class evolve. You will have heard that children with this potential demonstrate prodigious talent in their common Class from an exceedingly early age. This is, after all, how we find them. And you will know, of course, the rewards available for those who locate these children.¡±


    He conspicuously stroked a full bag of coins to emphasise his words.


    ¡°Once identified, we have found that should these children collaborate with an appropriate Mentor ¡ª I dare flatter myself here by noting the King himself sponsors my school ¡ª there are almost no limits to the paths these children can walk. Now, the potential for this is not as rare as you may think. However, if we do not find these children before their fifth birthday, then their common Class will simply ¡®lock in,¡¯ as it were. At that stage, they will go on to lead normal, albeit rather more successful, lives. I am sure you will have a nephew or distant cousin who seems to be better at . . . sorry, I¡¯m not especially familiar with Farming practices. But they will be better at it than anyone else. Perhaps they will develop a Skill to allow them to milk the bulls twice as fast as expected, for example.¡±


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    ¡°And Daine could do this?¡±


    ¡°Certainly. At three years old, from what I¡¯m told, she¡¯s already as strong as your husband, as quick as a rabbit, sleeps less than two hours a day, and, I am sure, already eats three times as much as the rest of your family combined. Yes, I see in your faces you are well familiar with going without to ensure this voracious little terrier gets the opportunity to eat her fill.¡±


    ¡°Is there anything that can be done to stop it? To make her normal again?¡±


    ¡°My dear young thing, please do not cry. I am sure you cannot spare the moisture. This whole situation is entirely commonplace, I promise you. It¡¯s nothing to worry about at all. Believe me, if you turn down my generous offer, you will, in no time, have a very accomplished . . . do you people do something with seeds? Yes? Well, she¡¯ll do it very well indeed, and you will all be enormously proud. But, of course, you will also be quite a bit poorer due to the substantial drain of your meagre resource she will be. But let us look on the bright side; if your family manages to survive tending this cuckoo in your nest ¡ª and I have heard that some families can buck the trend and struggle through ¡ª then in ten, maybe fifteen years, she will be able to start repaying you. And what a Goddessend that will be, eh?¡±


    Daine imagined the look on their faces as they tried to conceive of even another ten weeks with her in their house, consuming all around her like some malign, anthropomorphised locust, let alone ten years. She was sure that vision of a bleak future sealed the issue as much as Gant¡¯s next words.


    ¡°However, should you decide you can bear to part with Diane ¡ª sorry, Daine. Are you absolutely settled on that? They adapt so quickly to new names at this age. Oh, so be it¡ª she will have, and I mean this quite literally, the chance to transform the world. Not everyone can make this sacrifice, so our greatest heroes are rare. Should she survive the training, she will become someone of whom you will hear songs. You will see statues erected to her and be able to think, ¡®That¡¯s our little girl. How brave we were to give up her life of chicken-fondling to allow her to follow those dreams.¡® And, as I may have mentioned, the realm has the hard coin to pay for that chance.¡±


    ¡°What will happen to her? I mean, what will you do with her?¡±


    ¡°A sensible question to ask and one that does you credit, ma¡¯am. You wouldn¡¯t be doing your due diligence if you did not ask about me and my process, would you? I can tell you that some parents, well, they¡¯re just grateful for the coin. I ride into town, offer them a solution to the single biggest problem in their lives, and they simply bite my hand off with gratitude; indeed, most try to pay me to take their little tyke away. But no. Here you are, half-starved, looking that gift horse in the mouth and asking to count its teeth. I take my hat off to you, ma¡¯am. Quite the integrity you possess.¡±


    Her mother had tried apologising then, worried the offer would be snatched away. But Gant would not hear of it. So instead, he told her of his training school. Of the methods that would help a Farmer¡¯s child use her Orban foundations to increase her Attributes and to seek to develop a broader range of Skills. To try to build on what nature had provided with hard work, focus, and ¡°to speak plain, ma¡¯am, because we are all people of the world here, as much of the stick as the carrot.¡±


    Daine hoped her parents had understood quite how much stick would be required. She doubted it.


    ¡°And she will become a hero?¡±


    At that, Gant had leaned forward, light glinting off the silver ball that sat in place of his left eye, and spun his favourite tales: of Dreadnaughts and Blood Rangers, of Metamorphs and Lightweavers. And, of course, of the Knights of the Road.


    Gallant never told the story the same way twice, and, as age and drink stripped away more and more of his personality, Daine had come to recognise how little of what he told all of them about their families and the circumstances in which they parted with their children was likely to have been true. She doubted he even remembered the visit to the Orban farm ¡ª he just told whatever version of the past suited at the time.


    Some of her classmates had needed to hold on to the romantic view of the peasantry nobly sacrificing their children for the greater good. Darkhelm knew differently. She had heard the rumours of blood and fire in the night, of screaming mothers and slaughtered fathers. While she did not think Old Gant¡¯s school had needed to resort to such an approach, he would have been peculiarly unique if he had never ordered it.


    The realm needed its heroes, after all.


    She did not feel especially heroic right now, covered in the blood of a Fire Mage who had neglected her reading on the magical resistances of Knights of the Road.


    Cenwyn approached Daine with, she thought, the excessive caution of a man faced with a caged tiger. ¡°To answer your question, there is every chance tonight will live long in the memory. Without seeking to be presumptuous, perhaps you would appreciate somewhere to clean up?¡±


    She looked down at her clothes. She favoured dark colours for this reason, and while vanity had never been her problem, there was always an attraction in washing away the worst of the residue. She fixed Trellec¡¯s men with an unwavering stare. ¡°Is there any reason I should hesitate to change? Are more demonstrations required?¡±


    ¡°No, my Lady. We¡¯ll be leaving you be now and making our way back to the Keep.¡± The spokesman paused and jutted his chin at the bodies. ¡°May I arrange their collection?¡±


    ¡°Tell Trellec I expect their families to be compensated. He wasted their lives tonight. Take care he does not spend yours so lightly.¡±


    ¡°As you say, my Lady.¡± The men retrieved their unconscious fellows, and they all quickly departed. Daine turned back to the Tailor.


    ¡°Master Tailor. Cenwyn. A quiet place to clean up and, if I may presume, some new clothes would be very welcome. If you have anything to match the quality of the cloak, you will find that Orbans are not short of hard coin.¡±

 Chapter #60 - Mirror, Mirror on the Wall

    Daine Orban, the erstwhile Knight of the Road, sighed as she regarded her reflection in the mirror.


    She did not like what she saw.


    The weeks since she arrived at Swinford had passed in somewhat of a blur. There had been defences to raise, militias to be trained, and a never-ending stream of demands on her time.


    Although Taelsin was a more than competent Mayor, even his talents had only managed to slow the decline of this once-great City. Everywhere she looked, there was a project that would take months to bring to fruition, where they had, in reality, weeks.


    Whilst the Keep in which she had been given quarters would prove a formidable bulwark, it was the only genuinely defensible structure she had seen in the City. There were whole sections of the outer walls that would provide, at best, a passive defence against a determined assault, and the less said about the troops available to hold those walls, the better.


    If, as their information suggested, the King''s forces were imminently expected to descend with righteous fury on the West, Swinford, in its current state, would struggle to provide much more than a token resistance.


    She feared a tidal wave of slaughter awaited her. And she was not sure she had such dark work in her anymore.


    Daine had been tired before, of course. It was an occupational hazard for those who walked the Road. But she sensed that her current mood was something else. A bone-weary exhaustion that had little to do with a lack of sleep.


    She had lost a child she had sworn to protect.


    Her eyes traced over lines and creases in the face projected back at her by the mirror, and the years had not been kind. Though not in the way she thought others would judge such things, until recently, she had been content.


    She could feel that the events in the Village and the schemes of the Trellecs had left wounds upon her soul that would never be healed.


    She was confident that the Duskstrider would fulfil his promise and return Genoes to her. But what then? Where would she take him to protect him from the civil war that would surely tear the West apart?


    And what of her own status? As a Knight of the Road, she was charged with dispensing the justice of the Goddess while on Tour. Once the King learned of her own sympathies with the rebels¡ªindeed, that she planned to do what she could to repulse the advance of the King''s army¡ªwhat then?


    We will cross that bridge when we come to it.


    She was unsure if the words of the Goddess were especially comforting.


    And suddenly, there was a flare of recognition in the gaze regarding her in the mirror. She had seen that haunted, broken look before: in the eyes of her Mentor, Gallant Stonehand.


    "I am sorry to interrupt, my Lady." A servant had appeared behind her. "Mayor Elm desires your presence."


    Daine nodded and stood, rolling her neck to relieve some of the tension that had become a permanent feature of her life. That she had not heard this young man approaching said nothing good about her state of exhaustion. "Trouble?"


    "I don''t rightly know, my Lady. Secretary Assay mentioned something about the sewers?"


    Dismissing the servant, she buckled her sword and made to follow him as he backed out of her room. As she went, she glanced back at the eyes of an old woman looking sadly back.


    It had all felt so much more straightforward so long ago.


    *


    Droughton-on-the-Water ¡ª thirty years ago.


    "A mirror?"


    "Yes."


    "A mirror that eats people?"


    "That''s what I''ve heard, my Lady."


    "Heard as in ''send urgent help, there''s a carnivorous mirror on the rampage'' or heard as in ''you''ll never guess what hoax we''re using to trick the unwary, it is the most stupid one you will have ever encountered, let''s see how many fools fall for it¡¯? There are degrees to these things, you realise."


    Bayran Shareen, Priestess of the Inner Temple of Misrule, pursed her vividly painted lips and silently counted to ten. Dealing with Knights of the Road was a tricky proposition at the best of times, let alone one so wet behind the ears she was basically dripping.


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    There was a reason most Towns declared martial law when one of that Class passed through on their Tour. She knew her Town''s garrison was filled to bursting with everyone capable of holding a blade brushing up on their combat training. To be fair, it was unlikely even a well-drilled army could do much should a Knight of the Road''s ire be raised, but misery loved company . . .


    She once again looked up at the figure towering over her. Tall, built like a Farmer''s wife, and with all the confidence of someone who had wrestled a mountain bear and now had a nice new rug. The story went that this girl ¡ª fifteen if she was a day ¡ª had been trained by Gallant Stonehand. Considering the fate of that particular legend, whether that turned out to be a boon or a curse remained to be seen.


    Bayran''s early impressions were not good.


    Still, you played the cards the Lords dealt you even when they were a pair of deuces.


    "I believe I was given the information in good faith, my Lady, and I was tasked with passing it on to you. My Archbishop felt the presence of a mirror devouring the soul of anyone who gazes into it would be something you probably should seek to address on your Tour. Please let me know if we are mistaken in that assumption, and I will take further advice. However, should you agree with our assessment that a mirror that eats people falls within your jurisdiction as a Knight of the Road, I am tasked with giving you all the support you may require in bringing the matter to a close."


    "It''s a mirror. You planning to help me sweep up the broken pieces after I smash it?"


    The two women held each other''s eyes for a moment.


    Daine Orban, newly appointed Knight of the Road, was underwhelmed by her early experiences on Tour. Apart from a rather one-sided fight with some unwise bandits, there had been precious little to exercise her sword arm thus far. That said, she was barely three months into her first ten-year Tour and had arrived at the Town of Droughton-on-the-Water a few bells before.


    There was still time for things to become interesting.


    However, she did not like this Priestess. She did not like her Order, dedicated as it was to the worship of the unruly children of the Goddess. She did not like her huge green eyes, artfully enhanced by elaborate black lines. She did not like her flawless, golden skin. She did not like her long black hair tied up with a pretty pink bow. She did not like the breathy quality of her voice; she should see a Healer if she had such trouble filling her lungs. And she did not like how . . . huge she felt standing beside her.


    Jealousy is an unworthy emotion, the voice of the Goddess gently admonished. You have other qualities beyond your aesthetic appeal.


    For sure, Daine thought. It just might be nice occasionally to wear something I don''t need to be strapped into.


    Bayran broke the tense silence. "Broken glass, of course. My Lady is very comical." The Priestess tossed her hair in a careless manner that nearly earned her a summary decapitation. "To return to the matter in hand, though, my Lady. Archbishop Jerule would like the matter resolved immediately and is concerned enough to have dispatched me, a Priestess of the Inner Temple, with all haste, to request your assistance in this matter. That alone should convince you of the significance of the matter."


    Not quite with all haste, thought Daine. You managed to pack quite the wardrobe.


    Strictly speaking, an Archbishop of the Lords of Misrule did not have the authority to direct Daine to as much as the washhouse. She was within her rights to ignore the request and do her business. But, to paraphrase the words of her Mentor, Old Gant, ¡°Knights of the Road don''t let people get eaten by mirrors because the person asking for help makes them feel a bit frumpy.¡±


    He''d never quite put it that way, but she was sure it as the sort of thing he would have said.


    "Tell me more about this mirror. Is it eating people by, you know, a wailing and a gnashing of teeth? Or does it pull people into a different realm? Does it consume their souls, or . . .¡±


    "I am barely more informed than you now, my Lady. If I may, can I suggest we seek firsthand experience of the artefact and then decide on an appropriate course of action?" Bayran''s voice was coated with enough faux sincerity to stun a charging boar.


    Daine looked past the Priestess at the long line of supplicants seeking to present their concerns to the makeshift court she had established in this courtyard. If her recent experiences were anything to go by, she would hear complaints about noisy neighbours, land disputes and egregious taxation demands for the next few hours. She doubted there would be much of interest for the Goddess here, but denying the people their chance for justice would be wrong, however minor the crimes they had to report may be.


    The mirror can wait, the Goddess chimed in her head. Justice needs to be done. It needs to be seen to be done.


    Accepting the guidance, Daine gestured for Bayran to step aside. "As you can see, Priestess, I have duties here and cannot abandon my post so readily. However, once the people''s concerns have been heard and addressed, I will be happy to accompany you to deal with the danger that has alarmed your Archbishop. I gladly accept your assistance in the disposal of the impending broken glass. Perhaps the remnants will make you another pretty necklace?"


    Bayran possessed just enough survival instinct not to roll her eyes at a being capable of razing the Town without drawing sweat. But, Lords, give her a Knight on their second, even their third Tour; they at least understood how the world worked. Unfortunately, this child still had all her delusions about ¡°justice¡± to be knocked out of her.


    "I am poised to leap into action when you feel ready, my Lady. Tell me when you believe enough local justice has been dispensed to allow you to address a soul-eating mirror." With that, she curtsied with such grace, beauty and precision that Daine had to force her hands to unclench.


    Just because no one present would question her crushing the skull of a Priestess of the Lords of Misrule did not make it a good enough reason to do it. Whilst the admiration of the common folk was not part of her motivation to become a Knight of the Road, she would be lying if she said she did not think about how she would like the songs written about her to go. It seemed unlikely that straight-up murdering an unarmed Priestess for being impertinent would make for a catchy number.


    "Thank you. Until this evening, then." She felt the Goddess smile indulgently at the unspoken ¡°you bitch¡± in her words.


    The Priestess held her low curtsey, clearly planning to stay in that position until Daine was finished.


    Well, two of us can play at that game. "Now, my good sir," she said, turning her attention to the Farmer anxiously twisting his hat in his hands, ¡°please tell me more about your oxen. Leave no detail, no matter how insignificant, unspoken. I have all day."

 Chapter #61 - Vim, vigour, piss and vinegar

    "I suppose I am just not seeing ''relocate everyone to live in the sewers'' as the brilliant, tactical masterstroke you seem to suggest it is."


    Tension burned in the air between the Mayor and his Secretary. All of Swinford knew the two enjoyed a somewhat informal back-and-forth, but the relationship had taken a turn for the worse since their return from the disastrous Council of the West.


    Rumours of what had occurred in that Village were rife, but the fact that the West was now in open rebellion against the King could not be denied. Ensuring the City of Swinford was prepared for the storm about to fall upon them was clearly placing great strain on a previously strong relationship.


    "Unfortunately, my Lord," Donal said, tapping a stylus against his impossibly white teeth, "whilst we all appreciate your sterling efforts to follow the logic of my argument, I do wonder if your time would be better spent actioning the plan as opposed to wrestling with complexities beyond you. We each have our strengths, after all."


    There was an awkward silence during which everyone in the small group convened to convene at the entrance to Swinford''s warren of underground sewers tried not to make eye contact.


    "Master Secretary, did you just call me stupid?" Taelsin''s voice was dangerously low.


    "Not at all, my Lord. I merely pointed out that every moment I spend explaining and reexplaining my thinking to you is a moment lost in the protection of the City. I did not mean to suggest you were slow, merely that I am a genius."


    "There was a time," Lady Gerol noted with a sniff she instantly regretted this close to the entrance to the sewer, "when the help would be executed for speaking to a Lord in that way."


    "Very true." Donal beamed back at her, "I imagine that was around the time every Noble paid thirteen pounds of gold each six months for the upkeep of the City''s walls. As luck would have it, I have my ledgers here. Shall I see how much House Gerol has paid in the last six months? In the last twelve? Indeed, I wonder, if we counted up all your House''s contributions to the rebuild and repair of the infrastructure of Swinford for the last twenty years, if we would have enough gold to hire a particularly expensive whore. Although, if rumour is to be believed, your husband . . ."


    "Enough. Donal. You will be silent." Taelsin''s voice boomed around the gathering as the older woman gaped in shock. "My apologies, Lady Gerol. My Secretary does not speak for me in this matter. No one questions House Gerol''s commitment to the City''s well-being."


    "Well, at the very least, no one questions Lord Gerol''s commitment to the well-being of the City''s prostitutes."


    "Be quiet!" Taelsin''s face reddened with anger. "Is it not enough that you disrespect me? That you thwart my will? That you undermine me at every turn? Now you must also besmirch the reputations of my oldest friends. Lady Gerol, please accept my apologies."


    The elderly woman glared daggers at Donal. "I have long told you, Taelsin, my boy, that nothing good will come from consorting with the likes of this Class. Your father needed nothing more than the advice of his Nobles to run the City, and we can all agree he did a fine job."


    The other Nobles in the party nodded their sage agreement. This Secretary had long been a thorn in their side in gaining influence over young Taelsin Elm. This developing fissure between them was one they were keen, nay positively eager, to exploit. "But from the first moment you let this viper poison your ear, well . . . I don''t like to say it, boy, but Swinford is not the City it once was."


    As if sensing the momentum moving away from him, Donal raised his voice in frustration. "My Lord, our City will soon come under siege by the King''s Army. Each of us have our own sources that put the day of attack from a week to a month. But that siege will arrive, and it will be catastrophic. From what I hear, the King has placed Great General Souit in command of his forces. I am sure we are all well aware of his impressive reputation. Certainly, he has cracked harder nuts than Swinford in the recent past. Thus, we need to consider how we can best protect our population. Some of the few sections of our walls that are in decent shape are those within the sewer network. I imagine even the most venal of our Nobles would baulk at effluence swimming in the streets. If we want our people to have a chance to survive the coming assault, it makes perfect sense for us to make use of that resource."


    "My Lord, do we need to listen to this drivel further? You asked us to accompany you to hear this scheme, and we have done so. I, for one, will not move one member of my House belowground. I doubt you will find a single Noble left in the City who will agree to such a ludicrous suggestion. And, what is more, I find myself unable to tolerate the presence of this . . . gentleman any further."


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    Taelsin glared at Donal one final time and then sighed. "I agree, Lady Gerol. Once again, I am sorry for the words of my Secretary. He had suggested this would be a solution to our problems, but I now see it as yet another opportunity for him to show off. Please, would you excuse us, and I will join you aboveground shortly."


    "So, I take it we will not be moving the population belowground, then, Taelsin?" The speaker, a portly Minor Noble named Lord Olrun, barely kept the sneer out of his voice.


    "No, my Lord. I am sorry to have wasted your time. Guards, close up the entrance. Nothing more needs to be done here. We shall entertain this folly no longer. Now, I must have a word with my staff. Can I please join you shortly?"


    The Nobles graciously nodded their approval and withdrew to more fragrant air, leaving just Taelsin and Donal behind.


    The two glared at each other in silence for a few moments.


    "My Lord, you are a truly lousy actor for an outstanding politician."


    Taelsin rolled his eyes. "Me? You appear to have transformed into some sort of second-rate villain from one of the more fantastical scrolls. I kept half expecting you to twirl your moustache and cackle."


    "To speak plain, my Lord, I worried that should we be too subtle, the trap would not be sufficiently bated. We are not dealing with the premier intellects of the age here."


    "What trap?" Both men jumped at her voice as Daine approached from the shadows. "I must say, I have just passed the smuggest group of Nobles I have seen in a long time. They are all, loudly, of the opinion Donal''s days are numbered."


    "My Lady Darkhelm, I trust you are well?" Taelsin dipped his head in a bow.


    "You find me as well as I find you, I imagine."


    Each took in the exhaustion of the other and smiled in recognition.


    "I, on the other hand, am positively brimming with vim, vigour, piss and vinegar. If I may continue outlining my scheme, my Lord? My Lady? I do so love the scheming."


    Taelsin sighed and nodded for Donal to proceed.


    "Thank you. As you are aware, we have known for some time that the King has been far too well-appraised of our preparations for the coming siege. We had, of course, made efforts to stem the usual communication methods, but some reasonably sensitive information continued to flow outwards."


    Daine rubbed her hand down her face. "You speak, Master Secretary, as if most of those ''efforts'' did not involve me throwing people out of windows."


    "Well, quite. A startlingly efficient method of interrogation I wished I had stumbled upon centuries earlier. Think of the wear and tear I would have saved on knives. Well, never mind. Moving right along. Through several well-placed rumours, we have identified that the leaks must come from within the ranks of the few Nobles who have remained within the City."


    "The majority of my fellow Nobles, of course, having fled at the first sign of trouble, taking with them all the food, water, and manpower they could sneak out of the City." Taelsin''s voice was bitter.


    "Indeed. The rats have abandoned this entirely seaworthy vessel ¡ª see, I can be good for morale ¡ª and we must assume that those chosen to remain are either your staunchest allies or your most vicious opponents. Hence today''s little game."


    "And what was the outcome?"


    "Well, that will rather depend, my Lady, on which of those present decides to leak news of the break in relationship between Taelsin and myself. Oh, and which of them gives the heads-up to the small attack squad we have identified hiding on the outskirts of the City? It is now apparent it will be safe to make ingress through the sewers."


    "I assume I am here because further defenestrations await me?"


    Taelsin and Donal exchanged a look. "Not quite, Lady Darkhelm," Mayor Elm began, "we would like you to . . ." and then he stopped.


    Donal rolled his eyes. "My Master feels he is overstepping in this request. I''ve explained Knights of the Road like nothing more than the opportunity to bloody some noses. He''s doing you a favour, truth be told."


    Daine looked at the two of them and could not help but smile. There were few people in this world ¡ª or, to be fair, the next ¡ª whom she would call friends. But she felt very close to the Mayor and his Secretary.


    During their journey back from the Village, she had greatly enjoyed their company. As a Knight of the Road, she had made a virtue of her isolation, enjoying relying on no one but herself. However, in the last month, her eyes had been opened to a world of friendship she would be loath to leave behind. These two, Kirstin, Eliud and, of course, Genoes. They were the new family she had forged for herself, and there was very little she would not do in order to keep them all safe.


    "Taelsin, what would you have me do? I promised Eliud that Swinford will still be standing when he returns with Genoes, and I mean to keep that vow."


    At the mention of the Duskstrider, a touch more vibrancy entered Mayor Elm''s eyes. "Have you heard anything from him? We know he entered the Capital, but our spies have very little else to share."


    "I am afraid not, my Lord."


    "The Goddess . . . ?" Donal asked delicately.


    "Is being Her usual ineffable self. The best I can say is that She does not seem overly alarmed by the current situation. If anything untoward has happened to Eliud, Kirstin or Genoes, then She is not worried about it.¡±


    "That is not really as comforting as could be hoped."


    "Welcome to my existence."


    Donal shrugged. "Well, worrying about it won''t make much difference. We''re waiting for the Pendragon to appear and pull our feet from the fire. Any situation he has encountered with which he cannot cope is going to be beyond our ability to help. We''d be wiser to focus on our own problems and hope he gets here in time."


    Daine nodded. "I told him to meet us here. I am at your disposal."


    Donal clapped and put a hand on Daine''s shoulder, leading her towards one particularly aromatic grate. "Excellent. Well, if our little charade with the Nobles has worked as we hope, we are probably going to need someone of your Skills in the very near future. The big question is, I guess, whether we can find any watertight clothing in your size."

 Chapter #62 - The Broken Tankard

    Droughton-on-the-Water ¡ª thirty years ago.


    Daine had noticed the increasing sparseness of houses and stalls the further they walked. She sensed they were approaching a less reputable part of Town.


    Her understanding had been that Droughton-on-the-Water was one of the more prosperous places in this part of the world. However, she was learning it was not uncommon for the most beautiful lights to cast the darkest shadows.


    As Daine and Bayran walked, the dilapidated houses appeared to swallow them in a hungry embrace.


    Humble dwellings, their wooden frames groaning under the weight of years, huddled together in desperate solidarity. Once proudly whitewashed walls were now adorned with layers of grime, the graffiti of destitution etched in their decaying facades.


    ¡°It would seem that your Order should be more present in this part of Town, Priestess. Do not the followers of the Lords preach that everyone should have the chance to improve their lot? Where are your Hostels? Your Lower Priests ministering on these streets?¡±


    ¡°There is more than enough to occupy us in Droughton, my Lady. We do what we can to alleviate suffering. Some people . . .¡± Bayran indicated shadows peering at them from windows. ¡°Well, there are those you can save from everything but themselves.¡±


    They had been walking for several bells before they reached a solitary inn, its sign weathered and faded, standing at the heart of the desolate district.


    Bayran, with a rolling of the eyes that amused Daine, accepted a pause in their journey. The inn was called ¡°The Broken Tankard,¡± a fitting name for an establishment that had seen better days. Its windows had been colourful stained glass, once upon a time, but were now shattered and patched with ragged boards.


    The door, once sturdy and welcoming, creaked on its hinges as it swung open, a haunting dirge that greeted those brave enough to enter. The air within was thick with the mingling scents of stale ale and despair, the sounds of muted conversations buzzing against the peeling wallpaper.


    ¡°Two ales, Barkeep.¡± Daine¡¯s voice boomed out in the dark room.


    ¡°One ale and one water,¡± Bayran corrected. ¡°One of us should keep a clear head.¡±


    ¡°Priestess, the ale will be cleaner than the water in such a place. No one needs a sharp mind whilst experiencing dysentery.¡±


    When the drinks came, Bayran dipped a finger in her mug and muttered a few words, then grimaced at whatever was the outcome of the spell. She pushed it away from her. "My gods may approve of gambling ¡ª I will bank my Luck for now.¡±


    Daine guffawed and looked around her. The other occupants of the inn were a motley crew of lost souls slumped over their drinks, eyes haunted by the trials of existence. Men, their faces rough and lined with worry, nursed mugs of watered-down ale, seeking solace in the fleeting embrace of forgetfulness. Women wearing gowns tattered and threadbare whispered secrets to one another, their laughter laced with bitterness and longing. Their faces told tales of shattered dreams and broken promises, etched with the lines of disappointment and defeat.


    ¡°Cheerful place.¡±


    Bayran laid her hands on the counter and stared ahead. ¡°My Lady. Life has been hard for many years for the poor in Droughton. And that was before the coming of the mirror and all it has wrought. These people do not deserve your scorn.¡±


    She gasped as Daine took hold of her arm and pulled her roughly to face her. ¡°It is not these people I scorn, Priestess. You sit in your perfumed, beautiful robes, with slippers that cost more than the building, and make pronouncements on a ¡®hard life for the poor.¡¯ I say again, I am shocked at the indifference of your Order to the suffering I see here. I well know where my scorn is directed.¡±


    They sat in silence as Daine finished her drink. Each fostering growing resentment for the other.


    *


    Towards the back of the inn, unseen by either Knight or Priestess, engaged as they were in their own private bickering, a solitary figure slipped outside and began moving with purpose. Clad in rags, his weathered face hidden beneath a tattered hood, he moved through the streets with determination.


    He knew every nook and cranny of this forsaken place, every hidden crevice that held the whispered secrets of a bygone era.


    In the fading light of dusk, as the last vestiges of daylight cast long shadows upon the crumbling walls, the figure came to a halt before an ancient, vine-covered structure. The remnants of a grand cathedral stood before him, its once-towering spires reduced to crumbling stone. He stepped through the shattered doorway, his footsteps echoing in the cavernous space. The air was heavy with the weight of the past, and he could almost hear the ghostly chants of forgotten prayers.


    Here, in the heart of the derelict Town, he sought solace and purpose amidst the ruins.


    He brought his master great news.


    *


    They had left the tavern shortly after Daine¡¯s third drink. She did not especially like the ale ¡ª her Class ensured alcohol had no impact on her ¡ª but she enjoyed annoying the Priestess.


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    Daine recognised there was something she was missing about Bayran¡¯s attitude towards the mirror. The Priestess acted as if their mission were exceptionally time-critical, but the mirror had been active for several months, if she believed the woman. There seemed little need for such urgency in their pursuit of it.


    ¡°Remember, boys and girls, only stupid people set traps. So stands to reason only stupider people get caught in them,¡± was one of Old Gant¡¯s favoured maxims. She was all but certain the Priestess was leading her into some sort of deception. She just did not understand why ¡ª tangling with a Knight of the Road was a shortcut to a beheading.


    And then she sensed a group of people loitering up ahead.


    ¡°Can you fight?¡±


    Bayran stopped in her tracks and wrinkled her nose at the Knight¡¯s terse tone. ¡°Can I what?¡±


    ¡°Fight. You know¡± ¡ª she drew her longsword from its sheath on her back ¡ª ¡°with a sword.¡±


    ¡°Why on earth would I ¡­¡± Bayran frowned up at her companion. ¡°Are you challenging me to a duel, my Lady?¡±


    Not for the first time, Daine was reminded that not everyone was blessed with her enhanced senses. ¡°There¡¯s a group of six or seven people waiting for us around the next bend in the road. It might be more. It¡¯s hard to tell. There¡¯s something strange about the way they smell. I¡¯m asking because I need to know if you can hold your own or if I need to protect you whilst fighting them.¡±


    It had been a long and frustrating evening for Bayran. She knew her gambit with the curtsey had been childish, but she had not expected that the Knight was equally capable of such juvenile behaviour. Daine had, somewhat vindictively to the Priestess¡¯s mind, continued to answer any and all petitions that came her way for three hours afterward. She was surprised she could still walk.


    And now, far later than she had planned, they were making their way through the dark streets of Droughton.


    She was disappointed in how she had handled the awkwardness in the tavern. Bayran felt she had, in some way, failed a test with the Knight. And now this insane child-barbarian was talking about engaging in some light swordplay.


    ¡°My Lady, I don¡¯t know how they do things where you are from, but here in the Town, we do not assume every group approaching us has nefarious intent. In the civilised world, we try discourse before swinging the sword.¡± To underscore her words, Bayran swept past the Knight, calves screaming at the extra speed demanded of them, and turned the corner.


    This would have made for quite the exit had she not instantly reappeared, running as fast as her sore legs could carry her. Daine stepped forward into the middle of the street to cover the Priestess¡¯s retreat as several figures lumbered round the corner after her. The Knight¡¯s eyes flickered in excitement as a horde of undead shuffled forward, their decaying limbs creaking like rusted iron.


    ¡°That¡¯s more like it,¡± Daine grinned, taking up a classic guard position.


    Catching her breath a short distance beyond Daine and drawing two wickedly sharp daggers, Bayran muttered vicious curses. ¡°Yes. I can fight, my Lady. Just give me room to work when you are floundering around with that great heap of metal.¡±


    ¡°Any idea what they are?¡± Daine used the length of her longsword to mark a semicircle in the air through which she intended nothing to pass.


    ¡°Soulless. Mirror-taken. You remember the mirror, right? Or did that slip your mind with all that serious business of corn boundaries and fence heights?¡±


    As a putrid stench of death wafted through the air, Daine twirled her blade, catching the dim light of flickering torches. It gleamed with a polished sheen, starkly contrasting with the murky darkness surrounding them. ¡°You spoke of a mirror that ate people. I mayhap would have led with the existence in the Town of groups of Soulless waylaying people on the street. I would have stopped at two drinks if you¡¯d been clearer as to the danger.¡±


    Bayran shot her a withering glance. ¡°My Lady, if you had taken your duty seriously at the time and followed my suggestion, we wouldn¡¯t be here in the darkness, knee-deep in undead.¡±


    Daine lunged forward, her sword slashing through the air with little precision. There was no need against a foe that took no evasive action. The movements of Soulless were clumsy, but their numbers could be overwhelming if the Knight let them bunch up. As she had suspected, there were far more than the seven or eight Daine had initially expected. Was there something about the undead that made them more difficult for her to sense? That could be troubling.


    As she thought through the implications, Daine dodged and hacked at hands and arms seeking to entrap her, her large form moving with surprising, agile grace. ¡°Do not fret, Priestess. Nothing I cannot handle. No need to risk ruffling your dress with such things.¡±


    Bayran¡¯s lips tightened into a thin line as she watched the Knight hold the centre of the street against such high odds. No matter how many times you heard about the efficacy of these warriors, seeing them in action was, annoyingly, impressive.


    Mindful of the criticisms back in the tavern about the inaction of her Order, she was not content to hide behind the Knight¡¯s sword. She channelled divine energy through her daggers and started casting spells to protect her erstwhile companion. Her voice was heavy with scorn as she muttered incantations, the holy symbols around her neck glowing with a gentle radiance. ¡°You can jest all you want, my Lady, but remember, my prayers are the only reason you¡¯re still standing!¡±


    Daine chuckled, her laughter mingling with the cacophony of groans and hisses from the Soulless. ¡°Sad as I am to deprive you of the chance to show off your miraculous powers, Priestess, you will find your charms don¡¯t work on me. If you wish to be helpful, you will need to get your hands dirty. Or, which would be my preference, stay back and let me finish my work.¡±


    As the battle raged on, Daine¡¯s blade cleaved through rotten flesh, sending limbs flying and bodies crumpling to the ground. Anxious not to be left out, Bayran abandoned her spells ¡ª she had known the Knights were resistant to all forms of magic and was frustrated to have misstepped ¡ª throwing herself into the middle of the mindless assault. With each swing of their weapons, their bickering intensified.


    ¡°Your aim is as off as your faith, Bayran!¡± Daine shouted as she lopped off the head of a skeletal creature.


    ¡°At least my aim doesn¡¯t rely solely on arrogance!¡± Bayran shot back.


    The clash of metal against bone, the cracking of skulls, and the desperate moans of the undead filled the night air, drowning out their verbal sparring. For a moment, as they fought back-to-back, their quarrels became a mere backdrop to the chaos surrounding them.


    As the last of the Soulless fell, Daine wiped the sweat from her brow, a weary smile playing on her face. ¡°Not bad, Priestess. Not bad at all. There might even be a thing or two you could teach me with those daggers of yours.¡±


    Bayran replaced the blades in their sheaths. ¡°My Lady, these creatures did not find their way to us unaided. Someone must be alert to our direction. We need to keep moving before something you cannot defeat is sent in their stead. From my information, the house containing the mirror should be just ahead.¡±


    If Daine saw the final incantation Bayran cast on the Soulless as they turned to keep moving, she did not mention it. She would come to regret not doing so.

 Chapter #63 - "The Joy of a Well-Constructed Agenda"

    Donal shuffled through the papers on his desk.


    It seemed to him that if he could just find a different order, there might be a way in which they could sit that would make the future look a touch more palatable.


    But no.


    Regardless of how he considered things, the end was very much nigh. In a few days, the armies of the King ¡ª under the direction of General Souit, no less ¡ª would begin scouring the West. Of all those Towns and Cities that had seceded, Swinford would be at the very top of the list of those to be pacified. Quite apart from the propaganda victory in the capture and, presumably, execution of Mayor Elm, most of the trading routes to the Capital ran through their lands. The longer Swinford stood in rebellion, the less money flowed into the King''s coffers. That would be a powerful motivation to crush this uprising at birth.


    Donal blew out his cheeks and brushed the papers away from him. He flattered himself that he was no minor talent, but in the face of this approaching doom, even his box of tricks looked increasingly bare.


    Across his long life, this was certainly not the first time he had found himself marshalling the defence of a City under the approaching shadow of overwhelming forces. Although, he acknowledged, it was somewhat of a unique situation to find himself objectively on the ¡°right¡± side of the argument. It was troubling that the outcome looked much on the same track, though. That did not seem quite fair.


    Still earnestly searching for potential solutions, he cycled through the Class Abilities he possessed. As a Secretary, he was an outstanding administrator ¡ª with exceptionally high Intelligence and no little Wisdom upon which to call. Moreover, he had


    , little need for sleep and a talent for enhancing the teamwork of any group he was part of. Alongside these Skills, he had, over the years, supplemented his usefulness with a knowledge and capacity for runes that was rarely gained through a traditional scholar''s apprenticeship. Some may think that was cheating; he merely considered it making the most of what he had.


    Considering his long and exotic history, it still surprised him to how much he had liked being a Secretary.


    He enjoyed the feeling of power that came from a carefully constructed agenda and the judicious use of minutes. From behind a desk, he had been able to frustrate assassinations and bring down great Lords with little more than a flourish of his quill. The attraction of soft power was great for a man who had spent much of the last century elbow-deep in the blood of heretics.


    But, he feared, his time in this Class was coming to an end.


    No matter how carefully he rearranged and ordered things, the gaps in Swinford''s walls would not be closed any faster. His skill with a ledger could not conjure additional troops from thin air, nor could he ensure the forces they had were appropriately fed and equipped.


    Ignoring the three figures looming over him, he stood and pottered towards the window that looked out on the courtyard of the Keep. From this vantage point, he could see the Lady Darkhelm preparing for her task beneath the City. She had insisted on undertaking the mission alone, for which, secretly, Donal was very grateful. Had she wished for support, he had no idea where he would have found the men to accompany her. Suicide missions were hardly attractive for anyone but a Knight of the Road.


    Now, that was a thought. Would a second Knight of the Road be helpful for the City in the coming strife? He possessed the necessary prerequisites to make that Class change, of course. And it had been a while since he had fought on the front line.


    Don''t you dare!


    He smiled at the hurried distaste in the Goddess''s voice. It had been a while since a deity, at least one from this realm, had directly addressed him. "Don''t worry, my dear. I wouldn''t force you to be my patron. As much as I think the Darkhelm would welcome the comradeship, I fear I must turn my talents elsewhere."


    If there was any response, he did not hear it.


    No. As attractive as the thought of a young, strong body was ¡ª with a suitably long sword, of course ¡ª Swinford would need something different from him in the coming weeks and months.


    Taelsin had disagreed when he had explained his plan to swap Classes. Of course he did. It was one of the benefits of youth that the man had not yet seen enough to completely shed his cloak of idealism. The Mayor felt sure they had not exhausted all other options and wanted to maintain their current dynamic.


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    Donal, on the other hand, with regret, knew differently.


    Sighing, he turned away from the window and looked back at the cosy room that had been his office for all these years. Yes. He had enjoyed his time in this Class. Things had been so much simpler.


    "Well, Master Secretary?"


    The three armed figures who had burst through his door a few moments earlier were starting to feel anxious. There were many responses to the sudden, and unwelcome, appearance of masked assailants, and this trio had thought they had seen them all.


    Complete and utter indifference was a new one.


    In answer, Donal flashed his brilliant white smile. "I''m sorry, sirs. I was miles away. I believe you may have asked me a question?"


    "Yes, sir. As we explained, you have been summoned by the Council of Nobles to brief them on the state of the walls. There have been allegations you have been profiting from the sale of stone and such things. We are to escort you to them with all haste to allow you to explain yourself."


    "Summoned, is it? That sounds nicely official. And am I to take it that during my journey from hither to thither, I am likely to experience an unexpected catastrophic accident? Will I slip and fall from the walls, perchance? Will a passing cart veer out of control and trample me underfoot? Or, and this was always my personal favourite, so please do accept the advice, will I accidentally impale myself, repeatedly, on a passing blade?"


    The speaker for the group frowned at Donal''s verbiage and brandished his club. "Now, none of your jibber jabber, Master Secretary. The Council of Nobles requires your presence, and we''re to make sure nothing happens on the way."


    Donal nodded thoughtfully. "Well, your arrival has certainly been timely, and I must thank you for making my mind up for me. I had thought to eke out another day or so in this Class, but there''s not much this form can do against such lusty youths as yourselves, is there? Not unless we can decide things with a game of chess? What say you? A quick mental challenge? I prefer to play black?" He indicated a chess set that sat ready under a small pile of parchment.


    The second man, lacking the social graces of his companion, brought his hand down with a crash, scattering paper and knocking chess pieces flying. "Quit your yammering! You''re coming with us now!"


    "Oh dear." Donal''s eyes flashed at the spilt documents. "Now that was not very friendly, was it?"


    And his Class shifted.


    Few people, especially outside the great Training Schools of the Kingdom, had ever witnessed a Class change. In a society whose cornerstone was the rigidity of its Class structure, it was an unusual enough event to be almost legendary. And fewer still had ever seen it undertaken with so little ceremony.


    For those like the Knights of the Road who sought to ascend from a base Class to something greater, it was a long-term, grueling process by which a patron god was wooed by feats of arms to accept the change.


    What happened in this small room, however, was nothing like that.


    One moment, the three hired killers faced a kindly-looking, stooped old man who clearly posed them no martial threat. A Secretary might be clever, but no amount of pretty words would save his neck when the wringing started.


    But in the next . . .


    Donal felt momentary regret as some of his Intelligence drained away ¡ª not too much, of course, that would be unhelpful in the coming troubles ¡ª but enough that things that were crystal clear suddenly became a touch more indistinct. The knowledge was still there, but no longer as blindingly obvious amongst a wider thread of possibilities. Still a genius, then, but no longer a once-in-a-generation mind. That was a shame. However, that pang of disappointment was a fleeting thing as, with a surge of pleasure, all sorts of other things suddenly became possible.


    He was pleased that he had kept much the same body; he wouldn''t want his change of capabilities to be too noticeable, after all. It would be far to their advantage if General Souit''s spies had nothing remarkable to report about the leadership of Swinford. Mind you, when you stood next to a Knight of the Road, you could probably grow a second head without anyone noticing.


    With eyes growing wide, each of the men who had accepted three gold coins apiece to rid the City of this troublesome administrator took a half step back. The figure in front of them was, objectively, still the same man. The same face, the same bent back, and the same comically bright teeth. But whereas before he was nothing so much as an elderly functionary, a terrifying aura now pulsed from him.


    "Oh, yes. I must say, I have missed this."


    Donal''s mind whirled as he considered the problem of the oncoming army from a wholly different perspective. He still had access to the memories of his Secretary Class, although he could not quite follow some of the extrapolations he had made whilst in that form. But that mattered little in the grand scheme of things. He now had a wholly new way of looking at the world.


    Speaking of which . . .


    "My dear young things, I''m afraid events have rather overtaken you somewhat. I suppose, for form''s sake, I should give you the opportunity to rethink this course of action?" Taelsin would expect that of him, of course. And, he was pleased to realise, despite the change of Class, he was still content to serve that extraordinary young man. He had worried about that. When he had been in this Class before, he had often felt the need to . . . restructure things.


    The three interlopers bunched together for a moment, sensing the proximity of their end, and then, in desperation, they chose to attack as one.


    The Dark Warlord smiled, white teeth now noticeably sharper and opened his arms to welcome them into his embrace.

 Chapter #64 - "Needs Must when the Demon Drives"

    The hairs on the back of Daine''s neck were suddenly standing to attention, and she whirled to face the imminent threat. On instinct, she had drawn her greatsword, sweeping it with both hands in a wide arc to the guard position.


    The sight of a Knight of the Road preparing for combat had a suitably chilling impact on the others milling around the Keep''s courtyard. In a blind panic, the various squires, merchants and armourers fled the area, shouting their displeasure at being so unceremoniously displaced.


    "Is there something wrong, Lady Darkhelm?"


    Daine''s eyes met Donal''s and then swept past him to take in the three imposing figures arrayed behind him. For sure, they were intimidating enough in a squat, brutish way, but not at all concerning enough to have elicited such a primaeval response from her. Indeed, now she looked at them properly, there was something profoundly cowed about them.


    No, these three were not the source of her . . . well, ¡°fear¡± was probably the only word for it. It was the aura of some terrifying predator that had so raised her hackles; she cast around for where it may be lurking.


    And her gaze returned to Donal.


    "Ah. I worried this might happen. Could I have a moment to explain before the hacking begins?"


    She took a step forward, seeking to bring it ¡ª whatever it was that had taken Donal''s form ¡ª within her sword''s reach.


    He stumbled back, the three bruisers slipping past him to stand between them. "Lady Darkhelm. Daine. If we could just take a beat so that I might explain things?"


    Daine flat-batted the largest of the three out of the way with her sword before closing on the erstwhile Secretary and lifting him off the ground with one hand. "What are you? What have you done with my friend?"


    What happened next was something of a surprise to all concerned.


    Donal, sensing an inevitable escalation in the Knight''s fury, brought both fists down on the forearm attached to the hand suspending him aloft. Daine''s eyes widened at the colossal impact, the effect being she let the thing that looked like the old man drop to the floor. However, rather than fall to the ground in a heap, Donal fell into his shadow and then entirely vanished.


    There was a pause, and then the two remaining brutes threw themselves in a fury on Daine.


    That, at least, worked out exactly as could have been expected, and within moments, all of them, with fewer limbs attached to them than previously, were lying in a pile on the ground.


    Donal''s voice came from behind Daine. "Apologies. That is on me. I should have found a way to lay some groundwork and introduce my transformation. Do you think I could go get Taelsin, and we could try all that again? Don''t mind my minions. They''ll pull themselves back together in no time."


    *


    "You can change Class at will?"


    "Well, not quite ''at will.'' It is much more complicated than that and requires me to have achieved all sorts of preconditions and feats of amazing derring-do and . . ." Donal''s voice trailed off under Daine''s blank stare. "At will. Pretty much, yes."


    "And you knew about this?"


    Taelsin shrunk back as Daine turned to him. She had yet to put up her sword, and waves of suppressed tension rolled off her. "I have always been aware that Donal had capabilities far beyond the average Secretary, but it was only after the attempt on his life by the Order of Iskent that he began sharing more of his history."


    Daine regarded him silently for a moment before turning to look at the three ¡°minions¡± that were stood guarding the door. As Donal has said, their arms had reattached. Her mind flashed back to her encounter with Soulless during her first Tour in Droughton. The similarity in the stance and vacant look was unmistakable.


    "Who were they?"


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    Donal smiled broadly. "Oh, just thugs some of the Nobles sent to kill me. I acted entirely in self-defence, I promise you. I even, and I think you will appreciate this, gave them a chance to back out of it once they realised they were outmatched."


    "So why are they still . . . moving?"


    "Well, their appearance rather tipped my hand. I had been preparing to move my Class into Great Marshal."


    "Yes. I distinctly remember that being the plan," Taelsin added, his voice wry. "In fact, I could have sworn we specifically discarded your desire to move into Dark Warlord, as it was so manifestly evil. Someone very wise even said the words,''I imagine the Lady Darkhelm will have a hard time reconciling herself to the presence of a Dark Warlord.'' I wonder which good-looking, eminently sensible Mayor thought that?"


    "Needs must when the demon drives, my boy. There I was, frail and alone, confronting my imminent demise. Who knows what these three could have achieved should I not, in a moment of terror, have chosen a Class with more . . . claws."


    "Please answer my question." Daine''s voice was low, but Donal felt the undertone. "Why are they still moving?"


