RETURN OF THE LEGENDARY LORD OMNIBUS

BOOKS 1 - 3

STRONGHOLD

MARCUS SLOSS

SETH PIKE

Copyright © 2024 by Royal Guard Publishing LLC

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

CONTENTS

Return of the Legendary Lord

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Return of the Legendary Lord 2

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Return of the Legendary Lord 3

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Afterword

RETURN OF THE LEGENDARY LORD

A LITRPG FANTASY

CHAPTER 1

The scent of oak woke me, familiar, evoking faint memories and calming my immediate anxiety. I was lying on something hard—stone—aged, moss heady and damp. Dappled sun sprayed through the oakleaf canopy, blinding me as I opened my eyes. They were all around me, those trusty trees, broken only by old stone walls mortared with green. Ferns sprang from cracks, ivy choking all.

My back ached, perhaps from the cold stone or possibly an injury that put me there. But I knew, deep down, that it was worse than some fall, that it was no concussion. My memory was blank. It held no information about me, who I was or where I’d been. Yet, my instincts were all intact. I knew how to breathe, recognized the oak, and that the sky was blue. So, I looked up my numbers but did so with dread anticipation.

Name: Andros Gray

Known Alias: Phillipe of Byouz, Nunez Excalivar, [Spare]

Title: None

Banner of: None

Banner to: None

Deity: None

Level: One

Attributes:

Strength – 3

Intelligence – 3

Wisdom – 3

Constitution – 3

Dexterity – 3

Charisma – 3

It was simple, incomplete, and devastating. The numbers were of a complete novice, a whelp, and I knew that mine had been much higher, though I could not recall why.

I had been reduced to nothing.

I had been betrayed.

My first instinct was one of defense and appraisal. I was on my feet quickly, noting my boots were good quality, their stitching uniform and precise. They were deep tan, buffed to a shine and rose to a little below my knees, my pants tucked in. Like my boots, they were made well, olive green, loose enough to be comfortable, but not so they’d snag. A belt cinched their hem, tan also and was made of leather with a substantial brass buckle. My undershirt was the same color as my pants, and I wore a heavy leather jacket. I was comfortable dressed like this. These were my clothes.

I was in a ruin, tumbled walls on all four sides, as high as my shoulders at each corner, lower in the middle. All were overgrown, but the shape was discernible. It was the size of a modest barn—perhaps a small chapel, I thought, with me perched on its altar. Of the roof, there was no sign—long reclaimed by nature, no doubt.

Sinking to my haunches, I rested my arms on my knees, hands clasped. My hair fell across my eyes, and I brushed it away as my thoughts bubbled and boiled. Something terrible had happened to me, that much I knew. Then I grasped it, some deeply held recognition of familiarity. I was on once holy ground, a temple indeed, in a castle, once grand.

The place had been abandoned for a while. Timbers finally became clear. Hidden beneath ivy, they lay rotting, home to beetles and grubs. Toadstools lined their crown, their caps like soldier’s helmets. If I had been reduced to nothing, so had this place. There was symmetry there.

I had options—there were always choices. I could live a good life in the forest with this place as my base. There would be hunting to be had and foraging to be done. But I knew that life wasn’t for me. A man didn’t have two aliases if he was the shy and retiring type.

Andros Gray was my name, but it meant nothing to me. Nor did Phillipe of Byouz or Nunez Excalivar, but they told me something. Byouz was clearly a place, and at one time or the other, I was either the ruler of it or a renowned person from it. It reinforced my gut feeling that I was far from ordinary.

Spare—this was a slot, a notice that I could carry off another alias. For some reason, I was allowed three. Why all weren’t empty, I did not know, but it was telling that they hadn’t been scrubbed—that they must be continuing, be alive.

Someone had stripped me of my power and cast me to this place. Or rather, someone had betrayed Andros Gray, Phillipe of Byouz or Nunez Excalivar. Therefore, I needed a new name—I had to use that third slot until I was strong enough to confront my past.

“Valerie Collette,” I said. My voice croaked, throat dry. Thirst was upon me, once recognized, not easily dismissed. I disliked my voice. It was too deep, and my accent was unfamiliar, but I knew it to be my true voice speaking in my natural dialect, which led me to conclude that Phillipe or Nunez had been betrayed, perhaps not Andros. Or was I searching for puzzle pieces, grabbing them too eagerly and forcing them together?

I dismissed Valerie Collette. It had no ring. “Daniel Cutterson.” That was more like it. It was nondescript. It fitted the forest. “Perfect.” It was anonymous. “I need time to grow.”

