《The Ironheart》


 Prologue

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    Prologue


    The City of Paramar, Kingdom of Peran


    Matrien balanced on the sole of his left foot, the sharp rock beneath it feeling like it might pierce the skin at any moment. He was finally beginning to get used to the pain.


    Heavy coastal winds tested his stability with constant cold gusts, pushing him this way and that. Matrien, feeling as though he might lose his balance, brought his arms out, his wingspan slightly wider than average for a lad his age ¨C fifteen winters. His arms waved about as he steadied himself. Once he had, Matrien closed his eyes, listening to the waves brushing against the orange-yellow sands. Closing his eyes helped him to maintain balance. It calmed his mind.


    ¡°Are you not bored yet?¡± Tariyen asked, breaking him from his near-meditative state. Only as he opened his eyes did he realise she had not even been watching. Instead, atop a smooth rock ¨C which dipped perfectly to become a cradling seat ¨C she had pulled a book from her bag and was perusing it with only half interest.


    Tariyen, like him, had fair skin ¨C or, at least, fairer skin than many who came to visit their lord father. They were not identical twins but shared likenesses in many areas. Namely, their dark eyes, black hair, and freckles that topped flat-bridged noses ¨C though these were things that most Peranese people had in common. Matrien tended to wear himself rugged, hair short but scruffy and clothes unpressed. Tariyen was neat in all senses of the word. Her clothes were tidy, her hair pulled back into a tightly wound bun, and her nails free of dirt.


    ¡°Why would I be?¡± Matrien replied. He was training. What could be more interesting than that? Certainly not a book, he was sure; he had been tutored once, long enough to nearly learn to read, but it was obvious his talents lay elsewhere.


    Tariyen¡¯s brown eyes rose to him for just a moment, the brows above them furrowing. She shook her head and returned to her book. ¡°Prancing about as you do, Matrien,¡± she started, ¡°I¡¯m not sure how you don¡¯t find it embarrassing. You know how difficult it is to become a Spinsword. And you also know that Father will not treat you differently just because you are his son.¡±


    ¡°I know that Tariyen!¡± Matrien barked. His sudden outburst caused him to lose his footing. His shoulder clanged with pain as he brought his arm to break the fall. He had not been quick enough, and his arm had hit the solid, unrelenting rock with full force. ¡°Shit!¡± Matrien shouted, before remembering Tariyen was still there.


    Matrien¡¯s heart sank as he expected stern words from his sister. He had spent too long with the unruly men of his father¡¯s army and their equally unruly tongues. Thankfully, she seemed not to notice, and he lay, legs and arms splayed, catching his breath. Matrien was just thankful that this rock had not been so rough and sharp as the one he had been practising on.


    Clouds were forming in the sky. Strange; clouds were uncommon during Peranese summers, especially ones like those ¨C thick and heavy, made of dark shades of grey. As the sun helplessly disappeared into nothingness behind them, things fell noticeably darker. Matrien¡¯s heart picked up its pace as the shadow passed over him.


    ¡°Tariyen,¡± he said. He could hear the worry in his own voice.


    No response.


    ¡°Tariyen,¡± Matrien repeated, though more stolidly this time. ¡°Look at the sky.¡± Between his fingers, which had been brought to his face to block what little remained of the sun¡¯s brightness, Matrien watched carefully, eyes squinted, as the clouds consumed the sky. ¡°Why are they doing that?¡±


    Again, no response.


    Matrien pulled himself up, tensing his core. His arm had not ceased its aching and stung as he pushed against hard rock.


    Tariyen remained in her nest-like seat. On her lap, her book was opened to another page of jumbled writing. Her neat hair was the same, tied into a bun, while her bright green dress had grown only a slightly darker shade where the clouds had dimmed it. But, as if time stopped still, she was frozen. Tariyen¡¯s fingers pinched at the bottom corner of the page, ready to turn, but her eyes were elsewhere, gazing outward to where the sea expanded for miles beyond their quiet beach.


    Matrien followed her line of sight. First, the beach itself, with its yellow-orange sand untainted except where water rose softly against it. Nothing. On either side, rock formations encroached upon the beach, enclosing this private haven, and protecting it. Nothing. But then he saw it. Beyond the nearest reaches of the sea, emerging upon the horizon. Ships. Huge, black-sailed ships. And many of them, at that.


    The ships had approached with absurd speed, churning through water as if it was but dry land and they were horse-drawn carts.


    Matrien¡¯s legs would not rise to carry him, and his arms would not drag him away. Stiff as an archery target, he could not work up the courage to free himself of whatever gripped him. Both he and Tariyen could only watch as the ships grew ever closer.


    Now close enough that Matrien could make them out in detail, the ships were a dark brown, each one appearing the size of two mid-city buildings. At their fronts, great figureheads protruded like great recreations of gods or heroes. In the case of the one that stole Matrien¡¯s focus, it seemed more like the sculpture of some villain, sword pointed directly toward him. That ship¡¯s black sail had on it some form of rune or writing he did not recognise.


    Were these ships carrying guests of his father? It would not be unusual. Sometimes, though not in most cases, it was easier for those in the furthest East to pass around the continent, rather than through it. Fewer tolls to pay, fewer Kingdoms to pass through. But, if that were the case, who would need to send so many ships? Such visitors commonly brought only a few ¨C usually smaller delegate parties intended to negotiate on their master¡¯s behalf ¨C but this was enough for an entire army. An entire army¡­


    ¡°Tariyen, get up,¡± Matrien shouted as he realised.