    "Ah, yes. Well, one of the minor talents of which a Dark Warlord can make use is the ability to, briefly, reanimate those who fall in battle. Depending on the Willpower of the individual ¡ª and, as you may expect, I have quite a lot of that ¡ª the effect can be quite wide-range and can last for some time."


    Taelsin, watching Daine tighten her grip on her sword, hastily spoke up. "Donal, I think what the Lady Darkhelm would like to clarify is that your, erm, minions are not suffering."


    "Oh, Goddess, no. They''re dead as can be. Necks broken and euthanised quite appropriately. In many ways, it may be considered true that, having moved them on from this vale of tears, I have released them from their mortal suffering. I''ve implanted a few motor functions in the cores, but there''s nothing cognitive firing there. Think of them as mobile furniture."


    "No. I don''t think I will." Daine finally sheathed her sword and took a deep breath. "Master Secretary . . . apologies, how should I address you?"


    "I''ve always quite fancied being known as Oh High Eldritch One."


    "Donal, do you think you could try to take this a little more seriously? Lady Darkhelm is a crucial ally in the struggle to come. I would hesitate to choose between the two of you, but should that necessity come to pass, I will very much not be on the side of the person keeping animated corpses around to play with and . . . are you wearing a cape?"


    Finally, Taelsin''s words made an impact, and Donal appeared to pull himself together with a visible effort. "My apologies, both. A side effect of this particular Class is that my impulse control is not quite as sharp as I would like. I will work particularly on restraining my more . . . baroque inclinations."


    "Sir, I will ask you this once, and then we will draw a line." Daine''s voice was quiet. "Can I still trust you?"


    Donal opened his mouth to speak, paused, and then closed it. He looked over to his minions, and they fell to the floor as if they were marionettes whose strings had been cut.


    "Lady Darkhelm, I am sorry about how this has been brought to you. I tell you in truth that should I have been able to stay within the Secretary Class, that would have been my preference. You both know I am exceptionally long-lived and, during the years, I have rarely existed within a Class that gave me such honest pleasure. It is thus with deep regret that I needed to move once again into this form." He held his hands towards her, palms forward. "These are not the hands of a good man, my Lady. I have washed more blood off them than you could possibly comprehend ¡ª both literally and figuratively. And, of course, each drop left a stain. Should I have believed there was any path remaining for us that did not require me to wade anew into crimson rivers, I would most heartily have taken it." Daine flinched at those words. Eliud had said something similar when she had petitioned him for help against the Trellecs.


    Donal continued. "But we all know the powers ranged against us. And I would not have you fall in the strife to come. My soul can bear the weight of this Class and not break; it has done so countless times before. Things that you may baulk at will need to be done in the coming strife, and I would ask that you let me spare you the strain. Can you trust me, Lady Darkhelm? You can trust me to do what needs to be done in your best interests."


    Daine looked at Taelsin. "You''re comfortable with this?"


    "Goddess, no." The Mayor was shaking his head, "Given my druthers, I''d have him back as my Secretary immediately. But we have days, maybe only hours, before we are at war. If Donal thinks this Class will give us an edge, I''m willing to take it. I trust him, my Lady."


    Daine closed her eyes and reached for the Goddess. She had been a distant presence of late. Daine¡¯s questing produced mild distaste from her patron towards the form Donal had assumed, but nothing more than that; as if he were a child who brought something particularly foul-smelling in from the fields.


    "So be it, Donal. No more needs to be said save, sir, I swear that should you let our cause down, I will remove your head from its shoulders, burn your corpse to ash and fling you to the four corners of the world in a storm."


    "It is just that sort of careful, nay obsessive, attention to detail that makes you such a valuable ally, my dear. Proper belt and braces stuff there. Decapitation, immolation and a scattering. Never let it be said you do not do a thorough job, my dear. Now, whilst tempers are running just a little cooler, can I check our position on blood sacrifices? For example, is there a line to be drawn between using the blood of innocents ¡ª ''clear no-no'' ¡ª and the blood of people we don''t care that much about ¡ª ''take as much as you like''?"


    Daine closed her eyes and sighed. She sensed she was in for a long night.

 Chapter #65 - Mutually Assured Survival

    Captain Haydyn Kettle was of a phlegmatic constitution.


    This set him apart from his more fiery and impulsive comrades and was, as is the way of things in the army, the cause of much ribaldry at his expense. With his robust, solid build and air of calm serenity, he quickly earned himself the nickname ¡°Cattle¡±.


    In many ways, his measured approach to life was the key to his slow but inexorable rise up the ranks. As was the case for Kettles back to the beginning of time, he was a Guardsman. And what those in that Class lacked for in Inspiration, they more than made up for in bloody-mindedness. Where Cattle was different, though, was that unlike those who charged headlong into battle, revelling in the thrill of the fight, he would be found doing his share but more than happy to let others take the glory. This, as may be expected, left Cattle standing amongst the unwounded of an engagement more often than not.


    As the years rolled by, if he noticed the faces of those around him becoming younger and younger and increasingly looking to him for leadership, he simply took it in his slow, measured stride. Gallant Stonehand himself had once said that if he had gotten his hands on Cattle young enough, he "might have made something special of you, my lad." But if the Guardsman felt he had missed out on something, he never mentioned it. In the same way, if he was pleased with the constant stream of promotions and commendations that came his way, it was difficult to tell. And if he was dismayed to be ordered to lead the infiltration of the Swinford sewers, no one would have known it.


    His men felt somewhat differently.


    "Why''s it always us that gets this sort of job?" His Corporal, a short, rodenty-looking man called Jinks, was very much not of his Captain''s disposition. There was a rumour Jinks had smiled once, but no one believed it. "It''s like there''s someone back at headquarters with a list of the worst jobs in the army and a big fat stamp with our names on it. And, boy, doesn''t he love using that stamp!"


    The rest of the company grizzled their agreement to that sentiment.


    Secretly, Cattle shared their disgruntlement. It was one thing to lead an assault on some foreign city ¡ª he''d done that more times than he could count over the last twenty or so years ¡ª but it hit a bit differently when it was your fellow countrymen you were coming up against.


    But orders were orders, and it was not for him, and certainly not for the likes of Corporal Jinks, to question them.


    He cleared his throat and looked meaningfully at the grate on the sewer outlet before them. His men took the hint and returned to sawing through the ancient metal grille.


    Orders were to secure this hidden entry point to the City and secure it they would. They were then to make their way through the winding tunnels ¡ª of which, thanks to inside information, they had a detailed map ¡ª and establish a base for covert operations.


    They would not be the ones doing the covert operations, of course ¡ª Cattle''s company was good for grunt work and no more ¡ª but they would certainly be closer to the enemy earlier than most of the others in the King''s army.


    ¡°Enemy.¡±


    Cattle chewed on that word for a while with distaste. He had a cousin who had moved to Swinford a few years back. It felt funny to think of her connected to such an idea. Of late, there''d been a lot of words like that thrown towards those who lived in the West. ¡°Rebels.¡± ¡°Traitors.¡± ¡°Mutineers.¡±


    Something about it all did not sit right with Cattle, but his was not to reason why. The King had spoken, and the West was to be brought back in line. And if there needed to be some blood spilt to make that happen, then that was how it would be.


    He was moved away from that train of thought by a huge crash, followed by equally loud cursing, as the grille came loose and fell to the floor.


    Everyone in the company tensed whilst waiting to see if the noise attracted any attention. But no. It was as their information had suggested: no one had thought to keep an eye on this potential weak spot in the City''s fortifications.


    Although, Cattle had mused, it was not like there was a shortage of such weaknesses. In all his years, he had never seen a City wall so inviting for a breach. "Like a whore raising her skirts¡±, was how Jinks had put it.


    He''d heard Swinford was one of the greatest Cities in the West. If that was so, they would roll over these people like a bear on a termite mound.


    "Making enough noise, boys?"


    There were muted apologies sent his way as what was left of the gate was pulled aside. Cattle looked over his company. He knew the name of each and every one of the hundred faces turned towards him. They were not the best or the brightest that the King had to call on, but they would get the job done, more often than not. More than that, though, they could be relied upon in a pinch. In many ways, they were the precise model of their Captain.


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    "Form up. Sergeants, you know your business. Get your squads in, set up and wait for the fancy dans to show themselves when all the hard work is done and dusted. I want choke points established all the way through, and if I catch anyone . . ."


    His voice trailed off as he realised no one was listening to him. With an uncustomed flare of irritation, he turned to look at what in the tunnel was so interesting to his men.


    There, just caught by the edge of their torchlight, was an extremely familiar figure indeed. She was tall and powerfully built, with a two-handed greatsword strapped to her back. There was no sign of the helmet from which she took her name, but that face was familiar enough to every man who stood before her.


    There were a few moments of silence before Cattle moved towards her.


    "My Lady Darkhelm . . ."


    *


    She''d been impressed by the efficiency of the men dismantling the sewer grate. There was nothing showy about how they went about it, and, with relatively little ceremony, there was yet another gap in Swinford''s defences.


    Not for the first time, she had cause to question this course of action. For sure, she could personally hold these narrow tunnels until the end of time. But she could not be everywhere. Was this, honestly, where Taelsin felt she would make the greatest difference?


    She had known Cattle for decades. First as a Private, then as a Sergeant, and she had been pleased when she heard he had been moved to the officer''s mess. He was a sound man, and if he was never going to achieve feats of staggering heroism, neither was he the type to shirk his responsibilities.


    She smiled at him as he walked towards her position.


    "My Lady Darkhelm. I was hoping our paths would not cross in this business."


    "It is good to see you, too. And it''s Captain Kettle now, I am given to understand."


    "Just doing my bit, my Lady. You know how it is. People ask, and it don''t seem right to let them down."


    "I know how that can be."


    They stood facing each other for a time. Both of them comfortable in the silence and used to outwaiting their opponent. Eventually, Cattle broke first.


    "Seems we''ve got ourselves a bit of a situation here."


    "Seems like we do," Daine agreed neutrally.


    "I guess you''re not here to help my boys find their way through the sewers?"


    "I am not, I''m afraid."


    "You have your own orders?"


    "I do, Captain. You know how those in charge like giving them."


    "Honest truth. They do love them some orders." Cattle took off his helmet and rubbed a hand through sweat-slicked hair. "You see, I think we might have one of those conflicts of interest here, my Lady. I''ve got my orders to go into those tunnels, and I guess you''ve got some of your own to stop my boys doing that. That sound fair?"


    "Sounds very fair, Captain."


    "Don''t suppose you can be persuaded to turn a blind eye?"


    "I am sorry, Captain. It is not your boys with whom I am especially concerned. You will just be establishing the supply route, I assume?"


    Cattle nodded. If he knew one thing for absolute certainty, it was that you did not lie to the Darkhelm. "But there will be all sorts of ne''er-do-wells coming after you to make use of the work you do. Those who are giving me my orders feel I should put a stop to that sharpish."


    "So we are at an impasse, my Lady?"


    "I fear we are, Captain."


    Cattle replaced his helmet and looked back on his company. He grimaced and turned back to Daine. "They''re good lads, my Lady. I''d ask you to go as easy as you can on them. Not a one of them understands what we''re doing here in the West. Not sure I do myself, to tell the truth. If you can see your way clear to letting them fall back when the time comes, I''d take that as a personal favour." He nodded respectfully at her and started making his way back towards his men. "Never thought the day would come I''d cross blades with the Darkhelm."


    His soldiers were looking at him with alarm. It was one thing to infiltrate a rebel city; it was quite another to do so with the Lady Darkhelm opposing you. Even those who had not fought at her side had heard all the songs. There were few illusions as to how a confrontation with her was going to end.


    Then she called out. "Captain, if we both agree, I might have another suggestion. It would need your men to agree, though, of course."


    He cast his eye over the white faces of his men.


    "I''m confident in saying, my Lady, that my boys are very open to conversations as to alternative methods of conflict resolution that do not involve you killing us all."


    "I always liked you, Cattle."


    "Feeling''s mutual, my Lady."


    *


    "And, quite out of nowhere, the Lady Darkhelm pulled down the tunnel''s ceiling on top of you?"


    "Yes, my Lord."


    "Trapping all your equipment, the supplies for Captain Maretti''s squad and sundry other crucial materiel on her side of the collapse?"


    "Yes, my Lord."


    "It is worth noting, at this point, that not a single one of your men was either injured or similarly cut off in this action?"


    "No, my Lord. Extraordinarily lucky timing."


    "Quite. You are aware, of course, that collaboration with the enemy is an executionable offence, Captain Kettle?"


    "Yes, my Lord. No collaborators in my company, my Lord."


    A new voice, a softer one, joined in the questioning. "If that is so, how do you account for this outcome, Captain Kettle? You do not have a reputation as an ineffective leader of men. Nor as a coward. How can such a calamity occur, and yet every single one of your men walks away?"


    Cattle looked the new speaker in the eye. "I am sorry, my Lord, what level of casualties would have been acceptable to you?"


    There was an awkward silence.


    Finally, the first speaker took over. "No apologies necessary, Captain. We are all relieved that you were able to extricate your men unharmed from a confrontation with the Darkhelm. How long do you think it will take to excavate the sewer entrance for us to try again?"


    "Couple of days, sir. Course, she''ll probably just do the same thing again. Heard she''s stubborn like that. If you want my advice, my Lord?"


    "Please," the speaker said dryly.


    "You''re going to need to get up pretty early in the morning to sneak one past the Darkhelm. If you don''t have a plan as to how to bring her down, we might want to think about leaving pacifying Swinford for later. Maybe choose an easier nut to crack first."


    The second speaker, the one Cattle didn''t recognise, smiled without humour. "Well, fortunately, Captain, we do indeed have a solution to the problem of the Darkhelm."


    The first speaker, his direct superior Major Fadarn, nodded. "Re-equip your men and start digging out that tunnel. From what I understand, the Lady Darkhelm will soon have enough on her plate to stop her playing silly games in tunnels."

 Chapter #122 - A message from Bloodspire

    The woman in flowing robes fled through the woods, and Drunnoc Trellec followed.


    As he stalked behind her panicked figure, slipping from tree to tree to stay clear of her backward glances, he came to the realisation that he was bored. Not so bored as he would forgo this morning¡¯s entertainment. Dear me, no. But he certainly did not feel the same level of, if not ¡®thrill¡¯, then at least ¡®momentary diversion¡¯ that he had always associated with such an activity.


    Drunnoc paused and sighted along the crossbow, imagining the bolt shrieking outwards to pierce the lower back of his prey. Of late, since his hunts had ended in such a curiously unsatisfactory manner, he had found it slightly more fun to avoid the immediate, clean kill. Although he was grateful ¨C actually, was he even capable of that emotion? Perhaps ¡®satisfied¡¯ was more appropriate? ¨C to the Dark God for the myriad of Skills that had come his way since their association had formalised, there were also some significant downsides.


    For example, once upon a time, he would have been able to anticipate, with relish, bringing a chase such as this to its inevitable close. And, of course, a vital aspect of that pleasure would be the background, nagging fear of, somehow, his ultimate shot going awry. Or of an unexpected turn of events leading to his quarry slipping away and finding her way to safety. However, after his god gifted him with the <Nighthunter> Skill, such concerns had abruptly ceased.


    Drunnoc stepped from cover and let out a loud, yipping laugh, which caused the woman to scream and set off in the other direction in a blur of frantic motion. He half-tracked her movement, but as the <Nighthunter> Skill rendered his aim flawless in such circumstances, there was a lack of jeopardy to what would happen next that curdled his stomach.


    He could not miss. Would not miss. And was not that the problem?


    The woman ¨C not much more than a girl, if truth be told - zigzagged through the underbrush, a fleeting shadow in the early morning light. He wondered if she thought such movements were making her more difficult to hit? If so, she needed to be far less consistent in her meandering movement. The way she progressed, it looked almost like she was following a winding path through the trees rather than seeking randomness to avoid a quarrel.


    Honestly, she would be making much better progress if she simply ran in a straight line. All this jinking hither and tither ¨C well, it was tiring her out far more than it was him.


    Her ragged breaths were audible even from this distance, a sign of fear that, he knew, should have stirred something in him. But, in reality, such sounds never had. And that was not new since the Dark God had chosen him for his own. No. That was just how Drunnoc Trellec had always been.


    But at least, he thought, he might once have found some excitement in the chase. Now? Now, it was just another morning stroll through the forest.


    He sought to remember back to the last time one of his little diversions had escaped him. With a start, he realised it was Bella Acas, was it not? That feisty girl whose unexpected elbow to his face could be argued ¨C by someone who believed in such things, of course ¨C as setting in motion the seismic train of events that led to this precise moment.


    Bella Acas had bloodied his nose, which had led to his father dragging her before the Lady Darkhelm for ¡®justice¡¯. And, well, that meeting had not worked out as anyone watching had expected had it?


    Daine Orban¡¯s confrontation with House Trellec, starting with that banal confrontation about a sobbing child, had culminated with the West announcing secession from the wider kingdom and that particular Knight of the Road fleeing, bloodied and bowed, to Swinford.


    From little acorns, what great oak trees could grow.


    Drunnoc dragged his mind away from what had occurred in the last six months and exhaled slowly, steadying his grip on the heavy crossbow. The bolt was a whisper away from release, a silent promise of death under the influence of <Nighthunter>. Even this close to the deed, he felt nothing but a dull, throbbing numbness. The woman¡¯s face flashed in his mind, indistinct like all the others. He didn''t know her name, story, or crimes¡ªif she had any. It didn¡¯t matter.


    It never did.


    Had it been like this before the advent of the Dark God in his life? Drunnoc was not sure. He couldn''t remember the last time he felt anything beyond the mechanical satisfaction of his will being enforced. He was sure he used to cringe at the recoil, used to taste the metallic tang of adrenaline in his mouth. Now, there was only emptiness. A dark hole where he imagined a conscience should reside.


    No, he was seeking something that had never been there.


    Had not the despair of his late, unlamented mother always been that he did not seem like other children? This version of him had existed long before the Dark God had provided his gifts. As much as he might like to pretend that he had been through some sort of mighty evolution, this was an enhanced Drunnoc Trellec, not a transformed one.


    The blackness had always been there. It had simply been given greater opportunities to express itself. Which, in theory, sounded beautiful. The reality, though, was so crushingly dull.


    He adjusted his aim, finally choosing to track this woman¡¯s wayward flight - eager to bring this all to a conclusion. There was no thrill, no satisfaction¡ªjust the cold, clinical execution of something he was expecting to accomplish.


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    Without any further ado, his finger tightened on the trigger. The bolt flew true, as it always did under the auspices of the Dark God¡¯s gift. The woman stumbled, a soft, surprised gasp escaping her lips before she crumpled to the ground. Drunnoc watched her fall, a puppet with severed strings.


    As he lowered the crossbow, he waited for the rush of . . . something. Not guilt or sorrow, of course; such things had never been on his emotional palette. But pleasure? Satisfaction? No. Nothing came.


    Only the oppressive silence of the forest around Keep Trellec, with the distant hum of night insects his sole companion. Oh, and the weeping of a woman who could no longer feel her legs. He heard the crunching rumble of her seeking to drag herself through the undergrowth and felt disappointed. She was a whimperer. He preferred it when they screamed.


    He drew a knife, swinging the crossbow onto his back, and crossed quickly to stand over her. With all her zigzagging, she had not made it very far. As he drew closer, each step felt heavier than the last and, not for the first time, he resolved that this was to be the last of these nighttime pursuits. He knew they were expected of him, but the crying was pitiful.


    He silently reached the fallen woman and stood above her. She was so preoccupied with pulling herself forward that she did not even realise he was there. It occurred to him that if she had put as much energy into running as she did dragging herself, she may have had more chance of reaching the King¡¯s Road and ¨C who knew ¨C maybe salvation?


    There was a movement to his left. Drunnoc turned to see a green portal shimmer into being, through its reflective surface, a young woman could be seen. With a sigh of smoke, Pernille stepped through the veil of the portal and was in the woods beside him.


    The Dark God had refashioned her Healer Class into something called a Shadow Cleric. Drunnoc was not especially interested in the mechanics of the whole thing ¨C but was generally pleased with the greater scope of her powers. Her use of <Life Drain> continued to be very helpful whenever a member of the High Houses located their backbones. And several of the more . . . exotic Skills had the potential to be very useful in the struggles to come against the Capital.


    ¡°Having fun?¡± Pernille¡¯s voice had become far huskier of late. It was as if she had a permanently sore throat, which, for a Healer, led Drunnoc to suspect that the young woman was putting it on. When the voice was considered alongside all the kohl she had taken to wearing around her eyes and the sudden fascination with clothing made entirely of leather, he assumed Pernille had a ¡®look¡¯ she was seeking to achieve.


    ¡°Not especially.¡± The woman at their feet squealed in terror at hearing them talk above her. They both ignored her. ¡°I found this sort of thing much more engaging when they had a chance ¨C however small ¨C of escaping.¡±


    Pernille looked down, her eyes flashing with violet light as she considered the woman''s injuries. ¡°Isn¡¯t this the one you had me heal yesterday?¡±


    Drunnoc shrugged. ¡°I wanted to see whether she would do better on a second attempt.¡±


    ¡°And did she?¡± Pernille frowned, glancing back at the streak of blood the woman¡¯s crawling body had left behind.


    ¡°No. Not really. If anything, last night¡¯s experience seems to have actively inhibited her efforts this morning. You would think she would have been more motivated, not less. All a bit pathetic, really.¡± Drunnoc kneeled next to the crying, prone form. ¡°Hello? How is it all going?¡±


    ¡°Please don¡¯t kill me!¡± the woman gibbered. ¡°I¡¯ll do anything you want. Just let me go!¡±


    Drunnoc sighed and stood up, shaking his head at Pernille. ¡°You see? The will to live seems to overcome all. No matter how certain the death which awaits in the future, the internal need to survive overcomes all. I am sure if we were to offer her the chance for another try tomorrow, she¡¯d take it.¡± Drunnoc kicked the woman¡¯s leg, then remembering her paralysis, kicked her in the side instead. She screamed and recoiled in pain. ¡°Wouldn¡¯t you? If I said I could have you healed and that we could try again tomorrow, I am sure you¡¯d want to do it.¡±


    The woman¡¯s hysterical crying indicated that she would, indeed, like another opportunity to try to escape from Keep Trellec.


    ¡°You have to admire that sort of spirit. Was there something you wanted?¡±


    Pernille regarded Drunnoc with steady eyes. The Dark God had been kind to her, she understood, and she probably had enough power not to need to fear this man ¨C this boy, in reality. And yet, something chilled her to the bone about standing before him. She was not at all squeamish, but even she might have blanched at the torture he was putting this poor woman through.


    It would be straightforward, with a quick tug of <Life Drain>, to put this crying wreck out of her misery. However, she had no interest in gaining Lordling Trellec¡¯s displeasure. This may be a world in which heroes existed, but it had been a while since Pernille had seen one.


    And the Lady Darkhelm had not seemed especially heroic when Drunnoc Trellec had chased from her from this village. Speaking of that irritating woman . . .


    ¡°We have received a messenger from the Blades of Ruin.¡±


    That grabbed Drunnoc¡¯s attention. ¡°From the Stonehand?¡±


    Pernille shook her head. ¡°No. From one of his . . . well, he calls himself an ¡®officer¡¯, but I sense from the context of the message there is probably little military discipline remaining anymore.¡±


    Drunnoc clicked his teeth in irritation. He raised his foot and pressed down on the wound in the fallen woman¡¯s back. Her sudden intake of breath and frozen stillness momentarily soothed him.


    It had been at least two months since he had heard directly from Gallant Stonehand. From what Drunnoc¡¯s spies told him ¨C and what he gleaned from the ravings of the Dark God, of course ¨C Swinford had fallen to the Stonehand¡¯s mercenaries some time back, which was no significant victory. However, rather than slaughtering the entire population - including a certain troublesome Knight of the Road ¨C it appeared the civilians and the remnants of an army the King had dispatched to pacify the West had managed to slip away. The Blades of Ruin ¨C Stonehand¡¯s ragtag, yet undeniably efficient, force ¨C had set out in pursuit but could not seem to bring them to heel. And, worse, their commander had not seen fit to give a report himself since the final climatic battle at the City¡¯s walls.


    ¡°What does the message say?¡±


    Pernille smiled, an odd expression on her pale, gothic face. ¡°It appears that the refugees from Swinford may have taken somewhat of a wrong turning.¡±


    Drunnoc waved impatiently for Pernille to continue. He disliked her habit of dramatising her role and took out his frustration by pressing down even harder on the woman''s wound beneath his foot. The loud crack and sudden cessation of noise suggested he had taken things too far. His eyes flashed with anger at Pernille; he had hoped to have the woman healed and sent out for another few nights'' sport.


    However, the Shadow Cleric¡¯s following words entirely soothed his spirit. ¡°It would appear that they have sought to cross the Bloodspires.¡±


    Drunnoc smiled broadly. ¡°Well, that changes things a touch, does it not?¡±

 Chapter #123 - Bridging the Gap

    ¡°I do not know about you, but I think this is all going splendidly.¡±


    Daine reflected that a person could never tire of throwing menhirs at Donal Assay.


    It was not so much that his running commentary on the retreat from Swinford had not been a delight. After all, she could hear her every decision being questioned in that slightly supercilious tone all day. Which was fortunate, all things considered, as that was precisely what was happening.


    And it was not that Donal was possessed of what she had chosen to describe as ¡®resting smug face¡¯ ¨C although when the light caught his profile in a certain way, it was quite hard indeed to restrain herself from reaching over and slapping him senseless.


    It was not even his nauseating habit of how, when being proved to be right after a decision was made contrary to his advice, he did not even have the decency to say, ¡®I told you so¡¯. Of course, his face said it very loudly for him, but the words themselves never breached his lips.


    No, Daine thought, straining to take the weight of the rope bridge whose one side had inconveniently snapped precisely in the way Donal had predicted; it was a dreadful combination of all the above. Combined with him proving to be resolutely unkillable.


    The biting wind whipped through the narrow pass their scouts had uncovered right in the middle of the Bloodspires. Donal, with all the unearned confidence of his ridiculous <Frontiersman> Class had argued vociferously that there was a reason this bridge was not showing on any of their charts, but he had been repeatedly shouted down. As Taelsin had argued, when food and water were running scarce, and the civilians you were supposed to be protecting were starting to seem as much of an enemy as the bandits that preyed on the edges of your column, any shortcut was to be grasped at. Even one that seemed too good to be true.


    Daine ground her teeth so hard they began to crack and found herself beginning to wish she had given voice to her own concerns a touch firmer. A particularly strong gust pressed against her back, and she braced her legs, pressing against a wind that would have knocked anyone else off their feet.


    The jagged peaks of the Bloodspires loomed overhead, their snow-capped summits vanishing into the sky. Below, a wide chasm yawned wide and deep, its depths lost in darkness. As would the refugees be if she could not keep her grip firm.


    Across it, the only thing spanning this abyss was a single rope bridge which no one they had spoken to on their journey had ever heard of. Or, at least, what was left of it.


    Daine, resolutely ignoring the small, bearded man perching improbably on the cliff¡¯s edge next to her, stifled a groan as her muscles protested. Her big hands ¨C those Orban Farmer genes being put to good use once again ¨C held the frayed ends of the bridge that had snapped with only half of the refugees of Swinford crossed over. She took a deep breath, trying to ignore the hundred-foot drop below and the rather intimate acquaintance she was beginning to make with gravity.


    "Think of it this way,¡± Donal was just too far outside of spitting range, ¡°It¡¯s just another day in the glamorous life of a legendary hero. Think of all the songs that these poor souls will sing of you." He paused and cast a sceptical eye over the remains of the bridge. ¡°Of course, that does somewhat presuppose any of these brave pioneers actually survive the next few moments.¡±


    ¡°Yes. It rather does.¡± Daine could feel her arms start to tremble and she pushed the pain out of her mind. At least that was something of which she had experience. "Is there any danger of you actually helping me here? I¡¯m sure this new Class of yours must have some Skills that are useful in such a situation?¡± At the edge of her hearing, she could make out Taelsin trying to organise the soldiers that had gone on ahead to secure the route through the Bloodspires to return to add their support. Either way, they were unlikely to return in time.


    ¡°I¡¯m afraid not, my Lady. Holding together a bridge with nothing but sheer willpower is far more your sort of thing than mine. I¡¯m just here for the moral support."


    ¡°Excellent. What would I do without you?¡±


    ¡°Well, quite, my lady.¡±


    The remaining handful of refugees ¨C the very old, the very young and those who did not possess a Class useful enough to be at the head of the column - were trapped in the middle of the bridge. After the rope had snapped, Daine ¨C time stopping as the full horror of what was about to happen became clear to her - had leapt to take the weight. There had then followed a discussion ¨C one that went on far too long for the Darkhelm¡¯s tastes ¨C about whether it was better to retreat or press forward. That the only outcome likely for this rump of the column should they be cut off from the rest of the refugees was starvation eventually decided the matter, and they had begun to shamble forward again.


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    Daine grimaced, shifted her grip and dug her heels deeper into the rock, trying not to make eye contact with the forty or fifty faces that were staring at her in hopeful horror. A mother clutched her child close, murmuring soothing words that did little to mask her own terror. An elderly man, leaning heavily on a makeshift cane, shuffled forward, each step a somewhat pointless act of defiance against the seeming inevitability of their fall.


    "Keep moving, folks!" Donal called out, his voice unnecessarily upbeat to Daine¡¯s mind. "This is no time for sightseeing."


    A young boy, probably no older than eight, ran forward ¨C encouraged by his mother ¨C and crossed to the other side, stopping to stare at Daine with a mix of awe and disbelief. His eyes flicked to the abyss below, then back to her. "Are you a wizard?" he asked, his voice barely audible over the howling wind.


    Daine snorted, though the effort made her wince. "No, lad. Just a very old knight who does not know any better. Now move it before you find out how deep that chasm really is."


    The boy nodded vigorously and scampered clear, his small figure quickly lost among the crowd on the far side. Soldiers were beginning to appear from that direction, clambering down towards her. Daine had no idea what they thought they could do to help. Maybe they just wanted a better view of her last moments.


    ¡°Not that I want to add unnecessary jeopardy to proceedings, but those bandits are back.¡±


    Daine''s arms screamed in protest, but she held firm, her gaze flicking between the fraying ropes in her hands and a small group of horsemen that were galloping up the path the refugee column had been following for the last few hours. ¡°How long?¡±


    ¡°Do you want the good news or the bad news?¡±


    ¡°Donal!¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m just trying to keep your pecker up, my lady. I¡¯m afraid they¡¯re going to catch up before these stragglers are over to this side of the chasm. However, if we¡¯re taking the positives out of the situation, I doubt any of them would be so foolhardy to risk crossing the bridge. I imagine they will make a similar determination as I did when deciding against this course of action. Good for them.¡±


    Daine lifted her head to the sky and let out a bellow of pain. The Bloodspires, for all their majesty, seemed indifferent to the plight unfolding on their slopes. Their jagged edges were softened by patches of snow, and the sky above was a brilliant blue, a stark contrast to the darkness below.


    A crunch next to her pulled Daine¡¯s attention back to the moment. ¡°Sir, are you eating?¡±


    Donal took another bite out of some sort of jerky and then offered it to her. "Just a lovely spot for a picnic, don¡¯t you think?"


    Not enough menhirs in the world, Daine thought, her lips twitching into a grim smile.


    With the added panic caused by a group of grim horsemen arriving at the opposite side of the bridge, the refugees began to run towards safety, each step causing the bridge to groan and sway. An old woman paused to give Daine a nod of gratitude. "Bless you, child," she whispered, touching her hand to the Templar¡¯s sweat-streaked face.


    "Blessings are nice," Daine grunted under her breath, "but I''d settle for a hot bath and a night not on watch duty."


    She was aware of Donal suddenly standing up; the ridiculous, giant bow he had insisted one of Swinford¡¯s <Carpenters> make him in his hand. ¡°Don¡¯t mind me, my lady. I judge yonder fellows would benefit from a little discouragement to begin their own crossing.¡±


    ¡°Oh, did they think it was a good idea too, then? Funny how that happens, isn¡¯t it.¡±


    There was a woosh as Donal released an arrow ¨C one of his new Skills increasing the speed of the shot to a blur ¨C and there a cry of outrage was carried to her on the wind.


    ¡°And, just like us, one of their number has had cause to bemoan the choice.¡± Again, a certain smugness had crept into his tone. ¡°I think that is likely to be the last of them who considers that a sensible idea. Speaking of which, we¡¯re nearly done our end too.¡±


    The last straggler¡ªa burly man with one leg and a face that looked like it had argued with a few too many fists¡ªstumbled across. Daine felt the muscles in her biceps tear, her strength utterly spent. She took a deep breath, ignoring the agony, and gave one last heave, ripping the remnants of the bridge to her side so that there was no possibility of being followed and collapsed onto the rocky ground.


    "Well done," Donal murmured, pressing the jerky to her lips. ¡°Take a bite. All sorts of healing properties.¡±


    Daine chewed down on the tough meat, surprised at how quickly she felt her healing speed up. She supposed she should not doubt this strange little man knew what he was about. She took a moment, staring up at the sky, now tinged with the colours of approaching dusk. She could hear the murmur of the army behind her, a mixture of relief and admiration.


    ¡°Give the Lady Darkhelm some space, please. Why don¡¯t you all press on with a nice relaxing walk?" he added. ¡°We¡¯ll catch you up.¡±


    A wry smile came to her lips despite the exhaustion etched on her face.


    From a distance, Taelsin¡¯s voice could be heard, doing what needed to be done to pull everything back together, tending to the injured and sharing what little food and water they had left. Whilst they had him, Daine realised, they could still make this work.


    Whatever ¡®this¡¯ was.


    She pushed herself to a sitting position, her arms feeling like lead ¨C which at least was an improvement. She looked out over the chasm, the wind still howling, but those horsemen now finally cut adrift.


    Daine stood, albeit shakily, and moved to join up with the rest of the group.


    Taelsin winked at her. ¡°Never in doubt, my lady?¡±


    Daine plastered a smile onto her tired face. ¡°Of course not, my lord. Now, let us see where this path leads us.¡±

 Chapter #124 - Rootless Refugees

    The escape from Swinford had gone about as well as anyone could have expected. And that, Taelsin supposed, was the most crushingly accurate statement he had ever heard.


    The first in a series of minor disasters was that the Cackle had immediately abandoned them. It was hardly a surprise that following the Hyena¡¯s death at the hands of Gallant Stonehand, the remainder of her mercenaries would have second thoughts about continuing with the contract. What had been a touch disappointing, however, was that they were not even willing to escort the column of refugees to a safe destination. Taelsin had done his best to negotiate for an extension to the terms of their agreement, but on the second morning of their flight from Swinford, the camp awoke to find the Cackle gone.


    Unfortunately, that was just the first ¨C if the most organised ¨C of the desertions that plagued them over the next few weeks. To begin with, it was just one or two of Souit¡¯s men that snuck away in the night. After their mauling - both attacking and then defending, Swinford - it was hardly surprising that morale in the King¡¯s Army was at a low ebb. And, even to those who retained their loyalty to the cause, it was difficult to reconcile escorting a large contingent of rebels to the safety of another rebel City was really what they had been sent into the West to initially achieve.


    A few here, a few there.


    And then, almost before anyone knew what was occurring, there was the wholesale desertion of entire companies. General Souit felt he could hardly blame them and had, much to Donal¡¯s chagrin, switched off any of his Skills that compelled his soldiers to stay with the army.


    The slow bleed became a gushing wound.


    It hardly needs to be said that the loss of so many of their protectors did precious little to encourage the refugees that they were safe on the Road. The trauma of the siege and then being forcibly expelled from Swinford had already left an indelible mark on most of them, and faith in Mayor Elm ¨C ¡®what¡¯s he Mayor of now anyway?¡¯¡¯ ¨C among the common people drained away with every shrinking of the ring of mail and swords that surrounded them.


    Of course, it hardly helped that the first few settlements they had called upon had refused to open their gates.


    ¡°You can hardly blame them,¡± Donal had sighed. ¡°Firstly, the West is in open rebellion against the King. And who do we have with us? What¡¯s that? A goodly remnant of the King¡¯s Army? No, thank you. Secondly, the last thing any well-established town wants right now is an influx of penniless refugees. And what is that over there?¡¯ Donal waved a hand towards the mass of tired civilians trailing behind. ¡°Why, lots of hungry mouths just crying out to empty warehouses. Thirdly, tales of the devastation wrought by Stonehand¡¯s mercenaries have clearly spread. What Council is going to invite that doom down upon them by giving us succour?¡±


    Taelsin had not replied to his friend, choosing instead to stare at the locked gates of Apforth before him. Its ruler had not bothered to even send a reply to his message.


    ¡°We could take the gate?¡± Degralk had reluctantly offered. ¡°I doubt they¡¯d be expecting us to storm the walls. Probably wouldn¡¯t need more than a couple of companies?¡± He had glanced at Souit for approval but if the Great General had any thoughts about such a venture, he kept them to himself. Degralk privately feared that the drawn-out siege of Swinford and his subsequent humbling at the hands of the Stonehand had thoroughly broken Souit. He sincerely hoped he was wrong in that. The Major feared they would need that man¡¯s brilliance in the days and weeks to come.


    ¡°Lady Darkhelm, what do you think?¡± Taelsin turned to the Knight of the Road ¨C no, he reminded himself, she had evolved, hadn¡¯t she? Templar Ascendant ¨C to seek her counsel. ¡°Should we be seeking to gain access to this town forcibly?¡±


    Daine was already shaking her head. ¡°We need the help of friends, Mayor Elm. I have never put much store in support that is offered down the length of a blade. Besides,¡± she continued, ¡°would you welcome us with open arms with the storm we drag behind us?¡±


    Taelsin did not have much to say against that.


    They had waited on the Road that led to Apforth for three days before the echoing silence from those behind those walls began to do as much damage to the fragile unity that existed between Swinford¡¯s residence as anything else.


    The same thing was repeated outside the gates of Whitechurch, Oakfall, and even Stourton. The last particularly hurt Taelsin, as he had considered Mayor Gilmer a friend.


    ¡°It takes an unusual man to step in front of his fellow when he is charged by a boar,¡± Donal had said, as he and Taelsin had awaited any sign their approach had been acknowledge. ¡°I fear Karl Gilmer is all too normal in that regard.¡±


    As the dwindling column meandered its slow way through the West ¨C being rebuffed and ignored wherever they arrived in search of a break to their journey ¨C any of the civilians who had family or connections in nearby settlements started to break away. Soon, Taelsin thought, there would be less than five hundred men, women and children left under his banner.


    And then the banditry began.


    Considering one of the new Skills Donal had acquired when, once again, switching his Class was <Trackless Progress>, it was somewhat suspicious this group of lawless horsemen had picked up their scent. ¡°It¡¯s a passive Skill,¡± the newly minted Frontiersman had explained, ¡°that basically makes me ¨C and those around me ¨C invisible to any of the normal tracking techniques. Scaling with my Willpower, of course, which ¨C as I¡¯m sure I do not need to remind anyone ¨C is rather vast.¡±


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    ¡°So, it¡¯s just a coincidence they¡¯re sticking to our tails then?¡±


    ¡°Not at all, my lord,¡± he had replied to Taelsin¡¯s question. ¡°I¡¯m just pointing out that they¡¯re not following us by any traditional method ¨C physical or magical.¡±


    ¡°What is your man getting at?¡± rumbled General Souit.


    It had been so long since he had spoken at one of their meetings that ¨C for a beat ¨C it took the rest of them a moment to orientate themselves to this new development.


    Daine was the first to respond: ¡°We think that someone amongst our number is liaising with them. Keeping them apprised of our movements. There might even be those who have abandoned our cause riding with them.¡±


    ¡°They are certainly particularly well-equipped bandits for this part of the world. Some may say almost royally provisioned.¡± Donal chimed in, somewhat unhelpfully to the overall mood.


    Souit coloured at the implication there were deserters from his army now preying on the margins of the refugee column. He grumbled under his breath and reached for his glass of wine. All eyes fixed on him to see if there was anything more to be said. It did not appear that this was the case.


    ¡°What do you suggest we do about it?¡± Taelsin was feeling ground down by the weight of expectations upon him. It had been hard enough to lead his people through the secession crisis and the subsequent destruction of the City his family had stewarded for decades. He was finding this rootless passage from barred door to barred door to be peculiarly dispiriting.


    Once upon a time ¨C was it only last year? ¨C he had been, quietly, known as the Saviour of the West.


    Now he could not even negotiate a night in a stable for what remained of his weary people.


    Donal needed no further encouragement to hold forth with his plan. ¡°Well, we unfortunately seem to be short of Mages. Otherwise, I would suggest a few fireballs in that direction would be most welcome. I could, of course, change Class again, but I do worry that our plucky little group is becoming a little reliant on my brilliance. It might be nice if someone else took up the slack here. Good for me to preserve my Mana pool. I¡¯m sure you know what I¡¯m getting at.¡±


    The Lady Darkhelm had sighed as she pulled herself upright, buckling her sword to her waist. ¡°I¡¯m not going to be getting much sleep in the near future, am I?¡±


    *


    Daine had been dealing with bandits for most of her adult life.


    As a Knight of the Road, she had been charged with keeping peace in the West and ¨C in the absence of dragons, orcs, goblins or liches ¨C the majority of her time had been spent disposing of men such as these. Those who had left the law long behind.


    However, this was an unusual situation when, rather than playing the role of the predator, she was the prey.


    Well, no, that was not exactly true. The bandits that sniped around the refugee column were certainly not seeking to cross swords with the legendary Darkhelm. There were far easier pickings to be had than engaging a Templar Ascendant in full mail.


    And that was proving to be Daine¡¯s challenge.


    There was anything between twenty and thirty bandits, and they were not remotely interested in fighting her. Whichever part of the column she protected was wholly safe for however long she was in their proximity. However, with an almost eerie accuracy, the bandits were able to coordinate themselves to hit sections that she could not reach in time.


    General Souit¡¯s remaining forces, ably assisted by Donal, were able to keep these raids from inflicting too much damage, but it was undeniable that the constant predations on their stores, equipment and ¨C more than any of that ¨C their peace of mind was further eroding the coherence of the column.


    In the ten days and nights that the bandits had hovered around them like flies surrounding a corpse, there had only been one satisfying - from Daine¡¯s viewpoint ¨C interaction. This had been when she had come across one of them in the woods during the night.


    But even that had raised more questions than it had answered.


    Daine had been searching, as quietly as she could, for signs of the bandits¡¯ camp when, almost out of nowhere, a tall, thin figure had materialised in front of her, cloaked in dark robes and holding a twisted, gnarled staff. Daine had halted, the Goddess whispering of impending danger in her mind.


    There had been no conversation. There had not been time. Before even she could react ¨C with all the Speed and Agility her new Class granted her - the man had slammed the staff into the ground, causing the forest around them to shiver as dark tendrils erupted from the ground, snaking towards her.


    Daine had stepped backwards, drawing her sword and slicing through the nearest tendril reaching for her. Her attacker followed up by muttering an incantation under his breath; his staff glowing green, and the tendrils instantly morphed into shadowy wolves, their eyes filled with sickly light. They lunged at Daine, fangs bared.


    In response, Daine had spun, her sword cutting through the air with a powerful slash. One wolf disintegrated into shadows, but another latched onto her arm, its teeth sinking deep into her flesh. She drove her elbow into the wolf¡¯s snout and it too fell apart into darkness.


    However, when Daine turned her attack towards the thin, dark man, she found her sword collided with some sort of barrier, the impact sending a shockwave up her arm as she brought it down with all her Strength. Not to be deterred, she stepped backwards and swung even harder, feeling the barrier crack.


    The bandit¡¯s eyes had widened in surprise at that. Then, hehrust his staff forward, and a blast of green energy shot out, aiming straight for Daine¡¯s chest. She twisted, the energy grazing her side and burning through her tunic. The pain was sharp, but she didn¡¯t slow down. One of the true benefits of her Class was its utter imperviousness to all types of magery.


    With a fierce cry, she broke through the barrier, her sword finding its mark. The dying Mage gasped, his eyes widening in shock as Daine¡¯s blade pierced his side. He staggered back, clutching his wound, the green light of his staff flickering and dimming.


    Daine stepped back, breathing hard, blood trickling from the bite on her arm and the burn on her side. She kept her sword ready, eyes locked on the wounded man.


    But then his dying form shimmered, dissolving into shadows, leaving behind the echo of his pained scream. Daine watched until the last wisp of darkness faded, then sheathed her sword and returned to the column.


    She only told Donal what had occurred. Both agreed it was, at the very least, somewhat unusual for bandits to have access to that sort of power. And they decided not to share their various theories as to what was going on with Taelsin - he had enough to worry about right now.


    However, after that, the frequency of the attacks had dropped, but the horsemen continued to dog their steps across the plains.


    It was the end of that week they had first seen the Bloodspires on the horizon.

 Chapter #125 - <Hearths Embrace>

    ¡°And we are still confident crossing the Bloodspires remains our best option?¡±


    ¡°Well, we could retrace all the leagues we have crossed during the last week, put some serious resources into reconstructing the bridge that collapsed when we crossed it ¨C I do not know about you, but I am uncertain we have that sort of engineering competence available to us right now, but I admire your optimism ¨C and then hope that the bandits that we left behind are not still in pursuit. Of course, I may suggest that such a move is unlikely to do much for the precarious state of our people¡¯s morale, but if you feel that would be the better choice, I am sure we will all give it a good old-fashioned go.¡±


    Souit blinked back at Donal. Even after nearly a month in the man¡¯s presence, he still had not adjusted to his conversational style. Not to mention the changes caused by a switch of Class that transformed him from a Dark Warlord ¨C all shadowy darknesss ¨C to a Frontiersman who, for inexplicable reasons, appeared to be wearing clothes made entirely of bear furs.


    ¡°I was not suggesting that was my preference, sir. I am merely asking if trying to push through in these conditions was a sensible course of action.¡±


    Taelsin raised a hand before Donal continued, certain that further contributions from that direction were unlikely to improve matters. Instead, sighing, he stood and moved to the exit of his tent, motioning for the others within to do the same.


    Stepping outside, the biting cold took away his breath, and he paused to take in the depressing sight of what remained of those to have escaped Swinford. The current iteration of the refugee¡¯s camp bore all the marks of hastily assembled survival. They had managed to cover only half the distance today as they had the day before, largely due to the worsening of the weather. However, Taelsin was sensitive that a certain malaise was falling over the column: the sinking realisation that anyone with a choice had already slipped away, and what was left were the pitiable fragments.


    Tents of mismatched fabric¡ªtattered tarps, patched canvas, and even a few weather-beaten quilts¡ªcreated a motley panorama of shelters. Several smokey fires, all struggling against the buffeting wind, flickered and shivered in the centre of small groups. The odds and ends of wood that had been gathered on the march provided meagre warmth in such circumstances. Most of the peasantry whose common Classes, under Donal¡¯s direction and aura, had been such a boon to Swinford¡¯s defences, had long since found themselves new homes. Of those that did remain, it had been agreed to try to husband Mana resources. No one knew what challenges still remained. Taelsin guessed that helped to explain the occasional pots of thin stew he could smell simmering over the flames.


    Rations were getting scarce.


    Right in the centre of the formation, if it could be called such, lay the stores of water, collected from a stream they had passed a few days before. These stores were carefully rationed and stored in an assortment of containers¡ªglass jars, metal cans, and old porcelain jugs. Each citizen carried both their share of water, and also some of the central store. Blood had been spilt at the suggestion of taking, unbidden, from that group resource.


    ¡°We¡¯re a sorry sight,¡± Degralk spoke softly at Taelsin¡¯s shoulder.


