ã€ŠScionã€‹


 I: A beginning, a change.

    Everything was falling into place.

    The Consul studied the fresh notations on the map spread out before him, the ink still wet upon the vellum. He paused on the final mark, a black circle on an otherwise unremarkable plateau. His brow furrowed and a long, pink tongue flicked across his pointed teeth. ¡°You¡¯re certain?¡± he said, his voice a thickly accented rumble.

    Rexis stood opposite him on the other side of the table, back rigid, his thin figure draped in a heavy cloak of drab brown. Much of his face was concealed by a sand-warding scarf, but his deep-set eyes followed his superior¡¯s every move. He inclined his head. ¡°Absolutely, Consul,¡± he replied, his own tone a thin rasp.

    A slim hand, covered in sea-green scales, emerged from the folds of the cloak. The ink smeared as he traced a line between each of the points with two fingers. ¡°They followed the ridgeline, I observed as much myself. The only place they can be mustering is the plateau.¡±

    The Consul rose to his full height, towering head and shoulders above Rexis as he let the information sink in. He strode three paces alongside the table¡¯s edge, turning his back to the scout. ¡°Then you know my next question. Is he among them?¡± he asked, while casting his eye about the tent.

    Rexis remained standing at attention, only adjusting himself to keep his eyes upon his lord. His reply did not come immediately, and the Consul¡¯s gaze slowly wandered around the small space.

    They stood under a canopy of carmine cloth, open at the sides to allow the sand-laced wind to relieve the worst of the heat. Soldiers and their attendants rushed back and forth outside, carrying sheaves of arrows, freshly sharpened blades and bundles of firewood.

    ¡°Rexis.¡± The Consul rumbled, looking away from the scene outside to fix his subordinate with a glare.

    Rexis looked down at the map, his fingers playing with the fabric of his cloak. ¡°I saw his standard bearer, Consul,¡± he said after a short pause, knowing it was not the answer his lord desired. ¡°Nothing more.¡±

    The Consul closed the distance between them in several long strides and placed one hand upon Rexis¡¯ shoulder. Rexis tensed under the firm grip, his deep-set blue eyes slowly meeting the Consul¡¯s crimson glare.

    The Consul¡¯s face split into a tooth-filled grin. ¡°I have a name, Rexis. I respect you enough to let you use it,¡± he said. The heavy chuckle that followed made the metal scales of his cuirass rattle.

    Rexis¡¯ shoulders relaxed when the Consul released his grip, and his breath hissed out from tightly pressed lips. A cursory glance to either side reassured him that the attendants waiting just outside the tent had also relaxed. A soldier who had frozen a half-step inside let out a small sigh. An angry Consul made for a tense camp.

    ¡°Yes, Consul. My lord. Aiur.¡± Rexis whispered, taking a step back and a deep breath.

    All here were Saszrukai; the tall, saurian folk that dominated this desert land from the Cyran Ocean to the Sea of Snakes. They each possessed long limbs, a slender neck, and a flexible, leathered tail¡­ Their every move was poised and elegant, slipping around one another with practiced ease.

    With the tension defused, the yellow-scaled soldier darted further into the tent. He pressed a small scroll into Aiur¡¯s hands, saluted, and rushed out as quickly as he had arrived.

    Aiur unfolded the scroll, scanning over its contents. He flicked it away, letting it land amongst other scraps of parchment on the map-table.

    Aiur Zerkash was a proud creature of noble bearing and patrician style. What set him apart from his loyal host were his sharp features and angular face, his corded, athletic figure and his scales of arterial crimson. A lighter shade of red formed the daggers of his caste-marks around blood-drop eyes, their combination marking him out as nobility. On their own each feature was not wholly uncommon, but their confluence in this one man created an imposing figure; a refined elegance with power lingering just beneath the surface.

    One clawed digit stabbed repeatedly at the wooden table as a quick calculation ran through his mind.

    ¡°We have enough,¡± Aiur declared. He raised his finger to hover over the circle marking out the plateau and sank it slowly into the vellum. ¡°Gather the centurions. We make our move.¡±

    ***

    The shutters were pulled half-closed and all of the clutter had been dragged to the sides of the small, wood-panelled room. Shafts of light slipped between the gaps, pooling along the table and wall, leaving a thoughtful gloom deeper into the room.

    Sprawled out across a dark oak table were the pieces of her thought process. The map, old and faded but covered in scratchy handwriting. Her ledger, open on the page recording her latest accounts. The stack of parchment, a number of bundles each bound together with leather cord.

    Syla paced around the cleared space, her scaled tail snapping back and forth with each stride. In truth, she should have reached a final decision days ago. There were so many factors, she just had to be certain it was the right one.

    Where was simple, and had been decided long ago. There were only two really viable options, but one was so full of old venom that it would never work. That, and everyone who lived there had a rod so far up their arses that the mere concept of speaking to her would be offensive.

    With her options narrowed, the numbers told her clearly that she could afford it. Albeit with a little creative accounting. She had long since bought a house within the city, large enough for her purposes though in dire need of redecoration if memory served. To add to her fortune, there was enough business there to keep her afloat even if she lived a little extravagantly. Though, she had always found money easy to manage.Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

    That only left the stack of papers. It was a short list, but still not short enough for her liking. She snatched the first bundle from the stack and held it up to the light.

    House Scipius. Well established. Mercantile. A lot of money there.

    But she didn¡¯t need money. She tore the parchment in two and let the pages flutter to the ground as she snatched the next.

    House Natir. Young, full of fresh faces. Overflowing with ambition and drive.

    She mulled them over for some time, flicking through the pages. Names, property deeds, finances. There was promise here, little details that shone through. Then she saw it; they had been accounting creatively too, but it was already beginning to catch up to them.

    She lit a candle just so she could burn the papers, one by one.

    Each bundle was page after page of promise laced with disappointment. A lack of ambition, tragic finances, or merely an absence of might. There was always something missing.

    It took hours, but she tore through them all until only one house remained. The bundle was spread across the table, its leather cord lost somewhere in the pile of discarded parchment about her feet.

    They were not perfect, but then none of her options were. Imperialist dogs they might be, but they backed that aspiration with military might. They had no shortage of funds, and by Aten they ensured everyone knew it. Perhaps it was not surprising that one of the Founding Houses had turned out to be her best option.

    House Zerkash. It had to be House Zerkash.

    ***

    At his behest, the camp had been roused from its slumber. The air was filled with the pounding beat of hammer and anvil and the heady smell of cooking on the open fires seeped into fabric and cloth. At the camp¡¯s edge, the surly old quartermaster was making his displeasure at a misplaced blade particularly known.

    Five hundred battle-ready souls awaited his inspection in disciplined ranks in a valley betwixt the dunes. Five centurions stood before them, each an exemplar of those under their command. In turn, they looked up to Aiur, resplendent in full battle attire with his khopesh sickle-sword hanging from his belt.

    At his left shoulder stood red-scaled Daiss, his tall, muscular confidant and personal praetorian, his bladed polearm braced against his shoulder, keeping its edge high. At eight feet the glaive was a foot longer than Daiss was tall.

    Looming at his right was sand-scaled Cleonar; his bulky standard bearer and second praetorian. Grasped in her fist was the gilded standard of House Zerkash: a grand spire rendered in silver atop a landscape of regal purple, with bright carmine edges etched with flowing golden script. The standard towered above her, half again as long as she was tall.

    Both were clad from head-to-toe in full scaled armour of clean steel layered over coats of chainmail. Each bore a veil of chainmail to hide their faces, leaving only their red eyes visible.

    With his praetorians at his side, Aiur marched the length of the assembled line. Every soldier bore the black marks of voluntary service upon their faces. They had all ejected themselves from the caste assigned to them upon their hatching and now followed his every command. They were once merchants, farmers, priests and nobles, marked with their place in society the day they emerged from the egg. Such marks took a range of forms; slim lines, star-blots, and curling waves were among the most common on display here.

    ¡°You have impressed me with your speed, and your discipline,¡± he said, pausing to let his voice carry as he reached one end of the formation. He turned on his heel, beginning the march back down the line.

    ¡°I expect both from you in great quantities today,¡± he continued as he swept an arm out in a wide, theatrical arc. ¡°I expect you to answer the insult levelled at our fair city by House Krie, and outclass them in every respect. You should expect nothing less of yourselves. You are Legionaries. You are warriors of House Zerkash. Be proud of that fact, for it is an achievement to stand amongst us.¡± He paused at the centre of the formation to face his warriors and lifted both hands skyward. ¡°You bare upon your shoulders a legacy of victory. Uphold that legacy today and bring House Krie to their knees.¡±

    The rhythmic stamp of spear-hafts on sand rose up to answer him. His face split into a smile. He could not help it, their energy was palpable, infectious.

    ¡°They are gathered in a crude camp upon the plateau. We shall put it to the sword,¡± he declared, his own enthusiasm lacing his words. ¡°Mavan is among them. The old guard. We have seen every trick he has to offer, and today we shall lay him low.¡±

    He lowered his arms and placed them behind his back. ¡°Cervun, Vellica, Kyban!¡± he shouted, calling three of the centurions forward. They were all broad-shouldered brutes, clad in full body scale armour with their faces sealed behind helms. ¡°You will command our centre at my side. We are the anvil, and they shall break upon us.¡±

    ¡°Yes, Consul!¡± three voices bellowed back.

    ¡°Arian, Melico! You will hold our flanks, and prevent any escape attempts.¡±

    Two more voices, sharper and lighter than the first, responded as they stepped forth. ¡°As you command, Consul!¡± They were each clad in loose shirts of light chainmail and simple bindings of leather and cloth covered the rest of their bodies, openings around the wrist and neck displaying their scales of green and brown respectively.

    ¡°Rexis!¡± Aiur called, knowing the scout was amongst them somewhere. ¡°You know exactly where you need to be.¡±

    There was no reply, but he did not need one.

    ¡°The eyes of Aten are upon us! Show these fools you are worthy of that light! Now march! To war, to victory!¡±

    The roar that erupted was deafening, triumphant. As though they had already won.

    ***

    Zerkash was old and venerable. It came as little surprise that the list of names and titles of its members was maddeningly long.

    They all had their own little crowns. Lord of this, commander of that. Syla expected to discover the High Overlord of the Pantry at some point as she leafed through the parchment.

    She had ceased her pacing and braced herself against the wall. The sun now hung at its zenith, leaving the light shallow and hazy.

    She put together a list of prospective candidates; those who might reap her the greatest influence. She would formulate her plan around their best.

    There was a treasurer, he had a mean streak that she liked, but his skills were too similar to her own. A number of the diplomats were promising, wily in their words and well-connected, but their deeds gave her the distinct impression that their influence on policy was limited.

    Their leader was an absolute bastard, and she loved that. He had torn his way to ascendancy with a ruthless efficiency that she could only admire. It was a shame he was just as arrogant as he was effective, she had no doubt working with him would test her patience to the extreme. But she had no intention of playing second fiddle.

    That narrowed the prospects sharply. One option caught her attention; it was good but it would be slow. She could manage it; playing the long game was something she was used to.

    She spread the documents out on the table and began organising them, piecing together associates, allies, and addresses. A web of intrigue began to form, and steadily a plan came together.

    She had to decide now, otherwise she would second-guess herself. Syla pushed herself from the wall and moved towards the far end of the room, away from the shutters and the light. She pounded hard on the wall three times. ¡°Nerkai, before sundown!¡± she called.

    The entire room shifted with a jolt as wheels began to turn beneath her feet. Parchment fluttered to the floor as the entire room began to rock and sway. She quickly collected up the pages she needed, pulling another leather cord from her coat to bind them together.

    She paused as she lifted the bundle from the table, staring at the first page. ¡°Send a rider ahead,¡± she said, turning her head towards the back wall of the carriage. ¡°I want eyes on Aiur Zerkash¡¯s every move.¡±

 II: A proposition made

    The brown-scaled noble rose with a disapproving snort, creasing his turquoise finery as he did. He bowed, and swiftly exited the room.

    Ezerkal sighed, shoulders sagging the moment he heard the door click shut.

    It was the fifth ¡®friendly¡¯ diplomatic visit of the day, though every single one of them had been everything but.

    The young diplomat was draped in similar finery to the man who had just left, though his attire was a mixture of regal purple and stark carmine. His body was a varied palette of green, the shades progressively darker the closer to his heart and chest they became. He possessed curled slivers of crimson across his eyes to mark his noble caste. He was rake-thin and tall, and though good living in his youth had once put more meat on his bones, it had vanished with recent stresses. He was curiously rather grateful; although it had left behind a scrawny frame, and his hide taut to his bones, he believed it portrayed a dignified appearance, one more in-keeping with his eyes, a pair of sunken, yet insightful beads of red.

    He sat at a stately desk of rosewood, in a cushioned but otherwise simple chair. The desk itself was quite sizable, but its usable space was much reduced by stacks of parchment, open ledgers, leather-bound tomes, and the singular quill with three pots of ink spread out across its smooth surface. Despite the clutter, he made sure the item he was most proud of; a small bronze plaque that read Vizier Ezerkal Zerkash, Voice of Zerkash, was clearly on display. Across from the desk, one now annoyingly angled to one side, were a pair of high-backed, padded chairs for visitors to sit in.

    Directly behind him lay a pair of large windows that flooded his office with natural light and provided the only source of Illumination. On his left, a series of over-stuffed bookshelves were crowded against the sandstone wall. Shelves bowed under the weight of books and scrolls, each filled with historian¡¯s accounts, philosopher¡¯s treatises, his own ledgers, and perhaps too many works of the cartographer-come-novelist, Xervun Sallah. A grand map of the world filled the wall to his right, created in such excruciating detail, it would be considered a work of art in most homes. His was covered in crests, pinned notes and annotations.

    He straightened, pressing his back against the chair, and made himself slightly more presentable. The door did not stir when he glanced briefly towards it.

    Blessed with a reprieve from the flow of disgruntled emissaries of house Krie and its contemporaries, Ezerkal attempted to return to what he felt was more important work. He picked up a bundle of letters; a confirmation document from some Ferrakar steel merchants, a report from Consul Aiur, and a scathing condemnation of recent events from the High Priestess, sent from some holy conclave in the capital.

    He tossed them rather unceremoniously into a drawer, and pulled over a half-written missive in careful script. He poised his quill over the fresh roll of parchment and began to read over his own words.

    And there it remained.

    The quill scratched impotently at the air. Minutes drifted past as the appropriate phrasing eluded him. A dead-end sentence. His emerald brow furrowed with frustration, and he glanced repeatedly across the desk at the discarded drafts of this same missive. The stack currently sat at five.

    He sighed. Normally the eloquent prose would flow forth in waves, but today he could not order his thoughts on the page and he knew he would be unimpressed with his efforts when he came to read over them later in a more detached frame of mind. He often enjoyed his fire-side readings of an evening, be it his own work or one of the myriad volumes from his shelves.

    Ezerkal squirmed in his seat, its cushioned back becoming increasingly unbearable as his irritation rose.

    Every attempt had ended in some dead-end sentence, a grammatical mistake, or handwriting that was frankly illegible. He knew it had to be worded, formatted, and written perfectly. The nobles upstream in the holy capital of Setara were ever mercurial creatures. They had been known to dismiss profitable ventures and alliances following the most minor perceived slights to their power or prestige. However, it was still utterly unlike him to be so inconsistent, to make such simple mistakes.

    These constant ¡®visits¡¯ from disgruntled diplomats and emissaries from other houses were to blame for ruining his focus, Ezerkal decided.

    Damn Ra¡¯ven and his greed, Ezerkal thought, pressing a balled-up fist against the table. He had written more declarations of war and subsequent peace treaties in the two years since the man had become Archon than he had in the rest of his career combined.Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

    His thoughts continued to drift away from his writing, fluttering to his image of what politics in the holy capital and places beyond were like, of cities where close friends had gone to forge easy treaties and trade negotiations. He thought how wonderful it must be. Why, he¡¯d received a letter recently from an old friend who was living in a manse overlooking the sea in Veldun far to the west. The sea! Supposedly it stretched on forever. He was a well-educated man, but he struggled to picture such a huge body of water in his mind¡¯s eye.

    He sighed and closed his eyes, cursing his own rampant imagination. He was here, not some coastal paradise. He had to deal with the fallout of this recent offensive and that meant writing this missive. They needed to forge strong alliances, or any alliance really, before the few friends Ra¡¯ven had left them with finally decided it was time to abandon house Zerkash altogether.

    He was two drafts deeper into the Setaran missive, and far deeper in the depths of his own thoughts, when the slow groan of leather made him finally realise he was no longer alone in his office.

    Ezerkal blinked as he slowly lifted his gaze, containing the sudden waves of paranoid stress washing over him surprisingly well.

    There, in the slightly crooked chair opposite, was a woman. She was leant back comfortably with one leg over the other and hands folded neatly together, watching him with a lazy calm.

    She was slightly short for a Saszrukai. Her lithe, dagger-slim body was wrapped in unassuming, though rather odd travelling garb that did not suit her elegant figure at all. Dark snakeskin leather bound tightly over simple, pale cloth sheathed her figure, and a dark hood of the same serpentine leather was paired with a cloth sand-mask hung around her neck. Her boots were thick and heavy, their soles encrusted with sand.

    Despite her rough clothing, her face was contoured like a work of art; high cheekbones, complimented by slim and pointed features that could have been made of marble. What gave him pause and added to his unease, was her utter lack of obvious caste marks. He had expected gentle arches of crimson or blue carefully augmenting each eye, but there were only blank scales of a subdued azure. His gaze was slowly drawn to the eyes themselves, glittering turquoise gems that shone with either a fierce intelligence or a deep-seated contempt for everything she looked upon. Or, as Ezerkal decided, was far more likely, both.

    ¡°Am I disturbing you?¡± For now her voice was airy and calm, quiet yet clear.

    Ezerkal remained affixed to his chair, limbs tensed and frozen as he stared at the seemingly casteless woman, the implications of such a thing racing through his mind. He had heard only grim rumours, and avoided such creatures as a matter of course.

    Her head cocked to one side. ¡°Am I disturbing you?¡± she repeated, a note of amusement creeping into her voice.

    Ezerkal breathed deeply, as his mind continued to race. ¡°No. No, you are not.¡± He paused, glancing down at the parchment in front of him. ¡°Another dead-end sentence,¡± he muttered. He pushed the unfinished writing into the growing pile. ¡°But to what, and whom, do I owe the¡­pleasure?¡±

    The slightest hint of a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. ¡°My name is Syla. You can consider me¡­a concerned friend.¡±

    ¡°I see,¡± Ezerkal said, though in reality he did not.

    She laid one of her elbows on the arm of the chair, resting her head delicately upon her splayed fingers. ¡°What were you writing?¡± she asked, more a demand than a question.

    ¡°A small missive to house Raan, why is that of import to you?¡± Ezerkal asked, his eyes shifting between the door and the figure seated in his chair.

    ¡°I thought as much. I come bearing advice.¡± She smiled, though it provided no solace. ¡°Though I am afraid it¡¯s only to say that your time and effort there is misplaced.¡±

    ¡°Why?¡± he asked, his confusion shifting to annoyance ¡°What gives you such insight?¡±

    ¡°House Raan are fully aware of the situation here, and want nothing to do with it, or you. They simply have not said so publicly. Not yet.¡±

    Ezerkal scowled. ¡°Why would I trust you? If it has not been stated publicly, then how could you know?¡±

    Syla laughed, an intoxicatingly melodic sound that made Ezerkal¡¯s fingers quiver. ¡°How indeed?¡± She flashed him a dangerous grin. ¡°As to why would you trust my advice? You don¡¯t. I simply warn you of the inevitable outcome. So that when I am proved right, you will remember me.¡±

    ¡°I think you¡¯re memorable enough as it is!¡± he snapped, though in truth this woman was beginning to terrify him.

    Syla smiled in a manner that was anything but kind as she leaned forward. ¡°Is it the castelessness, or the eyes?¡±

    The diplomat was taken aback by her tone. A long and uncomfortable moment followed until he finally recovered himself. ¡°We¡¯re getting off topic¡­Why are you really here? If your ¡®advice¡¯ is little more than a cryptic trick to make me remember you or smugly gloat about your oddities, there must be some other purpose.¡±

    ¡°How astute,¡± she said flatly. ¡°I come bearing information. Advice, yes. But most importantly, a proposition.¡±

    Ezerkal¡¯s brow creased, this was all rather sudden for his tastes. ¡°I see. But such things are never free.¡±

    She nodded knowingly. ¡°Quite so, however I have a rather¡­¡± She paused, leaning back and considering her words, ¡°¡­vested interest, in recent events.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m afraid that does not provide much insight, nor answer my question.¡±

    ¡°I suppose it does not.¡± Syla agreed. ¡°I suggest you find some wine and make yourself comfortable. This will take some time to explain.¡±

    Ezerkal rose to his feet, moving across the room to retrieve an old bottle of wine hidden amongst the volumes against the wall. He felt Syla watching his every move as he shuffled back to his seat. He considered bolting for the door. The idea of locking her in his office and calling for the guard was appealing but his curiosity got the better of him instead. He lowered himself into his seat, taking a pair of glasses from a drawer in his desk and filling them halfway. He settled in, trying for a semblance of calm.

    Syla slowly ran her tongue across her teeth, cocking her head to the other side again. ¡°Now, as I said. I have a proposition for you.¡±

 III: A touch of honour

    Battle was joined in earnest, but its progress was glacially slow.

    Shields were held up and locked together as they inched across the sand-choked ground towards the foe. Arrows clattered upon shields, forming a curious melody. It was ruined by the heavier thump of the javelins, which created a harsh staccato beat, discordant with the rest of the symphony. Regardless, most bounced harmlessly away, discipline and patience reaping their rewards.

    House Krie had seen them coming; it would have been impossible not to. Arrayed in full battledress with shields polished to a perfect gleam, they gave Krie all the time they could have ever needed to raise their banners. They formed lines outside their camp on the plateau, lines of pikes two men deep, supported by a full host of archers.

    Aiur moved at a half-crouch within the shadow of the shield wall¡¯s centre, as it inexorably inched forward in practiced lockstep. Casting his gaze around him, he was disappointed by their own return from the flanks, paltry at best. Volley after volley from the foe was testing their defences far more than expected. Even their own archers were forced to shelter behind the protection of the shield wall.

    The wall stood three shields high and stretched back a further two, overlapping one another like the scaled flank of some grand beast. It was spread wide in a single line, coiling across the plateau around the edges of the enemy formation as it advanced, constricting them with every step. With their own camp inching closer to their backs, the foe had no room to run.

    Aiur felt a turn in the battle was nigh, though he could not see it. The wall afforded no view of the landscape beyond, lest any opening be filled with arrows. He knew, however, that the shifting proportions of arrows and javelins hammering against them meant that the enemy¡¯s skirmish line had run out of space and were likely attempting to push through their own defensive line. The marks in the sand from booted feet revealed they had moved past their foe¡¯s initial position.

    ¡°There is nowhere left to run,¡± Aiur called out, as much for his enemies'' ears as his allies. ¡°They have already lost this day, all that remains is for us to seize it!¡±

    Daiss was hunched at his side, glaive held in both hands, pointed out in front of him towards the enemy¡¯s retreating lines. His fingers drummed on the haft of his weapon. He could hear the enemy, he could practically smell the enemy, but he could not see them, and he could not fight them. All he had done was rock from side to side on the balls of his feet while inching across sand-soaked rock at an infuriating pace... It was drawing out the stress that anticipated any fight to a ridiculous, and increasingly uncomfortable, degree.

    Cleonar was further down the line, obscured by the braced bodies ahead of her. Her location was only marked out by the house standard, which she held high. It bobbed and swayed in time with her exaggerated, lumbering stride, her own display of annoyance at the pace of battle. Other, smaller unit standards fluttered across the lines, braving the arrows to assert their house pride.

    Aiur ruminated on the situation. They needed to reach the damn line and strike while the enemy were hemmed against the camp. If they waited too long they could filter through. A running battle like that could be won, he was sure, but it would take hours and be unnecessarily bloody work. They needed to push through the pike wall, and fast. The archers had, through the understandable fault of not desiring death under a rain of arrows, failed to provide an opening, so they needed a new way in.

    A charge at their centre would break them, though at far too high a cost. A last resort. Repositioning the archers now would simply get them killed. If they could slip a hand-picked group into the camp behind them, however¡­that might just work¡­

    Aiur rolled his khopesh in his hand, a feral grin slowly spreading across his face.

    ***

    Rexis skulked between shadows and tents as quietly as possible. He¡¯d removed his boots, letting his feet sink slowly into the sand with each step to muffle his movements. He could hear the ¡®battle¡¯ not far off, though it was not the standard clash of metal and shouts of the dying. Instead, little could be heard over the constant snap of bowstrings. He wondered why there was so little action yet.

    The Legionaries he¡¯d brought with him were surprisingly capable, perhaps even comparable in talent to his own scouts, who made up the bulk of this flanking retinue. He¡¯d be making some recommendations when this was over.

    They slithered, one by one, between tents and around the few cooks and servants not cowering away somewhere amidst the sea of cloth. They had swung wide around from the east, moving through quartermaster¡¯s stores, makeshift kitchens and finally through empty billet tents. Now, they were coming directly in behind the battle line.

    Rexis could see them now, lightly armoured in green and red, armed with a mix of javelins and bows. They were inching their way back towards a small gap in the stake barrier that enclosed their camp.

    He spied the target stood by his banner; the bellowing, black wrought Drakkar skull atop verdant green of Krie, symbolising the monstrous dragon-kin cavalry they could no longer afford. At the fore of the enemy¡¯s formation and just out of their reach, Consul Mavan stood with his back to them, guiding their volleys with broad arm gestures. Loose, load, step. Loose, load, step.

    They were slipping into the gap, slowly funnelling their lines down the small passage. It was a careful and measured move, one that might have even worked.

    With a few rapid hand gestures of his own, Rexis¡¯ hand-picked team moved on. Slipping out from within tents, behind supply crates and a myriad of other hiding spots. Their sudden movement gave them away, chainmail rattling and long blades flashing as they rushed forward.

    Two dropped as a wave of arrows whistled through them. There was no time for a second volley, and squeezed five abreast, Rexis¡¯ team smashed into the archers and cut off their escape.

    Rexis was at the front, laying into the near-defenceless archers with his blade, The first held his bow up in a two-handed brace, hoping it would save him, but Rexis¡¯ first overhand blow cracked the wood and carried the bow down with its force, the second cracked the man¡¯s skull and stuck fast. It took two pulls to be wrenched free, leaving rivulets of blood bubbling across scales. His heart pounded as he took a moment to breathe. All around him the scene was being repeated, spears plunged into the foe, blades slashed and twirled. He saw an arm pirouette through the air, trailing fine arcs of gore in its wake.

    Another came at him with a short-bladed dagger, forcing him back and jostling against those behind him, to avoid a downward stab aimed at his collarbone. He countered with a high arc that cut down his foe¡¯s neck and left him choking on his own vital fluids. Pandemonium was setting in, though mercifully few could reach them at once, The crush of bodies pressing in to kill them was overwhelming.

    However, the barrage of arrows had become little more than a pitiful trickle that posed no threat at all.

    ***

    The beat died away, only scattered, occasional notes played now. Aiur rose to his full height and breathed deeply. ¡°One step back, draw and loose!¡± he barked, pausing to let the centurions echo his words. A combined thud of massed footsteps followed, and then the aching groan of two hundred bowstrings being drawn.

    He listened for a moment, picking out the orders repeated by Arian and Melico. The snap of loosed arrows filled the air, he rolled his shoulders and flexed his digits. ¡°Forward! Break them! Break them!¡± he bellowed, thrusting his khopesh forward.

    A collective roar rose up around him, three hundred reptilian voices echoing his cry as the unity of the shield wall dissolved into its individual elements. They broke into a charge, descending on the foe as the first volley scattered into the Krie lines. Aiur ran with his troops, watching for his opening to end this. He could hear Daiss and Cleonar break into an armoured sprint behind him, heavy armour snapping and groaning as they struggled to keep pace with their master.This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

    More defenders fell as the second volley landed, pierced and broken, left dead or dying in the sand. Obvious gaps were growing in their line now, and he was at the forefront of the wave crashing in to exploit them.

    A sudden pike thrust, arrested his momentum and forced him to parry. Deflecting with his blade, he gripped the haft of the pike and attempted to use it to drag himself in close, and stop the killing end being useful. It half-worked. The broad-shouldered, mauve scaled man on the other end realised his intent, dropping his pike in favour of a dagger strapped to his thigh.

    Before he could pull it free, Aiur quickly rolled his khopesh from his right hand to his left and jammed the blade into the wrist going for the dagger. The soldier¡¯s shout of pain was drowned out by the clamour of battle around them, and promptly silenced when Aiur¡¯s armoured fist connected with his jaw.

    Aiur tossed his khopesh back to his dominant hand, ready at a half-crouch as another moved in, clutching a crescent-bladed axe. In a flash of steel over his left shoulder, his would-be foe¡¯s body froze for a moment as his head rolled lazily from his shoulders. A moment later it fell into a heap with the rest of his corpse.

    Daiss loomed over him, blood dripping from his glaive. ¡°Forward!¡± he roared triumphantly. The words had barely left his maw before he whirled around, slicing upwards to neatly open a man¡¯s ribcage, cleaving his pike in two in the same blow.

    Without another word, the huge praetorian waded deeper into the fray. His size belied the speed with which he could whirl and arc his weapon, liberating heads, limbs and lives from their owners. He killed with almost disturbing enthusiasm, clearing a neat path of gore-streaked sand for his master to advance past the front line.

    Aiur nodded to his friend and protector, bolting up his crimson path, clear of the anarchy the enemy¡¯s front line had descended into. Free of the press of bodies and stabbing pikes, he had time to note his foe shouting orders and attempting to organise his men.

    For a Saszrukai, Mavan presented a squat figure. Broad in the shoulders and torso, he had long, almost gangly, arms covered in scales of moss-green. His face was flat-featured, and knots of scales protruded from his lower jaw to create ridges and spikes, while twin razor-thin curls of crimson rolled lazily around his eyes to form his caste-marks. He was wrapped in a loose shirt of chainmail and bore no helm, waving a khopesh around like a conductor¡¯s baton, though from the grimace on his face, his symphony was a mess.

    Aiur moved low, wary of those clustered around the Consul. The two most concerning figures were near identical; tall, lean and heavily armoured with ornate masks that depicted leering Drakkar skulls, their bestial, yet proud, lizard-steeds rendered in motionless steel. Each held a two-handed blade as long as they were tall across their chests, flanking Mavan on either side.

    They could only be his praetorians. Aiur was impressed by how quickly the last ones had been replaced, but that would not stay his hand.

    Mavan turned as Aiur approached, his manner casual as though this were some formal affair Aiur had been invited to. His khopesh lowered, and his face even bore a slight smile. This geniality took Aiur aback and provided Mavan an opportunity to speak. ¡°Ah, I¡¯m glad to see it¡¯s you they sent.¡± His pronunciation of every syllable was crisp and full. He moved his left hand behind his back and bowed. ¡°Shall we prove you are not without some modicum of honour, at least?¡±

    Aiur eyed his counterpart warily and took in the battle around them. By now it was clearly a one-sided affair. The Krie lines were rapidly becoming nothing more than scattered pockets of resistance, and many of their men and women were already throwing down their arms. He smiled and bowed formally in return. It wouldn¡¯t hurt to give Mavan what he wanted.

    Mavan¡¯s masked praetorians swept up their blades and moved forward, initially appearing to move in on Aiur with murderous intent glittering on their masked faces. Halfway between Mavan and Aiur, they abruptly stopped, turned to face the fray around them.

    Aiur shifted, watching them with naked suspicion. Mavan chuckled at Aiur¡¯s discomfort. ¡°Please forgive them, they¡¯re¡­overzealous creatures.¡±

    Mavan slowly shifted into a duelling stance. His left hand remained behind his back as he stood perpendicular to Aiur, presenting the slimmest profile, his blade held low. ¡°Now, whenever you are ready, we can begin.¡±

    Aiur nodded, taking a moment to breath and focus. While this was certainly the oddest circumstances he¡¯d duelled under, he would not let that distract him. He lowered himself into a half crouch, right foot forward and body fully facing Mavan. He gripped his khopesh in his right hand, his left hand out to his side, palm down and open.

    Mavan was nimble in his simple attire, a dust-choked jacket that concealed a protective vest of chainmail. He looked confident and, by his stance, intended on using a traditionalist fighting style. The slim profile he presented certainly lent itself to a patient defence.

    Aiur was comparatively heavily armoured. Injuring him would be difficult at first, but he¡¯d tire faster, and begin to make mistakes. His fighting style was newer and more personal, he had a few favoured tricks, and he hoped the pitted scars and messy scratches on his metal vambraces wouldn¡¯t give too much away.

    They inched closer, each glancing warily at the other¡¯s footwork, at the slightest movement of their arms, and at every twitch of their blade. They each began to probe the other¡¯s defence, flicking blows low and high to note how the other reacted. The praetorians standing to either side of them did not so much as twitch through the repeated, teeth-clenching scrape of metal on metal as they moved back and forth in the opening exchanges.

    They closed. Aiur¡¯s uncertainty allowed Mavan the first strike. The blow came in a high, curved arc aimed at Aiur¡¯s left shoulder, but he swatted it aside with a harsh parry. He followed up with a low slash aimed at Mavan¡¯s sword-arm, but Mavan hooked their blades together and checked its course. Mavan¡¯s return was an immediate lunge, flicking his blade around the parry and aiming directly for the neck. Aiur¡¯s saving grace was his vambrace, bringing his arm up the blade thudded home there; the pain burned as it sunk deep, making him hiss and groan. Mavan pushed his advantage, forcing Aiur back and only wrenching the blade free the moment Aiur attempted a retributory swipe aimed at his face.

    By now they were both bleeding. Crimson trickled from a slender tear on Aiur¡¯s ruined vambrace, and a gentle sliver of crimson seeped between the scales of Mavan¡¯s lower lip. Both took a breath. Aiur repeatedly clenched and unclenched his fist simply to reassure himself he still could. Mavan brought his left hand from behind his back to daintily wipe his face clean. The wound Aiur had taken was by far the worse of the two; he could not risk taking another.

    ¡°One apiece, but I do hope you don¡¯t intend to sacrifice limbs every time I get close,¡± Mavan commented with an amused chuckle.

    Aiur did not rise to the bait, rolling his shoulders and remaining poised at a comfortable distance, forcing Mavan to close in again.

    Mavan leapt in with another high arc, which Aiur parried far more efficiently this second time. Aiur¡¯s follow-up swipe at Mavan¡¯s abdomen caused him to dart back to avoid it. Sand rose in small clouds around his feet.

    Mavan moved to lunge back in, blade coming in low. Aiur parried with his wrist, sending hot spears of pain up his arm, but opening Mavan¡¯s defence entirely. The cut was good, but the armour held, links of chainmail skittered into the sand without a single drop of blood. Mavan slid out of range of any follow-up, grinning from ear to ear.

    ¡°Oh wonderful, wonderful! You really have been getting better.¡± Mavan declared, voice bubbling with pride.

    ¡°And you move far too fast for your age,¡± Aiur rumbled, unable to stop himself returning the grin.

    Mavan¡¯s lips curled into a smirk. ¡°I¡¯ll take that as a compliment.¡± He chuckled before springing forth into a new tirade of blows fuelled, with newfound ferocity. Most came in high, and it became rapidly clear to Aiur that this was still his favoured place to strike. That hadn¡¯t changed since their last duel at the tourney.

    He managed to turn most aside with parries or stopped them dead with blocks that sent shuddering vibrations across both fighter¡¯s limbs. But again, and again Aiur¡¯s blade work misjudged a strike or missed a parry by the smallest margin, and he was forced to bring his vambrace up. A molten lance of pain shot up his arm with each juddering impact. His limbs began to burn with the exertion of it, and his clawed fingers became more numb with each blow. But he weathered Mavan¡¯s storm, searching for his chance. Experience may be on his side, but Aiur had speed on his.

    Although he had been desperately waiting for one, when the opportunity came, it nearly took him by surprise. He spied the slightest opening in Mavan¡¯s defence as he swung in. In a moment, it was gone, Aiur forced into another parry to save his own hide. But it appeared again and again, no helpful rhythm to exploit, it came in seemingly random strikes, the tiniest of openings. Aiur flicked the quickest blow he dared towards it when he saw it for the fifth time. He hit chainmail, sending more broken links into the sand, but the blow did not bite. In a moment of instinct, just as his blade slid wide, he dropped it neatly into his left hand. Though pain burned in his wrist as he gripped the blade, it gave him what he needed.

    Just as his blow struck, rending into Mavan¡¯s open wound just under the sword arm, Mavan¡¯s own strike finally landed, smacking him in the face mere inches from his left eye. They both reeled from the other¡¯s attack. Although the blow had struck Aiur hard, the blade¡¯s edge did not bite, the angle ruined by the shock of his injury.

    Mavan was twisted to one side, sword arm outstretched and hand empty. His own new wound oozed blood freely, and his blade sat in the sand a scant few meters from him.

    Aiur took a step forward. He was halted when, with the resonating clang of blade-on-blade, a crossed pair of swords barred his path. The praetorians retained their silent glares as he drew back, never wavering in their duty.

    The sounds of battle began to ebb, and soon, hundreds of eyes were upon them to bear witness as Mavan turned, his hands raised in surrender.

 IV: A little treason

    They had moved to the roof garden, to give their conversation a less conspiratorial air.

    The garden wouldn¡¯t have looked out of place in a palatial estate belonging to the grandest noble on the continent. Exotic flowers, shrubs, trees and cacti from the desert and all the known lands far beyond were arranged in artfully flowing beds. The full kaleidoscope of life flowed down the walls, etched out wide open spaces and created concealed groves. All of it was attended to by a small army of gardeners pottering around in green smocks and heavy leather gloves, as varied in their hues as the garden they cared for.

    In one such grove, sitting atop the western wall and marked by its blooming acacia tree, Ezerkal and Syla lay on elegantly carved loungers, a bottle of Zerkan red nestled on a low table between them as they soaked in the evening light.

    Especially in this dying light of the day, Nerkai was a beautiful city. Prosperous, wealthy, every luxury under the sun to be found within its grand walls. Its numerous parks, palaces, squares and markets all had their own unique flair and beauty. The entire city revelled in the grandeur that came with its status as the heart of trade and commerce in the immensity of the Kailai desert.

    Ezerkal sipped his wine, one of those many luxuries he had come to very much enjoy, albeit in greater moderation these days.

    ¡°It¡¯s quite beautiful, don¡¯t you think?¡± Ezerkal said idly, rolling the wine glass in his palm.

    ¡°It is,¡± Syla replied coolly, turning to look at him, ¡°but you have been distracting me. As much as I appreciate the wine, the view, and the open air, we have an important matter to discuss. I will have this conversation with you and I will have an answer, even if we must remain here until the bells strike midnight,¡± she declared, a terrifying zeal flashing across her face.

    Ezerkal swallowed, taken aback by her shift in tone. He had hoped to keep conversation to a more pleasant topic. Her stern glare dissuaded him from the obvious retort about Nerkai¡¯s lack of such bells, and so he resorted to a long, slow breath.

    ¡°You propose treason,¡± he finally said, after an uncomfortable pause.

    Syla returned to lying comfortably on her back, her face impassive once more, her voice returned to contemptuous calm. ¡°Then you will not declare it to all the world from the rooftops.¡±

    ¡°And if I decline?¡±

    ¡°Then you will not declare it to all the world from the rooftops,¡± she repeated.

    ¡°And if I did?¡±

    She rolled her eyes rolled. ¡°Then I would have you killed.¡± She briefly revelled, in the shock the casual finality of her words induced, letting them hang for a moment. ¡°Or discredited as a madman,¡± she added as an afterthought, her thin lips curling into the slightest of grins.

    She glanced sidelong at Ezerkal¡¯s face, taking in the intricate details of the fear etched upon him. The dilated pupils, the ever-so-slightly quivering fingers, and yet the firm stoicism of his jaw remained.

    ¡°So, you condemn me to compliance, or silence.¡± Syla found his ability to remain so composed impressive, though she did not show it.If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

    ¡°Silence is not so difficult.¡±

    ¡°Neither is treason, apparently,¡± Ezerkal snarled.

    ¡°Quite so, especially when that which you commit treason against has already doomed itself.¡±

    ¡°And yet why should I trust you? Nary a moment ago you threatened me with death. And what of my bonds of loyalty? Of my allies and my friends?¡±

    ¡°I only ask you to abandon bonds of loyalty that will see you die penniless and alone, your talents wasted. I ask you to replace them with ones that will reward your talents in ways you¡¯ve never imagined. As for your friends, your allies, that will not burden your conscience: They may join us. Our endeavour is yet small, and I would welcome any addition with open arms.¡± Syla¡¯s passion built with every syllable, flowing forth to wash over Ezerkal.

    ¡°And threats of death, apparently.¡±

    She sighed, letting her passion disperse. ¡°Yes, and with threats of death,¡± she admitted. ¡°Yet, they are honest threats, for honesty is all you shall hear from me.¡±

    Ezerkal looked down at himself, sliding his hands together and ruminating on her words. ¡°I suppose such brazen honesty deserves respect in its own way, ¡± he concluded, after a lengthy silence interrupted only by chirruping birds.

    ¡°Honesty begets respect, and respect begets loyalty. As you have so duly noted, even honest threats are curiously respectable.¡±

    He laughed at that. ¡°I do hope you don¡¯t intend to recruit everyone in the same way!¡±

    ¡°I fully intend to be more tactful in future.¡±

    Another silence descended between them. Ezerkal poured himself his second glass of wine and sipped slowly at the fine vintage.

    ¡°So, I assume you¡¯ll be accepting the offer.¡± Syla¡¯s voice was a whisper. Now was the moment, Ezerkal would either meet her expectations or disappoint her entirely.

    ¡°You assume much.¡± He paused again, fingers tapping together. ¡°¡­Tentatively. Frankly, I think you need someone like me if you¡¯re going to get this idea off the ground. Someone with a little more... charisma.¡±

    ¡°Good, that is precisely what I came to you for,¡± Syla said with a sly smile. She did so enjoy being right.

    Ezerkal raised an eyebrow, but chose not to comment ¡°So then, what¡¯s our first move?¡±

    ¡°More allies. We have a long road ahead, and we need as many to walk it with us as we can get.¡±

    ¡°You have ideas, no doubt.¡±

    ¡°I do.¡±

    ¡°Preferably a list? Rather than waiting for you to oh-so-graciously bestow the information upon me?¡±

    Syla rolled her eyes and sighed. ¡°Yes, a list. But one I fully expect you to expand upon. I need detailed recommendations, or solid reasoning to discount particular candidates.¡±

    ¡°Oh, how kind. Please do inundate me with more responsibilities.¡± Ezerkal grumbled, returning his glass to the table. ¡°And how, pray tell, shall I handle these new responsibilities? I have no doubt you intend me to speak to, and recruit, members of my house. Which means you will, of course, not be freeing me from my oaths to Zerkash, not yet.¡±

    ¡°How astute of you. Yes, Zerkash seems to be the natural starting point, and best achieved while you remain among their number. Do not limit your scope however. Our starting point is Nerkai, not just one of its houses.¡±

    Ezerkal frowned. ¡°You will not take this city with honeyed words and a cause few people will believe in.¡±

    Syla raised a hand to her mouth, and attempted to stifle her laughter. ¡°If you believe I would make such a brash move so soon, you are quite na?ve.¡± She took a breath, composing herself though she still smiled. ¡°I want you to find me nobles, craftsmen and soldiers. Artists, scholars and priestesses. We are building a web of influence, not staging a coup.¡±

    ¡°We are only at the start of this¡­endeavour, then?¡±

    ¡°Long before even that, we shall be building something grand, and yet we are only now drawing up the plans.¡±

    ¡°And while I begin to spin this web, what will you be doing?¡± Ezerkal asked with relish. He couldn¡¯t help it; the prospect was simply so enthralling. His fear still lingered, and Syla was no less intimidating than when she first appeared in his office, but the excitement smothered everything else.

    She laughed, softly but openly. ¡°I will be doing the same, my little spider. We shall meet regularly to discuss our progress.¡±

    Ezerkal nodded, sitting up in his lounger and sinking deep into his own thoughts. The number of talented people in the city was staggering, they would need to decide on more than simple competencies to select the most suitable for this venture.

    He abruptly dragged himself to his feet and bowed to Syla. ¡°Then I shall take my leave and see you shortly,¡± he said, remembering a letter he had left unread on his desk. ¡°For I have a few ideas.¡±

 V: Nerkai in shame

    An army marched through the southern gates, each a twenty-foot behemoth of wood reinforced with bronze in a constellation of stars; a grand procession of fluttering banners and field-repaired armour. Soldiers marched in neat formations, locked in place around their two hundred prisoners. The constant rattle of chainmail and rhythmic thud of boots upon the flagstones disturbed the morning quiet and sent songbirds scattering away from the trees that lined the streets.

    They had entered through the Crown District, known to some as the Guild District. It was one of three districts in the city, each divided from the other by rivers; it sat to the south-west and, as its nickname suggested, was dominated by the merchant-caste guilds. Craftsmen¡¯s shops, guild halls, merchant stalls and even well-respected schools huddled around the numerous souk markets adorning the streets and squares that formed the largest district in the city. Mavan knew it was here that the central square, and the court of Nerkai, could be found atop the city¡¯s geographical heart.

    However, aside from this cacophonous procession, the streets were almost abandoned. No cheering crowd welcomed them home. No friends, lovers or clutch-mates watched with hawk eyes for the one they recognised. No hatchlings gaped in awe at this expression of order, discipline and power.