    Something burst through his veins with a jolting pain, and Matrien found the strength to push himself upward. As his feet steadied themselves on the uneven terrain, he started toward his sister.


    Thirty steps from her, Matrien manoeuvred carefully over a crevice between two rocks. He placed his feet on either side of the gap so that each step between the two was a sort of jump. Where the two rocks ended in a short drop, he threw himself down, landing fleetingly on his toes. Tariyen sat now on her knees, book slammed closed.


    Matrien arrived at her side, before finding his place at her rear. He grabbed her at the tops of her arms, his fingers wrapping around them almost entirely, and yanked her upward. Strangely, his arm no longer seemed to hurt, and he was surprised by the ease of the movement. His sister was not as small as she had once been, but he lifted her all the same.


    Tariyen did not find her footing at first, falling limp as his grip loosened, but Matrien managed to catch her again, and she eventually stood upright. Gods be damned he would get her moving, even if he had to drag her.


    Tariyen¡¯s eyes showed evidence of wetness alongside the empty blackness of her dilated pupils. But, it seemed, she had regained some of her conscience, and she took sluggish steps behind Matrien as he continued across the rocks.


    Without their shoes ¨C which had been left in the hurry where sand met rock nearer to the sea ¨C each step risked the pain of stepping on a loose bit of stone or stubbing toes against solid edges. Even with callused skin, Matrien found that the speed of their movement tore more of the soft stuff away than he would have liked, and his soles stung with each step. Behind, Tariyen was quiet. If her feet were hurting, she made no whimper or cry, only silence. Matrien clutched at her wrist firmly as they continued toward the cliff edge.


    Eventually, they reached the rocky wall. The jagged face was beyond ten men in height, its stone hard and dry and dusty where sand became stuck in its cracks. The cliff itself slanted inward, allowing for small, hands-width ledges on which they could stop for moments while climbing it. It was still a challenging climb at a slowed pace ¨C one that required significant concentration ¨C let alone when someone was nearing them rapidly at their rear.


    And the ships were approaching rapidly.


    Atop each ship¡¯s deck, those who flocked to the front to watch ¨C as if for sport ¨C did not seem to wear armour and threw their arms about alongside what Matrien could only discern as cheers of encouragement. He considered, for a moment, that he might have mistaken them, that these were not dangerous people. Still, Matrien thought, turning back to the wall, this is no time to be taking chances.


    Matrien took a deep breath as he searched for their usual path. All he needed was to find the emblem of their house ¨C the Peranese Darkgull ¨C that was etched into the rock at both top and bottom of the cliff. From side to side of the rocky wall he walked, but he was unable to find it. It was so obvious usually, so easy to find, yet now, in the rush of it all, it was as if it had never existed at all.Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.


    Fuck it! Matrien could feel the first drops of rain against the back of his neck. There was no time.


    Matrien approached the patch of the wall that flaunted itself directly before him, grabbing at a beam of rock that protruded from it. As he applied the force of his practiced fingers, the thinner tip of it crumbled. He panicked for a moment, thinking that the stone might be too soft here, but the base of the hold stood firm. That was enough. Matrien smiled and hauled himself up, reaching for the next jut.


    Though Tariyen was of the studious type ¨C at least when compared with himself ¨C Matrien felt no need to worry that she could not match his climb. She tucked her book into the leather bag that she slung over her right shoulder, and gripped the first, crumbly hold.


    The two made quick progress, scurrying up the wall like young mountain goats. This had been their playground, their escape from the palace. Within moments they had found themselves almost halfway to the top, on one of the stopping ledges. There was just enough space that both could stand side by side, their feet turned sideways so as not to overhang the edge.


    As he clung shakily to two clumps of rock, Matrien found himself glad, at least, that he had chosen well in that fleeting moment, that he had picked a span of the wall that was easy for climbing. Tariyen had followed well, mimicking each hand grab, each placement of his feet, though the pair were now drenched through.


    ¡°How much further?¡± She asked, her voice shaking. The girl shivered, as Matrien realised he must also be, as she clutched to her holds.


    Matrien diverted his eyes upward, mapping each movement. It was as though he watched a false image of his future self, the rain stopping just before the rock where it hit his imaginary body. He would place his feet here, and push using his legs there. There were a few difficult looking spots, but he hoped it would not take them too long to overcome.


    ¡°Not too far now,¡± Matrien replied, before flicking the slick-wet hair that had been dangling over his brows.


    Even if it wasn¡¯t too far, he would not dare to suggest that he was confident they would make it. Their pursuers ¨C and they were pursuers ¨C had left their bigger vessels, and approached now in smaller, oar-drawn boats. On each, those unarmoured men that had adorned the ship decks sat three to a row, five rows to a boat. There were ten boats; so if Matrien¡¯s maths was right, which it often wasn¡¯t, that was over a hundred men. And that was headed for their beach alone.


    They needed to get to the palace, he had realised; it was their only chance. They needed to alert the Royal Guard. Then it would all be dealt with. A single Spinsword could deal with over thirty men, or so his father¡¯s stories always said. There were over a hundred men trained to be Spinswords in the city. If they could just make it up this damned cliff!