    Mayor Elm could not help but agree. Although the rump of the soldiery that had stayed with them maintained a professional air, the people of Swinford were in a parlous state. Children, their faces smudged with dirt, played half-heartedly amongst the tents, their laughter subdued by the oppressive chill that became worse the higher they climbed. All around them, moved figures with the weariness of those burdened by an uncertain future, their clothes layered and threadbare, patched in too many places to count.


    Taelsin wondered how many of them cursed his name in their prayers at night. To have left the safety of a City¡¯s walls ¨C albeit one under siege ¨C for this uncertain, pitful existence? It was increasingly looking like an act of colossal self-harm.


    He could not just stand and witness this slow descent into despair. Closing his eyes and giving little mind to his own exhaustion, Taelsin activated the Skill that had been passed down through generations of his family: <Hearth''s Embrace>. This ability, though relatively modest in its reach and power, had the effect of radiating a gentle warmth and a sense of comfort to those nearby. It was not a flashy or overly powerful Skill, but he had such little left to offer his people, what else could he do? If there was one thing that everyone knew about the Elms, it was that they kept a warm fire.


    As he activated <Hearth''s Embrace>, a subtle, green glow emanated from his hands, spreading outwards to form an invisible, comforting canopy above his people. As it grew, a chill in the air seemed to recede slightly, replaced by a soothing warmth. Conversations became a bit lighter, the laughter a bit more genuine. The tense lines on the adults'' faces softened, and for a moment, the oppressive weight of their journey lifted. It was as if they were basking in the warmth of a long-lost fire at home.


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    Taelsin felt his legs begin to give under the effort of maintaining the Skill, but then a strong arm threaded through his and held him in place. He glanced into the weary eyes of the Lady Darkhelm and nodded his appreciation for the ¨C quite literal ¨C support.


    But then Donal appeared at his other side, a frown on his face. ¡°You¡¯re a good man, Taelsin. But the last thing these people need now is a good man. What will they think if they see you collapse with exhaustion? You reckon they¡¯ll remember feeling a bit warmer for a few moments when they see their leader scrabbling in the dirt? You need to be smarter with your reserves of energy.¡±


    ¡°Is there not some local wildlife you need to go and bother, sir?¡±


    ¡°Likely so, my lady. I was merely tarrying on the off chance my advice would be useful. If you¡¯re quite sure there are enough working minds here,¡± he ostentatiously peered at Degralk, Kettle and Souit ¨C dramatically wincing as he did so ¨C ¡°then I will make my leave.¡±


    ¡°Stay, Donal.¡± Taelsin let <Hearth¡¯s Embrace> drop and tried to ignore the glumness that instantly fell back over the camp. The air immediately felt thick with the smell of damp earth and woodsmoke, mingling with the occasional tang of unwashed bodies. Yet, even in the dark kant of Taelsin¡¯s mind, he felt that there were more small gestures of kindness than there had been before¡ªa shared blanket here, a piece of bread given to a hungry child there¡ªthere was now more of a flicker of humanity that defied the grim surroundings.


    His people were not yet broken, though the edge of desperation was creeping closer with each passing day.


    He returned to the initial question about their direction of travel. ¡°General Souit, do you have any other suggestions for where we could seek to go other than press onwards?¡±


    All eyes turned to regard the dour Great General, who, in response, stared out into the distance. Assuming there would, once again, be no response forthcoming, Taelsin was about to move on, when Souit spoke, almost too quietly for the little group to hear. ¡°I do not know, sir.¡±


    Taelsin sensed Donal was about to speak but stilled him with a gesture. ¡°But you do have something to say, my lord?"


    Souit turned to face Taelsin, and the younger man was struck by how much the Great General had changed during the march. With every desertion, every post abandoned, every tent absent from the camp when the morning came, he had somehow reduced down into himself. With a start, Taelsin recognised that, just as he was feeling the weight of failure, so too was this man. ¡°I think, Mayor Elm, that we are reaching the stage where considering other options becomes meaningless.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s the spirit! Never let it be said that the Great General was not a ball of boundless optimism. Thanks for that. Perhaps you should be addressing your men in the lost art of will writing!¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s enough!¡± Degralk hissed at Donal. ¡°You will show proper respect to the General.¡±


    ¡°I will? I can¡¯t say that¡¯s ever been a problem for me before. What has brought about this sad state of affairs?¡±


    Degralk stepped forward until he was almost nose-to-nose with the Frontiersman. Taelsin glanced over to Daine, hoping she was planning to step in and cool tempers, but she was showing no such inclination to do so. ¡°You speak to all of us in the King¡¯s Army as if we are witless fools. You disparage us. You sneer at us. And worst of all, you disrespect the sacrifices we have made in your name. The people of Swinford may have suffered, but we died at your walls to keep you safe. And what will be our reward? There is not one of us with you now that can ever go home, under pain of being outlawed as traitors. None of us will ever see their families again. That is a choice we have each made -¡± he paused for a moment to collect himself. His voice had risen, and those around the nearest cooking fire glanced over uneasily ¨C ¡°That is a choice we have made. And no more so than our General. I think we all deserve more from you than your derision.¡±


    Donal nodded thoughtfully, then immediately turned to Souit. ¡°Your man is right, my lord. And I apologise. I have ever been of an irreverent mind, and it appears this new Class does little to encourage me to hold my tongue. I am truly sorry if I have not properly shown thanks for the sacrifices you and your people have made on behalf of Swinford. We would not still be alive without you, and I will ever be in your and your men¡¯s debt.¡±


    ¡°By the Goddess, Donal Assay being sincere. Now I know we truly are doomed.¡±


    The laughter that followed Daine¡¯s wry murmur did much to relax the atmosphere in the group and ¨C seeing their leaders sharing a moment of good humour - spread a touch more good cheer around the camp.


    *


    In the hills overlooking the camp, a man crouched, his form blending seamlessly with the rugged terrain. He would not have known what to answer should he have been asked his name. He simply was. Clad in tattered hides and adorned with trophies of past hunts, he bore the marks of countless battles etched into his weathered skin. His eyes scanned the scene below with careful deliberation.


    Despite a momentary lifting of spirits ¨C he had sensed the use of Mana by their leader ¨C he knew these people were vulnerable, their makeshift camp weak. His lip curled in a silent snarl, the prospect of a successful hunt stirring within him.


    The mountain wind whispered to his ears, and he knew what he must do next. Slowly, deliberately, he reached for the bone amulet hanging around his neck, a gift from the foreign Shadow Mage that had come to his people the night before, speaking of rich pickings to the south. With a touch, he connected it to his Skill <Echoing Call>.


    The amulet, as the Mage had promised, vibrated, emitting a low, resonant hum that travelled through the rocky hills like an invisible ripple. It was a sound only those of his kin could perceive, which ¨C with the enhancement of the amulet ¨C was now a call that would reach them wherever they roamed.


    As the hum faded, the man remained motionless, knowing his people would feel the summons in their bones. One by one, they would converge on his position, drawn by the unerring pull of the combination of his Skill and the amulet¡¯s power.


    As if affected by the approaching men and women, the sky above the camp darkened further, and the screaming of the wind increased.

 Chapter #126 - Rebuffing an Assault

    Daine had activated <Rallying Cry> even before the first body hit the ground.


    Ever since her Class Evolution during the siege of Swinford, she had found herself relying on this Skill more and more in order to buff the stats of the dwindling train of refugees.


    Throughout her long career, she had never found much use for party buffs¡ªthe nature of a Knight of the Road¡¯s work was, by definition, entirely solitary¡ªand thus, having access to a significant support Skill as a Templar Ascendant was taking quite some getting used to.


    Indeed, it had taken a very awkward conversation with Captain Kettle to bring to her attention that she could be as valuable to their rag-tag forces, not just at the forefront of the fighting.


    ¡°We¡¯re not all immortal warriors made of granite, my lady. Help a fellow out, and switch your damn legendary party buff on,¡± was how he eventually put it.


    Considering the Skill¡¯s short cooldown, there was nothing apart from her own inattention to keep her from having it running almost constantly, especially during the brief skirmishes in which the travelling column had thus far found itself.


    In fact, such heavy use had this Skill seen over the last few weeks that Daine could already sense it approaching some sort of evolution threshold of its own. She had theorised that the cumulative effect of the Skill on so many people had something to do with that. Certainly, her original Skills as a Knight of the Road had never indicated much potential to evolve their own potency.


    So, it had become almost second nature for Daine to trigger the Skill at the very first whisper of trouble.


    An instinct that, as it turned out, saved the life of Corporal Jinks.


    *


    Considering the significant reduction in the forces available to General Souit, it was somewhat noteworthy that Jinks ¨C with all his years of experience ¨C remained firmly stuck at his lowly rank.


    Just before the refugee train reached the shadow of the Bloodpspires, Captain Kettle was informed that openings had become available for men of sufficient quality and that it would seem sensible for the thin, weaselly man to take on a higher role. However, once Sergeant Drult let it be known that the second he was required to share a rank with that ¡®short streak of piss¡¯, he would be joining the desertion exodus, the idea was quietly put to bed.


    Not that Jinks minded. For all his moaning and complaining, he had never felt a moment¡¯s need actually to be the one giving the orders. Who needed that sort of responsibility in their life? Not he, for certain.


    Right now, though, he was somewhat less concerned with his career aspirations and rather more focused on the garrotte that had found its way around his throat.


    *


    Under the cover of darkness, the attack had begun.


    A figure had stalked quickly through the shadows, her movements as fluid and lethal as a wolf. She had seen her target leaning lazily against a rock, his attention wavering as he fought off the fatigue of a long watch.


    The man was not an imposing figure¡ªhis armour hung a bit loose, his belly slightly paunched, and his eyes perpetually half-lidded with exhaustion. She assumed he¡¯d been chosen for sentry duty not for any particular Perception skill but because he was deemed less essential elsewhere.


    But then she was on him.


    Before Jinks could register the threat, a garrote slipped around his neck, the fishing line biting into the soft skin under his throat. She had conducted many such attacks as these in her time and knew the man was seconds from death.


    *


    Jinks¡¯ eyes bulged in shock, his hands instinctively flying to his throat as he tried to claw at the wire cutting into his flesh. His breath came in ragged, choking gasps, and each attempt to inhale met with agonising resistance. His knees buckled as the figure - was it a woman? - tightened the ligature further, pulling Jinks backwards and onto the floor. As they landed, she beneath him, her legs wrapped around him, pinning him in a way he could not help but think might have been welcomed in other circumstances.


    Jinks'' vision blurred, dark spots dancing at the edges as his Strength ebbed away. His hands scrabbled at the rough ground, scraping and tearing as he struggled, his movements growing weaker. Desperation surged, but his body betrayed him, growing limp.


    Just as darkness threatened to claim him, a feeling he had come to intimately associate with the tall, imposing figure of the Lady Darkhelm came over him, and a surge of energy flooded him.


    It was as if a dam had burst inside him, releasing a torrent of power that he was - and not just in the current situation - finding quite addictive. His normally unimpressive attributes suddenly spiked upwards. Strength he knew he did not actually possess surged through his limbs, and a certain amount of clarity returned to his mind.


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    With a desperate heave, Jinks somehow managed to wedge his fingers under the fishing wire, loosening its grip just enough to draw a ragged breath. Pain and panic fueled his movements, and with newfound vigour, he tore the line away from his throat.


    Gasping for air, he staggered to his feet. "Help! We''re under attack! Raise the alarm!" Jinks shouted, his voice hoarse but loud enough to pierce the night.


    With painfully earned experience, the camp erupted into chaos as soldiers - and the refugees they were guarding - sprung into action. Sergeant Drult was among the first to respond, barrelling toward Jinks and his assailant.


    The woman, momentarily distracted by Jinks'' sudden resistance and the rising alarm, which she had not anticipated, never saw Drult coming. The big man brought his shield down in a crushing arc, smashing her skull with a sickening crack. She crumpled to the ground, lifeless.


    Drult knelt by Jinks, who was still gasping and clutching his neck. "Not the time for lying down on the job, Jinks. But you did good. Healer!" he bellowed, his voice carrying over the din.


    The camp was a flurry of activity around them. Soldiers armed themselves, readying for whatever was coming. The civilians did what they could, brandishing weapons or supporting those preparing to fight.


    Drult hovered over his corporal''s body, his eyes scanning the darkness beyond the campfire''s flicker, ready to meet the next wave of attackers. The attack may have been unexpected, but this camp was not as defenceless as it may have seemed.


    *


    For all he suffered under the humiliation of his recent reversals on the battlefield, none of that emotional weight invalidated the power of Souit''s Great General Class.


    Even without the Skills he had at his disposal, his decades of experience had taught him the value of preparedness, especially when leading vulnerable civilians through potentially hostile territory. Especially with increasingly threadbare professional soldiery at his disposal.


    Taciturn and unhelpful he may be during the interminable leadership meetings Mayor Elm insisted upon, but his standing orders were meticulously prepared, with each detail carefully considered.


    As soon as he heard the alarm raised, Souit left his tent, finding Degralk already in place to his left. The Major had increasingly taken on more of the administrative duties of command, and Souit was impressed with the grizzled Pikeman''s demeanour.


    Ignoring Degralk for the moment, Souit barked orders with a voice that cut through the chaos like a blade. "Form ranks! Defensive positions, now!" As a semblance of control was quickly established, he nodded for the Major to take command. "Captain Kettle, get your shield bearers to the front, Archers behind! Everyone else, assist the wounded and prepare to fall back to secondary positions if needed."


    Souit had designated a safe zone at the centre of the camp for the most vulnerable¡ªchildren, the elderly, and the injured - and he was pleased to see that this cordon was immediately established at the first sign of trouble. "All non-combatants to the centre! Healers, be ready."


    The refugees, trained and prepared by Degralk - under Souit''s guidance - moved with surprising coordination and speed, certainly to the attacker''s eyes. Souit took a position where he could oversee the camp, his keen eyes scanning for any signs of weakness or opportunity.


    However, the importance of maintaining the initiative ensured that the Great General was not merely focused on defence. His eyes sought out the mailed figure of the Lady Darkhelm. "My Lady!" he called to her. "We have control. Please feel free to see them off."


    *


    Lady Darkhelm stepped forward out of the defensive line, her eyes blazing with the unyielding light of her summoned Goddess.


    A wave of arrows crashed past her, taking several of the mountain people down before she even reached them to engage. One stray projectile glanced off the backplate of her armour; she assumed panicked misdirection rather than an assassination attempt, although she would be having words with whichever Archer had struck her.


    And then she reached the attackers who had, rather unfortunately for them, sought to bunch up as she approached. An intuitive belief in the safety of numbers, perhaps? They would quickly learn this was not the case.


    Daine had - as Old Gant had repeatedly told her - little actual skill with a blade, but her Class-enhanced Strength made her a force of nature on any battlefield. She strode forward to take the fight into the darkness.


    The first attacker came at her with a savage snarl, his crude clubbed weapon raised high. With an almost casual punch, she shattered his jaw and sent him sprawling to the ground. Another lunged at her from the opposite side, but Daine''s Speed belied her size. She blurred to the right, catching his wrist mid-strike, twisting it and hurling him into the shadows like a ragdoll.


    Her approach to assaulting the mountain men was not, in any manner, with any sort of grace, but each blow she landed was delivered with devastating power. She swung her heavy greatsword with both hands, its massive weight effortlessly borne by her immense Strength, the flat of her weapon cracking skulls and breaking bones whilst the edge decapitated and eviscerated with each sweeping arc.


    A tall, rangy figure managed to evade her threshing strokes and closed in with her, slashing at her with a jagged blade. Darkhelm seized his arm, the muscles in her own rippling as she snapped it backwards, the arm ripping free of its socket with a soft tear. She followed through with a knee to his chest, the impact lifting him off his feet, his corpse flying through the air. She tossed his limb after him as an afterthought.


    Daine progressed on her way silently, her focused taciturnity such a difference to the cries of the dying attackers. One by one, they fell to her relentless assault. She moved through them like a storm, unstoppable and merciless. Eventually, they tried to flee, but with a swift throw, she sent her sword spinning through the air, striking two of them in their backs and sending separate halves crashing to the ground.


    Just as it seemed that the rout was complete, a larger figure, perhaps their leader, she thought, charged at her with twin knives. She let the first lodge into her side, absorbing its impact without a wince, before grabbing the second blade and yanking it forward towards her. With a mighty heave, she lifted the man off the ground and slammed him into the rocky earth, the impact driving him several feet through the ground, snapping his backbone into shards.


    Then, a lull settled around her.


    The battlefield was strewn with the broken bodies of the attackers, only a handful of them dropped by arrows. Daine stood amidst the carnage, her breath heavy but steady, her eyes scanning for any remaining threats. The last of the mountain men, seeing their comrades killed with such brutal easy, turned and ran, their morale shattered.


    General Souit and the rest of the soldiers, having held their defensive positions, watched in awe and relief.


    The Lady Darkhelm''s ferocity had turned the tide of the battle, her unmatched Strgth breaking the attackers'' will.


    For her part, Daine wiped the blood from her face, her gaze still fierce, but there was a glint of satisfaction in her eyes.

 Chapter #127 - Dining with a Frontiersman

    ¡°Feeling better?¡±


    Daine looked up from pondering her campfire at the uninvited visitor. If Donal felt any shame about unceremoniously inflicting himself on the Templar Ascendant, he did an outstanding job of hiding it.


    Considering the significant transformations in his Class during the time that Daine had known him, it was surprising how similar he still looked. As Taelsin¡¯s Secretary, there had been a bookish yet irascible quality that had well-suited his role as majordomo to the leader of a large City. It was not difficult to believe that he was a man who had enjoyed a well-drafted minute and found distinct pleasure in refusing the addition of an unexpected item to a pre-circulated agenda.


    During the siege of Swinford, he had accurately determined that this administrative Class was no longer appropriate to current circumstances and had ¨C through a manner Daine did not feel had been explained to her with any degree of clarity ¨C changed into a more martial Class¡ªthat of a Dark Warlord.


    This transformation, of course, had given Donal access to a far more potent range of Skills to help defend his City and, in no small part, was responsible for the funk of failure that continued to hang around General Souit. In many ways, Donal''s new Class ¨C with its focus on chaotic, pragmatic randomness ¨C had been the perfect riposte to the Great General. Certainly, the many reversals during that confrontation had as much, if not more, to do with Donal¡¯s plans than they did with Daine¡¯s presence and fighting prowess.


    Interestingly, in his movement between Secretary to Dark Warlord, Donal had retained much of the same bearing. If his fashion sense had moved from the stuffy to the outlandish, and if there had been a certain sallowing of his skin, then that was to be expected. However, by its very nature ¨C and with its clear link to the influence of the Dark God - Donal¡¯s movement into this Class had strained his relationship with Daine. Some of the choices that the man had made in the defence of Swinford were, at best, morally questionable. For example, the temporary resurrection of the fallen of the King¡¯s Army to rise in the City¡¯s defence was still a point of great contention between the leadership of the refugee train. Therefore, it was with relief that the news was received that Donal had changed his Class once more, this time electing to become a Frontiersman.


    There was, though, something rather incongruous in a thin, elderly man adopting a Class more usually chosen by hearty pioneers. While there was no doubt the Skills to which he now had access had been crucial to them getting this far on their journey - <Bountious Hunter> alone had kept starvation at bay, while the tracking enhancements of <One True Path> had allowed the column to proceed on its journey away from prying eyes on the more well-trodden King¡¯s Road ¨C there was no getting away from the fact he simply looked ridiculous.


    Daine watched Donal sit down next to her at her solitary fire with a mixture of awe and perplexity. He was a sight that, initially, defied description: an elderly man, his back slightly stooped and his hair a thinning, snowy white, yet moving with the vigour and precision of a far younger man. Donal''s face ¨C as it had been in his previous Class iterations - was a map of deep lines and weathered creases. His eyes, sharp and intelligent behind a pair of round spectacles, twinkled with an energy Daine knew had seen far more years than his elderly persona suggested. Though liver-spotted and gnarled with age, his hands moved with the Dexterity and Strength of a seasoned tracker, effortlessly handling tools and weapons. Daine had idly wondered to the Goddess what his stat sheet must look like, but her patron had ¨C as so often where Donal was concerned ¨C declined to comment.


    Donal''s attire added much to the incongruity of his appearance. He wore rugged, practical clothing suited for a life in the wild¡ªsturdy boots, a thick leather vest, various furred accoutrements and trousers reinforced at the knees. Yet these clothes hung far too loosely on his lean, stick-like frame as if their wearer had borrowed them from his giant of a grandson. Indeed, when first seeing him, Daine had assumed such clothing was an affectation and that Donal would soon tire of tripping over the too-large costume, but ¨C so far ¨C it was as if he didn¡¯t notice the disparity.


    Throughout their journey, Donal effortlessly set traps, brought down beasts three times his size, and navigated the rugged terrain like a jackrabbit. The juxtaposition of his frail appearance and his vigorous actions seemed, at times, almost cruel, as if he had been granted a second youth without the corresponding physical rejuvenation. Daine both feared for his safety, wondering how long his aged body- could keep up with the demands of his new role, yet also felt slightly envious.


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    Although she had recently undergone her own Class change, that had been an evolution rather than a complete transformation. She was delighted with the results ¨C as a Templar Ascendant, she was more robust, faster and more agile than she had ever been as a Knight of the Road ¨C but she could not help but feel she was, disappointingly, more of the same. Yes, her new Skills and increased attributes had probably made her one of the most powerful and resilient melee fighters in the Kingdom. Still, she would be lying if she did not feel a touch of irritation that this man so quickly swapped his Skillset for another entirely different existence.


    Looking at the man now, Daine''s feelings were a complex tapestry of admiration, concern, and a touch of disbelief. She could not help but marvel at Donal''s remarkable transformation. Here was a man who had embraced a new Class, gaining all these new helpful attributes and Skills, yet his body remained as it had been when she had first seen him when she was standing guard on the Road outside Keep Trellec.


    It was all very disconcerting.


    ¡°I take no joy in slaughter, sir,¡± she said, answering his question. ¡°I would hope you knew me well enough by now to recognise that.¡±


    Donal was not put off, in the slightest, by her frosty tone. ¡°But neither were you disappointed to be able to work out some of the frustrations that have settled on you of late. Rabbit?¡± As if from nowhere, he produced the skinned body of his latest catch.


    Daine, somewhat taken aback, shook her head. ¡°No, thank you. I have already eaten.¡±


    ¡°Do you mind?¡± Donal indicated her flame. Daine shrugged, at which stage, he drove a spit through the middle of the animal and propped it up above the flickering flame. ¡°Haven¡¯t had a bite all day.¡±


    They sat in silence for a time. Daine accutely aware that her mouth was watering at the smell of the cooking meat. She did not know why she had refused the offer of food ¨C Pride was ever a challenge for you-, the Goddess whispered into her mind ¨C but she resolved to accept should he offer once it was finished browning.


    As if aware of her thoughts, Donal removed the rabbit and began eating it with every sign of immense relish, yet never offering her a bite. When he was just over halfway through, and Daine¡¯s stomach had rumbled for the third time, he glanced up. ¡°So what do you think?¡±


    ¡°About what?¡± Daine¡¯s level of frustration with this strange man was reaching new levels.


    ¡°We will be in the Bloodspires proper tomorrow. I¡¯ve scouted about as far as I¡¯m comfortable going alone, and I tell you, it will be no Sun Day stroll. It¡¯s to be two abreast for most of the way ¨C single file for some of it ¨C and I¡¯d hate to be on the path if some of the loose rocks start falling. We¡¯re going to lose people.¡±


    Daine nodded but kept her face flat. ¡°We¡¯ll lose people if we stay where we are.¡±


    Donal nogged vigorously, tossing the last bit of rabbit into his mouth and licking his fingers with every indication of great relish. Daine glowered at him as he did so. ¡°Oh, without doubt, my lady. I¡¯m just not sure everyone is quite as pragmatic about impending death as we are. Of course, it probably helps that you and I would probably survive a fall off yonder cliffs. These others?¡± He swept an arm to encompass the rest of the camp. ¡°Probably not. I fear it is going to get messy.¡±


    ¡°It has been, in your words ¡®, messy¡¯ from the moment Gallant Stonehand appeared at the walls of Swinford.¡±


    Donal nodded, grease dripping down his beard. ¡°That is has.¡±


    They returned to silence. Daine knew the Frontiersman had joined her because he had a plan he wished to unveil. Presumably, one that his sworn lord, Taelsin, had already forbidden him to contemplate. She was getting used to the way this wiley old man worked. He was seeking to recruit her for some scheme.


    Well, if he thought his patience could outstrip that of the Darkhelm, he had significantly missed his mark this evening.


    The sun was just rising above the mountains when Donal spoke again. During the time they had sat in less than companionable quiet, he had consumed two more rabbits and the hind leg of a deer ¨C all without offering anything to Daine. ¡°So, I have a plan.¡±


    ¡°You have a plan,¡± Daine repeated dully. She was surprised he could hear her over the rumbling of her stomach.


    ¡°Quite apart from the rigours of travelling the Bloodspires, I worry that we will be beset again and again by the mountain tribes.¡±


    Daine nodded but added no further thoughts. To be truthful, she shared this concern. It was one thing to defeat attackers in a reasonably secure camp. It was quite another on a treacherous cliffside. Even the modest harrying of the bandits earlier in the journey had taken a considerable toll on the number of refugees.


    She had been sat, thinking about the dangers ahead, when Donal had joined her. Daine suspected there was little coincidence in this.


    ¡°It occurs to me that it was strange the men of the mountains attacked us without warning. I would not have expected them to challenge armed men in such a way.¡±


    ¡°I have had the same thought.¡± Daine had travelled the King¡¯s Road in the West for thirty years and could count the number of times she had encountered the tribes that lived in the Bloodspires on one hand. Certainly, they had never attacked her, and she was sure a lone female knight would have made a more tempting target than a camp filled with soldiers.


    Donal smiled, his teeth glinting oddly white in the early morning light. ¡°Excellent. Would you like to join me when I go and ask them why they did so?¡±

 Chapter #128 - "The gods are abroad"

    At that very moment, in the heart of the Kingdom, King Hanya Rendell, a man whose grip on his throne had become a significant source of discomfort of late, was deep in thought.


    For weeks, he had been wrestling with a question that seemed to have no easy answer. When had the unquestioned stability of his reign - a position he had occupied for the best part of twenty years - begun to crumble? How was he in a position where an entire section of the Kingdom was in open rebellion, whilst whispers against the effectiveness of his rule¡ªnot loud but deep¡ªdominated the corridors of the Capital?


    It was a puzzle with no clear solution, no single foolish decision, and no individual to blame. Thus, his self-doubt consumed him.


    A few years ago, Rendell had heard tale of a particular amphibian that could be placed in a bowl of water which, if heated slowly enough, would allow itself to be boiled to death without making any effort to escape.


    It was an example that he was coming to fear might turn out to be his own fate.


    "Is anything wrong, Your Majesty?"


    Rendell chose to ignore the tall, thin man standing to his right. His Chancellor would benefit from a little experience in humility. He had been far too proactive of late. The King was unsure of the course of events that had led Lord Borlean to rise to such prominence in his Court. However, he suspected that no little part of his current predicament could be attributed to this influential noble.


    No, that was too easy an escape route. Borlean certainly had considerable resources to bring to bear in some of the Kingdom''s decisions of late, but Rendell was not going to let himself off so lightly.


    From birth, the King had access to a range of Skills that would have left even the wealthiest Noble family awestruck. Whilst he had found this to be wonderful at the time, he now wondered if the easy availability of such power had stunted his growth in other, more important ways.


    Not for him, the gradual, careful accumulation of experience which would, in turn, give him a healthy respect for his Skills and the wisdom to use them wisely. No, his father - the late King - had encouraged his son to explore the full range of his inherited gifts as soon as possible and, truth be told, without much oversight.


    Had Rendell been hungry, he had the appropriate mental Skill to compel a servant to bring him whatever he wished. Should he want to go boating on a particularly stormy day, why he had the requisite Skill to blow those clouds away. And if he ever found himself being opposed in his will, in whatever small way, why, he certainly had the capacity to remove that obstacle in a variety of exotic ways.


    Looking back, he could well see why his father - when he realised the colossal error he had made in spoiling his only son and heir - had been so keen to introduce him to a young man who, even all those years ago, was already lauded as the Pendragon.


    It would have been hard for Rendell to maintain his course of wanton self-indulgence whilst in the presence of a being who, quite literally, the gods spoke in hushed tones about.


    Gallant Stonehand - and the King was careful to keep this memory in the past and not allow the current, horrific situation with that old man to dominate his thinking - had once described Eliud Vila as one of the "holy terrors of the world." To most in the Kingdom, though, he was known as the Duskstrider.


    But to Rendell, he had just been his friend, El.


    After his father''s death, and as the young King grew into his new role, that extraordinary man had been the only one with the bravery to call Rendell out on his misbehaviour and - perhaps more pertinently, now he came to think of it - the strength to back that up.


    "You are doing an awful lot of sighing, Your Majesty."


    Rendell again gave no sign that he had heard his Chancellor and was gratified when he perceived a little snort of frustration from his right. Well, that was all to the good. Someone had become rather too free with the rightness of his opinions of late.


    Settling back into his throne, the King''s thoughts returned to El and the last - rather unexpected - time they had met. It had been nearly a month back when, quite unceremoniously, the Duskstrider had torn him free from the safety of his palace and pulled him into the woods just below his bed chamber window.


    This was not just an act of insane stupidity - the punishment for such a casting was instant death - but also one that reinforced to Rendell the truth of Eliud''s immense power. It never ceased to amaze the King that when scholars discussed the Pendragon''s unlimited mana pool, they - literally - meant just that. There was no end to the magical resources that Eliud could bring to bear on any given situation. And that, apparently, included shattering hundreds of years of impregnable wards in order to, in his words, ''have a little chat'' with the King.


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    If Rendell has been powerful as a Prince, it was to nothing to his strength as the King. With the passing of his father, he had Skills which many at Court would regard as godly. However, even he had found himself quailing in the presence of his former friend and the strange little group he had gathered around him.


    Rendell recognised Josul, of course, and felt that familiar shudder of sorrow that he had been responsible for the death of that dog''s siblings. That sorrow was hardly helped by the huge dog leaping with joy upon him and licking his face in a very unregal manner.


    Eliud''s other two companions, a young woman clutching a bow and the kitten sitting on her shoulder, were unknown to him. However, his discombobulation with the situation was hardly improved by his clear belief that the cat said, ''Oh, Eliud,'' as the King was manifested into the group''s presence.


    The ensuing conversation was brief, to the point, and¡ªto the King''s mind¡ªrather instructive.


    However, that was for another day.


    Back in the present, Rendell was aware that his treatment of Borlean was approaching the rude. As remedy, he stood and beckoned for his Chancellor to follow him. A number of guards¡ªnone whose Class was less evolved than a Sentinel¡ªfell into formation behind them as they left the throne room and walked upwards towards the battlements.


    If Rendell''s hope was that the impromptu excursion up several flights of stone steps might tire his older companion out, he was to be disappointed. Even as he quickly refreshed his own Stamina with <King''s Blessing>, he felt the Chancellor do something . . . similar with a power of his own. It might have made the King feel less uncertain around Borlean if he had been able to pin down the source of that man''s power. Or even the range of Skills at his disposal. However, it - as with the man''s Class - seemed stubbornly resistant to being uncovered.


    "What do you see, Chancellor?"


    Borlean blinked slowly, gazing out over the wide expanse of the Capital. There was, thought Rendell, something reptilian in the way he did that. A languid calm to the way his eyes roved this way and that.


    ''Predatory'' was the word, Rendell realised. Then wondered how he had not noticed it before.


    "I see a people on the precipice of greatness, Your Majesty." Borlean turned and smiled at the King. "And the man to lead them over the edge."


    Before his recent conversation with Eliud, Rendell would have taken those words at face value, assuming the slight awkwardness was due to the lord''s unfamiliarity with the language of his adopted home.


    Now, however . . .


    "Precipice? Edge? You make it sound like the Kingdom is about to fall off a cliff, Lord Borlean."


    The tall man laughed humourlessly, tongue flicking out to moisten his lips as he did so. "My apologies, Your Majesty. Even after all these years, I still occasionally misspeak."


    The King nodded in acceptance even as he registered that the Chancellor had triggered some sort of Skill as he spoke. Rendell could not quite identify the shape of it¡ªit certainly was not one with which he was familiar¡ªbut it seemed to be, ever so subtly, encouraging trust towards the speaker.


    Now, that was interesting. If Eliud had flirted with execution by stealing the King from his rooms for an impromptu conversation, then seeking to manipulate Rendell''s emotions through Skill use was just as heinous a crime.


    He wondered how long his Chancellor had been playing that little game - and whether he would have noticed if El had not put that thought in his head.


    "Do you know what I see, Chancellor?" Borlean gave a little shake of his head in response. "A people divided. A City riven by faction. I see a way of life that will not survive a civil war."


    "If you are worried about the West, Your Majesty . . . "


    "Of course I am worried about the West!" Rendell has not intended to lose his temper. He wondered whether Borlean''s emotional manipulation was responsible for that, too. Surreptitiously, he triggered <King''s Mind>, the strongest of his mental defences. His father had boasted it had trebled his Willpower when he had called upon it. Rendell had not noted any such improvement, but it was undeniable it made it easier to resist whatever Borlean was doing.


    He was running it far more than ever since that nighttime meeting.


    He was thus in control when continuing. "I have already lost a Knight of the Road, a Great General and a quarter of our military strength to that part of the world. I would not waste any more resources unless I have to."


    "And as I have suggested, Your Majesty, any attempt to negotiate with the Trellecs will simply start the race for those in the North and the East to begin their own rebellious causes. You cannot show weakness to these people."


    It felt like an old argument, which, in truth, it was. Rendell had sought to resist the sending of Gallant Stonehand into the West when news of Swinford''s resistance filtered back, but Borelean''s voice had prevailed on the Small Council. That had been before Rendell had spoken to El, though. The King wondered if he would have held firmer had that decision been made more recently.


    "I do not see it as a weakness. I fear what is coming to the West."


    Borlean smiled, and Rendell was suddenly truck that he had far more teeth than he should have, but then that impression faded, and he was, once more, looking at an entirely unremarkable face.


    "The West is due a reckoning, Your Majesty. I do not know the circumstances that lured the Lady Darkhelm to their cause nor how General Souit was overcome at the walls of Swinford. Nor, in truth, do I much care. The Blades of Ruin will lay waste to whatever coalition of traitors these Trellecs can pull together. And the world will see what occurs to those who seek to thwart your will. A little pain today will result in stability for a generation."


    "Stability," Rendell said flatly.


    He turned away from his Chancellor and looked out over the Capital, hoping that the shadows he felt falling over his homeland were more in his mind than in truth.


    "The gods are abroad," El had told him and then, in the same breath, asked him to locate a missing child.


    At the time, Rendell had not seen the danger in helping out his old friend and had freely used his Skills to point the Duskstrider in the direction of that which he sought.


    But if the gods were truly involved in the business of the Kingdom . . .


    Shaking his head, Rendell leaned out over the edge of the battlement, trying to shake free the sound of rolling dice from his mind.


    With unblinking eyes, Borlean watched him.

 Chapter #129 - To the realm of the Dark God

    ¡°I mean, it could be considered that was largely successful . . .¡±


    Savage yowled and jumped down from Kirsten¡¯s shoulder, making her way towards the safety of the undergrowth. The parts of it that were not on fire, at any event. Kirsten took a moment to ensure the kitten was okay before turning to Eliud, eyes ablaze.


    ¡°Which parts, specifically, were ¡®successful¡¯ there?¡±


    ¡°Well,¡± the Pendragon began, ¡°it would be fair to say that we are all still alive following experimentation with powers far beyond our ken. In those circumstances, it is pretty remarkable that we are all actually in one piece. I think we should be very pleased that . . .¡±


    Kirsten shot him in the chest.


    Of course, this was essentially a pointless exercise. Eliud simply waved his hand, and the arrow changed into a daffodil, bouncing ineffectively against his robes.


    ¡°I have to say, my dear, that seems ever so slightly an overreaction. It¡¯s not like any of us were hurt . . .¡±


    Kirsten shot him again.


    For the life of her, the Celestial Harbinger could not conceive of how her life had changed over the last few months. It would be wrong to say that she looked back on her time in Keep Trellec ¡ª alongside Jak, Drunnoc and the rest ¡ª with any degree of affection, but at least there had been a degree of normality to that existence. Yes, she would wake up each morning with a sense of gnawing unease and spend the day trying to grind out a living in a world that, very much, was committed to keeping her down.


    But at least no one ever suggested she stepped through a poorly prepared portal to the realm of the Dark God. So, there had been some upsides.


    Eliud had left her second arrow simply pass through him, where it had struck the tree behind him with a loud crack, startling Josul, who barked his displeasure. A mewled, ¡°Oh, do be quiet, you idiot,¡± emerged from a bush to their right.


    ¡°Right,¡± the Pendragon said brightly, clapping his hands together in ¡ª what Kirsten assumed ¡ª he considered a ¡®take charge¡¯ manner. ¡°How about we review and plan out the next steps?¡±


    *


    Eliud¡¯s conversation with King Rendell had been brief. Far more so than Kirsten would have assumed such a meeting between two of the great powers in the Kingdom would have been, especially considering how their last meeting had gone . . .


    After overcoming his initial shock at being transported outside his palace walls, the King rallied quite impressively.


    ¡°El, this is crazy. Do you have any idea what they will do to you for this?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure. Might they, for example, knock me out, transport my unconscious form to a secretly constructed Sky Keep ¡ª built, particularly ¡ª to deal with someone of my Skillset and then launch said Keep in the general direction of the northern wastelands, hoping for me to either starve to death or else be eaten by Wyverns.¡±


    The King frowned. ¡°I assume you are being oddly specific because . . .¡±


    ¡°Because that is precisely what your little group of advisors, hangers-on and social climbers tried when I attempted to do the right thing and seek to approach you by the front door. Are you seriously suggesting you had nothing to do with it?¡±


    Rendell did not answer, turning his attention to the giant lap dog that was, once again, attempting to lick his face. ¡°Josul, not now.¡± The hurt expression on the dog¡¯s face was so comically human that the tension in the clearing eased. Slightly. Rendell nodded towards Kirsten. ¡°And you are?¡±


    Eliud stepped in front of her, putting a hand on her shoulder. ¡°She is none of your business, Your Majesty. You have shown yourself to be wholly incapable of acting appropriately around those I care about. As soon as you answer my question, we will take our leave. Given my druthers, you will never see either of us again.¡±


    ¡°And what is your question?


    ¡°Where would the Dark God keep someone he wanted to hide? Specifically, hide from me.¡±


    *


    The two had retired a short distance away, leaving Kirsten, Savage and Josul to kick their heels for a while. This had seemed a good time for the Celestial Harbinger to find out more about the man who had taken on the role of her protector ¡ª not least his relationship with the King.


    ¡°They were friends,¡± Savage had said in her strange ¡ª almost purring ¡ª voice. ¡°Well, as much as that odd man can have friends. He and Rendell spent a lot of time together in their youth, but we had places to go, worlds to explore and he stepped away from the life of the Kingdom. Then ¡ª after the Stonehand was put out to pasture ¡ª Eliud was asked to return to court life to take over the Mentor role. We lived in the palace for a time. And then the bad things happened.¡±


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    That was as much information as Kirsten had ever heard about Eliud¡¯s life before the Darkhelm had led them to his cottage. ¡°The bad things?¡±


    The cat shook her head and began cleaning her paw. ¡°No, that¡¯s not for me. If he had wanted to tell you, he would have done.¡± Josul whimpered and pressed himself against Kirsten¡¯s side. ¡°Pet the dog. He¡¯s sad.¡±


    From the little Kirsten had been able to piece together, Eliud had owned three such massive dogs when he had been persuaded to return to the Capital. She bent and vigorously rubbed Josul¡¯s hide, eliciting a whuffle of pleasure. ¡°Did something happen to the other dogs?¡±


    ¡°Not something. Someone.¡±


    And that was all Savage would say on the matter. Half a bell later, Eliud had returned ¡ª leaving the King stood, with a thoughtful expression, at the edge of the woods ¡ª announcing the ¡°hunt for Genoes is on!¡±


    *


    Eliud was frustrated. And from his experience, he rarely made his best decisions when in that state. For most people, such emotional roiling might lead to unwise arguments, consuming too much alcohol, or making impulsive purchases.


    He envied most people.


    When Eliud Vila, known by the commonfolk as the Duskstrider, and the holder of the Mythic Class of Pendragon, became frustrated, there was a slight chance the nature of reality might be imperilled.


    Taking a deep breath and rolling his shoulders in a way he had seen others do to dispel tension ¡ª that it had never worked for him thus far was no reason to abandon the ritual ¡ª Eliud tried to bring his considerable resources to bear on the problem before them.


    The King had, eventually, been willing to share a little of what he knew about the location of the stable-boy Eliud had sworn to locate. One of the inherited Skills of the Rendell line was the ability to track the position of any subject of the Kingdom to a reasonably accurate degree. Eliud had long argued that


    was a broken Skill, and it was rather gauche for a King to keep such a close eye on those he suspected of treason, but his advice ¡ª as in so many cases ¡ª had been largely ignored. Rendell had argued it was a Skill he used incredibly rarely and that scruples were a fine thing, right until the moment an unexpected army arrived at your gates. Spymistress Stein had supported the King in this and, well, by that stage, Eliud was fighting ¡ª and losing ¡ª on so many political fronts, it seemed pointless to keep arguing.


    But now he had found the perfect use for the Skill and a King who, pleasingly, was willing to try to make amends for the past . . . ¡®indiscretions¡¯, as he had wanted to call them.


    ¡°Indiscretions?¡± Eliud had said, as brightly as he could manage, his mind being dragged back to an evening of fire, blood and betrayal.


    Rendell had sensed he was stepping on dangerous ground and had quickly returned attention to the proposed use of


    .


    It had taken the King no time at all to find Genoes. The challenge, however, was where he had found him. This was why Eliud, Savage, Josul, and Kirsten were currently standing in front of a darkly shimmering portal that was resolutely refusing to allow them access.


    Indeed, it has been extremely ¨C some may say, explosively ¨C resistant to attempts to cross it.


    Eliud¡¯s frustration at the situation momentarily got the best of him, and he channelled <Mana Lightning> at the doorway for a few seconds.


    ¡°Feeling better?¡± Kirsten asked, cocking her head at the cone of devastation that the Pendragon had caused to the vegetation around the ethereal doorway.


    ¡°Oddly, yes.¡± With no ceremony, he suddenly sat down on the ground before the portal and flexed his fingers, seeking to dispel the tingling that his Skill had caused. ¡°So, where are we at? We know that Genoes is, somewhere, on the other side of that portal.¡±


    Kirsten sat down next to him. Savage emerged from the bushes and, with a couple of little jumps, took up her customary position on the Celestial Harbinger¡¯s left shoulder. Josul wandered over and plonked himself across Eliud¡¯s legs, trapping him with his great weight.


    We would make quite a scene for anyone wandering past, Kirsten thought. Woe betide the bandits that thought we were easy pickings.¡°But do we know that?¡± She asked Eliud. ¡°We only have the King¡¯s word for it. He could be lying.¡±


    ¡°He could,¡± Eliud acknowledged. ¡°However, there is a long ¡ª and dare I say ¡ª horrifically colourful history of what happens to people who lie to me. I sensed that Rendell was keen to attempt a rapprochement. . .¡±


    ¡°You know, it doesn¡¯t impress me when you use long words like that. It just reminds me how very old you are.¡±


    Eliud continued as if Kirsten hadn¡¯t spoken. ¡° . . . and it would be poor politics for him to send me on a wild goose chase. I do not think he knew what Logan Twilight intended with his Sky Keep.¡±


    Kirsten nodded at that. ¡°So, we think we¡¯re in the right place then. Genoes is just the other side of that portal.¡±


    Eliud opened his hands in an uncertain gesture. ¡°Well, ¡®yes¡¯ and ¡®no¡¯. The realms of the gods are not quite like the geography of our own world. Genoes is in the land of the Dark God. The King was able to


    him there and identified that this portal was the closest to him. However, that is as far as he was able to go. Now, it might be that the lad is sat just on the other side of this doorway. On the other hand ¡ª¡± he let his voice trail off.


    ¡°On the other hand?¡±


    ¡°We may find ourselves with a fairly difficult search ahead of us. From what I know of the Dark God, his realm is not dissimilar to that of the Goddess, Herself. And Her world is vast in the extreme. Not to mention that it plays rather fast and loose with the rules of time and space.¡±


    Kirsten¡¯s eyebrows raised at that. ¡°You¡¯ve been to the Goddess¡¯s realm?¡±


    ¡°Of course. What sort of quasi-divine being would I be if I had not been invited round for tea and crumpets by a few of the Gods.¡± He watched her face briefly before breaking out into a huge grin. ¡°I¡¯m joking. In my youth, the Goddess made several unsubtle efforts to recruit me to Her cause. One of them involved taking me to Her realm and showing me various . . . . delights. You will be pleased to hear I resisted."


    "Delighted."


    "I''m hungry," Savage yowled. "Is there going to be anything, or anyone, I can eat so?"


    Eliud did not speak for a moment, staring at the portal. Then, lifting Josul into the air by activating one of his Skills, he stood and walked towards it. "Okay, so this is not a problem that can be solved through overwhelming power, which is annoying. Let us, therefore, try something sneakier."


    "Such as?"


    Eliud winked at her. "This is your time to shine!"

 Chapter #130 - Portal Breaking

    Kirstin collapsed to the ground, sweat pouring off her in waves.


    Her breaths were coming in ragged gasps, and she thought her health was about as low as she had ever known it. That she had a pretty vivid memory of dying quite recently made that recognition even more sobering. And all of that was notwithstanding the throbbing headache of mana exhaustion, which threatened to split her head entirely in two.


    "No. Not quite. You pulled out too quickly. Go again."


    Through bloodshot eyes, she could just make out Eliud standing a little to her left. She knew he was very conscious of the image he projected to others, so she assumed he was noisily munching an apple to make himself seem even more objectionable.


    "I could eat him?" Savage bumped her head against Kirstin''s own, causing a cascade of agony to run through the girl''s soul.


    "Tempting thought. Could you, though?"


    Savage purred for a few moments, then yowled with dissatisfaction, going through a complicated stretching routine as she did so. "Probably not, actually. I sense he would cause . . . indigestion."


    "You both do realise I can hear you, right? And, in any event, I am not sure how I am the bad guy in this particular situation. Should our little Celestial Harbinger have been capable of mastering this most facile of techniques, we would already be on our way. It is hardly my fault she is proving to be singularly disappointing in using her Class."


    Kirstin sat up and then instantly regretted it. Her head swam, and she felt her stomach lurch up her throat. "No, stop. My ego cannot take the constant stroking."


    "Take it from someone who whole civilisations have dedicated themselves to the stroking of his ego; it gets old fast." Eliud threw the core of his apple at the centre of the portal, where it exploded into a mist of juice. "I can compliment you on the sincerity of your efforts if you would like? However, the fact you''ve still not shorted out the portal''s defences means we are no closer to saving Genoes. Perhaps it is just that I have impossibly high standards, but I thought I''d hold off on the standing ovation until - I don''t know - you actually achieve something worth celebrating?"


    "How bad would the indigestion be?" Kirstin found herself muttering to her cat.


    *


    The plan, such as it was, was reasonably straightforward.


    As a Celestial Harbinger, Kirstin had a Skill that allowed her to, ever so slightly, phase out of time. Although <Nebula Cloak> was primarily a defensive Skill that would allow blades and projectiles to pass straight through her, Eliud theorised they could use the Skill''s unusual properties to overload the defences that the Dark God had put around the portal.