    In fact, the only people Mavan saw were Nerkai¡¯s bakers preparing for the inevitable morning rush as they passed along the main east-west thoroughfare and on through arched squares, where blacksmith¡¯s apprentices worked the forges to readiness.

    Mavan marched, as befitted his station, at the forefront of the prisoner column. His twin praetorians remained mere inches from his shoulders, having closed back in the moment they had passed between the gates, moving in perfect lockstep with one another.

    Though they had not said a word, they had begun to relax during the long march, even warming somewhat to their infinitely more vocal counterparts in Daiss and Cleonar.  Passing through the gates and into the city proper had brought all their paranoia and instinct back to the fore in an instant, and their clawed fingers were curled tightly around their blades.

    They huddled around him, ready to draw their blades at a moment¡¯s notice, as though they burned with a singular need to single-handedly butcher their master a path to freedom.

    And If I asked them, they may just succeed, Mavan thought, though he had no intention of giving the twins what they so sorely desired.

    He spent much of his time in this lengthy procession admiring the city¡¯s lavish sandstone architecture. Street after street of grand homes and broad manses lined the way, flat-roofed to allow their occupants to soak in the sun¡¯s warmth. The ornate halls of the city¡¯s guilds rose into the sky, engaged in a battle of opulence with their neighbours.

    ¡°Awfully quiet morning,¡± he muttered, breaking the silence that had fallen the moment they entered the city. He¡¯d moved up the column by this point, sliding in amongst Aiur¡¯s cadre of command staff.

    ¡°It¡¯s always like this of late,¡± Aiur replied, after letting Mavan¡¯s words hang long enough to make his reluctance to engage with him clear.

    Mavan let his gaze wander, looking out for their destination. The architecture was pleasant but unfamiliar. It had been too long since he¡¯d been in Nerkai, he thought.

    The city had grown so much in his absence that the only building visible in the skyline outside his immediate surroundings, was the immense pyramid that was the city¡¯s main temple dedicated to Aten. Its smooth, featureless face soared high into the sky ahead of them, its gold-encased tip shining brilliantly.

    ¡°Some might consider this a lack of loyalty to house and home¡­On the rare occasion an army returns to Amexal, there is always a celebration, the streets teeming with people.¡± Mavan commented absent-mindedly.

    Daiss looked away, feigning interest in one of the bakeries they were passing, and Cleonar made a low, rumbling sound that was doubtless accompanied by a scowl. ¡°I think you know full well why,¡± Aiur growled, barely sparing Mavan a glance as he increased his pace.

    ¡°I don¡¯t actually. Perhaps, after so many ¡®victorious¡¯ campaigns of late, the people grow weary of it, and cannot afford the extravagance,¡± Mavan commented. ¡°That would be understandable, expected, even. But it could just as easily be embarrassment, disdain, and a waning love for the Archon who rules them.¡± Mavan continued, closing the distance Aiur had created between them ¡°You have, however, already given me the answer.¡±

    Aiur sighed deeply. His voice suddenly became low and tired as if he carried an immense weight on his shoulders.  ¡°And yet, everyone blames me. Again, and again, and again¡­¡±

    Mavan straightened his back, and gestured toward the marching army at their backs. ¡°You are the instrument that brings him these countless victories, you are the reason he is so powerful. You, and you alone.¡±

    Aiur turned to look at Mavan, his eyes narrowed into accusatory slits. ¡°You truly believe so?¡±

    Mavan shrugged almost nonchalantly. ¡°He succeeds in your shadow, not the other way around. Stepping out will hurt him, not you.¡±

    ¡°If I abandoned my oaths, Ra¡¯ven would simply find another Consul with a basic level of competency, likely a far less humane one at that! I keep casualties low with my continued loyalty, lest he find another ¡®young prot¨¦g¨¦¡¯.¡±

    Mavan blanched. Aiur¡¯s eyes gave away the likely existence of a list of people being groomed to replace him if he ever stepped out of line. ¡°You truly think so lowly of yourself? An amateur at the art of war? Ra¡¯ven¡¯s puppet dancing to his macabre tune? Next thing I know, you¡¯ll be proclaiming incompetence with a blade! Just because I was without my steed does not mean you have not achieved, have not improved.¡± He paused, taking a long breath and lowering his voice. ¡°You diminish yourself needlessly. It is your propensity for merciful warfare that has kept the knives from Ra¡¯ven¡¯s back for so long.¡±

    ¡°You have a point to make, thank you for making that clear. I ask that you wait until your audience is over,¡± Aiur growled.

    Mavan nodded, and gave a brief smile. ¡°I shall wait, out of respect if nothing else. We must simply hope I am not clapped in irons and thrown into a cell.¡±

    Aiur gave him a strange look. He glanced up at the two praetorians, who stared directly back at him, and decided to say nothing.

    ***

    It took a further half hour of marching and a northerly turn at a grand crossroads to reach the city centre where the court lay.

    It was an impressive sight; it sat at the northern zenith of the largest square in the city magnificent in its opulence. The flagstones of the street had been replaced with a colossal twelve-pointed star, the holiest symbol of Aten. The star was rendered in polished bronze and surrounded by carved marble, each of its metallic points carefully engraved with gentle script, noting distances as trivial as a street, and as magnificent as five hundred miles.

    The edges of the square were lined with stores selling goods befitting royalty: three tailors, each from rival guilds, two bakeries that from the smell were preparing fine cakes and sugared treats and two bookstores with windows crowded full of tomes both mundane and magical. There was even a blacksmiths workshop, lurking at the southern edge next to a trinket shop whose contents were concealed behind tinted glassUnauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

    The court proper, sat upon a raised foundation of stone with a wide marble staircase leading up to the entrance. The stairs were lined on each side with statues of men and women from generations ago, the finer details of their features eroded away by the sands of time. The main building was immense in its proportions, taller and broader than any other structure in the square. It was only overshadowed by the pyramid of Aten directly to the east, sitting majestically atop the nexus where the Mossul river split into the A¡¯at and Ahbek.

    From the front the court was a stern, austere building carved from the best desert stone with a grand colonnade holding up the overhanging greenery of its roof gardens, and doors so large a dragon could likely squeeze between them.   It exuded palatial wealth, stature and power, but Mavan knew this place well enough to not be intimidated by this brooding facade.

    ¡°So, how long do you think we¡¯ll be waiting? It¡¯s not exactly bustling,¡± Mavan asked, breaking the silence that had fallen between the two Consuls.

    ¡°Waiting?¡± Aiur replied. ¡°I doubt we¡¯ll be waiting at all. He¡¯ll have been here at the crack of dawn every day since the runner delivered the news of our victory.¡± He sighed. ¡°Which is why, despite us taking the fastest route home, suffering minimal casualties and bringing half a cohort¡¯s worth of men and women considering his amnesty, he will not be in a good mood.¡±

    ¡°Ah,¡± was all Mavan could say, swallowing audibly. ¡°And what might put him in a good mood?¡±

    ¡°Well, if you were to submit to his every demand without questioning him in the slightest, that would make him happy.¡±

    ¡°Perhaps something that would put him in a good mood without crippling me or my house?¡±

    Aiur looked across the square as though it might spark off a recollection of some half-remembered event in his mind. Finding no such inspiration, he came to a sharp conclusion. ¡°No.¡±

    Mavan sighed, beginning to ascend the stairs with praetorians in tow. Aiur remained behind, albeit briefly, to set the process in motion of the prisoners accepting a place in the Zerkash cohorts or returning home with a merchant¡¯s caravan.  The column trudged off together to the numerous Zerkash barrack houses clustered against the southern and western walls.

    The grand doors were flanked by Spatharii temple guards, marking it as a place of holy peace. Each stood silently in full scale armour, clutching bladed polearms, as upright and still as the statues that watched over them.

    They went without helmets, and the pair on duty this day were a slim-faced blue-scale clearly not far beyond their twentieth summer, and a hard-jawed yellow-scale that was at least double that age. Both had eyes of a deep green, framed with slices of the same hue along the ridge of their eyebrows to mark their caste.

    Mavan passed through the doors, feeling their hard stares upon him, and slipped into the main hall.

    The main hall was the central meeting space for all the nobles and their houses in the region. It was here where public audiences were held and nobles deliberated over treaties, agreements and land rights. All while the houseless, those young fresh-faced nobles straight from the academies, advertised their skills and potential to prospective houses. It was where the guilds bartered, offering skills and loyalty in exchange for coin, trade contracts, and the promise of profit.

    Contrary to the quiet of the square, the hall was almost full. Men and women of every age and shade met amongst the booths, tables, chairs and divans, the air filled with their chatter.

    Mavan let loose a contented sigh at the familiar atmosphere. Every major city he knew of had a courthouse like this in some shape or form. It was, rather pleasantly, exactly as he hoped it might be. The air was filled with amicable discussion, vocal debate, and the wonderful smells of hot, spiced food and copious drink. Small groups clustered around low tables, planning and scheming, and brown-eyed servants darted amongst them with refreshments, intermingling with garishly-robed diplomats bustling back and forth.

    Hanging from the vaulted ceilings were a series of banners, each above the entrance to a noble house¡¯s inner sanctum. Six such banners fluttered gently in the breeze from the open doors. The silver tower of house Zerkash, and five more Mavan did not recognise; an unwinding spiral with a scorpion¡¯s barb, a shattered horseshoe, a farmer¡¯s crook, a lotus flower and a heron. Minor houses of the region, Mavan decided.

    He strode towards the entranceway beneath the Zerkash banner, shoulders back and head held high. Ignoring the clatter of Aiur, Daiss and Cleonar following in his wake, he shoved the doors wide open and passed through a long corridor, lined with heavy doors of imported oak.  The spoils of countless wars lurked between carved stone archways; elegant weapons, battle standards, and suits of armour with the punctures and tears that killed their bearer left for all to see.

    At the end of this winding maze of corridors, offices, staircases and minor audience chambers, lay the inner sanctum. The doors were protected by chainmail-veiled guards, draped in tabards in the purple and red of house Zerkash. At his approach, they snapped to attention, blocking the doors until Aiur marched up and waved them away.

    The inner sanctum was a close, intimate space. A low, domed ceiling met the sloping walls, where light filtered in through stained glass windows. The entire space was dominated by a huge stone table carved into an inordinately detailed map of the entire continent of Kailai, and the titular desert that forms its heart. Eight major cities, at least twenty large towns, and innumerable villages and hamlets scattered across the sand and stone, each with a tiny simulacrum of a flag hanging static above it.

    Sat in a large, high-backed chair, leaning over the vast map, was a man.

    He was draped in a tight fitted, formal jacket of purple silk edged with crimson thread. It was simple, clean, and stately, a stark contrast to the rest of him.

    He had the atypical crimson eyes of a noble and scales of praetorian purple, though very few were visible thanks to the close cut and tight fit of his clothes. His face had perhaps once been a stern, dignified thing. Now it was a mess of old scars, sutured tears and missing scales, revealing the pink flesh beneath. Every expression on his face was twisted into little more than a rictus snarl.

    He rose to his feet, stepping forward with a noticeable limp in the left leg; the priesthood¡¯s healing arts had grown it back warped and malformed. It was partially disguised by abnormally tall leather riding boots which transformed the natural tap of clawed feet into a harsh snap with every step.

    ¡°My lord Ra¡¯ven,¡± Aiur said with a bow. ¡°This is- ¡°

    Ra¡¯ven raised a hand, and began to speak in an unpleasant rattling voice. ¡°I know full well who this is.¡± He took a slow, sucking breath and placed one hand on the table before him. ¡°I wish to know why he is not in irons.¡±

    Mavan¡¯s praetorians immediately drew their blades and took up wide stances, putting themselves between Ra¡¯ven and their charge.

    Aiur cleared his throat and smiled. ¡°I believe that is why, my lord.¡±

    A hideous smile spread across Ra¡¯ven¡¯s face. ¡°You are in no position to make demands.¡±

    Mavan bowed. ¡°Of course, but my position allows negotiation. You have demands yes, but we shall temper them to be¡­palatable.¡±

    Ra¡¯ven made a disconcerting sound that couldn¡¯t quite be called laughter. ¡°You have some backbone at least.¡± He looked past the assembled group to the doors behind them, and raised his voice. ¡°Ezerkal!¡±

    An awkward quiet descended while they waited. The slow grind of metal-on-metal as the twins shifted posture was slowly overtaken by the rhythmic tapping of approaching footsteps. With a respectful yet self-satisfied smile, and draped in his flowing robes of office, Ezerkal elegantly strode into the room.

    He bowed extravagantly, lowering and raising himself with a flourish of his hands. Ra¡¯ven simply grunted and motioned to Mavan. ¡°We have acquired ourselves an¡­ambassador from house Krie. Remind me of their holdings outside Amexal. I shall set my terms, and you will then create a peace treaty that our esteemed ¡®guest¡¯ may take back to his master.¡±

    Ezerkal cocked his head to one side, wetting his lips before he spoke. ¡°Despite their slim ruling majority holdings in the city of Amexal, and recent financial troubles, house Krie still owns thirty-four percent of the farms in the seaward lowlands on the western side of the Ifrit pass. Their stake in the spice trade in the region recently dropped to eleven percent.¡± He took a small breath, raising a hand to his chin.

    Mavan was impressed that the research was spot-on. He had heard rumours of Ra¡¯ven¡¯s new diplomat, but to see him in action was inspiring.

    ¡°They have fourteen major mines of mundane materials in the lower slopes of the Jiitai mountains and double that in smaller pits in the surrounding land, primarily iron, salt, copper and tin.¡± He lowered his hand, moving it behind his back. ¡°And finally, owing to a peculiar financial¡­predicament, their stake in the Drakkar nesting grounds around the city has fallen to zero in an effort to balance their accounts.¡±

    Ezerkal took another breath, opening his mouth to speak again when Ra¡¯ven interrupted. ¡°I want the mines. Find out how many Krie is willing to give up, and then force them to offer more.¡± He turned to Ezerkal, looking at him for the first time since he entered the room ¡°Now get out.¡±

 VI: Reaching out

    The temple was a place of peace, serenity and calm. In the upper reaches of the great pyramid, in private chambers, tiny sanctums or the grand library, priestesses, acolytes and magi contemplated, meditated and rested.

    Which made it all the more strange that Aretuza found her personal quarters occupied.

    She had been returning from a night of study, contemplating the more complex questions the faithful had brought to her in recent days. Several hours had been devoted to a series of philosophical queries on the nature of life and their deity from a cadre of visiting scholars.

    Aretuza was draped in modest, flowing robes of green silk and golden thread, hanging loosely over her ample frame. Her slim, aquiline head was adorned with a long, elaborate headdress of bronze, gold and silk inlaid with glittering gemstones, hung from gentle ridges protruding from the back of her head. Her scales were a pleasing amaranth, her eyes emerald, and slim half-moons of the same green as her robes hung beneath her eyes.

    She had opened her door, a plain wooden thing leading into her sparsely decorated room. The chamber had no windows, and was lit only by a translucent orb that hung from the ceiling. With a snap of her fingers, it released a comforting yellow glow akin to a tiny sun.

    Against one wall sat a small, simple desk, and the opposite was occupied with storage: a chest of drawers, and a pair of trunks. Her bed was placed against the far wall; wide, low and lacking in ornamentation, and it was here she found the intruder.

    They were perched casually on the end of the bed, inspecting their clawed digits. Wider hips, slimmer shoulders and the general curve of their figure told her that it was likely a female. Shin-high, weather-worn leather boots, a curious outfit of leather and cloth adorned with numerous belts and pouches, and the slightest remnants of sand between their azure scales suggested they had come from outside the city. Yet, the utter lack of any markings, combined with the curious colour of her eyes frustratingly hid the most important piece of information Aretuza desired.

    Caste.

    One without caste or choosing to hide it was an oddity, and someone from another city breaking into the private quarters of a priestess of Aten was even more alarming.

    ¡°You are not supposed to be here, madam,¡± she said sternly, carefully stifling a yawn in case the intruder took it as a sign of weakness. The fact she was here stood as testament to her ability; in a little way, that unnerved her.

    They flashed her a knowing smile, crossing her legs and putting her dirty boots on the sheets. ¡°I wanted to ask you some questions,¡± she said.

    Aretuza¡¯s brow furrowed. ¡°The temple below is full of acolytes who I am sure can answer your queries, madam.¡±

    ¡°I wish to speak with you specifically. A learned one, a scholar.¡±

    ¡°I am certain there is one such as myself available below at this very moment. Even if this is about amending your castelessness, that still does not excuse your breaking into our private spaces and violating my privacy. Rituals can be performed to ordain you into the castes if you have found your faith.¡± The last sentence came out with more venom than Aretuza intended, and she dropped her head in embarrassment. This woman was not armed, she had caused no disturbance, it would be cruel of her to turn away the faithful. That was not Aten¡¯s way.

    She took a breath, returning to a soft, matronly tone. ¡°Please, explain in simple terms what brings you here, for I do not wish to have to call the guard.¡±

    The intruder placed her feet back on the floor once more, having left infuriating scuff marks on the otherwise pristine white sheets ¡°Worry not, I have not come here to talk about the grand dilemma of my missing caste. Instead, I wish to ask you a series of¡­pertinent, philosophical questions about the priesthood¡¯s place, in the utmost privacy. Where, as you have said, is more private than here?¡±The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    ¡°And how did you get in here?¡± Aretuza could not avoid the question; an intruder unnoticed in the pyramid had never happened in all the forty years she had served the temple.

    ¡°That is for me to know, and you to wonder. For now.¡± The intruder¡¯s smile faded, her features hardening, ¡°but will you do me the pleasure of hearing my questions?¡±

    Aretuza sighed. ¡°I shall, but if you begin spouting heresies at me, I shall not tolerate it.¡±

    ¡°Wonderful.¡± The intruder clasped her hands together. ¡°Now, to begin, the declared goal of the faith of Aten, and its priest-caste, is the betterment of life for all Saszrukai, yes?¡±

    ¡°A strange way of putting it, but you are correct. We wholeheartedly believe it is our duty to use our place to uplift the lives of all.¡± Aretuza recited, having given such confirmations many times, often to small children. Not much of a philosophical question, she thought.

    ¡°And thus, is the incessant conflict between the noble houses not an obstruction to that end? Does it not prevent betterment?¡±

    Aretuza raised her eyebrows, pausing briefly before she answered. It was certainly something more pertinent, and an issue she had considered many times. ¡°The physical conflict? Yes¡­The warring over land, prestige and honour that should be shared between the noble houses does most certainly. The priesthood has, and always will, condemn wars between faithful Saszrukai. We shall never support such things. It is for this reason that you will never see the arcane on the battlefields of the Kailai.¡±

    ¡°Aside from among the legions of House Tetra,¡± the intruder quipped

    Aretuza nodded, wondering where the intruder was going with this line of questioning. ¡°We have come to tacitly accept those breakers of the edicts in recent decades.¡± She smiled softly, and continued. ¡°On the other hand, conflict of influence and currency is arguably imperative, and enforced by the will of Aten. The competition between nobles and guilds, when properly mediated by the priesthood, pushes us all to improve.¡±

    The intruder nodded, placing a hand on her chin. ¡°Thus, you surely would be in support of an effort to end these physical conflicts, while maintaining economic competition?¡±

    ¡°Logically, yes, that would be an ideal state, perhaps even Aten¡¯s intended goal. However, in practice it is far more complex. The mechanism would be just as important as the outcome, it would doubtless be divisive among the priesthood, and raise ethical issues.¡±

    ¡°Such as?¡±

    Aretuza paused briefly, pondering what this woman could stand to gain from such a pursuit. ¡°The priesthood no longer has a mandate over physical affairs. Our domain is the spiritual, the supernatural, the magical. This initiative would need to come from the nobility, lest we overreach our lawful bounds.¡±

    ¡°And would the priesthood support such nobles?¡±

    Aretuza sighed, shaking her head. It was wishful thinking. ¡°It would undoubtedly be more complicated than that. We cannot openly support such a notion without it being unanimous among the entire caste, or taken up by a whole city. Even then¡­¡± she shrugged

    ¡°Who would lead?¡± The trespasser finished for her, with a thoughtful nod.

    ¡°Precisely. What noble could lead such a thing without universal condemnation of tyranny and power-lust? And what Priestess could rightfully begin to dictate how nobles should rule?¡±

    ¡°An entrenched and respected noble acting only from necessity and backed by the priesthood could quench such ire.¡±

    ¡°And thus, you reach the cycle,¡± Aretuza said with a decisive nod. This was where all such thought experiments had ended. ¡°And before you continue,¡± she added, raising a hand ¡°I am regrettably in no position to end it. I am a scholar, tutor, and healer, but I am not the high priestess. I simply lead in her absence as her foremost acolyte.¡±

    ¡°She has been away for two seasons.¡±

    ¡°Deliberations of this nature in Setara always require this length of time. She will return.¡± Aretuza paused, folding her hands behind her back. This intruder appeared interested in more than just experiments. ¡°But she will not help you when she does.¡±

    The trespasser sighed, rising to her feet.

    That was an opportunity. ¡°However, I would be remiss in my duties to not at least report observations of such a movement¡­for academic purposes.¡±

    A sly smile crept across the intruder¡¯s face, mirrored by the priestess that stood before her.

    ¡°And in the meantime, I¡¯m sure we can continue our little¡­consultations. In a more formal setting,¡± The intruder said, as if Aretuza¡¯s acceptance was guaranteed. ¡°In your grand library, perhaps.¡±

    ¡°That sounds delightful.¡±

    ¡°Good, you will hear from my associates soon,¡± the intruder concluded, moving towards the door.

    ¡°Your name, ma¡¯am? Does a particular house have such lofty goals in mind?¡± Aretuza finally asked.

    The intruder paused, glancing over her shoulder ¡°My name is Syla, and as you have no doubt noticed, I have no house.¡±

 VII: Proposal in hand

    His office seemed safe enough, but Ezerkal locked the door behind him. After the kicking Ra¡¯ven had given him, he preferred not to have a repeat of his recent unexpected visit, regardless of how well it had gone. They could knock like everyone else this time.

    They had retreated to the third-floor office for a private discussion, bringing refreshments with them; a decanter of wine and a large bowl of caramelized fruits.

    Ezerkal lowered himself into his chair behind the desk, leaning back and settling himself against the cushion. Mavan and Aiur sat opposite, and the twins stood sentinel by the door. ¡°So, your little duel went well then,¡± Ezerkal declared, after a long pause interrupted only by Aiur¡¯s inability to keep his hands off the caramelized oranges.

    Mavan shrugged, nursing a cup of wine he was yet to take a sip from. ¡°It stopped an all-out war, but your Archon¡¯s demands are ridiculous.¡±

    ¡°He will take as much as he thinks he can get,¡± Ezerkal said. Aiur grunted his own agreement through a mouthful of fruit.

    ¡°I thought Ra¡¯ven was joking earlier when he said the only way he¡¯d be happy is by crippling my house. I see I was mistaken.¡±

    Ezerkal smiled mournfully. ¡°If only.¡± He poured himself a glass of wine as he continued. ¡°He is determined to; we all now know that. But through your little agreement, barely anyone fought and died. Thus, you are not crippled. Not yet, anyway.¡±

    ¡°So, he finds another way through our finances. I understand that. But my Archon will never agree to surrender our assets.¡± Mavan said, finally sipping on his wine as he slumped in his seat.

    ¡°We will write something that leaves House Krie standing,¡± Ezerkal explained, the chair groaning as he leaned forward. ¡°But you have to make Ishmael agree.¡±

    ¡°He won¡¯t!¡± Mavan exclaimed, throwing his arms up and almost spilling his wine. ¡°He¡¯d sooner sell all the mines for ten legions of Ferrakarian mercenaries!¡±

    Aiur gave his counterpart a strange look. ¡°Then what, march on Nerkai?¡±

    Mavan shrugged, sinking into his seat again. ¡°More than likely.¡±

    ¡°The march from Amexal is long and harsh. We¡¯d be so prepared he would be marching to his death. Would he be so foolish?¡±

    ¡°He would rather see himself ruined in battle than be left destitute.¡±

    Aiur leant back, casually tossing another slice of caramelized orange into his mouth. ¡°So, both our Archons disapprove of our duel then.¡±

    ¡°No, Ishmael simply expected me to win.¡±

    ¡°Then you shouldn¡¯t have brought pikes,¡± Ezerkal interrupted.

    Mavan sighed heavily, and turned to the diplomat. ¡°We¡­we expected you to try and humiliate us with cavalry.¡±

    Aiur laughed, but it was hollow. ¡°We struck when you had no cavalry, because if you had Drakkars we would have been slaughtered.  Ra¡¯vens penchant these days is exploiting weaknesses.¡±

    ¡°We were convinced he wanted revenge for the battle at the Augon dunes,¡± Mavan said, alluding to the climactic battle that had left Ra¡¯ven a cripple.

    ¡°Regardless,¡± Ezerkal interrupted again, his tone stern this time. ¡°We have important matters at hand. The peace agreement needs to be discussed in full once the first draft is ready.¡± He took a slow breath, chewing on his lower lip as he thought. How far could he trust them? They were both solid, dependable people, people she had asked for. But was now the right moment?

    ¡°And? You clearly have something to add,¡± Aiur rumbled, a suspicion lacing his voice and sinking into his features.The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

    ¡°Yes¡­of a sort.¡± Ezerkal nodded. ¡°I have discovered¡­¡± he paused, brow furrowing as he tried to word this diplomatically. ¡°I have had an encounter with a curious woman who seeks to establish an¡­intriguing initiative.¡±

    ¡°Caste?¡± Aiur asked, some of his suspicion being replaced with intrigue, as Mavan leaned back, disgruntled by the change in topic.

    ¡°That would be the sticking point¡­as far as I can tell, none.¡± Ezerkal said.

    ¡°You say it so casually as if it¡¯s not disturbing. When was the last time you met a casteless person?¡± Aiur snarled. ¡°Are you working with a Lyberai?¡±

    Ezerkal shook his head, offended by the mere prospect. ¡°No, of course not. I simply think she¡¯s hiding her caste, caste-marks on the body aren¡¯t entirely unheard of... She¡¯s not spouting any of the heresy you¡¯d expect from them. Even if she is Lyberai, I think she¡¯s trying to escape that past. Perhaps she¡¯s simply from a lower caste and let¡¯s be honest, none of us would listen to someone from the caste of sand with such an idea.¡±

    The caste of sand was the peasantry class, denoted by brown eyes and caste-marks. Above them lay the caste of the river; merchants, artisans and craftsmen, denoted by blue. Beyond that were the two ruling castes: caste of the sun for the priesthood, and caste of the sky for nobility, with green and red as their respective markers.

    ¡°And this idea is?¡± Mavan asked.

    ¡°I think this would be better explained with something to show,¡± Ezerkal said, pushing himself up out of his seat, and striding over to the map on the wall, wine in hand.

    ¡°No,¡± Aiur said, his tone as hard as steel. He rose from his seat, its feet scraping across the floor, as he pressed both hands on the table.

    Ezerkal rocked on his heels, pausing mid-quaff of his wine.

    ¡°No,¡± Aiur repeated, fixing Ezerkal with his glare. ¡°It is clear you do not need me for the treaty. Thus, I have no reason to remain party to this.¡±

    ¡°I feel it is of considerable importance that you at least listen,¡± Ezerkal started, stepping forward with a hand outstretched.

    ¡°I will not,¡± Aiur snapped, stepping away from the desk. His body radiated disgust and Ezerkal feared he had gone too far. ¡°Aten has ordained the structure in which we live. It exists for a reason. Those outside it are heretics.¡±

    ¡°This woman is no Lyberai!¡±

    ¡°And what proof do you have? She is outside the castes! That, for me, is enough to believe her to be one of those faithless heretics. I am disappointed in you, Ezerkal. I expected better.¡±

    ¡°You misunderstand. This woman seeks a noble end, and great change.¡±

    Aiur shook his head and sighed. ¡°I hope, for your sake, that she is as noble as you say. But I have earned where I stand and do not seek great change. We will speak when you require me for the treaty, and when my anger has ebbed.¡±

    Without providing pause for comment, Aiur swept from the room.

    ¡°I had not taken him for such a traditionalist,¡± Ezerkal whispered, slowly placing his glass of wine on the desk.

    ¡°Faith and loyalty have given him much,¡± Mavan said with a shrug, easing himself upright in his chair. ¡°I, however, am desperate, and thus have open ears. So, please, go ahead. I would like to hear this. I sense you have put much thought into it.¡±

    Ezerkal smiled. He quickly smoothed the front of his robes and cleared his throat, moving back to the map on the wall. ¡°I have, and I wish I could have shared it with both of you.¡±

    ¡°Well, don¡¯t leave me in suspense.¡± Mavan smiled.

    ¡°The world,¡± Ezerkal began, gesturing to the map. ¡°Or as much of it as we know.¡± He motioned up to a continent, shaped like a southward-facing arrowhead, an immense chunk torn out from its north-eastern apex. ¡°And here we are, Kailai. Our home¡­ It has been over a thousand years since we mapped it, since we declared it explored.¡± He took a breath, turning to the Consul.

    ¡°And what has happened since then? One thousand years of conflict. An age of peace died with that declaration. Gone were the days where the conflict between houses was little more than ostentatious bids in the halls of the explorer¡¯s guild. Gone were the days when Founding Houses would never fade into obscurity.¡± His voice became low, sorrowful, as he met Mavan¡¯s eyes. ¡°We expected common good to prevail, to preserve the unity that had been forged for us. Instead, we shattered it.¡±

    Mavan frowned, breaking eye contact and staring into nothingness as he considered Ezerkal¡¯s words ¡°This woman is suggesting a solution, then?¡± Mavan whispered, his head bowed.

    ¡°She¡¯s gathering intelligent, skilled people, not to push some agenda, but to find a solution! To answer the question of unity,¡± Ezerkal concluded.

    Mavan chuckled, his face cracking into an odd smile. In a way, it was a compliment to be considered for such a thing. ¡°All in all, a very nice little speech. I must admit it has piqued my interest.¡±

    ¡°Then I should arrange a meeting with her,¡± Ezerkal said, crossing the room to fill his glass again. He tried and failed to keep the excitement from his voice.

    ¡°I¡¯d like that,¡± Mavan said, his voice seeming small and hollow compared to Ezerkal¡¯s energy.

    Ezerkal rose his glass in a toast. ¡°Then you shall, this evening. I can have it arranged.¡±

    Mavan returned the toast, before sipping briefly at his wine. ¡°So soon? It¡¯s almost as though you had this whole thing planned.¡±

    ¡°Oh, that would be patently ridiculous, wouldn¡¯t it?¡± Ezerkal lied.

 VII: Dreams of grandeur

    The Inn sat in a prime position on the banks of the Mossul, but that by no means made it a reputable establishment.

    The river flowed in from the south, and split into the A¡¯at and Ahbek beneath the temple-pyramid. This inn lay on the eastern bank, inside the oddly named Sword district; for few swords would be bought and sold here. It was the most populous of the city''s three districts and, by Nerkai¡¯s standards, the poorest district of the city; however, to the rest of the Kailai it was downright opulent. Those who lived within the walls had comfortable homes, numerous amenities, shops and a solid standard of living that elsewhere the lower castes were not afforded. All of this was afforded to them by the sheer quantity of wealth flowing through the city and the generosity of the priesthood. Its landscape was a winding mesh of small streets, back alleys and tiny marketplaces.

    Its name was The Weeping Crocodile, and in spite of its opulent outward appearance, it was not some high-class guest house frequented by merchants and nobles, but an infamous den of mercenaries and thieves as old as the city itself. Although only the wealthiest of such scoundrels could afford to be among its patrons.

    Syla was sequestered in one of the many private booths clustered on the very edge of the establishment. The air was filled with the stench of alcohol and boastful shouts, drowning out the constant murmur of conversation that enveloped the well-lit room.

    The Sand-Spears, Shadrak¡¯s monster-hunting mercenary company, Syla mused as she stared at a group that had entered shortly after her. Their shouting and cheering were by far the loudest.

    She had been watching them from a distance since they arrived, noting the small curiosities and trinkets adorning the group in an attempt to identify them. Her suspicions were confirmed by the sudden appearance of the uniquely weathered aquamarine scales that could only belong to Misa, Shadrak¡¯s right hand woman, as she shunted forward to demand another round with a rough gesture. Syla continued to stare, pretending not to notice the garishly dressed man approaching her table, and nursing her own small mug of ale until he lowered himself into a seat opposite her.

    He was dressed as a troubadour, though he stood out like a peacock. His tri-colour outfit of blue, purple and green looked all the more obnoxious when compared to his dull, brown scales. His caste marks were utterly invisible, as his entire body was the perfect shade of peasant brown to disguise them, and his eyes were unremarkable dirt orbs.

    He put on the airs of a wealthy and educated man, but if his appearance did not, the involuntary inflections and accent to his voice revealed his mundane origins. ¡°Evenin¡¯ ma¡¯am.¡± He grinned.

    ¡°Good evening.¡± She paused, sighed, and finally looked at the man. ¡°Does the sun shine on golden coin?¡±

    ¡°Only when the sky is blue,¡± he replied, still grinning from ear to ear.

    ¡°Your code phrases are abysmal.¡± She growled, leaning forward and putting her arms on the table. ¡°Do you have what I asked for?¡±

    He shrugged. ¡°Not my forte boss. But yeah, got what I could find, not that there¡¯s much of it.¡±

    Syla raised an eyebrow. ¡°Oh? Having trouble?¡± she mocked.

    ¡°What me, trouble? Nah, these guys are just cleaner than a church flute,¡± the man replied

    ¡°You also need to work on your metaphors.¡± Syla sighed.

    ¡°You pay me for results, not metaphors.¡± He chuckled, his amusement bringing life to his otherwise dull appearance.

    ¡°Then you should change your cover, ¡®poet¡¯.¡±

    ¡°Not a chance. Turns out pickpocket¡¯s fingers are good on the lute,¡± he declared with smug certainty.

    Syla rolled her eyes. ¡°You are trying my patience, Tika. Spit it out, for I am not blessed with time. Continue to annoy me, and you won¡¯t be either.¡±

    Tika¡¯s playful arrogance crumbled in an instant. ¡°O¡¯ course, ma¡¯am, of course¡­¡± he mumbled, his noble airs vanished as well. He licked his lips and took a quick breath. ¡°They¡¯re the exact kinda guys you tell us to avoid, both of ¡®em. Straight as an arrow honourable type, not a bad word out there against ¡®em bar the obvious House tripe,¡± he muttered.

    ¡°Part and parcel of the high nobility. Continue.¡±

    Tika nodded profusely, like some kind of moronic desk ornament. ¡°¡®xactly ma¡¯am, ¡®xactly. There¡¯s an important connection between the two of ¡®em though, got a lot of history.¡± He looked around quickly, as though someone was listening to this specific conversation out of all the myriad conspiratorial groups scattered throughout the room.

    Syla stared at him impassively, motioning for him to continue.

    Tika finally seemed to calm down, stopping his constant fidgeting and bringing his hands together on the table. ¡°Okay, so, these guys first met a few years back, tournaments and the like, lookin¡¯ like big rivals. Then it all went weird two years ago.¡±

    ¡°The Augon dunes.¡±

    Tika snapped his fingers and pointed at her. ¡°Aye that. Complete mess. First time they met in battle. Ra¡¯ven goes down, and your two guys have a scrap but walk away. Not really anyone that was in that one talks much about it to strangers, no matter how heavy the pouch. Safe to assume they got respect though.¡±Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

    ¡°That¡¯s all you¡¯ve got?¡± Syla growled, reaching one hand under the table. She had begun to regret going for an upstart cutpurse like Tika. He was the only one who promised results before the day was over, yet she could feel her coin being wasted.

    Tika nodded, avoiding her eyes. Syla sighed, throwing a jangling pouch in his direction. It slapped against his chest with a metallic thud before sliding down to his now open hands. ¡°Get out of my sight.¡±

    Tika mumbled something under his breath, thanks, relief or an insult Syla did not know, nor did she care.

    The scoundrel rose quickly, letting his chair scrape loudly across the floor as a final act of childish defiance. He was clearly considering going straight to the bar, but he wisely thought better of it when he noted Syla¡¯s hand still under the table, and made a swift exit.

    Syla drained her mug of ale in one swig and motioned for another to be brought over as she settled in. More research on the Augon dunes after all of this was over, otherwise she was going into this blind. Best to set her story while she waited.

    She didn¡¯t have to wait long.

    ***

    When her guests arrived, she was singularly displeased.

    They barged in, wearing matching full armour, clanking with every step. The entire contents of the inn paused and turned to look at them where they stood in the doorway, brandishing oversized blades. The jovial atmosphere immediately gave way to a tense silence. The pair slowly rolled their gaze across the room as everyone stared back at them, hands moving stealthily to swords, clubs and axes.

    Syla scanned the room with a more critical eye, judging demeanours, positions and calculating escape routes if things turned bloody.

    Thankfully, they weren¡¯t needed. The clattering excuses for bodyguards slumped themselves in a private booth, without uttering a word. Hopefully, they would just appear to be strange, out of city mercenaries, but there would be questions regardless.

    As the room returned to a tense approximation of normality, Syla found that Mavan had seated himself in a chair next to her without her even realising. How delightful, she thought, he just might do after all.

    Mavan was wrapped up in a long travelling cloak, draped over his battlefield chainmail that still bore the dirt of a long march. He looked thoroughly uncomfortable and more than a little out of place.

    They are prisoners here, I suppose. Syla thought, turning her gaze to the bodyguards hunched at the far table, and then back to Mavan. I shouldn¡¯t expect them to have brought full wardrobes.

    Syla leant across the table, speaking in hushed tones. ¡°Using the bodyguards as a distraction? Smart, if that was intentional.¡±

    Mavan shrugged, muttering just loud enough to hear. ¡°I don¡¯t like this place; it has a reputation even back in Amexal. I¡¯d rather I wasn¡¯t seen here.¡±

    ¡°Come now, no need for such paranoia. It¡¯s not as though someone watches and documents everyone who comes into this place. Nobody will know you¡¯ve visited.¡± Syla covered her lie with a cheerful tone and friendly smile.

    ¡°That doesn¡¯t mean I have to like it,¡± Mavan retorted sharply.

    Quick witted but defensive, Syla mused. Ezerkal had clearly raised his expectations too high. ¡°Of course not,¡± she said, ¡°but at least appear comfortable. Get yourself a drink, to start.¡±

    Mavan shrugged again, remaining hunched over the table. ¡°I don¡¯t even know what they have here.¡±

    Syla¡¯s smile was genuine this time. ¡°Whatever you desire.¡±

    ¡°A good red from Veldun, that would be quite nice.¡±

    ¡°Then I think you¡¯ll be pleasantly surprised,¡± Syla replied.

    Syla waved over the woman serving the tables and booths across the room. The waitress was tall and yellow-scaled with brown eyes and caste marks, dressed in simple but formal servant¡¯s attire. She bowed as she reached the table. ¡°What can I do for you?¡±

    ¡°Red from the cellar. Tarset estate will do nicely. A Bottle for the gentleman. I will have my usual.¡±

    ¡°Tarset? I can¡¯t afford bottles of Tarset,¡± Mavan said, his eyes wide.

    ¡°Madam Syla, will you be paying for the gentleman¡¯s drinks this evening?¡± the waitress asked politely.

    Syla leaned back slowly, a serpentine grin spreading across her face as she replied, ¡°Oh no¡­put it on Tika¡¯s tab.¡±

    The drinks came quickly, but they spent the interval in silence. As they waited, two figures piqued her interest as they entered.

    One was a tall, muscular male with burgundy scales and a face like a mountain, complete with its own ridges, valleys and peaks. The other was large and powerfully built, but with the softer scales of a woman in shades of subdued, sandy yellow. Syla wasn¡¯t quite sure what they attempted to portray, lumbering in rusted mail and battered breastplates as they were, but it seemed to work; despite both of their exposed red caste-marks. They split off to separate tables, placing themselves far enough apart not to seem suspicious, but close enough to see both one another and Syla.

    Syla grinned as she turned her attention back to Mavan. He was testing the wine; taking in its scent and having a small sip. He took a moment to savour it before swallowing.

    ¡°This is¡­. excellent,¡± he muttered as he placed the glass down.

    ¡°But that¡¯s not what we¡¯re here for,¡± Syla said.

    ¡°Quite. I hear you have a dream you wish to share.¡±

    ¡°A dream of unity, to be precise.¡±

    ¡°I have been given the broad strokes of this picture from a mutual friend. I was hoping you might have some clarity, something more¡­factual.¡±

    Syla smiled. ¡°The fact is that right now, nothing is set in stone,¡± she said, savouring Mavan¡¯s confusion. ¡°What we have is a dream, a goal, and resources.¡±

    ¡°I was under the impression that resources were what you needed my kind for, turning this dream into reality,¡± Mavan said, confusion still etched on his face.

    ¡°I am rather well-established. I have money, I have connections. In fact, I think you may need resources more than I.¡±

    He did not disagree or protest. Instead, his eyes fell to the table. He didn¡¯t believe it, not yet. He saw her as an escape for his dying house, Syla could see it in his eyes.

    ¡°Then what do you need from me? From nobles?¡±

    ¡°I need men and women of principle. I need people who can aspire to a higher goal and are willing to take risks to achieve it. I need something greater than raw manpower and wealth,¡± Syla declared. She would make him believe.

    ¡°Your current connections don¡¯t fit the bill,¡± Mavan said, nodding as understanding dawned.

    ¡°Exactly, I need people who share my dream. My current allies do not. Their dreams are far more¡­crude,¡± she said, though crude was too mild compared to the reality of what people like Tika aimed for. ¡°They dream of overwhelming amounts of coin, lurid nights with exotic bedfellows and masterminding grand criminal schemes. But little else beyond that ever crosses their minds.¡± She licked her lips and straightened herself, hoping to make an impression on Mavan that would last. ¡°My dream is far simpler, a single glorious thing that is so much further out of reach than any of that.¡±

    She leaned in close, putting on a conspiratorial air that she knew would draw someone like Mavan in.

    ¡°Empire.¡±

 IX: Family among reptiles

    Family is a strange concept to the Saszrukai.

    Families, by and large, do not exist as they do in nature, at least among the ruling castes. Mothers do not protectively guard their eggs and knowing one¡¯s blood relatives is rare. Among the castes of nobility and priesthood, eggs are given over to the faithful to be hatched, and the resultant children raised and educated by matrons serving as an approximation of parental figures. In the case of nobles, they are then simply let loose, to promise themselves to a house or found their own.

    That made it curious that Aiur did have a family, of a sort, not that he could ever see Ra¡¯ven as a father figure. No, his was all together more personal.

    Daiss felt like his brother in every sense of the word, they had grown up together and they trusted each other more than any other. Were Daiss not a man-mountain, he would have suspected they shared parentage.

    Cleonar was a curious one, a strange mix of mother and sister, she was older and more mature than he was, providing council and tutelage, but never becoming overbearing if she could avoid it.

    Then there was Khafra, young, spritely Khafra.

    It was certainly peculiar, such bonds were not formed often.

    He was snapped rather violently from his reverie by a hefty impact to his jaw. It sent him reeling and he took a few moments to remember where he was.  Daiss grinned.

    They had tested their blades against one another so often that the footwork, the parries, ripostes and thrusts with the blunt-edged practice glaives came more from reflex than conscious thought. It was a dance, and he knew every step by heart. Or so he thought.

    ¡°Mavan teach you that?¡± Aiur chuckled, clutching his bruised jaw as he straightened himself up.

    Daiss laughed heartily, standing at the centre of a chalk ring in the sand. One of the slab-faced, menacing barrack blocks pressed against the western wall of Nerkai loomed over his shoulder. ¡°No, I just held onto it until we had an audience,¡± he said with a grin, motioning his head over to Cleonar, Khafra, Mavan and his twin praetorians watching from the edge of the cramped training ground.

    Khafra was a head shorter than Aiur. Slender and elegant, his slim, soft-featured face and intelligent ruby eyes gave the impression of a scholar, artist, or even dancer, and his lightning blue scales were untouched by his violent profession. His caste marks were stars of crimson low on his cheeks, and he dressed simply in House colours with only a single bronze pin denoting his rank on his breast: Legatus of the first legion, Aiur¡¯s immediate subordinate.

    ¡°It¡¯s actually one of mine,¡± Khafra noted, with a proud but not arrogant smile. ¡°He executes it differently, but I taught him the core idea.¡±

    ¡°Oh really? Perhaps you¡¯d like to try against him then?¡± Aiur chuckled, tossing the practice weapon to him.

    Khafra caught the wooden glaive and slipped over the low fence surrounding the training ring in one fluid motion. He had taken Aiur¡¯s place as Legatus when Aiur was promoted to consul; but that had always been the plan. ¡°It would be my pleasure.¡± He beamed, brushing past Aiur as they traded places. For years now, they shared a close mentor-student relationship bordering on parental. He¡¯d only become closer and more ingrained into their group after his promotion; particularly with Daiss, whom he¡¯d spend days training against, and nights drinking increasingly regularly.

    Aiur walked over to join the others, leaning against the low fence as he watched Daiss and Khafra square up against one another.

    ¡°The boy¡¯s doing well,¡± Cleonar commented.

    ¡°I don¡¯t know why you insist on calling him ¡®the boy¡¯, he¡¯s almost our age.¡± He looked up at Cleonar, noting the slight fading on her sand-yellow scales ¡°¡­My age,¡± he corrected.

    ¡°You were the boy until you made Consul, now he gets to be the boy until he makes Consul.¡±

    ¡°Few ever make Legatus, and even fewer than that make Consul. What makes you so sure he will?¡± Aiur said, watching Daiss and Khafra exchange a few initial tentative blows.