    ¡°Let¡¯s go,¡± Matrien continued, a fresh eagerness overcoming him, ¡°we¡¯ve caught our breath for long enough already.¡±


    The two continued, avoiding the ledges where they could take a break. There was no time for stopping.


    Matrien cut his finger on a spike-like rock as they neared one of the more difficult manoeuvres. This one was a jump. There was a gap between Matrien¡¯s current hold ¨C a small rock which protruded only a few finger-widths from the face ¨C and the next with no foothold between them. The distance could have been no more than four steps across. At a less dangerous height, this would have been nothing; Child¡¯s play, in fact. But when nothing lay below them but sharp, piercing spears, it seemed a terrible task. A fall from such a height would mean certain death ¨C of that much he was sure ¨C but there was no other way.


    Matrien told himself not to look down, to focus on his grip, to prepare for the jump, but he could not help himself. He smiled a nervous smile as his eyes found their way down the cliff-edge. The drop was steep, to the point that he could barely see the wall itself as it fell. There was nothing to grip onto should he fall, no protection, no safety net. This was the real thing.


    Trying to calm his mind, he recalled his earlier training, closing his eyes tightly. A silly thing to do at such a height, of course, but necessary. It soon became apparent that it was much more difficult in a real situation, and he found himself unable to concentrate entirely.


    Phlegm did its best to make sticky his mouth, clutching to the sides of it like soggy moss or slime, but he swallowed the stuff hard. His breathing slowed, inhaling deeper, exhaling for longer.


    Matrien¡¯s nerves were not quelled entirely, but it was enough. With enemies approaching, it had to be enough. With rain and sweat caressing the side of his face like ice-cold fingertips, he got ready to jump.


    Below, Matrien could hear Tariyen¡¯s nervous shuffling as she watched. He dared not to look at her eyes, which would surely be so full of dread.


    Finger¡¯s clutching as tightly to the wet stone as they could, Matrien had worked up the courage he needed.


    Careful not to lose grip with the slickness of the rock, he first pulled his body to the left, arms stretched to the right where they clung beside the jump. Then, with a single quick movement, he swung his torso to the right, flinging himself with a push of the feet against the rock beneath him.


    Matrien¡¯s heart sunk as the rock beneath his feet crumbled beneath his weight. That was it. He was dead.


    The gap beneath him grew in size. The further he moved toward the next hold, the further away it seemed to get. The dark grey rock seemed to dodge him purposefully, desperate to evade his grasp.


    Shit! He thought, arms flailing unnaturally. As if some sort of kite, he tried to grab at the air, hoping it would carry him further. It didn¡¯t. He wasn¡¯t going to make it. There was no way.


    He was falling.


    And then his hand caught a clump of rock, and his legs swung freely beneath him, clattering against the solid rock face. A clanging pain burst through his knee, and he hissed at the sharpness of his skin slicing open. He almost lost his grip as his fingers found the wet stone, but he managed to maintain his hold with a solid foot against something below him. He sighed heavily. He was across, albeit landing with his hands gripping where he had intended his feet to land; but he was across all the same.


    Matrien burst out into a sort of manic laughter, his heart still as rapid as it had been before the jump, if not more so. Even with his situation, that feeling of his blood rushing through him¡­ that thrill¡­ it rocked him to his core.


    ¡°Matrien,¡± Tariyen said, her soft voice rising barely above the sounds of rainwater smacking stone.


    Matrien panicked, realising suddenly that he had broken the ledge as he had made his jump across. No! He thought as he moved to find himself a safer hold. No!


    Tariyen was shocked still with horror. At her feet, a step before her, all that remained was the rough edge where once had been a protruding ledge.


    No! Damn it. Both began to bawl. Matrien looked around desperately for another route, for another way across.


    Tariyen¡¯s head cocked as her eyes swelled with tears. She gave him the look a dog might give knowing its owner was putting it down. Not anger, just sorrow. That look sent Matrien¡¯s heart to shrieking. Save her, damn it! Find another way across!


    The boatmen had found their way ashore, beaching their large rowboats and hopping out in their droves. Once on dry land, they threw their swords to the floor, heads rising as they bawled out, bellowing terribly.


    Matrien, one eye on his sister, the other watching those on the beach, could not believe what he was seeing. These men were¡­ changing. That was the only way to describe it. He scratched his eyes, hoping he was seeing wrong. He wasn¡¯t. Steam seemed to burst from their mouths and ears, erupting alongside the sounds of their screaming. Their skin boiled, clothing tearing into small strips then falling apart entirely.


    Tariyen watched now, too. Her crying had stopped, replaced by a silent fear that the two seemed to share.


    The men¡¯s pale skin darkened, then darkened some more. It became a blackish, tainted silver. Like metal, Matrien considered, struck for any greater description. No. Not like metal. It was as if these men became metal. Like carefully sculpted statues, these men turned into something both human and inhuman at the same time.


    What could men of flesh and blood do against that? Even the Spinswords¡­


    No! There was no point thinking about it now. Tariyen was more important. If they could not get themselves off this cliff, then they were dead regardless.


    ¡°You have to jump!¡± Matrien called across the gap.