The numbers were part of me. I had always had them. Despite my lack of memory, I recognized them, just like I could breathe and walk, like I knew I was more than this. They weren’t magic. My strength number didn’t increase and make me a titan, but it did make me stronger than most. My current score of three was equivalent to a child and would rise rapidly if I applied myself correctly. After all, I had a man’s body. To improve it, all I had to do was break myself; by testing myself, the numbers would recognize a need and grow. It was the way—our way—that much was etched within me. I just wasn’t sure who we were.

The sun was high. It was midday. I knew how to make fire and fancied constructing a simple shelter before nightfall. I had the time to do one or the other. Both would be a big ask. Then I added water to my list, tagged food on for good measure, and half a day became too little. I stood and started by moving to some branches on the ground nearby.

It was dry. That was one thing I had going for me. Plus, there was plenty of wood lying about. It was an old forest that much was clear. Moss coated one-half of all the trunks, every stone, blanketing all—dry moss made for excellent kindling. So I didn’t think a fire would be a problem.

There were two breaks in the remnants of the temple walls. The larger of the two had to be the main entrance, so logic told me it would lead to a courtyard. It was the safe bet, and I needed to get my bearings—to imagine the castle as it was. Maybe as it could be? That thought crossed my mind.

Once upon a time, the forest and the courtyard had a battle, and the forest won. At least twenty oaks filled it, and I judged each to be at least fifty years old. Broken paving erupted around their roots, sharp edges blunted by the ever-present moss, but one thing remained recognizable and mostly intact. There was a well. Its round, stone skirt still fought the good fight and repelled all borders. It had lost its crossbeam during the affray, along with its uprights, but a chain vanished into its throat, and I could only hope that a bucket hung from its end. I gave it a gentle tug. Rust stained my hand orange, but my reward was a clunk. There was a bucket attached. Its iron-braced wood had escaped time by hanging above the water below, which saved me from climbing down, although that wasn’t out of the question as it was only twenty or so feet deep. I couldn’t untangle the chain fast enough to tame the thirst ripping through me. When I eventually held the bucket, tipping it to my eager lips, I fought my urgency, knowing the water might be stale. It wasn’t, and it was glorious—better than any ale or wine—better than life itself.

I crossed water from my list and headed to the courtyard’s perimeter. As expected, there were the remains of more buildings there, small dwellings such as traders might use. It told me the castle was substantial enough to engage in commerce rather than have a town hugging its skirt. A thought filled me with hope. Where there was an artisan’s quarter, there was usually a smithy or two. Where there was a smithy, there were usually tools. Even the most conscientious looters overlooked things on occasion.

Its forge still stood, a grand, circular affair resplendent with a stone chimney now home to a starling’s nest, which could have solved another problem except they were flighty little blighters. From vague recollection the bird was all bone anyway—still, beggars and all that.

A quick search turned up an array of tools—hammers, tongs, chisels and the like. All would come in handy at some stage but deepened the mystery of my sudden awakening. A sacked and looted castle might still hold the odd undiscovered bounty, but scavengers would have soon sniffed out anything useful. It led me to the inevitable but welcome conclusion that this castle hadn’t been sacked but had fallen into rack and ruin of its own volition. With that in mind, I went off in search of an armory with a spring in my step.

Contrary to long-held beliefs, armories were usually dour affairs that doubled up as stores for various farming and trade tools rather than ranks of gleaming steel swords. There you might find pitchforks, scythes, and axes. No one in their right mind would store a decent sword or spear anywhere but close to them.

I found the armory in an adjacent courtyard which was crowded with oaks and blanketed with moss like the first. As I suspected, the contents of the armory lay scattered among its ruins, but I only needed one item, an axe, which I found pretty quickly, although the entire search had taken several hours, and the sun was quartered to dusk. I also found a spear, though its shaft was rotted through.

Unlike the spear, the axe’s handle was made of seasoned hickory. It was a good tool. A little heavy for my liking, but more because my strength was lacking than its weight. My first task was fashioning a decent shaft for my spear. It took a while and was not perfect, but once done, I sat back against the well, exhausted but satisfied. Finally, I had an axe and a workable spear, water, and with a little more effort, I would soon have a fire blazing in the smithy’s furnace.

Food would have to wait until the next day. There was no time to hunt, and I didn’t have the means to catch the starlings. Besides, once I’d knocked their nest from the chimney, there was no way they would offer themselves to my spit.

It was good enough. I was alive. The next day, I would build shelter and hunt. I made my fire, sat by it and tried to remember.

* * *

I woke, a man standing over me. “Stay back!” I shouted. “Stay back if you know what’s good for you.” My axe was within reach. I grabbed it, rising to my feet, ready to attack. I could handle myself. That much I instinctively knew. “What do you want? Come on! Spit it out.”