    ¡°He succeeded you to Legatus, the first legion is his now. He¡¯ll succeed you to Consul. Which may be sooner than we¡¯d all like, given recent events,¡± Cleonar said, her tone becoming increasingly stern.

    ¡°And what events would those be?¡± Aiur asked, knowing full well what her answer would be. He kept his eyes on Daiss and Khafra, noting their footwork and just how different their fighting styles were.

    Daiss was imposing, steady and technical in his singular style. He made full advantage of his size and strength, setting a punishing battle-rhythm few could keep up with.

    Khafra was the exact opposite. He was unpredictable, some might say erratic, employing a mixture of proven techniques adapted to fit his form, or untested moves of his own making. He cared not for Daiss¡¯ battle rhythm, and his own was always curiously just out of sync with itself. With him as an opponent, parries found themselves a second too early, blows landed a moment too late.

    ¡°Our guest¡¯s visit to The Weeping Crocodile has me concerned,¡± Cleonar said, glancing sidelong at Mavan. She leaned closer to Aiur.¡°They seem too easily convinced by some casteless harlot.¡±

    ¡°I, too, am disappointed in them.¡± Aiur sighed. Ignoring her warm breath hitting his face, he kept his focus on the duel before him.  ¡°And I am equally as uncomfortable with this woman¡¯s apparent lack of caste as you.¡±

    Daiss¡¯ opening had been ferocious, and his blows were dictating the pace of their duel. But Khafra knew his opponent well, and had excelled himself twice with dodges Aiur knew he could not replicate. They seemed even, for now, but if Daiss did not land a decisive hit soon that pace would shift to Khafra¡¯s favour.

    ¡°Your words give me comfort,¡± Cleonar said, straightening back up and bracing her arms on the low fence. ¡°Their actions do not.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯ve been there before. What, pray tell, did you witness?¡± Khafra had now beaten back Daiss several paces towards the edge of the ring, but Daiss was rallying around and pushing back. Neither showed any sign of tiring. If anything, their pace was increasing.

    ¡°That place is a den of thieves, scoundrels and mercenaries. Only one of those deserves even an iota of respect, and all three breed impetuous, violent people.  It¡¯s a lion¡¯s den full of killers all working together,¡± Cleonar said, her brow arched.The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    ¡°Daiss mumbled about it upon his return.¡± Aiur grumbled, pushing himself to stand fully upright. ¡°But he was drunk. He mentioned something about the twins, but I need a more lucid account.¡±

    Cleonar nodded. ¡°Everyone froze, turned to look at them. We were following behind, watching through the window.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m surprised they didn¡¯t gut them on the spot.¡±

    ¡°As am I,¡± Cleonar agreed. ¡°They all looked the sort who answers the offence of being disturbed with violence. Hands went for weapons, faces screwed into snarls, curses were uttered.¡±

    ¡°And yet, as the twins are standing before us¡­¡± Aiur said, motioning to the twins as they observed the duel.

    ¡°It broke. They went back to their drinks and games and deals. I still cannot fathom why.¡± Cleonar sighed.

    ¡°Recognition. It¡¯s the only thing that explains them being ready to gut the intruder one moment and careless the next.¡±

    Cleonar¡¯s face hardened as she followed his line of thinking, and realisation dawned ¡°As though they were following orders¡­¡± she said, her voice and gaze trailing off.

    ¡°Or they feared the consequences, if they hurt the ¡®guests¡¯.¡± Aiur finished. ¡°I don¡¯t know if it was an intentional display of power. But the way it was described to me, I am almost certain everyone in that inn was under her casteless thumb in one way or another. Makes me all the gladder I declined.¡±

    ¡°Then Mavan is in danger. Should we not warn him?¡± Cleonar asked, stern though her tone was, it was also laced with genuine concern.

    Aiur sighed, shaking his head. ¡°Were it that simple. We know very little. I fear what would happen should we intervene. I fear what you saw was only a glimpse of what she is capable of. Who else does she already have?¡±

    ¡°You fear making ourselves targets,¡± Cleonar said gravely, putting her hands together.

    Both had ceased watching the duel by now, and the repeated crack of blunt blades and wooden hafts as they clashed was all but drowned out by their thoughts.

    ¡°Perhaps. Hopefully it will amount to nothing. Maybe that is the extent of her arsenal. I hope it was. But I don¡¯t think we can intervene, not until we know exactly what she is capable of. She has made a deal and we need to see the outcome, only then might she show her hand,¡± Aiur explained, his words visibly building Cleonar¡¯s fears piece by piece.

    ¡°I see,¡± Cleonar said, relaxing arms she had not realised had tensed. ¡°I respect the reasoning. I understand it. But I shall make you aware I dislike this inaction. Neither will Ra¡¯ven if he finds out. Your words raise questions as to the true depths of her criminality, and her influence.¡±

    ¡°I expect you to follow orders. We wait. We watch. We are nobility, we must carry ourselves as such. If Mavan wishes to poison his house with criminals to make it survive, we let him.¡± Aiur leaned forward, sparing a look at Mavan, just as the Consul and his twin praetorians began to applaud. He followed their gaze, to where Khafra stood victorious in the centre of the ring.

    Although both warriors looked thoroughly tired from the exertion, each grinned from ear to ear. Aiur quickly followed in the applause, though his pride did not smother his whirlwind of thoughts. Aiur sensed that this woman was a threat unlike any he had ever faced. He preferred engaging his foe in broad daylight, not being used to dealing with shadows. He hoped that allowing her to continue operating there would not come to haunt him.

    ***

    After a full morning¡¯s practice in the fighting rings, they retired for lunch. This did not, however, mean an end to their ceaseless exercises.

    Aiur sat opposite Khafra, a Heptaratoi board dominating the table between them. They were in the thick of the game, and thus far had neglected the plates of bread and cheese balanced precariously on knees and thighs.

    Heptaratoi is not a simple game. Its symmetrical six-sided board inlaid with a checkerboard grid set the stage for a long and precarious game of strategy, pitting two minds against one another. The game took its name from the seven principal kinds of pieces it contained. They played using two equally sized and matched forces, yet they consisted only of six kinds of pieces; soldiers, archers, war-mages, cataphracts, priestess¡¯ and a single prophet.

    They played with the set used by the soldiery of the barrack in which they sat. The finer details of the pieces were worn away with constant use. Aiur was using a set made from pale maple wood, and Khafra¡¯s pieces were of a darker walnut.

    Placed to the side of the board, was the single missing piece from their armies: The dragon. The dragon could only be acquired if one could move their prophet, uncontested, to the very centre of the sizeable board. A game-winning move in most cases, but not always.

    Aiur considered his next move carefully. Individual moves were not battle-defining, only when combined did they transform into the ebb and flow of battle. Thus, he took his time, thinking half a dozen moves ahead and planning an overarching strategy. ¡°I wanted to thank you. The idea for the duel with Mavan worked out nicely,¡± he said, moving one of his ornately carved soldiers further outward on his left flank.

    Khafra cut off a piece of cheese, spreading it slowly across a hunk of bread as he stared at the board. ¡°Come now, I shan¡¯t take any credit for that. You had the idea, I simply convinced you to actually use it.¡± Khafra¡¯s smile was humble.  He put down the hunk of bread to shift a cataphract to the same side of the board.

    Aiur nodded, pinching the chin of his saurian face between two fingers. ¡°Your part in making it happen is still worthy of thanks. Had you not convinced me, we would have doomed ourselves to an extensive and bloody siege. We would not be sitting as we are.¡± He shifted an archer leftwards, building up a bulwark there.

    Khafra bowed, or as much as one can from a sitting position. ¡°I am simply glad to hear it was successful.¡± He moved another cataphract piece, mirroring his previous move on the opposite side of the board.

    Aiur smiled, leaning over the board as though scrutinizing Khafra¡¯s pieces would reveal some secret in his opponent¡¯s strategy. ¡°As am I. Though it seems few others are as pleased.¡± He laboured over his next move, providing Khafra the opportunity to take a mouthful of his bread and cheese before adding another soldier to his growing left flank mass.

    Khafra looked up; brow raised. ¡°Oh,¡± he said, after swallowing. He paused, his attention torn from the game. ¡°Why is that?¡±

    Aiur sighed, shoulders sagging as though the entire situation was a millstone around his neck. ¡°While you have been organising the release of our prisoners, Ra¡¯ven has been making unreasonable demands. Again.¡±

    ¡°Again?¡± Khafra said. ¡°I can¡¯t say I¡¯m surprised but¡­He needs to slow down. He¡¯s been relentless for the past two years and houses like Krie are too well respected for him to push his luck much further. There will be a breaking point.¡±

    Aiur nodded, reaching over to another table to procure an earthenware mug of water, draining it in a single swig. ¡°We might just get that reprieve now, thanks to Ezerkal.¡±

    ¡°What¡¯s he concocted this time?¡± Khafra asked, leaning back and bracing his hands on the stool he perched upon.

    ¡°A one-year truce,¡± Aiur declared slowly, putting emphasis on the low number Ra¡¯ven had agreed to.

    ¡°So, a reprieve then, but not an end.¡± Khafra sighed; a brief moment of hope deflated.

    ¡°Precisely. I shared in your disappointment as well, but recent events may have changed the balance somewhat.¡± Aiur placed his hands on his knees and leaned forward, sparing a wary glance across the room. He was glad they were alone; such disloyal thoughts were unbecoming of him.

    Khafra leaned in with him, raising a brow. ¡°Well now you¡¯re going to have to enlighten me,¡± he said, flashing him a charismatic smile.

    Aiur chuckled, but without humour. ¡°How to put this artfully,¡± he began, taking a long, slow breath and stretching out his immaculate fingers. ¡°House Krie is a wounded animal. A predator has caught it, and it is bleeding.¡± He raised his hands to cup his jaw. ¡°This treaty is not a salve for its wounds, it merely calls the hunt off for a time. It will not save the beast¡¯s life, not on its own. This creature needs a den, somewhere, to recuperate and recover. If not, when the hunt returns, it will die.¡±

    Khafra nodded.  ¡°And so, has our animal found its salve? A poultice or den? What price would it pay for such a thing¡­¡±

    Aiur smiled, with a fleeting twinge of pride. ¡°It seems it has. A most potent poultice from a most curious source. But it seems its price is freedom,¡± he said, putting emphasis on his final words.

    ¡°Ah¡­¡± Khafra said. ¡°It seems Cleonar¡¯s fears were well-founded. We will need to watch them closely.¡±

    ¡°We will. Though I fear the new players on the board may not stop with House Krie,¡± Aiur said, lowering his hands and leaning back over the board.

    ¡°Perhaps not, but let us enjoy this reprieve while we can,¡± Khafra said, mirroring his mentor¡¯s posture and returning his focus to the game, which passed to its conclusion in thoughtful silence.

 First: As the Master bids

    We do as the Master commands. We go where the Master bids, even unto the mouth of Hell. So he had sworn.

    Phosis reminded himself of this as he watched another ship splinter and crack before sinking beneath the waves. The storm around them was dark and brooding, the light of the stars had been replaced with the brighter and sharper flashes of lightning as they stabbed their lethal arcs across the sky.

    Rain crashed down in great waves, drowning his hide and obscuring his sight. The ship, a low fast-running sloop, was little more than a vague shadow in the roiling storm. In his mind it was the Coatl, though it easily could have been any one of the ships in this motley fleet.

    There was disappointment in that. The captain of the Coatl had proven himself capable, useful even, in times of great strain. Yet there was relief as well, losing another sloop to these treacherous waters meant another of the fat bellied hold-ships might just make it to shore. An exchange of sorts. After all, it was not the storm sinking their ships.

    He watched the waves for it. Another monster lurking in this forsaken abyss, the only passage to the desert-land that was not patrolled by the marked ones who ruled it. They thrashed their way through a sprawling mess of shallow reefs, rock spires and deeps full of ever-more unfathomable horrors.

    Two of the Master¡¯s Immortals stood behind him on either side, their heads following his gaze, though more out of instinctual servitude than any perceptive intelligence. Their eyes were dull, and their scaled hides were pale, near translucent. They did not even seem to notice the rain, forever unspeaking and unmoving until commanded otherwise, even as lightning crashed down around them and the sea foamed with hunger.The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

    The Weaver slinked across the deck toward him, his pallid complexion stark and unnatural against the gloomy sky. His blackened fingers were almost invisible in the dark, twitching against one another as though the droplets of rain sent shocking pain through his hands. His build was athletic, but he kept himself hunched forward and dragged his tail along the soaking deck. ¡°Another,¡± he said, a rasp tickling the edges of his voice.

    ¡°Another,¡± Phosis growled in reply, not dignifying the Weaver with more than a glance.

    ¡°This¡­cannot continue,¡± the Weaver rasped, though it sounded more of a question than a statement.

    ¡°No.¡±

    ¡°I have charted a course through the storm,¡± the Weaver said, gesturing with one of its oddly coloured hands towards the roiling sea. The frown on Phosis¡¯ purple-clad, patrician features prompted him to continue. ¡°I can see our path through the stars. You may not see them, but I do. Reflected in the waves.¡±

    Phosis winced at his words. The Weaver¡¯s mentions of the stars had become stranger of late, a symptom of his mind crumbling under some great strain Phosis could not see.

    ¡°Set every oar to work. All ahead! I shall guide us along star-lit lines through this darkness,¡± he babbled, his tone at once pleading and demanding, nasal and harsh on the ears.

    A heavy sigh of resignation rolled from Phosis¡¯ chest. The Master¡¯s servants, however deranged, could at least be trusted, he assured himself.

    Phosis looked over his shoulder, past the Immortals and toward the helmsman. He gestured his commands; words had become almost useless in the storm, a lesson learned much to their detriment days prior. The helmsman, clothes plastered tight to his body and squinting to make out the sea ahead, nodded an acknowledgement. He began his own gesturing, one arm waving wildly as he screamed uselessly into the driving wind.

    Figures moved below deck, the drumbeat began to change, and the groaning of the tortured wood changed its pitch ever so slightly beneath Phosis¡¯ feet. The time of swimming cautiously through these depths was over, they would make all speed for the coast and damn their losses.

 X: Unexpected extravagances

    Syla¡¯s chosen residence was neither where, nor what, Ezerkal had expected.

    This home lay in the Sun District, nestled in the city¡¯s north. It was covered in expansive estates, burgeoning gardens and opulent palaces. Nerkai¡¯s extensive wealth was fully on display here and the district was inhabited almost exclusively by the wealthiest of the noble and merchant castes. It was the smallest of the three districts, but by far the most famous.

    Ezerkal himself resided in the Crown District, owning a quaint home two streets over from the court. It was from here that he had set out this morning, with a street name and door number in hand.

    Syla¡¯s abode sat on the main thoroughfare connecting the temple-pyramid of Aten to the gate at the city¡¯s northern apex, in the very centre of the Sun District. It was an opulent, three-floor, pearl white villa made from imported marble. Most notable of all was its size.  The building stretched back further back from the thoroughfare than any of its immediate neighbours, twice their width.

    Ezerkal smiled involuntarily as he approached, the simple prospect of entering such a place kindled a sense of awe within him. Perhaps he was being na?ve, or maybe his mindset was too deep-seated in his beloved fictions, but he could not help it. With the sun hanging overheard, its warmth spreading through his body and galvanizing him onwards, he could not contain his bubbling excitement.

    I no longer feel like a glorified quill-pusher, he thought, as he strode under a balcony extending from the fa?ade of the building. He took a moment to compose himself, straightening his clothes and restraining his smile, before knocking upon the door.

    His two firm knocks were swiftly answered by a lanky figure in tight-fitting clothes of black and brown. The figure appeared to be a butler or servant of some kind, with scales of a deep, dark blue and a long, slim face with sunken yet stern features. Curiously, his caste-marks, once little scars placed behind the eyes, had been removed and replaced with the never-fading black of the blood-caste in long half-moons on his neck. The caste of soldiers and mercenaries.

    ¡°Do you have an appointment?¡± the butler droned, his tone making it clear he wished to be anywhere but here.

    Ezerkal nodded. ¡°Ah, yes, I am here to see Madam Syla. I believe she is mistress of this household?¡±

    The butler¡¯s face contorted into a scowl, and he let out a low growl. ¡°Wait there,¡± he grumbled flatly, before turning on his heel and slamming the door shut in one fluid motion of contempt.

    Stunned by the rudeness of this man, Ezerkal frowned and warily stepped back from the door. Taking a moment to look around while he waited, he discovered a few things he found curious.

    He searched for meaning in the architecture before him. He wanted to find signs of what it may have once been, perhaps an indicative feature that denoted at least the type of owner it had belonged to in the past. Surely Syla couldn¡¯t have had such an opulent place built purely for her uses?

    He could find no such thing, in fact, the architecture bore none of the marks of heraldry or loyalty that much of the villas on this street bore proudly. Particularly, the columns holding up the balcony above him caught his attention. They were carved with flowing, intricate patterns that overlapped and intertwined constantly, but seemed not to symbolise or mean anything within his boundaries of knowledge.

    The long, scowling face of the butler loomed through the doorway once more. ¡°Come in, the mistress will see you now,¡± he said.

    Ezerkal gingerly slipped inside, taking a moment to peer down one of the short corridors extending off from the surprisingly modest entrance hall, from which murmured conversations drifted. The butler threw the door closed once more, this time shunting a heavy lock-bolt in place to keep it closed. The hall was curiously lacking in ornamentation, the walls and floor utterly bare. The only thing ensuring the hall was not simply an empty pale void was the presence of a flight of stairs against the wall to his right.

    The butler pushed past him, his tail dragging on the flagstones like a dead animal and clawed feet tapping on the hard-stone floor with each step. ¡°Come with me.¡± His voice remained flat and contemptuous.

    Ezerkal bridled somewhat at how the butler had treated him thus far, but the feeling was overpowered by his curiosity. The place¡¯s strangeness fascinated him. Thus, after a brief moment of what he considered polite defiance, he quickly followed along.

    The butler trudged up a long flight of stairs and crossed the landing towards a second staircase, never sparing a look back or uttering a word. Ezerkal did not see another living soul throughout the building as they rose upwards, though, he supposed, he was only seeing a fraction of its interior.

    They stopped abruptly at an ornate door formed from panes of aesthetically warped glass, leading out to a small open-air garden which stood in place of the north-east quarter of the third floor. ¡°Wait,¡± the butler commanded, leaving Ezerkal standing awkwardly as he approached a pair of occupied loungers overlooking the gardens at the rear of the house.

    He could only see vague shapes and colours through the glass, but the conversation was clear enough. A black smudge that was the butler had moved beside the squirming lines of the loungers and was waiting with surprising patience, as a splatter of green topped with a curious rose dot spoke to a thin dark smear topped with a dab of azure.

    ¡°What are you implying?¡± the dark smear asked, her tone level and firm, in a voice that could only be Syla¡¯s.

    ¡°That education on the topic is as hard-line as it is for a reason, contrary to the beliefs of some,¡± the green splatter replied with a voice he did not recognise. It was soft, a pleasant voice, and it carried an air of matronly wisdom. ¡°A very good reason at that,¡± the voice continued, after a pause. ¡°It is not for lack of understanding on the topic, quite the opposite. We understand too much. We comprehend full well the mechanisms by which this otherwise benign energy is converted into a reality-bending force. However, with such deep knowledge we also understand its risks, and that unsanctioned experimentation is dangerous, lethal even.¡±

    ¡°That would explain the initial reaction to Meldan¡¯Kellia,¡± Syla replied matter-of-factly. ¡°Precisely!¡± the other voice exclaimed cheerfully. ¡°Now that House Tetra has become less guarded about its mountain hideaway, and the priesthood has more presence there, the friction and accusations have melted away because we are there to observe and support. We keep them safe from themselves.¡±

    ¡°I see, that is quite enlightening,¡± Syla replied, before politely excusing herself as the butler lowered himself to whisper in her ear, blending their colours together in the frosted glass. After a few moments of quiet conference that was out of Ezerkal¡¯s earshot, the butler rose and retreated a polite distance. ¡°I do apologise, but a guest of mine has arrived who I must speak with privately. Shall we continue over lunch?¡± Syla said to the green figure.

    That indicated his visit would be a short one. That was a disappointment, he had skipped breakfast to be here.

    ¡°Of course, I shall await in the parlour,¡± the figure said as it rose to its feet. It began to move swiftly towards the door, joined by the butler-smudge trailing a few paces behind.

    As the door opened, it became incredibly obvious who, or at least what, this figure was. Most definitively female, and a reasonably senior priestess based on the extensive embroidered ornamentation on her loose-fitting green garment. She was notably larger than Ezerkal, so much so he had to crane his head backwards to look her in the eye. She was pleasantly beautiful, in stark contrast to Syla¡¯s hard-edged and angular beauty, her features were soft, and curved in a way that flowed together comfortingly. She had the wide-hipped and ample frame of a motherly figure and carried herself with the same kind of amiable confidence.This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

    ¡°Good morning,¡± she said politely as she drifted past

    ¡°Oh, uhm, good morning!¡± Ezerkal replied, receiving a polite smile in return as both she and the butler disappeared down the staircase.

    He turned back, peering through the now open door out into the space beyond. In the brief moment he had looked away, Syla had stood up and was now leaning against the low wall at the edge of the garden with her back to him.  She was dressed differently today from the few times he had seen her before; a jacket of black silk reached down to her thighs, form fitting and held in place with silver buttons worn over a plain white shirt, and finished with dark trousers and knee-high boots.

    A rather masculine ensemble, but it fitted her attitude and stature perfectly.

    ¡°You don¡¯t have to stand there you know; you can come over,¡± she said, without turning away from the view.

    ¡°I was being polite,¡± he said as he began to walk over. ¡°Interesting company you keep.¡±  He looked around, taking in the space.

    The terracotta tiles were open to the elements, with a waist-high wall along the edges and a staircase going up to the roof proper. The wall was built in two layers separated by a bank of earth. Along the east wall, various small shrubs and flowers grew, while several tall, thin trees stretched up from the north wall to provide privacy from the neighbours. A pair of loungers with a small table between them sat facing the east. Barring that, the space was empty; she clearly was only accepting one visitor at a time.

    ¡°Is that an indictment, or do I detect pleased surprise in your tone?¡± Syla asked.

    ¡°Most certainly the latter.¡± Ezerkal smiled, moving alongside her and leaning his own arms on the ledge. ¡°Whoever would look down upon associations with a priestess?¡±

    Syla let out an amused snort. ¡°I¡¯m sure I could find a few for you.¡±

    Ezerkal was not surprised in the least, but he considered it a point of personal pride that he never associated with such figures. The priesthood was a vaunted institution; its detractors were not to be trusted.

    The garden proper was an impressive sight. Thick, tall hedges neatly demarcated the property, and the interior was filled with life: bushes, flowers, shrubs and a considerable amount of grass covered the area, forming archways, knotted mazes and broad spaces for gatherings. He could not name even half of the species there. He suspected it was all grown from expensive imported earth from the more temperate north or west, as the arid desert around the city could never support such life. Even now Ezerkal could see some of the numerous gardeners attending to the extensive greenery. It must be new, he thought, and it could never be permanent. Even with such dedicated caretakers the heat and lack of rainfall would surely reclaim it eventually.

    But he also spotted something else. A gaggle of figures, looking curiously out of place in rough, darkly coloured outfits against such bright and vibrant scenery. They were huddled furtively around a table at the far end of the garden, arguing over something that was spread out over the surface between them. From the colour he assumed parchment, but he couldn¡¯t discern its contents from such a distance; it was certainly the longest garden he had seen in all his years.

    He frowned, but bit his tongue, deciding it was best not to ask Syla about the strange group yet.

    Instead, he turned his attention to her. ¡°So, how goes our endeavour thus far? Did your meeting with my¡­proposed candidate leave a good impression?¡± he asked.

    Syla smiled. It was at this moment Ezerkal realised she was staring directly at the group he had noticed. ¡°It goes well. Your friend left an impression, and they will have their¡­uses,¡± she said, her smile transforming to a smirk. ¡°Aren¡¯t you curious as to what¡¯s going on down there?¡±

    Ezerkal froze. His mouth went curiously dry and his mind could suddenly only process the worst possible scenarios. She slowly turned to face him, resting her head on her hand. All the while Ezerkal¡¯s infinitely creative paranoia was suggesting all the ways this could give Syla to blackmail him, maim him or even kill him.

    ¡°Well, don¡¯t you want to know?¡± she said, so very calm and collected. It was almost infuriating.

    Ezerkal calmed himself with the assurance that nothing, in his entire life, had ever lived up to the expectations of his irrational thoughts. He put on his most charismatic smile, and inclined his head. ¡°It did strike me as curious. They clash somewhat glaringly with the scenery.¡±

    Syla sniggered. ¡°Oh yes of course, they do so ruin the garden!¡± She laughed, though her humour was short lived, dissolving as quickly as it arrived and leaving Ezerkal questioning when she last laughed without restraint. ¡°Regardless, I felt they should get some sun. A bit of heat in their blood should help clear their thinking.¡±

    ¡°And what do they need to have such clear heads for?¡± Ezerkal asked, looking back towards the group. They appeared to be in a particularly heated discussion now; one of them was gesticulating wildly and pointing fingers at their fellows.

    ¡°They are to acquire for me a¡­gift. An investment, if you will, in House Krie,¡± Syla replied, turning to lean against the wall and fold her arms over her chest. ¡°I have decided it would be a suitable piece of dramatic irony that such a thing should come from Ra¡¯ven¡¯s pockets.¡±

    Ezerkal grimaced. ¡°Oh? Unable to provide it yourself? I believe you said you had means¡­¡± he said, deciding to ignore her obvious implication for the time being. If anyone questioned him once whatever dubiously legal scheme she had in mind was over, he intended to feign ignorance.

    ¡°To make the most of the truce you have oh-so-graciously provided for us, a substantial investment is required. I¡¯m sure you understand why. I don¡¯t need to explain their troubles to you,¡± she continued, standing upright and moving over to the lounger she had been lying in before. She sat on the edge of it and looked up at him. ¡°However, that is not what I desired to talk to you about. We have two important matters to discuss.¡±

    ¡°And what could be more important than our ¡®deal¡¯ with House Krie at this moment?¡± Ezerkal asked, taking a seat on the second lounger so they were facing each other.

    Syla waved her hand dismissively. ¡°Krie is set to be saved by my hand, and thus dealt with. Everything is in place; it is simply down to the execution now.¡± She leaned inwards, pressing her elbows on her knees. ¡°In the meantime, two pressing issues. Firstly, I have the list you desire, and we will go over it, in detail, shortly. Secondly, Aiur.¡±

    ¡°What about him? Is he causing an issue? Or do you simply need more information on him?¡± Ezerkal replied. He had deliberately avoided Aiur since his outburst; that was about to bite him, he was sure.

    ¡°He has a strong service record, good connections in the city and a history of dependability. He would be useful. Key, even,¡± Syla clarified.

    ¡°But he¡¯s not interested.¡±

    ¡°Just so,¡± Syla agreed with a nod. ¡°You intimated that he too would be in attendance that night, and I was thoroughly disappointed by his absence. Both in him, and in you.¡±

    ¡°He did not seem particularly enthralled by my proposition,¡± Ezerkal admitted, avoiding her eyes. She was lucky he even risked asking Aiur directly; though he would never say as such. ¡°He was, in fact, outright suspicious and at times, I dare say accusatory when I even mentioned the subject. Your¡­castlessness was quite a point of distress.¡±

    ¡°That does not seem to have troubled you overmuch,¡± Syla said, raising an eyebrow.

    ¡°Frankly, it does bother me,¡± Ezerkal whispered, almost swallowing his words. Her stare was like acid, irritating the scales where it fell. ¡°But I am more cognisant of the changes in the world. I understand what must be done.¡±

    ¡°Then make him cognisant. Is that not why you are working for me?¡± Syla hissed, her stare only narrowing, hardening.

    ¡°Were it so simple I would have done so,¡± he offered quickly, raising his hands. ¡°He has been a part of House Zerkash for much longer than I. For lack of better words, he¡¯s comfortable, with deep-seated convictions. He has so much more to lose than I do.¡±

    ¡°He will lose much more, if you do not bring him to our side,¡± Her words send sharp chills down Ezerkal¡¯s spine.

    ¡°Would it not be easier to just¡­leave him be? For now, at least?¡±

    ¡°No. His bodyguards have seen too much, too much for us to just give up because of a poor initial impression. If Ra¡¯ven discovers what I am doing through him, there will be no chance for us in Nerkai. We have to recruit him as soon as possible. Every day we tarry in doing so brings risk,¡± Syla explained, tapping her fingers together idly as she spoke. ¡°Or we must kill him.¡±

    The suggestion made the bile rise in his throat. Horror flooded his senses. For a moment he was frozen, but he forced the reaction down just to keep her from realising it. ¡°Thus, you need my advice. The best way to recruit him quickly?¡± He cast the vicious alternative from his mind, it was something he would never allow to happen.

    ¡°Precisely that. His contention with our cause seems to grow from the same roots as yours, simply more extreme. Oaths of loyalty bind him, and he does not want to break them.¡±

    Ezerkal sighed heavily, shaking his head. ¡°That would be one of many issues, and likely the only one he would say to your face. As I said, he is deeper-set in his oaths than me. He may not like the course Ra¡¯ven has set, but they have been working together for decades. Their relationship is strained, but he does not yet resent him quite like I do.¡±

    Ezerkal looked out towards the garden, resting his chin on his fist. ¡°On the other hand, I don¡¯t think that¡¯s anywhere near the biggest issue. I think his greatest problem will be with your¡­outwardly criminal nature,¡± he said diplomatically, nerves edging into his voice. Aiur had spent much of his life between campaigns hunting criminals just like her. ¡°I think the best solution is the simplest. I must catch his ear and propose your solution, divorced from yourself. And then, we shall leave him to consider it.¡±

    ¡°That is precisely what we won¡¯t do!¡± Syla snapped with a brief flash of her teeth, making Ezerkal recoil. ¡°I understand somewhat that he takes issue with my¡­ ¡®outwardly¡¯ criminal nature,¡± she continued, levelling her tone. ¡°But we cannot simply leave him to his own devices to decide what he thinks of us, he will simply ignore it and proclaim himself busy. Or worse, he will inform others. We must force him to make a choice.¡±

    ¡°Then what am I to do?¡± Ezerkal asked, swallowing his pride.

    ¡°I ask you to be subtle, and I ask you to be persistent. No matter the pretence, you must make him accept a meeting.¡±

 XI: The weight of circumstance

    Today was an important day, and special attention must be given to every detail.

    Thus, even as his skull pounded from the consequences of last night¡¯s celebration, his mind bleary from lack of sleep, Aiur went to considerable lengths to make himself presentable. A full run around the sun district at dawn, followed by a bath in hot water accented with exotic oils, and a hearty breakfast of soft dough bread, spiced white meat and nutty biscuits; all prepared by his steward.

    When his praetorians failed to materialise at breakfast, as was the norm, he began to grow concerned.

    Thus, he found himself under the stone arch at the door of Khafra¡¯s small abode off the main thoroughfare, secluded in a small square near the city wall. A fountain trickled nearby, and the few souls who were present wore ostentatious formalwear accented with feathers and crests.

    After waiting for uncomfortably long in the sun, tapping his clawed feet on the flagstones, the door was finally answered by Daiss. From the waist down he was dressed in pieces of his ceremonial bronze scale armour, jangling and clattering with the slightest movement.

    ¡°Oh, ah. Good morning,¡± Daiss grunted, stretching his muscled torso and powerful arms while keeping the door propped open with his foot. He looked tired, sharing the slightly drawn look of too much drink and too little sleep with Aiur. Still, as ever, his smile was broad and genial.

    Aiur took a moment to scan up and down Daiss¡¯ stripped form. ¡°Had a good night?¡± he asked, leaning on one foot to try and casually peer beyond the door. He caught the impression of movement, though Daiss¡¯ bulk obscured any definitive features.

    Colour rippled across the praetorian¡¯s face, and his eyes quickly darted over his shoulder. ¡°Yeah,¡± he said quickly.

    ¡°Didn¡¯t think we were paying you to answer doors,¡± Aiur teased with a wry grin. ¡°Especially not dressed like that. Where¡¯s the steward?¡±

    ¡°Oh. Well, we sent her away,¡± Daiss muttered, quickly glancing over his shoulder again. Aiur¡¯s smile widened. ¡°With me here we¡­ Khafra gave her the night off.¡±

    ¡°Looks like it was a very long night. ¡°

    ¡°You¡¯re not looking great yourself sir. It looks like it was a long night for you too,¡± Daiss said cautiously, though they were each implying very different things

    Aiur¡¯s lips pursed and his face hardened. ¡°Can I come in? Best I get the both of you up and ready. Stop you getting¡­distracted.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ve already started. Khafra needed a lot of coaxing out of bed. Turns out that much drink hits him hard the next morning.¡±

    Aiur chuckled, rolling his eyes. ¡°Well, I need you presentable before the ceremony at noon,¡± he said, motioning to the corridor behind him.

    Daiss paused, glanced over his shoulder one last time, then nodded his head. He lumbered away, leading Aiur with a series of thumping steps into a parlour adjoining the main hall. The room was scattered with furniture and lit with grand windows. the rest of Daiss¡¯ ceremonial armour was laid out amongst the chaise loungers, silken divans and high-backed armchairs.

    ¡°Take a seat,¡± he offered, whilst dragging on a white undershirt. ¡°Khafra went to get water; he shouldn¡¯t be long.¡±

    ¡°And I hope decent,¡± Aiur added as he lowered himself gingerly onto a chaise lounge. He was already fully dressed in an exquisite suit of bronze scale from neck to foot and did his best not to damage the furniture.

    ¡°Your visit seems more than just a friendly coaxing out of bed, sir,¡± Daiss ventured, grabbing a chain shirt laid over one of the armchairs and pulling it over his undershirt.

    ¡°Am I so transparent?¡± Aiur groaned. ¡°It must be worse than I thought¡­¡±

    Daiss paused for a moment, clearly choosing his words with care as he took a seat on the armchair opposite Aiur. ¡°I simply know you too well. You¡­do look awful though.¡±

    Aiur leant back fully, letting out a heavy sigh. ¡°I feel stretched. Pulled in too many directions at once.¡±

    ¡°Well, that is understandable. We left early, but both Khafra and I saw Ezerkal was simply not letting you be.¡±

    ¡°He¡¯s been incessant. Has been for days,¡± Aiur growled, more anger bleeding into his tone than he felt. ¡°Last night was the worst of it. He¡¯s never been good at subtlety.¡±

    ¡°Kind of ironic considering I always thought subtlety was how diplomacy worked,¡± Daiss said with a small laugh. ¡°Do you think he knows that we know?¡±

    Aiur shrugged. ¡°Don¡¯t know. He¡¯s not mentioned her since, so I don¡¯t think so. Just all the pieces of what she wants, over and over.¡±

    ¡°You never did tell me what you thought of it.¡±

    Aiur shook his head and snarled, though it wasn¡¯t directed at Daiss. ¡°It raises questions I don¡¯t want to ask. Nor do I want the answers to.¡±

    ¡°That bad?¡±

    ¡°Things are the way they are for a reason. We, and Ra¡¯ven, fought tooth and nail to get where we are now. I am not giving that up for a woman who may well want us all dead.¡±

    ¡°I get the impression that¡¯s only the surface of how it¡¯s making you feel, sir.¡±This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

    ¡°The questions have been asked now. They won¡¯t go away. Ever since he first mentioned it, I¡¯ve had¡­. dreams. Dreams where everything I¡¯ve built is gone. It feels like it¡¯s all tearing me apart¡­in here,¡± Aiur said, tapping his chest with one clawed finger.

    ¡°Your spirit? Well, I¡¯m no expert but that sounds¡­concerning,¡± Daiss replied, face screwing up into a tight knot.

    Aiur nodded. ¡°My thoughts drag me in one direction, I just can¡¯t tell where it will be lead me.¡±

    Daiss shrugged as his features steadily relaxed again. ¡°Well, I¡¯d say go to a priestess. That, or find somewhere exceptionally quiet to feel out the tug on those heartstrings and start tugging back.¡±

    Aiur half-nodded and sat himself up again, flexing his hands. ¡°Every time I close my eyes, I find myself falling in a cold void. I don¡¯t sleep for long, and find my home exceptionally quiet in the small hours of the morning. Quiet doesn¡¯t seem to have helped.¡±

    Daiss frowned and shook his head. ¡°Why don¡¯t you get out of the city so you can think properly. Y¡¯see sir I¡¯ve been thinking¡­¡±

    ¡°Oh no,¡± Aiur interrupted with a light chuckle.

    ¡°¡­I¡¯ve been thinking that a place like this isn¡¯t just loud in the conventional sense, but perhaps¡­spiritually as well,¡± Daiss finished, the suggestion of a smile at the corners of his mouth.

    ¡°Spiritually loud?¡± Aiur laughed, looking quizzically at his praetorian. ¡°I¡¯ve not heard that one in any sermons before. Go on then, is there some phantasmal din we¡¯re all not aware of?¡±

    Daiss rolled his eyes, but his smile grew. ¡°I know I¡¯m no expert sir, but you protect yourself so well these days I have more than enough time to think.¡±

    ¡°Well, as long as this thinking doesn¡¯t get you killed. You¡¯ve started now, finish the thought.¡±

    Daiss nodded, shifting in his seat to squarely face his charge. ¡°Well, the priesthood has spoken on how important where you are is for the soul. But I think who you are with is just as important. Nerkai is loud, exceptionally loud. It¡¯s a city of what, a million now? That¡¯s hard on the ears, but I think it¡¯s hard on the soul too¡­so many souls, so varied souls all in the same place. So, if you need to do some soul-searching, you probably won¡¯t get anything done here.¡±

    Aiur cocked his head for a moment. It wasn¡¯t an unrealistic idea, and it wasn¡¯t a bad one either. ¡°Perhaps you should have been a priest.¡± He chuckled.

    Daiss snorted and grinned, flashing pearl-white teeth. ¡°I enjoy what I already do far too much for that.¡±

    ***

    By the time Khafra arrived, both men had relaxed and their conversation was drifting amicably onwards to more pleasant topics. Daiss was fiddling with the latch on his bracers, securing the left in place while the right hung loosely from his wrist.  Aiur had reclined, making himself as comfortable as one could be fully armoured as he was.

    Khafra was dressed in a plain white, open bathrobe, revealing much of his petite figure. He paused when he saw Aiur, but quickly entered to place a tray bearing water and small glasses on a low table in the centre of the room.

    With his hands free, he pulled his robe close around himself and tied it securely in place, eliciting a chuckle from Daiss. ¡°Good morning sir,¡± the young Legate said.

    ¡°Good morning Khafra,¡± Aiur replied, his gaze on the ceiling to avoid embarrassing the boy while he made himself decent. ¡°Are we well this morning? Seems you both had a very busy evening.¡±

    ¡°Better than I was when I woke up,¡± he admitted with flushed cheeks and a glance at Daiss. He relaxed as he sat down and poured himself a drink.

    ¡°That¡¯s good. I assume you¡¯ll be ready for the ceremony at noon?¡± Aiur said, leaning over to take up a glass, holding it out for Khafra to fill.

    ¡°Of course!¡± Khafra said with a courteous nod as he filled Aiur¡¯s glass. He sipped briefly on his own water before looking askance around the room. ¡°Where is Cleonar?¡±

    ¡°Gathering the other legates, I assume. I had a feeling the pair of you might be up late. Figured I would come for a chat,¡± Aiur said casually, draining his own glass and placing it neatly on the table.

    ¡°Ezerkal¡¯s been proving himself a problem, hasn¡¯t he?¡± Khafra sighed. He had always bore a sharper mind than Daiss.

    ¡°Yes.¡± Aiur sighed, shoulders dropping as his mood soured. ¡°You were inducted into the house in the same year as him, maybe you could talk some sense into him.¡±

    Khafra shook his head with a small, empty smile. ¡°We both know he doesn¡¯t have much respect for military men.¡±

    ¡°Clearly.¡±

    ¡°Regardless of what we think of him, or what a nuisance he¡¯s making of himself, Ezerkal has bought us time. Use that to get well, sir,¡± Khafra said, toying with the water in his hand. ¡°Daiss and I had a reason to be up so late.¡±

    ¡°I know.¡± Aiur mumbled. He was uncertain Ezerkal¡¯s treaty would even last the year that had been agreed.

    Khafra and Daiss exchanged brief glances, colour flushing across their faces, but said nothing. After a few moments of awkward quiet, Khafra gulped down his water and rose to his feet. ¡°I¡¯ll get my ceremonial attire,¡± he said, before quickly retreating from the room.

    Daiss turned and watched him go with a smile.

    ¡°So, big day. Mavan¡¯s going home,¡± Daiss commented offhandedly, returning to fastening his bracers in place. ¡°I¡¯ll almost miss the arrogant prick.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m sure you will.¡± Aiur chuckled. ¡°Though I have a feeling he¡¯ll be back soon enough.¡±

    Daiss grunted in agreement as the bracer finally submitted and locked in place with a satisfying click. ¡°There we go,¡± he muttered, flexing his hand to ensure it wasn¡¯t too tight, before reclining in his seat. ¡°Apologies for dragging the topic back to it, sir. But does Khafra know?¡± he asked.

    ¡°No. Not unless you¡¯ve told him. Nothing specific at least, I want to keep him out of this.¡±

    Daiss nodded. ¡°And how long have you known?¡±

    ¡°Longer than you think,¡± Aiur rumbled with a smile.

    ¡°And does anyone else?...¡±

    ¡°Cleonar... She doesn¡¯t care; it hasn¡¯t affected your skills, your performance, or your health. If anything, he¡¯s got you in better shape than ever. Outside of that, nobody. It¡¯s not their business.¡±

    ¡°Thank you¡­¡± Daiss breathed a long sigh of relief. ¡°...Aiur, can you keep Khafra out of this? You asked him earlier to get involved, I¡¯d like to avoid it. It seems bad.¡±¡±

    ¡°And getting worse every day. I¡¯ll do my best.¡± Aiur groaned. ¡°Combined with everything else, it makes me want to disappear off into the desert for a few weeks, so I don¡¯t have to deal with it. Just for a little while at least.¡±

    ¡°Why don¡¯t you?¡± Daiss said, with a tone suggesting such a thing would create no problems. To abandon his duties for a time would infuriate people like Ra¡¯ven, but he truthfully wasn¡¯t needed for anything. Not until the campaigning days came around again and that was now a year away.

    ¡°Never one for the responsible answer, are you.¡± Aiur chuckled.

    ¡°You want responsible, ask Cleonar,¡± he replied with an amused half-smile.

    ¡°Regardless,¡± Aiur began, straightening himself in his seat. ¡°Where would I go, what would I do? There¡¯s no campaign, not with this truce. So, I can¡¯t go marching off with a purpose. I doubt anyone would approve of me digging around in the desert for some band of miscreants just to entertain myself either. I need something that fits within my realm of command.¡±

    ¡°So?¡± Daiss shrugged. ¡°Go out with a patrol instead.¡±

    Aiur laughed, leaning back in his seat. The idea did certainly have its charm. ¡°What? Attach myself to some raw recruits?¡±

    ¡°Sure. Your domain is all House Zerkash military matters, you have the right to observe discipline, enforce training.¡±

    Aiur brought one hand up to his face, considering for a moment. He puffed out a long breath between pursed lips. Even if it was just for a week, a week without Ezerkal sounded delightful. ¡°That¡¯s not actually a terrible idea. It gives me a few of my own, even.¡±

    Daiss clapped his hands and grinned. ¡°Well, wasn¡¯t that easy?¡±

 XII: An eye on proceedings

    The ceremony was certainly ostentatious, but they both agreed it had a curiously subdued atmosphere.

    The streets around the temple-pyramid were swarming with people. Small children gathered in groups or climbed atop the shoulders of their carers to peer over the mass of jostling bodies and bobbing heads. Cadres of nobles created breathing room for themselves with their protectors¡¯ blades, or sat in gilded palanquins carried by groaning soldiers. Merchants and guildsmen watched from stately apartments lining Light¡¯s Way, the main thoroughfare from the temple to the southern gates, lit perfectly in the noon-day sun.  All while down below, the common folk attempted in vain to find a good viewing spot.

    Such was the occasion that even the Spatharii were out in force. These indentured warrior-servants used their bodies to hold open the way between the temple and the small dais erected in the pyramid¡¯s shadow. They stood at attention in the shadow of two holy legionary statues; stone simulacrums supposedly carved in the image of the ancient and angelic construct-protectors brought into the world at the height of the age of miracles so many centuries before. They were the will of Aten in physical form; the hands of God. Accurate or not, they were giants that towered over all, every aspect of their once-metallic bodies rendered in flowing stone. They had no tails or scales; their forms were smooth and engraved with ornamental patterns. Slight grooves around the joints suggested the possibility of movement, that they were waiting to come to life.  They stood at eternal attention, bearing a dignified aspect borne from their proud, featureless skulls.

    As they found their own place to view the ceremony, Aretuza said there was an army of constructs waiting in the afterlife to serve the faithful.

    Of that, Syla was not so sure. To her, they looked like instruments of war.

    Their perch was the roof of a tall, but slim townhouse directly overlooking the area cleared for the ceremony, and the small dais at its fore. They had the entire house to themselves, and Aretuza was under the impression that Syla knew the man who owned it.

    Syla had not lied. She did know the owner, in a fashion. She had enough information to know he was a deal-broker for a small conglomerate of grain merchants along the banks of the Ahbek, that he was out of the city on business at the time, and that he kept a spare key hidden under a flagstone near the door.