    Matrien could not tell if the rain had worsened, or if his eyes were just clouded with tears, but the gap seemed so huge now.


    ¡°I can¡¯t!¡± She cried.


    Matrien shook his head. ¡°Yes. You can.¡± He tapped his toe against the shelf he had found himself, thinking. ¡°I will-¡ª¡±


    The men on the beach had become solid metal now. They were no longer human but for the shape of them. They instead seemed wild beasts as they erupted with steam from strange holes that no child of men should leak from. They had swords in hand once more and were barrelling up the beach toward the patch where the pair¡¯s shoes remained. One kicked a shoe away as he passed, gas escaping as he laughed. This was a game to them.


    ¡°I will catch you!¡± Matrien continued, turning back to Tariyen. He tried to feign a sort of confidence with his words, but even he could hear that it sounded forced.


    ¡°I can¡¯t do that, Matrien!¡± Tariyen was weeping now. Weeping terribly.


    ¡°You must!¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t!¡±


    ¡°If you don¡¯t, you will die!¡± Hurry up, Sister! He thought. Matrien would soon find himself dead if she did not make a move.


    ¡°But what if I just go back down?¡± She asked. ¡°They wouldn¡¯t kill a child, Brother.¡±


    Matrien looked at the madmen as they followed his path, hopping across the rocks beneath them. These were not men who followed the Eastern ways.


    ¡°You cannot be sure of that, Tariyen. They might do even worse!¡± Fucking jump, Tariyen, Matrien¡¯s insides were screaming.


    Finally, his sister took a weary step toward the edge, careful not to step too far; it was now at least six steps wide from there to where Matrien¡¯s arm reached.


    ¡°Take this first,¡± Tariyen said, pulling the leather strap of her bag from her shoulder.


    The bag? The damned bag?


    Tariyen threw the thing, clutching to the wall with her free hand. Matrien found himself surprised at her accuracy and caught it with surprising ease. He pulled the bag over his shoulder. If she could just get herself across as safely!


    Tariyen copied his previous movements carefully, first moving her torso to the left, preparing to swing. With a slightly slower movement than his own, she brought her arms back across. Then she jumped.

 1. Drinking to Drown

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    Drinking to Drown


    Meralin City, Merchant State of Meralin


    Five years since the fall of Peran


    Matrien no longer celebrated the day of his birth. He hadn¡¯t for many years.


    Instead, granted a week¡¯s leave by the Free Eastern Armies, Matrien had wandered, like a death wraith, stumbling through the central district of the merchant city of Meralin, his brutish figure attracting unwanted attention from many he passed. Moved on from every tavern he had entered, a few more eager scoundrels approached him as he walked, but those who did soon realised it would have been better not to.


    It might also have been an overstatement to argue that he had been ¡®granted¡¯ his leave. That would suggest that the generals of the Eastern Armies ¨C those with whom he worked with so¡­ closely ¨C had, out of their own kindness, been willing to let him take his birth week off. Of course not. If he had been anyone else, any normal solider, this would have been unthinkable ¨C impossible ¨C as all men were needed at the front. But for him; well¡­ he had a reputation.


    The Onslaught had not yet reached -Meralin, and it showed. Children still wore smiles that stretched harmlessly across their faces, while parents did not yet see fit to keep their younglings close by. City guardsmen made their rounds without much worry, making banter with passers-by. Their armour was light, their swords kept sheathed at their waists, and they carried with them a sort of innocence that Matrien was not used to seeing on men of the sword. Unprepared. That was what Meralin was.


    Brightly coloured linen sheets hung overhead from poles made of some sort of bamboo-like tree, shading the bustling market beneath, while the smell of wet paint meandered from stencilled enlistment slogans that covered the nearby walls. Children looked upon them with wonder, while adults seemed to ignore them entirely. Oh how they had no idea.


    The great battle of our age, one of the slogans read, a fight for glory, a fight for you! Matrien couldn¡¯t even force a laugh. Your nation needs you! And what nation would that be? Their number was growing thinner and thinner by the month, all falling under their control.


    As a less experienced lad, such words might have appealed to him, convinced him, even. But that was then, and this was now. That was not why Matrien fought, not for honour or money or glory. He had real reasons.


    Matrien ducked where one of the overhead sheets sagged, emerging where the market opened up into a dusty square. The smell of fresh bread and spiced meat hit him as he perused the stalls on either side with half-drunken interest. Many ¨C though he could not be sure of all ¨C sold goods he knew to be stolen from men such as he, good men who had fallen in the fight against the Onslaught. Again, had he been a more influenceable man, a more sober man, this might well have angered him, but it did not. He did not often find himself free of the responsibilities of battle, and he would damn well be making good use of it now. No distractions. It was not the smell of food or the dealings of this place that had tempted him here. No. That was not what his pittance of a wage was for.


    A low-rising structure cowered in one corner of the square, hidden carefully behind a shack selling butchered meat. At first glance, the building looked no different than any of the others that made up the square¡¯s outskirts ¨C it was made of the same sandy white stone and was equally flat-topped. It was, perhaps, a little more run down than the rest he could see, but so was much of Meralin.


    What one might notice should they watch for long enough, however, was the way the shutters remained shut even on the hottest of days, the clanging of the sliding peephole as each guest was inspected, or the fact that men would often enter as early as the morning and seem not to leave until well after the sun had already fallen again.