    His thinking was that should she stand within the portal, with <Nebula Cloak> active, she could trigger, but also avoid, an overwhelming volume of defensive countermeasures. Assuming that nothing was infinite in this world, Eliud had posited that the defences would - in relatively short order - be drained dry, allowing the rest of the group to pass through in safety.


    So far, though, it had not been working out like that. The sense of wrongness Kirstin experienced when stood within the portal was so acute - and the pain of keeping that overwhelming feeling at bay so horrendous - that Kirstin was almost immediately forced to retreat.


    Eliud offered a hand and pulled Kirstin upright, refreshing her health and mana with a careless wave. "Look, I''m not saying you''re not trying your hardest; it''s just - well - you must improve your resolve. Substantially so."


    "Did you want to give it a go?" Kirstin snapped back. "Have you any idea what it feels like to try to hold that Skill open in the middle of that portal? It''s like the Goddess herself is trying to remove me from time. If I step out, it''s because it feels as if I would cease to exist unless I do!"


    "Speaking as the only one of us a god has actually tried to remove from existence, I just want to flag the hyperbole there. I am sure it is very uncomfortable, but no one ever said being a hero was all sunshine and rainbows, my dear. I had thought you were built of sterner stuff."


    Josul barked sharply, causing Eliud to glance down. The oversized lap dog growled and then barked again, showing glittering white teeth. The Pendragon sighed and then pressed his finger and thumb down on the bridge of his nose.


    "Fine." The Pendragon turned his purple eyes to Kirstin. "I''m told I am being unnecessarily unpleasant." The dog barked again. "Fine. Kirstin, I am sorry for pushing you so hard. I spoke out of turn in questioning your commitment to the cause. Will you forgive me?"


    Kirstin glanced at Josul, whose tongue was now hanging out in an entirely human expression of happiness. "Sure. You are forgiven."


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    "Happy now?" Eliud directed a half-hearted kick at the dog, which it dodged with an effortless bound, yapping as it did so.


    "In truth, though, I am truly sorry," he added to Kirstin. "It is not with you that I am frustrated, but rather myself. I feel keenly the passing of time on this quest. It feels like every moment we waste here on this side of the damned portal, success slips further away from our grasp."


    "You think Genoes is in danger?"


    "Genoes. Daine. Taelsin. The West." Eliud''s face darkened with each word. "I cannot shake the feeling we are being kept away from events that require our attention. I fear we are choosing Genoes over other, arguably more weighty, matters."


    "You are suggesting we abandon him?"


    "No. Not for an instant. Merely that we do need to move forward with alacrity." Eliud moved over to the portal and dropped to his haunches, rolling up the sleeve of his robe to expose his bare arm.


    The passage into the realm of the Dark God had taken on a slick, oily texture since they had first attempted to cross through. Standing within it, even wearing her <Nebula Cloak>, made Kirstin feel profoundly unclean as if the Dark God himself was stroking her face.


    With a shudder, the Pendragon reached forward and thrust his whole arm into the middle of the yawning wound.


    The response was instant and much the same as it had been before. The moment Eliud''s hand touched the greasy surface of the portal, there was a sizzle of burning skin, and his flesh began to bubble. However, this time, Eliud did not withdraw, but¡ªbrow furrowing with concentration¡ªhe activated one of his healing Skills and sought to weather the massive damage it caused him.


    The smell alone was horrific.


    Kirstin watched, appalled, as the Duskstrider''s arm was reduced to a smoking wreck, repaired, and then incinerated again. The scene played out over and over again without any noticeable change in the nature of the portal.


    Then Josul was at Eliud''s side, pressing his right paw on top of his master''s hand. The dog growled softly as its own fur was burned away, but he did not pull back, even as Kirstin realised the bones of Josul''s leg had become exposed by the attack.


    Strain appeared on Eliud''s face as he began to heal the dog, too. His voice, when he spoke, though, was calm. "It''s not a question of power, you understand? I can keep the healing up for as long as I want - although why I would want to go through this any longer than I need to is a rather open question at this stage. However, while I do not have limits on my mana, I have often found there are only so many things I can focus on at any time."


    The sizzle and hiss of burning flesh - human and animal - was a horrendous counterpoint to his even tone. "I could, for example, probably stop either of us feeling the pain, but then it would be hard to identify what needed to be repaired. Sometimes, things hurt because they need our attention. It is often only through a significantly unpleasant experience that we are able to grow. You would be wise to remember that."


    "I don''t understand what you want me to do!" Kirstin felt the edge of hysteria creep into her voice. "Just tell me what to do, and I''ll do it!"


    Savage jumped off Kirstin''s shoulder, hopped onto Josul''s back, and crept down onto the dog''s head. Hesitantly, she reached out to place her own paw on top of the dogs, hissing at the damage the portal inflicted.


    Man, dog and cat were now breaching the portal''s surface, and each was paying a terrible price.


    "The theory is sound. The Dark God does not have so much power - certainly not with so many of his pieces in play - to make this an impregnable entrance to his realm. He has, though, made the price of entry very high." Eliud scowled briefly as his control slipped, and three of his fingers vanished in a puff of smoke. He quickly rebuilt them, but Kirstin was alarmed to see sweat forming on his forehead.


    Had she ever seen him lose his composure in such a manner before?


    When he next spoke, his words were clipped with pain. "I need you to try again, Kirstin. I know it hurts, and I would shield you from that if I could, but the path to progress is not meant to be easy. Between the three of us - " he nodded at Josul and Savage - "given long enough, we can probably drain enough of the malevolence away to get through. But I cannot promise something catastrophic will not happen to those we care about whilst we wait. We need you to play your part."


    Without another word, Kirstin stepped forward, dragged all three of them out of the portal and activated <Nebula Cloak>.


    *


    Kirstin hovered in the heart of darkness, her form flickering like a distant star. The swirling vortex around her was a chaotic maelstrom of energy, seeking to reduce her to ash. Yet, within her <Nebula Cloak>, she remained out of time, phasing just beyond the portal''s lethal power.


    Her Cloak enveloped her in a shimmering, translucent veil, shifting in hues of deep purples and blues that, she realised with shock, were almost the mirror of Eliud''s eyes.


    As before, each pulse of the portal''s destructive energy brushed against her skin but seemed unable to grasp her presence in the way it had the others. However, the effort to remain intangible was monumental, and Kirstin felt the strain on every fibre of her being.


    Once again, her mana drained rapidly. However, with the smell of rendered flesh still in the air, she refused to step out once the exhaustion began.


    As the moments ticked by, though, it was as if <Nebula Cloak> began to consume her life force to maintain its protective barrier. Beads of blood formed on her forehead. It was not sweat that bathed her now but her very essence. The exhaustion was profound; her bones trembled and fractured under the weight of the sustained magic. Yet her mind focused on the face of Genoes, blocking out the fear and fatigue. She had promised to find him, and she would not allow a little - a little! - pain distract her from that.


    Each second stretched into an eternity as she held her ground, the portal''s energy raging impotently around her. But Kirstin could feel her mana reserves dwindling, a ticking clock counting down the moments until she was sure her <Nebula Cloak> would falter. And which stage she doubted even Eliud could reconstitute the dust she would be reduced to . . .


    Then there was a loud shattering, as if a thousand mirrors had exploded into shards, and Eliud''s arms wrapped comfortingly around her.


    "That''ll do, girl. That''ll do."


    Kirstin pushed him away, sure he was about to be swallowed up by the fire of the Dark God''s wrath, but then she realised there was no pain.


    No crushing pressure.


    What was more, a notification floated in her vision.


    <Nebula Cloak> has advanced to Level 2. You have gained a threshold bonus.


    Kirstin barely had a moment to consider what that might mean when consciousness slipped away. For once, she welcomed its silent embrace.

 Chapter #131 - <Nebula Cloak>

    "Sorry to interrupt what I am sure is a fascinating monologue. But, if we could cut to the chase a little? For the sake of clarity, you are admitting you do not possess any Level 2 abilities?" Kirstin reiterated her question in her sweetest tone.


    Eliud''s expression in response was not quite a snarl, but nor was it filled with sunlight and rainbows. In any other circumstances, should the Duskstrider have looked at another person in that way, it would make them quail to their very boots. Neither was it improving his general mood that the Celestial Harbinger was grinning mischievously back.


    "As I have stated, many times, no, I do not possess any Level 2 Skills. And that is because such things simply do not exist."


    "Oh, right. My apologies. I must have been mistaken. Hang on a moment; let me just check." Kirstin''s voice quivered with faux confusion as she pulled up the notification that had appeared just before she had lost consciousness. <Nebula Cloak> has advanced to Level 2. You have gained a threshold bonus. "No, it definitely says that my <Nebula Cloak> has advanced to Level 2. It''s in bold and everything. Would you like to read it again?"


    The sky above them darkened slightly, thunderbolts crackling ominously in the clouds, prompting Savage to give a little warning yowl. "Not that it is not delightful for you to tweak his nose this way, but neither the dog nor myself are especially inflammable." Josul whuffled his nervous agreement to that.


    "I must protest at the characterisation of me as someone so insecure that they are likely to cause catastrophic destruction because of a little light teasing."


    "You forget, Eliud, I was with you when the walls of Port Tallen came tumbling down. Was that not because Lady Heron suggested your robes were in last season''s cut?"


    Kirstin let the bickering between the man and her familiar fade out into the background.


    For all his eccentricity, there was no real likelihood of Eliud actually allowing his irritation at her unexpected advancement to cause actual harm. She was, though, utterly captivated by the idea she now possessed something beyond the experience of the Duskstrider.


    <Nebula Cloak> has advanced to Level 2.


    It went without saying that if Eliud had never heard of a Skill advancing to Level 2, she certainly had not. She was aware that, through heavy use, it was considered possible to evolve Skills into something with more power. As an Archer, she had spent countless hours releasing <Multi-Shot> after <Multi-Shot> on the range, hoping she would get that elusive third arrow. It never led to anything, but there was a well-trodden path for advancement for her to follow.


    That, since evolving her Class into Celestial Harbinger, her <Multi-Shot> now had four arrows as standard rather than two, was proof that such things were possible, after all.


    But that was as a consequence of linear evolution.


    Skills just did not ''level up''. Did they?


    Kirstin activated <Nebula Cloak>. Was there anything different about it now it had gone through this transition? She was not sure. In the grand scheme of things, she was still a novice at using the Skill. Would she even notice a change if there had been one?


    Now she thought of it, there was, perhaps, a little less spacial disorientation that came with phasing out of time. Her stomach did not lurch as she entered the state, but that could have been as much a consequence of her growing familiarity with the Skill as anything else.


    "Kirstin?!"


    There was a note of panicked alarm in Eliud''s voice that pulled her out of her reverie.


    "Yes? What''s wrong?"


    "I cannot sense her, Savage. Does your bond tell you where she went?"


    "No," the cat yowled back, matching the Duskstrider''s tone. "It is as if she has simply stopped existing. Could she have passed through the portal without us?"


    In confusion, Kirstin dropped <Nebula Cloak>, causing Savage to leap in the air as she manifested next to her. Eliud spun around, both hands flaring with crackling, purple lightning.


    She held her hands up in mock surrender. "Why don''t we all take a breath. I might have found out what a Level 2 <Nebula Cloak> does."


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    *


    At Eliud''s insistence, they did not speak further until they had made camp in front of the now shattered portal into the realm of the Dark God.


    Kirstin had been keen for them to pass straight through and begin the quest for Genoes, but Eliud was not for persuading. "What happened to ''time being of the essence''? I thought we did not have a moment to waste!"


    "And we still do not," Eliud had said, eyes grave. "But neither can we risk a confrontation with the Dark God''s minions when I have no understanding of the powers you now wield."


    "How is it that different from what it was before? <Nebula Cloak> is still a brilliant defensive Skill. It means nothing can hit me and, apparently, I''m invisible now too. What''s not to like? We need to go and save Genoes like we promised we would."


    "Enough!"


    And with that, the absent-minded professor was gone and silence descended.


    The shift in Elud was subtle, but Kirstin was learning to recognise the change to the set of his jaw. The way he stood a litle straighter. The darkening hue of the purple in his eyes. She bit down her response helped with preparing their camp.


    With the fire lit, and both their tents established, Eliud made a gesture and a log rolled from the underbrush to bump the back of her legs, inviting her to sit down. For a moment, still smarting from their confrontation, Kirstin thought about refusing, but there was no denying the expression on Eliud''s face.


    "I apologise if you feel I am being overly cautious. However, I cannot begin to list the numbers of those I have lost because I did not properly delve the extent of their abilities before putting them in the field. If there is one thing I have promised to change about my life, it is that I will stop trusting my ability to overcome any odds. That is a promise etched in blood. None of which was mine. Please. I need you to tell me how it feels to use that Skill."


    Kirstin shrugged. "It honestly does not seem any different. If anything, it makes me feel less sick."


    "How so?"


    "Whenever I''ve used it before, it''s felt like everything is slightly off. Like I am very aware of being in the wrong place and everything is . . . prickly."


    "Prickly?" and he smiled, releasing the tension that had grown between them in the last hour. "I have some experience with phase Skills. I think ''prickly'' is actually a pretty decent term to describe the sensation. But you did not feel ''prickly'' when you used it just now?"


    Kirstin thought back to the sensation of activing her Level 2 <Nebula Cloak>. "No. It was smoother. Rather than feeling like I was forcing myself out of time, and then the result being all wrong, it was more like . . . I don''t know how to describe it. It was like slipping behind a curtain."


    Eliud glanced at Savage who had hopped up to join the girl on the log.


    "And you completley lost any sense of her?"


    The cat nodded. "She did not phase out of time, she stopped being part of this world." Savage raised a paw and began licking it. "I did not like it."


    Eliud began to pace around their camp fire. "So, we have a Skill that ''levelled up'' - " he could not quite keep the distate from his voice when he said it - "which now is noticeably more powerful than any phase Skill I have ever heard of. Believe me when I say that I know of no one who has been able to withold their presence from me. And I include gods in that statement."


    "Although," yawned Savage, "presumably if anyone could hide their aura, you would not know about it."


    Eliud grimaced at that. "Well, that is a thought that will fester. Thank you so much for that." He dropped his eyes to Josul, lying happily near the small camp fire. "Were you able to smell her when the Skill was active?"


    "Hey!" Kirstin protested. "I don''t smell!"


    The dog raised his head for a moment, and then shook it, settling back down when done, giving every impression of having fallen back asleep.


    "So, what do we have? You posses a Skill that makes you intangeable to my magery, that severs Savage''s spirit bond connection and baffles Josul, who I know for a fact can locate a drop of blood from at least a mile away."


    "And what does that tell us?"


    Elud stopped pacing for a moment and looked at her. "I need to try something. Activate your cloak. Now."


    Kirstin barely had chance to do so before a storm of energy wrapped her up in a fiery embrace. "Woah, Eliud. Easy!" Then she relised there was not point speaking, as he could not hear her anymore.


    She watched, fascinated, as he flung Skill after Skill towards her, none of which making any impression. She took a step to the left, interested to see if he would redirect his aim. But he did not, continuing to attack the space in which he assumed she still stood.


    For a moment, she wondered about making her way behind him and tapping him on the shoulder as she dropped the cloak. However, she sensed now might not be the time for flippancy. The expression on his face when he had shouted ''Enough!; was not one she wished to see again directed at her.


    Instead, she simply cancelled the Skill where she was, several feet from when Eliud had last seen her. "You truly lose track of me, don''t you?"


    His eyes slipped across to her, pausing in the act of throwing another fireball. It vanished in his fist and he let out a weary sigh. "I have never known anything like it. Put a knife in your hand and you would be a terror to put Gallant Stonehand himself to shame. A completely unstoppable killing machine that I would not be able to sense, much less counter."


    Kirstin shuffled her feet uncomfortably, images of Jak with his knives coming unbidden to her mind. "I don''t think we need to worry about that. I have no desire to be an assassin."


    "Well, I certainly would not recommend it as a life choice." Eliud took a deep breath as if seeking to cleanse his mind. "Okay, there is no need for us to get ahead of ourselves in this. I presume there is a significant mana cost to holding the Skill open?"


    Kirstin nodded. "More so since the level up. I can probably keep it live for thirty seconds at most now. Maybe less."


    "Well, that is something, I guess. Gives the rest of us a chance, after all. And that''s down from what it was before?"


    "Yes. I was able to have <Nebula Cloak> open for a few minutes without issue."


    "Fine. That gives us some parameters to work with. I have one last question."


    "And then we will go after Genoes?"


    "And then we will go after Genoes."


    She smiled, "So ask?"


    "Do you have any idea what a threshold bonus might be?"

 Chapter #132 - Shadowstrike

    Breaching the portal to the Dark God''s realm caused any number of interesting effects. Many of them occurred a short distance from where the shimmering gateway had stood and would doubtless have been of great interest to Eliud were he aware of them.


    Principally, though¡ªand by far the most pressing issue for the small group¡ªthe surrounding flora and fauna immediately demonstrated their displeasure at the appearance of these interlopers.


    In response, almost as soon as she crossed the boundary of this realm, Kirstin activated her <Nebula Cloak>. With a gesture, she stepped out of the flow of time just as a colossal, spiked vine flicked towards her. However, with her Skill active, the vicious strike passed straight through her, delivering a satisfyingly meaty thump to the back of Eliud''s head.


    The Duskstrider was thrown forward, fouling his own struggle with a pack of some sort of dire wolf. It took him but a moment to regather his footing, activating several Skills to incinerate the tree from which the vine - and now several equally vicious looking - had emerged.


    Nobody missed that it shrieked in a very animalistic way as it burned.


    Clapping his hands together to crush the wolf pack in a wave of pressure, he turned to his other companions and asked, with no little venom, "I assume our little Harbinger is still with us? She just chose to phase out in the middle of a battle?"


    Savage swallowed the mutated bear that had picked her up and, with a sickening crunch, reassembled her jaw to answer. "I came through with her. But she vanished as soon as the foliage attacked."


    Another bear, this one twice the size of the first, crashed through the trees towards them. Savage stood her ground, mouth opening as the beast lumbered forward, roaring and snarling as it did so. There was just enough time for it to realise something was very wrong, and it was about to be engulfed down the cat''s hyper-extended maw - and bellow in alarm - before Savage, with a gulp, swallowed it whole.


    After that, the rest of the fighting was over in rather short order.


    Even without Savage''s insatiable appetite, Josul was more than a match for any of the beasts that had been alerted to their presence. He tore the throats out of countless monstrous attackers, flinging them over for the cat to digest when she mewled her discontent at the waste.


    Likewise, with Eliud churning out a nonstop stream of liquid fire at the aggressive vegetation, an eerie silence soon reigned in this part of the wood.


    Kirstin phased back into existence as soon as the final creature was dispatched. She had been watching them work with a smile - she doubted there were many more well-drilled military outfits. "Well done. It looked like you three have done something like that before!"


    Eliud waved a hand - extinguishing the flames in the trees surrounding them - and turned, hands-on-hips, to face her. "Thank you. It is always gratifying to have the approval of such a battle-hardened veteran. Truly, your hours of adventuring experience mean such praise is very appreciated. Why, even though legendary warriors have lauded me at the conclusion of epic wars, I will hold your applause there as my dearest memory. I feel I should ask, though, is there any particular reason you chose not to play your own part in that skirmish?"


    Kirstin shrugged, then bent down to pick up Savage and return the cat to her accustomed spot on her shoulder. After watching the animal gorge herself, it never ceased to amaze her how light the little kitten was.


    During their journey, Eliud had tried to explain the nature of Savage, but the best Kirstin could make sense of it was that the cat was - essentially - a mobile, hungry portal.


    "So, anything she . . . she eats is transported somewhere else?" she had asked.


    Eliud had shrugged back. "That is the best I can figure it. Her mass does not increase, no matter how much she consumes. So whatever she eats has to go somewhere. I''ve tried to look into her . . . I''m going to say ''throat'' because ''Hellmouth'' sounds judgemental. And I am comfortable saying that is not a threshold I would ever like to cross in earnest."


    "Are the things she eats still alive after she swallows them?"


    "I''m sure they are," Elud had said. "If briefly - and very painfully - so, at any rate."


    The cat purred and bunted the side of Kirstin''s head. "I do not like it when you go missing like that. I cannot sense you when you have that Skill active. It is . . . unnerving."


    Ignoring Eliud, Kirstin rested her cheek against Savage''s forehead. "I know, and I''m sorry. But you see, sometimes our friend - the big, bad Mage over there - forgets he''s not fighting on his own and uses Skills that are not especially party-appropriate."


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    "I object to that!" Eliud protested. "We''ve been in several scraps on this journey, and I''ve never once -" Kirstin raised her eyebrows - "after the first couple of times," Eliud continued, "done anything to warrant such a terrible slur against my capabilities."


    Josul barked and shook himself, the flames that one of Eliud''s Skills had ignited on his fur going out under the vigorous motion.


    "Oh, come on! Not you, too, Josul! Do I have no allies in this brave new world of group travel? I have to say, I am more and more reminded of the reason why I retreated, in isolation, from public life."


    "Sure you do! Lots of people are thrilled to fight alongside you. As long, that is, as they are immortal, inflammable or have the ability to step out of time. To everyone else, it strikes me you are somewhat of a natural disaster."


    "And it strikes me," Elud said, a hint of iron slipping into his voice, "that someone is doing their very best to pretend they were not nervous about using their ''threshold bonus'' for the first time.


    Kirstin sniffed at that, suddenly no longer so interested in badinage.


    *


    In the excitement of the ranking up of her <Nebula Cloak>, Kirstin had missed that a new bow had appeared in her inventory.


    ''Shadowstrike'', as described in glowing, gold display text, was clearly what her notification had meant by a ''threshold bonus''.


    It was crafted from a material Kirstin did not recognise; its surface was as smooth and polished as anything she had ever seen, and its deep, non-reflective finish was a thing of beauty. After pulling it from her inventory, she ran her hands down its length, marvelling at its feel.


    It was not made of wood, she did not think.


    When asked, Eliud simply smiled back with an infuriatingly knowing look in his eyes. Ignoring him, she had held the bow out from her body, noting that its limbs were of a perfect recurve design, which would provide a blend of power and precision. One of Kirstin''s biggest frustrations as an Archer had been that she was not tall enough to use the giant longbows she had seen kept around Keep Trellec.


    However, she could tell that the curvature of Shadowstrike would maximise the energy transfer from the draw to the arrow, ensuring a powerful release - far more powerful than a bow of such size would usually be capable of.


    Her fingers touched the bowstring, marvelling at its ethereal shimmer. It felt almost weightless, yet when pulled, it maintained incredible tension. To her professional eye, Kirstin could sense it was designed to endure repeated heavy draws without losing elasticity. The string''s minimal stretch and quick rebound enhanced the bow''s efficiency, allowing for rapid follow-up shots.


    Power and speed, she thought¡ªthe best of both worlds.


    As her fingers played along the length of her bow, Kirstin felt intricate runes etched along the grip, their lines so fine they were almost invisible at first sight. Now she looked more carefully, she could see that these runes glowed faintly with a silvery light, pulsing softly in rhythm with her heartbeat.


    She had, much as she did not like to do so, asked Eliud about that.


    It did not look like he was going to answer for a moment, but then Josul had growled, and he nodded in apology. "I would suggest that this piece is soulbound to you. The mirroring of your heartbeat with the glow demonstrates a strong bond between archer and weapon. Moreover, I may suggest that these markings hint at the bow ''powering up'', as it were. It would be interesting to see the quality - and power - of the shot that you were capable of when the glow of the runes solidified."


    Kirstin nodded her thanks, adopting her shooting stance. Shadowstrike''s design, she noticed, incorporated reinforced nocks and a slightly reflexed profile, which should reduce hand shock and increase the speed of her arrows. The longbow''s draw weight was substantial, allowing for deeper arrow penetration and greater impact force, but nothing that she did not think she could handle.


    In fact, the bow¡¯s balance was flawless, with a centre of mass aligned for stable handling. The grip, contoured as if to fit her hand, would ensure a steady aim, even in the heat of battle. Kirstin tentatively drew it and smiled as the bow''s tension was evenly distributed.


    It was as close to perfect as anything she had ever held.


    Kirstin could sense that Shadowstrike was more than just a weapon. It was a precision instrument. Every component was designed to achieve one thing: to deliver arrows with deadly accuracy and unparalleled power. This was a bow designed for an expert Archer - a Celestial Harbinger, if you will - capable of turning even the most challenging shot into a deadly certainty.


    Which made it all the more strange that she had not wished to use it in their most recent battle.


    "Leave the girl alone," Savage hissed. "If she does not want to use her new toy, then that is her business. It was not like we needed the help!"


    Eliud shrugged, his purple eyes glowing with something that was not quite amusement. "No, indeed. However, it has always been my experience that it is worth taking the opportunity to try out new weapons in circumstances where their success is not vital. I would not like," he continued, turning his gaze to rest on Kirstin, "to have the first time you use it in earnest. That way, problems lie."


    Kirstin met his eyes and nodded. "I understand. I just . . . I don''t know. I don''t know if I feel worthy of it!"


    "We sometimes are gifted things of great power, Kirstin. Those that make those gifts expect them to use them."


    "But who gave me this gift? Do you know?"


    "Ah," said Eliud, "now that is a fascinating question. And one we can reflect on as we travel. But we have wasted enough time." He was suddenly all businesslike, almost - though Kirstin - as if he wanted to change the focus of the conversation. For now, we need a direction for our quest!" Eliud looked down at the giant lapdog. "Josul, can you smell Genoes anywhere?"


    At the word ''Genoes'', Josul''s nose lifted the air, and a baying roar came out of its mouth. In an instant, he turned and set off into the woods, crashing trees and bushes below his feet.


    "It would seem, my dear, that the game is afoot!"


    With that, and with a massive outpouring of mana, Eliud raised himself into the air, setting off in pursuit of his dog.


    "Unlimited mana pool, and he leaves us to run," murmured Kirstin as she began to make her own way following Josul.


    "It is always that way with the great ones," Savage replied. "They forget that the rest of us have limitations."


    And then they were gathered up by the darkness of the woods.

 Chapter #133 - The Dark Gods Reach

    Fion Trellec sat brooding in - what he supposed - was technically his throne room. That he was unsure of the room''s actual status had much to do with his poor mood.


    It seemed ridiculous to him that such a thing as this remained unclear. But how did you go about gaining clarification in such a matter? Who did you ask? And, more importantly, what did you do if you did not get the answer you wanted?


    He pondered on that for a few moments, sipping at a cup of blood-red wine.


    The West was free. Now, of that, he was certain.


    He had achieved his life''s goal in bringing about the decisive vote that had severed the land''s connection with the Capital. He had done that. Him. No matter what had happened next - and he was still not wholly sure about the train of events there - he had been able to wrest control back from the grasping nonentities at Court and given the West the freedom it desired.


    The thing was¡ªand this was something which was causing him no end of angst¡ªwhat was the West going to do now with its hard-won release?


    In a succession of proclamations, he had ensured that everyone at the length and breadth of this newly released State knew they no longer had to bend their knee to the King.


    He had, thus far, been disappointed at the reaction.


    "More!" His eyes flicked to the serving girl behind him who was staring into space, a look of profound confusion yet abject terror on her face. He was seeing that expression rather a lot lately.


    The girl shambled forward, spilling the jug of wine as she did so, her arms hanging almost languidly at her side. At such sloppiness, his temper flared, and he stood, glaring at her. "What are you doing, you stupid child!"


    His shout raised Gilles from his stupor in the corner of the room, and the Steward slowly paced forward. Fion grimaced at the man who, at least in theory, was responsible for the smooth running of the Trellec household.


    "You need to get your girls in order, Gilles! This is unacceptable."


    The Steward looked at Fion blankly as if he could not place where he knew his lord from. His eyes were watery, and underneath, his mouth worked busily, as if Gilles were tasting the words he wished to speak before allowing them out, yet rejecting all of them. The silence stretched out, leading Fion to bang his empty cup on the tables.


    "Gilles! Did you hear what I said?"


    The sudden noise of metal on wood caused a blossom of consciousness to appear on Gilles''s face, and the slackness in his expression retreated somewhat. "I am sorry, my lord. Wool-gathering. What was it you said?"


    Fion jutted his chin at the servant. "She spilt the damn wine, Gilles! What is wrong with the help nowadays?"


    The answer, of course, was ''quite a lot''.


    However, the man to articulate this significant truth was not destined to be Gilles Harcorth. Indeed, almost from the moment he had overextended his control of <Authority> when forcing the great lords of the West to acclaim Fion''s proposed secession, his mind had begun to flake apart like five-hundred-year-old oil paint from a cheap canvas: a metaphor for blankness rather too appropriate for what was left of Gilles'' brain.


    For years, he had been aware that his grip on sanity was slowly loosening, but it was nothing to the horror he was experiencing these last few months.


    The days had turned into a torment of fractured images, each more disconnected than the last. One moment, he was here by his lord''s side. The next, he was in bed with some slatterny servant - appalled at their shrieking and crying. Then he would find himself on top of the battlements of the newly rebuilt Keep - no, Castle wasn''t it now? - Trellec.


    The last time he found himself there, he was sure he intended to jump. Indeed, he was not sure why he had not.


    The deterioration of the Steward''s mind was, in and of itself, a thing that deserved great pity. However, for those who owed their fealty to the Trellecs - which now encompassed a significant proportion of the West - the consequences were far more horrific.


    Before the seismic events around the expelling of the Lady Darkhelm from the village, Gilles had been a casual predator, using the power of his Class Skills to please himself however he wished. However, those under his control now saw that as a golden age compared to the impact upon them caused by the man''s current dotage.


    Gilles looked at the girl with the wine - he could not recall her name - and enhanced his voice with <Authority>. "Apologise to Lord Trellec, and then clean the mess up."


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    The girl gave a little cry, blood pouring from her eyes, nose and ears, and collapsed to the floor, whimpering like a newborn pup.


    "For the Dark God''s sake, Gilles!"


    Pernille, watching events with wry amusement from Fion''s side, strode forward, picking up her skirts to run to the servant. She pressed her fingers to the girl''s brow, activating <Healing Hands>. It was the least Mana-heavy of her old Skills; the irritation it would cause her to have to serve herself at supper slightly outweighed the energy cost of rebuilding the servant''s shattered mind. Noticing a number of . . . other injuries, Perneille healed them too, washing away the girl''s memory of how they were caused.


    She glared up at Gilles. "You don''t need to blow their minds out with every order! Where''s your subtlety gone!"


    Gilles stared back, and then a terrible fury welled up behind his eyes. Pernille had just enough time to increase her mental shields when the weight of his suggestion crashed against her. "Slit your throat with your knife!"


    Even considering the depth of her own power¡ªparticularly since the Dark God had enhanced her abilities¡ªit was a significant strain not to reach for the blade hanging from her belt. The Shadow Cleric glanced over to Lord Trellec, wondering if he had noticed the latest example of his Steward''s monomania. But no, he was staring off into the distance again, with a look of injured frustration. He often seemed to look that way, she thought.


    Well, that would at least give her some space to work. She turned back to Gilles, summoning <Necrotic Touch> - the dark mirror to her healing Skill - and reached forward to stroke the Steward''s face. Rather than jerk backwards, the old man almost smiled and leaned in as she prepared to rot the skin from his bones . . .


    "Pernille!" The warning bark came from the open door of the throne room. She glanced up to see Drunnoc Trellec standing there and dropped her hand. "We''ve talked about this. Now is not the time!"


    "When will it be?" Pernille stood, the silent girl at her feet now forgotten. "He tried to get me to kill myself again!"


    "And, once more, clearly failed," Drunnoc sauntered into the room, glancing about him carelessly. His father looked his way momentarily, then dropped his eyes to the floor. "We''ve discussed this. Gilles is, currently, necessary."


    "But he''s getting worse!" Pernille hissed. The two of them gave no sign of caring for the others in the room who could hear them. "If we don''t do something soon, who knows what chaos he could cause."


    Drunnoc dipped his head in acceptance of the point and moved to stand before Gilles, reaching out to grasp the old man''s face in his hand. He pulled it close to his own, squashing the cheeks into a facsimile of pouting lips. Pernille thought she felt the younger man trigger some sort of Skill as he did so, but it was far above her ability to discern what.


    Lordling Trellec was manifesting a whole host of unusual abilities of late.


    Pernille knew that Drunnoc had found the favour of the Dark God, which brought with it all sorts of advantages. However, from her understanding of such things, the conduit to a god''s power was through the Class they granted their followers. Her own Shadow Cleric - a darkly evolved version of her Healer Class - drew its strength from the god in that way. Her new Skills - not just <Life Drain> and <Necrotic Touch>, but also more . . . exotic talents she was seeking to keep from Drunnoc for the present were a world away from the drudgery she had felt as a common-or-garden Healer. However, there were times when she missed the simplicity of her previous life, especially in moments such as this.


    "If you cannot control yourself, Gilles, I must do it for you. Do you understand?" Drunnoc''s voice was a vicious whisper. "Say you understand."


    The old man was finding it difficult to speak through his squashed cheeks. "I understand, my lord."


    Drunnoc shook his head, then moved his ear closer to Gilles'' mouth. "I can''t hear you. Say you understand."


    "Stop this!" Fion''s voice boomed from the throne.


    For a moment, Pernille thought Drunnoc would refuse - that the confrontation between father and son that had been bubbling up for the last month was finally about to break out. But then Drunnoc dropped the old man and walked towards Fion.


    "Father, long time no speak." How is everything going in the world of high governance?"


    Fion regarded him stonily. "It goes well, son. And how is . . . whatever it is you are doing with your time?"


    "Cannot complain." Drunnoc''s eyes never left his father''s. Pernille could feel the crackling tension between them despite the seeming amiability of their words. "We''ve tracked the Darkhelm to the Bloodspires if you are interested. Sounds like she is still with that Mayor who causes you sleepless nights."


    Fion''s jaw bunched. The continued existence of Taelsin Elm was a running sore. He could not understand how the man had survived the destruction of Swinford, and all the reports that had come back made nothing any clearer. Drunnoc waited for an answer, but seeing his father would not give him the pleasure, he pressed on.


    "Don''t you worry about it, though. We will soon be rid of that troublesome knight and her various hangers-on.


    That was too much for Fion not to respond. "I have heard you boast similar before, son. It seems to me that there are limits to the power of this Dark God of yours."


    It was the mocking expression on Fion''s face, as much as his words, that drew Drunnoc''s ire. He exploded forward, crossing the distance between them in an instant. Pernille barely had a chance to trigger a healing Skill she was sure she would need to save Fion''s life when she saw man and boy, nose to nose, glaring at each other.


    It appeared the Dark God''s favourite had been able to restrain himself from anything too explosive.


    "He is your god too, father. All of this," Drunnoc waved his hand around the room, "comes from his favour. Do not speak so slightingly of him."


    Fion had blanched white at the speed his son had moved. He had known that powers had been granted, but that was the sort of thing he expected to see from someone of the Lady Darkhelm''s ilk.


    Just what had been done to his boy?


    Fion cleared his throat. "Indeed. I misspoke, son. I apologise."


    Drunnoc nodded, stepping back. "Your words are appreciated." Then he smiled, his face splitting into an angelic grin. "I came to tell you that, in short order, your problems in that regard will soon be over."


    Much as it pained him, Fion couldn''t resist asking a follow-up question. "How so?"


    Drunnoc smiled, shadows dancing in the corner of the throne room as if he were draining the space of light with his joy. "Let us just say, the Lady Darkhelm has just walked into a situation even her beloved Goddess will not be able to pull her out from."


    The silence in the room was punctuated by the quiet sobbing of the serving girl and the soft drip of spittle bubbling on Gilles'' mouth.

 Chapter #134 - Shadow of Evil

    Despite herself, Daine had to admit that Donal''s new Class was impressive in allowing him to uncover hidden tracks through the mountains. They were less than a bell away from their makeshift camp before she would freely admit she had no idea where they were or, perhaps more worryingly, how she would retrace her steps.


    As if aware of her growing nervousness and seeking to tease, Donal kept bounding forward out of Daine''s sight, his energetic movements wholly at odds with his aged physicality.


    "I wonder if he would be quite so frisky if I accidentally took his leg?" she muttered to no one in particular, realising, not for the first time on this journey, that¡ªregardless of her own evolved Class¡ªshe was still over fifty and there was something to be said for pacing yourself.


    As far as Daine understood these things, Donal''s preternatural youth was exceptionally unusual. Regardless of the god providing patronage or the powers that the adopted Class possessed, there was relatively little to be done to still the usual ravages of time. While Daine''s immense capacity for Healing as a Knight of the Road and, subsequently, as a Templar Ascendant would ensure she could recover from any number of mortal wounds, it would not keep her from ageing.


    "What do you expect, girl?" Old Gant had asked her when she¡ªmortified to her core¡ªsought him out to inquire about unexpected changes in her body. "You thought you were going to stay a child forever? No such luck, I am afraid. We''re no different from all the rest in that regard. We grow old, our hair turns white, and, before you know it, they decide we''re no use to them anymore."


    He had paused at that, his mouth working as if worrying a particular painful tooth. But then he had thrown a handful of linen cloths at her and told her to speak to one of the older female students. "I''m good for many things, Daine Darkhelm. But for this, trust me, you want someone with lived experience."


    A brief smile played across Daine''s weathered face at the memory, which vanished as she recalled her most recent encounter with what had become of the Stonehand. Any way she considered it, his arrival at the gates of Swinford simply did not make sense.


    He had been an old man - on his deathbed - when she had last seen him two decades before. While still exceptionally strong, especially for his age, his mind had almost wholly collapsed in on itself. In her experience of such things, it should have been no time at all before his body succumbed the way his soul long since had. So his appearance twenty years later, still formidably in control of his Skills, was utterly nonsensical.


    She did not doubt that should she still be alive in fifteen years'' time, she would not be found fighting at the head of a mercenary company.


    Her Class¡ªespecially now that it had evolved¡ªmight continue to smooth out some of the loss of Strength and Speed that had inevitably crept in during the last decade of fighting. However, that only went so far. There was a reason why there were no legends of elderly Knights . . .


    That thought gave her pause, and she reached out to the sides of the mountain pass to steady herself.


    She was becoming obsolete.


    Of course, this was not a wholly new thought to her. She had spent so long on the Road, and on her own, that it was only natural that her thoughts tended towards the morbidly introspective. However, since her most recent series of reversals¡ªfirst at the hands of the Trellecs and then in the retreat from Swinford¡ªit had become crushingly clear that she was not what she used to be.


    And yet you are precisely what I need you to be right now, the Goddess chimed into her mind.


    "And what exactly is that?" Daine said, more tartness in her voice than she had intended putting there.


    Durable.


    Daine was spared making a response as Donal suddenly appeared in front of her. "Found them!" he said, white teeth glinting in the sun. However, his face was formed into a deep grimace, not in his customary, twinkling smile.


    "Is something wrong?" Daine asked, hand drifting to her sword.


    "I don''t think I can do it justice. You better come see," he said, turning and walking back up the trail.


    This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    *


    At Donal''s insistence, the two of them dropped to their hands and knees to creep through the dense underbrush, their laboured breaths audible over the bracing wind as they neared the end of the track. Daine was worried their loud arrival would be noted, but Donal grimly dismissed her concerns.


    "They''re too busy to be worried about a little thing like setting scouts," he had said, refusing to elaborate further.


    As they drew closer, Daine sniffed the air, finding it thick with the scent of pine and earth, mingling with a more acrid, unsettling odour¡ªone she knew all too well. Then, as they approached the edge of the clearing ahead, the home of the mountain men came into full, dreadful view.


    "No. This makes no sense," Daine breathed.


    "And yet," Donal made an expansive gesture and spoke no further.


    The camp was a crude assembly of makeshift tents and lean-tos constructed from animal hides and branches. Despite the well-known building Skills of those who chose to dwell in the mountains, the structures sagged and slumped, looking more like the lairs of beasts than the homes of men. Dark smoke curled up from several fires scattered around the clearing, their flames casting a sickly, flickering light that seemed to dance malevolently on the surrounding trees.


    Bones, both human and animal, littered the ground, gnawed clean and scattered haphazardly. The remnants of recent meals lay among them, entrails and scraps of flesh left to rot where they fell. Flies buzzed in thick clouds, drawn to the putrid feast, their droning hum adding to the oppressive atmosphere.


    "This cannot be right," Daine said to herself as much as Donal. "The West was my Tour. I would have known if such practices were common. This is not the way the men of the mountain as I knew them lived. They had simply chosen to move out of the Towns and Cities. They were not . . . monsters."


    Donal didn''t respond, jutting his chin towards a large, flat stone in the centre of the camp, stained dark with old blood. It appeared to serve as a grisly altar where these people performed brutal rituals. Fresh blood still glistened on its surface, dripping slowly into the dirt, mixing with the charred remains of offerings long since burnt to ash.


    "I don''t know, my dear," he said. "They''re seeming pretty enthusiastic about the whole thing right now."


    The figures who moved in the flickering light of the flames were a sight to behold. Hulking men and women cloaked in tattered furs, their faces obscured by grimy masks made of hide and skulls. Their eyes were dull, containing none of the awareness that came with humanity, peering out from deep, shadowed sockets. Some were sat around sharpening crude, jagged weapons, while others tended to the fires or mended their ragged attire.


    Towards the far left of the camp, one colossal man stood over a fire, turning a spit on which a grotesque figure was impaled. Daine squinted, her heart sinking as she recognised the twisted, contorted shape of a human body, charred and blackened by the flames. The scent of burning flesh filled the air, mingling with the other foul odours to create a nauseating miasma.


    Beyond the fire, several prisoners were bound to stakes, their faces gaunt and eyes hollow with despair. None of them, Daine was pleased to see, were familiar to her from the flight from Swinford. But then she angrily dismissed that thought. It did not matter that she did not recognise them; she would not wish to see her worst enemy in such a state. The prisoners''s wrists and ankles were raw and bleeding from the too-tight bindings, and their clothes, where they still had them, hung in filthy tatters. They were silent, save for the occasional whimper or groan, their spirits crushed by the relentless torment of their captors.


    Barely constraining her rage, Daine''s gaze shifted to the edge of the clearing, where a shallow pit had been dug. The ground around it was dark and wet, and she could see the glistening forms of maggots writhing in the decomposing bodies heaped within. Nearby, a tree had been adorned with severed heads, their lifeless eyes staring blankly into the void. The flesh on the faces had begun to slough off, revealing grinning skulls beneath.


    To one side, a skinning post stood with fresh pelts hanging from it, blood still dripping from the edges. The skins were of varying sizes, suggesting the mountain men made no distinction between their human and animal victims. A small figure, likely a child, lay crumpled near the base of the post, the flesh flayed from its bones, leaving a raw, red ruin.


    In her long life, Daine had been unfortunate enough to confront the excesses of some of the very worst of humanity, but the sight of the camp gave even her pause. It was as if visceral evil had solidified to permeate the very earth.


    As Daine and Donal silently surveyed the horror before them, they saw a particularly gruesome display: a figure, still twitching, had been nailed to a wooden frame. The body had been meticulously stripped of skin, the exposed muscles glistening wetly in the dim light. Runes had been carved into the flesh, the symbols seeming to pulse with energy.


    "The Dark God," Donal spat, seeing the runes. "They''re sacrifices to the Dark God."


    Everywhere the two looked, there was evidence of dire cruelty. A cauldron bubbled over a fire, filled with a thick, greasy broth that reeked of decay. Floating in the stew were recognisable body parts¡ªfingers, toes, an eyeball that stared up lifelessly. Those crowded around it dipped their crude wooden bowls into the pot, slurping the vile concoction with apparent relish.


    Daine''s stomach churned as she took it all in, the scenes of horror and brutality far worse than anything she had seen on recent Tours. This was a place of nightmare where humanity had been abandoned in favour of primal savagery.


    What had the West become?

 Chapter #135 - Skuggaseier

    Every hard-won instinct Daine possessed screamed at her to stand and charge. This was not just a scene of violent carnage; there was something fundamentally corrupted about what she was seeing. Whatever darkness had bled into the world of the Bloodspires needed to be excised.


    And now.


    Poising to begin her attack, she felt Donal shift at her shoulder and turned to look at him. The man''s bearded face was white, his eyes haunted, but there was something else there, too. A deep, anxious concern that was almost alien to his usual confident persona. "What?" she asked.


    "Whilst a lot of fun for cross-mountain treks, this Class does not give me anything like the Skills I''d need to be remotely helpful here. I am not going to be much use against so many of them."


    "Then I will take them on my own. It will hardly be the first time." Daine moved to stand, but Donal gripped her arm in a surprisingly firm grip. She tried to shrug him off, but his fingers tightened, pain lancing up her arm from where he held her.


    "You do not want to go down there alone."


    "You are right; I do not. However," she gesticulated towards the prisoners, "I cannot leave them in that state for a moment longer. An end needs to be brought to this."


    Daine again tried to stand, but this time, Donal pulled her back to the ground. Her eyebrows shot upwards. The Frontiersman may not possess the Skills to assist her in melee combat, but he was undoubtedly Goddess-damned strong.


    "Listen to me, will you!" Donal hissed, and she felt him trigger a Skill that camouflaged them more deeply in darkness. "I am not saying we leave these people to their fate. I just need you to appreciate that resolving this situation is going to take a little more subtlety than your usual ''wade on in with a broadsword and let the Goddess choose her own'' approach."


    Daine ground her teeth in frustration but stopped attempting to free herself from Donal''s grip. "So speak!"


    He held up three fingers. "Consider the following. Firstly, there is no sign that the group below us is awaiting the return of several hundred warriors. Thus, this is not the same group of mountain men whose attack we recently repulsed."


    Daine opened her mouth to speak, but Donal glared at her. "Less talk, more listen. If that is so," he raised a second finger, "that means that we can reasonably assume there are more travesties like what is occurring below playing out across the Bloodspires."


    Daine peered down at the horrific scenes beneath her and shuddered. The idea that the depravity here was not an isolated group shocked her, but she could follow Donal''s reasoning. There would not be room for those they had defeated back at their own camp amongst these tents and shelters. This was a separate group. "And three?" she asked.


    "We have been attacked by one feral war party. This is a second. It hardly takes an intellect of my extraordinary ability to say there will be more. Indeed, at this stage, I am concerned something is clearly rotten at the Bloodspires'' heart. I fear we may have traded slaughter at the gates of Swinford for something even less palatable."


    Before Daine could reply, a hooting shrieking from below grabbed her attention, and they both crawled forward to investigate the cause of the commotion.


    Careful, the Goddess whispered, causing Daine to grip the handle of her sword even more tightly.


    Undoubtedly, there had been a shift in the atmosphere below, but it took Donal''s indication of a portal manifesting at the edge of the camp for Daine to spot the cause. She squinted at the swirling oval shape, taller than a man, jet-black and seemingly oily in texture. It was not like any version of a travel portal she had ever seen before. It reminded her of nothing so much as a wound¡ªa rend in reality itself.


    "What is it?"


    Donal shook his head. "I do not know. But I will happily tell you this for nothing. We do not want any part of what may come through there."


    Almost the moment he said those words, the light from the campfires dimmed, and a tall figure emerged from rippling blackness. The mountain men, savagely feral as they were, fell silent and turned their gaze towards its emergence. Whatever this was, it was cloaked in a hooded robe, the fabric appearing to swallow the light around it, leaving it an almost featureless void.


    Daine''s heart pounded with an instinctual fear she could not rationalise. She felt the Goddess reach out to her, a comforting hand resting on her shoulder. Had she ever offered such a gesture before? But that was a thought for another place. Another time.


    There was something fundamentally wrong about this being, a feeling of wrongness that made her skin crawl and her stomach churn. Daine reached out and clutched at Donal¡¯s arm, her knuckles white.