    She had not, however, ever spoken to this man. Nor did she ever intend to, he sounded quite the bore.

    They had refrained from pilfering the meagre bottles of wine he had left in a cabinet on the first floor, and had instead brought their own bottle of dewclaw, accompanied with a pair of crystal glasses. It was a decent claret imported from Dhasha, a coastal town far to the south. As expected from its name, the taste was sharp and refined. Combined with Aretuza¡¯s intriguing, but meaningless trivia, it passed the time until the ceremony began rather pleasantly.

    When it did, they only realised when a wave of cautious silence radiated out from the crowd below.

    Ezerkal emerged first from the grand entryway into the temple-pyramid. He was dressed in an ornate houppelande with sleeves so long they almost reached his feet. A sash of crimson was worn from left shoulder to right hip and he carried the all-important treaty, rolled up with a piece of green ribbon. He clutched it tightly as if he expected someone to jump out and tear it from him.

    He stepped up to the dais and held the treaty aloft, the entire crowd remaining silent before him. He began to speak, a meandering preamble introducing the purpose and terms of the treaty to, as he put it, ¡°the good people of Nerkai¡±. Of course, anyone with even a modicum of sentience in the city had already heard what had been agreed, as rumours had been spreading for over a week.

    Syla turned her attention to the procession that had marched out after him.

    Every representative of house Zerkash present had donned bronze ceremonial armour, ranging from career commanders to mere accountants. Between them they reflected the noon-day sun in every direction, leaving eyes watering if one stared too long. They marched in a grand formation, though there were not more than a hundred of them in total.

    On the flanks marched chain-veiled legionaries in glittering scale carrying burnished shields. Drawn from the cohorts of the first legion, no doubt. At their fore marched Aiur, helmless and flanked by Daiss and Cleonar. Behind them, in a symmetrical wedge, came the five legates of the Nerkai legions.A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

    At its head, as befitted his station, marched Khafra, resplendent in a lion¡¯s-head helm, its bronze-rendered mane spilling down his neck and over his shoulders. To his right marched Nitis and Irsu of the second and fourth, wearing helms with the leering grin of a jackal, and the fanged maw of a serpent. To his left marched Shabaka, and Aneksi of the third and fifth legions, encased in helms of the snaggle-toothed crocodile, and the eternally haughty eagle.

    A roof-less lectica followed behind them, carried by four broad soldiers who strode confidently without weapons. Ra¡¯ven¡¯s dark shape loomed from amongst the purple cushions. He sat with his hands on his knees like a glowering warlord passing judgement on all he saw.

    Behind them, dressed in the remnants of their battledress from weeks before, came the forces of house Krie.

    Mavan marched at the front, his praetorians looming over his shoulders like guardian angels. Behind him came a cadre of officers Aretuza could not name, followed finally by their meagre contingent, looking worse for wear after resisting Ra¡¯ven¡¯s offer of board, food and pay.

    They formed up neatly, arraying themselves to leave clear access to the dais as Ezerkal¡¯s introductory speech seemed to be finally coming to a close.

    Rolling up the scroll, Ezerkal called Aiur and Mavan forward. They climbed the steps in tandem and stood opposite one another. On demand, Aiur produced a slim wooden tube and the treaty was placed neatly inside. From the folds of his flowing outfit, Ezerkal retrieved a seal and one of the temple guardians broke off from the crowd, holding a stick of crimson wax and assumedly a candle to melt it, though it was difficult to see from this distance.

    The wax was melted, the seal applied, and the tube held aloft for all to witness.

    ¡°It is done so none with honesty in their hearts can doubt that the treaty has been tampered with,¡± Aretuza chimed in, always so eager to explain things as though she were an uninitiated novice. It had become irksome. Syla wondered if it was some sort of compulsion, or if she lacked company amongst her fellow priestesses.

    Syla still nodded politely along, watching as the tube was passed to Mavan. Hands were shaken, and a few quiet words exchanged.

    The temple guardians began to spill forward, opening up Light¡¯s Way and pushing the watching citizens against the sides of the street, into back alleyways, or onto the winding paths along the riverbanks.

    As space began to appear, the House Krie troops marched forward, appearing eager to leave. Was it simply a desire to get home, or, as Syla believed was more likely, did they wish to be rid of this humiliating reminder of their failings?

    She watched Mavan, Aiur and Ezerkal exchange further words, now that the soldiers were moving past them and obscuring them from most of the crowd. Most, but not those with a neat perch directly overlooking them. Syla allowed herself a smirk. She was almost certain of what they were discussing, though Aiur was saying little in reply.

    ¡°That was far shorter than I expected,¡± Aretuza said, frowning as she watched the soldiers march southwards, oblivious to the conversation taking place below them.

    ¡°I believe Mavan wishes to stop living in borrowed clothes, and his soldiers very much want to go home,¡± Syla said, leaning over for a better look at the trio below.

    Their conversation suddenly grew heated. Aiur had put one foot forward and was gesturing sternly towards Ra¡¯ven. Syla frowned, wondering whether it had been too farfetched to hope that Aiur might join them.

    ¡°It was never going to work, you know,¡± Aretuza suddenly said, still watching the marching columns as they moved towards the city gates.

    ¡°What was never going to work?¡± Syla snapped, turning away from the procession to glare at the priestess.

    ¡°You were never going to lure in that one with words, particularly from any mouth but your own. His reaction is as predictable as the setting of the sun.¡±

    ¡°And what would you have done?¡± Syla asked.

    ¡°I perhaps would have started as you did, though my nature as a priestess affords me an advantage in that,¡± she mused aloud, gently swirling the wine in her glass. ¡°I would have introduced myself in person rather than through an intermediary. A polite, cordial introduction to the idea before rumours spread; give the man time to lay out his grievances and attempt to alleviate them. I would then have proposed an invitation to our endeavour, and left it at that, for the time being,¡± Aretuza said.

    ¡°We both know full-well that would just leave the door open for him to remain silent and never provide an answer.¡± Syla scowled.

    ¡°I said for the time being.¡± Aretuza smiled, finally twisting around to face her. ¡°That would not be enough to convince him, but it would not offend him like you have. To truly convince nobility such as him requires actions, not words.¡±

    Syla sighed heavily, glancing down to see Aiur marching stiffly back inside the pyramid, as Ezerkal and Mavan exchanged farewells.

    ¡°Have we missed that opportunity, then?¡± she muttered, two vertical creases appearing between her eyebrows.

    Aretuza¡¯s smile only broadened, a kind, motherly thing. ¡°Of course not,¡± she said decisively. ¡°His mind may be full of questions and stubborn as ever. The streets might be full of rumours, but that by no means makes him a lost cause. The only lost cause here is his master. With careful observation we may still convince him.¡±

    ¡°I would prefer your recommendations now, rather than after the fact this time.¡± Syla scowled.

    Aretuza considered for a moment, placing her wine glass on the ledge. ¡°Subtlety. That would be my maxim. We must wait for a chance to build trust with him, for that is the opportunity that has been lost. We both know there is only one way to build true trust.¡±

    ¡°With our actions?¡± Syla asked.

    ¡°With our actions.¡±

 Second: By His Will

    Were there any gods, Phosis would have offered a prayer. In their absence, he muttered assurances to himself and the Master.

    They had made landfall in the dead of night, the fat-bellied hulks beaching themselves on the shore as their crews began to rip them apart for supplies. Now that the sun was rising, he felt as though he was being cooked alive.

    His broad frame was bound in his heavy metal armour, rough steel plates covering his chest, right arm, and legs. His left arm was bare from the shoulder, ensuring the deep-cut and swirling marks of station the Master had personally carved into his scales were displayed for all to see. He stood atop a sand dune overseeing the scurrying masses as they unloaded the holds and ripped open the hulls of their battered and broken vessels.

    The air stank of sodden, rotting wood and was filled with the raucous sounds of thousands of voices. They whooped and shouted as they delighted in the simple pleasure of dry land before they were set back to work. They rushed back and forth at the bidding of bellowed commands and cracking whips; lugging crates, dragging away what wood might be saved, and ripping down sails to make tents or even clothes for their filthy bodies.

    There would be no return journey, except in victory. Their route through that abyss was too dangerous to risk another crossing; all their bait-ships and many more besides had been lost. But Phosis had survived. That was enough.The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    The master had blessed him with a new name for this task. His birth name now lay forgotten, while the new filled him with purpose and strength. He would succeed here, not just for the Master¡¯s sake, but for his own, for this powerful name.

    Another ship crashed upon the shore, sending sand hurtling in every direction. Phosis raised an arm to shield himself as the coarse grains added a new layer to the grime covering him.

    The vessel was one of the largest in their fleet; a behemoth with gilded sails and a serpentine figurehead. It had lurked at the rear of their fleet for the entire voyage. A ship of such craft consigning itself to death on this burning shore cemented to all watching that this had been a one-way trip.

    Phosis scowled, the arrogance bleeding from the ship¡¯s design exuded the self-centred mind of its most valuable cargo. Care would need to be taken, for he was not the Master¡¯s only hand-picked minion on this expedition, and this cargo posed as much threat to Phosis as the Master¡¯s ire.

    The Weaver was nearby, sitting cross-legged on the ground. He had not reacted to the shower of sand that had washed over him, remaining hunched forward without even a twitch, absorbed in manipulating the orb. His scales were so inundated with sand he made Phosis¡¯ hide itch just by looking at him.

    Phosis had no idea when he had acquired the orb or what it was made of, but it had consumed all of the Weaver¡¯s attention for some days now. Its gelatinous surface only reacted to his twisted touch, pulling and stretching and shifting. He had been eating less, and his ramblings had been getting worse.

    Phosis knew their expedition was a mess, but they could not fail. Not now.

    He turned southward, staring down the shoreline towards their goal. He could not see it, but he knew it was there, far beyond to the south.  A place of steel and stone. A place the Master desired, and so it would be his.

 XIII: Slipping away

    Rexis did not attend the ceremony, for pomp and formality was not his place.

    He was at a small camp just beyond the city¡¯s northern walls, close enough to the Ahbek that when he stood still, he could hear the gentle flow of the water.

    He was accompanied by a gaggle of aspirants to his personal scout cohort: The Veltari. They were an eclectic mix of men and women, wrapped up in foul weather cloaks despite the clear sky and gentle winds, all of their caste marks blackened to denote their service to him.

    He had set up a target just down river from where they stood, little more than some old boards nailed together with a coloured piece of cloth thrown over the top.

    ¡°Some of you may be familiar with the composite longbows used by our frontline cohorts. We on the other hand, employ shorter, reflex bows.¡± Rexis continued the lecture he had been giving on basic techniques for the last ten minutes, pacing up and down in front of the group. He scooped up one such weapon, holding it loosely in his hand. ¡°You¡¯ll find these primarily being used from horseback, or, as we do, on the move.¡±

    With a swift flick of his wrist, he snatched a trio of arrows from a hide quiver at his belt, clutching each between two fingers.  With a series of precise, mechanical movements he drew and loosed each of the arrows in rapid succession, his impeccable aim rewarded by three heavy thuds.

    He did not so much as glance at the target. ¡°They are an effective weapon. They are lighter, more compact, and carry a surprising draw weight in comparison to their larger cousins. They are not, however, the quintessential answer to our ranged question.¡± He threw the bow onto the ground and hooked his thumbs into his belt. ¡°We spend much of our time belly-down in the sand, staying hidden. This causes problems for our reflex friend here. Try as you might, you will not be as effective as you are standing up, running, or on a horse. Thus, you must learn yet another skill to be of use under my command.¡±

    He pulled a slim, hilt-less dagger from his belt, and with a twist of his upper body hurled it into the target with another satisfying thud. ¡°Knives,¡± he declared, noticing three heavily armoured figures marching towards him as he turned back to face the aspirants. ¡°They are faster and require only one hand. But they demand far more practice and judgement to use effectively. You will begin practicing with these, and you will keep practicing until you impress me, which I promise you will take some time to achieve¡±

    His speech over, he turned abruptly and bowed to the armoured figures. ¡°My lord Consul,¡± he grunted. ¡°Daiss, Cleonar.¡±

    ¡°Rexis,¡± Aiur rumbled, casting his eye across the men and women behind him.Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

    ¡°Is the ceremony over? Or do you require me for something, my lord?¡± Rexis asked.

    Aiur smiled. ¡°As it happens, both.  I wish to organise a little field test for your aspirants.¡±

    Rexis grinned slapping his hands together. ¡°Excellent. Lay out your plan then, sir.¡±

    ¡°Let us find somewhere slightly further out of earshot first, shall we? The last thing I¡¯d want is to spoil all their fun.¡± Aiur chuckled, inclining his head at the aspirants. They had all shuffled a little closer.

    ¡°Of course. Lead the way, sir,¡± Rexis said, with a formal salute; a bare fist slapped against the chest. He led them away from his little target range and into the camp proper.

    They quickly found themselves one of the few small tents that were not occupied; a simple thing of plain cloth. They huddled around a small table, which Daiss rolled a parchment map onto.

    ¡°The concept is simple,¡± Aiur began, pushing his shoulders back and keeping his voice low. ¡°You have often lamented to me the difficulty in providing training that adequately replicates real-world scenarios. Put simply, you want to catch them off guard.¡± Rexis nodded as Aiur continued. ¡°After thinking on this, I¡¯ve had an idea. We propose to your prospective scouts a series of training manoeuvres on a patrol. We sweep up along the Ahbek via the towns of Quisal and Inun, and curve around the south side of the peaks in the central desert. Along the way we go through the motions; basic training exercises on the move.¡± As he gave his proposition, he traced his fingers along his intended route.

    ¡°Apologies for the interruption my lord, but this sounds very much like the standard affair I have lamented the inefficacy of¡­repeatedly,¡± Rexis said sceptically.

    Aiur snapped his fingers. ¡°Precisely. While we are doing this, Cleonar will be leading another patrol of legionaries the opposite way, first via Ptheka, then across the A¡¯at and around the northern edge of the peaks skirting the open desert. We meet halfway around outside a small hamlet and pit them against each other in a proper, unexpected, test of skill.¡±  His clawed digit stabbed into the parchment at the suggested meeting point. To Rexis¡¯ eyes, it looked to be a tiny mining hamlet in the foothills, but Aiur¡¯s claw obscured more of the map than the hamlet covered.

    Rexis gripped his chin as he slowly paced back and forth while making a series of emphatic gestures with his other hand. ¡°A clever idea. Letting them get comfortable works nicely, and though it is a long march, the circuit route can make the meeting seem accidental. Pitting them against professional troops is a strong test, especially if they don¡¯t see it coming. The length will also tire them, which is more representative of combat conditions¡­¡± he stopped his pacing and nodded. ¡°I like this idea.¡±

    ¡°Excellent, when would you be ready to leave?¡± Aiur asked, putting his hands behind his back.

    Rexis waved a hand dismissively. ¡°Bah, dawn at the latest, that¡¯s no issue.¡± He fixed Aiur with a curious stare. ¡°You have been using ¡®we¡¯ a lot. You¡¯re coming with us? Why?¡±

    ¡°I wish to see your famous scouts working at their best. I want to observe and understand your methods better. Of course, the presence of someone with my level of seniority would also apply just the right amount of pressure on them, make things just that little bit harder on them all.¡± When Rexis continued to stare, clearly unconvinced, he elaborated. ¡°I also need a very long walk. Preferably as far from the city as possible¡±

    Rexis chuckled. ¡°Now that, sir, I can understand.¡±

 XIV: Complications

    She¡¯d been right.

    Of course she¡¯d been dammed right.

    Ezerkal had been staring silently at the proof, a single piece of slightly curled parchment clutched in his hands.

    He slowly turned his gaze to her, opening his mouth to speak when her hands thudded onto his desk and she leaned over him. The fury on her face made him shrink within his robes. ¡°Aiur is gone,¡± she growled.

    ¡°Yes,¡± he replied flatly. He hadn¡¯t realised how hollow and tired his voice would sound.

    ¡°Where?¡± she demanded.

    ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡±

    ¡°So, he could be anywhere, doing anything? Do you at least know when he left?¡±

    ¡°This morning, I think.¡±

    ¡°You think? Why were you not aware? And why was I not informed?¡±

    ¡°Recent events mean that he no longer shares his plans with me. And besides, I have been busy.¡± Ezerkal dropped the parchment on the desk and twisted it around to face her.

    She impassively scanned over the parchment, allowing Ezerkal a brief reprieve to collect his thoughts and decide on the best way of mollifying her.

    He slumped back into his chair, at a loss of how to turn this setback around. He felt so tired. Even though he¡¯d slept well the previous night, the weariness was soul deep.  His mind overtaxed by the goal Syla had set him to. Two weeks of chasing up elusive figures to provide new knowledge, new skills, to their cause. That had been draining in its own right, but Aiur¡¯s outburst during the ceremony had impacted him more deeply than he had expected. The discovery of his sudden departure this morning had compounded that, leaving an unpleasant sense of foreboding in the pit of Ezerkal¡¯s stomach that Syla seemed to share. Syla looked up at him, her gaze cold. ¡°There is no surprise here. No grave news you weren¡¯t already aware of. In fact, I told you of this already.¡±

    ¡°I didn¡¯t believe you. In fact, you told me not to believe you!¡± he snapped before deflating once more, his voice little more than a murmur. ¡°I had hoped we were not totally alone. Doomed to Ra¡¯ven¡¯s dominion and more years of bloodshed.¡±

    Syla sighed, lowering herself into a seat and leaning forward, she took hold of Ezerkal¡¯s wrist. He winced under the pressure she applied. ¡°We will make things better. Not now, not yet. But we will. If we are to succeed, House Zerkash, and Nerkai, must be a part of it. So, we will fix your house. We will fix your home. But we must bide our time.¡±

    Ezerkal took a deep breath, clenching his hands repeatedly as he tried to relax. ¡°Yes, of course. I worry about the future, and I hope you can help. But you are right, we cannot fix this all at once.¡±

    ¡°Good. Now, we must discuss what has happened to Aiur.¡±

    Ezerkal nodded. ¡°Right, yes. I share your unease about this sudden disappearance¡­but, if we cannot bring Zerkash onboard now, is this obsession with Aiur not somewhat pointless? Why are you so desperate to convince him?¡±Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.

    ¡°To blunt Ra¡¯ven¡¯s teeth,¡± she replied. ¡°Now, recall to me everything that happened before he left. Absolutely everything. Leave nothing out.¡±

    He considered a protest, lips pursed in thought as he stared at her. He quickly thought better of it, she was not in a mood he wished to endure for any longer than he had to.

    ¡°The morning started as it should have done,¡± Ezerkal began, reclining in his seat, leather groaning. ¡°The morning following the ceremony, we were all called to a gathering of senior house Scions and all our major retainers to plan our next movements. A shift in policy was expected.¡±

    ¡°We, as always for such things, had met in our ¡®private¡¯ sanctum that dominates the court¡¯s east wing. I was on the periphery, sitting in the glare of the stained-glass windows while playing Heptaratoi with Iktra, the house Treasurer. Squat fellow, yellow scaled, easy enough to recognise, though I suppose the lighting in there was not particularly flattering. I had been there on duties you had provided, so I was one of the first to arrive. The morning was warm, pleasantly humid, and enough refreshments were on offer to feed your average household for about a year. There were many present, but few I consider notable to this account. Those notables being; myself, though as an observer, Ra¡¯ven, of course, and Khafra.¡±

    ¡°No others? The legates perhaps? That seems an awfully short list for such a supposedly important gathering,¡± Syla interrupted.

    ¡°Of course the legates were there! Amongst many others! But as I said, they are unimportant to this account, they stood back and took no part,¡± Ezerkal exclaimed. ¡°Now if you will allow me, I shall continue to relay events in a sufficiently swift but detailed manner.¡±

    He sighed and began again. ¡°As I was saying. I was sat at a small table playing Heptaratoi. Winning, of course, while Khafra and Ra¡¯ven murmured over his prized map-table. Strategy, I would assume, though I¡¯m afraid I didn¡¯t snatch the precise details, and with the truce in place who knows what they could be planning. They were quite engrossed; gesturing, pointing, poking and keeping their voices low.¡±

    ¡°They don¡¯t intend to keep their word, perhaps,¡± Syla interjected.

    Ezerkal frowned but swallowed his retort. ¡°Perhaps, but unlikely. Ra¡¯ven may be a warmonger, but he¡¯s not an idiot, and this is of course entirely beside the point.  I¡¯m saying they were too distracted to realise Aiur had not arrived until perhaps half an hour after he was supposed to.¡±

    He took the glass of wine Syla had offered him, though he was not quite sure when or from where she had retrieved the bottle. ¡°Ah, thank you.¡± He sipped, before leaning forwards again. ¡°At first the reaction was mild. They sent a servant out to fetch him, assuming there had perhaps been some kind of celebration the night before. When they came back and reported his household was empty, it grew to confusion, and as one might expect of Ra¡¯ven, paranoia. He immediately sent Khafra out, to gather the city watch and organise a full sweep of the city.¡±

    ¡°That seems a considerable overreaction,¡± Syla said, her continued interruptions making Ezerkal roll his eyes.

    ¡°Yes, yes of course. But you must understand the full extent of the paranoia of the man we are dealing with. He saw a little spat at the ceremony between Aiur, myself and Mavan, thus his mind instantly sprang to foul play on Mavan¡¯s part. I think he almost hoped it was, based on how he kept looking my way. Regardless, by the time Khafra inevitably returned empty handed an hour later, Ra¡¯ven was furious.¡±

    ¡°I realised something was wrong when I saw the soldiers crawling over the city. They weren¡¯t being very subtle about it.¡± Syla confirmed, seeming calmer now much to Ezerkal¡¯s relief

    ¡°I suspected as much. This, of course, made him only more angry when Khafra arrived with word that several people had seen him slip away, proving the fruitlessness of this entire search as well as his prized Consul¡¯s apparent refusal to participate in his plans. By that time, we¡¯d spent over an hour pointlessly digging through old documents, searching for some vague hint as to his plans. As if he had been planning this intricately, leaving clues like some clich¨¦ criminal. Frankly, the string of curses he hurled at Khafra upon delivering this news was so foul I daren¡¯t repeat it for fear of incurring Aten¡¯s wrath. I thought he was going to hit the boy.¡±

    ¡°So, to find out where he¡¯s gone, we need to ask Khafra,¡± Syla ruminated, bracing her chin on her hand.

    ¡°Yes. Maybe. I doubt he knows for certain, and doubt even more so that he would tell you.¡±

    ¡°Why?¡±

    ¡°Because he wouldn¡¯t tell me. I believe he knows I would immediately tell you.¡±

 XV: Late

    Cleonar arrived at the rendezvous two days later than planned. For the first and last time, lateness had saved her life.

    he small mining hamlet of Sturva, a place so insignificant it did not appear on most maps. She imagined little more than a collection of small stone block-buildings around a single well. She assumed they would find it nestled against the base slopes of the three nameless peaks that hugged the far grander Mount Arat.

    Those very peaks stood just off her right shoulder, rearing up from the sand to dominate the skyline. Come evening, as the sun set across the western horizon, they would provide much needed shade. For now, she stood fully within the sun¡¯s glare, bathing her in dry heat.

    She had been delayed at Ptheka, the first leg of her journey. Their boat across the A¡¯at was ¡®delayed¡¯ by the rather intolerable port master until they could deal with a small local matter. It had been little more than a band of young ruffians causing trouble, and they quickly baulked when faced with a half-century of legionaries, but it was enough to risk ruining Aiur¡¯s whole training operation. She had spent the intervening ten days once they had crossed the river, formulating explanations and excuses. The prospect of failing or embarrassing her lord rankled within her, as she felt it rightfully should.

    At first, she tried to make back the lost days; cutting corners from their route and crossing more dangerous dunes. Now, she had run through the imagined conversation upon her overdue arrival a hundred times, trying to decipher how best to steer discussion away from her lateness as quickly and painlessly as possible.

    As she ascended the final dune and took her first look upon Sturva, she knew in that single moment those sleepless nights had been pointless. The nights of agitation and worry facing her would be so much worse.

    Smoke, trails of it. Ink-black and curling wistfully up to the heavens, twisting around itself in a rising helix. It was billowing from the vague, oblong shapes where the hamlet should have been. Where her charge should have been.

    Her heart froze in an instant, and her eyes gaped wide. She was still staring, when Anakis, the sand-brown and surly centurion that had accompanied her, climbed the dune to stand by Cleonar¡¯s side.

    She made no comment on Cleonar¡¯s terrified state. She simply sniffed, followed by what sounded like an annoyed groan. ¡°Best take a closer look,¡± she said in a flat and colourless monotone, before setting off down the dune at a steady march.

    Cleonar watched the centurion as she became a smaller and smaller shape against the dull canvas of sand. She continued standing there as the legionaries marched past her in neat file, clambering carefully down the dune while laden with equipment. They too became tiny shifting shapes, rolling along towards the hamlet. Only then, with a heavy sigh did she set off at a heavy jog to catch them, telling herself that after everything Aiur had survived in the past, she would find him alive and well. The alternative did not bear thinking about.

    ***

    Nothing living remained.

    The hamlet, though certainly larger than she had initially suspected, was in ruins.

    Most of the buildings had been consumed by the flames, reduced to tumbling piles of ash and heat-scorched stone, already being buried by the ever-encroaching sand. Were the smoke not still rising from the hamlet¡¯s cooling corpse, they might have stridden through the outskirts without ever realising it was here.

    The stench made the presence of the dead unmissable. The cloying, stomach-churning scent of burnt meat and decaying organs hung over the hamlet in a putrid blanket. Flies buzzed in fat-bodied gangs over the remnants of the people who had lived here.

    Most of the bodies were nothing more than blackened masses of fused bone and liquified flesh, the remains of their clothes melted into their ruined forms. Some had patches of scale untouched by the flames, leaving the village speckled in tiny drops of comparatively scintillating colour. Every last one of them laid atop bloodstained sand.The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

    Only two buildings remained upright, older and hardier structures made entirely from mountain stone, but even they had been gutted by the blaze and seared an ugly black.

    One had to be the mining office, or at least a building with some equivalent purpose, Cleonar decided as she strode into the centre of the hamlet. It was likely the single story, squat building that curled itself around the now-smashed well that had once helped sustain this place. The other she could not quite figure out. It was taller, at least three stories, and while broad, it appeared far more proportional upon its foundations.  Once there may have been some signage hanging above its doorway, but the fire had erased it with ease.

    She peered in through the doorway-hole of the second building, hoping to find at least some sign of life. The front room formed the entire front facing side of the building, and contained nothing but piles of ash and more corpses. Not a minor noble¡¯s manor then, perhaps some kind of tap house. Regardless, it was a smouldering ruin now.

    She cursed under her breath as she turned away from the building. She was angry, angry at herself for being late, angry at whatever had committed this senseless act of butchery.

    She marched over to Anakis, who was directing the legionaries by the shattered well. They had forty professional fighters at their command, who would turn this entire hamlet upside down if they had to. She had to know what happened.

    The centurion made her wait while she finished a hushed conversation with one of her legionaries. Whether so she wouldn¡¯t hear, or to avoid disturbing the dead, she couldn¡¯t tell. The legionary was a slab-faced, green-scaled block of a man. He nodded respectfully to Cleonar as he stepped away.

    ¡°All the ore; Iron, we suspect, is gone,¡± Anakis grunted, gesturing towards the remnants of the mining office. Her voice was still hushed and low, by her standards at least. ¡°We think a resource run. Probably not mountain bandits, my men think Ikthaki. I am inclined to agree.¡±

    ¡°This far east?¡± Cleonar said, at a normal volume, superstition over the spirits of the dead be damned. She took a long moment to gaze around at the ruins, eyes flicking between the buildings and corpses, taking a mental tally. ¡°And burning the whole place down?¡±

    ¡°Of course this far east! An Ikthaki tribe will go wherever the sand takes them. It¡¯s only south, where the sand thins out, that they won¡¯t go,¡± Anakis grunted, far more like her usual self again. ¡°Arson¡¯s not beyond those blasted quadrupeds, either.¡±

    ¡°I disagree. Ikthaki are repeat raiders. Burning things down is their first threat, but they rarely follow up on it. Places are left intact so they can raid them again come the following season., Cleonar said.

    ¡°Maybe someone finally called that bluff,¡± the centurion growled, with more belligerence than she had right to. ¡°Who knows how confident having Aiur here would have made these low-caste trash.¡±

    Cleonar cursed under her breath, she hadn¡¯t quite considered that possibility. Surely, he would not have been so foolish? But then, it was still not clear what he faced. ¡°He only had twenty scouts with him, I doubt he would be that arrogant.¡±

    ¡°He¡¯s Consul of House Zerkash. Of course he might be.¡±

    ¡°It still doesn¡¯t bear the hallmarks of their handiwork. We¡¯re not jumping to conclusions.¡±

    ¡°Who else could have done this? Mountain bandits are the only other option around here. What use could they have for iron? I imagine they¡¯re drowning in the stuff!¡±

    ¡°I would watch my tone if I were you,¡± Cleonar growled, looming over the centurion.

    ¡°And I would watch your words around me and those at my command,¡± Anakis snarled back, showing no signs of backing down. ¡°It sounds awfully to me like you¡¯re making excuses for those raiders, pillagers and murderers. Or do you just prefer company with four legs?¡±

    This time Cleonar replied with her fist, striking Anakis full in the face and sending her sprawling into the sand. The centurion recovered quickly, scrambling back briefly, before grimacing and bringing her hand to the new bruise forming around her nostrils. ¡°Point taken ma¡¯am¡­my apologies,¡± she muttered with a scowl.

    Cleonar trudged over to her, thrusting her arm out to grab Anakis by the wrist and drag her back to her feet. ¡°Ikthaki don¡¯t take slaves.¡±

    ¡°What?¡± Anakis snapped. She was hunched up in a pugilist¡¯s stance now; shoulders raised, fists clenched and poised at her sides.

    ¡°The number of corpses and buildings doesn¡¯t add up. If they fled, Ikthaki would run them down easily and either add them to the pyre or leave them in the open to rot. There are not enough corpses. Four legs are faster than two and they would never carry one of us on their backs.¡±

    Anakis visibly relaxed, her shoulders lowering. ¡°That¡¯s¡­not a wholly unrealistic point¡­¡± she mused ¡°I¡¯ll have the legionaries take proper count. At least we¡¯ll know how many we¡¯re looking for, if we can even find them out here.¡±

    They both slowly turned to gaze out at the seemingly endless rolling sea of sand stretched out before them, reaching out to the north, south and east of the isolated hamlet. There was no easily visible source of water or food for miles, and neither had any clue of what lurked in the dunes beyond.

    ¡°That may prove a problem.¡±

    ¡°Well, we may not be scouts, but our best lead is going to be looking for tracks. If we can¡¯t find any, we¡¯ll come back with a whole damn legion and scour every grain of sand in the desert for them,¡± Anakis declared, head held high.

 XVI: Ruin

    When Aiur had awoken the previous morning, he had been utterly unaware of how defining a day it would be. He remembered it with perfect clarity for the rest of his life.

    They had arrived in Sturva the day before, and paid with excessive generosity for all the bread and board the hamlet¡¯s inn, The Minehead, could provide.

    He had not slept well, but felt refreshed regardless. Dreams of falling into that empty abyss still plagued him, but there was more comfort to be found in the freshly made bed the inn had provided than the bedroll he¡¯d been using over the last two weeks. He had discovered that, while unquestionably beautiful, a grand view of the stars did little to soothe his soul. The tiny pinpricks of light against a canvass of inky midnight only served as an unpleasant reminder of his overwhelming insignificance.

    He pushed these thoughts aside in an attempt to focus on the reason they were here and sauntered casually down into the main hall. Paying for a meal of bread and soup with a few small coins, he took a seat opposite Rexis around one of the small tables dotted across the room. Each was occupied by Rexis¡¯ hand-picked pack of hunters, trackers and killers, with not a single local in sight.

    ¡°She¡¯s late, sir,¡± was the first thing the scout mumbled, mopping up the last dregs of his soup with a chunk of bread.

    ¡°She¡¯ll be here,¡± Aiur said with a shrug, leaning back to make himself comfortable

    ¡°I¡¯m not worried about that; I just want to know when.¡±

    He shrugged, tearing off a hunk of bread. Cleonar had never let him down before. ¡°Where¡¯s Callia? And that other one¡­Nyde?¡±

    Rexis sniffed. ¡°I sent those two out to take a look around the area. Really comb through it. Hoped they might find signs of Cleo and her gaggle of clankers. They¡¯ve probably got lost.¡±

    Aiur nearly choked on the piece of bread he had been chewing. ¡°Well, I¡¯m sure if they were anywhere close, we would have heard them by now.¡±

    Rexis smiled, but didn¡¯t laugh. ¡°I¡¯m sure we would. The scouts should be back ¡®bout noon¡­sir.¡±

    ¡°You know there¡¯s no need to call me sir while we¡¯re out here. You have command over this,¡± Aiur said, before ripping another bite from his bread.

    ¡°Well I fully intend to, sir. I¡¯m not in the habit of breaking habits,¡± he said looking over Aiur¡¯s shoulder to see Daiss¡¯ broad form lumbering down the staircase, his tail thumping heavily against each step.

    The hulking lizard stopped, stretched, and yawned, before sliding bleary-eyed into a seat at their table.

    ¡°Ah, the arch clanker himself has arrived! Did you sleep well?¡±

    Daiss just grinned and nodded, Rexis¡¯ sarcasm going over his head as he reached over to tear off some of his bread, chewing on it dry while Rexis grumbled at him.

    ¡°Expect them to find anything out there?¡± Aiur asked Rexis.

    ¡°Out this side of the mountains?¡± Rexis said, leaning back and shrugging. ¡°No. Not really. The land out there is practically dead between here and the coast, bar the occasional snake or scorpion.¡±

    ¡°Then why bother sending them

    Rexis simply shrugged again. ¡°Well, it¡¯s just-¡°  was all he managed to say, before the door burst open with a bone-jarring crack.

    The entire room looked up from their bowls. A figure, clad in a Veltari tattered uniform, half ran, half stumbled into the inn before falling onto the flagstones with an unceremonious smack.

    Rexis was on his feet immediately, flying across the room as the figure dragged themselves up onto their knees. Their lean face was bisected by a deep, messy wound that left blood smeared across their features, but it was unmistakably the brown-scaled form of Callia. Her clothes were slashed and covered in blood. She gulped in air as though she may never taste it again, her eyes wide with panic. ¡°Sirs...Sirs!¡± she gasped between short pants. ¡°Sirs¡­we have to go¡­we have to leave now!¡±

    The whole room had suddenly burst into life with her entrance. Rexis¡¯ Veltari leapt from their chairs, checking windows, doors and rushing out to gather supplies. Daiss exploded from his seat, bounding up the stairs three at a time and returning with his glaive in a matter of second ss. All the while the innkeeper, a portly, yellow-scaled fellow with spines protruding from his chin in a sort of beard, shrieked and dove behind his bar.

    Aiur rose from his seat with a long, slow breath. He walked across the room, crouching down beside the scout as she gasped and wailed. ¡°Callia,¡± he said, his voice cutting through her panic. ¡°Look at me.¡±

    Her head snapped up, flecks of blood flying from her wound. ¡°P-please sir¡­we have to go; we have to leave,¡± she mumbled, her breath coming short and sharp between words.

    ¡°I know,¡± he replied, placing a calming hand on her shoulder. ¡°But we can¡¯t leave until we know what happened. So just breathe for me, nice and slow.¡±

    She nodded, taking deep lungsful of air as she mimicked Aiur¡¯s own steady breaths.

    He kept his hand on her shoulder, squeezing briefly ¡°Good. Now, nice and slow, tell us what happened.¡±

    She nodded, taking a few more deep breaths to steady her nerves. ¡°We were on patrol out east, as ordered. Maybe we went too far out¡­I don¡¯t know. But¡­we found¡­an army, sir. A huge army. Just¡­rolling through the desert.¡±

    Aiur frowned.  How could they have failed to notice such a thing? In his experience, an army on the move was rarely subtle. ¡°How big, and whose army?¡± he asked, forcing himself to remain calm.

    She gulped, her breathing beginning to unsteady again. ¡°Thousands sir¡­Thousands of them. But they were spread out, like a blanket of ants covering the entire desert! Scuttling and crawling everywhere¡­¡± She scratched at her arms, as though she could feel tiny biting insects all over her. ¡°Nyde and I crested a dune and we¡­saw them stretching on and on and on¡­¡± She took another gasping breath. ¡°They marched like no army we knew¡­scrambling¡­clambering over and around each other. No ordered ranks sir, just a¡­scattered mass of bodies. They had no banners¡­I don¡¯t want to think about what happened to any villages behind them¡­¡±

    Aiur shifted around to remain squarely in her sight, and placed his other hand on her other shoulder. This was all madness; the odds alone were astronomical. ¡°Okay. It¡¯s good that you found them. You¡¯ve performed admirably. But you came here in a panic, and without Nyde. Something else happened out there, didn¡¯t it?¡±

    She nodded again, tilting her chin upward to look him directly in the eye. ¡°Nyde¡¯s dead,¡± she said, with a tone that suggested the same fate awaited them all.

    Aiur squeezed her shoulders as his stomach seemed to drop out of his abdomen. ¡°How did he die?¡±

    She gulped. ¡°Badly,¡± she managed, sinking inwards and clutching her chest. ¡°They spotted us¡­some of them, at least. A big group came after us¡­yapping¡­wailing¡­shouting, screaming like it was the end of the world.¡± She took another low, shuddering breath. ¡°They caught up to us, their leader was¡­so fast¡­he caught Nyde and he¡­and¡­he.¡± She retched, quickly turning away from Aiur as she emptied the contents of her stomach onto the stone floor.

    Aiur grimaced, leaning back as the smell of bile filled the air. He couldn¡¯t ask her to put into words what ¡®he¡¯ did. The recollection alone was clearly unpleasant enough. ¡°Who was leading them, can you describe them to me?¡±

    She shuddered, nodding feebly as she looked up at him. ¡°N-not a who sir¡­a what.¡±

    He nodded, motioning for her to continue. ¡°What then. What leads this army?¡±

    She took a deep breath, shaking as though on the verge of tears. She sputtered and stammered, and only after multiple failed attempts did she manage to breathe a single word.

    Naga.

    ***

    Aiur had never fought a Naga before, and he did not relish the opportunity now it was before him.

    They were akin to monsters of myth; serpentine creatures from the depth of their past. For centuries, millennia even, the world had been plagued by these megalomaniacal monsters: slave-raids, insurgent rings and surgical strikes. Now he was faced with one such creature.

    Deep down, the prospect terrified him, but he could not show that to those around him, not for a moment. If he crumbled, so would they.Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

    It had been a struggle just to get the residents to leave their homes, and many had refused. Everything they owned and knew was here, the prospect of abandoning their lives somehow more terrifying than the Naga. Aiur knew they would soon understand their folly.

    Now the first specks of the invaders were appearing across the dunes. Still, they stubbornly refused to leave.

    An admirable sentiment, to be sure. But one that was about to get them all killed.

    Callia was given the ¡®honour¡¯ of leading those willing to evacuate away to any kind of safety she could find. She was far too unstable if it came to a fight, and he couldn¡¯t have her nerves unsettling anyone else more than they already had. She had been through enough already.

    Now he feared the approaching horde would catch them out in the open.

    He could see the outriders bearing down towards the hamlet. Two Saszrukai, clad in mis-matched leather scraps and mounted on foreign, pale horses. They came, whooping and hollering down the slope, one crudely brandishing a spear too long for his stature and the other flicking out arrows from a squat bow.

    They looked for all the world like foreign barbarians. Outlanders. Aiur supposed they must be, of a fashion.  He had never seen Saszrukai like this before. Who were they?

    Questions for another time he quickly realised, for now they were barrelling into the hamlet proper. Aiur watched, expecting at any moment to see the rest scrambling down the dune in their wake.

    Rexis tossed out ¡®shields¡¯ from a gathered pile by the well as his scouts ran back and forth. The shields were unpainted, carved slabs of wood with hide straps, but they could stop an arrow well enough. The outriders began to circle them and the crude shields had their first test when one of the scouts used his to save his ribcage from a well-placed arrow

    The spear-rider wheeled around, couching his too-long spear as a makeshift lance as he swooped in towards the gaggle of armed figures gathered around the well.

    Daiss strode forth to meet him.

    He took a wide stance and lowered his centre of gravity. Firmly rooted, he held his glaive out and carefully angled it towards the rider.

    Their attacker lunged, thrusting his blade towards Daiss¡¯ face. But Daiss¡¯ response was lightning-fast. He threw his whole body forward, catching the spear just below the blade of his own polearm and pushing back with all his strength. The spear was forced upwards, and Daiss¡¯ glaive scraped down its length, connecting at its apex with the rider¡¯s neck. He didn¡¯t even have time to scream.

    The horse galloped onwards. The near-decapitated corpse of its rider slumped, and then fell from the saddle. Arterial spray pumped feebly from its fatal wound onto the sand.

    ¡°One down. Two hundred to go.¡± Daiss gave a half-chuckle, straightening himself to his full height as he whirled the glaive around. Blood flicked from the blade, leaving the edge clean.

    ¡°Impressive. Of that there can be no doubt.¡± Rexis rolled his eyes, plucking up his bow and quiver from beside the well. ¡°But we need you alive, so¡­please, never do that again.¡± Without allowing Daiss a chance to reply, he began to loose his own arrows towards the other outrider, who was now chasing after their fallen ally¡¯s horse as it bolted into the desert.

    Daiss grunted, thumping the base of his glaive into the sand as he watched the second outrider leave.

    ¡°You know I agree with him.¡± Aiur said, walking his way over to the side of his praetorian. ¡°But let¡¯s handle the others in a more traditional fashion, shall we?¡±

    Daiss chuckled grimly, looking distantly to the dunes beyond. ¡°Of course, sir. But I think we have greater concerns.¡±

    ¡°What?¡± Aiur frowned and followed the direction Daiss was pointing his blade in

    ¡°I am afraid my jest of two hundred now seems a comical understatement.¡±

    A comical understatement indeed.

    They were, as Callia had described, reminiscent of a scrambling mass of ants from this distance, little more than vaguely bipedal shapes, but moving at an alarming pace. With such numbers any defence they could form would be temporary; resistance measured in minutes. They would be upon them too soon, and escape rapidly began to seem an unlikely prospect.

    Then he saw it, and terror froze his heart for a beat. Gliding amongst them, moving with such languid ease Aiur could almost feel the arrogance oozing from it, came a massive serpentine shape. The Beast whose name would be eternally accompanied by a gobbet of spit or hushed curse.

    ***

    At first, there was hope.

    The Veltari had spread themselves out across the hamlet. With only scraps of cloth taken from their uniforms, wood taken from fireplaces, broken shields and their own wits to hand they had set to preparing the hamlet as best they could with the scant minutes fate had provided them.

    The locals, those either stubbornly refusing to abandon their homes or now seeing the futility of escape, emerged with naught but mining tools and cooking utensils. Grim resolve was etched on faces young and old as they huddled together in small alcoves, under windows or behind doors. Each clutched their would-be weapons of murder in shaking hands.

    Yet although their situation seemed desperate, the flame of hope flickered on in Aiur¡¯s heart. With the locals they made a sizable force, enough perhaps for some distant chance that the fiends descending upon them would think twice, even if for only a moment. Even that tiny window could be enough to fight their way towards freedom in the desert beyond. If only they weren¡¯t so damned fast.

    The mass surged forward, a roiling throng of Saszrukai. Each was a messy mismatch of bare scales, tattered leather and cannibalized metal. They carried crude weapons of odd shapes and sizes, lugging and whirling them without skill or finesse.

    Every single one of them had a thick, cast-iron collar clamped around their neck, matched with various lengths of chain, manacles and numerous scars. All serving as constant reminders of their enslavement.

    Just as Callia had warned, they came with shouts and yells down the dune-side. This was not, however, the triumphant battle cries of a raiding horde sighting plunder.

    Instead, the air was filled with the fearful wailings of the horror-stricken; a pair of miners lost their nerve, dropping the hammers they¡¯d snatched and turning to run.

    As a wave of flesh and scale they crashed into the hamlet. Crawling through windows and onto rooftops with reckless abandon, scrambling over one another in the rabid press forward. Some were even crushed underfoot, killed by their own momentum.

    When the hopeful defenders emerged from their hiding places the wave did not stop. Nor did it think twice at the sudden appearance of poorly armed peasants, but washed over them with murderous force. Aiur roared a rallying cry, throwing himself forward, but it did nothing to slow their momentum.

    Innocent people were cut apart, hacked into pieces, stabbed to ribbons or simply pulped beneath the massing throng as it surged forth. In an instant the fight had gone from the peasants and they were herded like cattle towards the well, feebly striking out at their would-be killers.

    Aiur was too embroiled in his own repeated fights for survival; hacking, cutting and chopping with furious abandon to save them. As innocents died all around him, all he could do was watch.

    A young girl, armed only with a bow that should be used for hunting small desert vermin somehow took life after life. But it was not enough. There was always more to fill the fallen¡¯s place. Even long after her thigh and shoulder had been pierced through with retaliatory arrows, and her own blood pooled around her feet, she kept loosing arrows. She died standing.

    He could do nothing as the portly innkeeper smashed a slave¡¯s jaw with naught but a cooking pan, only for four more to leap upon him and begin hacking him into indistinguishable pieces.

    He stared on as the large, stalwart mine boss swung his pickaxe back and forth, smashing bones and piercing bodies with every wide swing. He was a stubborn rock in their defence, until his head was neatly snipped from his shoulders by the beast¡¯s scything blades.