    For Matrien, however, he did not have the time to be waiting to find such things. He could recognise places like these from ten leagues away.


    Careful not to raise suspicion as he approached, Matrien nosed into the butcher¡¯s stall, poking at a piece of red meat turned slight brown. The butcher was quick to notice Matrien¡¯s slight joyfulness, and shooed him away with flapping hands. This was all as Matrien had intended, and he reared around the side of the shack, finding himself beside that sad-looking building.


    Matrien closed in on the structure. It seemed even more dreary up close than it had from afar. Its roof was not entirely flat, instead sagging in the middle beneath the weight of itself. At its front, a small porch protruded, kept upright by heavy stone pillars at either side. Matrien stepped into this covering, glad to be free of the dusty sand that had been gently smacking at his clothes since he arrived in the region. He set to looking.


    What he was searching for was confirmation that he had come to the right place. It would be hidden well, undiscoverable by anyone not in the know. It would be small, faint, unique. Or not. At the base of the doorframe, drawn awkwardly in opaque white chalk or paint was an emblem in the shape of a diamond. Within it ¨C hilariously obvious, Matrien thought ¨C was what could only be described as a smirking face atop a circular coin. Smiles, gold, diamonds: could a gambling house make themselves any more obvious? It was a wonder that authorities had not yet discovered it. Or perhaps they had.


    Matrien knocked three times against the heavy wooden door. This was not his first time approaching such places, though this was his first in Meralin. He knew how they worked, that it was better to be straight-forward, confident, like you knew you were meant to be there.


    When no answer came, Matrien¡¯s brow furrowed. Perhaps he had been wrong. Intending to bash the thing again, he brought his mammoth arm back up, fist clenched. Ready to slam, the hatch slid open. In the darkness behind it, two eyes prodded at him, judging. He pulled his hood down, and his shaggy hair fell loose to his shoulders.


    ¡°Yer business?¡± A raspy voice asked from beyond the door.


    That was unusual. Gambling houses usually had code words. Matrien thought to take a step back but maintained his confidence.


    ¡°I bring three wishes and a pot of gold,¡± Matrien said. That had been one of the phrases used in some of the other dens. That had been four months ago, though ¨C the last time he had escaped the front. Codes might well have changed since then.


    ¡°Those wishes have been used up, lad,¡± the other replied. ¡°Used months ago.¡± The metal peephole slammed shut.


    Matrien¡¯s heart thumped as the eyes vanished. Where else would he get his fix? He tried to remember locations he had beaten out of the information broker in Lardin. He couldn¡¯t. None close enough to reach within his last few days of leave, at least.


    Maybe he could just beat the door down. It was certainly an idea. But then they likely wouldn¡¯t let him play, and he wanted to play. He shook his head and shifted away from the door. There would be no use making a scene. He could try again after a few more drinks.


    ¡°But that pot of gold might come in handy,¡± the croaky voice continued. Matrien used his fleet-footedness to spin back unnaturally quick. The peephole had opened no more than a few finger-widths. ¡°Handy for me, at least. One or two would do, maybe three.¡±


    Matrien smiled, reaching for the gap between his white, silky top and dreary outer robe. He had tried to dress in a manner befitting someone with such meagre earnings as he ¨C simply ¨C but Matrien had ensured he made the correct precautions that an officer in the Free Eastern Armies should. He kept most of his earnings hidden well within the leather bag strapped tightly over his left shoulder but left a few coins easily accessible within his garments ¨C enough so that pickpockets would think they had stolen everything from him, but too little for it to be life-threatening if lost.


    As Matrien fumbled about his robe, the single peeking eye hung with nervous anticipation. It seemed to watch each movement eagerly, clinging to the squirming creases that rose where his fingers did, desperately awaiting the re-emergence of his hand. Noticing this, Matrien wasted a little of the man¡¯s time, coins in hand but fingers play-moving. On multiple occasions, he brought his hand to the gap where his robes crossed, his wrist emerging, only to pull a look of confusion, and push his hand back in.


    Eventually, the man¡¯s patience ran. He knocked a heavy hand against the door, before befinning to shut the sliding peephole again. ¡°If you do not have the coin,¡± he said, voice gruff, ¡°then move along. Others will be coming soon. Others who do.¡±


    Matrien tried to hide his smirk. He¡¯d had his fun. Five coins will do, he thought. Five coins was enough to buy his entry and more. It would curry favour with the doorman of this establishment, and who was better to find favour with than the man who controlled entry to his favourite pastime? If he should come back again, however unlikely that was, Matrien would hope to find more satisfactory treatment than that which met him today.


    Five silver coins ¨C a mix, adorned with the faces of different rulers ¨C sat in his dry-skinned palm. All coins were of equal value in the Merchant City of Meralin, so long as their weight was the same. Two were coins of Meralin ¨C thinner but greater in width. Two were of Lardin ¨C thicker, with a smaller imprint ¨C and the final one came from some nation whose name was too scrubbed to be read. Matrien never gave away coins printed with his father¡¯s image. Never.


    Matrien brought his hand in line with the hole, and the eye lit up.