He was old—about twice my age. I put him at fifty or so. His hair was powder-grey, drawn back into a tail with a bald patch running the middle of his scalp. He wore rough-sewn hessian—tunic and pants—and sandals. At around my height, he still cut a diminutive figure, like he was used to serving rather than barking orders. But there was more. He wasn’t quite right, for I could see right through him.

“What are you?” I asked when he failed to answer my earlier question.

He cleared his throat, was about to say something to me, when he sidestepped me and headed to the forge and said, “Why don’t I light the fire? It was remiss of me to let it wane, but I was tending the northern gardens and didn’t realize I had visitors. Will you be staying long?”

I squared up to him. Well, I confronted his back as he set about stacking the fire and snapped his fingers. I couldn’t see what he had in his hands, but the fire roared instantly. “Long?” I asked, fishing for some time to make sense of it all. “I’m not sure.” I wasn’t. It was no lie.

He straightened but did not turn. Then he sighed, shoulders slumping.

“What? What’s wrong?” I asked.

“I was—” He faced me. “I was rather hoping you might be the Lord of this place. Unfortunately, I’m not sure how much longer I can last.”

“Last?” I asked, getting more confused by the moment.

“Can’t you see?” he replied. “The place is going to rack and ruin. The elves test the northern walls daily. Then, by night, knockers and goblins press at each boundary. It was terrible last night, but I understand now. They could smell you—fresh meat.”

“No beast will best me,” I said, nearly twisting my teeth into a knot. “I’m not surprised this place has no lord. It’s a ruin.” My eyes narrowed. “But I’ve half a mind to stay. I’m in a sad state. Need to rest and recoup.”

“Really?” he said, hope flooding into him. I swear his body grew a shade more tangible.

“What’s up with you, anyway?” I asked.

“With me?”

“Yes, with you. You’re—” I couldn’t explain it.

“Oh, that,” he said. “My being is linked to that of this place. It fades. I fade.”

I thought quickly. I did need time, and this place was perfect. It appeared remote and must have had some form of boundary protection if it still held creatures and elves back. “Why don’t I stay a while and see if we can’t get you back on your feet? I didn’t catch your name. Did you tell me?”

“You’ll stay?” he asked. Then his eyes lit up. “Of course, you’ll stay. I see it now.”

“See what?”

“Welcome to your new home, Lord Gray.”

As soon as he said it, so his name came to me. “Barnaby? Do I know you?” I also knew that I was a Lord; this was not my first cycle rising from nothing. I had done this before…but not here.

“I’m not sure. My memory isn’t all it was. Perhaps it will come back as this place is restored.” He sagged again. “Perhaps not.”

“Where shall we start?” I asked. What was going to be a lonely grind back to respectable numbers had become a little more palatable. I had company that I was sure I could trust. “Perhaps we should build a hut somewhere on the grounds? That would be a start.”

Barnaby snapped his finger and extinguished the fire. Quite how was a mystery, and I didn’t ask but followed him, axe over my shoulder, as he hurriedly shuffled outside. He crossed the artisan’s yard, then wove his way around the oaks that stood to attention in the adjacent courtyard, which I decided was a barracks square. We passed along the bones of an alley into another overgrown expanse which I took to be the inner bailey. It was all guesswork, of course, but educated. The footprint of this place was etched somewhere deep within my mind. I was sure of it.

We came to a set of cracked steps leading upward, ten or so, and Barnaby climbed them with me alongside. At the top, we stood upon a flat of land devoid of undergrowth or trees, just a grass dusting.

“Here?” I asked. “Too exposed,” I said. “There are better places among the trees. I was quite at home in the smithy. Fix the walls and thatch a roof, and we’d have been right as rain.”

He regarded me with one eye squeezed and the other widened. “But this is where the Lord of this place must plot and plan. A wagon is always driven from the bench, after all.”

“I’m neither a wagon master nor a lord as yet,” I protested, but he stood firm. “Have you any more tricks up your sleeve?” I asked him.

“Tricks, sir?”

“Don’t play dumb with me. Tricks, man. Like the fire—the way you lit it then put it out.”

He dipped his head as if ashamed. “If things are built in the right order, then there are rewards.”

“Why avoid my questions?”

“I can only answer what I know.”

“Like?” I asked, but he didn’t reply. Instead, he stood dead still as if he’d run out of stamina. “Very well,” I said. “I’ll chop some wood and collect some stone. We should be able to fashion a rudimentary shelter. It’ll be nothing fancy, mind, and a good storm will see it in bits.”

He perked. “Excellent, sir. While you’re doing that, I’ll fetch some food, pots, and firewood. You be construction, and I’ll take care of the catering.”

“Suit yourself,” I said. “I need to work on my strength anyhow. But keep the food coming. I’m weak at the moment, and if I have to work like a dog, I’ll need feeding.”