    Aiur took a moment to realise what he had seen, gaping at the monstrosity as it loomed out of the mass. The sight made his heart pound in his chest and rooted his feet to the spot.

    The beast was an immense serpentine figure forged in azure and jade and spattered with blood. Its body was a slim yet lengthy bulk of muscle and power, augmented by four powerful arms each large enough to crush bone. Its lean face leered out with a sadistic grin as it spread its arms wide, while its forked tongue sampled the fear in the air.

    The upper pair of arms wielded a pair of curved, single edged blades each the size of a man, though they appeared little more than sabres in its grip. While the lower each bore matching pairs of rune-etched silver bands around the wrist and elbow. Lightning cackled and filled the air with static as it leapt between each band.

    A wrist flicked; another head sailed through the air.

    Aiur barely even registered the movement. It glided so lazily, with such ease and comfort, yet with every blink another innocent was felled

    Such casual murder and callous disrespect for life made Aiur¡¯s blood boil, but what made it worse, what made him painfully dig his clawed digits into his own palms, was how bored it seemed. It grinned, leered and cackled like some monster of myth, but there seemed to be no effort or enthusiasm in its actions. The darting swipes of its blades were brief snaps of frustration, rather than the displays of skill such a feat should rightfully be.

    The beast¡¯s form was overwhelming in its elegance and power. It should have been a thing of beauty, a pinnacle of serpentine majesty, and yet when Aiur looked upon it all he could feel was disgust. Every moment he stared, the flame of righteous hatred grew hotter in his heart.  This wholesale slaughter was clearly indicative of a mind so cruel, so barbaric, that it had turned too far from the light of all that is good and sane and long since revoked its own right to live.

    Aiur pulled his boots from the sand and uttered a small prayer to Aten. He asked his god for strength and deliverance from this depraved evil. Brandishing his weapon as he surged forward, he issued a wordless, bellowing challenge from the depths of his throat, borne of his all-consuming rage.

    He knew he was physically outclassed in every possible respect. Still, he charged on.

    He had resigned himself to fate, at this moment he was naught but a dead man walking. But he would go out with honour intact, and Aten willing, wound this monster before his light was snuffed out.

    His resolve was fortified by the presence of Daiss at his side, echoing Aiur¡¯s challenge with a ferocious roar. Together, they barrelled forward. Carving a path under the beast¡¯s baleful glare.

    It was not impressed.

    It watched, for a moment, out of curiosity if nothing else. Its eyes drifted lazily across their tall, saurian forms. It appeared utterly disinterested as these two¡­creatures violently hacked down its puppets.

    Then, like a passing cloud, its curiosity was spent. With a casual flick of the wrist, it sent death their way.

    Daiss saw it first. A bolt of lightning danced from the serpent¡¯s fingers towards them, burning through anything in its way and reducing its own slaves to charred corpses in its wake.

    Without even a moment to think, he threw himself upon his charge with a calamitous slap and clatter of metal.

    Straight through the bolts path.

    As one combined mass of steel and scale, their feet left the sand. Flailing together, they dropped quickly into the sand. But Daiss had not been nearly quick enough.

    For a moment Daiss was rooted, upright, as the bolt coursed through the left side of his body, his screams drowning out the sound of battle as metal melted and fused with scale in the most painful forge imaginable. Every muscle in his body locked up for the three heartbeats it took until he passed out from the pain, collapsing in a heap atop his master.

    The bolt continued on its path of destruction, cracking stone to blast apart the well in a great jet of sand and water, before grounding itself in the dirt.

    That crack, and the following patter of falling sand, was the last thing Aiur heard before the bulk of his own bodyguard robbed him of consciousness.

 XVII: Visitation

    The inner sanctum was a place of calm, security, and far more importantly, privacy.

    Sealed away in the highest and deepest reaches of Nerkai¡¯s temple-pyramid, the sanctum had been built with the express purpose of being inaccessible to those uninitiated in the faith. Many of the doors and passages required magical talent to access, or keystones specially prepared for those who did not.

    Here members of the priesthood meditated, experimented and dabbled in arcane affairs deemed too dangerous or too secret for public eyes. It could be reached only by a series of winding, labyrinthine corridors guarded by zealous Spatharii, the servant-soldiers of the priesthood.

    Yet, in spite of all this, Syla had slipped inside, arriving completely unannounced to once more interrupt Aretuza in a moment of reflection. All she could do was sigh.

    ¡°You always time your visits so¡­curiously,¡± she added a moment later, remaining sat cross-legged with her hands braced upon her knees and tail coiled upon her lap.

    Syla stood in the doorway behind Aretuza, blocking out the light. The room was a simple box of clean-cut stone, bereft of ornamentation bar the scripture she had brought to study, and the indentations carved into the floor that inferred a ritualistic significance. ¡°Opportunities to encounter you alone are scarce,¡± Syla replied.

    ¡°Yes, my role is quite the sociable one.¡±

    ¡°How long do we have?¡±

    ¡°I had intended to spend these scant few hours of privacy in quiet contemplation and study before retiring for the night.¡± Aretuza sighed, reverently closing the tome she had been reading. ¡°Be swift regardless.¡±

    ¡°Aiur is still missing,¡± Syla stated bluntly, folding her arms and shifting her weight onto the other foot.

    Aretuza paused, as she realised exactly what Syla was after. That would prove difficult. ¡°Yes, he has been absent for some time now.¡±

    ¡°None of my associates have been able to find him,¡± Syla added.

    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t expect them to. He¡¯s not the kind to go gallivanting off to other cities. House Zerkash is not a popular one.¡±

    ¡°You seem to have very little interest in this particular development.¡± Syla growled, moving to stand in front of the priestess. The half-light glanced across Aretuza¡¯s figure, making freshly washed scales glisten.

    ¡°And you seem altogether far too concerned,¡± Aretuza said, sliding her tail from her lap and rising to her feet. ¡°It is making you panic.¡±

    ¡°I am not panicking.¡± Syla scowled.

    ¡°Stop. Think. Breathe. What do we know?¡± Aretuza soothed, putting her hands on Syla¡¯s shoulders.

    Syla shrugged her off and stepped back. ¡°Cleonar was encountered by some of those in my employ, crossing the A¡¯at at Ptheka and heading eastwards. Since then, silence.¡±

    Aretuza nodded, gesturing for her to continue. ¡°What can you infer from that?¡±

    ¡°He¡¯s not in any of the major cities, he¡¯s likely travelling through open desert, and unless he foresaw us looking for him and has used Cleonar as a decoy, he is likely headed east as well.¡±

    Aretuza smiled. ¡°Good. A solid conclusion based on what you have, but you want, nay, need more, don¡¯t you?¡±

    ¡°I do.¡±

    ¡°You wish to employ the talents of the priesthood to this end.¡±

    ¡°I do.¡± Syla repeated. The look on her face intimated her unease at being read so clearly; Aretuza was likely one of very few to do so successfully.

    ¡°You desire me to perform a reading to reveal the portents of Aiur¡¯s fate,¡± Aretuza said. Divination was not among the precise magical arts, nor was it a safe one. That alone suggested Syla¡¯s desperation for answers.

    ¡°Yes. I believe that is something you can provide?¡± Syla snapped, though perhaps not intentionally. She was becoming more defensive as Aretuza read her expressions.

    Aretuza sighed. ¡°I can, but I am no expert. I will require materials, time, and an object with a strong connection to him.¡±

    ¡°So, something he owns?¡±

    ¡°Or uses regularly. Ownership is not important, simply that it comes into contact with him, so I may follow the thread more readily.¡±

    ¡°Good,¡± Syla said with a nod, reaching for a pouch strapped to her thigh to retrieve a cloth-bound object. She deposited it into Aretuza¡¯s hands. ¡°That should suffice.¡±

    Aretuza peeled the cloth away fold by fold, pulling out a freshly polished metal bracer with a gaping wound torn in one side. She was no expert, but the way the metal was buckled suggested a particularly vicious blow.The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

    ¡°How did you come by this?¡± she asked, turning it over in her hands.

    ¡°Aiur sent it to be repaired before he left. When he returns, he¡¯ll be receiving a freshly made copy,¡± Syla said with a self-satisfied smirk.

    ¡°The guild didn¡¯t question that? No talk of pride or reputation stopped them from giving it to you?¡± Aretuza questioned. ¡°Ordinarily they¡¯re so stubborn and obtuse about such things.¡±

    ¡°For the priesthood perhaps. But then you always have been the biggest obstacle in the way of their profits. I, on the other hand, have far more¡­pull.¡± Syla grinned, putting her hands on her hips. ¡°Regardless, the guild doesn¡¯t know, the armourer was more than happy to hand it over once I had spoken with him a while.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t believe I should ask what that entails,¡± Aretuza said, keeping her curiosity at bay. Syla was not the most wholesome of their kind, neither in manner nor methods. ¡°But if you are looking to be helpful, I will require some materials for the casting. Some blessed unguents, incense, candles, staves, things of that nature to ensure the ritual is conducted properly. I will gather the more sensitive items, and I¡¯m certain with your talents you can find that little list around the sanctum.¡±

    ¡°You would have me fetch like some hound?¡± Syla started, taking a step forward.

    ¡°I would have you save us time!¡± Aretuza snapped, exasperated. ¡°You must stop seeing veiled insults and threats in everything.¡±

    ¡°It has kept me alive this far.¡± Syla sneered. Even now, she seemed uncertain; she had little belief this would work. ¡°¡­but I shall gather these mundanities. For your little ceremony.¡±

    ***

    Candles were set about the ritual engravings upon the floor, their incense filling the room with its fragrant smoke. Four staves had been slid into place, each equidistant from one another and each clutching a carefully carved crystal, aligned inwards toward the centre of a circle carved into the floor.

    Aretuza, anointed with the sacred unguents upon her cheeks and fingers and wearing a golden torc engraved with eldritch runes, approached the circle.

    The door had been sealed, leaving the flickering candles as the only light in the room. This suited Syla, who lurked in silence and stillness just beyond the light¡¯s meagre reach.

    Aretuza reached the circle¡¯s centre, lowering herself onto her knees. Gripping the torc around her neck in both hands, she began to chant. Her voice was slow and steady, a lengthy refrain repeated over and over as it built in intensity.

    The words were in no language Syla understood, and while at first her scepticism was rising at this seemingly ineffectual chanting, soon it was clear this was no empty ceremony.

    Tiny motes of light, in strange colours, only some of which Syla could name, coalesced from nothingness and began to gather around the crystals. The runes engraved in the torc became luminous, pulsing and throbbing to the rhythm of the chant.

    One by one, the swirling motes were absorbed by the crystals, trapping their luminosity to add to the crystal¡¯s own rapidly growing radiance. Soon they too had joined the chant, their light ebbing and flowing with the priestess¡¯ words.

    Soon the chant reached its apex, the words adopting an otherworldly tone as though twinned with some being that existed on a separate plane. The cut faces of the crystals began to direct their light inwards as Aretuza continued chanting, leaning her head back to stare skyward as the light gathered around her torc, suffusing the air with a keening whistle.

    A crack akin to the snapping of bone resonated through the room, as the chant reached its crescendo. Aretuza shouted in pain as in one sudden rush of air and energy, every iota of light in the room pierced through her scales.

    The light seemed to have burnt itself out and the room was left in darkness. Even the candles had not been spared. Syla had the vague impression of Aretuza, kneeling stock still, her muscles tensed, eyes rolled back in her head as the spell did its work.

    Soon even that impression faded, and the room was enveloped in absolute darkness. The temperature plummeted. The cold sent shivers down Syla¡¯s spine, and she daren¡¯t move for fear of disturbing the ritual. Had it worked? Seeing magic of this kind up-close was a rarity, and this was nothing like she had expected.

    Syla reached for her belt, the cool steel underneath her fingertips providing the reassurance it always did.

    There was a shuffling. A slow, lurching scratch as clawed feet dragged across the stone floor. Syla waited, ready to draw her weapon in a flash, her breath misting in the air before her, but the darkness was so complete she was blind to it.

    A tiny metallic tap. More scratched steps. Moving closer toward her now.

    Syla stepped back. ¡°Aretuza?¡± she called, finally breaking the stillness of the air.

    A final pair of scratching steps were coupled with ragged, heavy breathing. Syla found herself blinded by a sudden burst of light.

    As her eyes adjusted, she realised she was face-to-face with Aretuza. The priestess was inches from her, scales drained of colour, giving her a pale, drawn aspect. Her eyes were rimmed with blood and as Syla watched several crimson tears slid down her cheeks. She still clutched a crystal, radiating the only light and warmth in the room.

    Syla¡¯s lips tightened for a moment but the grip on her blade slackened. ¡°Is that¡­normal?¡± she asked.

    ¡°¡­No,¡± Aretuza breathed in a shaking voice, fingers trembling as they gripped the pulsing crystal. ¡°Your concern¡­is well founded,¡± she managed to mumble, lowering herself down to her knees and beckoning Syla to do the same.

    Syla did not. She squatted down in front of the priestess, tail flicking from side to side as she kept one hand on the hilt of her blade. ¡°What did you see?¡±

    Aretuza drew in a deep lungful of air, composing herself to make coherence from her scattered visions. ¡°Saw? Bloodied scales, rent flesh, a village aflame¡­and a face.¡±

    ¡°One you recognise?¡±

    ¡°No, yet it was unmistakable. It was so¡­serpentine in aspect, so cruel, and stooped in depthless malice. A Naga hunts the Consul.¡± Aretuza said, though her tone was strange.

    ¡°You speak as though that is the least of our problems,¡± Syla mumbled, feeling both intrigued and concerned.

    ¡°The mere presence of a Naga would not cause the spell to react so violently,¡± Aretuza mumbled, eyes darting back and forth in suspicion, thought or perhaps, rather uncharacteristically, fear. Syla didn¡¯t know which would concern her more. ¡°Someone¡­Something else had its hand in this, something is twisting fate,¡± Aretuza finally said.

    ¡°How can you tell?¡±

    ¡°Divination magic observes the threads of fate, in all their fickle irreliability,¡± Aretuza explained, the shift to an academic thought somewhat easing the shaking in her fingers. ¡°Viewing the past is always easier than the future or the now. You simply¡­follow the thread back. But this¡­something is tugging the threads. Moving them.¡±

    Syla sighed. ¡°Could a powerful magus do this?¡± she proposed.

    Aretuza shook her head, and closed her eyes. ¡°Nobody in our history has that power, to manipulate fate and time so delicately, yet integrally in one fell swoop. Something beyond our comprehension desires Aiur to be wherever he is, desires him to encounter a beast which he cannot kill.¡±

 XVIII: Suffering

    When his mind swam back to the surface and re-emerged into the waking world, Aiur found himself being dragged by the collar of his mail across hot sand.

    He squinted under the glare of the blazing sun, which now hung directly overhead and cast everything in harsh shadows. He squirmed against the force tugging him as he attempted to re-orientate himself, unsure of how long he had been unconscious.

    Before he could get his bearings, he was thrown forward and left sprawled face-first on the sand. He grunted and groaned, forcing himself up onto his hands as he spat out a mouthful of sand.

    The shadowed figure responsible lowered onto one knee. ¡°My lord Agyrimithras, this one appears to be their leader.¡± Its voice was naught but a placating whisper.

    The serpent loomed over him. Aiur made sure to commit that infernal name to memory as he raised himself onto his knees to glare at this abomination. Its tongue flicked out as its bulk lowered and coiled, bringing them face to face. It hovered there for a tense, uncomfortable moment.

    ¡°You do not fear me,¡± The beast said matter-of-factly, letting its voice tease out every word into a rattling hiss.

    One of its hands gripped Aiur by the chin, forcing him to glare into one another¡¯s eyes. The urge to spit was unbearable as a sadistic grin tugged at the corners of the serpent¡¯s mouth. ¡°But you do hate me,¡± it cackled. ¡°Good¡­perhaps it will make your screams all the more entertaining for me.¡±

    Aiur scowled, though before he could reply his face was shoved into the sand again, and Agyrimithras slithered away from him, reclining upon its coils. ¡°Bring me some rope and a rusted blade! I would make an example of this one¡­¡± it demanded of its kneeling supplicant, who scurried away before its master had finished speaking. ¡°And to the rest of you¡­¡± it said, turning on its quailing peons. ¡°Find the last of them! I want every living thing in this pitiful mud-hole in chains before this one bleeds to death!¡±

    Aiur pushed himself onto his hands as subtly as he could, getting his first proper look at his surroundings. Armoured figures and cloth-clad peasants were huddled together near the mining office, limbs bound with rope, chain or cloth as they were shoved towards the outskirts of the hamlet by the beast¡¯s slaves.

    The rest of the hamlet was entirely overrun. The dead lay unceremoniously where they had fallen, soaking in their own blood. Slaves in their dozens were ransacking every building in sight, driven on by the commands of the Unchained.

    The Unchained were scum, of the worst possible kind. Once slaves themselves, the atrocities they had committed with eagerness rather than compliance had caught the attention of their sadistic masters. Now they held the whip, cracking it upon those they once called friend, had once called family, to spare themselves the lash.

    Aiur knew them by reputation; when the influence of the Naga was felt, it was most often through Unchained agents, wreaking havoc in their master¡¯s name.

    ¡°Which one of them will give up everything to be free of their chains first, do you think?¡± Agyrimithras asked absent-mindedly, as if able to read his thoughts. The beast was still reclined on his own coils a few meters away, his face an arrogant smirk.

    Aiur scowled, biting down any reply as he turned back to the scene of carnage. There were a few faces missing among the dead or the captured. Daiss was the first one he noticed, Rexis another. He quietly hoped his friends had avoided some other gruesome fate.

    Angered by his silence, Agyrimithras loomed over him again, gripping the back of Aiur¡¯s head and forcing him to look up. ¡°Come now, take a good, long look. We both know one of them will turn on the others¡­but which one will it be, and why?¡± it cackled, holding his head in an iron-clawed grip that made Aiur¡¯s head burn with the pressure, blood trickling down his cheeks as his skull threatened to burst. ¡°It¡¯s almost a shame you¡¯ll be dead by the time I find out, isn¡¯t it?¡±

    Aiur gasped as it lifted him off his feet and into the air without warning, bringing them face-to-face once more. ¡°At least you have come to terms with it quickly. But if you are going to remain silent, I am going to draw out your pain.¡± It grinned at him, forcing its clawed digits deeper into his flesh with every moment. Aiur tried to resist, grasping at the arm and trying to wrench himself free, but every movement only brought more pain.

    Helpless against its strength, the only thing Aiur could think to do in that moment was spit his defiance into the creature¡¯s face.

    Agyrimithras¡¯ smirk faded as the gobbet of spit slapped against its scales, and it abruptly released Aiur from its grasp, letting him thump to the ground in a puff of sand.

    The beast reached up, wiping the spit from its face, the picture of utter calm. Aiur¡¯s breath came short and sharp, looking for an escape. It held one of its hands delicately out to the side as its minion returned. ¡°Knife,¡± was all it said, curling its fingers expectantly as the requested blade was carefully placed into its grip.

    ¡°Your kind truly are pathetic,¡± the beast scowled, glaring down with contempt at Aiur as he began to push himself to his feet.

    The moment Aiur was upright, Agyrimithras slammed into him with frightening speed, forcing him backwards against the well and pinning him in place with a stomach-churning crunch. ¡°You are slow.¡± It growled, but not loud enough to drown out Aiur¡¯s shout of pain as he felt several ribs break.

    Aiur attempted a swing for one of the beast¡¯s vulnerable eyes, but before his strike had even reached halfway, it grabbed his arm and cracked it against the well. Aiur shrieked again, groaning at the pain that pulsed in too many parts of his body now.

    ¡°You are weak.¡±

    Before he could take another breath, the beast grabbed the sleeve of his chainmail and ripped it away. ¡°You rely on this junk to protect you. You are soft!¡± it bellowed, punctuating its statement by cleaving into the meat of Aiur¡¯s right arm with its rusted, blunt blade.

    Aiur screamed, as he felt it tearing through his flesh, ripping out scales with every tiny movement. It had sunk deep enough to hit bone, but not with enough force to crack it. Not yet.

    ¡°Oh dear,¡± the beast cackled. ¡°It seems it¡¯s just not sharp enough for a clean cut.¡±The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    It dragged the blade up, down and then out of the new wound, grinning as Aiur screamed and attempted to staunch the sudden flow of blood with his uninjured hand.

    The beast pulled back, taking a breath as it prepared another degrading comment. Yet, with hand raised at the apex of its next strike, it paused, taking a second breath and flicking its tongue out to taste the air.

    Its face screwed up into a frown. ¡°Something is burning¡­¡± it muttered, its attention turning towards the acrid, smoky scent drifting through the air.

    As the beast twisted upon its coils, one of its peons rapidly approached, managing to stumble out a ¡°My lord¡± before receiving a savage backhand that sent him sprawling into the sand. Jaw hanging slack and head twisted at a sickening angle as he tumbled to the ground.

    ¡°I can see it!¡± Agyrimithras bellowed, pausing only for a moment to point at another of the slaves sprawled before him. ¡°Keep this imbecile pinned. If he moves so much as a muscle I want to know!¡± he added, before slithering away with a string of curses and to force orders upon its unkempt hordes. Relief flooded Aiur¡¯s system, adrenaline fading as he kept his wound pressured to stem the bleeding.

    What it had seen was half the village engulfed in flames.

    Even delirious from pain as he was, vision swimming and every fibre of his being howling in pain and horror, Aiur could clearly see the pale flames licking up the walls of buildings. The flames were dancing and spreading with enthusiasm to destroy everything in their path. From his pain-addled perspective, the fire almost looked¡­alive.

    The slave that had been picked out, a bruised and shabby creature, pulled himself to his feet. The moment his master was out of earshot, he immediately began to wield the meagre authority he had been granted. He shouted another slave over, nursing some wound on its wrist as he moved to examine this surprisingly brave captive. Even as the serpent slithered away, the rest of the captives were still huddled together in fear.

    He cackled as he watched Aiur writhing in pain and pulled a ¡°dagger¡± from the tattered cloth simulacrum of a belt draped across his waist, though it was nothing more than a sharpened bone-shard with leather wrapped around the hilt.

    He gurgled a threat in some alien tongue laden with throaty sounds and consonant-heavy words, clearly thinking Aiur was helpless against him. But this slave was no Naga, and he didn¡¯t appear to have noticed his ally had not appeared at his side. He lay motionless in the sand.

    Aiur braced himself, subtly shifting his feet as the slave loomed in, blade poised with malicious intent.

    Aiur kicked with both feet, hitting the slave in the abdomen and forcing him back, if only briefly. By the time Aiur had scrambled to his feet, bracing himself to fight, the slave was gurgling on its own blood while being guided silently to the floor.

    By Rexis.

    The scout motioned with his finger for quiet as he carefully slid his blade free, rising to his feet as gracefully as a cat. But laboured breathing, grinding metal and grunts from the oozing wound in his right arm accompanied Aiur¡¯s every movement. He¡¯d lost a lot more blood than he expected, and his battering against the well made every breath a sucking wheeze.

    With adrenaline the only thing keeping him upright, he lumbered to Rexis¡¯ side. ¡°What now? I hope we have a plan,¡± he managed to utter.

    ¡°We do. You stay put; you¡¯re not running anywhere in that state,¡± Rexis said, glancing at his superior only briefly before darting across the sand to the captives.

    Aiur swayed on his feet and almost collapsed. From the waist up, everything except his left arm pounded with pain, and even breathing shot stabs of agony through him. He refused to let himself fall, however. Using his one good arm he held himself upright and skirted around the well, following Rexis as best he could over to the few prisoners still nearby.

    The scout was busy freeing them all, pointing them off in seemingly random directions, not wasting a moment to glance at any of them as soldier and peasant alike scurried away.

    ¡°We have to get the wounded out. Splitting the healthy up in as many directions as possible will be the best way to do that,¡± Rexis said in hushed tones.

    ¡°Wounded like me?¡± Aiur said, managing a chuckle that jabbing pains made him immediately regret.

    ¡°Precisely, sir,¡± Rexis said without humour, jerking his head back towards the large inferno the Naga and his slaves were still struggling to contain. ¡°The fire was Callia¡¯s idea; it¡¯ll buy us the necessary time to get you away from here.¡±

    ¡°So, we¡¯re running,¡± Aiur groaned, clutching his chest with his good arm.

    ¡°I prefer the term retreating, but¡­yes, and in a damned poor state too.¡±

    Aiur grunted, taking one last long look around him. To think a training exercise had turned to this. ¡°Let¡¯s get this over with then and get far from here.¡±

    ¡°I couldn¡¯t agree more,¡± Rexis said matter-of-factly, dropping a final pair of now-empty shackles to the floor before rising. ¡°Follow me¡­as quietly as those wounds will allow.¡±

    Without another word, the pair moved away from the well and headed south towards the outskirts of the hamlet.

    ***

    Pushed against a wall, at the opposite end of the hamlet to the raging inferno that was consuming the settlement whole, Daiss waited obediently. Though he couldn¡¯t have moved even if he wanted to.

    He was quite surprised to be alive, if his current state could really be called living.

    Where there was once lovingly crafted, diligently cared for scale-mail, there was now a fused mess of molten slag still so hot it stung to move. At times he could still see wisps of steam rising from the hot metal.

    The state of his body underneath that armour was a mystery to him. All he knew ever since regaining consciousness was pain. So much pain.

    He had woken up lain out on the sand, with Rexis crouched over him. The scout had dragged him here, and once he was awake, simply shoved Daiss¡¯ glaive back into his hands and ordered him to stay put. From there he¡¯d managed to drag himself to a nearby wall and prop himself up against it. That alone had been one of the most painful experiences of his life.

    Which, for a man who had been stabbed, gutted and pierced enough for two soldiers¡¯ lifetimes, it was probably impressive that he remained conscious.  Daiss only hoped he would live long enough to impress someone with it.

    As he sat there and mused on the nightmare they¡¯d found themselves in, he attempted to stay as absolutely still as his battered form would allow. Even going so far as to hold his breath for as long as he could muster each time, not to remain quiet, but to spare himself the dragging pain that now accompanied breathing.  In the silence that surrounded him Daiss heard encroaching footsteps.

    He was in no condition to fight, even with his weapon he stood a better chance of a peaceful walk through the depths of hell than inflicting damage on anything else.

    With the creaking protest of tortured metal, he twisted his head to observe their approach, surprised and relieved in equal measure when he saw it was Rexis and Aiur. He sighed heavily as he realised they would be moving again soon, that he would be moving again soon. Taking the few moments he had before they reached him, he began to look for hand-holds to pull himself to his feet.

    Slowly, clumsily, and with another impressive feat of fortitude, he pulled himself upright.

    Every movement was accompanied with the grunts and groans customary of ruined flesh, twinned with the squeals and screeches of equally ruined metal being forced to bend and flex.

    With this chorus of pain, Daiss rose.

    Snatching his glaive from its place propped against the wall, he jammed it into the sand and leant upon it. He managed to stand with some modicum of pride as his superior approached, becoming ever-thankful for the chainmail hiding his face, even if half of it was stuck fast against his cheek and jaw.

    ¡°Can you walk?¡± Rexis asked with urgency in his tone, glancing back at the inferno.

    ¡°No idea. But I think we¡¯re about to find out.¡± Daiss groaned in reply, slouching as he leaned an increasing amount of his bulk on his weapon.

    ¡°Not exactly the answer I wanted, but it¡¯ll have to do,¡± Rexis grumbled. Pinching his chin between thumb and forefinger, he slipped into thought for a moment. ¡°I don¡¯t think we have a choice. It¡¯s into the desert with us.¡±

    ¡°Which way? It¡¯s sand for miles in every direction but west.¡± Aiur sighed, trying to support Daiss as best he could.

    ¡°East is full of bandits and beasts. We¡¯re meat if we go into the mountains,¡± Daiss grumbled between winces of pain.

    Nodding, Rexis set off with grim determination and perhaps a little hope they wouldn¡¯t be alone. ¡°And we have no idea how far north or east this horde extends, nor do I intend to find out. We go south.¡±

 XIX: Getting a specialist

    Syla turned the coin over in her hands. It really was past time to make use of it.

    She sat at the bar of The Weeping Crocodile, a half-eaten breakfast in front of her as she thought over her discoveries. She was dressed in her all-black formal attire, an outfit she was quite fond of for the way it fit her perfectly while simultaneously portraying the air of stern arrogance she would need today. She would employ it more often, but the wait for any repairs or spares with the only tailor she trusted to make it to her exacting standards was over a season in length.

    It was still early morning and the all-night drinkers had recently been sent packing, leaving only her and the slab-jawed barman in the peaceful quiet.

    They had not shared a word since she came through the door.  Nor during the entire week she had been coming here for a morning muse. The ritual had been a success, of sorts, but the question was what to do with that information.

    This particular coin fit snugly in the palm of her hand, but she couldn¡¯t stop toying with it. Rolling it across her knuckles, turning it over and over, flicking and flipping it as she mulled over her options. It was a finger-thick disk forged of a high-purity gold that had yet to lose its lustre. While not part of the accepted currency, its weight alone gave it considerable value and it came from a perfectly identical set.

    She should know, she had personally overseen their minting.

    It did not bear the sun and drake¡¯s head of most large-denomination coins, though it was the same size. One face was a blank, smooth sheen while the other bore a curious, asymmetrical symbol raised from its surface: the all-seeing eye. A symbol of one of the old gods, of that dead desert faith.

    She stared into that eye for a few long moments before sighing heavily. She resigned herself to the expenditure its use entailed and left her breakfast behind.

    The air was wonderfully hot and dry, the city bathed in the morning glow as its citizens arose from their slumber. They could be seen on rooftops and outside homes, soaking in the morning sun to heat their cold-blooded bodies. Soon the air would be filled with their hubbub as work began, but for now all was tranquil and quiet. Syla always enjoyed this time of the morning.

    Despite this outward tranquillity, and the considerable lack of people actually walking the streets, Syla still made sure to make three wrong turns and doubled back twice as she wound her way through a series of streets and alleyways before arriving at her destination. She was quite well known among the less scrupulous elements of society, and she had not survived this long by taking chances.

    Three quarters of the way down a narrow alley, barely discernible from the rest, she stopped.

    Tracing her fingers upon the old stone, within seconds she found what she was looking for. She pressed the coin into a small recess hidden amongst the cracks that spiralled out across the wall and waited.

    Something tiny twisted with an imperceptible click and the coin was swallowed up into the wall. She waited a few moments more, until with a slow grind of stone an entranceway yawned open directly behind her.

    A fellow lizard, with faded scales that once might have been green, waited in the opening portal with a scowl on his face and a long, jagged knife in his hand, dripping with some venomous concoction. He pressed the knife squarely against her spine as he looked up and down the alley.

    He started to say something, when Syla suddenly jolted forward and turned in one swift movement, grabbing him by the wrist and twisting just enough to make it painful. The man¡¯s eyes widened as he swallowed his words, mumbling an apology as their eyes met. She released him, and he immediately slinked out of her way. ¡°Sorry! sorry uh¡­¡¯s been a long-time ma¡¯am.¡±

    Without even acknowledging the doorman¡¯s existence, Syla strode in, letting him pull the entrance closed behind her and return to skulking quietly at his post. Syla descended a short spiral staircase that opened into a long and dimly lit corridor crafted from roughly hewn stone slabs, just deep enough to lurk under the cellars of its oblivious ¡®neighbours¡¯.

    She retrieved her coin from a small wooden bowl that sat beneath a neat circular hole in the ceiling. Pocketing it, she glided along the corridor and into the Guild Hall, her Guild Hall.

    Three stories deep with two mezzanine floors, it was lit by a chandelier hung from the ceiling on a chain.

    Syla emerged on the higher of these two floors, peering over the banister into the space below as the doorway behind her grinded shut.

    Though perhaps not as bustling as they could be, the floors below her were busy enough to satisfy her. The ¡®ground¡¯ floor was a mess of tables, chairs and bodies. The bodies belonged to those mad, desperate or driven enough to brave the nightly chill for the promise of payment. Most were helping themselves to food, finalising deals or engaging in murmured discussions before heading to the surface to revitalize themselves from their frigid labours.Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

    There were innumerable side rooms filled with contraband-selling stores lurking in its depths where thieves and thugs skulked, their scales forming a kaleidoscope of illegitimate business. Small-time criminals kowtowed to gang leaders, mob bosses and cartel kingpins, handing over cuts, making promises and taking jobs that could cost them their life. In turn, these leaders made agreements, decided territory and moved profits like reputable businessmen, all while scheming one another¡¯s downfall.

    Carefully hidden away to avoid the heavy hand of the law, they acted with impunity, and neatly represented the unscrupulous and illicit underbelly of Nerkain society. Syla¡¯s slice of it, anyway.

    Here she was both Lord and Lady, and none would dare question her authority. She was not just some jumped-up gang boss, or a bigger, kingpin. Every single man and woman here owed all of their success to her, and had no right to challenge her authority. She had fought tooth and claw to make this network hers, and had the corpses hidden in sewers across the city to prove it.

    Pulling herself from her reverie, she moved off, making her way down one of the many flights of stairs to the floor below.

    She hadn¡¯t used the only entrance, of course, there were numerous secret doors, tunnels and hatches to provide concealed access to this little sanctuary. The one she had used was affectionately known as the ¡®royal¡¯ entrance, for it was the fastest and didn¡¯t involve the labyrinthine pathways she mandated some of her subjects endure.

    She emerged at the ground level, rolling her gaze across the room as heads turned and eyes widened. Lurking under the first mezzanine on the far side of the room was a bar, and among its patrons sat the man she was looking for.

    His back was turned, and he clutched a large mug of ale. Few glimpses of his deep purple scales could be seen peeking out from his outfit; a mixture of furs, hides, and metal wrapped up together into a surprisingly stylish cut.

    Syla took the seat next to him, snapped her fingers for a drink, and shot him a sidelong glance.

    ¡°Mornin,¡¯¡± he said, a hint of amusement in his deep, rattling voice that was at once jovial and threatening. He sounded as though he had sand lining the back of his throat.

    The large mercenary turned his head, a mis-matched mask of scars that, combined with the milky white orb where his left eye should be, only added to his roguish charm ¡°Business, I hope.¡± He chuckled with a broad, wry grin.

    ¡°Oh, most certainly.¡±

    He was one of the better scoundrels here, full of good humour and not as deathly afraid of her as most. ¡°A little hunt for you.¡±

    ¡°And what manner of beast is it this time?¡± he asked with relish. His grin was widening, and his remaining blue eye glittered with a thirst for violence. ¡°Preferably not one on two legs.¡±

    ¡°Strong, serpentine and malicious¡­but it¡¯s not the creature I want you to find. Not this time. I want you to find its prey.¡±

    He raised a scaled eyebrow. ¡°Oh? You want me to scour the desert for the prey of some snake?¡± he rumbled, ruminating on her proposition for a few moments as he took several swigs of ale. ¡°Ccourse, to make this a real hunt there would need to be a bonus on the table should I¡­accidentally fall foul of this creature and be forced to defend myself.¡±

    ¡°No,¡± she declared flatly, letting the mercenary¡¯s face screw up in a mixture of annoyance and confusion. ¡°I will not be providing incentives for your reckless side to manifest. I need you alive for the time being.¡±

    He shrugged, toying with the drink in his meaty paw. ¡°Then you can hire one of the other, cheaper, mercenary trackers. I¡¯m sure they have plenty of experience falling foul of overgrown desert serpents¡±

    ¡°This is no Kailai serpent, Shadrak. The hunt will come, but not yet.¡± Syla assured. She could not afford to lose his interest; she had waited too long already, and now she needed him with a desperation she would never admit.

    Shadrak shrugged again, draining his mug and thumping it on the counter. ¡°Well then, you¡¯d best begin talking pay.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll hire you and a team of your choosing at your day rate until our business is done, no fixed term.¡±

    Shadrak grunted, tapping his clawed fingers on the bar top as he formed a mental tally. ¡°A generous enough offer,¡± he concluded. ¡°But I see no incentive to take this over any other contract. Other than who is hiring me.¡±

    Syla gave him a sharp look. He¡¯d worked with her often enough, and he had caught onto her desperation faster than she had hoped. ¡°Fine, I¡¯ll put an incentive on the table. The fewer injuries the prey has when we find him, the more I will pay you. Once he is found, then we can discuss¡­further incentives, if you are still eager for it.¡±

    The mercenary¡¯s face split back into a pleased grin. ¡°Now that sounds far more like a deal worth my attention,¡± he declared, standing up from his stool with spread arms and a grand sweep of his tail that knocked his stool aside. ¡°Give me a description of our quarry, some leads, and I¡¯ll gather a team. We¡¯ll have him before you in a week.¡±

    ¡°Gather your team and bring them to my villa. We shall leave together.¡±

    Shadrak¡¯s hands lowered to his hips. ¡°You¡¯ll be accompanying us? Here I thought you didn¡¯t get your hands dirty anymore.¡±

    It was Syla¡¯s turn to grin. She turned her back to the bar and reclined against it. ¡°You know how rare it is to see Naga in person, even I have yet to enjoy that particular pleasure.¡±

    Shadrak¡¯s answering laugh was booming and he, slapped a hand on the bar with a hefty thud. ¡°A Naga?!¡± he shouted, struggling to contain his merriment enough to speak. ¡°If your friend is the prey of Naga, they¡¯re already in chains and on their way back to the fractals.¡±

    ¡°If he is, you¡¯ll be swimming to the archipelago to find him. So, for your sake you¡¯d best hope he¡¯s not,¡± Syla retorted.

    The mercenary raised his hands. ¡°Alright! Alright. I¡¯ll form a team, but if there are Naga involved, I¡¯ll need a few days to gather appropriate¡­equipment.¡±

    Syla straightened, and inclined her head like a gracious noble. ¡°Good. Some of our little birds have found one of the prey¡¯s associates will be returning to the city soon. I¡¯ll have a word with her, you gather what we need.¡±

    Shadrak grunted his agreement as Syla rose from her seat and melted away into the bustling hall behind him.

    He sighed, grabbing one of his fellows at the bar by the shoulder. His grip was tight , and he hauled the man over to a quiet spot to growl into his ear. ¡°Find Misa, tell her to get us some ordinance, we¡¯re hunting big game this time.¡±

 XX: Touch of hell

    A week in the desert. A week of hell.

    It was only safe to move at night, and with no furs to protect them the cold had gnawed into their bones, steadily sapping their strength. Their armour had become a curse; holding the chill close to the chest.

    They had spent the first day in a panic; rushing and scrambling in every direction as enemy scouts appeared from nowhere, hunting their scent. On the second day Rexis instructed them to learn from the local wildlife, which by day hid in the dunes.

    Thus, they buried themselves in increasingly smaller holes as they grew weaker, attempting to replenish what little strength they had left.

    Callia had passed by them on the fourth day. She came sliding down the dune in which they were hiding, smeared with dried gore and wailing like a banshee.

    Her movements were erratic, confused. She made too much noise and a wound she had sustained in the battle left tell-tale droplets of red behind her. Aiur moved to urge her inside, but Rexis tugged at his arm and shook his head. As soon as she had appeared, she was bolting off up another dune. A scant few minutes later they heard the distant rumble of hooves and feet bounding across the sand.

    She was the last and only sentient being they had seen that was not in chains. Any hope of others escaping from the burning hamlet had long since been snuffed out.

    Aiur ran his mind back through the recent weeks that led him to be buried pathetically in the sand as he lay there for the seventh day in a row. He felt as though he was being punished. He could not see the others, and he dared not speak to them, and so to save his sanity he¡­recounted how he had come to be here. Again, and again, and again.

    Perhaps he had fed his ego too much? Had there been some act of hubris or evil that had gone unnoticed. Had he offended greater beings, perhaps even Aten somehow?

    Or did he simply make a poor choice in this expedition, a bad judgment made on selfish impulse¡­

    Perhaps that train of thought was not the best for his sanity. But anything was better than sleep now.

    The dreams had become unsettling in recent days. He continued to find himself falling into a depthless void, yet for a void it did not feel so empty. Though he could hear nothing, see nothing, feel nothing, there was an unearthly sense of a¡­ presence. He could not quite quantify it, but it felt as though there was something there, something attempting to impart meaning.

    It terrified him.

    He had expected to lose track of time, for the entire experience to blend together into a nightmarish amalgamation in his mind. In truth, the exact opposite had occurred and. he could feel every second ticking by.

    Thus, running through the events of recent days and evaluating his own actions in excruciating detail had become somewhat of an escape from the inexorable passage of time.

    He was comforted in that, and came to the conclusion that without liberally employing the gift of hindsight, he would not have acted any differently.  Of course, had he known there would be a Naga in the area he would have suggested this expedition in the first place.

    He lay there, musing on this as the day inched by, waiting for the hated embrace of night.

    ***

    A few meters away, Daiss was asleep.

    The man was supposed to be on watch, remaining vigilant for the Naga¡¯s minions. But the pain was simply too much to bear in total stillness and silence for hours on end. At night he could grumble, groan and stretch to his liking as they trudged through the sand, but by day he was all too aware that the slightest movement could give their position away.

    Rexis listened to Daiss¡¯s heavy breathing as he slept, and he thanked Aten that the warrior didn¡¯t snore. He, on the other hand, was trying to figure out where they were.

    He¡¯d been guiding them with an air of confidence, but in reality he had no clue of their precise location. He knew where he wanted to go: south, across the Ahbek, and then along the banks to the port-city of Balanzar.  House Amunet may not be their allies, or even on particularly friendly terms, but their history of fighting the Naga should work in their favour. That was the plan at least.

    How far was the Ahbek? How far was Balanzar? He had no idea on either score. He knew they were heading south, that was the easy part, but how far they had gone and how far they still had to go was a mystery to him. It was made worse, now they had run out of water.

    He had said nothing about their plight to the others, but what he¡¯d been able to scavenge had finally run out after seven days of extreme rationing. With no clue how close they were to the river, the nearest source of clean water could be hours, or days away. He recalled how Daiss had collapsed the previous night after several hours of marching. They didn¡¯t have days.

    Finding water in the dead of night was going to be almost impossible. They would have to start taking risks.

    ***

    Night came, and they emerged from their sandy prisons.

    The darkness was total, the dunes transformed from shimmering gold and yellow to dull black, the pale light of the moon insufficient to see more than a couple of metres ahead.

    Rexis stared upwards, marvelling at the beauty of the infinite stars above them as Aiur pulled Daiss out into the open. The ever-constant presence of the Corpal stars; a bright turquoise ring-constellation on the southern horizon, made finding his bearings easy.The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

    It appeared directly before him, hung low in the sky. A single streak of light, a shooting star, struck across the face of the grand constellation. A good omen.

    Their heading was simple. The nearest source of water however, remained a mystery. The terrain before him was a dark, rolling landscape of never-ending sand punctuated with rocky outcrops and deep valleys. It stretched on seemingly without end, as far as he could see.

    As he mused over their situation, Aiur had moved up to his side, with Daiss following a few meters behind. They both looked awful, their heavy armour inundated with sand and faces drawn with fatigue; the scales around the eyes were sunken and dark, twitches and shivers becoming incessant as they fought a running battle to stay awake.

    ¡°We head for the crevasse. Nestled between the dunes over there,¡± Rexis declared, pointing out the yawning opening in question; a tiny crack in the landscape, only visible from the way the pale light caught on the exposed rock.

    ¡°Seems far. Think we can make it?¡± Aiur asked, reflexively rubbing his scarred right arm. A makeshift bandage bound it, but it had turned red days ago.

    ¡°It is. We¡¯re going to have to start taking some risks,¡± Rexis said, eyeing the gloomy horizon.

    Aiur sighed. ¡°Daiss can¡¯t handle moving during the day.¡±

    ¡°It doesn¡¯t matter,¡± Rexis said, shaking his head. ¡°We have no choice; we¡¯re not moving fast enough. That crevasse will be our lifeline, it¡¯ll let us get our bearings come dawn.¡±

    ¡°Because of the horde or the lack of supplies?¡± Aiur asked.  The knowledge that their chances were slim was plain on his face, and that Rexis¡¯ confidence was as fragile as their hope.

    ¡°Both,¡± Rexis said. ¡°The horde is going to do one of two things; continue to raid and reave in the countryside, leaving with such a large toll in slaves there will be no-one left for the harvest this year, or¡­They¡¯re going for a bigger prize. They might be getting bold and plan to strike Balanzar itself. Either way they need to know. Meanwhile we cannot survive on tiny scorpions for much longer.¡±

    ¡°Then leave me behind,¡± came the pained voice of Daiss behind them. He¡¯d staggered up to them, his tail dragging a furrow in the sand behind him. ¡°Get me to that hole in the ground. I can hide there, and you can come back for me¡­maybe with a horse?¡± he chuckled grimly, and immediately winced.

    ¡°No!¡± Aiur snapped. ¡°We got you this far, not only would abandoning you now be pointless, but I refuse to simply let you die out here.¡±

    Daiss motioned to the fused mass of metal embedded in his side. ¡°This has long since cooled, I¡¯m not getting any worse. You on the other hand¡­Every day you don¡¯t see a priestess you¡¯re running the risk of puncturing a lung, or that arm getting infected.¡±

    ¡°We are getting you out of here. We are getting you to Balanzar. That. Is. Final,¡± Aiur snarled

    Rexis stepped between them, putting a hand on each of their shoulders. ¡°Either plan means we get to that crevasse tonight. I doubt I need to remind you that a shouting match would also be a terrible idea. You both need medical attention, so shut up and walk.¡±

    Both nodded, knowing that arguing with him was fruitless, but Rexis continued regardless.