    Metal clinked first as the man closed the peephole, second as he unlatched the locking mechanism, and third as its hinges strained under the weight of the swinging door. It opened inward, and Matrien stepped in.


    A box slid across into the opposite corner of the small room as the man scurried away from the door. He was much shorter than Matrien had thought he would be, much too small to be seeing through that high-sitting peephole. Matrien chuckled. The man¡¯s face grew a deep red.


    ¡°The coins,¡± he blurted, his body turned to the side and his arm raised into an open hand.


    ¡°Show me first,¡± Matrien said. He knew how these sorts of men worked. First the shrivelled old man would ask for his coin, and then he would charge extra to show him the hidden entrance. He had fallen for that his first time.


    The man huffed a great huff but started toward one side of the room, where a wardrobe stood, outlandishly tall and wide, against a poorly plastered wall. Again, Matrien thought, how worryingly obvious. Perhaps so obvious that it had become hidden in plain sight. Otherwise, the room, lit only by the cracks in its window shutters, looked mostly unused. A chair sat in one corner, only three of four legs still standing, while boxes and cupboards collected dust, and an unusually decorative rug lay, trodden and dirty, on battered floorboards.


    Before the wooden wardrobe, the man stretched a twig-like arm for one of its handles, pulling the thing against its squeaky hinges. The door swung open, before shuddering at its full extension. Dust fell from atop the wardrobe, falling to the floor like grey rain.


    ¡°You¡¯ll have to push through the clothes,¡± he said, gesturing to some poorly hung drabs, ¡°we¡¯ve got to keep it hidden somehow.¡± The man took a small step back, allowing Matrien space. The man seemed to cast his gaze upon Matrien properly for the first time as he neared, his mouth gaping in a sort of half-awe. ¡°Ah,¡± he coughed, ¡°I must apologise for my inability to open the other door. Something about it being rusted shut, or something, I think. Anyway, you will have to squeeze through. I do apologise.¡±


    Matrien shook his head. But he could deal with this much. The man held out his hand once more. Matrien placed four of the coins down, pocketing the last. Tax for his attempted scam. The man seemed not to notice, or at least pretended not to.


    Pulling his sword so that it stuck tight to his body, and bringing the leather bag to his side, Matrien tried to make himself thin.


    It was not as if he did not know it already, but there really was no way to make a man such as he ¨C a man trained only to battle those monsters of the Onslaught ¨C small. His shoulders were much too broad, his arms too thick. Should he turn to the side, his chest would still be too large. But money was calling! By the gods he would get through.


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    Breathing in heavily, he made his move.


    Holding his breath so tightly made his head go funny, but it made him smaller at the waist, even just a little. He stepped one heavy foot inside the wardrobe. As he did, the lower reaches of his stomach came into contact with the sanded side of the rusted-shut door, while his back felt equally tight against the outer edge of the wardrobe. Fat fuck, he called himself, before shoving his gut through. The rest of him soon followed, his chest squeezing through only when he let out the air in his lungs. Finally, he brought in his rear leg. As he moved to place it on the hard bottom of the wardrobe, it clipped the inside face of the locked door. The thing creaked open.


    Matrien stood in shock for a moment, before turning back to the man, who he expected would be an even deeper shade of red than earlier after such a mistake. But he was wrong. The man seemed rejuvenated and prideful, as if he had done it all on purpose.


    Matrien had fallen for it completely. He could not even be angry.


    The man smiled and bowed, bringing a hand across his chest toward his heart. ¡°The name¡¯s Arin, for future reference,¡± he chuckled. ¡°And I must thank you for the coin, Master Soldier. Do enjoy your games!¡±


    The man slammed the door shut, and the interior fell into darkness.


    Matrien struggled not to smile as he pushed through the rack of clothes. A small part of him wondered if he really was entering a gambling den, or if that mischievous old man had tricked him into a real wardrobe. For a very brief moment, he honestly thought he would find nothing but a wall of wood.


    Thankfully, Matrien¡¯s foot fell onto a lower step as he pushed past the last of the clothes. Further down, candlelight flickered.


    Matrien pulled up his hood as he neared the bottom of the stairs. The types of people he would find here were not the kind you would want staring more than they needed.


    The steps beneath him squeaked loudly beneath his weight, as if squealing for help. Lucky for him, however, that the den was loud enough to conceal such noise. No need to draw all attention to himself at once.


    What he found at the bottom of the staircase was a regular scene. The place was much like a tavern of the surface, but for its lack of sunlight. Along one side, those who did not bet occupied arch-fronted booths, chugging their bottles or tankards of brownish liquid. In each corner, men at least as wide as Matrien stood watch, waiting for the next argument, the next fight. These men wore their heads mostly bald, but for a thin black line of scruff through the middle. They were Barrowmen ¨C mercenaries; the kind used by many places like these. Through the large room¡¯s centre, an array of different tabletop games found themselves surrounded by rowdy onlookers, while the bar was equally crowded. Well-dressed dealers passed out cards or threw dice atop the velvet-topped tables.


    Matrien could tell who was winning by the number of women that flocked to each man. Those who were most nervous, whose very life rested on the games they played, found themselves alone in their endeavours, while those with larger piles of coin, those better dressed and better groomed, clutched at their arms some rather interesting looking women.