    As the dark presence stepped forward, its robe seemed to shiver, not with the motion of cloth, but like the surface of a dark, oily liquid. The air around it warped, distorting the light and bending the shadows in unnatural ways. The fire nearest it guttered and hissed, its flames shrinking back as though trying to escape its proximity.


    In response to the appearance of this figure, the mountain men had become like children awaiting judgment from a brutal teacher. They had forgone all their previous activities and had moved to crouch before it, heads bowed. Their leader, a hulking man with a necklace of teeth, approached head lowered in submission.


    Stolen novel; please report.


    After a moment of silence, an arm emerged from within the folds of the cloak, revealing a hand that was not entirely human. It was skeletal, with fingers that ended in talons, the skin stretched tight and translucent, revealing black veins that pulsed unpleasantly.


    The claws reached forward to touch the mountain man''s forehead lightly, convulsing him, a low moan escaping his lips. Instantly, the flesh beneath the talon''s touch began to bubble and blister, the skin splitting open to reveal raw, pulsating muscle. The mountain man''s eyes rolled back, his body shuddering violently as if being wracked by fire, the corrupting touch leaving a searing brand that crawled and writhed on the man''s skin. His face quickly became a ruin of melted flesh and exposed bone, his eyes dark pits of despair.


    This should not be, the Goddess whispered. What has my son done?


    Daine could feel the bile rising in her throat, barely able to acknowledge her worry at her patron''s evidence concern.


    Donal stirred. "I have seen such as this before. Believe me when I say things are going to get worse before they get much better.


    "What is it?" Daine asked


    "Skuggaseier," both Donal and the Goddess said at the same time.


    With a reptilian swiftness, the figure flowed forward, passing through the ranks of submissive mountain men. He approached a smaller, more fragile figure. One of the prisoners, Daine, realised and tried to make herself stand. To charge. To save them from the fate she knew was coming. But something - was it fear? - prevented her.


    As she watched, the unfortunate soul whimpered as the Skuggaseier loomed over him, its form towering and oppressive. With a slow, deliberate motion, the hand extended from the cloak again, the air around it shimmering as if with heat. Clawed fingers were placed on the prisoner¡¯s chest, and the man¡¯s scream tore through the night.


    The flesh beneath the Skuggaseier''s hand began to twist and contort as though the bones were breaking and reassembling themselves in grotesque patterns. The prisoner¡¯s skin turned a mottled black, spreading outwards in a spiderweb of rot. His eyes bulged, blood vessels bursting, filling the whites with a hideous crimson. Daine could hear the wet, tearing sounds as muscles were shredded and reformed.


    The mountain men watched in silence as the Skuggaseier finally released the prisoner, who collapsed in a heap, his deformed body twitching, his mind shattered by the agony inflicted upon him.


    Then the hood turned slightly, and for a moment, Daine felt its gaze sweep over her hiding place. Though its face remained hidden within the cowl, she could sense void-like eyes penetrating the darkness, reaching for her. Her heart felt like it might stop from the sheer force of its regard, an ancient, unfathomable evil that saw her, understood her, and found her wanting.


    No, the Goddess said firmly. Mine.


    The moment passed as suddenly as it had begun. The Skuggaseier turned away, its attention returning to the mountain men who awaited its next command. It lifted both arms, the motion causing its cloak to billow unnaturally, like wings of darkness. The air around it cracked, and the ground beneath shuddered in protest.


    Daine and Donal, trembling and nearly paralysed, watched as the Skuggaseier began to chant in a guttural language. The sky seemed to pulse with each syllable, the camp bathed in an eerie, shifting light.


    As the chanting reached a fever pitch, the shadows around the camp deepened, swallowing the light entirely. Daine felt a scream rise in her throat, but no sound escaped. The terror was complete, an all-encompassing absence that left no room for thought or action. The Skuggaseier presence was a black hole, drawing in all light, all hope, all life. Daine pressed her eyes together, willing the horror to subside.


    And then, as soon as it had begun, it was over.


    Daine opened her eyes, shocked to see the camp standing in an eerie, unnatural silence. The air still felt heavy with whatever dark power had been unleashed by the Skuggaseier, but there was no sign of either the hooded figure or the mountain warband.


    Only the body of the tortured, transformed prisoner remained. His body twitched and convulsed, his eyes empty sockets oozing out some black substance.


    Donal stood, eyes widened with sudden realisation. "My Lady Darkhelm, that is not just a prisoner anymore. It is a vessel for the Skuggaseier. We cannot let it leave this place. We must not let this spread further!"


    Before Daine could fully process the Frontiersman''s words, Donal charged forward, drawing his short sword as he ran. As if sensing the impending threat, the creature let out a guttural, inhuman scream that echoed through the clearing. It rose to its feet, its movements jerky and unnatural, like a marionette controlled by unseen strings.


    "Donal, wait!" Daine shouted, her mind racing to catch up with the unfolding danger. But Donal was already upon the creature, his blade swinging in a wide arc aimed at its neck. But the former prisoner moved with a speed that belied its grotesque form, dodging the blow and lashing out with a clawed hand that caught Donal across the chest, leaving deep, bloody gashes.


    Donal staggered back, gritting his teeth against the pain. Activating a Skill to increase his Speed, he swung again, this time catching the monster in the side. The blade bit deep, but instead of blood, a thick, dark fluid poured from the wound, hissing and steaming as it hit the ground, some of it splattering Donal and causing him to shrink back in pain.


    Help him, the Goddess intoned.


    Daine, finally shaken from her paralysis, drew her weapon and rushed forward. She did not know how, but she could see the dark energy coursing through the monster''s spirit, its movements fueled by the power left behind by the Skuggaseier. She had never been able to see mana in this way before, but perhaps this was a new function of her Templar Ascendant Class?


    When she was only a few steps away, the creature lashed out at Donal again, but this time, he was ready, blocking the blow with his sword and countering with a swift strike that severed one of its arms.


    It let out another horrifying scream, its remaining hand clawing at the air in a frenzy. Daine closed the distance, her heart pounding in her chest. She could feel the oppressive weight of the mana radiating from the creature, a palpable force that threatened to overwhelm her.


    As she reached Donal''s side, the creature turned its empty gaze upon her, its twisted mouth opening in a ghastly grin. Its body seemed to glow brighter, and Daine felt a wave of nausea wash over her as the air around them seemed to shimmer and warp.


    "Daine, we have to end this now!" Donal shouted, his voice strained with effort and pain. He lunged forward, his blade aiming for the creature''s heart, but it swatted him aside, sending him sprawling to the ground.


    Daine tightened her grip on her weapon, her eyes locked on the monstrosity before her. She could feel the raw fear coursing through her veins, but she pushed it down, drawing on every ounce of courage she possessed. With a primal scream, she charged at the creature, her blade aimed at the pulsing, dark heart.


    The creature''s grin widened, jaw dislocating, its body tensing as it prepared to meet her attack head-on. Just as her blade was about to connect, the creature''s eyes flared with a sudden, terrifying light, and the ground beneath them began to tremble. Daine could feel the power surging within it, a last, desperate attempt to unleash its fury. She gritted her teeth, readying herself for the impact.


    And then . . .


    Nothing.

 Chapter #136 - Wandering Steward

    Having completed his customary evening tour of the campfires, Taelsin paused for a moment in the shadows cast by their flickering light. Carefully turning his face away from potential onlookers, he let the full weight of the strain he was under settle upon him.


    He knew he was, in many ways, in a hugely privileged position. His Mayor Class¡ªalbeit one of a now-lost City¡ªgave him all manner of bonuses to his Endurance and Intellect when working for the good of his people. He was unsure how leading a frantic retreat, transitioning from one disaster to another, was being quantified as being ''for the good of his people,'' but, in his current state of extremis, who was he to argue? Regardless of how he may feel about the passive buffs, he was more than aware that without them, he would long have collapsed from mental and physical exhaustion.


    Throughout their escape from Swinford, he had been astounded again and again by the casual way in which those without any such benefits were able to . . . just cope. Whether it was the resolve of the dwindling number of irregulars, who formed up, uncomplainingly, against each new bandit charge, or the stoicism of the camp''s cooks, who, day after day, found a way to keep them fed, there was, without question, something quite remarkable about the men and women of Swinford.


    But, then again, it was not just his people on this march, was it? They had found unexpected allies - nay, friends - in the ranks of General Souit''s army. Where would they be now without Degralk, Kettle and all the rest? It was those intertwined iron bonds forged between their disparate groups that kept the refugee train moving as much as anything else.


    Taelsin''s shoulders suddenly slumped, and he had to fight to stay upright. His heart ached for them all. In his soul, he hurt for every burden they carried, every hope crushed, every dream left behind following the collapse of Swinford''s walls. He had sworn to protect these people¡ªgenerations unending of Elms had taken the same, exacting oath¡ªand after all his plans for the future, it was he who had seen the once great City reduced to ruins.


    Tears sparked in his eyes as he turned to scan the camp once more, heart sinking even further at what little of them remained. ''Cross the Bloodspires'', Donal had said. Taelsin did not even think they would have the wherewithal to rise in the morning. And he would not blame them.


    But then, he noticed a small group gathering near one of the central fires, huddling close to share the sparse warmth from the glow. One of them, a young woman he recognised as Elara, a Seamstress, began to hum a soft, familiar tune. Despite himself, Taelsin smiled, instantly recognising the melody ¨C it was an old folk song about a Swinford of ages past. After a few moments, Elara''s humming grew into words, and she began to sing softly to herself:


    Sylvalin, where rivers weave,


    Fields of green, ''neath sky so blue,


    Strong and proud, the City brave,


    Towers high, and hearts so true,


    Shadows grew as storm clouds loomed,


    Whispers of impending doom.


    Her voice trembled, but there was a strength in it that resonated with the Mayor. On a whim, not entirely understanding why, he triggered a Skill to enhance the volume of her voice and pushed it towards her, enjoying the surprise on her face as his power settled upon her. The song abruptly cut off as she looked about in shock before catching the eyes of the Mayor.


    Smiling, he gestured to her to continue. "That is far too pretty a song to keep secret between you and a few others. Please, continue."


    Blushing a deep red, Elara took some persuading from her companions but eventually repeated the opening lines, the enhancement Taelsin was channelling, ensuring her voice reached every corner of the camp.


    One by one, each refugee stopped what they were doing and turned to face the woman, attention which deepened her blush even more.


    As she completed the first verse and moved into the chorus, she stumbled, but then a few other voices joined in with hers, blending in harmony:


    Oh, Sylvalin, brave and true,


    Through the night, your light will shine,


    Hearts remember and renew,


    Sylvalin, your spirit''s mine.


    The new singers may have lacked some of the haunting beauty of Elara''s voice, but they added depth and weight to the words. Taelsin, though he could scarcely spare the mana, chose to enhance the carry of their voices, too. The melody weaved through the camp, touching each soul with its haunting beauty:


    Walls that stood through centuries,


    Trembled as the foe advanced,


    Hope''s faint gleam began to cease,


    Eyes with fear and dread entranced,


    Still they fought with all their might,


    Against the dying light.


    As the choir of voices swelled, more added with each line, Taelsin felt a warmth spreading through his chest. The people of Swinford¡ªof Sylvalin as was¡ªwere untied in singing of their history. They were a people who had faced evil before and had always found a way to survive. More voices joined in with the repeated refrain of the chorus.


    Oh, Sylvalin, brave and true,


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    Through the night, your light will shine,


    Hearts remember and renew,


    Sylvalin, your spirit''s mine.


    The words spoke of his people''s role in helping the West survive. There was, after all, a reason that the people of these lands had looked to Mayor Elm for leadership during the dark times. Such heroism had traditionally come forth on the walls of Swinford.


    Streets where laughter freely flowed,


    Filled with cries and tears of woe,


    River¡¯s course, once gently showed,


    Ran with blood of friend and foe,


    Sylvalin, the heart beat slow,


    Sorrow marked its final woe.


    Taelsin watched as faces brightened, memories of past glory lifting the weight of their collective sorrow, if only for a moment. The song flowed like a river throughout the camp, and soon, even Souit''s men were joining in; something about the tune carrying them along:


    In the hearts who saw the end,


    Burned a fire, a light unbent,


    Vowed to rise, the broken mend,


    Though the City¡¯s time was spent,


    Spirit of Sylvalin send,


    Hopeful tales that would ascend.


    Children''s clear voices joined in, their innocence adding a purity to the sound. Mothers smiled through tears, fathers stood taller, and old men tapped their feet to the rhythm. The melody was almost a lifeline to flagging spirits, a renewed thread connecting them to their shared past and, perhaps, a collective future.


    Oh, Sylvalin, brave and true,


    Through the night, your light will shine,


    Hearts remember and renew,


    Sylvalin, your spirit''s mine.


    The rhythm picked up, and those in the camp began to sway in their seats. Elara was suddenly dragged upwards by her husband to dance, wonderfully graceful despite her weariness. Others followed, their steps growing bolder. Laughter and applause mingled with song, transforming everything about the atmosphere in the camp.


    Sing of Sylvalin so strong,


    Echoes of her name in song,


    Though her walls have crumbled long,


    Courage will live on,


    In hearts where memories throng,


    Sylvalin¡¯s spirit ever strong.


    Tears welled in eyes, not of despair but of pride and gratitude. Despite all they had lost, they found a way to lift each other up and honour their beloved City.


    Oh, Sylvalin, brave and true,


    Through the night, your light will shine,


    Hearts remember and renew,


    Sylvalin, your spirit''s mine.


    The song, its chorus now a harmonious round, echoed through the camp. The night seemed to hold back its chill, allowing the fire''s glow to spread, embracing everyone in its light.


    As the final notes faded, the camp settled into a peaceful silence. The weight on shoulders felt lighter, the path ahead clearer. The song had reminded them all of what they were fighting for ¨C a community bound by love and resilience.


    I have not heard that song in many a long year.


    Taelsin jumped at the voice in his ear, turning and finding no one there.


    It is heartening to know the old songs are still held in such esteem. But you are far from home, little man.


    Taelsin glanced at the camp, but a new singer had taken over, and exuberant dancing was now in full swing. He doubted anyone would be looking his way anymore. "Who are you? The Goddess?"


    The voice laughed, taking on a distinctly masculine tone. Hardly. However, considering your recent experiences with her offspring, I feel you would be reassured if I were to say you should consider me ''Goddess-adjacent'' rather than one of her brood.


    "I don''t know what that means," Taelsin said, stepping further into the shadows to avoid notice. "Who are you?"


    A complicated question with an even more complicated answer. For your purposes, consider me an appreciative audience to a song I have not heard in a long time. I feel moved to reward it.


    Taelsin frowned, then pointed to Elara''s spinning, laughing figure, twisting in the light of the fire. "Then your singer is over there. I am sure she would find any boon more than welcome."


    The voice laughed again. She may be the instrument, but that song was delivered for you. Your people worry for you, Taelsin Elm. They feel they are, in some way, letting you down. They sing to make you smile again.


    Taelsin did not know how to reply, shaking his head in confusion.


    In fact, I can think of no finer reward for your people than to offer you, their leader, some succour. But what to do? What to do? Something around your Class, I think. ''Mayor'' is hardly appropriate for a man without a City, after all. Perhaps a little evolution would be suitable? Yes, I do think it would be. Something Epic-tier, perhaps. Wandering Steward, I think. A leader forged in the crucible of displacement and adversity. Having lost your home, you carry the strength, wisdom, and resilience of your City within you, leading and inspiring others even in the most dire of circumstances.


    "What!" Taelsin said with rising alarm. "I don''t want you to change my Class! Elms have always been Mayors."


    And the world is changing, little man. Yes, this seems a most suitable reward for a pleasant song of times long past. Boosts to your Charisma, Intellect and Wisdom, of course. Oh dear, oh dear. Your Skillset is quite underpowered for the challenges ahead. Let''s do something about that, shall we? I think the passive <Exile''s Resilience> would be appropriate here. Oh, and go on then, let''s throw in a few active Skills, too. It was a lovely song, after all. <Bulwark of Hope> and <Heart of the Displaced> perhaps. Yes. That will do. Prepare yourself. I have enjoyed meeting you, Young Elm. I shall follow your progress with interest. Oh, and perhaps don''t mention my presence in the Bloodspires to any other deities with whom you may converse. Lest said, soonest mendest and all that. No need to get anyone all riled up.


    Taelsin barely had a moment to reply before a tempestuous upheaval occurred in his mind. It felt as though invisible hands were tearing at his very being, pulling away the familiar mantle of his old life, piece by agonising piece.


    His body tensed and shivered as the change coursed through him. A burning heat radiated from his chest, spreading outward until every nerve seemed aflame. He felt the metaphorical weight of his Mayoral chain around his neck dissolve, replaced by an intangible but palpable burden of greater gravity. His limbs ached, muscles seizing as though they were being moulded anew. He doubled over, gasping, the world around him blurring and spinning.


    As the excruciating discomfort peaked, a rush of cold clarity washed over him, and he felt a strange, exhilarating liberation. Heavy and confining, the chains of his old responsibilities had fallen away, replaced by a sense of boundless potential. His mind cleared, and with it came a flood of new awareness.


    Taelsin glanced at the glowing interface of his notifications, flickering with unfamiliar symbols and text:


    Class Evolution: Mayor -> Wandering Steward


    The notification was accompanied by a brief, searing vision of his new abilities. He saw himself standing amid his people, a radiant aura enveloping them as they drew strength from his presence.


    The liberation was intoxicating, a heady contrast to the pain of the transformation. No longer confined to the boundaries of his fallen City, he was now a leader of the lost, a guide through the wilderness. The power of his new role surged through him, filling the void left by his old responsibilities with a renewed sense of purpose and strength.


    As the final vestiges of discomfort faded, Taelsin straightened, his gaze sweeping over the camp. He was the Wandering Steward now, and though the path ahead was fraught with peril and uncertainty, he was ready to lead his people through it.


    "Hello! A bit of help, please?" Taelsin''s mind was pulled back to the present by the appearance of Donal on the stone path above the camp.


    But it was not the sight of the Frontiersman that caused dismay to rock through Taelsin. Rather, it was the unwelcome vision of the bloodied, unconscious Daine Darkhelm slung across his shoulders.

 Chapter #137 - <Rootless Vulnerability>

    "You''re looking good, sir!"


    Taelsin ignored Donal''s unspoken question, sweeping maps and various detritus off the large table at the centre of what passed for his command tent. Between them, they then lifted Daine''s bloody and battered form and laid her flat upon it.


    "What happened to her?" Taelsin asked, motioning for his guards to fetch jugs of water to clean the Templar Ascendant''s wounds.


    "Oh, you know. Same old, same old. Nightmarish villain, last desperate stand with the world''s fate on the line, shadowy power beyond all mortal ken. Nothing especially exciting. Trust me," Donal said, playing up for his small audience of spearmen, "if you live as long as me, it turns out there is relatively little new under the sun. But speaking of exciting and unexpected developments, has someone been working out?"


    "Not now!" the newly evolved Wandering Steward snapped, moving out of the way as one of the camp''s healers arrived.


    She looked first to Donal and then to Taelsin, confusion all over her face, before slowly approaching the still form of Daine. "I . . . I dunno what ye want from me ''ere, sirs. There ain''t nuthin'' I can do for the lady that ''er Class won'' do for ''er a hundredfold better."


    Donal put an arm around the old woman''s shoulders and squeezed her tightly, ignoring her astonished expression at the unexpected and fairly unwelcome contact. "No, none of that self-effacement, my good woman. From what I hear, you are quite the miracle worker with herbs and . . . suchlike. Please take a look and see what you think."


    Hesitatingly, the healer dipped a linen cloth in one of the jugs of water that had been brought forth and wiped at the myriad of cuts that covered Daine''s face. She gasped and looked up with shock at Donal. "She bain''t healin''!"


    Donal grimaced. "No. No, she isn''t. Damn it. I hoped I was mistaken. Okay, so time to earn our corn. Tell me, what herbs would you use for someone who presented with haemophilia?"


    The woman shook her head. "I dunno what that is, sir."


    Donal clicked his fingers, trying to summon the word he sought. "Idiosyncrasia haemorrhagica? No? Hereditary haemorrhagic diathesis? Come on, you must know what I mean?"


    The healer''s eyes opened wide, turning to Taelsin for help. "I don''t know what he''s talking about, my lord!"


    "The Bleeding Disease, good woman. He''s asking what herb you would use if you were treating someone with the Bleeding Disease?"


    The woman''s weathered face creased in thought. "I ain''t seen no one with that in years, an'' even then, it were tricky work." She shook her head, clearly at a loss. "I ain''t got anything with me that would help."


    "Assume, my good lady, that I can . . . locate any resources you may require. Tell me what you would need, and be quick about it!"


    Ignoring Donal''s tone, the healer looked over Daine''s injuries, running her hand over wounds that continued to leak blood. In just the time the Templar Ascendant had been lying on Taelsin''s table, a dark red pool had formed beneath her.


    Frustrated, Donal was about to ask again, but she silenced him by turning back to him and counting off on her fingers. "If I were back at me own cottage, I''d be reachin'' for skullcap root, black cohosh, an'' a bit o'' cat''s claw to try an'' stop the bleedin''. But there''s summat nasty in them cuts, so I''d also want feverfew, flax seed, an'' willow bark for the infection that''s like to come. Ginger an'' garlic wouldn'' hurt, neither. Bromelain, if I could get me hands on it."


    "Done and done. Go prepare everything else you need to care for her, and I''ll have it ready for you when you return."


    The healer looked between Donal and Taelsin, unsure whether to believe him. "Chop chop, good woman. I''m channelling my own life force into her to keep her alive, and that pool, whilst deep, is not bottomless."


    "Go with her," Taelsin said to his guard, "in case she needs help carrying anything."


    The moment they were alone, Donal visibly wilted and sagged to the floor, all the colour leaving his face. Taelsin quickly knelt at his side. "Donal, what''s wrong?"


    "Ah, nothing a good night''s sleep will not solve. This Class is useless at channelling mana, so I have had to brute-force things a little. How is she?"


    Taelsin looked at the unconscious woman, trying to dampen his shock and fear at seeing the formidable warrior laid low. "She''s still alive. I do not think there is much more positive to say. What attacked her?"


    "I fear that may be a long story, my lord and one that we will want others to hear. Let us help the healer stabilize her, and then we can talk."


    Taelsin nodded at that and then stood to collect a jug of water for Donal to drink. "Although," the Frontiersman said, eyes twinkling with some of his customary mischief, "we''ve probably got time to discuss which god you blagged into evolving your Class. You''re leaking mana all over the place, by the way."


    Taelsin was spared giving an immediate answer by the appearance of a very confused quartermaster carrying armfuls of herbs, which had suddenly materialized on the back of one of the wagons.


    *


    "Wandering Steward," Donal had whistled several hours later, "now there''s a double-edged blade if ever I heard one."


    Through the diligent work of the healer, although she had not yet returned to consciousness, the worst of Daine''s wounds had stopped bleeding.


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    "I''m worried ''bout infection, but that''s gonna be a problem for another day. She won''t die in the night, I can promise ''ee that. What happens in the days to come, though? That''s in the hands o'' the goddess."


    "You have my thanks, Mistress . . . "


    "Ain''t no mistress, sir. They calls me Wynna. An'' I don''t need no thanks. Can I use what the strange one got me on the other sick an'' wounded?"


    Taelsin did his best not to smile at Donal being referred to as ''the strange one'' and singularly failed. "You can, Mistress Wynna. And we will find other ways to express our thanks."


    Donal swept forward to take the woman''s hand in his, and planted several kisses upon it. The healer had left them then, muttering darkly about the bizarre ways of odd old men.


    Any mirth in the room, though, had fled when Donal outlined what they had seen in the camp of the mountain men.


    "A Skuggaseier?" Souit said, disbelief in his voice. "You would have to believe a monster from childhood legend attacked you."


    "Not at all, my good General. Perhaps you misheard. I said we were accosted by the MyrkrTr?ll of a Skuggaseier. Had we tangled with the master rather than the servant, I would not be here to tell the tale. It was only that we took a newly risen fiend by surprise that we could despatch it and, even then, at the cost of significant injury to the Lady Darkhelm."


    All eyes turned to the bloodstain in the middle of the command tent, Daine having been moved to the camp''s makeshift medical tent.


    "A MyrkrTr?ll?" Degralk asked. "I don''t recognize the word."


    "A Dark Slave." Donal translated. "A piece of shadow ripped from the heart of darkness itself and given possession of a human soul. The Skuggaseier had left it behind to sow chaos in its wake."


    "But the mountain men?" Kettle asked. "You say it took them with it when it went?"


    "It did indeed. And they were not from the same group that had attacked us earlier in the day. I think we must assume we will encounter other warbands as we journey through the Bloodspires."


    "And Skuggaseier? And MyrkrTr?ll? Will we have to contend with those too?" There was a mocking quality to Souit''s question, but Taelsin saw the deep worry in his eyes.


    "We would be wise to prepare for that eventuality. Which, with our greatest martial asset off the board, leads me back to the question of Mayor Elm''s new Class. Although, we should call you Steward Elm from now on, eh?"


    "Taelsin will be fine," the young man growled. "And I''ve already told you as much about it as I know."


    Degralk''s eyes flashed with amusement. "I must say, it is quite an education travelling with you Westerners. Why, before our acquaintance, I had assumed a man''s Class was the solid centre of his world. But it seems we can change it as often as we change our shoes. At least to follow your example, sirs."


    "Hardly, sir," Donal said, a slightly grumpy tone coming to his voice. "My ability to move between Classes is quite unique and the result of hundreds of years of work and study. Whatever deal -" Donal put a considerable sneer on the word - "Steward Elm has entered into for the price of a good singsong with some mountain sprite or another can hardly be seen to compare."


    "Be that as it may," Souit said, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the bloodstained table, "it does not change our predicament. From your explanation, Mayor . . . Steward . . . Taelsin, it sounds like you have access to Skills that will buff our party?"


    "Donal?" Taelsin indicated his friend should answer for him.


    "All rather archaic, of course, but I have heard of them," Donal said sniffily. "<Bulwark of Hope> was a favourite of one of those interminably dull Paladin Classes from the North. They all died, of course. Probably of earnestness. When cast, our lovely Steward will be able to create an aura with a 30-foot radius that grants all allies within it a 15% boost to all resistances (physical, magical, and mental) for half a bell. I assume, with prolonged use, that will be level up - both in terms of distance and time. I imagine it will also enhance critical hit chances and provide a steady regeneration of health and mana for all allies, too."


    All heads in the tent nodded appreciatively. Something like that could be the difference between success and failure in a close battle. Souit and Degralk were concerned about engaging an enemy without Daine''s <Rallying Call> Skill active, but what Donal had just described would somewhat mitigate that loss.


    "And <Heart of the Displaced>?" Souit asked.


    "It is less useful on the battlefield," Donal said, "but it will see plenty of usage when we are on the march. From what I''ve read, it should increase allies'' stamina and endurance by 25% for a quarter of a bell. Likewise, we can expect a reduction in the effects of fatigue and negative status effects by 20% during this period, and¡ªif we''re lucky¡ªit should restore a portion of allies'' health and mana immediately upon activation."


    "You mentioned it as a double-edged blade earlier. What did you mean by that, sir?" Degralk''s sharp eyes were watching Donal carefully.


    Donal glanced at Taelsin, silently questioning if he wanted him to answer.


    Taelsin shrugged. "I do not think it wise for us to have secrets."


    Donal cracked his knuckles and leaned back in his chair, legs swinging as he did so. "The <Rootless Vulnerability> debuff," he said, voice laced with dissatisfaction. "All the sources I have been able to consult agree on this. The Wandering Steward Class gains strength and resilience from its displacement, but this very nature also leaves the Class holder vulnerable to feelings of rootlessness and detachment. The lack of a permanent home or anchor point can lead to significant emotional and mental strain, making it difficult for the Steward to maintain their resolve over prolonged periods without a clear purpose or direction." Donal paused.


    "Go on," Taelsin said with a grimace.


    "You can expect to feel increased fatigue. You will require more rest and recovery time, and prolonged periods of activity will lead to severe exhaustion and decreased effectiveness of your Skills. Likewise, your natural defences are weakened by having no set sense of ''home'', resulting in a 20% decrease in resistance to physical and magical attacks, making you far more vulnerable than you were as a Mayor. However, the final issue is potentially more significant."


    "I am not appreciating your sense of drama here, sir!"


    "Well, bully for you. I have to take my fun where I can get it. A Wandering Steward''s power is tied closely to the presence and well-being of their followers. If those you identify with are scattered, demoralized, or significantly harmed, your Skills will be correspondingly weakened. Indeed, a significant loss of followers or a severe drop in morale would cripple you. It may even kill you."


    "A double-edged blade, indeed," Souit said.


    The small group sat in silence for a few moments before Taelsin spoke. "I cannot speak for the intentions of Skuggaseier, nor MyrkrTr?ll, nor feral mountain men. They are horrors from myth, and their presence here suggests the hands of the gods are still at play in the West. Should, as I suspect, on her recovery, the Lady Darkhelm wishes to confront the evil we have found in the mountains, I will give you leave to support her in that endeavour, Donal." That earned a slight nod from the Frontiersman. "But for the rest of us, I cannot continue to put my people in harm''s way. With all speed, we will make it through the Bloodspires to a place where they will be safe. I do not intend to ''wander'' for a moment more than necessary."


    "And should the ''horrors from myth'' not accept you want no part in their games?" Donal asked, only half in jest.


    There was a pause, and then a look of cold fury flashed across Taelsin''s face. When he spoke, none present were left in doubt of his words'' sincerity. "Then we will make them regret that choice."

 Chapter #138 - "Massacring their warbands with extreme prejudice."

    Daine''s eyes flicked open, and she sat up with an inrush of startled breath. Her hands instinctively reached for her sword before realising she was unarmed, in bed and - perhaps most disconcerting of all - entirely naked.


    "Welcome back," came a voice from her left, and she turned, reflexively clutching the thin blanket laid over her to her chest. Donal perched on a stool beside her, a heavy leather-bound book in his lap and his feet up on the edge of her bed.


    "What in the name of the Goddess are you doing here?"


    "Now, now. I am going to be honest with you, my Lady Darkhelm, but that was not the wholehearted thanks for services rendered I had anticipated. I have had some time to consider how this moment was likely to play out, and, I must tell you, the lack of tearful sobs of appreciation cuts me to the quick."


    Daine shuffled uncomfortably, trying to turn to face the man without risking the blanket slipping free. Due to her size and the bed''s precariously fragile nature, this was proving to be more difficult than she might have hoped. "What ''services''?" she barked ungraciously, trying to shove his legs off the bed with a kick.


    In response, Donal simply stood and began pacing the room, hands clasped behind his back. As she watched him move, Daine thought there was something different about his gait. "Well, carrying your not-insubstantial frame over a league of hostile terrain, in constant readiness for ambush and assault, was hardly the stuff of what dreams are made, I will have you know. Particularly with all the leaking. I had to have my clothes burned. Well, both of our clothes, if truth be told."


    A memory of those final moments before losing consciousness swam forward in Daine''s mind. She had been in a battle, had she not? A monster¡ªsomething from the shadow realm, she thought¡ªhad needed putting down. There had been fighting and then . . . an explosion. "I was hurt?"


    "You were dead," Donal replied, fixing her with a stern expression. "Well, as good as. I understand you are used to throwing yourself into confrontation without a moment''s concern for your well-being, my dear, but I must ask you to be a little more circumspect. You are not as young as you once were, and even the Goddess''s forbearance has limits. This was a close-run thing at the end."


    The unfairness of the charge stung even more colour to Daine''s face. "You were the one that barrelled in against that thing without a moment''s discussion! I only intervened to help after it defeated you!"


    "Well, recollections may vary, of course," Donal said airily, waving arms that, to Daine''s perception, were more heavily muscled than they were before. "But my two central points still hold. Firstly, you cannot keep pushing your self-healing Skills to their maximum capacity and expect there to be no consequences. That your body is a patchwork quilt of scars should be telling you that. There will come a time - and not too far in the future, I would hazard - that you will have inflicted so much damage on your body that there will be nothing left for even your legendary endurance to overcome."


    More colour came to the Templar Ascendant''s cheeks, and she clutched the blanket more tightly. "You saw me naked?"


    Donal waved the comment away. "Pretty hard not to when tending to your wounds. Please, believe me when I say it was nothing I had not seen before," he paused at that and cocked his head. "No, to be scrupulously honest, I actually am not sure I have seen someone of your age undressed before. However, the general . . . .biological similarities remain. Largely," he added as an afterthought.


    "And the second thing?" Daine said faintly, her mortification almost paralysing her.


    "My irritation at your lack of effusive thanks. Not only did I lug you all the way back here, supplementing your dwindling lifeforce for my own, but I then had to oversee further extraordinary interventions to keep you alive and - if that were not enough - offer to stay behind to ensure you did, eventually, wake up from your catastrophic wounds. And, of course, that is before we discuss my irritation at needing to change my Class again in order to provide you with adequate support for what is to come."


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    Too many questions suddenly ran through Daine''s head at his words, and it took her time to parse all the information. "Stay behind? Do you mean the others have continued on their journey? And without the two of us? How did you allow that? They won''t be safe!" And then, as Donal''s last few words caught up with her, she added her own afterthought. "You changed your Class again? To support me? For what?"


    Donal sighed and drew himself up to his full height. His new full height. Daine could now plainly see the difference in his physicality now. She had known several different iterations of Donal Assay in the short period of their acquaintance. When they had met, he had been Taelsin''s spindly, absent-minded Secretary during the events surrounding the West''s secession from the Throne. After their forced retreat behind the walls of Swinford, circumstances had required his transition into a Dark Warlord, much to Daine''s chagrin. Time and distance, though, had allowed her to recognise that the choices the man had made during the siege of the City, whilst morally questionable, had mainly been necessary. Indeed, she doubted the refugee train would have been as long as it had without Donal''s actions.


    And then, of course, there had been his most recent iteration as a Frontiersman. Again, the man - if he were truly a ''man'' and of that Daine was startling to have doubts - had become precisely what the situation had demanded. It struck Daine, as her embarrassment at her current position began to fade, that - despite his irreverent attitude - if it had not been for Donal''s open willingness to change the very nature of his being, it was unlikely any of their recent trials and tribulations would have been successfully negotiated.


    That realisation gave her pause.


    Daine had been a Knight of the Road for almost forty years. True, her Class had recently evolved, but Templar Ascendant was a logical¡ªif significant¡ªdevelopment to an established skillset, not a complete transformation in her essence. True, she was capable of much more now than she had been previously, but it was hardly like she had evolved from a melee fighter into a spell-flinger. Daine was not sure she would be able to shrug off such repeated seismic shifts in ability so easily as this man.


    Donal obviously was able to read her frowning expression: "It is not so strange as you might think, my Lady. For sure, the first couple of times that I evolved were pretty disorienting. From memory, the first one was that one moment I was some sort of minor Cleric, and the next, a hulking Barbarian. That was quite a head spin, I will have you know. However, over the years - and there have been far more of those than you will easily credit when gazing at my fresh face and careless demeanour - well, the novelty palls somewhat. Now, it is somewhat akin to finding a forgotten pair of gloves in a chest: a pleasing opportunity to wear something different, yet also pleasingly familiar."


    Daine was not so sure about that, but now did not seem like the time to press it. "What are you now?"


    "All in good time, my Lady. It may be best, though, for us to take events in order," Donal sat down on the edge of her bed, causing Daine to draw her legs up to her chin. "First things first, you should not worry about the refugees. Whilst we were away, Taelsin went through his own . . . Class Evolution, and - with the support of Souit and his men - has decided to seek to pass through the Bloodspires as soon as possible in order to strike for the safety of one of the coastal Cities."


    "But . . ."


    "I fully endorse that decision. Nothing matters to me more than the safety of that young man, so if I say this was the most sensible course of action, you will accept that."


    Daine did not think much of the high-handed tone there. "But what about the mountain men? We were only able to survive the last assault because you and I were there to defeat the attack. If they''re stumbling around in the mountains without us to protect them, it could be carnage. And that is without whatever it was we stumbled on at their camp! If there are more of those shadow creatures, the losses will be catastrophic . . . "


    "I do not want to hear more about it, my Lady Darkhelm. Taelsin determined this plan, and I support his thinking. In any event, they all left two days ago, so unless your stolid form has more spiriting capacity than I suspect to be the case, the point is fairly moot. Taelsin''s gambit will succeed, or it will not. And there is precious little either of us can do about it in any event. Besides, I rather think that the men of the mountain and the Skuggaseier driving them will soon have far more to concern them than a fleeing little refugee train bristling with sharp spears and belligerent intent."


    "What do you mean?"


    "I mean us, my dear. I rather think their minds are going to be a little more focused on the two terrifyingly overpowered warriors hunting them down and massacring their warbands with extreme prejudice." Daine became aware that Donal''s body suddenly shone with a disturbing red aura. "In my experience, the sort of unparalleled slaughter I have planned for the two of us to commit has always concentrated attention wonderfully."

 Chapter #139 - Exploring the limits

    The man in torn, bloodied furs stood alone at the opening of a narrow pass¡ªno, not truly a pass. More a jagged scar etched into the unforgiving stone of the mountainside. His cloak, tattered and frayed, clung to his shoulders, its scant fabric wholly insufficient protection against the relentless chill. Each breath which escaped his lips was a fleeting puff of white, dissolving swiftly into the icy air.


    The peaks of the Bloodspires loomed above him, lost in a shroud of churning, ominous grey clouds, and he found the silence oppressive in a way he could not quite understand. The stillness was broken only by the occasional whisper of wind through the rocks and an unseen bird''s distant, mournful cry. All around him, shadows lengthened as the sun dipped lower.


    To try to generate some heat, he stamped awkwardly, the ground beneath his boots uneven, a treacherous mix of loose stones and stubborn patches of ice that defied the warmth of daylight.


    The man shifted again, feeling the rawness of the barely-cured furs against his skin. Something had happened to his previous attire. He just could not remember what. But it was more than that, was it not? He could not even remember his name.


    Once, he had been someone. Someone important, perhaps. A father? A husband? Shades of grey, fractured images flickered at the edge of his consciousness, phantoms of a life lost beneath the shadow of the Skuggaseier''s power.


    The man grasped the haft of his spear, knuckles turning white. The Dark God¡¯s curse was a heavy blanket over his mind, muffling his thoughts, feelings, and memories. It was a horrifying experience to both forget and yet constantly be reminded of what was lost. He could understand why so many of his brothers had taken their own lives.


    The man - was he still a man? - had resolved to do the same this evening: to cast himself from the pass and into the icy river below. But then, the last ray of sun had pierced the canopy of clouds just right, and a sliver of clarity broke through.


    There had been a woman, had there not? Her face a blur, her voice a distant echo. Children, perhaps? Or was that just a cruel trick of the Skuggaseier, false memories to torment him in his few lucid moments? He did not know. For most of the time, he did not care. He only knew the hunger, the endless gnawing hunger that had driven his people to madness, to unspeakable acts. Cannibalistic feasts in the darkness, eyes gleaming with a feral light.


    He shifted his weight once more, eyes scanning the shadowed path ahead. Something terrible was coming, he knew. He could feel it, a dread that clung to his bones, a whisper in the wind that set his teeth on edge. And yet he struggled to care.


    The warband''s camp lay behind him, a collection of crude huts and tents, more a place of nightmare and despair than a home. As the sun fell, he did his best to remember that he had been positioned as their guardian, their sentinel, but who would guard him from his own fractured mind?


    Fragments of memory clawed at his sanity: a bright and carefree woman¡¯s laughter, children''s tiny hands warm in his own, flashes of light in the darkness almost more painful than the cloying emptiness. They spoke of a life stolen, of warmth and love now replaced by the cold, relentlessly grasping hold of the Dark God.


    But now was not the time for such thoughts. The man had a duty, even if he couldn''t remember why it mattered. His grip tightened on the spear as a sound echoed through the pass¡ªa distant footfall, a rustle of movement. He tensed, muscles coiling.


    What came next happened too fast for thought. A dark shape charged forward, a whisper of steel slicing through the air. He felt a cold shock, a moment of weightlessness as his head left his shoulders. Then the world spun, the ground rushing up to meet him. His last sight was of the Bloodspires, cold and indifferent, as everything went black.


    "I think we can assume whatever the Dark God has done to these poor people, a huge increase in their Intelligence was not it."


    Daine glanced back to where Donal was following behind her on the narrow track. "He was looking right at me as I climbed," she said, wiping the blade of her greatsword on the fallen man''s cloak.


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    "Well, since you possess all the stealth capability of a carnival washerwoman, I''m not surprised. Such was the amount of noise you were making, I''m amazed the whole camp did not come out to watch the dancing bear attempt a sneak attack."


    Not for the first time on this hunt, Daine profoundly wished her companion had chosen to follow Taelsin on his journey through the mountains.


    Donal reached her and knelt, searching through the dead man''s belongings. He pocketed a few coins and what looked to Daine like a necklace of teeth. "Seriously?"


    "You never know, my Lady. You never know. Imagine that at some point in the near future, we will need some extra incisors. Think of how foolish we would feel if we remembered this moment and how we had left our foes unlooted."


    Daine stood and, with her foot, nudged the corpse of the beheaded man off the side of the track. His body fell silently, end over end, before vanishing into the rushing stream below. "Find his head and send it down after him," she said, then paused as he began to walk away. "And, for the sake of clarity, I am certain we do not need any more scalps."


    "As you wish, my Lady."


    Daine watched him go, a thoughtful expression on her face. The two of them had been tracking the progress of the Skuggaseier through the mountains for nearly four days now. During that time, they had decimated three feral warbands and soundly defeated a - what Donal had called - MyrkrTr?ll. And yet, despite standing side-by-side amid terrible slaughter, Daine was still unclear what Class the man at her side had evolved into.


    He has concerns as to how you will react, the Goddess had whispered, which hardly allayed her fears.


    "From which I take it, I should be concerned?" she had asked.


    The Goddess had sounded amused when she replied. You have ever been the most judgmental of my chosen. In a world of flickering shadows, you have always wanted the certainty of light and dark. Good and evil. I had hoped time and experience would allow you to appreciate that beauty can be found in the grey, but I was mistaken.


    Daine had opened her mouth to protest indignantly, but the Goddess hushed her with laughter. Do not mistake my meaning. I would not have it any other way. But you must appreciate that, alongside your undoubted talents, there are times when I need the talents of those more comfortable with liminal space¡ªnow, more than ever.


    Daine thought back to the siege of Swinford and the choices Donal had been required to make. She knew he still mourned the death of Angharad, the Archmage he had used to lure the Stonehand into an overreaching attack. Could she¡ªwith her clear picture of right and wrong¡ªhave conceived, much less enacted such a plan? She doubted it. And without a willingness to make that sacrifice, would any of them have made it out of the City alive?


    The Goddess''s words had given Daine pause, and she had thus been doing her best to remain neutral about whatever Class Donal possessed. She trusted his choice would have been made for the best of all possible reasons. It would be much easier to do so, though, without the excessive gothic creepiness, she thought.


    "MyrkrTr?ll ahead," Donal said, appearing at her shoulder without Daine hearing his approach. "Maybe two." All humour had vanished from his eyes as he unslung the second war axe he had appropriated.


    "Two?" Daine puffed out her cheeks. Due to the increased Strength of Donal''s new Class - as well as his <Titan''s Grip> Skill, which allowed him to dual wield a pair of massive axes - they had made much shorter work of the second MyrkrTr?ll they had encountered compared to the one that had so grievously wounded her. Two at once, however . . .


    "I mean, if we want to take the positive out of it, I imagine this means something is taking notice of us. The creation of these things is hugely resource-heavy. If the Dark God has his Skuggaseier doubling them up, then I would suggest there cannot be too much attention being paid to Taelsin and the rest of the refugees. There are limits even to the Dark God''s reach."


    I am happy to confirm this is so, the Goddess added. My son''s presence is troublingly powerful in these mountains, but his reserves are not unlimited. He will be paying a considerable price for his intervention here. In fact, the musical voice suddenly sounded distracted, this should lead to all sorts of opportunities elsewhere. Forgive me, I will return.


    Daine felt a twinge of frustration as her patron withdrew from her mind. If there truly were two MyrkrTr?ll in the camp at the end of this pass, she would have felt more confident confronting it with access to her full powers.


    Glancing at Donal before replacing her dark helm, she was struck again by the slight ridiculousness of his new physical form. In this Class, he was at least half a foot taller, with the increase in breadth to match. His face, though, remained essentially the same, with sharp eyes glinting out from beneath a furrowed brow. If you could ignore the twin giant, axes resting on his broad shoulders, he could still be the same, slightly acerbic Secretary she had met on the road outside the Village. It was a fairly sizeable ''if'', though.


    "Well, shall we get on with this?" she said, hands closing around her own blade.


    "It will, quite honestly, be a pleasure," Donal growled back.


    Trying to ignore the new, bloody scalp swinging from the belt at the man''s waist, Daine led the way up the path.

 Chapter #140 - The Reaping of the Storm

    The night was a choking miasma of rot and blood. Smoke hung thick in the air, greasy tendrils of it worming into Daine¡¯s nostrils as she strode through the dead and dying. The remnants of the mountain men¡¯s camp lay in ruin around her, the dying embers of campfires casting erratic shadows over a landscape of butchered bodies. The ground was a sodden mess of mud and gore, slick beneath her boots as she moved with the predatory grace of a reaper.


    Her greatsword dripped with the blood of the fallen, each crimson droplet hissing as it hit the ground, as though the earth itself recoiled from the filth it had been fed. The blade was a living extension of her rage, cleaving through the twisted forms of her enemies with a brutal, unflinching efficiency. Flesh parted like overripe fruit, bones cracked like splintered wood, and the air was alive with the wet, meaty sounds of slaughter.


    The mountain men, if they could even still be called that, had been grotesque parodies of humanity. Their bodies were a patchwork of disease and deformity, skin stretched tight over bulging veins and knotted muscle, twisted by the Dark God''s foul touch. They moved with jerky, spasmodic motions, limbs flailing as though controlled by some sadistic puppet master. Eyes that once held life now glared out, empty and glassy, from skulls barely recognisable as human. They attacked not with strategy but with feral desperation, their clawed hands tearing at the air, driven by an all-consuming hunger that had no place in this world.


    Daine had cut through them with methodical brutality. Each swing of her sword was a calculated dismemberment, a surgical strike that left bodies in pieces, their blood painting the air in thick, arterial sprays. She felt no triumph, no grim satisfaction¡ªonly a deep, gnawing sorrow. These were not enemies; they were victims, lost souls twisted beyond redemption, and each death she dealt was a mercy wrapped in violence. But mercy was growing heavy on her soul, the weight of it pressing down like the blood-soaked earth beneath her feet.


    Beside her, Donal was a whirlwind of destruction, his twin war axes carving through the horde with savage grace. His blows landed with bone-shattering force, each swing accompanied by a sickening crunch as steel met flesh. He moved with an almost inhuman ferocity, his strength terrifying in its intensity. Where Daine felt sorrow, Donal seemed to revel in the violence, his every strike fueled by a dark power that pulsed just beneath the surface of his skin.


    The ground around him was a mosaic of ruin. Limbs lay scattered like broken dolls; heads were cleaved from torsos, their faces frozen in expressions of horror, mouths agape in silent screams. And through it all, the darkness around Donal grew thicker, a black aura that seemed to feed on the carnage, growing more oppressive with each kill. Daine noticed but pushed the thought away¡ªthere was no time to consider the implications, not while the slaughter continued.


    The mountain men''s death throes were a discordant symphony, their howls of agony mingling with the gurgling of those too far gone to scream. But there was no salvation to be found in their cries, no release from the torment that had twisted them into these monstrous forms. Daine stepped over a corpse, her boot sinking into the blood-soaked earth with a nauseating squelch. Her sword drew a brutal arc through the next man, slicing him from shoulder to hip with a single blow. The body fell away in two ragged halves, internal organs spilling onto the ground, steam rising from the fresh kill in the cold night air. Blood sprayed across her face, warm and dense, but she did not flinch¡ªonly wiped it away with the back of her hand, leaving a smear across her cheek.