    ¡°Let me remind you that you are both key members of your House. You both have people who care deeply for you in Nerkai. People who would doubtless kill me if they knew I left either of you in the desert alone by choice. There is no argument to be had here. There is no comparison of your suffering to be made. We will get you to Balanzar, and we will come back with hunters for this thrice-dammed serpent.¡±

    Rexis marched off towards the crevasse, leaving Daiss and Aiur to exchange glances before following along as rapidly as their injured bodies would allow. Neither had ever seen Rexis so decisive with his superiors.

    ***

    The crevasse was like an old war wound; from afar it seemed little more than an insignificant slit in the sand, but up close it was something else entirely.

    Although narrow, it ran so deep even the splintered starlight could not filter down to its gloom-ridden, craggy depths. Pale stone was rendered inky, and jagged impressions loomed out of the darkness, some yielding to the slightest touch and others as implacable as fortress walls. To add to the precarious nature of the place, piles of fine sand were indistinguishable from rock in the darkness, and could give way underfoot at any moment.

    All of that together ensured one thing: it was cold, so very cold.

    ¡°If we¡¯re staying down here, we¡¯d best be making a fire.¡± Aiur shivered an unfamiliar and unsettling sensation that was only compounded by the jolt of pain every lurching step on the uneven stone sent up his spine.

    ¡°Smoke would give us away,¡± Rexis said absent-mindedly. The lanky scout had found something amongst the rock and rubble, and he was focussed entirely on trying to move a particularly large stone. He tried to force his numb fingers into the cracks around its edge or to curl around its face, tugging, shoving and dragging in his attempts to move it, yet it refused to budge.

    Aiur frowned at the scout¡¯s back for a long moment. He knew it was the cold seeping into his bones, into his mind, twisting him up and making him wrong with its devilish touch, but he could not shake the unease he was feeling.

    ¡°Change of plans?¡± he mumbled, peering over Rexis¡¯ shoulder. He could see what had caught the scout¡¯s attention now; there was a slight but noticeable seam between the stone and all the other featureless slabs of rock around it. ¡°Thought we were staying here until dawn.¡±

    ¡°Well call me curious, but this looks sealed for a reason.¡± Rexis sighed, motioning to it. ¡°Smacks of civilisation to me.¡±

    ¡°Need help?¡±  Aiur winced as he shuffled over the loose ground to get a better view from the side, sending tiny pebbles skittering about their feet with each step. He slid his khopesh out from the loop at his belt, weighing it in his good hand.

    Rexis shrugged, leaning out of the way as Aiur stepped forward. He squinted, peering at the rock in the gloom and scraping the slim point of his weapon into the crack. He wiggled it, pushing it forward with a groan and scrape of metal, and after several manoeuvres the blade inched in. He froze, letting the echoes bounce their way along the valley walls and filter out into the desert.

    Even Daiss, perched slightly higher up on a flat rock keeping watch, turned to look down at them. Aiur was sure he detected puzzlement behind that chainmail mask.

    Using the blade as a lever, Aiur began to push. At first, nothing happened. He put all his remaining strength into it but the stone would not budge until, teeth gritted and pain jolting through his cold, aching body, the rock sprung free into Rexis¡¯ waiting hands with a dull scrape and a sharp snap that Aiur hoped didn¡¯t mean what he thought it did.

    Cold air, cold even for the crevasse, seeped from the opening beyond and breath began to mist in front of their faces. Rexis stooped into the entrance and disappeared, his boots tapping on the stone as he seemed to descend into the depths of the earth.

    The cold is not a place for lizards, was all Aiur could think, as he peered into the hole. Even swallowed in darkness as it was, he could just make out the impression of a sloping tunnel and the first few stairs of the descent. He shivered again, taking a moment to examine his khopesh. The end of the blade had snapped off, and a lengthy sliver now lay on the crevasse floor.

    ¡°I was fond of that,¡± he mumbled to no-one in particular, twisting the weapon slowly in his hand with a measure of mournful regret. His knees groaned in protest as he knelt to reverently collect the snapped shard of his weapon off the crevasse floor.

    ¡°Are we going down there?¡± Daiss whined, snapping Aiur from his reverie as the man loomed at his side. He leaned on his glaive to peer over his master and into the hole, breath misting the air in short puffs.

    ¡°It seems we are.¡± Aiur shuffled forward and peered into the gloom. He could barely see more than a few feet beyond where he stood and the escaping air had a stale smell. He looked over his shoulder, back at Daiss. ¡°If this cold drives us mad, stab him first.¡±

 ???

    ???

    Born in a womb between stars, devoid of all. Dragged from the tight embrace of nothingness by the starward screams of an unhinged Weaver.

    As a star it fell; its first taste of reality naught but fire and pain.

    Yet with pain comes form.

    The next taste was curious. Tiny particulates, ground and spread, mashed and stretching as far as its infantile senses could reach.

    Disgusting.

    The third was smothering. The crushing weight of reality threatening to swallow the impossibility of its existence.

    Pathetic.

    Finally, came the shuddering vibrations of sound, rippling across its body in some strange attempt at communication.This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

    Insufferable.

    Yet one vibrating utterance was unlike the others. Rippling across its ichorous mass and forcing a singular coherence. Gelatinous nothing became pseudo-flesh at that sound¡¯s behest, for it was not the sound of matter.

    A pale imitation of the sounds betwixt the stars, but more than enough to scrape the throat, crack the lips and snap the teeth of the weaver.

    Beautiful.

    Smeared with bloody spittle, a single snapped tooth landed into the creature¡¯s gelatinous, semi-formed mass and disappeared beneath the surface.

    Curious.

    It was formed of threefold materials. It was firm yet malleable, brittle yet replaceable. How very useful.

    Pseudo-flesh split, bubbling ichor spilling forth as an abyss-maw lined with freshly formed teeth opened like a wound. A savage grin lined with rank upon rank of teeth, each a different size, shape and all locked perfectly into one another.

    It gurgled a single un-word. A sound out of tune with reality, twisting light, air and ground out of shape as matter recoiled in horror. A burbling acceptance of its summoning, so antithetical to its listener as sweet lines of crimson trickled forth from the Weaver¡¯s skull.

    A single drop was given in reply, a gem of crimson released from quivering fingers, a taste of the prey.

    With that, the pact was sealed.

 XXI: Rage

    Cleonar returned home in a whirlwind of bellowing rage.

    She had been lured home by dwindling supplies, and the legionaries accompanying her were grim-faced and silent. Rumours ran amok as to where she had been for the last three weeks, and when she was intercepted at the gates by this curious criminal woman, one who had been cropping up repeatedly of late, those rumours increased tenfold.

    By the time she arrived, Ra¡¯ven was sat triumphant in his inner sanctum before a near-empty Heptaratoi board, his gnarled face twisted into an auspicious grin as Khafra processed his inevitable defeat opposite him.

    ¡°I believe that is the end.¡± Ra¡¯ven¡¯s smirk oozed confidence and arrogance in equal measure.

    ¡°I would never declare things so prematurely, Ra¡¯ven,¡± Khafra said quietly, chin pinched as he observed the board carefully, eyes scanning from piece to piece.

    Cleonar¡¯s arrival came as no surprise. They heard her approach for some time as Khafra decided upon his next move.

    The doors violently slammed open and she swooped into the audience chamber, glaive in hand and fully armoured.  She threw the doors closed again the moment she entered, sealing the bewildered guards out.

    Ra¡¯ven¡¯s reaction, the only reasonable reaction, was a resigned sigh.

    Down came her glaive, cleaving Ra¡¯ven¡¯s prophet in two and embedding itself deep into the old wooden board. Khafra closed his eyes and attempted to hide a smirk. That was arguably a game-winning move, after all.

    ¡°This board was a gift,¡± Ra¡¯ven said with surprising softness, reaching down to pick up one half of the bisected prophet, running his thumb across the grain of the wood.

    ¡°You stand in dereliction of your duties,¡± Cleonar growled. ¡°Aiur is out there, lost Aten-knows-where in the open desert while you sit here playing a board game!¡±

    Placing the severed half upright upon the board, Ra¡¯ven slowly pushed himself to his feet. ¡°And what duties would those be? I believe as one of his arms, you stand in dereliction of your duties by losing him,¡± he said, as he gazed back at her steadily.

    ¡°I am derelict in nothing,¡± Cleonar snapped. ¡°I followed his orders. He was accompanied by Daiss and a complement of troops; he was not insufficiently guarded.¡±

    ¡°Then perhaps he has duped us both.¡±

    ¡°Excuse me?¡± was all Cleonar could reply as the implication of what he was saying left her slack-jawed and wide eyed.

    ¡°Perhaps he has lied to the both of us. You always were more loyal to house and home,¡± he said, the hint of a smile tugging at his thin lips.

    ¡°That¡¯s ridiculous and you know it. He simply wasn¡¯t there when I arrived at the meeting place. We were delayed and found the place in ruins, fresh ruins. Something has happened to him. At least that should be important to you, or do you care so little about all your subjects?¡± Cleonar snarled.

    ¡°Oh, ridiculous, is it? I hadn¡¯t realised. He guides you to a ruin and does not appear, all the while he is alone with Daiss. Poor, innocent Daiss. That man is so unquestioningly loyal that Aiur could slaughter his own men and that dolt would stand with him. Loyalty is that man¡¯s greatest strength, and his greatest weakness when attached to a man like Aiur.¡± Ra¡¯ven chortled with a savage smile, deliberately making his numerous scars twitch and twist.

    Khafra slapped his hands on the table and pushed himself up from his chair, his tail thumping on the floor. What he suggested was tantamount to treason; his mentor was not capable of that, was he? ¡°That¡¯s taking it too far Ra¡¯ven. By all means voice your suspicions, but I won¡¯t stand by your bad-mouthing Daiss or Aiur¡¯s character.¡±

    Ra¡¯ven paused, returning to his seat with a brief wince and placing one hand on the board. ¡°I hope you¡¯re not going soft on me Khafra. I cannot have a soft Consul,¡± he rumbled, his habitual hardness returning to his tone.

    ¡°I am not Consul yet.¡±

    ¡°No. If Cleonar has her way, I¡¯m stuck with Aiur for a while.¡± He turned to Cleonar. ¡°But you are just doing your duty.¡±Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.

    ¡°As stated in my House bond,¡± Cleonar confirmed with a curt nod. ¡°He is my charge. My duty. My responsibility. I cannot abide idleness in finding him.¡±

    As the tension slowly fizzled from the air, Khafra lowered himself gingerly into his seat, though Cleonar¡¯s glaive remained firmly lodged into the board between them as if to indicate her spite.

    ¡°Respectable enough¡­however, Khafra has been telling tall tales,¡± Ra¡¯ven began, rapping his fingers on the old board. ¡°Tales I¡¯ve become inclined to believe. Tales that make me reticent to galivant off after Aiur. Tales involving his friends in House Krie and the least reputable inn in the city.¡± He fixed Cleonar with a hard glare, brow furrowed. ¡°What would make the bodyguards of our oh-so-noble Consul wish to go into that den of scum? Perhaps you could elaborate for us? You were there after all.¡±

    Cleonar¡¯s jaw clenched. She shot Khafra a glance before narrowing her eyes at Ra¡¯ven. Khafra hated this; caught between the two of them, sniping remarks at one another while both expecting him to take their side. ¡°I was fulfilling my duties. I remain a loyal arm who protects her charge to the fullest of my ability, regardless of where that leads me.¡±

    ¡°Ah, but that¡¯s the heart of the problem. Loyal to him, not me. If I am not mistaken, nobody informed me of this little escapade, neither was my permission sought to release prisoners from our custody. Yet, there they were in a den of criminals, sat at tables having drinks with unsavoury figures. I do wonder how all that transpired.¡±

    Ra¡¯ven sat there with such a smug, self-satisfied smirk on his scar-pocked face, that Cleonar was beginning to regret her belligerence in confronting him so openly. I think you damn well know already; she thought as she took a heavy breath. ¡°There was¡­an offer being made, by an admittedly unsavoury character. An offer that would¡­encourage House Krie to accept the treaty.¡±

    A grin tugged at the corner of Ra¡¯ven¡¯s lips. ¡°So Ezerkal is involved in this as well? Fascinating.¡±

    Cleonar tensed as she pushed down the instinct to curse under her breath. If he was asking the question he was not certain; it was best left that way until Aiur was safe. ¡°He wrote and presented the treaty, that does not make him aware of any other actions to get that treaty accepted.¡±

    ¡°So, House Krie went under his nose as well? Either way¡­fascinating.¡±

    Cleonar could not disguise her lips curling into a tooth-filled snarl. ¡°If you wish to interrogate someone on this, perhaps you should find Aiur and have him dragged before you instead.¡±

    Ra¡¯ven spread his arms slowly. ¡°Ah but that is the point. Is it worth my time saving him? That is what I wish to discover. Do I gain from sending men far and wide through the desert for a single man? Or will he simply¡­reappear unharmed? Perhaps with a host from House Krie, intent on deposing me?¡±

    Cleonar growled as Ra¡¯ven simply stared back with smug superiority. She grabbed the haft of her glaive, tugged it free from the board and held it loosely in one hand. Khafra¡¯s breath caught in his chest, and he braced himself to intervene. She stared at Ra¡¯ven for a long moment, before turning on her heel and thumping out of the door as quickly as she arrived.

    Ra¡¯ven¡¯s gaze slowly fell back to the board, frowning at the gaping rent in the polished surface. ¡°What a terrible breach of etiquette.¡± He sighed. ¡°Heavy-handedness will be needed with her in the future, bare that in mind.¡±

    ¡°I think her actions are justified, given her post¡­¡± Khafra mused.

    ¡°Perhaps¡­but look around you,¡± Ra¡¯ven said, casting a hand around the room. It was empty bar themselves, an audience chamber without an audience. ¡°We are at the heart of our house¡¯s sanctum. Outside those doors stand many of the young hopefuls of this house, aspirants who may one day represent us, maybe on the battlefield, maybe in courts of other Houses. They have just seen one of my most loyal retainers¡¯ storm down our vaulted halls, scream at me, the Archon, and leave without being dismissed. You understand the meaning of that, don¡¯t you?¡±

    ¡°I understand¡­she must maintain her decorum in future, as we all should. Her fiery nature needs to be kept outside the courtly world,¡± Khafra muttered, rather crestfallen at having to speak so ill of Cleonar.

    ¡°I¡¯m glad you understand. I am willing to look past it this once, as the circumstances are¡­. curious. Your thoughts on this particular matter?¡± he asked, eyes slowly raising to Khafra, who perched nervously in his seat looking toward the doors.

    ¡°I like Aiur, I respect him immeasurably. He has taught me more in recent seasons than I thought it possible to learn. Both Cleonar and Daiss are people I¡­trust. I know you might consider me sentimental for it, but I don¡¯t want to see them come to harm if I can avoid it.¡±  He glanced briefly at Ra¡¯ven and lowered his head. He had phrased himself quite mildly, if Daiss had come to harm, or Aiur...it was unthinkable.

    ¡°A desire to protect your subjects is not a bad sentiment to have,¡± Ra¡¯ven began, speaking in a slow and deliberate tone that Khafra always felt was edged with condescension. ¡°But you cannot let sentiment cloud your judgement. You must never let it blind you to the fact that everyone has ulterior motives.¡±

    ¡°What are yours?¡± Khafra asked bluntly, pressing his claws into his palms as he risked a glance across the board.

    Ra¡¯ven paused, considering his words. ¡°I won¡¯t be around to lead House Zerkash forever. I have greater goals and limited time. Wherever I end up, one day I will need a replacement. I am wondering now if it will be Aiur... or you.¡±

    Khafra¡¯s mouth twitched into a sneer. He was not ready for such a thing; he was unsure if he ever would be. ¡°I take offense at your lack of faith in me.¡±

    ¡°Good!¡± Ra¡¯ven cackled, his bony fingers drumming on the table. ¡°Then you will more than willingly prove your innocence. Cleonar will go searching regardless of my wishes, so you may accompany her with any force you see fit. Find Aiur. Investigate. Hopefully you will both return; safe, sound and loyal. If not, you will be returning with a new title¡­alone.¡±

    The suggestion made Khafra¡¯s stomach drop. If it came to it, if he was faced with treason, Khafra was not certain he could do what needed to be done.

 XXII: Old ideas, new faces

    Clean, warm, safe and home. The best way to be, Mavan decided.

    Staring out from his balcony, his chest swelled with pride. Diminished as Krie was, the fortress-city¡¯s stern visage still gave him much satisfaction to look upon, for centuries ago every stone of this place was laid by Krie-loyal hands. The sun blanketed those stone-paved slopes, and its mighty walls studded with lean towers cast long shadows in the morning light.

    He was quartered in the high apartments of the central keep, the original fortress within the sprawling mass of fortifications the rest of the city had become, rising high above the mountainside and penetrating deep into the rock. The sun shone perfectly on his little balcony in these small hours of the morning, warming his body as the sights of his home soothed his heart, preparing him for the day.

    He turned, a smile on his face as he ambled to his bedside, slipping into the black shirt and a doublet of subdued green and silver he had picked out the night before. His ever-present praetorians stood motionless at their posts by the door.

    Though they stood face-forward, he knew their eyes were following his every move as he went about his little morning routine. ¡°You two really should spend a little more time in the sun,¡± he said.

    He chuckled when they didn¡¯t reply. ¡°The heat would do you some good! You¡¯ve both been a little grim since we returned.¡± He pulled on his riding boots. They hadn¡¯t been worn in some time, not since his last mount died upon the Augon dunes, but he had a good feeling he would be needing them soon enough. Best to break them back in.

    He pushed his feet against the floor, easing his clawed digits into place. ¡°Things are going to get better,¡± he said thoughtfully. ¡°I know you two don¡¯t trust her, you don¡¯t expect her to pull through with nearly enough money to fulfil her word. But I do. Her letter said it will be today. House Krie¡¯s fortunes are on the rise!¡±

    Impassive and silent, but sensing their master¡¯s desire to be off, they turned and opened the two heavy doors that protected his quarters. Mavan marched with purpose from his chambers, his stomach churning with a mixture of nerves and excitement. The twins moved gracefully to flank him, cloaks billowing and fluttering as though every movement were a dance, all the while opening and closing each of the fortress¡¯ many doors in sequence; allowing him to maintain his rapid pace as he descended flight by flight to the audience chamber.

    The Justiciars¡¯ chambers formed the single largest indoor space in Amexal at the heart of the fortress. It was a vaulted, circular hall with tiered seating; all excessively cushioned and etched in priceless marble. The rows focussed upon the central dais at the base of the chamber.

    The seating was more than sufficient to accommodate each of the city¡¯s knight-houses in their entirety, from lowliest aspirant to highest Seneschal. They all answered to the Justiciar, the lord of house Krie.

    The room was not so full today, only filling a quarter of that impressive capacity.

    Scanning his eyes across tier upon tier of empty seats at the lowest levels, Mavan noted that nobody of any seniority or worth had deemed this day one of particular import to attend. Why should they have? he thought. Little of import had been decided here of late. Even the treaty sealing what had appeared to be the final humiliation of House Krie had been decided elsewhere, and simply announced here as a formality. Only the higher seats of the middling knights and their squires were even sparsely filled, their eyes all drawn to his entrance.

    With or without the other houses, today will be different.

    He took his seat, one of three at the half-moon table upon the dais. His praetorians took station at each point of the half moon, standing to attention with a simultaneous tap of blades on stone. Mavan could not hide a smirk as the few nobles up above leaned over the rails and stared, their murmurs bubbling through the air and giving the space some semblance of life.

    Mavan leaned forward in his seat, putting his hands together on the table as he waited for his master to arrive. It wouldn¡¯t be long.

    The sun had reached its zenith when the doors swung wide with a boom, and the Justiciar of House Krie marched into the chamber.

    Ishmael had chosen this day to dress in his predecessor¡¯s old cavalry armour, the Pratean Aegis. An ancient suit made by hands greater than those that existed today, cast in a metal that appeared somewhere between burnished gold and bronze in. It was crafted in long, flowing lines with clear artistry and talent. The armour had long been a marvel of metallurgy, and only now in their most desperate hour had House Krie allowed it to be studied by Amexallian smiths at their own expense. A handful of seasons ago it had been broken down to its constituent plates, examined and re-forged to fit the lord responsible.

    It still did not fit perfectly over his smaller frame after its reshaping, making the heavy plates clank and snap with every movement, while his single-edged blades tapped against his thighs with each step. He was grinning from ear to ear of his regal, byzantine blue face, the coiled serpents of his crimson caste-marks peeking out from the neck seal of the heavy armour, and the green cloak of House Krie flowing out behind him.

    Young, proud and just a touch na?ve, Mavan thought.  Ishmael¡¯s youth and promise had seen him chosen over Mavan two years ago. He was old guard and general opinion had decided he wouldn¡¯t last long enough to turn Krie¡¯s fortunes around. He didn¡¯t resent Ishmael, but he was determined to prove them wrong, even without the mantle of Justiciar around his neck. Syla¡¯s vision would make them all see what he was made of.

    Ishmael smiled at him; his face filled with such optimism it was infectious. So infectious in fact it was distracting, as he did not notice Aunla, the red-scaled treasurer, until she emerged from Ishmael¡¯s shadow and shot him a thin smile; she had been the only one who believed him at face value.

    ¡°This is to be a good day. I feel it in my scales,¡± Ishmael chirped in his silvery, pleasant voice. Combined with his smile it was an outright winning combination. ¡°Send the first one in!¡±

    The brightly-robed announcer snapped his rod of office against the flagstone floor. ¡°Karrelian Tra¡¯vasa, master and representative of ¡®The Uncrowned¡¯ mercenary company!¡± he shouted, his voice echoing up to the highest tiers of the chamber.

    The man who entered was thin and wiry, with rugged beige scales and beady brown eyes sunken deep into his skull. There was an intelligence in those eyes however, and he was dressed in fine silks and cloth of muted white, grey and black. The same could not be said for his companions.

    A series of wily, mis-matched figures followed along behind him. They were clad in tight-fitting leathers, identity hiding cloaks and copious belts, pouches and pockets stitched into every spare piece of cloth and leather. However, that was not what any of the gawping nobility above were paying attention to.

    Their eyes were drawn to the four overflowing chests of gold, silver and bronze coinage the group were lugging between them, each fit to burst with suns, crowns and swords. Only Karrelian and an unnaturally tall and lanky woman had their hands free as they moved to the front of the gathered wealth.

    Ishmael was rising from his seat, eyes wide as even Mavan stared at the chests as if they couldn¡¯t be real. This was a lot more than even he expected.

    Karrelian spread his arms wide with a genial smile. ¡°My lords and ladies!¡± he began, with the strong, accentless voice of a trained orator that carried its way perfectly throughout the chamber, ushering in complete silence. ¡°House Krie has fallen upon hard times of late. Hard times indeed. I come to your fair city representing an interested party that believes this to be the most unfair of insults. An interested party that has gone to much personal expense and effort to amass this collection of coinage for you, Justiciar, as a charitable donation for which nothing is expected but your friendship.¡±

    Ishmael took a long, graceful moment to compose himself, letting his gaze cast across the room, those before him, and the immense wealth simply¡­waiting for him with no strings attached. ¡°This is a most gracious and kind gift. To whom and why do we owe our friendship for such a thing?¡±

    Karrelian bowed politely and stepped forward. ¡°My mistress Syla has the utmost respect for you, and a frank lack of it for those who have targeted you so vehemently in recent years. Her many industries and investments have left her with a boon enough to restore your rightful strength.¡± The man took several strides towards Ishmael¡¯s raised seat, prompting the twins to draw their blades as he reached into a small pocket.  Every set of shoulders present relaxed when all he produced was a wax-sealed letter. ¡°Yet on a more personal level, my mistress offers this to you. She expresses her deepest desire to meet and discuss the future with you.¡± He spoke softly, conspiratorially, as he placed the letter on the table, and quietly stepped away.

    ***Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

    ¡°I think you¡¯ll find we have some of the best stock in the city, perfect for one such as yourself,¡± Xeriva said, the master of the stables hefting a heavy, leather-bound tome on the desk with a dull thump. He dragged it open as he lowered himself to sit, smoothing the pages with weathered hands. He looked every bit his age; his eyes were deep-set blue beads peering out from a sea of wizened grey, the lines between his scales more subtly defined than ever.

    The tome engulfed most of the desk dominating the small, stone-lined office built directly into the mountainside, and Mavan had to lean forward to take in the book¡¯s contents.

    ¡°As you can see, we take meticulous records of all our stock,¡± the stable master said, his finger tapping against each statistic. ¡°We measure egg size, hatch weight, growth rate and size progression, scale density, tooth and claw growth, size, loss and replacement, along with keeping steady track of weight and general estimations of fitness from their regular exercise. We of course also take various measurements once they¡¯re fully grown, as you can see.¡±

    ¡°Yes, I see. Very impressive, this one in particular in fact¡­¡± Mavan said, his eyes scanning across the page which even had a detailed sketch of the head, claws and teeth of the creature. ¡°¡­Velodai.¡±

    ¡°Yes, she¡¯s one of our most impressive creatures. Matriarch of our largest brood in fact! Twenty adults, eight juveniles, three hatchlings and she recently laid a new clutch so more on the way. Old, proud and strong bloodline in her I can assure you.¡±

    ¡°A new clutch? Still breeding her?¡±

    ¡°Ah yes of course, but she doesn¡¯t do much of the raising anymore!¡± he chuckled at his own jest. ¡°It shan¡¯t keep her away from any campaigning or duties, no worries to be had there. You just stable her here and we¡¯ll make sure you¡¯re looking at a long-term investment.¡±

    Mavan pinched his chin between two fingers. ¡°Show me the patriarch of this brood if you¡¯d be so kind.¡±

    Xervia stopped and started, raising his hand to his face as he muddled through his words. ¡°Well ah¡­erm¡­y¡¯see sir her old mate passed some time ago and¡­the breeding stud we¡¯ve been using lately is uh¡­not suitable for your needs, not at all. He¡¯s...wild caught.¡±

    ¡°Wild caught?¡± Mavan gawped. ¡°And an old enough beast that a matriarch hasn¡¯t clawed him to pieces?¡±

    ¡°Oh yes sir, he¡¯s an old, magnificent beast but¡­he¡¯s ornery, rough, and entirely unsuitable for ridin¡¯.¡±

    ¡°An adult? What madman captured a wild adult Drakkar? Did he survive?¡±

    ¡°Alright, alright, one question at a time sir,¡± Xeriva said with a chuckle, raising his hands in mock surrender. ¡°¡®S a bit of a long story and most of this is all second hand, but I¡¯ll do my best.¡± He opened a series of drawers, finding a sheaf of papers and turning his ledger to one of its latter pages. A recent addition, then.

    ¡°The beast doesn¡¯t have a name as his old uh, colloquial title isn¡¯t fittin¡¯ at all. ¡®spose I¡¯ll start at the beginning¡­ ¡° Xervia¡¯s fingers tapped nervously on the page as he cleared his throat.

    ¡°You would know ¡®im as the beast of Nifrit pass. It¡¯s been tearing up traders, hunters and all other manner of beasts for near enough three decades, though of that, I¡¯m sure you¡¯ve been aware. Beast has had a bounty on it for years, but¡­so many hunters didn¡¯t come back, people stopped goin¡¯. That was, ¡®till about a season past, trader¡¯s caravan coming from Dhasha is late, people chalk it up to another attack, ¡®s always been a couple each season for years now. But then¡­this mercenary, hunter or some such thing comes riding in on one of the caravan¡¯s old wagons, sides broken off, wheels wonky¡­with the beast tied down with at least a dozen ropes. Started an auction for the damn thing right then and there at the city gates!¡± the old stablemaster exclaimed, spreading his arms wide.

    It was an incredible feat, to be sure, Mavan thought. Though he would not put it past the priesthood or one of the many more sorcerous orders to orchestrate such things. They had requested such things in the past.

    ¡°I am of course a smart man and a wise investor, it¡¯s obvious what something with that pedigree could do for me and well, I bid away until I had the thing carted up here to the stables and put in the most secure enclosure money can buy.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m familiar with the beast. They considered dropping the bounty because having it in the valley was better than bandits,¡± Mavan said thoughtfully. ¡°I¡¯d like to see him.¡±

    Xervia¡¯s face screwed up, a deep frown furrowing his brow. ¡°Well now sir, I can¡¯t recommend that. He¡¯ll be a huge risk to yourself or Ishmael, and the others won¡¯t answer to him like they would Velodai!¡±

    ¡°Velodai will do just fine for Ishmael. But if I am to reform the Kataphraktos I will desire the most brutal and savage beast you have. One that can make even a proud matriarch submit.¡±

    The idea made him giddy; the great cavalry of old returned to life in their fullest glory. It would be that might that would see House Krie restored, answer the humiliations laid upon their name, and secure their future.

    ¡°You¡­what?¡± the stablemaster stumbled, blinking as he stared at him. ¡°I¡­I don¡¯t have the stock for anything of that size sir, nowhere near enough.¡±

    ¡°You are not my first visit of the day, and you shall not be the last.¡± Mavan paused as he slowly leaned further forward, pushing his splayed fingers together. ¡°Show me the beast.¡±

    ***

    The pens were large, singular units buried deep into the rock and sealed with heavy wooden doors, each with a central panel carved with the pseudo-draconic head of a Drakkar. Representations of age, Mavan supposed, as he marched down the central corridor connecting the pens, deeper and deeper into the rock.

    He was following behind Xervia, flanked on either side by the twins, and a pair of stable hands so young they could have been his children. They were draped in little more than single coats of lamellar for protection and carrying long spears. They made a constant dry creaking as the leather stretched and flexed, a sound that sat poorly on Mavan¡¯s ears at the best of times.

    This was not the best of times. Although he moved with a slight swagger, he was, in truth, nervous. The measurements of this beast had been staggering. He had his ways with the proud and noble creatures but¡­that never made it any less nerve-wracking to stare down death.

    At the end of the stables was a singular cast iron door, twice the size of the others with a panel of its own, depicting a huge, Drakkar face, aggression etched in its every detail.

    Xervia cleared his throat as he swooped into place beside the door. ¡°We had to reinforce the door when we realised the creature was fully capable of breaking out whenever it desired. We believe it had been¡­visiting the females,¡± he said, clearing his throat and rubbing his hands together as he cast glances toward the heavy metal door. ¡°I do hope you know what you¡¯re doing, my lord.¡±

    ¡°I do. Now open the door,¡± Mavan commanded with more confidence than he felt. Perhaps it would be enough to get out of this alive.

    The stable master nodded, nodding at the two stable hands as he flicked through a ring of keys to open the latch.

    The two young men groaned and heaved as they pulled the heavy bar covering the door free. The lock clicked thrice as it disengaged. Then, as a trio, they hefted the iron door open, poorly oiled hinges squealing as it was pulled open inch by inch.

    Within was a cave. The darkness extended at least beyond Mavan¡¯s meagre vision as he strode forward. He breathed slowly, nostrils flaring as he peered into the gloom and allowed the scent of the place to fill his head. It had the strong, cloying smell associated with a caged animal, a singularly pungent odour that lurked at the back of his throat and left an aftertaste on his tongue.

    Far more importantly however, he listened.  Only the steady drip of water off to the left, pattering off rock before rolling down into a small pool disturbed the quiet.

    He continued standing there until he detected something deeper, under the water dripping. Breathing. Slow, deep, methodical, emanating from the back of the cave. Watching them. Then came tramping footsteps, as the two farm hands, shaking and muttering, began their own search of the cave, waving their spears around as though they could poke the beast from hiding. He sighed. In stark contrast the twins had taken up vigil beside him, as calm as if they were standing in the safety of Mavan¡¯s chambers.

    He watched the two fools as they bumbled forward in the dark. ¡°Swing back around to me. The last thing you want is to be alone in the dark with the thing¡­you don¡¯t need to lure it out for me,¡± he said, taking a step forward toward the breathing.

    The stable hands seemed immensely relieved, immediately backing up towards the door albeit far more warily than they entered. At least they know something, Mavan mused as he watched their retreat.

    For every step they took back, the beast took one forward. Looming out of the darkness it came, claws deliberately scraping along the stone floor as a low growl issued from its throat

    Its head came first, lean, proud and noble yet indisputably lethal. A pair of iron-hard horns protruded from its heavy skull and razor-sharp spines ran along its neck and spine, no doubt all the way to its tail. Heavy blue scales armoured it, and its eyes were sunken beads of green. Its maw was large enough to swallow him whole and lined with rows of massive, sword-point teeth.

    Then came its front limbs. Massive trunks of muscle and scale terminating in five claws, scraping at the rocks with every step. It paused there, in the dancing torchlight, snorting and growling as the stable hands continued backing away from it. Its eyes focussed on the nearest of the two, with what Mavan hoped was either disgust or pity, rather than hunger.

    One might have expected a wild beast to burst forth in a berserk rage when cornered, but this beast was far more intelligent than its counterparts. Mavan smiled. There was a look in its eyes, something deeper than primal need as it scanned the figures in its den, assessing them one by one.

    Did it understand its captivity? Did it understand them?

    Mavan took a step forward, snapping his heel on the stone floor and spreading his arms wide. The creature was every bit as terrifying as he had hoped; every moment was an exercise in overcoming the natural desire to run. It was exactly what he wanted, what he needed. The beasts¡¯ head snapped to him, a growl rumbling from its throat as it slowly moved towards him.

    The sound reverberated through Mavan¡¯s body, and their gazes remained locked as he took another step. The beast followed his move, baring its teeth as the growl lowered into a snarl.

    There were so many ways Mavan could die in this moment, and they both knew it. Drakkar were temperamental beasts, especially wild ones. If he showed weakness, it would eviscerate him. If he turned his back, it would disembowel him. If he advanced too quickly, it would rend him in two. If he did not advance at all, it would likely eat him.

    Confidence, authority and a hunter¡¯s patience were the only qualities a Drakkar respected.

    But he knew the hardest work had been done when the beast was broken and captured. All he had to do was make the beast his.

    He stepped forward with slow, flowing motions, tilting his head back further and further to keep his eyes locked on the beasts¡¯. Its snarl became deeper and guttural, but the creature stood its ground. Mavan¡¯s heart thundered in his chest and his fingers twitched, as he put his life in the hands of a feral monster.

    He reached up, grabbing the rough edge of its lower jaw in one hand and holding firm. If the creature snapped now, he would lose a hand if he was lucky. He stared into its eyes as its gore-scented breath washed over him as he guided it¡¯s head down level with his own. He took hold with both hands now, leaning in even as it snarled. ¡°Oberon,¡± Mavan said, flashing a savage grin of his own as its name came to mind. ¡°You shall be my Oberon.¡±

    With the utterance of its name, scales pulled back and teeth were bared as Oberon returned its new master''s grin.

 XXIII: Frigid damnation

    An old ice house, an underground predecessor to the modern Yakhch¨¡l. That would certainly explain the cold.  Old though it might be, it was a sign of some kind of civilisation.

    Some three hours of stumbling in the dark had brought them to a broad, low-ceilinged hall carved out of the rock. At some point, it had warmed beyond freezing just enough to melt the ice, and the remnants were now sloshing around their ankles just as unpleasant as the air.

    Rexis knelt in the water, scooping as much as he could into waterskins. His breath misted the air and he shuddered as he pushed the stopper into the last of the waterskins. ¡°It might be cold, but it won¡¯t kill you,¡± he said as he looked over his shoulder at the flickering forms of Aiur and Daiss, stood at the base of the stairs. They were huddled around their only source of light and warmth: a sputtering torch formed from strips of cloth wrapped around the remains of a khopesh.

    ¡°It damn well might,¡± Daiss grumbled, staring at the water as if it were a pit of serpents, hissing and snapping at his heels.  He shuffled back out of its reach.

    Rexis sighed, water splashing as he rose to his feet and dripping from his soaked clothes. ¡°We¡¯re going through. No way anyone was lugging ice into and out of that crevasse. There¡¯ll be a passage at the end,¡± he said, jerking his thumb into the darkness behind him.

    ¡°Why would there be an entrance that way?¡± Daiss whined, still watching every ripple in the water¡¯s surface.

    ¡°Why would there be an ice house?¡± Rexis stated, his tone deadpan. ¡°Civilisation. It might be old, but someone, or something, out there would have used this. A small town, village, whatever. But there¡¯s one thing they would always need.¡±

    ¡°Water,¡± Aiur stated, staring off into nothingness as he thought. ¡°There¡¯s no qanat¡¯s for miles so the most obvious and abundant source would be¡­the river. The Ahbek?¡±

    ¡°The Ahbek.¡±

    Aiur nodded, resigned to another gruelling walk, stepping into the water with a shiver and sloshing his way toward the scout. He raised his tail to keep it above the waterline and held his makeshift torch aloft. ¡°You¡¯re damn near immune to this cold. How in the hell do you do it Rexis?¡± he said, pressing his free arm closer around his chest. It didn¡¯t do much to help.

    ¡°I¡¯m not,¡± Rexis replied sourly. ¡°I hate this. I hate every single second of this. The cold¡¯s not just in my muscles and in my limbs, it¡¯s in my damn blood. I can feel it spreading with every beat of my heart. But we have no choice.¡± He turned his gaze to Daiss, eyeing him sternly. ¡°Living in fear of the task ahead will get you nowhere¡­or in this case, killed. Best to just do it.¡±

    Daiss looked away, gripping his tail and hefting it up with another tortured metallic screech, before lumbering into the water and thumping across to the pair of them.

    ¡°Why is this place even flooded?¡± he added once he¡¯d reached them. ¡°Where¡¯d all the water come from?¡±

    ¡°It was an ice house,¡± Rexis stated flatly, as he started sloshing forward through the water. ¡°Clearly, it warmed up a little in here.¡±

    ¡°Not a very good ice house is it then,¡± Daiss grumbled as he and Aiur followed along, filling the space with the echoing splashes of their footfall.

    ¡°Something¡¯s probably blocked, filled in with sand would be my guess,¡± Aiur commented absent-mindedly, casting his torch along the walls in search of an opening.

    ¡°What?¡±

    ¡°These old ice houses would operate on the same principles as a Yakhch¨¡l, I assume. Air flow,¡± Aiur explained, casting his arm in a wide arc, though his companions could barely see the gesture. ¡°Hot air rises, so you have flues and tunnels that let it escape upwards. Then you have entrances lower down to funnel in cold air. Assumedly, some of them are blocked with sand¡­or, maybe this place never worked right in the first place, who knows.¡±The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    ¡°Someone¡¯s an expert.¡± Rexis chuckled. ¡°Where¡¯d you learn all that?¡±

    Aiur shrugged. ¡°I just paid attention in my classes. A noble education has its uses.¡±

    ¡°What classes did they teach us that in?¡± Daiss complained, face screwing up behind his chainmail veil.

    ¡°The ones where you weren¡¯t paying attention. They were teaching us about infrastructure, expanding territory with new settlements. ¡®A good noble should know what tradesmen a settlement requires and should have realistic expectations of how long building takes,¡¯ was the priestesses¡¯ precise reasoning, if I remember right.¡±

    ¡°Ah,¡± was all Daiss said at first, turning his head away. ¡°Yes¡­I... can¡¯t even begin to remember that.¡±

    ¡°Your talents clearly lie elsewhere,¡± Rexis interjected, with a hand on Daiss¡¯ shoulder. ¡°The fact that you¡¯re still walking, and without complaint, is damn near a miracle.¡±

    ¡°It doesn¡¯t hurt that badly,¡± Daiss lied. ¡°Frankly¡­I¡¯m used to it by now.¡±

    ¡°Yes¡­but you are bending metal with every step, and not so much as groaning about it. If that doesn¡¯t speak to your strength or constitution, I don¡¯t know what would,¡± Rexis said with a smile, patting him lightly.

    Daiss sniffed and nodded. His small smile invisible to them.¡°I ¡®spose so.¡±

    ¡°Good,¡± Rexis said, turning away to slosh further ahead. ¡°Got any more trivia or topics to keep us entertained Aiur? I think I¡¯ve found the passage, but it looks to be a long walk back up.¡±

    Aiur sighed and moved closer to examine the perfectly squared doorway looming out of the darkness, wide enough to fit two people abreast and tall enough for a horse. Beyond it,a neatly cut passage slowly sloped up  into even deeper darkness and mercifully out of the water. ¡°Not particularly. All I can think of is how much of a terrible idea this has all been¡­ and how selfish it was to come out here in the first place.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s my fault. It was my idea,¡± Daiss countered, leaning on the frame of the doorway.

    ¡°No, it was not, Daiss,¡± Aiur said with a heavy sigh. ¡°I latched onto the idea. I abandoned my duties and pushed for us all to come out here¡­ I acted selfishly and irresponsibly and¡­ I am not even sure why.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s hindsight talking.¡± Rexis growled. ¡°You were perfectly confident when you came to me.¡±

    Aiur stepped into the passageway first. ¡°No, I was not. I came to you because the loyalties of those around me were being tested, and I wanted nothing to do with it. I used you to escape. The idea¡­lodged itself in my mind and stayed there. It was selfish¡­irresponsible, and ultimately has proven quite the mistake.¡±

    Rexis paused, brow creasing. ¡°Lodged in your mind? A curious way of phrasing it. Almost like it doesn¡¯t feel like your own thought?¡±

    ¡°Because it was mine!¡± Daiss interjected with an incredulous wave of his one good arm.

    ¡°No. it wasn¡¯t.¡± Aiur snarled venomously. ¡°I pushed for this. I brought us here. I got all of those people killed¡­¡±

    Rexis raised one hand diplomatically, pinching his chin with the other. ¡°Hold. Hold a moment¡­¡± his eyes rolled back and forth, one finger tapping a slow and steady rhythm on his chin.  ¡°I have been plagued by a feeling that we were meant to see what we saw.¡±

    ¡°So, you¡¯re saying it wasn¡¯t my fault after all? Wishful thinking, I¡¯m afraid.¡± Aiur sighed with a shake of his head.

    ¡°Perhaps. Perhaps I am deluded. Marching for days through the desert will do that to you. But I this feeling has been in my gut for days, and then you begin to speak oddly of ideas lodging themselves in your mind, almost as though they were outside your control.¡±

    Aiur shot him a quizzical look. ¡°You think we¡¯re being manipulated? That someone orchestrated our encounter with that monster? That¡¯s far-fetched even for you¡­how could that happen without our notice?¡±

    ¡°Magic?¡± Daiss added with a shrug, releasing his tail and letting it fall to the floor with a thump.

    ¡°I cannot think of any other method. The question is who.¡±

    Aiur rolled his eyes, humouring their train of thought. ¡°The priesthood holds a monopoly on magic. If someone was manipulating us with magic it would be with their help, or their doing.¡±

    ¡°My thoughts exactly.¡± Rexis¡¯ eyes darted back and forth at an alarming rate. ¡°But who benefits from this, and what was the goal? If it''s supposed to draw attention to the Naga, the priesthood doesn''t. They¡¯re the only ones who might have that kind of magic. But none of the high priestesses have gotten involved with, or even care, for Naga attacks; at least not publicly. House Amunet have the most interaction with Naga, and they have been proclaiming more needs to be done for years, but this seems drastic for them. Or maybe someone just wants us dead. They might want the Consul of House Zerkash out of the way¡­¡± his voice trailed off and he simply shook his head.

    ¡°House Amunet? If we¡¯re heading to Balanzar we should be able to at least cross that off the list of possibilities,¡± Daiss noted.

    Aiur sighed, pushing past them and walking further up the sloping passage. As he bore their only source of light, the others quickly followed.  ¡°Then let¡¯s hope you¡¯re wrong and they¡¯d much prefer us alive.¡±

    Yet, deep in the dark, a wet and gurgling voice cackled a single word in some malformed attempt of mimicry.

    ¡°Bah-lan-zar.¡±

 XXIV: All points

    Where once, Syla¡¯s home was a sanctum of tranquillity and quiet in the middle of a bustling city, it now clamoured with greater activity than even the streets outside.

    The butler stood in the centre of the entrance hall, face blank and voice as monotone as ever while directing men and women of every shape, size, shade and even caste hither and thither. The air was filled with snapping footsteps, clattering armour and murmured conversation. The smell of pressed lizard bodies was masked by a constant stream of fresh food brought to satiate these countless guests.

    Ezerkal stood in the entranceway, Khafra and Cleonar behind him, staring in quiet surprise at the gathered crowd.

    ¡°Seems our criminal is a busy woman,¡± Khafra said, watching the armoured figures with suspicion.

    ¡°And a popular one,¡± Cleonar added, her gaze focussed on Ezerkal. ¡°Where is she?¡±

    ¡°We shall have to ask the butler., he said with a smile, taking a few steps forward into the press ¡°¡­unfortunately,¡± he added under his breath.

    The butler looked down as Ezerkal approached, with that same heavy-lidded stare and a resigned sigh. ¡°Up the stairs and on the left,¡± he droned before Ezerkal could even get a word out, dismissing him with a flick of the wrist in the direction he¡¯d indicated.

    Ezerkal paused and blinked, but the butler had already moved on to directing another group. ¡°Upstairs he said, come on,¡± he finally said, calling over his shoulder to Khafra and Cleonar.

    The two soldiers shouldered their way through the crowd, skirting around groups and cutting through the criss-crossing lines of moving servants, messengers and advisors. Ezerkal followed behind, apologising profusely as he bumped his way through the assembled mass.

    Syla awaited them in a small lounge, her black formal attire complimented now by a thin leather belt from which a slim blade hung, hidden in an ornate silver sheathe. One hand rested on the thin, curved guard that connected hilt to pommel, the other pressed flat on the table she stood beside.

    Accompanying her was a thickset priestess, draped in long silken robes of deepest green, and an unsavoury looking mercenary figure wrapped in leathers and chain. The priestess Khafra recognised, and she was lounging on a long divan, gently swirling a half-full glass of wine. He was surprised to see someone of her seniority here, though she did look quite at home. The mercenary Khafra did not know, and he loomed at the back of the room, arms folded and with one dirty boot braced on the wall.