    In many cities, including this one, it seemed, women were not given the right to gamble. Instead, they were forced to watch as the men enjoyed themselves. Peran had outlawed the practice entirely centuries ago, citing some moral reason for why its people should not be allowed. Of course, this ban had only applied to those of lower standing. Matrien had known many of his father¡¯s closest friends to be avid gamblers; they spoke of their winnings over warm fire and slick alcohol.


    An officer in the Free Eastern Armies, Matrien would fit somewhere in the middle of those who frequented this place, well dressed enough so as not to look like a beggar, but not putting down large enough amounts to attract unnecessary attention. Though it was not the attention of the women here that he longed for.


    Matrien always bet just enough that he could enjoy his night to the fullest ¨C sometimes winning big, sometimes not ¨C but never enough to risk going without food. He had important things to be doing, things that meant more to him even than gambling. He could stop when he needed to. In that way, he did not consider himself an addict.


    But when alcohol got involved, however; well that was a different game entirely. As he patrolled the outer rim of the room, scouting, he recalled multiple times where, sent over the edge by one or two too many drinks, he had found himself coinless and desperate. In such cases, he would offer a bet against his clothing, or would pester another customer for the chance to win it back in a duel. Men that came to these kinds of places would always pick the former, and, strangely, Matrien always seemed to win back just enough to feed himself.


    Matrien stumbled across the room, finding himself at the back of a crowded table. Noticing his approach, the crowd parted, and Matrien found himself a seat.


    Noneratt was the game he chose. It was the simplest they had here. In his state, that much was essential if he wanted any chance of winning. As Matrien placed down his buy-in ¨C three silver coins ¨C the dealer began handing out cards. There would be seven in total. The key here was variation, a variety of different numbers.


    Once all cards had been handed out, the dealer ¨C dressed head to toe in dark cloths, his face covered ¨C took the top card from the remaining pack, laying it face down atop the table. All Matrien had to do now was choose a card from his own deck. He chose the King¡¯s card ¨C representative of the number ten. The other five players made their guesses: two chambermaids ¨C threes; a shield man ¨C four; a spearman ¨C six; and a knight ¨C seven.


    Nervous anticipation lingered visibly upon the other players, as Matrien was sure it did on him. He clutched nervously at his remaining cards, wondering if he would have been better to play it safe, to go for a card toward the middle. Either way, it was much too late now to be changing his decision, so all he could do was wait.


    The dealer moved slowly as he reached for the face-down card, meaning only to heighten the player¡¯s rapid heartbeats even further. Picking it up by its corner, he span the thing over with an experienced flick of the wrist, slamming it gracefully against the table, only this time its decorative design faced the ceiling.


    Shit, Matrien thought, so close! Staring up at him was the smirking face of the second prince, the number eight. He shook his head and chuckled. This was not going to be a good day for him, and he could feel it.


    Five full games later, fifteen coins down, and Matrien had not won even a single one. He could not tell how long he had been playing ¨C it could well be dark out by now ¨C other than that, at his side, three empty glass tankards sat, their contents having quickly disappeared as he continued to lose.


    ¡°And so he loses again,¡± the polished man opposite said, looking in Matrien¡¯s direction. The man wore expensive-looking garments ¨C dyed purples and reds ¨C wrapped neatly around his thin torso and was one of those that had women clinging at his sides. ¡°How many is it now?¡±


    ¡°Five, Sir,¡± the man¡¯s attendant highlighted, though he knew that no one needed reminding. This rich bastard seemed to be winning every round.


    The man had been quiet at first, making no jests as Matrien found his place at the table. But his confidence seemed only to grow with every drink and every victory. Now, red-faced and words slurring, he chose the biggest man at the table, Matrien, as a target for his insults.


    ¡°What business has a mercenary like you in a place like this, anyway?¡± The man asked, smiling. Matrien did his best to ignore him, but that high-pitched voice was beginning to grind at his gears like rough sand against stone.


    When Matrien didn¡¯t reply, the man rose in his seat, saying: ¡°Did you not hear me? I asked you what business you have here.¡±


    Matrien continued to ignore him, though he could feel the eyes of the others at the table turning to him. The cacophony of noise seemed to have dimmed too.


    ¡°Oi!¡± The attendant shouted from behind the man. He was an older fellow, grey hair falling thin and limp at the sides of his head, the top shiny and bald. ¡°My young lord is talking to you. You would do well to reply.¡±


    Cheeky, Matrien thought, bringing a tankard to his lips, downing a swig of the liquid gold. Attendants in his father¡¯s palace would not have spoken like that, even to lowly folk.


    He slammed the tankard down against the table. Those nearest to him jumped as it smacked against the hard wood. ¡°My business is none of yours,¡± Matrien grumbled. If he could just turn the man¡¯s attention away. What did a rich merchant care, anyway?


    ¡°But it is,¡± the man replied. ¡°It is the business of all in Meralin to know why a mercenary finds himself within our walls, drinking our beer, gambling in our great gambling houses.¡±


    ¡°And who is to say I am a mercenary?¡± Matrien replied.


    ¡°The sword at your hip, for one.¡±


    At his waist, it appeared that the hilt of Matrien¡¯s sword had begun to show itself from within his cloak. He gripped at the materials edges, bringing the cloak together at his front, concealing the thing.


    ¡°Only mercenaries carry swords?¡± Matrien asked.