    The next attacker came at her with wild eyes and a mouth full of broken teeth, but Daine sidestepped his lunge, her sword flashing in the dim light, catching him in the neck and severing his head in a clean motion. The decapitated body staggered for a moment, blood fountaining from the severed arteries before collapsing in a twitching heap at her feet. She watched the life drain from the eyes in the severed head, the last vestiges of life fading into the abyss, and felt a pang of sadness she had no time to dwell on. This was not a role she could continue to play.


    Then Donal was at her side, his axes a blur of steel as he hacked through the remaining mountain men. He fought with a savagery that rivalled that of the beasts they faced, his blows landing with the precision of a butcher carving meat. There was no wasted movement, no hesitation¡ªonly the relentless, driving force of killing. Each strike was accompanied by a soft yielding sound, as though the air was tearing apart under his fury.


    But even as they dispatched their final targets, Daine felt a shift in the atmosphere, a creeping cold that seeped into her bones and made her breath fog. The mountain men, those few still alive, suddenly froze in their tracks, their wild eyes widening with a new kind of terror. Daine felt it, too¡ªa deep dread that clawed at the edges of her mind, threatening to unravel the thin thread of sanity she clung to.


    Then, from the shadows at the edge of the camp, they emerged.


    MyrkrTr?ll.


    The two figures moved with a wholly unnatural fluidity, their forms barely human, more like living shadows than flesh and blood. Their skin was a sickly, mottled grey, slick with a sheen that caught the flickering light of the dying fires. Their eyes were voids of darkness, swallowing the light, and their mouths twisted into grotesque, predatory grins that promised nothing but pain. These were not men¡ªthey were abominations, twisted by the Skuggaseier''s foul magic into weapons of flesh and shadow.


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    Daine¡¯s grip tightened on her greatsword as she locked eyes with the closest MyrkrTr?ll. It moved with a speed that defied her comprehension, a smear of shadow and sinew that seemed to flicker in and out of existence. She swung her sword in a wide arc, aiming to bisect the creature, but it was like striking at a ghost. The blade whistled through empty air, the momentum nearly unbalancing her as the MyrkrTr?ll reappeared at her side, a tendril of shadow lashing out with serpentine precision.


    The blow hit her with the force of a sledgehammer, driving the air from her lungs. Cold agony seared across her chest, the chill of the creature¡¯s touch burning like ice against her flesh. Daine staggered back, boots slipping in the blood-slick mud, but somehow forced herself to stay upright, to remain in the fight. The MyrkrTr?ll closed in, its void-like eyes reflecting her pain, feeding off it.


    Donal was a whirlwind beside her, his axes arcing through the air with terrifying force. He hurled himself at the second MyrkrTr?ll, both weapons coming down in a double strike that would have cleaved a normal foe in two. But this thing was anything but normal. It dissolved into shadow at the last possible second, the axes passing harmlessly through its mist-like form. It reformed behind him instantly, claws of dark energy raking across his back in a blur of motion.


    Donal grunted in pain but spun around, his movements free despite the injury. This time, his axes connected with the creature¡¯s arm, slicing through its slick, grey flesh with a satisfying crunch. But instead of blood, a thick, tar-like ooze bubbled from the wound, the substance clinging to his blades like molten pitch. The MyrkrTr?ll hissed, a sound like the scraping of nails on bone, and the shadows around it convulsed, writhing like a nest of vipers as they lashed out at Donal from all sides.


    The twin fights were a scene of utter chaos, the once-organised, precise slaughter devolving into a frantic struggle for survival. Daine was barely holding her own, each swing of her sword met with the MyrkrTr?ll¡¯s infuriating ability to phase in and out of reality. It was toying with her, she realised, each feint and parry designed to wear her down, to drain her of strength until she was nothing but a ragged, desperate mess.


    It was working.


    Then, with a sudden, vicious swipe, the MyrkrTr?ll knocked her sword from her hands, sending it skidding across the ground with a metallic clang. Her heart lurched in her chest as the creature¡¯s shadowy claws wrapped around her throat, the cold seeping into her very bones as it began to squeeze. The world narrowed to a pinprick, her vision dimming as spots danced before her eyes. The grip tightened, and she felt the jagged edge of panic slice through her resolve. She kicked out with all her strength, desperate to break free, but it was like fighting against a force of nature¡ªimplacable, unyielding.


    Donal¡¯s voice cut through the haze of impending unconsciousness, a raw, desperate shout. He was fighting like a man possessed, his axes almost an invisible haze of steel as he hacked and slashed at the other MyrkrTr?ll. But the creature was relentless, countering his every move with effortless grace, shadowy vines draining his strength with every strike. The battle was turning against them, the tide of darkness threatening to engulf them both.


    Daine was on the brink, the darkness closing in, when a last surge of energy surged through her. With a cry of defiance, she wrenched the dagger from her belt and drove it into the creature¡¯s side with all the strength she could muster. The blade sank deep into the MyrkrTr?ll¡¯s flesh, the impact jarring her arm as the creature let out a hiss of pain. Its grip faltered, just enough for Daine to tear herself free and scramble across the slick ground towards her sword.


    Her fingers closed around the hilt just as the MyrkrTr?ll recovered, the wound she had inflicted already sealing itself with that same revolting black ooze. She forced herself to her feet, the sword heavy in her hands, her body screaming in protest. But she could not, would not, back down. These things were an abomination, a blight on the world, and she would see them destroyed, even if it cost her everything.


    It was clear they couldn¡¯t win this by brute force alone. These creatures were beyond mortal combat. She had only one option left¡ªa desperate, last-ditch effort that might just turn the tide. Drawing on the deepest reserves of her will, she triggered <Domain of Law>.


    The world around them drained of colour, a monochrome void that consumed all within its reach. The MyrkrTr?ll faltered, their forms shuddering as the power of the Skuggaseier was ripped from them. They collapsed to the ground, writhing as their connection to the dark magic was severed, their once-fluid movements now jerky and disjointed.


    However, Daine and Donal barely had a moment to breathe, to even begin to comprehend the brief respite, when the very fabric of reality itself tore open with a deafening roar. A portal of pure shadow erupted in the centre of Daine''s Domain, a swirling vortex of dark energy that sucked in everything around it with terrifying force.


    The wind howled like a living thing, a monstrous gale that tore through the camp, whipping the flames of dying fires into a frenzy. Trees bent and splintered, the ground trembling as the portal¡¯s pull intensified. Daine felt herself dragged towards it, her boots skidding as she fought to resist the overwhelming force. But it was like holding back a hurricane with her bare hands.


    ¡°Donal!¡± she screamed, her voice lost in the storm''s roar. He was reaching for her, his face a mask of determination and fear, but he was too far away. The distance between them grew as the portal¡¯s pull became an unstoppable force. She could see the terror in his eyes and feel the same terror rising in her chest as the darkness loomed ever closer.


    With a final, desperate cry, Daine was ripped from the ground, her body hurled through the air as the portal swallowed her whole. The world spun in a nauseating spiral, the sheer power of the portal tearing at her, threatening to pull her apart at the seams. She caught one last glimpse of Donal, his body tumbling through the air beside her before the darkness consumed them both.


    The portal snapped shut with a thunderous boom, the shockwave flattening what remained of the camp. For a moment, all was still. The night held its breath, the once-vibrant chaos replaced by an eerie, oppressive silence.


    Nothing remained. Only the echo of their last, desperate struggle lingered in the air, fading into the cold, uncaring night.

 Chapter #141 - Unseen Threads

    The damp, almost oppressive air clung to Genoes¡¯s skin. The corridors of the Keep, at the heart of the Dark God¡¯s realm, were a veritable labyrinth of shadow and stone, and he felt like he had walked them all countless times. It had been days¡ªweeks, perhaps?¡ªsince he had last seen the Dark God and whilst he was still not wholly comfortable around that mercurial figure, at least the other boy had provided some measure of companionship.


    But now, even he was gone. And Genoes was alone.


    Singing a sad little song, Genoes wandered through the endless halls, his small feet tracing paths through millennia of dust and grime. Strangely, he had felt much more comfortable in the dark woods covering much of the rest of the Dark God''s realm than he did within this Keep. However, without this realm''s master to control and alter the weather, a colossal storm had rolled in soon after he had last vanished, and Genoes had needed to seek shelter inside. However, there was no light here, no warmth, no sound except the distant crashing of the wind and rain outside. The silence was so absolute that, to Genoes'' mind, it became a monstrous being breathing down his neck, whispering hatred in his ears.


    Thus, boredom had long since turned to uneasy restlessness, and now that restlessness was beginning to stir something else inside him¡ªa frustration that twisted and coiled. This experience within the silent Keep was wholly alien to his life in the Village. There, he had never been far from someone to talk to, an errand to run or - the Goddess forfend - a bully to escape from. This loneliness gnawed at him, fraying the edges of his thoughts until they were raw. He did not feel he was safe within this brooding quiet. And, more than anything, he missed a feeling of safety.


    From the very first moment he had seen the Lady Darkhelm, covered in blood in Master Cenwyn''s washroom, she had made him feel safe. He recognised the irony in finding security in the presence of a terrifying warrior from legend, but he could explain it in no other way. He knew he would never be harmed when under her protection. And when she had asked Eliud to take care of him in her stead when she returned to wreak vengeance on the Trellecs, he had understood this was all for the best. But then Eliud had let the Dark God take him . . .


    Genoes kicked a loose stone, watching it skitter across the flagstone floor. It clattered against the wall, echoing loudly before the depth of the silence swallowed it whole. He had long learned that there was no use in crying out for help; he¡¯d tried that already. No one came. No one ever came.


    Genoes slumped against the cold stone wall, sliding down until seated, fingers idly tracing patterns on the floor. He wished he had a stick, a toy, anything to occupy his hands. In frustration, he pulled back into his thoughts, seeking something¡ªanything¡ªto fill the silence.


    And that¡¯s when he felt it.


    It was faint, like the whisper of a breeze in the deepest valley, but it was there. A tingle at the edge of his awareness, just out of conscious reach. It reminded him of his time at Eluid''s cottage and the lessons that eccentric Mage had begun to teach him. Genoes frowned, concentrating, trying to grasp hold of it with his mind. But the sensation slipped away beyond his notice, elusive, teasing.


    What was he feeling? He closed his eyes, trying to recapture the moment. He summoned up the sound of crackling wood he had experienced sitting in front of Eliud''s hearth. The feel of Josul resting against his legs. The smell of the Pendragon''s pipe. But it was no use. It was like trying to remember a dream after waking; the more Genoes focused on it, the more the sensation seemed to fade into monochrome. Anger welled up inside him again, his hands scrunching up into fists, but he forced it down. He had seen the Dark God surrender to wrath far too many times during his captivity here. Genoes was not prepared to fall into that trap. Not now. Not when this was the first thing he had properly experienced in days.


    He tried to relax, letting his mind drift away into memory. Sometimes, when you pulled too hard at a thread, it simply tore. The best thing to do was let it find its own way back into the needle.


    Then the feeling returned, a little stronger this time.


    Something was stirring within him, something he suspected had been there all along. Eliud had recognised it. Daine had known it. And, in some strange way, he thought the bullies who had dogged his every step in the Village had known it too. Had wanted to extinguish it before it had chance to come to life.


    Genoes sensed this . . . something was connected to the way in which he was able to remove himself from trouble and scrapes in a way that infuriated and delighted the villagefolk in equal measure. Whatever it was, this power was now pulsing in time with his heartbeat, a resonant rhythm getting louder and louder . . .


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    Without thinking too deeply about it, Genoes reached out with his hand, fingers spread wide. The feeling intensified, a strange warmth spreading from his chest down his arm, pooling in his palm. If he had to describe it, he would have said it was not unlike standing too close to a fire, the heat growing almost unbearable, yet he didn¡¯t pull back. He couldn¡¯t.


    Then, with a sudden jolt, it was gone. The warmth, the rhythm, the pulse¡ªall vanished as quickly as they had appeared. Genoes gasped, his hand falling limply to his side. The aftershock prickled his skin, the sensation lingering like the echo of a scream.


    What had happened? He stared at his hand, expecting to see some change, some sign of damage. But there was nothing there. Just his small, pale hand, trembling slightly. He clenched his fist, willing the feeling to return, but it didn¡¯t.


    Genoes pushed himself to his feet, the rough stone biting into his skin, and closed his eyes again. The power, if that is what it was, had come from somewhere inside him, he was sure of it. He just had to find it again. He slowed his breathing down in the way Kirstin had taught him was crucial when preparing to launch an arrow and he concentrated, searching for that elusive pulse.


    Nothing. Just the darkness behind his eyelids and the weight of the silence pressing down on him. Genoes was almost at the point of giving up when, faint and distant, he felt it again¡ªa flicker, like a spark revealed at the base of a deep well. He reached for it, mentally stretching out, trying to take hold of it.


    The fragment of light flared, a brief surge of warmth shooting through his body. Genoes held onto it this time, refusing to let it fade away as it had done so before. The pleasantly warm sensation grew, spreading through his body like wildfire. His skin itched, his muscles cramping.


    And then, true pain.


    It struck him like a fist, sudden and brutal, knocking the breath from his lungs. His knees buckled, and he collapsed back to the ground, clutching his chest. The warmth had turned to fire, hollowing him out from the inside. He could feel it, quite literally, boiling his blood.


    Genoes wanted to scream, but his throat would not respond. The pain was overwhelming, drowning out all remembrance of times past. It felt like something was trying to tear its way out of him.


    Then, just as suddenly as it began, the agony stopped. Genoes lay on the stone, gasping for breath and trembling. Sweat soaked his clothes, his skin clammy. He felt weak and drained, as though what had happened had burned away some vital part of him.


    But beneath the exhaustion, there was something else. The sensation was still there, faint but persistent. A thrumming in his chest, a beat that rattled within his bones. It was weaker now than before, but it was there. He hadn¡¯t lost it.


    Genoes forced himself to sit up and, with a shaky breath, focused again, reaching for that pulse. It came more quickly this time, the warmth returning without the blinding pain. It was still uncomfortable, a pressure that built within him, but it was bearable.


    Genoes opened his eyes, staring at his hands. He could feel the energy pooled in his palms. But what was he supposed to do with it? He flexed his fingers, willing the power to move, to do something. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, slowly, a faint light began to glow between his fingers. It was weak, barely more than a glimmer, but it was there.


    Excitement surged through him, overpowering the exhaustion. He focused harder, trying to make the light grow. The energy responded, and the light brightened and became more solid until it felt like he was holding a piece of the sun in his hands, its warmth and light spilling out into the dark corridor.


    But, as before, the pressure grew too much. The light flickered erratically, then flared wildly out of control. Genoes¡¯ hands shook, the energy slipping from his grasp. Panic seized him as the light turned blinding, its heat scorching his skin. And then it exploded. The force of the blast threw him backwards, slamming him into the stone wall. The impact knocked the air from his lungs, and for a moment, everything went black.


    When he came to, smoke was curled around him, the smell of burning filling the air. Genoes blinked, trying to clear his vision. The corridor was in ruins; the stone walls cracked and blackened, and debris was scattered everywhere. His hands were blistered, the skin red and raw, but somehow, he was alive. He groaned, pushing himself up on shaking arms. The energy was gone, spent in the explosion, but the pulse was still there, deep inside him. It was weaker now, a faint echo, but it was there.


    And then Genoes laughed.


    He wasn¡¯t just a helpless child in this cursed place anymore. He had uncovered something he knew he could learn to control. It would take time, he knew. He could still feel the lingering effects of the blast, the toll it had taken on his body. His skin ached, his muscles throbbed, and exhaustion hung over him like a shroud. But beneath the pain, there was a spark of hope. A small, fragile hope, but hope nonetheless. And, in the corner of his eye, a little blinking notification said <Skill Slot unlocked>.


    Genoes had no idea how long he lay there, recovering. Time had lost all meaning in this place in any event. But eventually, he forced himself to stand, his legs trembling. He stumbled forward through the wreckage, his mind buzzing with possibilities. The energy was dangerous, volatile, but it was his. He just had to figure out how to control it and shape it into something useful. He had to learn. The Skill Slot was open, but there was nothing formal occupying it as of yet.


    As Genoes moved deeper into the labyrinth, his mind focused on mastering the new power within him, he was unaware of the eyes that followed him, an ancient hunger that had stirred in the darkness. He was not alone in this place, not anymore.


    A pair of golden eyes were watching. And they were waiting.

 Chapter #142 - Awakening Powers

    Genoes continued through the shattered remains of the corridor. His body still felt weak, trembling from the aftermath of the . . . he was not sure what to call it. A blast? It felt like something he had seen Eliud do a thousand times. But the Pendragon was, well, he was him. The idea that Genoes could be capable of anything remotely similar was simply beyond the realms of possibility. However, as the boy walked, there came a new determination in his eyes, a flicker of something that had not been there before, a more upright nature to his stance, perhaps. It was not just hope¡ªit was a sense of purpose, a need to understand, to control the power that he had somehow managed to awaken.


    The very atmosphere around him felt different now - more charged - as if the explosion had left a residue of its energy hanging in the air. Gone was the oppressive silence to be replaced by something brimming with potential. Genoes could feel it, faint but insistent, a thrumming just beneath the surface of his skin. It was as if the world had become more vivid, its shadows darker, its silences louder. His senses were heightened, becoming attuned to something he could not quite name.


    Of course, Genoes had a vague understanding of the nature of the power flaring within him. He had lived his whole life around those who had manifested similar abilities; he had just not dared hope that he would ever gain a Class himself one day. Thus, although it had nearly consumed him, the appearance of that power also left him craving more. He knew that Eliud, Daine and Kirstin drew their powers from their own Skill Slots, but these were all directly connected to their various Classes. He had never heard of anyone gaining an ability in a Classless state - much less one that was not precise as to what it did.


    A sudden determination gripped him. He had to find out more about what was happening to him. He had to explore it, understand it, and, most importantly, learn to wield it.


    His thoughts drifted back to the Village, and a small, wistful smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. He remembered old Bracken, a travelling merchant who stopped by on his trade route a few times each year. He had been a kind, round man with a balding head and a permanent smell of spices about him. To a young lad, his caravan had been a treasure trove of curiosities, shelves lined with jars of sweets, bags of flour, and every kind of dried herb Genoes could imagine.


    He could still picture the old man accepting a tray of freshly baked bread rolls as a trade for something or other. With a wave of his fingers and a murmured word, Bracken would trigger a


    Skill and a soft, golden glow would settle over the bread, sealing in its freshness as if time had been paused. "The rolls''ll stay warm an'' soft fer months, lad," he would say, "ya''d be s''prised how much I can fetch fer decent bread when I git t''the City."


    Genoes had been fascinated by the ease with which Bracken used his Skill. It had seemed as natural to the old trader as breathing. Genoes had watched, wide-eyed, as the bread glowed and the air filled with the comforting scent of freshly baked goods. Bracken would chuckle at the boy¡¯s amazement, ruffling Genoes¡¯s hair and handing him a roll.


    If Bracken could use his Skill so effortlessly, was that something he could learn to do too? Almost instinctively, the heat within him built up again, and Genoes saw a golden light begin to infuse his hands. The blinking notification in his vision changed to read Activate


    in open Skill Slot?


    With a start, he dismissed the notification, the glow diffusing away as if it had never been. Bracken had a very appropriate Skill for his own trade, but such an ability would seem of little help to Genoes very now. Even with that thought, he became aware that his breath was misting in the cold air, and he shivered. The Keep was freezing, the stone floor and walls literally leeching all the heat from his body. Genoes clenched his fists, feeling the faint pulse of energy in his veins. The warmth he had felt earlier¡ªcould he summon it again? Could he use his power to ward off the cold?


    He stopped walking along the corridor and focused inward, actively reaching for that spark within him. It came more quickly this time and without any pain: a flicker of heat deep in his chest. Genoes concentrated, willing the sensation to grow and spread through his body. Slowly, he felt it move, flowing from his chest to his arms and legs, radiating outwards until it enveloped him in an embrace of heat. The cold receded, and he sighed in relief. The heat was not as intense as before¡ªit was gentler, more controlled. He imagined the energy as a small, contained flame, something he could stoke or dampen at will. It was a delicate balance, but he thought he was beginning to grasp it.


    The notification blinked again in the corner of his vision: Activate <Comforting Heat> in open Skill Slot? Genoes frowned, his instinct to accept the Skill tugging at him; this at least would be useful: it would make survival in this frigid Keep much easier. But something held him back. He had no idea how he had been able to open the Skill Slot in the first place. Would not putting a Skill into it be like closing a door? If so, he was not ready to limit himself to purely feeling warm just yet. He dismissed the notification, fearing the cocoon of heat surrounding him would fade. However, when it did not, the boy felt his mood improve significantly.


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    The corridors twisted and turned in a seemingly endless maze, but Genoes pressed on. The new warmth in his body was a steady comfort that dispelled his previous dark mood. The silence of the Keep was unpleasant, but he was no longer afraid of it. In fact, with each step, he felt more in tune with the energy inside him, more confident in his ability to control it. Then, as he rounded a corner, something small and dark scurried across the floor.


    Genoes froze, his eyes narrowing as he watched the creature¡ªa giant rat, its fur matted and its eyes gleaming in the dim light. It paused, sniffing the air, oblivious to Genoes¡¯ presence. The boy sank back into the shadows, nervous. He had encountered these rats in the Keep before and knew, from painful experience, that they could be more than just a nuisance. Genoes raised his hand without consciously thinking, focusing on the energy within him. The heat suffusing his body shifted, turning sharp, almost electric, as it gathered in his palm. Then, instinctively, he directed the energy outward towards the rat. At first, nothing happened. The rat continued to sniff the air, twitching its whiskers as it searched for food. Frustration bubbled up inside Genoes. He could feel the energy coiling in his hand, but it was not responding how he wanted it to. He pushed harder.


    And then, with a crackling hiss, it exploded outward.


    The rat¡¯s body convulsed violently, a burst of light and heat enveloping it instantly. There was no time for the creature to react, no chance for it to escape. Its fur blackened, skin splitting as the energy tore through it. The stench of burning flesh filled the corridor. Genoes watched, a mixture of horror and fascination gripping him, as the rat¡¯s body disintegrated into ash, leaving behind nothing but a charred smear on the floor.


    Another notification appeared: Activate <Fireball> in open Skill Slot?


    Genoes stared at the spot where the rat had been, his heart pounding. The power he had unleashed was terrifying . . . yet exhilarating. The feeling of control, of being able to direct such destructive force, was intoxicating. But it had also been wild, untamed. He had been unable to do anything until the energy had responded to his frustration and anger, and he had felt it almost slip free of him.


    Genoes forced himself to breathe, to calm down. This power was dangerous, he knew that now. But it was also incredible. He could not afford to let it consume him, to let his emotions dictate how it was used. If he had doubts about that, he only had to think about how the Dark God used his abilities. No. He had to stay in control. Eliud could throw power a million times more potent than a <Fireball>, yet he sought to restrain his incredible powers. Yes, Genoes thought, nodding. He would do the same.


    He dismissed the notification again, though it was noticeably harder this time. The <Fireball> Skill was tempting¡ªthere was a certain allure to having such a weapon at his disposal. But he was not ready to accept it, not yet.


    He needed to explore further to see what else he could do.


    Genoes''s stomach growled, the sound echoing in the empty hall. He had not eaten since the storm had driven him back into the Keep, and the exertion of using his new powers was leaving him drained. He needed something to eat and drink, and he needed it soon.


    A memory of a storeroom flashed into his mind. He remembered seeing it once when the Dark God had taken him on a tour of the Keep. Apparently, he was not the first ''guest'' to be kept here, and a store of preserved human food had been considered necessary. It was somewhere deep within the area where supplies were kept¡ªfood, water, perhaps even something more useful. If Genoes could find it, he could replenish his strength and continue his experiments.


    The boy closed his eyes, focusing inward. The spark inside him pulsed in response, eager, almost impatient. He pictured the storeroom in his mind, the heavy wooden door, the rows of shelves laden with provisions. Could he use his power to find it? He was not sure, but it was worth a try.


    He let the energy flow through him, guiding his steps. Funnily enough, it was like following a thread, an invisible line that tugged at him, pulling him in a specific direction. Walking with his eyes closed like this, the corridors became much less daunting, its twists and turns more predictable. Genoes moved with purpose, the warmth of the energy a steady presence inside him, guiding his steps.


    As he walked, he became more aware of the energy¡¯s nuances and facets. There was the warmth he could use to keep himself comfortable, the sharpness that could be channelled into destruction, and something else¡ªsomething subtler, a kind of attunement to his surroundings. He was tapping into this now, using it to navigate the Keep. A further notification blinked into view. Activate


    in open Skill Slot?


    Genoes hesitated, tempted to accept on this occasion. It would make finding his way through the Keep much easier, but he resisted the urge. He was starting to understand that these Skills were like shortcuts, ways to lock in specific uses of his power. But by choosing one, he would limit his ability to explore others. In his current position, it would be wise to keep his options open.


    The corridors grew darker as he moved deeper into the Keep. But Genoes did not stop. He could now feel the storeroom¡¯s presence, a faint pull guiding him onward. The energy inside him responded to his need, attuning to his goal.


    Finally, he turned a corner and saw it¡ªthe heavy wooden door of the storeroom, precisely as he remembered. Relief washed over him, and he quickened his pace, reaching out to push the door open. It creaked on its hinges, the sound loud in the silence. The storeroom was dark, the only light coming from the faint glow of the energy still coursing through him. Genoes stepped inside, his eyes scanning the shelves.


    There were sacks of grain, barrels of water, and crates filled with dried meat and fruit. Enough to keep him alive for a long time. He reached for a piece of dried meat, biting into it hungrily. The food was tough and tasteless, but he did not care. It was sustenance, and that was all that mattered.


    For the first time since being pulled into this realm, Genoes allowed himself to relax as he ate, the tension easing from his muscles. The energy inside him settled as if replenishing itself in the same way the boy was through eating. Before he knew it, and with a piece of jerky still clutched in his hand, Genoes drifted off to a comforting sleep.

 Chapter #143 - Shattering of Glass

    Genoes sat cross-legged on the stone floor of the Keep, his mind a kaleidoscope of thoughts. The dim glow of his inner energy cast unsettling shadows that danced across the walls, but he paid them no heed. His attention was drawn inward, towards the nascent power flickering at his core. It was an ember full of colours he couldn¡¯t yet name, a spectrum of light barely contained within him, and he wasn¡¯t even close to mastering it. The energy felt rightfully his, yet it was an unruly thing, not yet fully awake. Genoes knew this force could not be dominated through brute strength or sheer will. It was as much a part of him as his breath, and it would not be bullied into submission. He could not quite quantify his time within this realm, but Genoes felt an urgent pull from elsewhere as if the world beyond the Keep was demanding his presence.


    He inhaled deeply, feeling the energy respond¡ªa delicate shimmer of light that increased as the breath filled his lungs. The energy mirrored his breath as he exhaled, retreating slightly as if testing the strength of his resolve. Each breath brought the power a touch closer to the surface, a growing warmth that spread through his chest like the first rays of dawn. But with each exhale, the energy recoiled away, cautious and uncertain. It was as if the light within him was alive, wary of his intentions, and Genoes instinctively knew that to command it, he must first earn its trust.


    He let the energy flow in and out, nurturing it like one might care for an injured bird, coaxing it with patience rather than force. The more he engaged with this inner glow, the more he sensed that it was not a single, unified force. It was a complex, multifaceted gem, a stained glass window of possibilities, each shard reflecting a different hue, a different aspect of his potential.


    Genoes had not spent long under Eliud¡¯s tutelage, but his short time with the Pendragon had taught him that this way of perceiving power was unusual. Eliud¡¯s mastery lay in bending energy into portals and unstoppable streams¡ªforms as direct as they were devastating. Genoes, however, sensed no such constraints on his own strength.


    He focused on one of the glowing panes within his core, sharpening its clarity. It was a deep red, a colour that carried with it the gentle heat of a hearth fire in the dead of winter. This, he realised, was the source of the warmth that had kept him alive in the depths of the Keep. But it was more than just warmth; it was one facet of a far greater power.


    Eliud had never spoken of his Skills this way.


    Another shard glimmered with a deep blue hue, crackling like the static before a storm. Genoes knew¡ªthough he could not explain how¡ªthat this was the energy that had obliterated the rat with such violence that it had startled even him. And there, in the periphery of his awareness, was a third ability. A subtle grey fragment humming softly, constantly attuning to the shifting environment of the Dark God¡¯s realm. This was the ability that had guided him through the dark corridors, leading him to the storeroom where he now sat.


    The urge to activate every shard was strong, but Genoes first delved into the red pane. He envisioned the energy flowing from the stained glass, spreading like sunlight through fog. In response, the warmth intensified, filling his chest, then his arms, and finally his entire body. As it did so, the icy chill of the Keep receded, repelled by the radiant heat coursing through him. He let the warmth settle into his muscles, easing the tension that had gripped his limbs during the long hours of stillness.


    As the warmth embraced him, the energy within him shifted, becoming more refined and more responsive to his needs. It was as if it were no longer just heat; it was a malleable power, ready to be shaped. Genoes focused on his hands, willing the energy to gather there, and slowly, ever so slowly, his palms filled with a soft, red glow. The light was steady and controlled¡ªa stark contrast to the wild surge of power that had erupted earlier. As he nurtured the glow, another shard in his core¡ªthe blue one that had killed the rat¡ªbegan to resonate as if in sympathy. A notification blinked into his awareness: <Heat Manipulation Skill Available>.


    Genoes hesitated, the temptation to accept the Skill gnawing at him. He could sense it would make controlling this aspect of the energy easier, safer even. But something within him rejected that thought. He dismissed the notification with no real regret, knowing that to accept it would be to limit himself, to lock this facet of his power into a single, defined path. There was too much he did not understand yet, too many shards still unexplored, too many colours in his stained glass window.


    With that thought at the forefront of his mind, he turned his focus to the blue shard that had begun to hum alongside the heat. This energy was volatile, dangerous, but with the warmth still pulsing through his body, Genoes felt confident he would be able to control it. He visualised the energy as a beam of refracted light, thin and concentrated, a needle rather than a sledgehammer.


    Raising one hand, he let the destructive energy flow. The sensation was intense, almost painful, as it gathered in his fingertips, the red glow shifting in tone to something more dangerous. He clenched his fist, feeling the energy coil within, waiting for release. Then, slowly, he extended a finger, aiming at a crack in the storeroom¡¯s stone wall. A thin, blue bolt shot from his hand, striking the crack dead centre. The stone shuddered, then crumbled, a neat hole punched clean through.


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    Genoes exhaled, the tension in his muscles releasing with the breath. That was . . . interesting.


    *


    Days blurred together as Genoes continued his exploration of the luminous shards within him. Each fragment was a piece of stained glass, and the energy within him began to take on new shapes, more intricate and demanding with every attempt. For as long as he ignored the notifications to solidify a Skill, the shards of light continued to intertwine, merging in ways that were both exhilarating. Each of his experiments deepened his understanding of the potential he wielded. And with every discovery came the system¡¯s inevitable offer: <Skill Available>. On each occasion, he turned it down, choosing to keep his power as a spectrum rather than narrowing it to a single beam.


    He wandered the Keep with renewed purpose, using the red shard to fend off the increasingly bitter chill. Though he could not quantify it, he sensed that the Dark God¡¯s realm had grown more hostile to him as his power expanded. Yet, paradoxically, the shadows that had once seemed so menacing now felt less daunting, their darkness less absolute. In fact, the more the realm resisted him, the more he felt its grasp over him slipping, as if his growing light was a solvent to the oppressive gloom.


    By the eighth day¡ªor so Genoes measured it¡ªthe path before him twisted and sloped downward, leading him to another giant rat, its eyes gleaming and teeth flashing brightly in the dark. This time, Genoes did not hesitate to act. His hand rose, light flowing to his fingertips with practised ease. But instead of a destructive burst, he envisioned the energy as a razor-thin line of light cutting through the air.


    The rat jerked as the energy struck, its body crumpling without a whimper. There was no explosion, no wild outburst of power this time¡ªjust a clean, efficient end. Genoes watched as it fell, a cold satisfaction settling in his chest. This was control: the ability to harness power with precision, to wield it as a scalpel. Another notification appeared: <Lethal Strike Skill Available>.


    He dismissed it with barely a thought. The system¡¯s offers had lost their allure as he began to understand the vastness of his potential. Locking his abilities into predefined Skills would be like chaining the light within him to the ground, limiting a sky full of stars to a single constellation. By keeping the stained glass window of his core intact and unrestrained, he preserved the freedom to chart a fresh course.


    As he thought that, Genoes turned his thoughts to the other shards of light he had yet to explore. The red warmth that had kept him alive, the blue crackling energy of destruction¡ªthese he had come to know well. But there were others, subtler and more elusive, shimmering at the edges of his awareness. One, in particular, caught his attention, a light that flickered like a drop of water catching the sun¡¯s reflection just beyond the reach of his notice.


    Genoes closed his eyes, focusing on that elusive shard. It was faint within that stained window, barely a whisper of light amidst the riot of colours, but it was there, waiting to be illuminated. Genoes reached for that splinter, coaxing it into the forefront of his awareness, allowing it to unfurl as a delicate bloom. The energy responded with a quiet buzz, a deep, resonant hum that vibrated through his feet and into the stones of the Keep.


    This light was different. It was not about destruction or warmth but something more fundamental, more connected to the fabric of the world itself¡ªbeyond the boundaries of the Keep. Was this shard seeking to connect with something outside the Dark God¡¯s realm? That deserved explotation. Genoes concentrated, letting the energy flow through him and into this shard, feeling it pull not just from his core but from the stones beneath him, the air around him, and the distant echoes of time itself.


    Without warning, the air around him began to pop and shimmer.


    Surprised, Genoes opened his eyes, his energy flooding out of him in response to a sudden disturbance. The glow intensified, coalescing into a vortex of light and shadow, spinning faster and faster until it seemed to tear a hole in the fabric of reality. Had he created a portal? If so, this was no ordinary rift. It was a dark and pulsing wound in the world, raw and bleeding with light.


    Before he could react, figures began to spill from the portal, as if hurled out by some unseen force.


    And, what was more than that, he knew them.


    Eliud was the first to come through, his dark robes billowing as he hit the floor with a heavy thud, followed by Kirstin, her bow raised, eyes wide with shock. Josul and Savage came next, the hound¡¯s snarls filling the air, his hackles bristling with fury.


    Genoes¡¯s heart pounded in his chest, disbelief warring with relief. They were here¡ªhis friends, his protectors! Alive, but battered and disoriented.


    Eliud was the first to rise, his gaze sweeping the corridor before locking onto Genoes. For a moment, they simply stared at each other. Then, the older man grinned, a flash of teeth in the dim light.


    "Well, that was unexpected!"


    But before Genoes could respond, the portal flared once more, and two more figures were flung through¡ªDaine, her sword flashing as she landed in a defensive stance, and Donal . . . or at least someone who looked like Donal, but bigger, stronger, and more grim.


    With a deafening crack, the portal snapped shut, leaving them all in silence. The Keep, once a tomb of stillness, now thrummed with energy as if it were a living thing responding to the sudden influx of life.


    Genoes stood frozen, his mind reeling as he tried to process what had just happened. Had he caused this? The light within him surged, a chaotic whirl of emotions¡ªrelief, fear, confusion. He had been alone in this cursed place for so long that the sight of familiar faces felt like a mirage!


    However, even as he struggled to grasp the reality of the situation, the shadows around them deepened, the air growing colder and sharper. Something ancient stirred in the darkness, a presence Genoes had not felt within this realm before.


    The Keep was no longer just a prison. It was alive, and it was waking up.

 Chapter #144 - The Fear of a Snake

    Borelean''s head snapped up as he sensed . . . something change.


    His long tongue flicked out, tasting the scent of possibilities shift and change as whatever had manifested just beyond his senses rewrote the threads of fate he had so carefully arranged.


    "What is it, my lord?" someone to his left said.


    Borelean''s head swayed to the side with a sinuous movement, taking in the wide-eyed expression of one of the myriad of hangers-on he appeared to have collected in this realm. "Did you speak?" he hissed.


    The man . . . woman . . . he found it difficult to definitively tell these beings apart visibly quailed and prostrated themselves to the floor. There was the briefest of moments when Borelean considered feeding, but then the instinct passed, and he was on his feet, striding forward to throw open the giant windows to stand on his balcony and oversee the Capital.


    As it always did, revulsion surged within him.


    Should anyone have glanced up at that moment, they would have been troubled by the flickering nature of Borelean''s silhouette standing out against the deepening night. His form - although superficially that of a tall, gaunt man - cast writhing, roiling shadows around it: one moment, a giant serpent; the next, some form of massive lizard.


    He sneered as he looked down, the sprawl of the Capital beneath him erupting like a malignant growth from the clay earth. "A labyrinth of stone and squalor" was how he had described it to those from his own realm, and one, in the usual run of things, would barely have been worth visiting, much less setting up this temporary home. From his vantage point, Borelean''s keen eyes viewed the winding streets as no more than tangled veins pulsing with the sludgy blood of a species ripe for consumption. To most, the Capital may have appeared to be asleep. To him, it was a corpse that refused to lie still.


    The stench of humanity was a personal affront to his senses¡ªa disgusting mix of sweat, rot, and something he always associated with hope, which actively seeped into him, worming its way inside until the only way to block it out was to bathe in blood. Borelean grimaced as he fought the urge to roar back at this sensory invader. He had inhabited this human form for decades, moulding it, perfecting it, yet this visceral disgust was never far beneath the surface.


    It was a wonder he had been able to stay remotely sane.


    A small part of the creature paused at that, and a small voice, once again, questioned why Borelean had tarried so long in this place. After all, he had seen innumerable civilisations rise and fall in his time; he had watched as mighty empires descended into chaos and once revered God-Kings were reduced to nothing more than whispers in forgotten tomes. Yet here he was, playing the part of advisor to a pitiful king¡ªa puppet in a decaying court. Borelean sneered, his lips splitting in two as they curled in an expression of disdain his human form could not quite deliver.


    How he loathed them, these fragile, fleeting creatures. And yet, he needed them.


    For now.


    But something was different tonight. A sudden change had woken him in the depth of night, gnawing at him, scratching at the periphery of his awareness like a talon resting against his throat. Yet it was not anything in the Capital. He was sure of that now. No, it was something out there which was different. He could feel it¡ªa tremor in the very fabric of reality, a subtle shift that sent ripples through the ether. It was an alien sensation, one that Borelean had not felt since he had finally chased that frustrating mage away from the King''s side.


    Vulnerability.


    The thought of the Duskstrider, Eliud Vila, made Borelean''s blood run cold¡ªan impressive feat for a being already cold-blooded by nature. Then, the sensation passed. Vulnerability was for the weak, for the prey, not for those such as him. He closed his human eyes, focusing, stretching his senses to their limits, searching for the source of this discomfort.


    The Capital was a grotesque mosaic of vice and decay, unchanged as his senses reached beyond it, scouring the land for answers. And then he felt it¡ªan unmistakable pull, a darkness emanating from the distant Bloodspire Mountains. His eyes snapped open, the slitted pupils dilating in the gloom as a deep instinct took hold, urging him to investigate, to hunt.


    Borelean drew in a long, slow breath, triggering a Skill he had not yet used in the realm. As he did so, the air around him grew heavy, vibrating with a force that could not be contained within the limits of flesh and bone. The room of minions behind him moaned as he drew on the life force to empower the technique, his human guise flickering, the illusion wavering as scales shimmered beneath the illusion. In the grip of his Skill, his control of his form slipped, if only for a moment, revealing the monstrous form beneath¡ªthe creature that had once been revered as a god. The screams behind him at the sudden reveal abruptly halted as he tugged on the last of their strength. A pleasant silence fell.


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    <Seeker of the Void>


    The words appeared in the corner of his vision as the world around him unravelled, the threads of reality loosening as his power surged outwards. As it did so, he felt some resistance - that interfering hag, he assumed, seeking to keep him from this prey - but he pushed through and left her floundering in his wake. His vision sharpened, the night becoming as clear as day, every detail laid bare before him. With a smirk, he recognised the festering sores of rot hidden behind walls and beneath cobblestones. His work here was more than taking hold; it was preparing to breach the surface. But his attention quickly moved elsewhere.


    His Skill dragged his notice to the mountains lying in the West, far beyond the reach of mortal eyes. There, in the heart of the Bloodspire range, something was stirring. Something old and dark, even by his standards.


    Borelean focused, drawing power from the people who slept in the wider Palace, narrowing his perception to a singular point and driving it into the heart of the disturbance. And then he saw it.


    The mountains bled.


    A dark, viscous substance seeped from the cracks in the stone, a thick, tar-like ooze that pulsed with a sickly light. It flowed down the mountainside, leaving a trail of devastation in its wake. Trees withered and died, their trunks collapsing in on themselves as they were drained of life. Animals that wandered too close were caught in the flow, their bodies convulsing, twisting in unnatural ways before they were consumed entirely. Flesh bubbled and split, organs ruptured, and bones snapped, the creatures¡¯ final moments an agony that defied comprehension.


    Yet, the horror did not end with their deaths. The ooze absorbed them, assimilating their remains into its mass, growing larger and more grotesque with each passing second. And stood above that writhing, amorphous mass, Borelean sensed a presence¡ªvast, ancient, and insatiably dark.


    A Skuggaseier.


    Borelean¡¯s breath caught. The Dark God was making his move.


    For the first time since that night of blood and fire in the Palace when the Duskstrider was expelled, Borelean felt the cold grip of fear. It coiled around his heart, squeezing until it threatened to crush him. His human guise flickered again, the illusion tearing at the seams as his true form fought to break free. Scales rippled across his skin, his muscles bulging, straining against the confines of this weak, mortal shell. He could feel the power surging within him, a primal urge to shed this disguise and face the threat head-on.


    But no. He forced himself to maintain control, to rein in the beast within. His human form solidified, the scales receding as he fought to regain his composure. He could not afford to reveal himself¡ªnot yet. The time would come, but for now, he needed to understand what he was dealing with.


    He turned his gaze back to the Bloodspire Mountains, his mind racing. The presence of the Skuggaseier was growing stronger, its cancerous influence spreading across that land. It was already reaching out, probing, searching for weaknesses. And Borelean knew, with a certainty that chilled him, that it would not be restrained to the West. The world was not prepared for what was coming. And neither, it seemed, was he.


    Borelean clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms, blood trickling down his fingers, warm and sticky against his skin. The pain was a welcome distraction, grounding him in the present. He could not afford to lose himself to fear, not now. He was Borelean, the Ancient, the Unyielding. He had faced angels and demons alike, and stood against the very tide of time. He would not be cowed by the actions of a childish god who only wanted to destroy what his mother had so painstakingly created.


    Borelean went to move away from the balcony, his mind already racing with plans and contingencies. The King would need to be informed, though Borelean doubted the man would grasp the severity of the situation. The fool was too caught up in his own petty concerns, too blind to see the storm that was brewing on the horizon. But Borelean would make him understand, one way or another.


    Then he paused. Because there was something else stirring, was there not? A coalition of power right at the heart of that darkness . . .


    <Seeker of the Void> flared again, but weaker this time. Borelean could not afford to drink too deeply of the lives around him. Even he had to keep up some semblance of appearances, and there were enough corpses in the room behind him already to need careful disposal.


    But even in this reduced state, his Skill made out the shape of what was blooming in the West. No. Not in the West. It was shining in a realm just adjacent to this one but seemingly anchored to that part of the world.


    Had he not tasted that light before . . .


    The strength of the Goddess''s mental slap staggered him, and then a second blow took him off his feet. Borelean barely had a moment to raise his defences before he felt time itself spool backwards, just a few seconds, to just before he noticed . . .


    What?


    Borelean stood for a moment, uncertain. Something had just happened, but he could not quite put his finger on what. Then the corrupt scent of the Skuggaseier came again and he was hurrying through dimly lit corridors, his footsteps echoing off the cold stone walls. That dark presence in the Bloodspire Mountains was growing stronger by the second and, with it, an overpowering sense of doom. He could feel it, like a shadow creeping up behind him, just out of sight, waiting to strike.


    He quickened his pace, mind racing. He feared that whatever was awakening in the Bloodspire Mountains was beyond even his considerable power.


    And if that were the case, his time in this realm was at an end.


    The King''s chambers were close now, the heavy wooden doors looming ahead like the gates to a tomb. Borelean slowed his pace, forcing himself to calm. He needed to be composed to maintain the illusion of control. The King could not see the fear in his eyes, could not know the turmoil that raged within him.


    He dismissed the guards, reaching out, his hand resting on the door handle, and paused. For a moment, just a moment, he considered turning back, walking away from it all. Let the world burn. Let the darkness consume it. What did he care? He was Borelean, the eternal, the indomitable. He had seen the rise and fall of civilisations. He could watch it happen again.


    But no. His game here was not yet done.


    "Your Highness," he said, his voice filling the chamber with urgency, "I bring terrible news."

 Chapter #145 – A joyous reunion

    Eliud felt he should be getting much more credit for how level-headed he was about what had just transpired. In a life not exactly lacking in spectacular incidents, the last few moments ranked disturbingly high on his list of memorable ones.


    Firstly, something¡ªsome nameless, faceless force that had singularly defied his attempts at identification¡ªhad risen from the ground and swallowed his small group during their race through the forest. Such a thing was not exactly an everyday occurrence, even by his standards. He had barely had time to begin summoning a defence, his arcane senses clawing at the unknown before the force had spat them out again into this . . . whatever this was. A castle, perhaps? Certainly some kind of ancient stone structure, towering and bleak in its silence.


    As a self-proclaimed expert on portal magic¡ªand not just any expert, mind you, the foremost alive, a quiet, insistent voice whispered in his head¡ªhe was uncomfortably aware that whatever had happened should not have been possible. There were, of course, many Skills that could shift a group from one location to another in the blink of an eye, but none that should have worked on him. Not while he was in the process of anchoring himself to the physical plane. And yet, here he stood.


    Manifestly unanchored.


    All around them, a sense of wrongness permeated this place. Not the tangible, flesh-crawling discomfort that had become the norm in the forest of the Dark God but the more insidious dread of a structure whose bricks were steeped in old, blood-soaked history. Even the stones beneath his feet seemed to hum with the weight of sorrow. This place remembered and felt far more than it should.


    Putting that aside for a moment, Eliud exhaled slowly, resisting the urge to rub his temples. He turned his attention to the second reason today was likely to be long etched into his memory: a reunion! Although, even as his heart lept in joy, his eyes fell on the tall, grim man holding twin Greataxes in his hands like extensions of his own body. Semi-familiar was perhaps a better way to put it. Certainly, he recognised the mana signature behind that stoic figure, but there was little left of the old, curmudgeonly Secretary. No, this man was something else entirely. Something feral, hungry, and dangerous. He recognised the man''s new Class instantly: a Doom Reaver. If the legends were to be believed - and the stories of those who took that Class were many and bloody - then this was not a development to be trifled with. Instinctively, Eliud''s fingers twitched, filling with the crackling blue glow of lightning.


    Let him be.


    The words were a soft touch on his mind, maternal but ironclad. They quelled his rising energy, and Eliud stifled the irritation that came with Her voice. Though Her interference gnawed at him, the Goddess¡¯ words had the desired effect. The thunder dissipated from his hands as he turned to face his . . friend? Was that the correct word for the complicated emotions he had always felt for the woman before him, a mix of fondness, frustration, and a hint of something deeper. She stood before him, and there was a tension in her gaze, a wariness that hadn¡¯t been there before¡ªit was all too familiar, and yet utterly different.