    Khafra and Cleonar stood shoulder to shoulder in the doorway, disapproving scowls on their faces as they cast their eyes around the room.

    Ezerkal, hidden by his smaller stature, simply put his hands together and waited as the two groups stared one another down.

    ¡°Can you sit down already?¡± the mercenary growled from the back of the room; his lips curled in a half-snarl. ¡°Can¡¯t believe we¡¯re relying on such gormless idiots¡­¡±

    Neither rose to the bait, staying stiff and haughty as they moved into the room. Cleonar took up position beside the table, arms folded, while Khafra lowered himself into a seat, leaning forward with hands braced on his knees.

    ¡°Tell him what you told me,¡± Cleonar snarled, lifting her head and shooting Syla a condescending stare down the length of her nose.

    Syla replied with a sneering smile as she turned on Khafra with a theatrical flourish. ¡°Your mentor and master, Aiur Zerkash, is wounded, and doubtless pursued through the desert. By a Naga.¡±

    Khafra blinked as though smacked, taking a long moment to process her blunt statement and formulate a coherent reply. ¡°I¡¯m sorry¡­I must have misheard you.¡±

    The priestess raised herself upright, taking a slow sip of her wine. ¡°Your master is pursued by a Naga. A fate I would wish upon none. Our best attempts at scrying for him have made this painfully clear.¡±

    ¡°What reason do I have to trust you? Or your¡­arcanery, for that matter,¡± Khafra snapped, turning a scornful gaze on the priestess.

    She scoffed. ¡°I may be no Augur, but the results of such divination should not be ignored.  I am however, far more disappointed by your lack of faith in the priesthood, and in me. What reason do I have to lie to you?¡±

    ¡°Your position as a priestess does not make you incapable of ambition,¡± Khafra snarled. ¡°I have the utmost respect for Aten and the faith, but forgive me if I do not blindly trust someone who could just as readily be exploiting me as helping me.¡±

    ¡°Silence, both of you!¡± Syla shouted, slamming her fist on the table. Goblets jumped and a jug nearly fell before Ezerkal swept in to stabilize it. ¡°I did not bring you here simply to bicker over your meaningless differences.¡± She turned her baleful gaze from Khafra, to Aretuza, and back again. ¡°I will explain the plan, and you will acquiesce. If either of you do not, Aiur will die. It is that simple.¡±

    Khafra sighed, reclining into the seat and allowing himself a moment to relax, physically if not mentally. Just being here felt like treason, even if Ra¡¯ven had given him blessing to do so. ¡°Let us pretend for a moment that I trust you and that I did not hear that threat. Explain.¡±Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

    ¡°A beast from the depths of our species¡¯ past has returned. It will not be alone. You, Khafra, have an army at your disposal and a personal interest in seeing Aiur returned to you alive. You, Aretuza, have the knowledge and, albeit in a rudimentary form, the skills to track both Aiur and this Naga through the deep desert until we get close enough to find them both with more natural means. That is where Shadrak and his mercenaries come in. We shall find Aiur, we shall find this Naga. We shall follow in the footsteps of the prophet and put down another serpentine horror from across the sea.¡±

    Cleonar seemed at least somewhat convinced, Ezerkal thought, inclining her head before glancing back to Khafra. The Legatus was far less impressed, his brow creased into a small frown. ¡°It sounds to me like I am the bait in this plan.¡±

    His words hung in the air between them, settling into an awkward silence. Taking the opportunity, Ezerkal skirted the table¡¯s edge, jug in hand, to pour himself a small glass of wine, glancing around at the others in the room as he took a tentative sip.

    Unable to hold it in any longer, Shadrak broke the silence with a rattling snigger. One hand, balled into a fist, was held to his face as that snigger bubbled into laughter. ¡°The bait is already set,¡± he managed, pushing down his laughter as he walked to the table in the centre of the room. He placed both hands upon it as he leaned toward Khafra. ¡°It¡¯s Aiur.¡±

    ¡°What?¡± Khafra stared across the room at the mercenary.

    Shadrak¡¯s face hardened, twisting from jovial to serious in an instant. ¡°Aiur is the bait,¡± he stated flatly, jabbing a clawed digit into the table. ¡°Nobody else knows of this snake. It¡¯s hiding its presence by killing everyone that sees it. Burning down every village it passes through. Aiur got away, so it wants him dead before he can tell anyone. Its chase will be relentless. We find Aiur, we have our bait. You, little Legate, are the anvil.¡±

    Khafra moved over to the table, staring across it at Shadrak, his face a thoughtful frown. ¡°So, you¡¯re not just here as Syla¡¯s muscle¡­you¡¯re the hammer.¡±

    Shadrak snorted. ¡°Muscle? Your legion outnumbers my little company what, damn near two hundred-to-one? But I have twenty-eight trained fighters manning three ballistae, you¡¯re damn right we¡¯re the hammer,¡± he said, his grin growing wider with every word. ¡°You bring the beast to battle and hold his pack in place, whilst we pin him down and put a bolt through his skull.¡±

    ¡°You make it sound exceedingly simple,¡± Khafra replied, unable to stop a small smile of his own as Shadrak grinned at him.

    ¡°Simple is always best with beasts.¡±

    ¡°It does seem exceedingly reliant on my cooperation however. That is quite the gamble you¡¯re taking,¡± Khafra said, turning his attention to Syla now. She certainly had the forceful personality that Khafra expected; it was clear why Ezerkal had been so taken by her rhetoric. He, however, remained unconvinced.

    Syla did not seem in the least phased. ¡°I don¡¯t gamble,¡± she said bluntly. ¡°I need a legion. You don¡¯t want to see Aiur dead. You have no reason to say no. But if you do¡­I am not out of options. You will simply have to contend with your friend¡¯s death, and your part in it.¡±

    ¡°So, its blackmail then. How urbane of you.¡±

    ¡°Is it blackmail if it¡¯s a statement of fact? You have an opportunity, here and now, to save him. Who is to say how long he has left to live without that help?¡± Syla said with a sly, knowing smile. She was good, when she needed to be, applying pressure and jabbing sensitivities.

    Khafra scowled at her, leaning over the table slowly. ¡°I have full command of this expedition. That is my term. We manoeuvre how I want, when I want, where I want. Any failure to do so will be punished in full accordance with military tradition. We find Aiur, and we kill this snake my way,¡± he growled, repeatedly jabbing a finger towards Syla to punctuate his words.

    ¡°Of course, Legate. Deferring to you on military matters is the only natural option. We are ready to depart whenever you are,¡± Syla said with a smile that seemed so genuine even Ezerkal could not help feeling wrong-footed. It was written all over Khafra¡¯s face that he was just as surprised at how easily she had capitulated.

    Khafra took a wary step back, as though she may spit venom at him. ¡°Priestess, where is he?¡±

    ¡°East. North of the banks of the Ahbek and across the mountains. More accurate than that I am afraid I cannot be.¡±

    The legate nodded, moving toward the door without turning his back. ¡°Cleonar, you¡¯ve been awfully quiet. Your thoughts?¡±

    Cleonar let out a breath she hadn¡¯t quite realised she¡¯d been holding, turning it into a thoughtful sigh. ¡°If he truly is in as much danger as they say, we have little choice.¡± She paused, mulling over her words. ¡°Though with you in command I would feel far more comfortable.¡±

    ¡°Good. Ezerkal, we¡¯re leaving. I will gather the legion at the eastern gate within the day, you will remain and inform Ra¡¯ven of our actions,¡± Khafra commanded, turning on his heel and leaving the room with Cleonar in tow.  Ezerkal was left flustered, gathering his robes and setting aside his half-full glass.

    ¡°So¡­where do I fit into all of this?¡± he asked, hanging in the doorway and looking back at Syla.

    ¡°You continue exactly as you are. Keep an eye on Ra¡¯ven for me while I am away.¡±

    Ezerkal nodded, and just as he was about to ask another question, Syla gave him a knowing smile that said everything he needed. Satisfied, Ezerkal held his tongue and quickly made to follow after his fellows.

    A few moments of silence passed, disturbed only by the groaning of Shadrak¡¯s garb as he lowered himself to a seat, a smug grin plastered across his face.

    ¡°Do you think this will work?¡± Aretuza questioned, tapping a finger against her glass as her eyes drifted from the door to Syla, who had not moved an inch.

    ¡°A Naga presents a rare and valuable opportunity. The praise house Amunet would bestow on us would be worth it alone. The prestige and influence on offer if we oh-so-selfishly kill the beast is immeasurable. It is too perfect to let it slip through our fingers,¡± Syla answered.  She swept across the room to sit, shoulders sagging and tail coiling at her feet as she relaxed.

    ¡°So Aiur has become secondary to our aims?¡±

    ¡°In a way. His influence in house Zerkash could be considerable if he survives but the Naga is of far greater importance. However, this trap does require bait. Thus, we need him alive for the time being.¡±

    Aretuza nodded. ¡°I have faith in this gambit. Let us hope it is rewarded.¡±

    ¡°I am using all the information at my disposal and putting my trust in the faithful of Aten. It will be rewarded, so long as you are certain of where this will end,¡± Syla said, alluding to the countless verifications of her vision Aretuza had busied herself with in recent days.

    ¡°I am, ma¡¯am. All signs point to Balanzar.¡±

    ¡°Then we trust in the allies we have made for ourselves.¡±

 XXV: A blessing, a loss

    The morning sun was the greatest blessing he could imagine.

    They had emerged among ruins. A rotted wooden hatch had led them out into blissful daylight, amongst crumbled walls and collapsed roofs.

    Daiss didn¡¯t care. He stumbled out, tired, aching and cold. Pushing himself those final few meters into the open sunlight, he collapsed face-first into the sand.

    He groaned in pain and relief as he lay there. The long trudge through the cold and dark had only been made only worse when the torch had finally sputtered and died. He basked in the feeling of the morning warmth beginning to seep through his ruined armour.

    Aiur lowered himself in a more dignified manner. He sat against one of the crumbled sandstone walls, taking care to ensure he was facing the sun. He breathed slowly and heavily, taking in the landscape around him as his blood began to thaw.

    He imagined the days when this abandoned place had once been a thriving community. The air was rich and pleasant, filled with the gentle rumbling of the Ahbek and the heady scent of life.

    The great river was barely visible, its glistening waters peering between the trees, grass and marsh hugging the banks from end to end. Perhaps that green, fertile land had once been farmed. Perhaps the fish and water had once fed and bathed the people of this small settlement. Now it was left to the wiles of nature. He began to imagine what had happened to those people, but after his encounter with the Naga, his thoughts immediately took him down dark avenues and he drew back.

    As he sat there recovering, he watched Rexis. The scout was already pacing back and forth between the ruins, clambering over walls and¡­scouting. Aiur felt he shouldn¡¯t be surprised at that, but considering what they had endured over the last few hours, he could not help but feel surprised that Rexis was still going.

    ¡°We¡¯ll move down the banks of the river once we¡¯ve rested,¡± Aiur called over to him.

    ¡°I¡¯ve got a much better idea,¡± came the reply, as Rexis peered over a crumbling wall into what once may have been a house. ¡°The banks of the river are covered in trees and greenery, no?¡±

    Rexis jumped down from his perch and retraced his steps.

    ¡°Balanzar is directly downriver. The Ahbek flows straight through the city and opens up to the sea within the walls.¡±

    Aiur had a sneaking suspicion where this was heading.

    ¡°So, we lash together something that vaguely floats out of whatever we can get our claws on, and instead of trudging for days on end, we float.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s not a terrible idea,¡± Aiur mused, taking hold of the wall and pushing himself to his feet. ¡°In fact that¡¯s a very, very good idea.¡±

    ¡°I thought so. All we need is wood and something to lash it together.¡±

    ¡°And time,¡± Aiur added, casting his eyes northward, towards the rolling deserts beyond. ¡°We have to hope we have time.¡±

    ¡°We haven¡¯t seen them for days,¡± Rexis said, following his master¡¯s gaze. ¡°Not since¡­¡±

    ¡°Do you think she¡¯s¡­¡± Aiur croaked remorsefully, his voice trailing away into nothing.

    ¡°Probably.¡± Rexis¡¯ reply was matter-of-fact and detached, but Aiur knew he would be feeling it as deeply as he was. The silence hung between them for a few heavy moments, cut short by Rexis clearing his throat. ¡°We¡¯ll need to cut down some trees, I couldn¡¯t find anything useful in the ruins.¡±

    ¡°Do you carry an axe in all those pouches too?¡± Aiur chuckled darkly, turning back to the scout.

    ¡°It¡¯s no axe, but we have something that should get the job done.¡±

    ¡°My Khopesh is broken, and I¡¯ve got nothing else with an edge.¡± Aiur said, retrieving the two snapped pieces of the weapon from his belt and holding them up. ¡°And I doubt your knife is going to be cutting down a tree.¡±

    ¡°Well, we need something with a haft anyway,¡± Rexis said with a shrug, looking over to Daiss¡¯ prone and groaning form as he twisted, attempting to find a comfortable position in his bed of sand.

    Aiur looked back at Rexis. ¡°He won¡¯t like it. Chopping down a tree will ruin the edge.¡±

    ¡°We¡¯ve got no choice.¡± Rexis sighed. ¡°Frankly, he¡¯s not in much state to use it¡­or stop you taking it.¡±

    ¡°You want me to take it?¡± Aiur grumbled. The scout was already trudging away towards the shore.

    Aiur sighed, lumbering over to Daiss¡¯ side and lowering himself to one knee. ¡°Sorry. I¡¯ll give it back once we¡¯re done,¡± he said, receiving only a pained groan in reply.

    Reluctantly, he took hold of the glaive in one hand and Daiss¡¯ fist in the other. Gently prizing his claw open, he slipped the glaive free and hefted it up with surprising difficulty. The weight was oddly distributed, and it balanced awkwardly in one hand. ¡°That¡¯s a lot heavier than he makes it look,¡± he complained to no-one, as he carried the polearm towards the shore.

    On the banks of the river the air was filled with the rush of the water, and the croaking and chirping of insects, birds and other small creatures. Rexis had found a relatively straight tree by the time Aiur reached the bank, running his hands across its bark. It was thick-trunked and sturdy, hopefully it would float.

    Rexis pulled a knife from his boot, raking the blade in a line across the bark to leave a thin line. ¡°Cut there, try and keep it level.¡±

    Aiur grumbled wordlessly, hefting the glaive up and pressing its bladed edge against Rexis¡¯ marker. He practiced the swing with slow, fluid motions until he felt he had the angle right. Ready as he could be, he began to hack.

    ***

    Building the raft took the entire day.

    Hours were spent simply cutting and gathering enough wood, as much had to be discarded when it failed to float. Further hours were spent whittling the rest into a usable shape, cutting away branches and carving them to somewhat fit together. Cloaks and clothes were ripped into strips, acting as makeshift ropes to lash it all together.The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

    As day turned to night, the cut-offs fuelled a small campfire. By its light and warmth, they continued working into the night. Daiss was laid out by the fire, having lumbered his way over but lacking the strength to stay upright.

    Even Aiur felt the aching grip of fatigue spreading throughout his body. His arms throbbed, his legs ached, his lungs felt cold in his breast, but his wounds were worst of all. They burned furiously with every movement however small, and sizzled worryingly with rest. But the raft was built. Piece by piece.

    It was a pathetic, ramshackle thing. A loosely held collection of logs, each a slightly different length, looking like it would fall apart the minute it tried to bear their collective weight.

    He imagined the embarrassment in showing it to his friends, house-mates or confidants. Yet, it was the first thing he had made with his own hands since childhood, and he was curiously proud of that.

    ¡°We should move tonight,¡± Rexis said, dredging Aiur up from his reverie.

    He blinked, turning to the scout.

    ¡°We have been working all day. It is pitch dark. I am tired,¡± Aiur grumbled, sitting cross-legged by the fire to absorb its warmth.

    The scout frowned, the light from the flames dancing across his face and casting his features in long shadows. ¡°You can rest when we¡¯re on the river. I just¡­I have a gut feeling about this place. I don¡¯t like it.¡±

    ¡°Have these ruins got you spooked? Or do you think they¡¯ll find us? They¡¯ll be just as lost as us in this dark,¡± Aiur questioned with a shake of his head.

    ¡°You say that as we sit around the only pinprick of unnatural light for miles. We¡¯ll be safer on the river, moving and hidden in the dark,¡± Rexis said in rapid, hushed tones, casting his gaze northwards. His eyes narrowed as they attempted to pierce the gloom. To Aiur he seemed suspicious of the darkness itself rather than what may be lurking within. ¡°It¡¯s not the ruins that have me spooked, the Kailai is covered in ruins¡­it¡¯s something else. We wouldn¡¯t be safe staying here tonight. You just need to trust me.¡±

    Aiur sighed heavily. ¡°There¡¯s just as much chance that we crash upon some rocks, beach ourselves Aten-knows-where, or simply get eaten in the night. All because we won¡¯t be able to see.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯d rather take my chances on the river. If we stay here tonight, we will die.¡±

    Aiur looked around the ruins, made more menacing by the lack of light. He hadn¡¯t felt it before, but he did now, a bristling in his scales. Was there something out there? Or perhaps Rexis¡¯ paranoia was simply getting to him. ¡°Fine. Let¡¯s get this thing on the water.¡± He paused with a wince as pain lanced up his right arm, hot as molten iron when he attempted to push himself to his feet. He fell back with a thump, nursing his limb and scowling at the wound. It had begun to bleed again, just a tiny trickle of blood, spilling from the over-soaked bandage down his arm.

    He tried again, pushing all his weight onto his left side this time. He stumbled as he forced himself upright, groaning as his ribs throbbed with the effort.

    He grumbled as he moved to Rexis¡¯ side, helping him heave Daiss¡¯ heavy, unconscious form onto the raft.

    Hunched over the amalgam of wood and cloth, Aiur cast his eye over the landscape. In the flickering light of the fire, the ruins and the dunes beyond seemed empty. In the dancing shadows he saw naught but the gentle sway of trees, and the vaguest impression of wisps of sand shifting on the wind.

    Paranoia, Aiur decided. Just paranoia. This night was filled with nothing but the sounds of the river and cold as the grave. The horde pursuing them had long since lost them. They dragged the raft toward the water, leaving a deep wound in the dirt as they inched their way down the bank. As they splashed into the shallows, the water curled around Aiur¡¯s feet, rushing into every crevice of his feet to suck out all the warmth he had built up over the past day. The water seemed to move lazily, as though it were viscous and heavy, despite all the noise it was making around them. He had expected it to pull at his legs, attempting to drag him down into the current but it was almost welcoming of their presence.

    The burning in his arms was of much greater concern. He could feel blood oozing from his wound again as he dragged the raft into the water, every pull and every beat of his heart forcing out more precious crimson. His arms began to shudder, then shake as his strength began to falter.

    By the time Rexis called a stop, the remains of Aiur¡¯s tunic were stained crimson, the bandage had slipped free, and his blood was dripping like a leaking tap. But they¡¯d managed to reach the waist-high water among the reeds. They were almost out into the current now, surely.

    ¡°Climb on,¡± the scout croaked, his own waning strength apparent in his voice. ¡°I can practically smell the bleeding from here. Climb on and re-bind it.¡±

    Aiur let his bleeding arm drop, dragging himself onto the raft with pained grunts and groans. ¡°Let¡¯s hope nothing else has smelt it.¡± He chuckled darkly.

    ¡°Crocodiles do hunt at night,¡± Rexis grumbled, as he began to push the raft through the water alone. It was hard work. Was that the weight of the raft, or did the water feel like it was pulling him down?

    ¡°Wonderful.¡± Aiur sighed, ripping another shred from his tattered tunic and wrapping up the wound as best he could, muttering a quiet prayer to Aten that it wasn¡¯t infected yet.

    They inched further and further out, but progress was slow. The rushing water was so close now, yet from his vantage on the raft the water around them looked different. Darker, thicker, more like ichor than water. ¡°Rexis¡­something is wrong. Wrong with the water.¡±

    ¡°Water is water. You¡¯re just not used to-¡° Rexis started, before he disappeared beneath the surface with a sudden splash.

    Without hesitation, Aiur threw himself forward, plunging his arms into the water and desperately grasping for some trace of the scout. The water burned his arms, as though it had turned to acid. Despite his efforts he caught nothing but sand and reeds. He pulled back out, arms burning with pain as he howled his rage and desperation into the black waters.

    Rage turned to horror when, cast in the pale moonlight, the black waters blossomed crimson.

    Steeling himself for more pain, he shoved himself back in, up to the shoulders this time. Teeth gritted and jaw locked closed, something was eating away at his scales. He grasped around again, fuelled now by desperation more than strength. He found fingers, a hand, locked his clawed digits around the palm and pulled with all his strength.

    Up came what was unmistakably Rexis¡¯ severed arm, spattering blood on his face.

    With horror gripping his stomach, Aiur took another deep breath and shoved himself back into the water, eyes open to see through the murk in spite of the constant stinging pain. The ink-like substance that stained the water black and seemed to be eating at him the longer he stayed under made it difficult to make anything out. But despite his near-blindness, he found Rexis. Flailing and thrashing against the presence trying to pull him below, Aiur managed to grab the hem of his clothes and drag him above the surface, though his own blood billowed out into the water as the wound tore open further.

    Rexis was on his feet, coughing up water and trying in vain to speak, but he wasn¡¯t on the raft. His left arm was severed at the elbow and was spilling blood into the water at an alarming rate, and yet he slapped Aiur¡¯s grasping hands away as he tried to pull him to safety. ¡°Climb on you thrice-dammed bastard!¡± Aiur screamed, grabbing at Rexis again.

    Rexis flailed out of his grip once more, twisting around and shoving his remaining hand and bloody stump against the raft, fixing Aiur with a hard stare as the colour steadily drained from his scales. ¡°I¡¯m going to bleed to death in a few minutes,¡± he said, horrifyingly calm for the situation. ¡°Best the two of you survive rather than die saving a corpse.¡±

    Aiur was stunned. Staring wide-eyed at the scout and his missing limb, he couldn¡¯t formulate a cohesive reply, until with screams of pain, Rexis began to shove the raft out into the deeper water. The flow of blood from his arm ever increasing. ¡°Are you insane?!¡± was all Aiur could muster, and by the time the words had left his mouth he could already feel the real current tugging at the raft.

    Rexis roared in pain, putting every ounce of strength he had left into a final push. The raft jolted forward, floating into the river¡¯s grip and beginning to drift downstream. ¡°I¡¯m not insane¡­just¡­prag¡­ma¡­tic,¡± the scout mumbled, as consciousness abandoned him, and he disappeared beneath the surface.

    Aiur could do nothing. Naught but stare, as he floated helplessly away. Revulsion lay in the pit of his stomach; the man who had so readily sacrificed himself was being abandoned to die alone in the shallows, but to do anything now would invalidate that sacrifice.

    He swore, and for a moment, just a moment, within the inky blackness that had stained the water around his friend¡¯s drowning corpse something stared back. Countless eyes as depthless and dark as the night sky, with malicious stars for pupils watched him float away. Thousands of pinpricks of hateful light stared after him with something beyond a desire for sustenance, beyond meat and bone¡­

    A hunger for his soul.

 XXVI: Run.

    Run, climb, hide. Run again, climb higher, hide better. And don¡¯t forget to breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

    She had been pushing herself too hard again. She was going to vomit at this rate, but she had no choice. It was either run or die.

    Callia had been running in a crazed stupor for days, pursued without relent and without remorse.

    She didn¡¯t quite know how she¡¯d kept running. But her body was set on survival, and she wasn¡¯t going to complain, pouring every ounce of will and strength she could muster into maintaining her pace. It kept the voices at bay.

    Ever since that day in the hamlet, she had been hearing them. Gasping, wailing, screaming in the back of her mind. Over and over, they drowned out every other thought echoing against her skull and growing louder and louder.

    The screams of those she¡¯d sacrificed.

    She crested the peak of a dune, throwing herself forward to slide down the other side. As she descended, making the most of the brief respite from running, she grabbed the waterskin tied to the tattered belt at her waist, giving it a rattle and a squeeze. Empty. Again.

    Scrambling up the next dune, she looked skyward. The sun hadn¡¯t reached its zenith yet, so it should still be morning.  It was rising over her left shoulder, so she should be able to see the river from the peak of this dune.  But her confidence in her own sense of time and direction had been lost days ago; it had all become a blurry mess. The only consistent thing was the screams.

    She hadn¡¯t wanted to! She¡¯d had to! She had to save her lord. Burn the innocent to get the serpent¡¯s attention. She saw it torturing him, she had no choice but to do something, and there had been no other option to hand.

    So, she¡¯d closed the door on numerous lives to save just one. Blocked the door and burned it down.

    She dragged herself to the top, gasping and heaving as she looked out before her¡­yet all she saw was sand. Mountains appeared as tiny specks in the distance, but between her and them, naught but sand and rock, mile after mile of it.

    She frowned, twisting around to look behind her. Beyond the rolling dunes there was green; trees, bushes and ferns, huddled furtively around a broad and flowing river.

    The sun hadn¡¯t been rising, it had been setting.

    Between her and her much desired source of water however, was her pursuers.

    There had been two horsemen following her for quite some time, repeatedly losing and finding her tracks again and again, just when she began to hope that she had finally escaped them. And though she had no doubt they were not far; her eye was drawn to the large war-camp squatting around the river¡¯s edge.

    She¡¯d thought her pursuers had been camping out alone in the desert overnight, but perhaps they¡¯d been returning to their master daily, and their entire force had been chasing her en-masse? She truly must have been the only survivor then, and that thing was truly desperate to keep its presence hidden.

    This had suddenly got far more complicated, but she had no choice. Only a slow death awaited her if she turned towards the mountains.

    She set off again, sliding back down the dune she had just climbed. The screams were never far behind, pounding in her head with every step.

    Run, climb, hide. Run. Climb. Hide.

    ***

    The sun had absolutely been setting, because it was dark when they found her.

    She had been skirting around the edge of the camp, perhaps a few hundred meters away at most, sliding to the base of another dune when she heard their voices. Screeching yells in their strange language echoed down from above, followed by the thump of hooves.

    Her eyes snapped up, and down they came.

    With a lantern held aloft and finger pointed, the one who had found her continued to holler and screech as he thundered down the dune towards her. His compatriot wheeled around to follow, pulling what looked like a javelin from a loop on his horse¡¯s saddle.Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

    With her heart thundering in her chest, breath coming in gulps, and mind in a spinning descent she was left with no other options other than to run, she bolted right. She could hear the trampling hooves behind her, inching closer regardless of how hard she pushed herself. Javelins rammed into the sand around her feet, splashing her with sand as they narrowly missed.

    Her limbs screamed in protest as she pushed herself on. She slipped on sand and stumbled, tumbling down the next dune and scrambling back to her feet. Run. Run. Run.

    They were getting closer and closer. She had known there was no hope of outrunning galloping horses, but she refused to simply stand there and let them take her.

    She had seen the acts committed by those in chains, and the even greater cruelty of those who lacked them. She could not let them get their hands on her, turn her into one of them.

    Up ahead, she saw light. Lights. The camp! She¡¯d run the wrong way! Before her, she could see the swinging light of a guard lantern, but it was too late to turn away now. She would go through it. Through them all. They would be asleep; the horses couldn¡¯t gallop through that mess of tents and fires as fast as she could run.

    Her mouth gulped in every ounce of air it could manage, her legs pumped with all the strength they could muster, and her heart pounded with desperation in her chest. Bile rose in her throat, her lungs burned with a cold fire, and her head began to pound. It wasn¡¯t going to be enough.

    It wasn¡¯t enough.

    The breath was stolen from her lungs, escaping as a scream as a javelin ran straight through the meat of her thigh. She scrambled, stumbled, and finally collapsed into the sand.

    Her breath came in shuddering gasps now, hands digging at the sand as her head swam and strange sounds filled the air. The thump of hooves and the riders¡¯ alien language blended together into a messy amalgamation but there were other sounds there too. They swirled together and meant nothing to her, a heavy thump, a twang, shouting words in multiple languages criss-crossing and overlapping and then a pattering sound like rain all around her.

    She was rolled over, and could only fuzzily make out the figures looming over her. She screamed as one of them pulled the javelin from her thigh.

    The adrenaline was fading and nothing was making sense. They had her surrounded. Why hadn¡¯t they already finished the job? She''d seen too much, eluded them too long.

    Instead, she was hefted up into the air by at least four pairs of hands. Hadn¡¯t there only been two chasing her? Where had these come from?

    Her head lolled from side to side, as she tried to make sense of her surroundings, but she couldn¡¯t form coherent thoughts, everything was slipping through the fingers of her mind.

    Yet, just at the moment everything descended into darkness, and consciousness was slipping away, there was light. Golden light. Perfect light.

    It chased away the darkness and filled her with a single perfect breath that brought feeling back in a wave of euphoria.

    Every muscle in her body tensed, desperate to hold onto that breath as clarity washed over her once more. Every sense returned to her one by one.

    Sight came first. She staring upside down at an amaranth-scaled hand inches from her face. The light was dancing from its fingertips into her eyes, her mouth, her nose.

    Sound flooded back next, chattering voices in the gloriously reassuring language of her own people, the flowing words and precise pronunciation music to her ears. Questions were rained down upon her by those carrying her, but one voice stood out above them, a calm, firm and matronly voice. ¡°Breathe, my child. Breathe.¡±

    Feeling returned next. With that came pain and fatigue in equal measure, stealing the air from her lungs in a shuddering gasp. The aching pain in her limbs flared once more, though it was duller than she remembered it being moments before.

    Breaths came shallow and sharp then, until she could steady herself into a natural rhythm, and she allowed her body to fall limp in the arms of her saviours again.

    The hand slid back, revealing the tall and curvaceous woman who had worked such miracles upon her. She had scales of amaranth, eyes of green, and wore elegant priestly robes, carrying herself with an air of calm. Had she not been in such pain Callia would have sworn she had died and was being carried off to the afterlife by an angel.

    ¡°Breathe,¡± the priestess repeated. ¡°You are safe now. You have nothing to fear.¡±

    Callia nodded dumbly as they began to bear her back towards their camp.

    Nary a word was shared as they carried her into a tent, and all was silent as they laid her down upon a bed. They left as swiftly and silently as they had appeared in the desert, leaving only her and the priestess who now sat neatly beside her.

    ¡°What is your name, my child?¡± the priestess asked, unspooling a length of bandage and applying a curious salve to the white cloth.

    ¡°I¡¯m¡­Callia,¡± she stammered, bracing herself on her elbows as she watched the priestess tear open her trouser leg. ¡°Who are you?¡±

    The priestess nodded slowly. ¡°My name is Aretuza, Miss Callia.¡± As she spoke, she began wrapping the salve-soaked bandages around her pierced thigh. The stabbing pain eased, simmering to a dull throb. ¡°You wear the uniform of a soldier, yet you are out here alone, pursued by strange men. Do you have a tale to share?¡±

    Callia swallowed, staring at this woman for a long moment as she chose her words carefully. ¡°I am sworn to House Zerkash. I serve¡­I served under an officer by the name of Rexis, as a scout. Veltari.¡±

    She swallowed back the next thought that came. That they were all dead.

    The priestess nodded pulling the bandage tight and forcing a sudden yelp from Callia as her wound was squeezed. ¡°I know the man. Yet you have been separated, would you care to tell me how that happened?¡±

    Callia eyed the priestess carefully, frowning as she thought back on the events of recent weeks. That new clarity was still burning through her mind, keeping her awake and her senses sharp. ¡°Well, it all really began when we arrived in the small village of Sturva¡­¡±

 XXVII: Focus on the now

    Of course, the most important development in their search takes place while he¡¯s asleep.

    Khafra¡¯s minor annoyance however was quickly smothered by the pleasing progress they¡¯d already made. He had expected them to stumble through the desert chasing ghosts. It was entirely through luck that they¡¯d stumbled upon the information they had, and it was reassuring that Syla wasn¡¯t present and thereby unable to drip-feed each scrap to him as she desired. The news, however, was not exactly positive.

    One of Rexis¡¯ scout-students had been discovered, lost and delirious in the desert, chased by two Naga slaves on horseback. The scout swore she was the only survivor from their expedition into the desert and had been running ever since a calamitous encounter with a Naga and its enslaved army. She was convinced that the entire army was chasing her now, which is when her tale began to border into delirious incomprehensibility.

    He was now waiting on a report, having sent his own scouts off into the night to at least attempt to bring some veracity to her story. He had no intention of believing Syla¡¯s theory of Naga in the desert, not without being sure the only proof of that theory was not suffering from the perils of that same desert. They were certainly taking their time. The wait wasn¡¯t making this damned soup any better.

    Khafra sighed as he stared into the murky brown slop. Aiur had always said: ¡°The best way to win the respect of your men is to eat among them and suffer the same unappetising food they do. All the while it saves you the time and manpower it takes to haul a decent meal this far from civilisation, and you¡¯ll relish your delicacies all the more when you get home.¡±

    Up until now, he had avoided following that advice. He enjoyed his delicacies far too much. Now it felt pertinent to listen to his mentor¡¯s suggestions, though he was not doing it to win the First Legion¡¯s respect. He was their Legate; he should not need to. They owed it to him as their natural leader.

    He was determined to live up to the expectations placed upon him in Aiur¡¯s absence, and exceed them if he could, but he would take no rank until he saw a corpse. Even should the very worst happen, he would not take his master¡¯s rank until the last possible alternative was exhausted.

    So, he endured the cooling soup. In Aiur¡¯s name. At least he was not alone in doing so.

    Cleonar sat opposite him in the tent, eating with enthusiasm, or at least more speed, than he was.

    ¡°You actually like this stuff?¡± Khafra asked, struggling to stomach even looking at it.

    ¡°It¡¯s better hot,¡± Cleonar said bluntly, finishing her bowl and pushing it away with an expression Khafra decided was a grimace. ¡°Not much better, but better.¡±

    ¡°Ah,¡± Khafra managed, leaning over his bowl to try and eat more of the soup before it became even more unpleasant. It was already mouthfuls of lukewarm liquid interspersed with some sodden solids that combined together into a rather repugnant taste, but he swallowed it down nonetheless.  If this scout was right...he was going to need it.

    ¡°What do you think of this scout?¡± he asked, largely to take his mind off the rancid taste in his mouth.

    ¡°I know Callia, vaguely but enough to know Rexis thought highly of her skills, but not her mind. She¡¯s prone to panic under stress, but he never said anything about her also being prone to exaggeration,¡± Cleonar said, her tone grim. ¡°It lines up with what I saw in Sturva. They certainly encountered this creature there, and I have no doubt the two slaves we saw off in the night were not the only ones in pursuit. If she is the only survivor as she says? I cannot be sure. We both know what we would rather believe, so focus on the now.¡±The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

    ¡°We have a large force of Naga slaves to fight.¡±

    ¡°Precisely. I have no doubt our scouts will return with news of such a thing, or not at all.¡±

    ¡°We will find them. We will bring the beast to battle and discover what truly happened out here in the sand.¡± Khafra sighed, his own face twisting into a frown.

    ¡°No, you haven¡¯t quite got it. I think we need to be in formation and ready to receive an assault before midday.¡±

    Khafra paused, his spoon dropping into the remains of the soup as he raised his head to meet Cleonar¡¯s steady gaze. ¡°That¡¯s ridiculous. They can¡¯t have found us that quickly, can they?¡±

    ¡°They found us last night. They will come.¡±

    ¡°This is a Legion Cleonar. It is a beast that does not stir quickly.¡±

    ¡°I am fully aware. Forgive me for sounding like our...erstwhile master, but if this beast does not wish to be roused by a thousand spears, it will save its rest for another day.¡±

    ***

    The Legion had mustered for battle in record time.

    After Khafra had consented, Cleonar set to rousing and mustering the cohorts that made up the first legion with a curious mania, and now they stood proud over the mustered might of five thousand battle ready legionnaires of Nerkai.

    They had marched from the camp at first light, spreading their eastward-facing lines between the bank of the river and the beginning of the desert dunes in a staggered curve. They stood atop the tallest dune on their right flank, Cleonar with standard set at her side and glaive ready, Khafra bedecked in heavy scale and with his lions-head helm nestled in the crook of his arm. Down below, the ranks of heavily armoured infantry prepared positions and obscured their great mass within the undulating dunes, readying a series of ambushes, baits, flanks and feints.

    ¡°We¡¯ve made the best use of the ground that we can. I still don¡¯t see your midday assault. Of all the things I expected Naga to be, tardy was not one of them,¡± Khafra said, pride swelling in his chest at how efficiently his legion had readied themselves.

    ¡°We needed to be prepared by midday. I never spoke of a midday assault, but they will come,¡± Cleonar said with an air of finality. ¡°Any later and they would have caught us unawares. Instead, we shall turn that back on them.¡±

    ¡°And what provides you such devilish insight?¡± a familiar voice called from behind them, making Khafra tense and Cleonar sigh. Syla stalked up the dune toward them with Shadrak in tow, her black formal outfit seeming untouched by the sand and wind.

    Khafra took a moment to ensure his face was level, calm yet stern as he half-turned to face her. He eyed her for a moment, allowing the comforting quiet her statement had broken to settle back in.

    He turned away from her, casually gesturing with one hand to Cleonar. ¡°It is your experience. Enlighten her.¡±

    Cleonar smiled behind her mask of chainmail. ¡°It is a story I may recount to you in full one day, but I shall not begin a lecture. Suffice to say, I am the only soul here with experience fighting the true minions of the Naga. Thirty years ago, in the sand to the east of here when I was a mere Centurion.¡± The memory was clearly an unpleasant one, as her smile sank into a frown.

    Syla frowned. ¡°That¡¯s it? The source of your devilish insight is a minor skirmish with some petty slaves from thirty years ago? Do you even remember it?¡± she snarled, her tone low and bordering on disgust.

    Khafra remained still, but out of the corner of his eye he could see Cleonar¡¯s fingers curling slowly around the standard, squeezing it tightly.

    ¡°They are not a foe you forget,¡± she said, her voice composed yet distant. ¡°They are no unthinking mob. They know full well the totality of their strengths and weaknesses.¡±

    ¡°They are just slaves!¡± Syla snapped, taking an aggressive stride toward Cleonar. ¡°They are mortal! They fear their masters, but not as much as they fear death! A solid line of steel, shield and spear would stop them dead, while you hold us in¡­this! This staggered mess!¡±

    ¡°You would think that,¡± Cleonar said, her tone pained now. ¡°We made the same mistake. Those in service of the Naga do not fear death, their fear of their masters is so much greater.¡± She peered over her shoulder at Syla, her eyes hard. ¡°They may struggle to pierce our armour, to break our shields¡­and so they will flow like water. They will find any crack, any weakness, any opening¡­and force it open, flooding through it with all the concentrated force they can muster.¡±

    Somewhere down in the armoured ranks before them, a horn began to blow. It was followed by another, then another, until hundreds were filling the air with their call.

    ¡°Our ring of steel is not infinite. Our lines can never be perfect,¡± Cleonar continued, her tone growing firmer, harder. ¡°So, we must not give them time to find our weaknesses. Our enemy cannot react to a foe they cannot see until they have already lost.¡±

 XXVIII: Battle in the dunes

    The horns did not sound now, there was no need. They could measure their time in the rising and falling of the wave of bodies sweeping over the dunes towards them.

    Half a legion stood ready to receive them. Hemmed in at the banks of the river, amongst the trees and brush, five cohorts of infantry stood shoulder-to-shoulder and stared down the oncoming horde. Banners were held high, shields bearing the silver tower at the ready.

    They may have been bait, but the elite of the first legion waited proud and resolute.

    His legion.

    Khafra stood, perhaps foolishly, at the forefront of his own line. All around him were seasoned veterans, as prepared for battle as anyone could ever be. Bedecked in heavy scale armour and holding scale-shaped shields, every single one of them was armed for any foe; blades to slash, maces to bludgeon and spears to pierce. As the enemy advanced, his chest swelled with pride. There was a flicker of fear, but Khafra quashed it; a fully massed legion was a mighty thing, and his legion more so than any other. If anything could hold back this tide, it was the Nerkain First.

    A wordless shout rang out, followed by a single, thunderous stamp as shields locked and spears came down.

    The whoops and shouts of the foe filled the air, but they did not barrel head-first into the prepared lines. They marched in a semblance of order, rolling forward to the collective beat of pounding drums.

    Their cavalry emerged to the fore, dragging themselves from the face of the horde by the gathering pace of their steeds. They were not without form or coherence. Something within that mass was martialling them into a wedge, aimed straight at their heart.

    Another shout. Every muscle clenched, every jaw set as they braced for the charge¡­and it began to rain.

    Arrows, javelins, spears and axes. Loosed, thrown or simply hurled with all the strength they could muster. A man, three down the line from Khafra took an arrow to his eye. Before he was even dead the soldier behind him pulled his soon-to-be corpse to the ground, taking his place in the line. Another, at Khafra¡¯s left, took an axe to the shoulder, eliciting only a grunt of pain as his armour held and the blow glanced wide.

    All around him this story played out a hundred times, a thousand. Discipline held. Armour held. The line held. In the final moments time began to slow to a crawl, the horses barrelling headlong into the wall of outstretched spears seeming to move in slow motion.

    Then came the clash.

    A massive smack of flesh and steel; Saszrukai shouted and hissed, horses whinnied, blood spilled, and all became death. Spears thrust, swords swung, axes whirled. Orders would mean little now. The slaves had wedged themselves into their line and the din of battle was far too overwhelming, all Khafra could do was fight, fight and hope his men held true.

    He threw a man off his horse with a thrust of his spear, but was shunted back as an axe slammed into his shield and stuck fast. He stabbed and stabbed and stabbed, taking eyes, piercing limbs and puncturing organs. Shuffling forward inch by bloody inch, he provided his own mote of might into the line¡¯s squeeze of the cavalry wedged into their formation.

    Their momentum robbed, the cavalry stalled, as the legionaries pressed in on all sides.

    They refused to simply give in and die, finding joints and eye sockets in the encroaching wall of steel-clad legionaries. The dirt was stained red as lizard and horse alike were cut apart.

    They began an attempt to pull out, slaves shouting to one another in a foreign tongue for retreat. All the while their horses began to panic and jostle, each attempting to squeeze its way out as the legionaries inched in closer.

    Khafra aimed low, snarling and hissing as he deliberately agitated the horses further by slicing tendon and muscle. The panic increased as horses thrashed in a futile effort to free themselves from the crush.

    A pair of legionaries locked into place in front of Khafra, sealing him out of the fight, but it was all but over by then. It had been barely half a minute from clash to ejection, and their line had held with what was, given the circumstances, minimal casualties.

    The meagre survivors of the enemy¡¯s cavalry collapsed backward, towards the advancing mob of slaves. Although they had just watched their cavalry be slaughtered, they seemed emboldened to charge forward. Underneath the din of battle, Khafra swore he heard the crack of whips.

    There was no sign of the snake, but it was time to show the first card in his hand.

    Khafra snatched the smaller of a pair of horns hung from his belt, raising it to his lips as he moved back to the front of the line. The legionaries parted to let him through, slight nudges, grunts and hisses from the soldier behind alerting each legionary in front to move. The wail of the horn resounded across the sand-blasted plain before them, rolling over the pounding charge of the slaves.

    The line locked shields once more at the horn¡¯s call, as a wave of flesh and scale poured towards them, screaming and hollering. They came on heedless of their own safety, assuming their foe possessed no archers

    What fools, Khafra thought.

    At the signal, the entire archer compliment of the first legion announced their presence with a hail of arrows. Hidden away high on the dunes, surrounding the advancing horde on three sides, their well-drilled volleys cut the slaves down in droves.

    The foe baulked at their sudden losses, their momentum draining as slaves began stumbling over the dead as they fell. They slowed, splitting their army into pieces to chase off every threat at once. They had the numbers to do it, swarming up the dunes without halting their charge toward the front line.

    The archers were not without their defenders, however. All of the remaining heavy infantry from the legion thumped forth and formed a bulwark before them, creating islands of spear, bow and steel against the oncoming tide.

    ¡°Spears!¡± Khafra screamed at the top of his lungs. As one, the front-line reared back, before letting fly their spears in another brutal volley. Slaves were pierced, impaled and skewered, collapsing in bloody heaps.

    Without offering a moment of pause, the legionaries of the first slammed shield-first into the scattered line, swords whirling. They drove in deep with the momentum of their charge, wedging themselves into the slave horde¡­yet eventually all halted together as their momentum was exhausted. Surrounded, every drive into the enemy¡¯s lines t resulted in a fight for their own survival against a mob of screaming, hissing and clawing slaves.

    Khafra was in one such wedge, buried in the thickest of the fighting. A crooked spear with a piece of flint as its tip grazed across his helm, and he took off the arm holding it with an upward arc of his blade. A crudely forged sword came down, thudding off his shield as he swiped low, maiming the wielder he couldn¡¯t even see. Just when he was hoping for a breather in the onslaught, a dagger appeared from nowhere, jutting under his shield and into his stomach. The blade stuck fast in his torso, but the armour held, and Khafra lashed out with a bone-cracking swipe of his shield in return.

    Breathing came sharp and whistling as he flexed his torso to force the dagger free. Every emotion was gone. All thought was focussed on the fighting, on seeing the next swing coming and countering before it killed him. Battle was sensory overload in the extreme, but Khafra used that tsunami of sensation to crush anything else within him and hone his mind to a razor''s edge.