    ¡°Mercenaries or¡ª¡±


    The man¡¯s face sunk.


    ¡°Or soldiers,¡± Matrien finished his sentence. ¡°I am no mercenary. I am a soldier of the Free Eastern Armies, even if I do not look like it.¡± His appearance was rather ragged in comparison to most. ¡°So I think it is you would do well to respect me, don¡¯t you think? Who do you think protects you from the Onslaught?¡±


    This proclamation brought out a chuckle from those who listened in on their conversation.


    ¡°The Onslaught?¡± the man joked. ¡°You mean your little battle in the desert?¡± He stood from his seat. ¡°Is it you who keeps plastering our walls with your slogans, too? It is costing me a few coins a week just to remove them!¡±


    Remove them? Why would you do that?


    ¡°Your army is a joke,¡± the man continued, ¡°you are no soldier.¡±


    Matrien¡¯s heart was beginning to beat faster, his stomach churning at the man¡¯s comments. He was a soldier, even if those who did not know refused to admit it.


    Matrien slowed his breathing and closed his eyes, calming his mind. If he could just remember his training¡­ If he could just stay calm¡­


    ¡°You are nothing more than the measly remains of some weak Kingdoms, lost to even weaker opponents. And yet you dare to suggest that you protect¡ª¡±


    That was enough. Matrien stood quickly, throwing his tankard toward the man. He gripped at underside of the table digging his nails into the splintery wood.


    With a fleeting motion, he ripped the table from its place on the ground, tossing the thing into the air. Doing so did not seem as taxing as it should have.


    Cards and coins flew through the air, the sounds of the metal hitting the floor shimmering like a great band of percussionists. Squealing noises, much like that of a pig being branded or a man being stabbed in the gut, emerged from beyond the table as it landed at the feet of the lordling merchant. Matrien stepped away, chuckling at the idea that it was the man¡¯s shrieking, rather than that of the women who accompanied him.


    The crowd that had stood around the table scurried to where the coins had fallen. One was stuffing the silver things into his dirty cloak like a rodent might food into their cheeks.


    The dealer, his long black hood flowing as he moved, was already on the other side of the room, hurrying toward a door beside the bar. Matrien could not blame the man, he was not paid enough for this.


    All four corners were now empty, the mercenary guards hurrying in Matrien¡¯s direction. Those at the bar, and within the booths, watched on. All eyes were on him, and he wouldn¡¯t have long.


    Matrien jumped atop the table¡¯s edge, which was now raised highest with the heavy thing flat on its side. Even with his drunkenness, his balance remained true, trained, and he stood upright.


    Below him, cowering on his behind, the lordling brought his hands before him, waving his hands like an idiot.


    ¡°I¡¯m not a real soldier,¡± Matrien joked, smiling, ¡°what is it that scares you so?¡±


    The man was breathing quickly. ¡°Don¡¯t hurt me,¡± he said, ¡°I was just¡­¡± He looked around, searching for help. ¡°I was just joking. I meant nothing by my words.¡±


    Matrien hopped from his spot atop the table, pulling his sword from its sheath. He landed with his feet at either side of the man¡¯s chest. Lowering his knee so that his shin lay flat across the floor, Matrien brought the sword to the man¡¯s throat. Time stopped.


    All in the room fell silent, realising that Matrien had not been disingenuous in his claim to be a soldier. Those that had been scurrying for coin stopped their moving, while the mercenaries, who now found themselves at the edge of the scuffle, remained equally still.


    Yes. This was the thrill Matrien had been looking for.


    ¡°Say it again,¡± Matrien said.


    The man shook his head as though he could not remember.


    ¡°Say it again, damn it.¡±


    The man was still silent.


    Matrien slammed his head against his prey¡¯s, red blood seeping from the man¡¯s nose after the contact. ¡°Tell me that my people are weak,¡± Matrien spat, ¡°tell me that the enemies we fight are weak. Tell me that those I have lost died poorly. Tell me that my revenge is unnecessary.¡± He tightened his grip on the leatherbound handle. ¡°I dare you!¡±


    The man shook his head, only this time it was because he was sorry. Not because he felt true remorse, but because his cockiness had been called out, and he had been too scrawny and week to defend himself.


    ¡°Yes,¡± Matrien said, letting the man free from beneath him, ¡°this is how you people really are. I had forgotten.¡± He stood, spitting on the man as he crawled away. Turning to the crowds that watched him, Matrien continued: ¡°You all have no idea. No fucking idea. If it weren¡¯t for us¡­¡± His drunken mind struggled to think of the right words. ¡°Well, your tiny little brains couldn¡¯t even imagine it. The Onslaught will come for you soon enough, as it did us. And then you will know.¡± Matrien burped as he took a step toward one of the women who had stood at the cocky lordlings side, crouching before her so that his face met hers. She turned away partially. ¡°When I step aside and let it take your land, your children, your lives; then you will know.¡±


    Of course, Matrien would never step aside, not in the face of his enemy. But it served his purpose to have them worried. ¡°You would do well to prepare yourselves,¡± he said, rather stoically. ¡°War is coming.¡±


    Matrien put up little fight as the Barrowmen dragged him toward the staircase. He had caused enough havoc for one night and was lucky that they were not making him pay for his crimes.