    "You have changed, my Lady," he managed, still somewhat astonished at the change in her. Before he could react, she stepped forward, embracing him. His feet left the ground as she lifted him effortlessly, the sheer unexpected power in her arms catching him off guard. "In more ways than one," he added with a nervous laugh, still unsure if he should be relieved or concerned by her newfound strength.


    But before he could ask further, Daine¡¯s attention had already shifted, her eyes softening as they found another. She released Eliud and bent down, scooping the much smaller form of the boy they had all been seeking into an equally powerful embrace. Genoes.


    A tightness formed in Eliud''s chest. The sight of Daine holding the boy like a mother reunited with a long-lost child was... disconcerting. And somehow, he felt like an intruder, standing there and watching them. A voyeur to a moment too private, too intimate to witness as the Knight of the Road - no, she was not that any more, was she? By the Goddess, was he the only one in their little party who had not undergone some tremendous evolution since they last spoke? - whispered to the lad, stroking his hair.


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    Then Josul was barking wildly, leaping onto Genoes and licking his face with unrestrained joy. Genoes¡¯ laugh, bright and innocent, echoed through the dark corridors, momentarily dispelling the weight that had fallen over them all. Eliud¡¯s gaze flicked to Donal, wondering how the grim Doom Reaver would react to the playing of the dog and boy. If there was any warmth left in him, it was clearly buried deep, locked away behind strong mental walls. And yet, in the flicker of his eyesas he watched Genoes and Daine, Eliud thought he saw something¡ªmaybe the ghost of the man he had met in the village.


    "It''s good to see you, girl," the Templar said, nodding at Kirstin and taking in the more assured set of the archer''s shoulders and the massive, dark bow in her hand. "Seems I am not the one to have had some adventures!"


    Kirstin, clearly still shaken from the sudden teleportation, blinked. Her wide-eyed gaze darted between Daine and Donal, lingering on the heavy, ominous presence of the latter. "We were captured, and then... there were dragons... and the King... I mean, I met the King and¡ª"


    But whatever she had been about to say was drowned out by Genoes, who, free from Josul¡¯s affectionate attack, threw himself around her waist, his small arms hugging tightly. Savage hissed but did not move from his place on Kirstin''s shoulder as Josul continued bounding around, tail wagging furiously.


    While the younger members of their party were distracted, Eliud gave a slight nod to Daine and Donal. The three of them moved further down the stone corridor.


    "It''s been a while," Eliud said, his voice unusually strained.


    "Yes. Obviously we might have hoped to see you earlier, my lord. Being as we were holding an indefensible position in expectation of your imminent arrival with the fire and the brimstone and the, you know, usual last-moment rescue." It was odd, Daine thought, hearing Donal''s typically snarky phrases delivered in quite such a grim, growly way.


    Eliud winced. "Yes. Apologies for that. The girl and I were... delayed. And, well..." He hesitated, feeling the awkwardness rising in his throat. "I was told to leave you to it."


    That caught Daine¡¯s attention. Her eyes flashed, hardening as they fixed on him. "Told? By who?"


    But even as she asked, her expression softened as if she already knew the answer.


    It was important you were able to confront the Stonehand on your own terms. Had the Duskstrider swooped in to save you, the circumstances around your Class Evolution would not have been in place. You needed to be stronger for what is to come.


    The voice of the Goddess slid through Daine¡¯s mind. A memory, sharp and painful, resurfaced¡ªthe faces of those who had fallen, their blood soaking into the dirt, into her hands. The dead, sacrificed so that she could become what she now was: a Templar Ascendant.


    A title that had cost too much.


    Daine clenched her fists, the dark steel of her gauntlets creaking. Was this truly what it had all been for? Had the loss, thesuffering, been justified simply to forge her into something more? A better weapon for the Goddess to wield. Memories of Old Gant warning her about choosing to become a Knight of the Road came crashing down. The weight of it all pressed down on her shoulders, a burden so immense that for a moment, she felt like she might collapse beneath it.


    Donal, standing at her side, was less composed. His knuckles were white where they gripped the handles of his Greataxes, the edges of the blades glinting in the dim light. The tension radiating from him was palpable, his barely restrained anger a storm waiting to be unleashed.


    "Oh, really?" Donal growled, his voice a low rumble that echoed. "Is that the case? The literal rivers of blood we had to wade through were all entirely worthwhile, were they? Did it not occur to anyone that perhaps a little warning would have been appreciated? Our entire strategy was built on the belief that the Pendragon was moments away!"


    The silence that followed was suffocating, the air thick with Donal''s rage. The Goddess, usually so quick to justify Herself, offered no reply.


    Eliud, sensing the growing tension, stepped forward cautiously. "You know I would have been there if I could," he said, his voice softer now. "But She made it clear¡ªmy presence would have only made things worse."


    Donal¡¯s response was swift, a sneer twisting his lips. "Oh, lovely. So you left us to it? Fantastic. Let me assure you, nexttime I have the opportunity to leave you hanging by a thread, I will do so. With bells on."


    Daine placed a hand on Donal¡¯s arm, feeling the muscles beneath it trembling with the effort of keeping his rage in check. She met Eliud¡¯s gaze, her expression unreadable.


    "It¡¯s fine, my Lady," Eliud said quietly, a faint spark of lightning dancing through his purple eyes. "Your . . . companion is justified in his anger. I¡¯m truly sorry. But recriminations can wait. Right now, we need to figure out who, or what, brought us here."


    "Actually," came a quiet voice from behind them, and all three turned to see Genoes, a strange look on his face. "I think... that might have been me."

 Chapter #146 - Time is an Arrow

    Countless bells passed as they filled each other in on what had occurred since they had last all been together.


    No, Daine thought. That was not quite right. Time felt different here. Rawrer. More malleable. It was not just how the shadows bent unnaturally in the corners or how the air carried a stale weight. Without quite knowing why, Daine sensed that time was not passing in this realm as it did back in her own world. For whatever reason, there was no steady progression of seconds ticking by in order. Instead, she could have sworn that time bent and flexed in ways she could not fully grasp, as if it followed a different set of laws.


    It was more than just individual moments being stretched or elongated. That would have been a simple explanation - and one she had experienced when utilising the Goddess''s power - but this was far from that elegant simplicity. Time in this realm seemed to slip, loop, and even repeat, as if the space beyond the walls of this Keep was caught in some kind of invisible whirlpool, spiralling on itself. The little group may have shared their stories, voices echoing through the stone passages, but to Daine, it felt as though the same conversations had already been had countless times, only to fold back and happen all over again.


    The sense of d¨¦j¨¤ vu was unnerving, and it clung to her thoughts like cobwebs.


    Time is a river, the Goddess spoke in Daine¡¯s mind, her voice like distant chimes carried on the wind. However, whether this was the echo of an old conversation or a new sending, Daine could not tell. And that was unnerving. You can never truly know at which point you enter.


    Daine frowned; the Goddess''s cryptic words - whether new or remembered - offering no comfort. She was not so sure of that. Time had not felt like a river in her experience. Rivers had an effortless, flowing grace, a natural course from beginning to end, whereas her life had felt more like a jagged road carved through stone¡ªunchanging, relentless, and wholly without mercy. For her, time was an arrow, shot forward and straight, dragging her from one brutal battlefield to the next, toward inevitable decay. The flight of that arrow had taken her from the idealism of youth to the cruel realities of a Templar Ascendant, and there was no going back. There were no tranquil streams or lazy drifts. Time didn¡¯t allow for that. It was relentless.


    Even before Eliud had explained his non-appearance at Swinford, Daine¡¯s faith in the Goddess¡¯s wisdom had been wavering. Now? Well, she was beginning to wonder whether her patron had her best interests at heart.


    "Are you alright?" Eliud¡¯s voice broke through her musings.


    Daine blinked, her eyes refocusing. Tears¡ªshe hadn¡¯t even noticed them¡ªhad gathered at the corners of her vision. Eliud had moved closer, his face uncharacteristically soft with concern as he stood a little further down the stone passageway, away from the others.


    She forced a smile, surprised by the warmth that seeing him again brought her. "Not really, no. You?"


    Eliud¡¯s purple eyes flashed with something almost like amusement. "Oddly enough, yes. You must remember, for the last few years, my life has consisted of isolation in a cottage with a giant lapdog and a sarcastic cat for company. I¡¯m finding all this rather invigorating."


    That made Daine laugh¡ªtruly laugh¡ªfor the first time in what felt like years. The sound startled her, as though her body had forgotten how to produce such joy. "An entire Sky Keep built to imprison little old you, eh? Who knew Logan Twilight had it in him?"


    "Yes," Eliud replied, his voice dropping to a more serious note, "I¡¯ll need to find a way to thank him. Something appropriately malevolent. Potentially involving radishes." He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper, meant only for Daine''s ears. "She died, you know."


    Daine¡¯s brows furrowed in confusion. "Who?"


    "Kirstin. She died escaping the cage. I thought I could easily overwhelm a feedback loop. I was wrong."


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    The admission hit like a dull blow. Daine''s gaze flicked toward Kirstin, who sat across the room, stroking Savage as though nothing were amiss. The girl had spoken glowingly of her new Skills and her unexpected Class Evolution, but there had been something off in the way she¡¯d glossed over the details of how it had all come to pass. That haze now made sense.


    "Do you have some new abilities we need to talk about?" Daine asked, her voice laced with forced brightness to mask the unease creeping into her chest. "If you''ve become a Lich since we last spoke, it would have been polite to lead with that. I have a reputation to uphold, after all!"


    "The Goddess offered to resurrect her," Eliud said, not rising to her humour. "But I had to agree to a favour in return."


    "And that favour was leaving Swinford to its fate?" Daine¡¯s tone was harsher than she intended, but the sting of betrayal still lingered from the City''s fall.


    Eliud shrugged with a casualness that she knew belied the pain he was feeling. "I¡¯ve always told you not to trust any of the Pantheon."


    Daine thought of Old Gant, ''You should never trust a god,'' he¡¯d said, one too many ales deep by the fire. ''They have their games, and they don¡¯t care for the pieces.'' Daine had laughed at him back then. She wasn¡¯t laughing anymore. She doubted the resurrected Stonehand was, either.


    "I only mention it," Eliud continued, his tone lightening again, "because I¡¯m not sure how well I¡¯ve helped her deal with it."


    Daine followed his gaze to Kirstin, who was smiling softly as Genoes, ever curious, asked her question after question. "You mean you¡¯ve kept her appallingly busy, infuriated her beyond measure, and never actually talked about it?"


    "You know me too well. It¡¯s good to have you back, my Lady Darkhelm."


    The sincerity in his words made Daine pause. Eliud had always been a puzzle to her, his glib wit masking a depth of feeling she rarely got to see. But here, now, something in him had shifted. He looked more alive than she had ever seen him. It was as if the constant peril and uncertainty had unlocked something in him, a vitality that lay dormant in the years of isolation. She held his gaze a moment longer than she meant to, and when she finally looked away, her chest felt tight.


    "And Genoes?" she asked, eager to shift the conversation. "What do you think about what he said?"


    Eliud¡¯s face darkened slightly as he considered the boy. "That he seems to have access to almost limitless Skills? I don¡¯t know what to make of it. I¡¯ve never encountered anything like it before, and as you know, I¡¯m quite the well-travelled genius."


    "Modesty aside¡­"


    "What he describes is theoretically possible," Eliud said, his tone shifting into the serious, scholarly mode Daine had always loved. In another life, she thought, he would have made an extraordinary Professor. "Think of it this way: every person¡¯s available Skills are tied to their Class. Someone without a Class should have access to none. Or to all. Certainly one of the two."


    "I¡¯m glad your recent ordeals haven¡¯t dulled your ability to be cryptic."


    Eliud¡¯s eyes twinkled with mischief. "If being embalmed and hurled into Mount J''Zark didn''t rob me of my ability to amuse and amaze, nothing will. Although," his expression grew thoughtful, "I admit, the possibility of Genoes outstripping me in terms of raw power is unsettling."


    Daine¡¯s smile faltered. "You truly believe he has that kind of potential?"


    "He hasn¡¯t chosen a Class," Eliud said, "which means, according to everything we know about how the world works, he shouldn¡¯t be able to access Skills. Think of it this way: you were born a Farmer. Had our mutual friend not intervened and stolen you away for a life of swords and sandals, the Skills available to you would have been very different indeed. Daine Orban, Farmer, is not Lady Darkhelm, Knight of the Road. No," Eliud smiled, "pardon me. Is not a Templar Ascendant. You could have trained with a sword forever and a day, and Daine the Farmer would not gain any of the Darkhelm''s Templar Skills. These are the facts of the realm as we know them."


    "But not for Genoes?"


    "It appears not. And yet, here he is, manipulating mana in ways even I can not begin to explain. He mirrors Skills¡ªones he has not even formally acquired¡ªusing only his intuition. Something - do not ask me what, or I may lose my composure - is pressuring him to define what he does into a named Skill, but he seems to have no difficulty in resisting that compulsion. Genoes opened the portal that summoned us here, of that I have no doubt. I just have no idea how he was able to do it."


    Daine glanced at Genoes, who was giggling at some joke Donal had made, utterly oblivious to the weight of the conversation surrounding him. A child, innocent and untouched by the dark realities of the world¡ªyet with the power to bend reality itself.


    "You¡¯re saying that boy, without a Class, without any training, summoned us all here?"


    "No," Eliud said, his tone grave. "What I¡¯m saying is, as far as I understand it, Genoes has the potential to do just about anything he wants."


    Daine felt a coldness settle over her at his words. The power Genoes wielded, unchecked and undefined, was more dangerous than anything she had ever encountered.


    And somewhere in the back of her mind, the Goddess¡¯s laughter echoed, soft and unsettling.

 Chapter #147 - A Grim Demeanour

    The group''s attempts to explore the Castle were becoming increasingly frustrating.


    "I do not recognise any of this!" Genoes said as they turned down another dead end.


    Donal, Eliud and Daine hung back slightly, allowing the boy, Kirstin and their two animal companions to range out in front. At first, Daine had argued against this, worried about what encounters with other denizens of the Castle would bring.


    "Oh, I do not think you need to worry about that," Eliud had said cryptically.


    The speed in which a pack of giant rats were, first, eviscerated by a combination of energy bolts from Genoes and then consumed by Savage, with Josul barking enthusiastically, convinced the Templar that she could probably afford to worry less about letting them take the lead.


    "I am not an expert in such things - oh, no, wait, I am - but it would seem to me as if this Castle is doing its best to ensure we do not leave," Donal said.


    Daine glanced up at the man''s grim face, still not used to the lack of mischief in his voice. She still was not sure what to make of his latest incarnation. For sure, she appreciated his increased use in a melee - she doubted, even with her own enhanced talents, she would have prevailed alone in the mountains - but it felt like he had lost some of his essential ''Donalness'' during the Class change. She even thought she might have preferred the Dark Warlord version of him from the siege of Swinford.


    "I was thinking the same thing," Eliud said, and Daine did not miss the wariness in the Pendragon''s eyes when he looked towards Donal, nor that his hands were constantly filled with mana. It seemed the Duskstrider was not comfortable around the man either.


    "Well, you know what they say about great minds," Donal said.


    "That they rarely differ?"


    "No. That I have one. Why would great minds rarely differ? Surely, the point of having ''great'' Intelligence is that you are capable of reaching for unique solutions. I am pleased that our companion - a man who is doing his level best to hold lightning bolts in the palm of his hands surreptitiously and failing at that subterfuge - is having similar thoughts to mine, but it would be best none of us pretended he is reaching my levels of insight."


    Daine wanted to smile at the snark, but there was something in Donal''s tone that made it feel like he was going through the motions. That he was reading from a conversational script, rather than having an actual conversation.


    There was a roar from up ahead, a series of explosions and then a sound that Daine was coming to realise was Savage feeding. "We''re fine!" Genoes shouted back to them, and this time, Daine did smile. There was such an easy enthusiasm to the boy''s voice that it was easy to forget he was no longer the carefree young man she had met in the Village.


    "And do you have a solution to propose, sir?" Eliud asked, allowing some of the mana he was channelling to dissipate into the air.


    He did not know what to make of Donal Assay. When they had first met, during the failed attempt to confront the Trellecs - when Genoes had been stolen from Eliud''s care by the Dark God - he had recognised there was something profoundly unusual about the Secretary. During a life filled with incidents, Eliud had come across all manner of beings - human and supernatural - and there had been more of the latter about the man than anyone else he had met outside of the Pantheon. Daine seemed quite unconcerned by the regular Class changes that the man had gone through in just the last month alone - Secretary, Dark Warlord, Druid, Frontiersman and now Doom Reaver - but Eliud had never heard of anything like it.


    There were Skills - the King had one, for example - which could cause Class changes to occur, although not without considerable cost to that ability''s target: there was a reason Hanya used that Skill as a punishment rather than a boon. And, of course, the gods could confer new Classes on those who agreed to follow them. But for - at least to all appearances - a mortal to be able to change Class with the ease of a maiden choosing a new dress? No. Such a thing should not have been possible.


    "A solution?" Donal''s eyes when they met the Pendragon''s were flat. Eliud had only seen their like when, briefly, tangling with a great fish with serrated teeth. It was the cool regard of an apex predator debating whether you were its next meal. "I would have thought that the way out of this difficulty would be obvious to a man of your talents."


    The three of them rounded a corner and caught back up with the rest of their little group. Genoes, sat stroking Josul, turned to give them a cheery wave while Savage, sat on Kirstin''s shoulder, was cleaning her paw with all signs of being perfectly at ease.


    For her part, the girl gave a helpless little shrug. "I didn''t even see what it was this time. It was dead and gone before I even drew."


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    "I would not worry about that. We will not encounter anything friendly in the heart of the Dark God''s realm." Daine said, smiling reassuringly, even as she found herself alarmed at the devastation around her. Had the release of Genoes'' power scorched the stone in such a way?


    Eliud obviously felt the same way, as he knelt next to the boy and began explaining the principles of mana conservation. "One of the things you will learn, as you get older, is that you do not need to blow the doors off it in every single fight. Think of it this way . . ."


    Daine put her back to the impromptu lesson and spoke softly to Donal. "Speak. How do we return to our own realm?"


    "Seems obvious to me," Donal shrugged. "We have two mages that can create portals in our party. The boy summoned us here, and from what I''ve read about that fancy Dan, teleportation is very much his thing. Even if the lad isn''t up to another go yet, I''m sure Eliud Vila must be. I don''t understand why we''re wandering around looking for an exit when we have a way out right there. Sooner or later, we''re going to bump into something nastier than a pack of rats, and then things will get . . . unpleasant."


    Kirstin joined them, eyeing Donal suspiciously. It might have been Daine''s imagination, but she thought Savage was hissing at him, too. Or, at least, muttering the word ''hiss''.


    "An interesting bow, my dear," Donal said, his unsettling gaze falling on the weapon in the girl''s hand. "But I do not think you''ve used it yet, no?"


    Kirstin shuffled slightly to the side, putting Daine between her and the man. "As I said, there has not been any need. Genoes, Josul and Savage have been more than enough for everything we have come across thus far."


    "Ah, but it is more than that, is it not?" Donal continued. "You''re carrying a thing of beauty there, and it wants to be bound to you. I can feel it, calling out, frustrated with you for keeping it at - heh - at arm''s length. What is your hesitation?"


    Kirstin glanced at Daine, feeling immense reassurance in the older woman''s presence. She would not have exchanged her time with Eliud for anything, but ''safe'' was the very last thing that she had ever felt when travelling with him. The Pendragon seemed to view life and death situations as training opportunities. It was very different being stood in the Lady Darkhelm''s presence. "I don''t know what you mean, sir," she replied, raising her chin.


    "Come off it, girl!" and there was raw steel in Donal''s voice now. So much so, that Kirstin took half a step back in surprise, and Eliud glanced up from where he was helping Genoes smooth out his mana usage.


    "Take a care, sir," Daine murmured, her hand dropping to her sword''s handle, "we are not on the battlefield now. You will speak civilly."


    "Oh, will I?" Donal''s lips drew back, exposing his teeth in a snarl. Then, there was a flash of light behind his eyes, and his expression softened. "My apologies," he said, voice gruff. "It has been a while since I have spent much time in this Class. Far lower Charisma than I am used to, you understand?"


    Daine''s hand did not move. "If you wished to change into something more . . . comfortable, that would be fine. After all, we have less need for - " she gestured towards his twin axes - "brute Strength right now. Your more thoughtful counsel may be more useful?"


    Donal stared back, and for a moment, Daine was struck by the certainty he was about to attack her. Then, the tension cleared, and he smiled. "Maybe. However, let us not count our chickens before we have even purchased our eggs. I see some use for this Class in our futures."


    Kirstin cleared her throat awkwardly. "Sir, what did you mean about my bow?"


    Donal''s gaze swivelled to the girl who, once again, quailed under the intensity of his regard. In response, Savage''s yowl increased in volume. "Be quiet, hellcat," he growled, then continued, staring unblinkingly at Kirstin. "Unless I am mistaken, that beautiful piece of workmanship is a threshold bonus? Ah, I thought so," he said as her eyes widened. "Very well done. It has been an age since I heard of someone moving a Skill to Rank 2. I was beginning to think humanity had got soft. Lost its edge, as it were."


    Thinking about the agony she had gone through to evolve her <Nebula Cloak> Kirstin could believe it. "You know about Rank 2, then? Eliud said he''d never heard of it?"


    "Well, as surprising as this may be to hear, the Duskstrider is not the font of all knowledge. If you want, say, a mountain blown up, of course, he is absolutely your man. However, if forbidden and esoteric information is your heart''s desire, then you will need to look elsewhere."


    In his previous incarnations, such a speech would have been wryly amusing. Delivered with a glint in the eye or a smirk on the face, it would have lightened the increasingly dark atmosphere around the man. However, spoken in such a gravelly, flat tone and with no humour in his face, it was not just Kirstin who found it disconcerting.


    "Her bow, sir?" Daine prompted, trying to mask her disquiet.


    "Ah, yes. Unless I am much mistaken - and I am not - the girl has somehow earned a piece of soulbound equipment, which she has not yet bound to her soul. Impressive, especially at her age. I would encourage you, child, to make use of it at the next opportunity. Not everyone who comes across an unbound threshold bonus will be as sanguine about it as I. People have been murdered over much less. Trust me, I should know."


    There was an awkward pause. Donal did not seem anxious to break it, and Daine was unsure what words to use to diffuse the tension.


    Then, Genoes gave a delighted shout and clapped his hands. "Daine, Daine, look what I''ve done!"


    Relieved, Daine walked up to where the boy was sitting next to a kneeling Eliud. Before them was a small, glittering gold circle. "What is it?"


    "Well," Eliud said, pride etched all over his face, "it appears our budding little powerhouse here can understand the principles of transdimensional spatial confluence manifestation. And, what is more than understand them, he can actually put those principles into practice!"


    Genoes beamed at the praise, and Daine''s heart ached to see how much the kind words meant to him. She did not think he had heard anywhere nearly enough of it during his life.


    "Well, I''m glad he understands, because I have no idea what any of that means," Kirstin said, also smiling.


    "It means I can create a stable portal. It means I can get us all home."

 Chapter #148 - Soulbinding

    Kirstin rested her hand on her bow, pondering Donal''s words. People have been murdered over much less, he had said, and the way he had looked at Shadowstrike - avaricious, yet wistful - made her believe him.


    Soulbound. That was how he had described the bow and the moment he had spoken that word, she had known the right of it.


    Ignoring whatever lesson Eliud was trying to impress on Genoes, she sat cross-legged on the floor, Shadowstrike resting in her lap. Savage buzzed in irritation at the unexpected movement and hopped free from her shoulder, stalking to nuzzle into the fur on Josul''s back, much to the dog''s delight. Kirstin watched the two for a moment, making sure the cat would not suddenly return and disturb her.


    Happy Savage was settled, Kirstin allowed herself to examine Shadowstrike anew. The bow¡¯s dark limbs gleamed faintly as if absorbing the light that glowed in Eliud''s hands. She ran her fingers along the wood, tracing the swirling patterns carved into its surface. It seemed to respond to her, almost as if it were revelling in the contact, eager for her to continue to stroke it.


    Donal''s words echoed once more in her mind. Soulbound. The word had carried all the weight of expectation she had been keen to keep at bay. This was not just another piece of equipment; this bow was a part of who she was now, or at least it would be if she completed the binding. However, there was far more to it than just claiming it. She could feelthat something deeper was at play: that any intended bond would not be merely transactional.


    Kirstin glanced down at her palm, noting again the faint glow that had appeared there after she had acquired the bow¡ªan indigo light shimmering like the heart of a nebula. The connection to her Rank 2 Skill, <Nebula Cloak>, was clear.


    "Bind it before someone takes it from you," Donal had said. He wasn¡¯t one to exaggerate - well, no, that was not quite true. The Donal she had known before his . . . transformation was one ever given to hyperbole. However, the way the brow of his latest form had furrowed, the tightness in his voice . . . The man was both concerned and . . . hungry? That combination made her nervous.


    Kirstin took a breath and phased Eliud''s lesson to Genoes out, closing her eyes and tried to focus, to feel for the connection between her and Shadowstrike. She tried to ignore the soft murmur of voices around her, but her thoughts kept drifting, circling around the what-ifs, the consequences of failure. What would happen if she couldn¡¯t bind the bow? What if someone did take it? Would she lose her Skill? What about her new Class? Was she really so fragile?


    "Focus, Kirstin," she muttered to herself, activating <Nebula Cloak>.


    Her senses flared, reaching out instinctively, touching the spiral of energy that had settled within her since her power upgrade. She could feel the threads of the Skill wrapping around her, pulling her into the space between the realms, but it was slippery, hard to grasp, as if the power itself was waiting for her to understand something vital before allowing her complete control.


    Shadowstrike pulsed beneath her fingers. The sensation was not entirely unpleasant, but it was unsettling, like the beat of a second heart. It was alien, yet oddly familiar, a whisper in a language she had always known but never spoken.


    Something tugged at her, pulling her towards the realm she had left behind. Savage, probably. The cat had said how much it hated the sense of ''goneness'' that occurred when Kirstin used this power. With an effort, she pulled away from that sending. As a plain old <Archer>, she had always been good at control, good at focusing, yet now . . . now her mind felt groggy as if she were trying to draw a bow of mist. Shadowstrike was resisting her, drawing her along in its wake, towards . . . something dark.


    Kirstin felt a sudden flicker of doubt. What if she was not powerful enough to bind the bow? Although Donal seemed to know what a ''threshold bonus'' was, even someone as powerful as Eliud had never heard of it. How could she possibly think she was in the same realm as him? As the legendary Daine Darkhelm. What if all of this was a mistake? That she was never meant to wield something so powerful? The bow felt too grand, too . . . heavy for her. Kirstin was not some storied, legendary hero. She was just an ordinary girl fumbling through every mistake like everyone else.


    But that was not entirely true, was it? Ever since her death in the Sky Keep, she was different. The power that had been growing within her ever since she had chosen to evolve her Class into becoming a Celestial Harbinger was undeniable. From that moment, she had been bursting through barriers she had not even known existed, and the world had begun to feel both more dangerous and more malleable under her touch. Her <Nebula Cloak>, now at Rank 2, had transformed her understanding of what was possible. She could bend the light around her, vanish into shadow, become untouchable for fleeting moments.


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    Achieving a bond with her bow . . . this was the next step. She understood that. But knowing it did not make the task of attaining it any easier.


    Kirstin sighed, feeling the strain in her shoulders from sitting still for too long. Her back ached, her mind even more so. But she could not simply give up.


    People have been murdered over much less.


    "Alright," she whispered, as if speaking to the bow. "Let¡¯s try this again."


    Kirstin centred herself, focusing on the weight of Shadowstrike in her lap. This time, she pushed everything else out of her mind and let herself be pulled deeper into that strange pulse she felt through the bow. At first, it was faint, just a murmur at the edge of her consciousness, but slowly, as she breathed in, out, in again, the sensation strengthened. A thread of connection began to weave itself between her and the bow, ethereal and barely perceptible, but there. She grasped it, reaching for the connection and, for a second, it almost slipped away.


    But then¡ªsnap¡ªit clicked into place.


    A flood of energy rushed through her. She gasped, eyes flying open, as the world around her warped. The walls twisted, shifting into shades of black and purple, rippling with the light of distant stars. She was no longer in the chamber; she was floating in a void, a space of swirling dust and far-off worlds.


    Her breath quickened. What was this place? This was very different from the gap between the realms she was used to experiencing when activating her Skill. Kirstin looked down at the bow in her hands, but it was no longer just a weapon. Shadowstrike shimmered, glowing with the same indigo light she could see pulsing in her veins. It was part of her now, she realised. Almost an extension of her arms. This was not a dream. It was a test¡ªa trial.


    "Bind me," a voice whispered, soft as the brush of stardust. But it was not coming from outside of Kirstin. It was inside her mind.


    Kirstin swallowed. "I¡¯m trying," she said, though she was not sure if she was speaking to herself or the bow.


    "Our bond is not complete yet. But it is close."


    Kirstin knew the voice was telling the truth. She could feel the connection right there, just beyond her grasp. However, whenever she reached for it, something pulled her back¡ªfear, doubt, or maybe something else entirely.


    She did not know how long she sat there, caught between worlds, her mind stretched thin between the ethereal nebula and the cold, hard reality of the Dark God''s Keep. Time did not seem to exist here.


    But she couldn¡¯t stop now. She would not.


    She was going to bind Shadowstrike


    She had to.


    Kirstin steadied her breathing, drawing in the cool air of the void. Each inhale seemed to fill her lungs with stardust, and with every exhale, her bow responded, pulsing softly. Shadowstrike thrummed in her grip as though impatient, waiting for her to take the next step.


    The connection between them was almost palpable now, a live wire of energy buzzing through her fingers. Yet, even as she felt the bond strengthening, something still resisted, a weight at the back of her mind. And then she realised it was not Shadowstrike that held back¡ªno, it was her. Her fear. Her doubt.


    You are not good enough for this.


    The voice of Jak whispered viciously in her mind. How often had he said those words to her over the years? How many times had her brother taken some dream she had cherished and crushed it. And now, here he was. The echo of every insecurity, every nagging thought she had buried deep inside herself. Who are you to wield something so powerful? Jak asked. Who are you to rise this far?


    Kirstin''s heart pounded a heavy, uneven rhythm that drowned out the hum of the bow. She had been pushing herself further and further ever since that day in the Sky Keep. But maybe¡ªjust maybe¡ªthis was too much. Perhaps Jak was right. She was just a scared girl, clinging to her brother''s coattails, hoping the world would leave her alone.


    No!


    Kirstin clenched her jaw, yelling back at her brother. She had fought more brutal battles than this. She had faced monsters - enemies far more fantastic than herself - and come out alive. She had earned this power, earned the right to claim Shadowstrike as her own. She was no longer just the girl fumbling through mistakes. She was a Celestial Harbinger. And she would rise to meet this challenge.


    Lifting her chin, she reached for the bond once more, her mind focused and clear. The thread of connection was there, glowing brightly in the darkness, and this time, she did not hesitate. Kirstin grasped it with both hands, pulling the energy into herself, letting it flood her senses. The void around her shimmered, rippling with life, and she felt Shadowstrike¡¯s power surge through her.


    The bond between them snapped into place, solid and unbreakable, and Kirstin gasped as a new Skill bloomed within her Core, uncoiling like a serpent from the depths of her soul. She did not even need to look at the notification to know what it was. The knowledge flowed into her naturally, as if it had always been there.


    "<Stellar Volley>," she whispered, the words tasting like starlight on her tongue.


    Kirstin released <Nebula Cloak> and opened her eyes, the void fading as reality bled back into focus. The corridor was quiet, the world still.


    A warm hand touched her shoulder.


    "Kirstin?" Eliud¡¯s voice was soft, full of concern. "Are you okay?"


    She exhaled, the weight of the bow still present, but now . . . lighter. She smiled faintly, nodding.


    "I am now."

 Chapter #149 - A Clash of Titans

    "So, what do we all think?"


    Daine looked back at Eliud, unsure what response he expected to his suggestion. She was just opening her mouth to speak, when Donal beat her to it.


    "Let me get this straight. And, before I begin, I recognise that my new Class has a tendency to be a touch ''glass smashed down to fragments and all the liquid poured away'' about it. Thus, we should all take what I have to add in that spirit. However, I do not think I will be speaking solely for myself when I say are you out of your Goddess-damned mind!"


    The roar that came into the man''s voice took them all by surprise: Josul bounded in front of a wide-eyed Genoes, barking and snapping; Savage puffed up to twice her normal size on Kirstin''s shoulder, whose eyes flashed purple, summoning a Skill; and Daine''s hand was immediately on her sword''s hilt.


    In fact, the only person who did not react was the focus of Donal''s rage, who simply smiled back.


    "Regularly, sir. But on this occasion, I do think I have the right of it."


    The two stared at each other for a moment, and Daine was struck by the potential for a complete disaster brewing in front of her. It was a truism of life in the Kingdom that the Duskstrider, Eliud Vila, was a walking cataclysm. Daine had been on Tour at the time of the confrontation that resulted in his banishment from the Palace, but she doubted there was much embellishment in the stories she had heard. A Pendragon will do what a Pendragon will do, and the rest of us should keep out of his way, Old Gant had drummed into her; she had never seen anything to undermine that assessment.


    Yet, to see Donal confront him like this . . . well, Daine was not certain that the outcome would be a foregone conclusion. And, judging by the slight creasing to the corner of Eliud''s eyes, her friend shared that thought.


    Donal broke the silence. "You propose using a boy - a boy with no Class and no Skills - to open a portal between the Dark God''s realm and our own."


    "I can do it!" Genoes said defiantly, trying to move past Josul.


    The grim man''s attention shifted, and a reassuring smile came to his face. Daine saw something of the old Donal in that. "I don''t doubt your courage, Genoes. But it is reprehensible for you to be put in that position." He turned back to Eliud. "From what I have read of your Class - and I have read wildly and widely - you have all sorts of portal Skills at your disposal. If anyone should be sending us back, it is you!"


    Eliud shrugged. "I was never a fan of some of the more elaborate legends that have bloomed around me."


    Kirstin snorted. "That would be a lot more convincing if your Inventory was not full of well-thumbed scrolls called things like ''The Irresistible Rise of the Duskstrider'' and ''Eliud: Hero of our Age.''"


    Daine smiled at the blush that spread over the mage''s face. "To be fair," she added, enjoying his discomfort, "he only commissioned about half of those."


    Eliud cleared his throat. "I feel we are getting away from the point somewhat. What I would say to . . . I am sorry, how would you like me to address you?"


    "Donal is fine."


    "If you wish. Although that is quite the exotic Class you are currently inhabiting. Are you sure you would not like me to acknowledge you as . . . "


    "Do not test me, Duskstrider."


    Daine frowned. Was there something she was missing about Donal''s warrior-aspected Class?


    "As you say . . . Donal, as you say. Now, where was I? Ah, yes. Portals. As you note, I am generally seen as an expert in such things. You need your army transported the length of the Kingdom? I am your man. An assassin needing dropping into a tricky, well-defended castle? Not a problem. However," and two points of light appeared in Eliud''s hands, a thin tether of lightning connecting them, "my powers are largely realm dependent."


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    As he spoke, the first sphere of light transformed into a miniature representation of their group. With amusement, Daine noted that the tiny version of Eliud was at least half a foot taller than he was in reality. For such a powerful man, he really was spectacularly insecure at times.


    "In the normal run of things," the Duskstrider continued, "I would be able to blip us from Point A to Point B with a minimum of fuss." The group vanished from one hand and reappeared in the other. "However, within this realm, I find myself . . . geographically challenged."


    Daine frowned at that. "Your Skills do not work?"


    "They are ''working'' just fine, my Lady." An explosion of lightning flared from his eyes to spark at Donal''s feet. The other man did not so much as flinch. "However, I find myself unable to identify Point A, as it were."


    "You don''t know where we are?" Kirstin asked, and Daine noted the way she was cradling her new bow in a far more attentive way than previously. Something had changed there. However, before she had time to consider that, Eliud had continued.


    "I know exactly where I am, my dear. A Pendragon is never lost; please do not worry about that for a moment. However, try as I might, I seem unable to plant an anchor point here. To tell the truth, I am beginning to think that ''here'' might not exist in any meaningful way at all." He turned to Daine. "I don''t suppose your patron has anything useful to add here?"


    There was nothing but silence when Daine reached for the Goddess. That was becoming somewhat of a pattern. She shook her head, and Eliud grimaced.


    "Well, I do not suppose it makes much difference. If I was a betting man - and, of course, I am not. I find it to be spectacularly unfair on everyone else - I would say that the Dark God''s realm is loose in time."


    Donal nodded. "That would fit with my understanding of such things, too. Whilst the manipulation of time''s eddies may be more associated with the Goddess, it has been documented that the Lords of Misrule and the Dark God possess a similar capacity. Thus, it would seem appropriate for this realm to exist outside our normal perception of existence."


    Daine thought Eliud looked less than delighted with the contribution. "Well, yes. Thank you for that. Well, what this means is that my myriad of portal Skills find themselves to be functionally useless without a stable point of origin. And if this realm is nothing else, it is certainly not stable."


    As if in answer to Eliud''s words, the Keep shivered, the stone corridors appearing to tremble.


    "So where does Genoes come in?" Daine asked when the tremor passed.


    "Well," and Eliud beamed, "this is where it all becomes very interesting. Whilst it appears that my Class and its attendant Skills are rather ''real world'' dependent, our little powerhouse here seems to have no such restrictions."


    "You said it yourself, he doesn''t have any Skills!" Donal protested. "All he can do is copy what you are showing him!"


    "Imitation is the most sincere form of flattery I have always found, dear sir. And what better Skills for Genoes to recreate than one that will be able to get us home?"


    "I understand how to do it," Genoes said, craning his neck to look up at Donal, eyes filled with innocent sincerity. "I don''t know why, but I can see what Eliud wants me to do, and my . . . my mana mana just responds." His eyes flicked upwards, and a frown appeared on his face. "It wants me to create a Skill called <Homeward Bound>?"


    Eliud nodded. "Yes, that''s what I would be planning to use. And, forgive me, you can remember the shape of the Skill without needing to formalise it into your Core?"


    "Yes," Genoes said simply. "It would be quicker to have a name for it, I think, but I can recreate the steps."


    The boy''s eyes glowed, and a swirling circle of yellow light appeared against the wall behind them. Through it, Daine could make out the peaks of the Bloodspires.


    "And he doesn''t need an anchor point?" Donal said, a note of wonder replacing the gruffness of his tone.


    "Not as far as I can tell. Genoes seems to . . . to exist in this realm in a way the rest of us do not."


    At those words, Daine saw a look pass between Donal and Eliud that she did not like much. She had spent nigh-on thirty years on Tour, and one of the first things she had learned - and had been reminded with regularity - was that nothing good came from secrets.


    "What is it?" she asked. Another look was shared between the two men. "Sirs, I mean this was all due respect, but regardless of whatever esoteric powers you might both possess, I am firmly of the opinion that I am more than capable of boxing your collective ears. If there''s something you think we need to know about this plan, then you need to speak it."


    Surprisingly, it was Genoes who answered. "They''re worried that although you will be able to pass through the portal, I might not. If I''m linked to the Dark God''s realm in some way, they think I might be . . . I don''t know how to describe it . . . "


    The Goddess''s voice suddenly chimed in Daine''s head. Shadowbound. It may well be the boy has become Shadowbound. There was a pause, before she added. I am so sorry.

 Chapter #150 - "Famous last stand."

    "I''ve never liked the words ''famous last stand,''" Captain Kettle said, speaking to no one in particular. "In the first, it presupposes a day on my feet, which is never high on my list of priorities."


    "That''s true, sir," Drult murmured from his side. "If anyone knows anything about Captain Cattle, it''s that he loves a good sit down."


    If Kettle heard the rumble of laughter at the Sergeant''s commentary, he chose to ignore it. "Then there''s the idea about the whole thing being ''famous''. Could never be doing with that sort of talk. What do I say about fame, boys?"


    "That it''s a fickle mistress, sir?"


    Kettle frowned at that. "Doubt I ever used the word ''fickle'' in my life, Jinks. Where do you come up with this stuff!"


    "That only the dead get famous, sir," another of the huddled men behind him supplied.


    "That''s the one. Only the dead get famous. Words you can live your whole life."


    "Certainly ones not to die by," Drult added, sotto voce.


    "And that brings me to the point of this morning''s exercise." Kettle''s voice raised now so that it could be heard by more than just his own company. "I don''t want any of you getting the wrong end of the stick of what we''re about here. We''re not here to soak the dirt in our blood. The General hasn''t put us here to earn our place in history. No. None of that for us at all. No one knows anything about us now, and nothing we''re about to do this morning will change that. I want you to put all ideas of heroism out of your mind. This is just going to be another day in paradise for you all in His Majesty''s army. We''re going to stand here for a bit, persuade anyone who wants us to move the error of their ways, and then we''re going to cross over yonder river after the rest of our mates and have tea and crumpet under the light the Harvest Moon. Are we all clear on this fact?"


    The river behind them snaked beneath a cold, grey sky, its sluggish waters offering no comfort. Making their final preparations to cross, the refugees of Swinford crowded under tattered cloaks, their faces pale with fear, eyes fixed on the slope above them. The horizon boiled with dark clouds, and - well they knew - from those mountains came the corrupted warriors that had dogged their steps for the last week.


    A little back from where Cattle was doing his best to raise the spirits of the bedraggled soldiers, what remained of the command staff of the King''s Army watched those same hills.


    ¡°Not long now,¡± General Souit muttered, adjusting the gauntlet on his left hand. His gaze scanned the banks, already calculating the worst possible outcome and how to outmanoeuvre it. "Might be a good time to stiffen some sinews."


    Taelsin grimaced, triggering <Bulwark of Hope>. During their journey through the mountains, the reach of that Skill had increased as the Skill had levelled up. He did not think it said anything good about their progress that he could now easily encompass the entirety of the group within its reach.


    "Do you have the mana to keep <Heart of the Displaced> running, sir? I''d rather not waste any of the healers we have left because your people are a little tired and emotional."


    Taelsin bit back his first reply. Over their march, he had long learned that diplomacy was not one of the Great General''s many talents and skills. He was just stating reality as he saw it. "For sure, General. If I keep my focus on the refugees, that should not be a problem." A low hum filled the air as both of his new Skills rippled outwards. Soldiers stood straighter, steadier, the wild thumping of their hearts brought under control. Likewise, the movements of the refugees preparing to cross the river became less frantic, more focused.


    Souit nodded. Satisfied. They would all be in urgent need of this clarity, for soon the dark tide massing in those hills would descend.


    ¡°Captain Kettle!¡± Souit¡¯s voice rang out, snapping across the ranks. Cattle paused in his own efforts to raise morale and clanked forward, his <Guardsman> armour thick with dents - both old and new.


    ¡°Aye, sir?¡±


    ¡°You know your orders?"


    "Aye, sir."


    "Repeat them to me."


    "I''m to take my men and hold the northern bank. If they want to follow the refugees as they cross, they¡¯ll have to come through the shallows there. We¡¯re to dissuade that course of action.¡±


    "Your men up for it?"


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    Captain Kettle nodded, though, in truth, he was not so sure. The north bank of the river was treacherous with mud and thick reeds¡ªhardly ideal terrain from which to hold a solid line.


    ¡°Major Degralk,¡± Souit turned, to look at his second in command. ¡°You and what remains of our pike companies will support the captain, but be sure to stagger your defence. Your focus is to be those monsters. The Captain''s men will repel the headlong charge of the mountain men. But those beasts? They¡¯ll look to swarm.¡±


    Degralk¡¯s eyes narrowed. ¡°The MyrkrTr?ll?¡± His voice was thick with disgust. The memory of those shadow-things¡ªtheir oily shapes sliding over the battlefield like spilled blood¡ªwas enough to twist his stomach.


    Souit¡¯s lips tightened. ¡°Yes. Position your men along the ridge and ready the long pikes. Keep them at bay. They can''t be allowed to get amongst the refugees." Degralk''s jaw tightened, but he saluted without hesitation.


    Finally, Souit turned to Taelsin. "Best you get your people across now, sir. Get them clear of the river as soon as you can. I doubt these things will think to use arrows, but let''s not take the risk. We''ll follow as soon as we are able."


    Taelsin opened his mouth to, once more, protest against this course of action. He was no military strategist, but he could recognise the jeopardy of what Souit sought to achieve. The river would be an excellent barrier between them and the rampaging mountain men that had dogged their every step, but getting across it safely was a whole other thing. Taelsin feared he was about to witness the eradication of the last of the King''s Army. And, without their protection, the Goddess knew what would become of Swinford''s refugees.


    Then, the scream of a horn¡ªlow and mournful¡ªcut through the air. Souit¡¯s gaze snapped toward the mountains. They were coming.


    "Fast as you like, sir. We will see you on the other side."


    Dark shapes crawled from the hillsides, black against the ashen sky. The corrupted men of the mountain, once proud hunters of their Bloodspires, were now reduced to shambling, horrific figures. Their flesh was twisted, bone visible through cracked skin, eyes wild and glinting with madness. They roared and shrieked, their voices rising with an eerie, unnatural pitch.


    But they were not the true horror. Souit''s forces had repelled their regular, frenzied attacks - if not easily - then with minimal fuss. They were professional soldiers, well used to pacifying savage tribes, and it took a lot to disturb their equilibrium. However, behind the mountain men, even darker shadows loomed. The MyrkrTr?ll¡ªtwisted human sacrifices to the Dark God¡ªflowed from the mountain¡¯s roots like living nightmares. Each moved with an unnatural grace, their forms indistinct and writhing. Limbs extended in ways that no human¡¯s should, and where there should have been eyes, there was only endless darkness.


    Kettle swallowed hard, but raised his voice as he returned to his men. ¡°Guardsmen, form up! We hold here!¡± Without a word, his men locked shields, the heavy iron plates slamming together, forming a wall.


    ¡°Pikemen!¡± Degralk barked, his voice cutting through the sudden wind that whipped across the water. ¡°Hold fast!¡±


    The corrupted mountain men began their descent, howling like wolves. Spears and axes flashed in their hands, but their movements were uncanny¡ªfaster than should be possible for something so twisted and monstrous. The first wave of arrows was loosed from the archers stationed along the ridge. The shafts hissed through the air, finding targets in the front lines of the corrupted. Some stumbled, struck down, but others barely seemed to notice the arrows sticking from their flesh.


    ¡°Here they come!¡± Kettle bellowed, hefting his broad shield just as the first of the mountain men crashed into the defensive line.


    The impact was thunderous. Shields groaned under the weight of the assault. Swords and axes hacked down, glancing off steel and wood, but some broke through. Kettle slammed his shoulder into the press, knocking one of the twisted attackers to the ground, and drove his blade into its neck. It let out a gurgling snarl before collapsing into the mud.


    The northern bank of the river was under siege, but Souit¡¯s mind was already elsewhere. The real threat was not these rabid creatures¡ªthey were dangerous, yes, but predictable. It was the MyrkrTr?ll. His eyes flicked to the shadows slithering just behind the battlefront, sliding like oil across the riverbank. They had not engaged yet, but they would. By the Lords, he knew they would.


    ¡°They¡¯re holding back,¡± he muttered. ¡°Why?¡±


    Then, a terrible sound¡ªa low growl, deep and guttural¡ªrumbled across the field. It came from the rear of the corrupted forces. A MyrkrTr?ll stepped forward, its body writhing in the half-light. It moved with a fluidity that mocked the human shape it once was. Then, with a horrifying screech, it lunged forward, crashing into the front lines like a force of nature.