    The man next to him lost his head to a two-handed axe swing, spraying blood in a wide arc as Khafra crouched in low and sliced the killer from groin to shoulder. He backstepped from a second axe, which grazed his chest and sent blood-spattered links from his scale-mail across the sand. Another legionary swooped in to his rescue, slicing a lethal chunk from the slave¡¯s head.

    The greater battle melted away into a messy life-or-death rhythm, a chaotic tableau where nothing mattered but blocking the next lethal swing. He could barely comprehend what was going on. Weapons loomed from a mass of grasping limbs and scaled bodies, and he struck at them relentlessly. Holding on to life until their line could push far enough forward to relieve them was all they could do.

    But the line wasn¡¯t pushing forward. Swamped by sheer numbers, they were barely holding. The slaves were showing a drive beyond what he had expected, Cleonar¡¯s fears had been well founded.

    He headbutted a slave who got too close, the teeth of his helm scratching out scales and drawing blood. An axe came toward his shoulder, but he sidestepped so it only glanced off his armoured side. He ripped open their throat with a quick swipe before they could raise the weapon again.

    Another axe came down, and Khafra had just sidestepped into it.

    It thudded into his shoulder with a wet squelch before he could raise his shield, forcing him down to one knee. He swiped out with his khopesh, feeling the weapon tear though flesh and muscle. The axe tore from his shoulder with a spattering of blood and a hiss of pain. Khafra shoved himself up and backwards from his attacker, into the relative safety of his fellow legionaries as blood ran down his armour.

    There was no sign of the snake, but they had to commit now.

    Grabbing loosely at the second horn hung from his belt, it slipped from the grasp of his blood-slick hand. It disappeared from sight amongst the trudging boots of the legionaries around him, and Khafra¡¯s breath caught in his chest. He quickly pushed and shoved after the glimpse of polished ivory, finding the horn a few steps away.

    He went down to one knee, dropping his khopesh to lift it with his other hand and blew the horn as hard as he could. The note was lower than the previous one, a deeper, bass tone that echoed and rolled out in waves, transforming into a wavering wail as his voice faltered.

    ***

    Up on the high dunes at the rear flank of the battle, Shadrak slapped Cleonar on the shoulder with a grin when they heard the horn. ¡°No snake. Let¡¯s get in there and make a mess.¡±

    Cleonar snarled at the mercenary, uncomfortable with his overly-fraternal nature. ¡°You should be manning your ballistae, mercenary. Let the real soldiers do the fighting and you stay out of it.¡±

    Shadrak began to laugh, loud and bellowing as he pulled a cruel-bladed axe from his belt. ¡°Oh no, no, no. You¡¯ve made it a challenge now!¡± He began to stalk forward, weighing the axe in his right hand as he hefted up a curved hook in his left. ¡°Misa!¡± he called, grinning ear to ear. ¡°I give you the bolt throwers. The snake¡¯s either dead or fictional, so just point it at the mass and let loose! Shouldn¡¯t be hard even with your aim!¡±

    Misa acknowledged with a thumbs up, snapping her fingers and gesturing to the gathered mercenaries with her other hand as she set to organising them. Cleonar snarled and looked to her own troops. ¡°Legionaries! Form up and forward, with me!¡±You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

    She took to a long, loping stride down the bank, glaive in both hands and held low. Legionaries stepped in behind her, coming down the side of the dune towards the slave horde¡¯s left flank.

    This scene repeated across the battlefield.  Officers shouted commands to reserves of more lightly armed and armoured legionaries, secreted away to hunt the Naga, as they pulled themselves from hiding and entered the fray.

    They slammed into the fight, shouldering and stabbing their way through the slaves.

    Cleonar was calm, precise and technical. A blade comes down; step back, bring the killing edge around in a tight arc to open the throat. A second turns to her; step in, bring the edge down into the shoulder and through the bone. An axe to her left; pull the glaive back, flick under the beard of the axe, pull up to disarm, pull down into the skull.

    Shadrak was the exact opposite. There was no technique to him in the slightest. He was messy, chaotic, unpredictable, and took every advantage he found.

    He threw out the hook, catching a slave on the shoulder and pulled hard on the rope, using his axe to tear their throat open as they stumbled forward. He kicked sand up into the face of a slave making a beeline for him, following with a uppercut from his axe. He ripped the hook free, and slammed it into the skull of a third, headbutted a fourth. Pulling the third down and behind him, he stomped the fourth in the groin to keep him down, ducking under a swinging mace, he hacked into their side, but they didn¡¯t fall, so he hacked again, and again, and again until they stopped moving. A legionary had finished off the fourth, so he took a moment to breathe before stalking forward again.

    He fought dirty, but he fought hard. He knew Cleonar would never respect him, but he was deadly enough for the task at hand.

    They were making progress, hacking into the side and rear lines of the slave horde when they encountered a true obstacle. Cleonar quickly realised something was wrong because Shadrak had fallen silent.

    ¡°Sorcerer! Fucking down!¡± he bellowed suddenly, cursing as he threw himself to the ground just as a fist-sized bolt of un-light passed where his torso was a moment ago. The bolt was formed of utter dark, yet it left a corona of sickly purple light around her vision, accompanied by a stabbing pain behind her eyes and an ethereal wail.

    The bolt drove deep into the ground, kicking up dust in all directions and showering them in sand. A second bolt whistled out of the dust, passing over Cleonar¡¯s left shoulder by no more than a meter. Even at such a distance, it sucked the heat from her scales and seemed to make all the world¡¯s colours wash out for a moment. Such horrible magic, it made her shudder, even though it hadn¡¯t touched her.

    But what it did to living flesh was worse.

    A legionary behind her took the bolt on his shield, but it did nothing to stop it. It burst through the metal with ease, buckling and splitting it apart, and the moment it touched his scales it flowed into him. The anti-light spread like wildfire, engulfing his entire body in moments.  It spilled out from every crack in his armour, every seam between his scales before it began to eat him away.

    Just as quickly as he was engulfed, he was consumed. Body and soul, leaving nothing behind. No ash, no bones, not even a scrap. His equipment and clothes thudded to the ground, hollow and empty.

    All the while, he screamed.  His wailing continuing even after his body had ceased to be, echoing forth in undulating waves.

    Bile rose in Cleonar¡¯s throat. Her will faltered, the grip on her weapon slacked and she stumbled back. To destroy someone so utterly was unthinkable.

    Fighting back the urge to vomit, she clenched her jaw, biting her tongue to bring herself back to reality. Breathing heavily and looking around, she could see those under her command were just as lost as she was, and the foe was taking advantage.

    Here a legionary was pounced upon and stabbed with a dozen knives, there another had their legs swept out from under them and chest caved in. All was descending into pandemonium and chaos. A single death cascading into countless others.

    She could feel the panic bubbling inside her, but she refused to let it take hold. Hands shaking, she forced it down and spun around, trying to pierce the swarm and find the thing that did this.

    Another bolt whirled out, streaking through the mob and past Cleonar, but among the mass of jostling bodies, stabbing blades and whirling weapons she couldn¡¯t see who, or what, had thrown it.

    She was fending them off at arm¡¯s length. By flicking her glaive this way and that to deflect and parry she could keep their weapons at bay, stepping back where she needed to as she tried to keep her bearings to track down this monster.

    A sharp whistling sounded, and in a sudden gout of blood and sand a narrow line was punched through the encroaching mob. Sparing a look over her shoulder, she could see the ballistae, Shadrak¡¯s prized bolt throwers, had finally positioned themselves and begun to hurl their oversized ordinance into the mass below them. The ache of tension fled her, and all Cleonar could feel was the invigorating pump of pure adrenaline through her system.

    More thudded down now. Each bolt utterly eviscerating any unlucky enough to be in their path, leaving little more than mounds of gore behind.

    With the bolts gouging deep lines through the enemy, Cleonar steeled herself to move closer, watching as gaps opened and closed for any sign of whatever infernal thing was hurling its horrific sorceries at them. What she found first was Shadrak.

    Still on the ground, scrambling and thrashing like a creature possessed, the mercenary was desperately trying to climb to his feet. He was screaming and bellowing, legs kicking at knees, groins, faces and hands as he grabbed, chopped, and pulled at those around him just to stay alive. He was only a few paces deep into their semblance of a line, and Cleonar dove forward to assist.

    She hacked one down with an arcing blow, but it was sloppy, splattering her with gore. She snarled and hissed, ripping her weapon free and turning it on those around her. She swiped and jabbed, holding them off for now¡­just one more moment.

    Another ballista bolt slammed in, throwing up sand in every direction and pinning the gored remnants of two slaves to the ground., Cleonar used the panic it brought to spring forward, shoving her way to Shadrak. She sliced upward, carving open the face of a slave looming over the prone mercenary.

    Shadrak immediately took advantage as he spotted Cleonar towering over him. He snapped forward, biting the nearest slave in the throat and thudding his axe into the stomach of another.

    He tore open their belly and ripped out a throat with his teeth, gore raining over his form in crimson rivers. He plunged his hook into another, using their body as an anchor to drag himself up. He gulped in air as he stumbled upright, spattered from head to toe with blood, both his own and his enemies¡¯, his eyes wide and bloodshot. He heard a scream. Another damned scream.

    Those screams kindled something in him, a burning fire borne of hatred and horror. Peeking through the horde just in front of him, he saw the face of the creature responsible for this madness. It was a gaunt thing, drained of colour with scales taut to its bones. It raised its hands as another bolt crackled around its fingers, fingers stained with the same magic that it threw, slowly eating away at its own body.

    Another victim screamed. Shadrak screamed with them, throwing himself back into the fray as Cleonar moved in to his side. He ignored her shouts and wild gestures, hacking and ripping at anything in his way.

    Scraps of armour, strips of cloth and chips of metal marked his progress. Chunks of his flesh were hacked free from his body, and he felt an axe kiss his lower jaw, taking a sliver of bone with it. A spear ripped against his side.

    But they were all too slow to stop him, he was beyond sense, beyond pain.

    Cleonar was behind him, batting aside the deadliest of the blows raining down on him as best she could, but they were clattering against her own armour as well. The surviving legionaries were surging in just behind them in answer to her barked orders. All they had to do was survive.

    The accursed creature throwing the magic sneered through cracked teeth as it laid eyes upon Shadrak, simply raising a finger to point as the mercenary threw himself forward.

    He was intercepted, slammed into mid-air by a grey-scaled Saszrukai. They thumped to the floor and grappled with one another. Shadrak went for an open-clawed grab, but the newcomer rolled away and sprung to its feet with easy agility. Shadrak dragged himself up, teeth gritted, and face contorted into a hateful snarl.

    They squared off, circling around each other, waiting for the first blow to strike.

    The newcomer was clad in a sleeveless tight-fitting jacket of treated leather and straight trousers, loosely holding a single edged-blade in one hand. Its dead eyes stared impassively at Shadrak, its face too calm for the death surrounding them.

    The creature¡¯s master moved to its side, draped in fraying robes being eaten away by its own corruptive powers so quickly that Cleonar could see frayed scraps of cloth fluttering to the ground. Its sneer twisted into a cruel smile as it looked at Cleonar, snapping its cracked fingers once.

    Immediately, its grey-scaled servant sprang forth, swiping high with its blade and forcing Shadrak down into a tackle, robbing the lunge of its momentum.

    It brought its knee into his face, Shadrak shoving it away to keep his neck as another swipe came down. The next blow came without pause, but Shadrak had his axe up now, deflecting it away with a flick of the wrist.

    While they grappled, Cleonar dove towards the smiling creature that had slaughtered her legionaries. The heretical energies it commanded began bubbling in its fingers as he chanted in low, hushed tones, stepping out of her first sweep.

    His words came slowly, blood trickling from his lips as she pressed her assault. It stepped, ducked, weaved and dodged, making no effort to close the distance between them.

    She could not understand a word it was saying. She attempted to muster a taunt, a curse, something to address the terrible things this creature had done. All that escaped from her mouth was a roar, her anger and hatred pouring into every swing.

    The slaves had formed a ring around the twin duels, out of fear or respect Cleonar did not know, nor did she care. What she did care for was that the ring was closing in, squeezing them tighter and tighter.  Their advance may have only stumbled at first, but with legionaries now hemming them in from all sides they were now crumbling entirely.

    Still, Cleonar had to press every advantage she had to get close enough to run the bastard through, even as the circle of bodies closed in around them. Her fear of this creature was gone, all it had done simply made her too furious. Yet, all of its reactions were dodges, backsteps and sideswipes, and she could not get close enough to put her strength to good use.

    As though he was suddenly distracted, Cleonar¡¯s blade scraped across his hide. Swiping an arc of blood with the cut, she had to halt her momentum and twist her blade around to capitalise.

    Then, with a sudden burst of speed, the heretical creature dove forward, grabbing her glaive by the shaft and pushing it to the side. It countered with a savage backhand, wielding strength that should not have been possible with its skeletal frame. She slammed face-first into the dirt, the breath violently stolen from her chest.

    Her vision swam, but she dragged her head up, expecting her own glaive to come down on her neck at any moment. Instead, she saw the creature¡¯s corrupted fingers brush across the steel of her weapon, infecting the metal with its blight. Then, with a slow downward drag, it performed yet another heresy.

    It sliced open the air. A neat, shimmering line appeared in the wake of the tainted steel. It tossed the weapon aside, letting it clatter to the ground as its corruption spread and steadily ate it away.

    Reaching forward, its fingers twisted at unnatural angles to pull open this wound, revealing the void from perhaps which it drew its magic. A void that hurt her to look into, made her head pound and blood trickle from her eyes.

    Without hesitation it stepped through, and as the weapon finally disappeared to nothing behind it, the wound it had ripped in the fabric of existence closed.

    Cleonar tore her eyes away, taking heavy, shuddering breaths and blinking away the blood in her eyes. She would not forget that sight for as long as she lived; it made her skull ache and limbs twitch, her thoughts turned sluggish, like soup in her mind.

    Shadrak had fared better. His blind fury had left him with a handful of deep wounds, drooling blood across his tattered clothes as he battered himself against the grey-scaled creatures defence time and again. The creature had held him off, parrying, riposting, dodging and wearing the mercenary down cut by cut. If it had taken any injuries, they were not deep enough to wound it; as no blood stained its scales or clothes. This stalemate continued until the creature landed a grievous blow on Shadrak¡¯s shoulder, sinking the edge deep into bone and sinew after cracking scales. The blade stuck fast, wedged into the splintered bone. Shadrak screamed with pain and fury, twisting his body to drag the weapon from his foe¡¯s grip and laying into him with his axe.

    It defended itself with its arms, taking the deep hacking blows without a sound, as meat was sliced from its body in heft chunks. Still there was no blood. The flesh that fell to the ground was sickly and pale, but there was not a single drop of fluid.

    Shadrak growled his frustration. The damn thing should be yowling in pain and faltering as he hacked it to pieces, but it refused to budge, or even to speak.

    The creature twisted under one wide swipe, pushing in close and battering Shadrak¡¯s ribs with a series of jabs. It slid out to the side as Shadrak tried to retort, features still blank despite being cut to the bone in so many places.

    Shadrak snarled, baring his teeth and lowering himself into a crouch. As the creature dove in again, Shadrak swept out his tail, kicking a gout of sand into the creature¡¯s face. He followed with a swipe of his hook at the creature¡¯s ankle, ripping the leg out from under it and bringing his axe down. He caught his axe hard on the right clavicle, cracking bone and splitting scale, and then cleaved down through the meat of its right arm. The blow almost entirely removed the limb at the shoulder before sinking deep into its chest.

    Still there was no blood. No cry of pain.

    Gasping, Shadrak finally began to slow as he pulled his axe free from the grey meat. Pain shot through his body and aches set into his abused limbs as he raised his axe again to take its head.

    The creature simply laid there, accepting defeat and staring up at him with those cold, dead eyes. With one arm now useless beside it and its energy spent, it seemed to welcome its death without a word.

    Cleonar stopped him, taking hold of Shadrak¡¯s wrist, her grip weak. ¡°It¡¯s just another pawn. Let¡¯s get something out of this fight, other than suffering,¡± she muttered, her voice unsteady.

    Shadrak held for a moment, staring at the figure sprawled before him. He nodded, lowering his axe and letting himself fall to the ground as all around them, the legionaries began to move in.

    It was over.

 XXIX: Unwelcome but awake

    Aiur dredged himself up from another dream-filled sleep. Yet he did not awaken suddenly as he had since their onset. Instead, he slowly rolled back into consciousness, pulling himself out of the abyss. The memories came with crystalline clarity.

    He had fallen into the void once more, but it was languid, slow and almost gentle this time. He felt cushioned by some unseen force as he glided. And with this new sense of control, he had the wits to take note of the singular thing in this void.

    A light. A mote of golden light.

    Perhaps it wasn¡¯t there before, perhaps he was in a different endless void. But he wasn¡¯t imagining mote of light, it lurked at the very deepest point of this place, if it even had an end. He reached out towards it, extending fingers that he could not see to grasp the light as it came closer and closer.

    It grew larger and larger, until a mote was a fist-sized orb. In the next moment it was the size of his body, then larger and larger still until the blinding light consumed his vision entirely, driving out the darkness.

    He had awoken then, slow and gentle as if easing out of a deep, peaceful rest. Consciousness rolled back like a piece of driftwood carried to shore by a wave, and he pulled it up to the surface.

    His memories before the dream were hazy and vague, but he knew he had collapsed from exhaustion as they drifted downriver on the craft. He had laid there, sprawled out on the rough wood that had pressed into his back and neck at awkward angles, making sleep elusive until his remaining energy was gone entirely.

    As he came to, he realised he was wrapped in warm and tender linen. His vision was unfocussed and bleary when he opened his eyes, but without a doubt he was indoors. It was warm, the air was still and the walls around him were the brown-yellow of sandstone.

    He tried to sit up, but pain rippled through his chest and he slumped back with a heavy groan. Resigned to blinking his vision clear, he took a moment to orientate himself. The air tasted of strange concoctions and was filled with the heady smell of expensive tinctures. All was deathly quiet.

    Pressing his tongue to the roof of his mouth he pondered, but his thoughts led only to a series of dead ends and false starts. He laid there not quite knowing when or where he was, letting the pain subside before he tried to move again.

    He was not left alone for long. A figure with pale yellow scales, emerald eyes and ankle-length green robes strode elegantly into the room. Charms around her wrists and neck rattled as she carried in a deep clay bowl filled with a strong-smelling concoction that stung Aiur¡¯s nose.

    She paused as his eyes darted to her, cocking her head to one side before moving to the bedside. Her voice was soft and gentle, her accent adding curious undulations to her tone that gave Aiur the clue he needed. ¡°It is good to see you awake. Worry not, for you are safe here,¡± she said, with what was without a doubt a Balanzarian accent.

    ¡°Who are you?¡± Aiur asked, his voice coming out as little more than a hoarse croak.

    ¡°I am Timasa, a Priestess dedicated to Aten through the healing arts. You and your companion have been here for some time, but you have been recovering well.¡±

    Memories fired through Aiur¡¯s mind; vague images of Daiss sprawled on the raft, and Rexis¡¯ body sinking into the water. ¡°Daiss? Where is he?¡±

    ¡°Your friend is down the hall. He is¡­stable. Recovering,¡± she said after a momentary pause, a note of concern buried beneath her accent.

    ¡°When can I see him?¡±

    ¡°You need bed rest. A few more days perhaps before we can get you up and moving,¡± she said as she applied the concoction in the bowl to her fingers. ¡°You were in a poor state when you arrived.¡±

    ¡°How bad was it?¡± Aiur grumbled as she began applying the cold, viscous substance to his right arm, making him jolt at the sudden sense of feeling.

    ¡°Your arm was infected. Your ribs cracked. You can be up and moving in a few days. It¡¯ll be no strenuous activity or armour for you, at least for the next thirty days.¡±

    ¡°I can¡¯t do that. I can¡¯t stay here,¡± he groaned. He tensed and relaxed his arm repeatedly as the infernal cold of the curious substance spread through his limb. She continued working the gel into his arm with splayed fingers, focussed on an ugly scar on his bicep.

    ¡°I¡¯m afraid you don¡¯t have any choice in this, sir. Even when you can walk, that will not mean you are better. Any strenuous activity, any pressure beyond the norm on your chest could puncture a lung,¡± Timasa said, her tone stern. ¡°Cracked ribs are a serious matter. There is a full regimen of recovery you must go through before I will even consider letting you leave my care.¡±

    ¡°I cannot stay here¡­There is a Naga in the desert.¡±This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

    She paused at that. Her hands stopped and she looked him in the eye. Her face slowly contorted into a frown as she leaned towards him, as though she would smell any deceit on him. He held her gaze for a long moment, his breathing deep but steady.

    She suddenly leant back, pushing herself to her feet. ¡°I¡¯ll get the Consul.¡±

    ***

    Aiur spent the following hours drifting in and out of a mercifully dreamless sleep.  Knowing what was coming he allowed himself the rest. He needed to be ready.

    He heard their arrival in good time, heavy thumping footsteps on the flagstones lining the corridor outside his room and Timasa¡¯s voice getting closer and closer. He held his breath as he tried to gently prop himself up in bed and make himself somewhat presentable.

    The Consul pushed the door open, filling the entrance with his broad frame, though he stopped dead when he saw Aiur. He wasn¡¯t exceptionally tall, simply muscular from a life at sea. His body was wrapped in the tight-fit leathers and loose cloth of a sailor. His scales were a scattered mix of blue and green, his jaw sharp and angular, and his glare hard. Crimson coils marked his caste around his eyes, but the eyes themselves were a light brown, indicating his origins and his elevated status.

    ¡°Do you know who this is?¡± he rumbled, his accent far harsher than the priestesses, but still with that rolling Balanzarian signature.

    ¡°I do not believe that matters,¡± Timasa said, appearing over his shoulder before slipping elegantly past the brutish lizard.

    ¡°Aiur Zerkash,¡± he snarled with contempt, turning to the priestess. ¡°Consul of Ra¡¯ven. Oathbreaker. Our enemy.¡±

    Everything he had said was true. Aiur had broken a treaty between Houses Zerkash and Amunet with a surgical strike across their borders and earned himself the curse of oathbreaker. It had all been at Ra¡¯ven¡¯s command, of course, but he had been burdened with the title.

    ¡°That does not concern me. He is an injured man in need of my attention.¡±

    ¡°Then leave,¡± he growled. ¡°I will handle this myself. The authority of the Archon allows me. Sanu would agree regardless, as would your High Priestess.¡±

    Timasa interposed herself between the Consul and Aiur, using her slight advantage in height to its full extent over the Consul. ¡°Neither your Archon nor Zalia¡¯s authority matters here. I am bound by my oaths to Aten as the healer, I cannot willingly allow lives to be lost on this holy ground irrespective of even the High Priestess¡¯ desires.¡±

    Aiur and the Consul both stared at her, one in shock and the other in annoyance. She stood her ground, her head held high. ¡°He has something to say to you, Rateph. You will listen, or you will leave.¡±

    Rateph growled, folding his arms and thumping his tail against the floor. ¡°Fine. Speak, oathbreaker.¡±

    Timasa stepped to the side, remaining within arm¡¯s reach of the Consul.

    ¡°There is a Naga in the desert,¡± Aiur croaked, his throat dry.

    ¡°Bullshit,¡± Rateph rumbled. ¡°Are we done?¡±

    Aiur shook his head. ¡°It¡¯s coming for Balanzar.¡±

    ¡°Evidence?¡±

    Aiur sighed. He pushed himself further upright to take several deep breaths. ¡°You know of Sturva?¡±

    ¡°I do. Small mining hamlet to the north-west of here. Mostly abandoned after the iron dried up. We ceded it to you as part of a peace treaty that you violated two seasons later.¡±

    Aiur winced. ¡°It¡¯s gone. Burned down so we could escape¡­it seems so selfish now, it all does. I had taken some scouts out on a training manoeuvre, alongside my head scout.¡± Aiur stared off into the distance, his eyes glazing as he recalled the horror of it all. ¡°I just wanted time away from the politics¡­Sturva was to be the site of a little trial against some legionaries. They never arrived, the snake did instead with a screaming horde at its back.¡±

    ¡°Yet you, out of them all, survived.¡±

    ¡°Barely. They chained those they could and killed those they couldn¡¯t. The creature used some kind of magic, left me unconscious. The moment I awoke it cracked me over the well and started to take cuts at my arm with a rusty cleaver. Make an example, I think. Some of the scouts were more¡­competent. They stayed hidden and they started fires to distract it.¡±

    Rateph¡¯s face was thunder; his great brow was furrowed and his slab-jawed face remained implacable and firm. ¡°You burned a village down so that you could escape, how noble.¡±

    Aiur¡¯s gaze hardened. ¡°Judge me how you will, but that was not my doing.¡±

    ¡°How did you end up here then? You washed up in the Ahbek, that river is a long way from Sturva.¡±

    ¡°How do you think?¡± Aiur hissed, spitting his words between his gritted teeth. ¡°We. Walked. For days and nights, all the while expecting an arrow in the back. Myself, Rexis and Daiss. Not enough food, not enough water, and the last scraps of our uniforms used to hold a raft together.¡±

    Rateph did not reply immediately. His tongue pressed against his teeth and a finger slowly tapped on his bicep. ¡°How many people did you say you found?¡± he asked finally, glancing at Timasa.

    ¡°Two,¡± she said quietly, still wary of the brutish Consul.

    ¡°Where¡¯s the third?¡± he said with a flash of his teeth.

    ¡°Dead,¡± Aiur croaked, the words eliciting a deep ache within his chest.

    ¡°Just dead? Surely there is a little more to your fanciful tale.¡±

    Aiur tensed as he shifted his weight again, sending a twinge of pain over his broken ribs. ¡°I don¡¯t know what killed him. It was dark¡­we were pushing the raft off. But it wasn¡¯t a damn crocodile,¡± he said, a grim laugh tailing off abruptly into a series of hacking coughs.

    ¡°hm¡­its plausible,¡± Rateph conceded with a grunt. He still did not sound convinced. ¡°It would be no surprise for a serpent to burn down half the countryside just to keep its movements concealed¡­but where did it land? My fleets ply the waters, east to south, all along the coastline. We are not missing a single ship.¡±

    ¡°The Abyss,¡± Aiur groaned.

    ¡°The Abyss,¡± Rateph snarled, ¡°is a mass of sudden reefs and deep trenches filled with sea monsters. The waters to the north are not passable.¡±

    ¡°The Naga would be the only ones insane enough to try!¡± Aiur shouted with great effort, tensing at the physical toll.

    Rateph held his tongue this time, his eyes falling from Aiur as he receded into thought.

    ¡°Would I be here,¡± Aiur spat through gritted teeth. ¡°Stuck in one of your hospital beds. With cracked ribs, and an infected arm.¡± He snarled each half-sentence now, the pain forcing him to take breaths just to relieve the pressure for a moment. ¡°If I had any other choice?¡±

    Rateph remained silent.

    Timasa moved in, putting an arm under Aiur and forcibly, yet gently, pushing him back into lying on the bed. She shot Rateph an ugly stare. After a few moments he relented, arms dropping to his sides.

    ¡°Fine,¡± he said, a slight smirk still upon his face, appearing to find some contentment in seeing Aiur in pain. ¡°Sanu will hear of this.¡±

 XXX: Stitches and tears

    It was decided. After this escapade was over, she would stay as far away from war as she could. It was an unsightly and unsettling thing, and the results made her stomach turn.

    She had not participated in the battle of course, but as the most senior priestess present it was her role to oversee the wounded. Sequestered amongst the craftsmen, cooks and healers she saw the results of war filter all too clearly.

    She was no stranger to wounds and sickness. She was, however, used to tame injuries, logical injuries, sickness of the body born of contagion and unsanitary conditions, wounds caused by accident. Most importantly, they brought her people who could be saved.

    Here, the tents acting as makeshift infirmaries were filled with the moans of the dying and the shrouds of those already lost. She had sown up gut wounds, cauterized severed limbs, bandaged ragged cuts, all of it unnecessarily messy and brutal. She had failed far too many times today already.

    It was after one such failure that she had noticed it. Her hands still dripping with blood, she had been trying to clean them to maintain some level of sanitation for the next patient. It was at that moment when she felt a curious cold sweep over her despite the stuffiness of the overcrowded tents.

    She was not the most skilled among the priesthood, especially next to the High Priestesses, but that did not stop her being sensitive to the supernatural. She didn¡¯t know what, but something unnatural was out there.

    It would be hours before she could follow up on that strange feeling, hours spent elbow-deep in gore trying to pull the dying back from the brink. She managed to personally save thirty-four lives before the rush of wounded died down.  But forty lives were also lost.

    She left the infirmary tent for the first time in nearly a day. The sun was setting but its light still made her squint, her hands occupied in wringing the blood from her fingers with a wet scrap of linen.

    She needed to take the opportunity to learn, it was inevitable if something unnatural had occurred that her expertise would be called upon. Any understanding could put them all at an advantage.

    Her first stop would be the mercenaries. They were boisterous, talkative. Rumours of anything untoward on the battlefield would spread quickly among them. If she could glean some information from them, she would go to the Legate informed.

    The Sand-Spears kept their tents separate from the main camp. Where the legionaries¡¯ tents were drab and uniform cloth, theirs were colourful and ostentatious. Small pennants and bright flags fluttered from the pinnacle of their oversized shelters, while men and women in mismatched clothing chattered, bartered and drank. It felt more like a travelling bazaar than a military unit.

    She walked as though lost, head turning and eyes scanning constantly as she devoured the sights, smells and sounds of this place. Mercenaries of all kinds stared back at her, sharpening weapons, sharing drinks, playing cards.

    Underneath the scent of spiced meats and alcohol there was the slightest hint of antiseptic. She frowned at that, following it, as the recipes for such substances were only offered to certified alchemists in major cities.

    She found herself at a broad, maroon tent. From inside came a ranting voice.

    ¡°I know it was a stupid idea!  It¡¯s not like I had any other choice¡­¡± Shadrak¡¯s unmistakable tones rumbled.

    Intrigued, Aretuza pushed aside the flap over the entrance and peered inside.

    There was a series of five large cots laid out in a neat row, covered in sheets and spaced out across the large tent. To the far left was a kind of desk, table and cupboard all carved from the same piece of wood, housing countless vials of curious substances and surgical tools in neat order. Leaning over the workstation was an elderly male with drab yellow scales, tinkering away over the source of the antiseptic smell.

    Some unlicensed physician Aretuza assumed. Tagging along with a band of scoundrels for profit and using substances he had no right nor license to. It did not surprise her that there were blasphemies here, and it offended her that they thought she would not find out.

    Laid on the cot nearest this workstation was Shadrak. His face was a mess of healing scars and cauterized wounds, while his chest was bound tightly in bandages. Curiously, Shadrak¡¯s attention was not focussed on the man attending to his mixture. Instead, his eyes were fixed on his second, the woman he had called Misa.

    Only the staccato tapping of mixing implements filled the air until he finally huffed, ¡°what did you expect me to do?¡±  He took a long swig from a skin that was assumedly filled with red wine, based on the colour of the spillage staining his bandages. His tongue ran across his teeth to savour the flavour as he looked back to his second.You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

    She was tilting her head a few degrees to the left and cocking an eyebrow.

    ¡°Don¡¯t look at me like that! It was a fucking sorcerer!¡± he shouted, arms gesticulating wide.  ¡°...You¡¯re like my mother,¡± Shadrak added with a grumble.

    A moment passed, and Misa didn¡¯t seem to move.

    ¡°Oh, shut up. You don¡¯t know your mother either,¡± Shadrak said.

    Aretuza stared on in some measure of confusion, but there was information to be gained here at least. They had mentioned a sorcerer, but they would have to be performing some catastrophic magic to have her sense it from so far away.

    ¡°Don¡¯t you start!¡± he said suddenly. ¡°You know how I feel about magic.¡±

    Aretuza frowned, Misa had barely moved. Perhaps her facial expression was conveying more than she could see from her angle.

    ¡°Yes, I am aware of the priesthood. It¡¯s bad enough we¡¯ve got all of them wandering about slinging magic, but they¡¯re supposed to keep it off the battlefields.¡±

    Misa leaned forward and rested her arms on her knees.

    ¡°Yes, I also know that Naga don¡¯t care,¡± the mercenary growled. ¡°It¡¯s why I don¡¯t like this. Who knows what else they¡¯ve got out there¡­¡±

    Finally, the physician turned away from his task. His face was sunken with age but maintained some measure of nobility in its pinched features, adorned with a pair of thin spectacles to complete his scholarly visage.

    ¡°If you are quite done rambling about your phobias and rampant magi, we can fit your replacement tooth,¡± he said, his voice thick with the dulcet tones of a Setaran accent.

    Aretuza began to move away. She had gained some idea of what was going on and would discover nothing else while a tooth was being fitted. She glimpsed Shadrak grumbling as he laid himself back, and the physician produced an iron fang with a spike and clamp to attach it to the gums, slathered in antiseptic.

    ***

    By the time Aretuza was summoned to meet with Khafra, she had spent a few hours listening and learning throughout the war-camp. She had learned little, but it was enough to give her an idea of what she was walking into.

    She pushed into the Legate¡¯s command tent, a simple and drab structure that was twice as broad as it was tall. Surrounding a prone and shackled figure with near-colourless scales stood Khafra, Cleonar and Syla. The tables strewn with maps, missives and letters had been pushed to the side to make room for this prisoner.  The space was cluttered and claustrophobic.

    ¡°Ah, Aretuza,¡± Khafra said as he turned to her, his voice level. ¡°We need your medical expertise on a particular matter.¡±

    ¡°We¡¯re staring at a corpse that won¡¯t die,¡± Syla hissed, only sparing her a glance over the shoulder.

    ¡°A corpse that won¡¯t die? That would certainly be a¡­curiosity,¡± Aretuza said, horrified by the idea. She moved further into the tent and looked back and forth between the group. ¡°If this is true, you seem too collected Khafra.¡±

    ¡°I am. It has been bested in combat once before, we can do so again if necessary.¡±

    Aretuza kneeled before the creature. It was a mess of grey and lifeless scales. Its eyes, looked vacant and lacked colour. Both its arms were cut to the bone in numerous places, and twitching hands laid palm-up on its legs as it knelt before her. To her shame, it took a moment to notice the great cleaving wound from clavicle to chest, that left an arm attached by nothing but a few sinews and knots of muscle.

    Revulsion filled her to the brim as she leant forward for a closer look. She could see through the gaping wound directly into the thing¡¯s ribcage. One of its lungs was ripped into a mess of flesh and arteries. All grey, all lifeless, the ragged organs and meat were almost the same colour as its scales, as though it had been drained with purpose and precision.

    She shifted her angle, tentatively pressing her fingers into the wound to push it open and peer inside. The meat was stiff, yielding slowly to her careful fingers, and the creature did not so much as wince as her digits squirmed inside its body.

    Its chest still rose and fell in a deep, steady rhythm, the head perfectly still. Beyond the first ruined lung, between the remnants of its ribcage, she could see its grey, bloodless heart beating and the left lung slowly inflating and deflating as it drew in air.

    She shuddered, nearly gagging as she stood back.  ¡°This¡­This thing should not be,¡± she muttered, filled with horror, fascination and revulsion all at once.

    ¡°I would be inclined to agree,¡± Syla said flatly. ¡°However, one of my most expensive mercenaries is a mess thanks to this thing. It is also sat in front of us. Being.¡±

    ¡°That does not change that it should not be!¡± Aretuza shouted, backing further away from the creature. ¡°It should have bled to death from that wound. Its breathing should be ragged and shallow, not that it should be breathing at all. It is¡­or, it should be, a corpse. The fact that it is not¡­leaves only one real possibility.¡±

    ¡°Magic,¡± Cleonar chimed in, arms folded as she stared at the creature. ¡°We certainly saw enough of that on the field.¡±

    Aretuza turned to her. ¡°Of course.  I was hoping you could tell us what you saw.¡±

    Cleonar¡¯s gaze fell as she retreated into her own thoughts. Her features twitched as she ran through the memories. ¡°The one leading them wielded peculiar sorceries. Magic that was eating away at everything it touched, even itself¡­even¡­souls.¡± She shuddered at the recollection.  ¡°I cannot say for certain. It is what I felt, at least.¡±

    Aretuza pursed her lips and nodded, pinching her chin between two clawed fingers. ¡°That opens possibilities. I do not recognise it, but there are forms of magic that even the priesthood considers heretical.¡±

    ¡°Such as?¡± Syla asked.

    ¡°Void magic. It calls upon a place too volatile, antithetical and unholy to ever be safe, controlled. Our knowledge of the void is limited, only that Aten was the one who decreed it heretical.¡±

    ¡°I saw a void,¡± Cleonar blurted. ¡°When the sorcerer escaped. It cut open a hole in the air and stepped through. It disappeared.¡±

    Aretuza paled. She had expected magic, something powerful or unknown, but not void magic. She stared wide-eyed at Cleonar. ¡°Are you absolutely certain?¡±

    ¡°I will never get that image out of my mind.¡±

    Aretuza swallowed, her breath shallowing as her mind raced. ¡°We must get to Balanzar. Now,¡± she muttered, dragging her gaze to Khafra. ¡°We cannot stay here if that is what we face.¡±

    Khafra frowned. ¡°We have no friends there. They are not going to open the gates and let us in.¡±

    ¡°A Naga in the desert, and now void magic?¡± Aretuza said, her tone growing grave. ¡°Someone in there is going to listen. One way or another.¡±

 XXXI: Mind of a serpent

    Agyrimithras lounged, sprawled on a gilded palanquin held aloft by six of his strongest slaves. Bone-headed dullards all, but they were pliable, easily trained like hounds.

    He peered around himself as he was carried forth. It was eight, eight slaves. He did not care particularly, but it was important to remember the details.

    He had been bathed this morning, and he was feeling so gloriously relaxed. A considerable improvement over the sudden fury that had overcome him in the aftermath of the incident at that small hamlet. Of course, this meant some dozen or so slaves would die of dehydration before they reached the river. But it was worth it to feel his scales so supple, so clean.

    The sun¡¯s kiss was all the better for this cleanliness, but he knew lounging around was making him complacent. The little things were slipping by; the number of slaves carrying his palanquin, the number of miles to the river, the reports he¡¯d been receiving from his inferiors.

    He sighed, stretching his limbs as he rose up upon his coils. It was important to remember the details, as the Master always reminded him. Damn the Master and his details. Without them he would not be here, without them he would be free.

    Thoughts for another time, he mused. He never could tell when the Master was scrying. He would run no risks, even with his thoughts.

    He looked down to his immediate inferior. He did not care enough to remember the thing¡¯s name, but he recognised its face. It was a sizable creature, for its kind, wrapped in armour, bar one arm that bore the brands of the Master¡¯s blade. It carried itself as though it still had dignity.  Remarkable after everything it had suffered.

    They were still a slave, of course, but less pathetic than the others. With strength enough to command the rabble in his absence, or at least the absence of his attention. He snapped his fingers, leaning forward over this marching creature.

    The palanquin halted and the creature stopped. ¡°Bring the subjects,¡± Agyrimithras hissed with deliberate slowness. He was speaking to a simpleton after all. ¡°I would hear them now.¡±

    Without a word the creature nodded, bowed, and retreated into the throng beyond his sight. He heard it calling out in the tongue of the slaves, summoning to him those who were literate and intelligent enough to feed him information.

    The serpent barely had enough time to clear the fog from his mind, flex his four limbs and recline more regally upon his own coils before there was a small mob before him.

    One stood out from the gaggle of insects cowering in the dirt: wrapped in tattered robes that flapped about its body in the desert wind, revealing its scales to be mottled with creeping corruption. The Weaver had returned.

    Agyrimithras¡¯ eyes narrowed as he regarded him. The thing¡¯s demeanour gave enough away; the downcast eyes, the low-sloped shoulders, the squirming fingers. Still, he should interrogate him all the same. There may be some entertainment to be had.

    ¡°You return,¡± Agyrimithras hissed, tongue darting and rolling as he spoke. ¡°Sooner than expected.¡±

    ¡°My lord. My¡­my master!¡± the Weaver scrambled; his pronunciation messy.

    He quailed under the serpent¡¯s gaze, refusing to look Agyrimithras in the eye. ¡°My news is¡­grave,¡± he whimpered, biting down on his tongue to create the correct, hissing inflections of his better¡¯s tongue.

    ¡°You come here alone,¡± Agyrimithras hissed venomously, his own tones clipped, precise and perfect as could be. ¡°That much is apparent.¡±

    The Weaver winced, lowering to his knees. ¡°T-the beast! The beast has been successful! The prey, that commander! It h-has killed one of his companions, he w-will soon be c-c-consumed!¡± By the time he had finished, blood was flicking from his lips.

    Agyrimithras¡¯ lips peeled back into a snarl. ¡°How many slaves escaped that hovel?¡± he spat, rising from his coils and looming over the weaver, who whined and babbled before squeaking out an unintelligible number. ¡°Thirty-seven! That is more than half the slaves we took! Yet your beast, of which you sang such high praises, has barely managed to kill one insolent, dust-trudging, cretin!¡±

    This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

    ¡°He was the most dangerous one!¡± the Weaver squealed, before dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. ¡°And soon it will be within the walls.¡±

    Agyrimithras¡¯ eyes wandered as he thought, watching as blood trickled from the creature¡¯s broken teeth to drool onto the sand below. The abomination the Weaver had pulled forth may yet still be of some use, the Weaver however had yet to absolve himself

    He raised upon his coils, slithering forth until their faces were almost touching. He hissed straight into the Weaver¡¯s ear, tone dripping with venom. ¡°What of our master¡¯s gifts? The protector? The slaves? They seem to be¡­. absent. Quarter of our throng was given in gift and it is absent.¡±

    There was a whine, a high-pitched whimper bottled up, only escaping from the corners of the Weaver¡¯s mouth. ¡°Legionaries!¡± it squealed, holding up crumbling fingers in supplication. ¡°Legionaries in the desert! Freeing slaves!¡±

    Agyrimithras paused for just a moment before slithering his way around the weaver in a full circle. ¡°Ah¡­and you engaged them. You fought an army and you were slaughtered.¡± He tutted, his tone twisting deep and grave. ¡°Your little incantations have begun to rot your brain it seems. As for some time we have had express purpose from our Master to avoid field battles. We have burned every village. We have enslaved all we find. We have slaughtered any who escape. All so that when we arrive, we will be but myth to the locals. You may not have noticed, but the dead and chained cannot scream to soldiers for help.¡±

    ¡°They make for Balanzar! The choir sings it so!¡± the Weaver screamed now, his tone pleading, arms outstretched. All the while his body was engulfed from the waist down in serpentine coils.

    Agyrimithras¡¯ lips pulled back into a snarl, baring his fangs as he loomed large. ¡°Then you have proven a greater liability than I could have ever predicted. Despite all your powers you are little more than an animal, and remain just as useful.¡± He hissed venomously, eyes narrowed. ¡°Dare I even let you justify your pitiful existence? Or shall I just mete out your punishment now?¡± he mused aloud.

    Realisation seemed to dawn in the Weaver¡¯s eyes. It¡¯s features slackened, before resolve flared in the pits of its sad, sunken eyes. Hands fell to its sides, clenching void-touched digits into tight fists, claws digging into its own palms and drawing beads of dark ichor.

    The serpent¡¯s brow raised. There was a spark of defiance flickering in there. That was a shame, he had hoped to entertain himself with torturing the creature until they arrived. Instead, he would have to snuff it out before the spark blazed into full-blown rebellion.

    A moment passed. The Weaver raised its hands toward its master, in supplication or attack none would ever know. The instant the Weaver moved, Agyrimithras followed suit, and the serpent was far faster than the lizard.

    A yelp escaped the Weaver¡¯s lips as layer upon layer of serpentine muscle engulfed it, twisting its surprise into a strangled scream as the coils squeezed and squeezed.

    All Agyrimithras had to do was tense, a casual flexing of his muscles. There was a sickening crack and a number of wet squelches, before bright crimson oozed between his coils.

    In the blink of an eye, the Weaver was little more than splintered bone, pulped organs and an annoying stain on Agyrimithras¡¯ scales.

    The serpent slithered back upon his palanquin, releasing a gentle sigh as he reclined upon his gore-streaked coils once more. ¡°I¡¯m going to need another bath,¡± he declared, letting his annoyance bleed through the words. Now he was going to have even fewer slaves by the time they reached the river. At least there were always more of the dull lizards to be acquired, he thought.

    He stared at his supplicants. Their eyes were all fixed on the flecks of bone and smears of blood covering his body with wide, horror-filled eyes. Mumbled half-words and terror-fuelled babbling rolled out from their irritating mouths. No doubt any reports they had to give were now forgotten.

    Their fear was delightful, but it was stale. A vintage he had supped from far too many times before. His new prey on the other hand, he had been a different flavour entirely. His eyes rolled, and he flicked one of his wrists dismissively as he retreated into his own thoughts.

    Armed legionaries making for Balanzar, armed legionaries that now knew of his little escapades in the desert. That posed a problem, but not an insurmountable one. This creature within the walls could be relied upon to cause a little havoc, but without the Weaver there was little hope of controlling it.

    The gaggle of slaves were still stood there, gawking at him. He needed time to think, and these pathetic creatures weren¡¯t helping his mind work.

    ¡°Draw me another bath!¡± he snapped. ¡°Bring together our host while you¡¯re at it. It will be earlier than I had hoped, but we must commit ourselves.¡±

    His inferior looked up at him, hiding his own fear well though the scars that pock-marked his face. He nodded and pushed through the throng. At least somebody here was trying to be of use to him.

    Agyrimithras snarled as he leaned back, two of his hands massaging his temple. He was surrounded by nothing but insolent idiots and terrified weaklings. He really needed that bath.

    So what if a few dozen slaves had to die?