    Kettle¡¯s shield buckled under the blow, and the soldiers behind him staggered. ¡°Hold, damn you! Hold!¡± he screamed, thrusting his sword into the creature¡¯s shadowy mass. It screeched, recoiling for a moment, but surged again, its amorphous body wrapping around his arm. Kettle gritted his teeth, trying to pull free, but the creature was too strong. He could feel its cold, unnatural grasp seeping into his skin, pulling him closer.


    And then, a light¡ªblinding and sudden¡ªflared from behind the ranks. Taelsin, who had not followed the refugees in their swim across the river, stepped into the line, his sword raised high. The new Skill he had acquired during the many confrontations in the last week, <Beacon>, burst into life, sending bolts of luminescence into the monster. Kettle¡¯s body shuddered, the dark grasp loosening as Taelsin''s assault forced the creature back.


    ¡°Push!¡± Taelsin shouted, his voice clear and commanding. ¡°Push them back!¡±


    Souit nodded approvingly at the man''s timing. His soldiers, emboldened by the surge of power, slammed their shields forward. Spears and swords thrust into the assaulting shadows, and, for a moment, the line held.


    But it was not over.


    The first of the MyrkrTr?ll shrieked, recoiling into the darkness, but there were more of them. Far too many. Dozens now, sliding from the mountains, their shapes blurring with the wind and shadows. Souit¡¯s jaw tightened. He had planned for this, but even his Skill-enhanced mind was struggling to calculate the path of every shadow, every strike.


    ¡°Major Degralk,¡± Souit called out, his voice steady amidst the chaos. ¡°I think the next wave will be for you and your boys!¡±

 Chapter #151 - Breaking Shadow

    As if in response to the increased activity of the Dark God''s monsters, the sky above darkened, thick clouds rolling in like a shroud, casting the battlefield into an even colder twilight. What little light remained flickered over the blood-soaked mud, painting everything in grim hues.


    "If you had it in you, sir, I think we''d all appreciate a bit more of that glow. If you didn''t mind, of course."


    Taelsin winked at the soldier with a humour he certainly did not feel, pushing even more mana into <Beacon>. As he did so, and his sword glowed with an even richer shine, he felt the dull thud of a familiar headache form in the centre of his brow. He was in danger of running dry. Again.


    The Wandering Steward glanced over his shoulder at his people. The first of them, the strongest, were about halfway across now, but even they were struggling against the surging current. Goddess knows how the old, the sick, and the children would fare. But then the weight of the mountain men surged against Cattle''s formation again, and his mind was elsewhere.


    ¡°One step back!¡± Kettle roared. His men, feet slipping into the red-soaked earth, fumbled to follow as the corrupted came down upon them like an avalanche.


    The unexpected movement from the shield wall, performed with parade-ground precision, unbalanced the frenzied attack. The front row of the mountain men swung at thin air, allowing the defenders a modicum of space. Even then, though, the impact of the assault took a toll. The first to fall was Henswick. A jagged spear punctured down through his neck and out of his stomach with a sickening crunch. He tried to scream, but only a blood-choked gargle escaped his lips as his intestines slithered out and pooled around his boots. His attacker¡ªa monstrosity of rotting sinew and cracked bone¡ªsnarled and pulled him closer, tearing the spear free in a wet, sucking sound. The man collapsed, his body twitching in the slick earth, forgotten.


    In response, Kettle drove his sword up under the creature''s ribs, tearing through muscle, feeling the vibrations travel up the hilt. The mountain man shuddered violently, black blood gushing from the wound in thick ropes, but - somehow - its strength did not falter. It grabbed Kettle¡¯s arm with a clawed hand, squeezing, and Kettle felt something snap in his wrist, the pain blossoming like fire. Teeth, yellowed and broken, snapped inches from his face, and he jammed his shield up between them, feeling the sickening crunch of bone as he broke its jaw.


    ¡°Hold!¡± he screamed. ¡°Hold!¡±


    His men were desperate to splinter into smaller groups. Some were eyeing the dubious safety of the river, whereas others were keen to simply run and leave this horror behind. Yet, deep down, they all knew their only chance of survival was to stay in line. Years of training had drummed that into them, and they were all survivors of numerous encounters where those who broke first, ended up dead. The air was thick with the scent of blood and filth, the cries of dying men mixing with the inhuman screeches of the corrupted. Yet, whilst their Captain stood and as long as that blade of light hovered in the front row, they found the courage to stand.


    Those of the common solidery did not possess many Skills, but they made use of them. All along the line, Strength increased in bursts, wounds healed as Skills were triggered on cooldowns, and tips of weapons bloomed with fire, lightning or whatever element individuals had within their capability. Few held much back in reserve, recognising the extremity of the situation.


    Then, just as it felt like the tide might be turning - that the line would hold - the shrill sound of a horn, unnervingly close, cut through the chaos. Kettle¡¯s blood ran cold. He knew that sound. The MyrkrTr?ll.


    Out of the darkness they came¡ªgliding like smoke over the bodies of the fallen, their forms constantly shifting, never staying solid for more than a heartbeat. The first one struck without warning, appearing from the gloom, and ripping through a soldier before anyone could react. One moment, the man was standing; the next, his chest cavity was opened like a split fruit, ribs splayed wide and organs spilling out in a steaming mass. His legs twitched in the mud, still standing, even as the rest of him slumped.


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    Major Degralk, drenched in the blood of those around him, drove his Skill-empowered pike straight into the centre of that dark mass of shadow and bone. The point sank deep, and for a moment, the creature froze. But then it twisted, its body warping around the weapon, pulling the pike from Degralk¡¯s hands as easily as a child pulling a thread from cloth.


    ¡°Damn it!¡± Degralk spat, yanking a knife from his belt. His sole Skill was focused on that weapon, without it . . . well, no point wondering about that. He lunged at the creature, his blade flashing in the reflected light of Taelsin''s sword. He slashed at its form, black blood spattering his face, but the MyrkrTr?ll barely noticed. It turned, its head stretching unnaturally as its featureless face hovered inches from his. There were no eyes¡ªonly an endless void.


    Degralk¡¯s pulse roared as he cut again, this time cutting deeper. The creature laughed¡ªa high, piercing sound that drilled into his skull¡ªand lashed out. The impact was immediate. The tendril of darkness smashing into his side, flinging him backwards through the air. His vision blurred, pain exploding from his chest as he hit the ground hard. He rolled through the shallow water and mud, groaning, and pushed himself up, barely managing to stagger to his feet.


    Around him, the battlefield was devolving. The MyrkrTr?ll were everywhere, slipping between their formation, tearing through armour and flesh with their ghostly appendages. No one was safe. One soldier was lifted off the ground, a tether of black wrapped around his throat, his body jerking as it dangled like a broken puppet. His eyes bulged, blood pouring from his nose and mouth as his neck was wrenched violently to one side. The snap echoed through the fray as the MyrkrTr?ll dropped his lifeless body like discarded meat.


    Degralk looked behind him; most of the refugees appeared to be in the water now, with a decent number emerging, wet, onto the far bank. Maybe they had some room for manoeuvre.


    ¡°Fall back!¡± Degralk shouted, his voice hoarse. ¡°To the river!¡±


    His men obeyed, stumbling back, step by step, their retreat far more organised than he had any right to demand of them. The river loomed behind them, its rushing water offering their only hope of escape. But not yet. Not until the people of Swinford were clear. Yet the MyrkrTr?ll were relentless, flowing through the dwindling, leaving a trail of broken bodies and shattered minds.


    Kettle fought through the carnage, his shield and sword slick with gore. He hacked at anything that moved, desperate to keep his company in order, to keep them pulling back in good order. But the ground beneath his feet was a mess of churned-up bodies, blood and mud, and every step was a struggle to stay upright.


    To his left, he saw Sergeant Drult struggling with one of the mountain women. The corrupted had wrapped her hands around Drult¡¯s leg, pulling him down, dragging him into the mud. Drult screamed, his blade slashing wildly, but it wasn¡¯t enough. The woman was trying to drown him, her grip crushing bone and flesh alike.


    ¡°Drult!¡± Kettle slammed into the corrupted with all his weight. His shield crushed her head against the ground, and he drove his sword into her chest, again and again, black ichor spilling from the wounds like tar. The woman writhed beneath him, her body twitching and spasming, before finally going still. Kettle collapsed beside it, his chest heaving, hands trembling.


    Drult coughed, clutching at his mangled leg. ¡°Good timing, Captain.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re not done yet.¡± Kettle hauled him to his feet, triggering <Tourniquet> to stop the blood pouring out. There was a thrum of a notification as he felt that Skill level up. It hardly suggested he was moving towards a comfortable retirement that this was the second time he had received that message in a week. Supporting Drult as they staggered toward the riverbank, he said, ¡°We¡¯ll reform here!" But he did not know who he was trying to kid. Behind them, he sensed that the battle might rage on, but it was no longer a fight. Indeed, it was in danger of becoming a massacre.


    From the rear, Souit watched it all unfold, his eyes scanning the chaos for some last thread to pull. His men were, as he had feared, collapsing under the weight of the assault. The defence of the northern bank was all but at an end, the pikemen in danger of being overwhelmed. In fact, without the unexpected intervention of the Wandering Steward, he doubted they would have stood so long.


    It was now or never.


    With a sigh, he began to reach for a Skill he had hoped never to use again.

 Chapter #152 - Fall of a Great General

    Souit¡¯s mind raced, calculating, recalculating as every mental Skill a Great General possessed ran beyond their limits. Minutes, perhaps only seconds, remained before the last of his defences crumbled beneath the onslaught. Each scenario played out in his mind¡ªeach one worse than the last, each one ending in blood and death.


    To his right, Captain Kettle¡¯s formation had disintegrated beneath the pressure of the attack from the corrupted mountain men. A small knot of survivors stood ankle-deep in the river''s shallows, their swords clashing with the snarling creatures as black water churned around their legs. Their attackers came on in waves, muscle and bone spasming grotesquely, their twisted faces split with grins too wide for their once-human mouths. Their attacks were raw, brutal, nothing but rage and hunger and the will of the Dark God driving them forward. There was no hesitation, no fear, only the relentless grind of bodies crashing against failing shields and armour.


    The men of the King¡¯s Army fought as they had been trained, but training was crumbling in the face of relentless horror. The clash of metal against flesh filled the air, along with the wet sound of blades cleaving through bone, the groan of splintering shields, and the gasps of dying men.


    Kettle¡¯s chest heaved with exhaustion as he forced his shield up again, supporting the weight of Drult at his side as best as he could. Black blood smeared his face, drying in thick, crusted streaks. His sword arm was a column of fire, each swing slower than the last, but still, he fought. Still, he swung.


    ¡°Steady!¡± His voice felt hollow to his own ears, drowned under the din of battle. His eyes darted toward the riverbank, where the last of the refugees were dragging themselves through the water. Too slow. Goddess, too slow.


    The battlefield had transformed into a slaughterhouse under the attentions of the MyrkrTr?ll. The damned creatures moved like liquid, slipping between the dying and the living with casual ease, disembowelling men with the flick of a shadowed arm. Kettle heard a slick crack next to him as one of his soldiers screamed¡ªa scream that ended as quickly as it began. The man¡¯s ribs had been torn apart, his innards slithering out into the mud, still warm, still pulsing with the last vestiges of life. The MyrkrTr?ll barely noticed as it discarded the body like offal, turning its eyeless gaze on the next victim.


    Kettle¡¯s grip tightened around his sword as he thrust it forward, the blade scraping across the creature¡¯s oily, shifting form. The MyrkrTr?ll tilted its faceless head, its movements lazy, mocking. Then it lashed out, a wave of darkness wrapping around Kettle¡¯s forearm. Cold, sharper than any winter, seeped through his armour, biting into his skin like a frostbite setting in an instant. Kettle yanked his arm free, snarling, and drove his boot into the creature¡¯s chest, but it barely moved. A ripple of shadow flickered across its form, and before Kettle could react, it struck again.


    The blow hit him with bone-shattering force, and Kettle was flung backwards, crashing into the mud. The breath left his lungs in a sharp, agonizing burst. He struggled to rise, vision blurred, the world tilting dangerously around him. For a moment, all he saw was shadow and flame, his mind spinning.


    Further back, Major Degralk and his pikemen were locked in their own desperate struggle. Their pikes thrust forward in tight formation, stabbing at the twisted creatures that advanced from all sides, but it was like trying to hold back the tide. The soldiers¡¯ hands were slick with blood, slipping on their weapons, the sticky warmth coating their skin. Degralk¡¯s voice was a constant roar, calling out commands that barely held his men together.


    One of the pikemen to Degralk¡¯s right screamed as a MyrkrTr?ll flowed over his weapon, wrapping itself around his neck like a noose. The soldier¡¯s head jerked to the side with a sickening crunch, his spine snapping like dry wood. Degralk cursed under his breath, his jaw clenched tight enough to crack his teeth. He lunged forward, snatching up the fallen man¡¯s weapon. His Skill surged through him, a flicker of blue energy running down the pike''s length as he swung it in a wide arc, slicing through the air and forcing the creatures back¡ªif only for a moment.


    ¡°We need more time!¡± Degralk shouted, his voice raw, though he was no longer sure what they were fighting for. Time? Time for what?


    Souit observed it all from his vantage point; his hand clenched around the pommel of his sword. His breath came in steady, measured rhythms, but his mind was in turmoil. The mana pulsed through him in thick waves, filling him, burning him. His vision blurred at the edges as he channelled more and more energy into the only Skill that might save them.


    Would the Lords of Misrule bet on him this time? He could almost hear their dice rattling in his skull. How long had it been since he last heard that sound? Too long.


    He hoped they were watching.


    The foresight of his Great General Class had carried them this far, but no amount of tactical brilliance could predict this. The battlefield was a roiling mass of bodies and shadows, the MyrkrTr?ll growing stronger with every second. Souit¡¯s options narrowed to one. His vision, bloodshot and strained, lifted to the sky.


    <Infernal Decimation> he whispered, as though the words themselves might break the seal he had placed on this Skill so long ago.


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    The clouds above twisted, darkening from bruised purple to a stark, festering red. But this was no storm. It was a summoning, a calling, the herald of something far worse than the monsters that stalked the battlefield. The power coiled at the edges of Souit¡¯s consciousness, heavy and cold. The ground beneath his feet seemed to tremble, vibrating with anticipation, as though the earth itself recoiled from what was about to be unleashed.


    Souit¡¯s hands shook as he pulled in more mana, more than a man without his Class should have been able to withstand. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat a hammer driving spikes of pain into his skull. His breath came in shallow, ragged bursts, and still, the Skill demanded more. It would take time¡ªperhaps more time than he had. But there was no turning back now.


    ¡°Kettle!¡± Souit¡¯s voice cut through the chaos like a blade. ¡°You need to hold them!¡±


    Kettle, barely able to stand, glanced back over his shoulder. ¡°We¡¯re trying, sir, but¡ª¡±


    ¡°Hold them!¡± Souit barked again, his voice laced with desperation and command. Kettle gave a grim nod and turned back to the nightmare before him, his sword rising one more time to meet the shadows.


    The refugees were now across, but the soldiers were dying faster than they could retreat. Taelsin, his face ashen, staggered back toward the river¡¯s edge. His sword flickered with the remnants of <Beacon>, the light waning as his mana reserves dwindled to nothing. His other two Skills failed at the same time, and the impact on the well-being of those around him showed immediately. Legs shook with exhaustion, yet still, the men of the King''s Army stood. Taelsin glanced up at the sky, at the swirling storm of red and black - a tunnel of air connecting it to the Great General. His stomach twisted into knots: what was Souit doing?


    And he was not the only person who noticed. The MyrkrTr?ll themselves paused. Indeed, every last one of the creatures on the battlefield froze in place, their faceless heads tilting toward Souit in unison. They could feel it too. The gathering storm. The end.


    One of the monsters¡ªa towering shadow that had been tearing through the rear flank¡ªlet out a wail, a sound that split the air like glass shattering. With that, all of the MyrkrTr?ll surged forward in a final, desperate assault, their forms twisting and writhing as they hurtled toward Souit, toward the doom they sensed he was about to unleash.


    ¡°Protect the General!¡± Degralk¡¯s voice was hoarse, barely audible. The few remaining soldiers¡ªthose still standing, still able to hold a weapon¡ªstaggered to form a line between Souit and the advancing horde. Their faces were pale, their hands trembling, but they stood. They stood because there was no other option.


    Souit¡¯s vision blurred, the world narrowing to a single point of focus. The Skill surged within him, clawing at his mind, his soul, demanding release. His arms trembled, the pain unbearable, the pressure building to a crescendo. He had only seconds left.


    And then, with a final, agonizing breath, Souit released <Infernal Decimation>.


    The sky tore open.


    A rift of fire and shadow spiralled downward, a vortex of destruction that smashed into the battlefield with the force of a divine hammer. The MyrkrTr?ll shrieked, their forms disintegrating in the blaze. The ground cracked open, molten earth bubbling up in fiery geysers that consumed everything in their path. Mountain men, MyrkrTr?ll, and even some of his own soldiers were caught in the inferno, their screams lost in the roar of divine flames.


    The vortex expanded, a maelstrom of fire and shadow that arced outward from Souit¡¯s position, engulfing the battlefield in a searing, howling blaze. The earth groaned beneath the weight of the spell, splitting apart as cracks formed, belching molten rock.


    Souit stood at the centre of it all, his body trembling with the effort it had taken to unleash such destruction. His vision was a blur of red and black, his legs threatening to give out beneath him. As it had, the last time he had made use of this Skill, the power of <Infernal Decimation> tore through him, ripping at the edges of his sanity, but he held on, gritting his teeth against the agony. The MyrkrTr?ll shrieked as the fire consumed them, their shadowy forms breaking apart, dissolving into ash that was swept away by the raging wind.


    Cattle, barely conscious, forced himself to his knees, his eyes wide as he watched the hellfire spread. Men screamed as they were caught in the blast, their bodies igniting in an instant, their armour melting into their flesh. The corrupted mountain men howled as the fire ripped through them, their grotesque bodies unable to withstand the heat. One by one, they fell, their limbs curling into themselves as they were consumed.


    Degralk, panting and bloodied, stood at the edge of the inferno, his pike held loosely in his hand. His men¡ªwhat remained of them¡ªhad retreated, pulling back from the expanding flames. The MyrkrTr?ll were no longer advancing; they were no longer anything. The fire had done its work, purging the battlefield of the Dark God¡¯s monstrosities.


    But at what cost?


    Souit collapsed to his knees, his strength finally gone. The Skill had taken everything from him¡ªhis mana, his energy, his very life force. He had known it would come to this. The price of <Infernal Decimation> was not a light one. He could feel his heart slowing, each beat weaker than the last. His vision darkened at the edges, the world around him fading to black.


    In the distance, the last of the refugees were pulling themselves onto the far bank of the river, their faces pale, their bodies soaked but intact. They had made it.


    Kettle forced himself to his feet, stumbling forward through the smoking wreckage. His legs felt like lead, but he kept moving, his eyes fixed on Souit. The Great General knelt in the middle of the devastation, his head bowed, his hands still clenched around the hilt of his sword.


    ¡°Sir!¡± Kettle called out, his voice raw from smoke and blood.


    There was no response.


    Kettle staggered closer, his heart pounding in his chest. The air was thick with ash, making it hard to breathe. He dropped to his knees beside Souit, reaching out to shake him. Souit¡¯s body slumped forward, but his eyes flickered open¡ªbarely.


    ¡°It is...done,¡± Souit rasped, his voice barely a whisper. ¡°They will not...follow.¡±


    Kettle nodded, swallowing hard as he looked around at the ruined battlefield. ¡°You did it, sir. You saved them.¡±


    Souit¡¯s lips twitched in something like a smile and then he was gone.

 Chapter #153 - The Silence Between

    Drunnoc Trellec stood alone in a swirling nightmare, where the trees surrounding him twisted and groaned, their bark peeling away in long, rotting strips. Over the last few months, he had grown familiar with this dark forest, and now every inch of its suffocating decay was thoroughly banal. The fetid stench of wet, decomposing leaves mixed with the unmistakable tang of blood¡ªfresh and clotted, somewhere close. The woods felt alive with death, teeming with silent, watchful eyes.


    At the centre of this hellscape stood the Dark God. Or rather, the mass of shadows and viscera that wore the title. It writhed, pulsing with the grotesque fluidity of something unfinished, something constantly shifting. Faces appeared in the black cloud of its form¡ªhundreds of them¡ªscreaming, mouths open wide, eyes bulging with terror and agony. A severed arm would emerge from the mass, twitching as though it were still connected to a body, fingers curling spasmodically before being swallowed back into the creature¡¯s bulk. Limbs, jaws, eyes, and slithering entrails drifted in and out of focus, their grotesque shapes lit by a sickly light that seemed to leak from the god itself.


    Every breath the Dark God exhaled came with the thick, wet sound of rotting lungs trying to work. The air stank of decay, death, and something far older, something that had not known life for centuries. It was a creature made from the essence of destruction, of chaos, and it wore its horror like a shroud.


    And Drunnoc was bored of it.


    He stood before it, unmoved, his arms crossed over his chest. His pale face was devoid of expression, his eyes half-lidded as though watching the god was barely worth his effort. He studied it like he would examine one of his paintings¡ªcurious, detached, searching for flaws. The twisting, seething mass of limbs and tortured faces that composed the god¡¯s form fascinated him for a moment, not because it inspired fear or awe, but because it was so inefficient. The creature wasted so much energy on spectacle, on presenting itself as terrifying. To Drunnoc, it was almost . . . childish.


    "You will go to the Bloodspires," the god rasped, its voice a wet, slithering sound that filled the clearing like poison gas. "You will destroy what remains of Swinford. Their blood must be spilt, their bones scattered across the mountains. Taelsin Elm must fall."


    Drunnoc yawned. His gaze flickered lazily toward the Dark God, then past it to the twisted trees beyond. The branches seemed to retreat from the creature¡¯s presence, curling inward as though afraid they might be touched by its darkness. Drunnoc found it all profoundly boring.


    The god¡¯s demand had been the same for weeks now. Kill the remnants of Swinford. Bring chaos. Spread destruction. A recurring mantra of a deity that seemed to thrive on carnage but lacked the drive to actually deliver it himself. Drunnoc truly failed to see the point of it all. From his understanding of things, Swinford was a ruin, the survivors little more than scattered prey clinging to their last breaths in the mountains. There was nothing left worth destroying. If Taelsin Elm managed to survive long enough to rebuild, perhaps he would consider it. But as it stood, pursuing the man through the Bloodspires felt like a waste of resources.


    He had not met the man during the confrontation his father had precipitated in the Village, but he understood the erstwhile Mayor was well thought of in the West. To his mind, there were distinct benefits in having a focal point for hope running loose in such a misbegotten place. It was hardly like the disenchanted would flock to his banner in the Bloodspires, was it?


    Let him rot in the backend of nowhere. And let the people''s hope for his return to save them, keep them passive. In his experience, people much preferred others to lead their revolution.


    ¡°You must obey me, Drunnoc Trellec,¡± the god continued, its form shifting violently. A cluster of eyes formed in the centre of its mass, all of them fixed on him, wide and bloodshot. ¡°I gave you power. I made you what you are. You will not refuse me.¡±


    Drunnoc let the silence stretch before answering, his arms remaining crossed, his posture relaxed. The words the god spoke held no weight. It was as though he were listening to the wind rustling the trees, nothing more. He was under no illusions. The god had granted him power, yes. New Skills had bloomed within him, dark and twisted abilities that allowed him to cut through flesh like paper, to crush bones with a mere touch. He very much looked forward to the next time the Darkhelm sought to put a blade at his throat. He suspected he would be a very different prospect for her now. And yet, he felt nothing toward the entity. No gratitude. No loyalty. It had not made him anything. It had simply given him tools. Useful, certainly. But that was where it ended.


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    ¡°I see,¡± Drunnoc said finally, his voice soft but cutting through the god¡¯s droning. ¡°So you gave me power, and now I am supposed to follow your every command like one of your mindless minions?¡±


    The god¡¯s form swelled, darkness unfurling like claws from its body, scraping the ground. The faces within its bulk began to scream louder, their silent mouths twisting into grotesque howls of agony. The air trembled with the sheer force of its rage. A maw formed, lined with jagged, yellowed teeth dripping with black ichor.


    ¡°You will obey me,¡± it hissed. ¡°You will go to the Bloodspires and slaughter them all. I command it!¡±


    Drunnoc raised an eyebrow. The anger in the god¡¯s voice was palpable, filling the air like static before a storm. It lashed out with its presence, its form growing larger, more monstrous with every passing second. But to Drunnoc, it was all so... predictable. Rage, violence, destruction. These were the only tools the god knew. It had no subtlety, no finesse.


    And that was why Drunnoc had never feared it.


    ¡°You seem upset,¡± Drunnoc said, his voice soft, almost conversational. ¡°Is it because I am not trembling in fear, as you expected? Or is it because you know that you need me more than I need you?¡±


    The god¡¯s form rippled violently, shards of darkness slashing at the earth. Trees collapsed as the shadows coiled around them, crushing the life from the wood and turning them into splintered husks. The faces in the god¡¯s form screamed louder, their eyes wide with agony as they were swallowed by the blackness. A low, guttural growl escaped the maw, the sound of something primal, something that had existed long before the world had been born.


    ¡°I am a god,¡± it howled, its voice shaking the ground. ¡°I will not be questioned by a mortal. You are mine, Drunnoc Trellec. Your power is mine. Your life is mine!¡±


    Drunnoc yawned. The theatrics were growing tedious.


    "You speak as though you are in control," Drunnoc replied, his voice still calm, cold. "But tell me, what have you accomplished? You thrash about like a child throwing a tantrum, destroying everything around you, and for what? You are angry, yes. But you are also... afraid."


    The god recoiled. For the first time, the shadows around it flickered uncertainly, the tendrils retracting slightly. The faces within the mass stopped screaming, their eyes dulling as though the fire behind them had been snuffed out. The ground ceased trembling, and the oppressive weight of the god''s presence seemed to lift, just for a moment.


    "You dare?" it hissed, but the threat lacked the force of its earlier words.


    Drunnoc stepped forward, his expression blank. "You are afraid because you know the truth. Without me, you are nothing. You need me to carry out your will. You need me to spread your chaos, to give you form in this world. And that terrifies you, does it not?"


    The god''s form convulsed, writhing as though trying to reject the truth. It lashed out again, its teeth snapping toward Drunnoc with the speed of a striking snake. But just before they could reach him, they stopped, hovering inches from his skin. The shadows trembled, uncertain.


    Drunnoc did not flinch. He stood perfectly still, his cold eyes locked on the god''s form. "You cannot touch me," he said. "You cannot destroy me, because you know that without me, you have no power. I am your tool, yes, but I am also your prison. You are bound by your need for me, just as I am free of any need for you."


    The silence that followed was absolute. The god¡¯s form quivered, the tendrils of darkness curling inward, as though retreating into itself. The faces within its bulk flickered in and out of existence, their screams now faint, distant.


    ¡°You will regret this,¡± the god whispered, its voice thin, weak.


    Drunnoc¡¯s smile was cold, sharp. ¡°Perhaps. But not today.¡±


    He turned his back on the Dark God, walking slowly toward the edge of the clearing. The twisted trees parted before him, their rotting branches curling away from his presence. The air was cooler now, fresher, as though the god¡¯s influence was already fading. He stepped into the shadow of the trees, leaving the god behind, knowing full well that it could do nothing to stop him.


    As he walked deeper into the forest, the screams of the god¡¯s stolen souls grew fainter, the oppressive weight of its presence receding into the distance. Drunnoc breathed in the crisp, cold air, feeling the tension leave his body. He was alone now, truly alone. But there was no fear in him. No worry of retribution.


    The Dark God was bound by its own weakness, trapped by its need for him. And in that knowledge, Drunnoc found his power. As he disappeared into the trees, his mind was already turning to the next game, the next move.


    He had won. For now.


    Good luck, Taelsin, he thought. Unless you are as good as the people whisper, I fear there will be quite some trouble coming your way.

 Chapter #154 - The Meaning of Courage

    The sky above the Dark God''s Keep seethed, a maddened swirl of blackened clouds veined with crimson lightning. Daine watched it through the window, its silent fury a mirror to the storm inside her. Every now and again, jagged shards of electricity would spew out to strike the ground surrounding the keep and spires of obsidian would jut upwards in response, looking nothing so much like the grasping fingers of some ancient giant clawing its way from the abyss.


    Behind her, the arguing pressed in, voices loud and angry, but Eliud''s stood out¡ªflat, as though the weight of his own words crushed the life from them. He looked sick, his face ashen, eyes sunken from too many sleepless nights and too much magic drained into this cursed land.


    "I''m sorry, but we''re running out of time," he said, and it sounded like a death knell. "Genoes must summon the portal."


    Kirstin''s grip tightened on Shadowstrike, and the bow seemed to curl around the increased pressure. "No. That''s not fair! I won''t allow it," she said. "You''re asking him to condemn himself to stay here forever! Alone! He''s just a child, and he needs to come back with us." Savage prowled around her legs, her form shifting subtly as shadows clung to her fur like tar. Her eyes glinted with an otherworldly intelligence, and her tail flicked with agitation. Josul stood sentinel beside Genoes, his hackles raised and a low growl emanating from deep within his chest.


    Donal shook his head, hollow-eyed, as if the very thought was draining what little strength remained. "Eliud, you know that what you suggest is not right. We did not come all this way just to sacrifice him to save our own skins." His voice echoed like something lost in the depths of a cave, far removed from the intimidating fighter he''d evolved into.


    But Eliud stood there, motionless. It was in his silence, in his stillness, that his torment was most obvious. Each word that left his mouth was destroying him, piece by piece, as if the mere act of suggesting this damned them all. He had always been the one with answers, the one who could find a path through the most complex of magic, but now, there was only desperation.


    They all knew Eliud was right. She knew it, too. But that didn¡¯t make the choice easier.


    Daine¡¯s head throbbed under the weight of the realm¡¯s whispers¡ªancient, shadowy things pressing against her thoughts. This was not a place for the living. Even the short time she had been in the Dark God''s realm felt like an abomination. Like they were intruding into a world that would devour them whole if they lingered too long. The others were locked in their fears, in their anger, but Daine could sense the truth creeping through the walls, through their souls.


    They¡¯re right to fear, the Goddess whispered into her mind, threading through her thoughts like poisoned honey. The longer you tarry, the stronger the Dark God''s hold upon you becomes. Soon, not even a portal generated by the Shadowbound will be available to you. You must make the difficult choice.


    Daine closed her eyes, trying to block out the noise, to find some stillness in the storm. But there was no escaping it. The darkness here was not just external¡ªit clawed at her, gnawing at the edges of her soul. She had never felt so weak, so uncertain. How could Eliud ask this of them? How could they even be here?


    And Genoes, standing silent amidst the storm, already Shadowbound? She did not know whether she believed that. The boy in front of her did not strike her as kin to those monsters Donal and she had fought in the Bloodspires. Was his soul becoming twisted and tainted by the evil that filled this place? Or did he yet somehow still resist . . .


    But Eliud had nothing left to give but cruelty wrapped in logic. The cost of being the one who always knows the way out. She knew that feeling well enough herself.


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    Kirstin¡¯s voice rang out again, sharp and defiant, but beneath the anger was something more vulnerable¡ªa desperation not to lose someone else, not after all they had lost already. And the others, even Donal, their resistance was more than fear. It was grief. They were mourning Genoes before the choice had even been made.


    And with that, Daine¡¯s mind drifted back to her training, to Old Gant standing over her, his voice a gruff snarl but the words biting deep. "The hardest battles are the ones you fight in your own head, girl. And you''re not ready for them. Not yet."


    Daine thought she¡¯d learned, thought she¡¯d grown beyond the teachings of that man. She had faced battlefields, watched comrades fall, made decisions that had left her sleepless for nights on end. But this¡­ this was different. There was no courage in this, no defiance. Only necessity.


    A young Daine - had she ever truly been that young? - bruised and exhausted, had looked up at Old Gant with defiance. "I''m not afraid of you."


    He''d knelt down, bringing himself to her eye level. "Courage isn''t an absence of fear, my little Darkhelm", he had said, placing a calloused hand on her shoulder. "It''s standing your ground when fear consumes you."


    The storm outside flashed again, crimson lightning snaking down to the ground, pulling the earth upwards in grotesque formations. Eliud''s face was etched with fatigue, shadows under his eyes betraying the cost of maintaining his magic in this accursed place. Kirstin''s positive energy was dimmed, the subtle glow of her Class flickering like a candle in a gale. Donal''s most recent transformation seemed almost too fitting here, the darkness amplifying the grim aspects of his form.


    Genoes, huddled in on himself, was still, but the darkness at his feet writhed, whispering, beckoning. And still, he resisted¡ªa boy, barely grown, holding back forces that would break any of them.


    Daine moved toward him. "Genoes," she said, barely more than a whisper.


    His eyes lifted to hers, hollowed by exhaustion, darkened by the shadows he held at bay. "I can hear them," he said, his voice cracked. "The voices... they¡¯re calling me."


    She didn¡¯t ask what they were saying. She knew.


    "You do not belong to them," she said, though the words felt brittle, empty. How many times had she told herself the same? How many times had she wanted to believe it?


    He gave a bitter laugh, a sound so hollow it made her heart twist. "I¡¯m already theirs, Daine. Look at me."


    She touched his cheek, letting a sliver of her healing light break through her fingertips. The shadows recoiled, but only slightly. Even the light seemed fragile here. "You''re stronger than this. You always have been."


    Behind them, the argument raged on. Kirstin, her fury near tears, and Eliud, pleading with a voice that had nothing left to give. Both knowing what had to be done, but unable to face it.


    "I don¡¯t know if I am," Genoes whispered, the doubt in his voice so raw that it stung more than the darkness.


    "You are," Daine said, forcing the words, forcing herself to believe it for him, if not for herself.


    And then Eliud''s voice rose above them all, the cracks in it deeper than the abyss outside. "We have no other choice," he said, not as an argument but as a surrender.


    There was no triumph in it. No finality. Just an aching emptiness that stretched between them, a hollow chasm that threatened to swallow them all whole.


    But it was the truth.


    Daine¡¯s heart weighed heavy in her chest. The boy was already lost. And they were running out of time.


    She turned to the others, her voice quiet, but the finality in it clear. "We can''t leave him. But we can''t save him either. Not as he is."


    The room fell silent. Even the shadows seemed to pause, listening.


    And Genoes, for the first time since they had entered this place, did not flinch. "Then let me use it," he said, the steel in his voice unexpected, sharp. "If I¡¯m already gone... let me take them down with me."


    Kirstin recoiled, her hands shaking with the force of her denial. "No. We can¡¯t just let him give up. We have to find another way."


    Eliud¡¯s face had paled further, eyes dark pits of weariness. "There isn¡¯t another way. The longer we wait, the closer we all are to becoming shadowbound like him."


    Donal¡¯s eyes gleamed in the half-light, his predatory gaze cutting through the silence. "The shadows don¡¯t fight fair. Why should we?"


    And that resonated with Daine. The Dark God had ever shown himself to be an unfair foe. Why should they continue to battle him by his rules? She clenched her fists, the cold weight of her sword at her side an all-too-familiar reminder of how few options remained. "That''s right. Why should we? There¡¯s always another way. We just need to find it."

 Chapter #155 - A Mothers Love

    Daine closed her eyes and reached out to the Goddess, reaching past the quiet certainty she had worn like armour for years.


    It felt strange, this conscious reaching¡ªa step beyond waiting for the Goddess¡¯s murmur in the back of her mind, that gentle nudge that had steered her so many times before. Normally, the Goddess came to her, an unseen hand lifting her when she needed Strength or steadying her when anger threatened to cloud her path. Even when she had been on Tour, when the Justice of the Goddess flowed through her, she was a passive vessel. An obedient vessel, for sure. But a vessel nonetheless.


    But this time was different.


    Now, with Genoes¡¯ face in her mind, his eyes streaked with tendrils of shadow, a dark weight behind his gaze, Daine found herself reaching toward instead of simply receiving.


    And in this, she was not denied. Not here. And not now.


    A shiver rolled through Daine as the Goddess answered, not with words but with a pull, a beckoning so gentle it felt like sinking into sleep.


    When she opened her eyes, it was to a world entirely other than that of the Dark God¡¯s realm: the home of the Goddess was a place beyond seasons. Beyond mortal senses. It was a timeless pastoral expanse of green that . . . breathed.


    The landscape shifted as Daine arrived, seemingly alive to her presence in the way that mountains might be alive to the goats that tread upon their slopes¡ªsilent yet humming with an inner power. A watchful vastness that held and bore the creatures who wandered its surface.


    Daine felt it as a subtle tremor beneath her feet, the ground accepting her. Here, each leaf, each blade of grass seemed attuned to her step, the meadow bending ever so slightly, as though its wildness were aware and welcoming, yet indifferent. It was the acknowledgement of the deep roots of a forest whose patience knew no bounds.


    The sky above was a boundless sheet of twilight, starless but aglow with an indigo hue that held both dusk and dawn. Wisps of mist clung low to the earth, trailing like the hems of ghostly robes along the grass. Wildflowers, some as small as Daine¡¯s thumb, others reaching her shoulder, painted the fields in impossible colours.


    Nearby, a stream wound lazily through the landscape, its waters as clear as glass, yet in its depths danced strange fish with scales of opal and emerald. They shimmered, vanishing and reappearing like fleeting memories.


    Daine stepped through this enchanted place, feeling the soft earth beneath her feet pulse with life. The air was warm and held scents both familiar and not¡ªhoneysuckle, iron, something like sage smouldering under the summer sun.


    It was a place untouched by decay or time; here, each breath felt like renewal.


    Yet, even now, the Goddess herself was elusive to Daine, a figure that flitted at the edge of perception. With each step Daine took, she felt her patron¡¯s essence brushing against her, taking shapes that shifted with each heartbeat¡ªa deer leaping in the distance, a girl¡¯s laughter, a shadow slipping between trees. The Goddess was a dance of forms, ancient yet young, a thousand faces and none, moving as if she held all time within her.


    Daine continued to walk until the ground rose slightly, the horizon narrowing as she ascended a low hill.


    And there, waiting, the Goddess¡¯s shape at last steadied, shifting from many into one.


    Her figure stood, quiet and still, yet radiating the boundless power Daine had known for most of her life. At the moment, she took the form of a woman, neither cloaked nor armoured, but naked, serene, her eyes holding the ageless wisdom of storms and stone.


    The Goddess¡¯s face was Daine¡¯s own age¡ªa face weathered by fifty years but softened by something timeless. Her eyes met the Templar Ascendant¡¯s, and in their depths, Daine felt the weight of her life lifted, seen, held within an eternity.


    In silence, she bowed.


    "Welcome, daughter."


    That word grated surprisingly in Daine¡¯s ears, igniting something old and raw inside her. Daine¡¯s eyes narrowed, her temper sparking hot and sudden. Daughter. It was a word that belonged to someone else¡ªa word with memories behind it, keen-edged and stinging.


    Unbidden, the image of her real mother rose, a spectre she thought she''d buried long ago. Hard-eyed and cold, her mother¡¯s face bore no trace of warmth or pride. Daine remembered her well: the woman who had sold her. Who had given her over to the tender mercies of the Stonehand.


    A mother who had been keen for her to be gone from the household. To be anything else than a drain on the Orban family home. Anything but a daughter.


    These memories ¨C long repressed ¨C  flashed in relentless fragments, each harsh and fast, like the snap of a whip against her skin. She¡¯d been a terror, even at three¡ªher attributes had been wild and uncontrollable. She¡¯d been a tempest in a child¡¯s body. Ridiculous Strength that fractured her toys and bruised her fingers against walls. Nightmarish Speed that meant she tore through rooms and overturned tables before she even knew how to be slow. The endless hunger that gnawed to fuel an Endurance that made her immune to any attempt at chastisement.


    She remembered the tantrums that rocked the small, sparse room they¡¯d called home. Her small fists struck out in a fury she couldn¡¯t yet control and caused such devastation. And her mother¡¯s hands¡ªhitting back, lashing out in frustration, not cruelty, perhaps, but no tenderness either. Those blows had felt like empty gestures, a mother at her wits¡¯ end, finding even her punishments powerless.


    Daine hadn¡¯t felt the sting of those hands. Her body was already beyond such things.


    But what she couldn¡¯t bear, what haunted her even now, was the feeling of her mother¡¯s words as they fell, pleading yet hollow. The disappointment etched in every sigh, every weary glare. The unspoken truth that hung in the air, pressing down harder than any hand¡ªshe hadn¡¯t been wanted. She hadn¡¯t been loved.


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    She¡¯d been feared.


    And now here she was, in the presence of a Goddess, her supposed patron, calling her ¡®daughter¡¯ as though that word held any meaning. The old ache surged up, bitter and burning. She stood silent, fighting the urge to let her anger loose, to answer back to the woman before her with the fierceness that was all she¡¯d ever known of being a daughter.


    ¡°You need to help me save him,¡± Daine said, the demand hard and unyielding. Her eyes narrowed. ¡°You owe me.¡±


    The Goddess¡¯s expression shifted, a ripple of emotion that clouded her serene features. She didn¡¯t raise her voice; she didn¡¯t have to. Her words fell like stones into still water, each one sinking with a weight that could drown worlds.


    ¡°Owe you?¡± She said, her voice like tempered steel. ¡°After everything I have done for you? After every thread I¡¯ve bent, every law of creation I¡¯ve twisted to make you what you are¡ªto make you a legend.¡±


    ¡°I never wanted to be a legend.¡±


    The Goddess tilted her head, her gaze taking in every scar, every victory Daine held close. ¡°No?¡± she challenged. ¡°You never felt joy when you heard the songs sung in taverns, the verses spun around your deeds? Never felt that rush when they whispered your name in awe?¡±


    The words cut close, exposing things Daine had buried deep. But she would not give ground. ¡°I didn¡¯t want this,¡± she spat. ¡°I didn¡¯t ask to be given to the Stonehand. I didn¡¯t ask to be ripped from what little I had. To be bent and broken under his hand until there was nothing but Strength left in me. Do you call that your gift?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡± The Goddess¡¯s response was quiet ¡°I do. This was my gift to a Farmer¡¯s daughter who deserved more from the world. It was a gift I crafted, one I wove into the very fabric of you. And don¡¯t pretend you felt nothing of the satisfaction that came with it. Don¡¯t stand there and tell me you never enjoyed the reverence in their eyes. That you never felt the satisfaction when your enemies¡ªstrong men, seasoned killers¡ªlooked upon you and felt their courage bleed from their veins. That was my gift, too. You have become a Templar Ascendant, a giant amongst dwarves, and yet you dare say I owe you anything.¡±


    More memories flashed through Daine¡¯s mind, the nights she¡¯d spent on Tour, bruised and bloodied, but with the taste of victory fierce in her mouth. And, yes, she could still recall the songs, the voices lifted in raucous tribute, the thrill she¡¯d felt in those moments.


    But that thrill had never been what she wanted. It was a thing foisted upon her, a passing satisfaction at best. A hollow answer to the emptiness that had followed her since childhood.


    To be on Tour was to be alone. And to be alone had been, she saw it now, terrible.


    And now there was a boy, a child, that needed her. She would not let Genoes down.


    ¡°I made that power my own,¡± Daine said, each word full of quiet fury. ¡°It was my blood that paid the price for your so-called gift. It was me that survived the Stonehand. And not just once. You brought him back, did you not? Made me face him again with the blood of my friends on the floor. Did that please you? Did that make you feel vindicated for your gifts? I did what you wanted, and I did it better than any Knight of the Road ever did or, I am sure, ever will. But do not stand there and claim it was some favour. You¡¯ve had your share of what I¡¯ve done for you. And now I¡¯m calling in mine.¡±


    Storm clouds formed in the depths of the Goddess¡¯s eyes, and the world around them darkened in response, the sky shifting to a bruised shade as though sharing in her fury.


    ¡°Do you think your scars mean nothing to me, Daine?¡± the Goddess said. ¡°Do you think I am blind to what it has cost you to be my sword in the world? I am the one who gave you Strength enough to endure it. Where do you think that came from! You stand before me proud of the woman you¡¯ve become, but don¡¯t pretend you achieved it on your own.¡±


    ¡°Then don¡¯t pretend it was kindness,¡± Daine said back. ¡°Don¡¯t stand there and tell me I¡¯m lucky, that I should be grateful for the pain you forged me with. And that I have no right to ask for more.¡±


    ¡°Grateful? No, child. I don¡¯t ask for gratitude. But you will know this¡ªI gave you what you could not have taken for yourself. A power that most could not bear. A path that few survive. I made you legend, Daine Darkhelm. You may have walked the Road, and I will not diminish your victories. But don¡¯t mistake your anger right now for righteousness. You stand here, demanding what you feel is owed, but legends do not bargain. They endure.¡±


    ¡°And yet here I am,¡± Daine shouted, her voice fierce, yet laced with something raw, something unguarded, fraying her composure. ¡°Asking for help. Not because I am a legend. Because I am human. Because I need you. And whether you care or not, I will not back down. I will not let your son take Genoes!¡±


    For a heartbeat, the silence stretched between them, as if the entire realm held its breath.


    The darkened sky above them stilled, the wind pausing in anticipation. The Goddess¡¯s gaze softened at last, a flicker of something unreadable crossing her face. A shadow easing across dawn.


    And then she spoke.


    ¡°Very well, Daine Orban, Templar Ascendant. The Kingdom¡¯s Darkhelm. But know that what you ask has consequences.¡±


    The Goddess paused as if expecting Daine to answer. She did not.


    ¡°I will not shield you from them. And, as with all things, you will have to bear what follows.¡±


    Daine met her gaze, unflinching, her voice steady. ¡°I¡¯ll bear it,¡± she said, steel beneath her words. ¡°I¡¯ve borne worse.¡±


    ¡°I will sever the threads that bind Genoes to the shadows,¡± she said, her eyes searching the spirals of time and consequence, seeking the delicate paths of plots, plans that had led to this exact moment.


    And, without another moment¡¯s thought, she cut them free.


    Genoes became Unbound once more.


    And when the Goddess looked to see the outcome of her precipitate act - to glimpse the future her actions would shape, she found only darkness¡ªa void, impenetrable and silent.


    A flicker of fear crossed her face, a fear Daine had never before seen in her patron. This was the unknowable, the ungovernable. Genoes would be Unbound, and whatever that meant would ripple through the world, touching things she had long protected.


    As the Goddess reached out, unseen by mortal eyes, she felt the cut, the tearing as the final threads fell away. And at that very moment, across the realms, every stained glass window in every Church of Dawn shattered.


    The priests stood in shock as the coloured shards rained down, their beloved images of light and hope to fracture at the Goddess¡¯s own command. Some dropped to their knees in horror, others reached helplessly, their fingers trembling as centuries-old pieces collapsed to the ground.


    Dawn¡¯s beauty fell to ruin, the careful mosaics of faith and order cast to chaos.


    In that single cut, everything the Goddess had placed for stability¡ªevery check, every delicate balance¡ªcollapsed. She felt the seething anger of the Dark God stirring, the spite she had always tempered now unbridled.


    The Lords of Misrule, her unruly sons, would twist this chaos to their own whims. Threads of plans she¡¯d woven over centuries unravelled like loosened knots, all leading to this moment, all crumbling away to free one mortal boy.


    All because a woman she loved more than any other had asked it.


    She looked to Daine, and in her gaze, the depth of her sacrifice was raw, an emotion carved from the bones of eternity. Her voice softened, but her words held a fierce, maternal gravity.


    ¡°You do not know what I have for you here,¡± the Goddess said, her voice barely a whisper. ¡°This is the depths of a mother¡¯s love.¡±