“It would be my pleasure, sir.”

“Call me Daniel. It’s my chosen name while I’m weak.”

“Very wise, sir, but I cannot be so familiar. Would Master Daniel suffice?”

“It would.” It was right. I could feel that in my bones. Barnaby was here to serve me. Like it or not, there was nothing I could do about his deference, besides, I liked it. It had fit me before, and soon it would fit me well. He walked away, so I returned to the barracks square and gathered all the half-decent wood I could find.

Within ten trips back and forth, my energy had vanished. Fortunately, Barnaby had a small fire going, a pot hanging off a tripod with some concoction or the other bubbling away. He spooned me a mugful and passed it over. “More wood and some stone,” he said.

“I’m going as fast as I can. I’m weaker than a suckling pig, which I could eat whole, I don’t mind telling you.”

Constitution plus one! Your constitution was tested and found lacking. Therefore, you have gained one point!

I handed him my empty mug. “Good stuff. What’s in it?”

“A bit of everything,” he said cryptically.

“Well, keep it coming. It’s going to be a long day.”

It was, but by the end, we had a pile of randomly sized stone blocks and two heaps of wood—one of cut and stripped oak and another of leafy branches.

My numbers had grown too. Only a little, but it was a start.

Name: Andros Gray

Known Alias: Phillipe of Byouz, Nunez Excalivar, Daniel Cutterson (in play)

Title: None

Banner of: None

Banner to: None

Deity: None

Level: One

Attributes:

Strength – 4

Intelligence – 3

Wisdom – 3

Constitution – 5

Dexterity – 3

Charisma – 3

CHAPTER 2

I woke in a small hut. It had stone walls, a planked wood floor and a pitched roof. It was nothing special—no more than somewhere a groundskeeper might store his tools. I tried to recall building it, but I only remembered sitting by the fire, staring at the stars.

I’d wondered if the stars were familiar to me. Had I gazed at them before? Or was this a new land and a fresh life? I remembered feeling content, accepting the stars were true, that they could be my sexton during the coming storms. My muscles ached from honest toil, and that settled me, and my belly was full of wholesome food, which was always comforting. I could not be entirely sure of my conclusions, but I did know one thing. I’d built no hut.

There wasn’t room for two in it. I sat up, light streaming in from an open doorway. “Barnaby?”

He poked his head through the gap, and I realized there was no door. “Good morning, Master Daniel. Did you sleep well?”

“Well enough that I built this hut!” I said, poking for a reaction. When his expression remained impassive, I prodded some more. “Did you build it?”

Barnaby withdrew, so I followed. He had a fire going, and I crouched by it, warming my hands. “Come on, Barnaby. I won’t be mad. Look, thank you for building it, but you shouldn’t have. You should have woken me, and we’d have done it together.”

He handed me a bowl of steaming broth—the self-same recipe as the previous day. “That’s not how things work around here. I’m not alone. There are others like me—two at the moment. They came when you’d gathered enough materials and waited until you slept. It was they who built the stronghold.”

“Stronghold!” I spat, looking around at the tiny dwelling. “Hardly big enough to keep a barrow in.”

He let slip a grin. “That I’ll grant you. It is no bigger than a cottage. Certainly not big enough to merit a decent reward. But it’ll do. It opens the way.”

I furrowed my brow. “I don’t follow you, man! Speak plainly, would you?”

“We should build some cottages next.”

“Cottages?”

“To house the builders. They work much better if they have a roof over their heads.”

It made sense—in a liberal way. “And these workers, where do they come from?”

“Why, they are of the castle, like me. We have always been and always shall be. All the while the stronghold endures—all the time its core shines. Others will come, but from a different place.”

I inhaled. It was a lot to take in, but I understood that I knew it to be true deep down. “Then we shall build cottages,” I declared. “Where? I take it you know a good spot.”

“I do. We build them in the Hollow. We should follow a layout that works when all is done, even if that day is far off.”

I didn’t argue. I might have been shaping up to be Lord of this place, but to me, it was all vague memories, moss, and tumbled stone—not forgetting the mighty oaks. Barnaby knew his way around.

If the hut, or stronghold as he called it, was the center of the castle’s grounds, and the sun rose and fell east to west as should be the case, then the steps and the barracks square, the artisan’s quarter and the temple ruins lay to the south. We headed west, marching across the raised dais of short grass until we came to a set of downward steps that led to a spring which trickled to a lake.

“Fish?” I asked.

“After all these years without being fished,” he replied, “teaming.”

“I’m partial to trout,” I said, knowing I was.

“Then I shall add it to the stew.” He marched on, around the lake and across a brief belt of scrub until we came to another tumbledown wall. Through a gap in the wall, we stood at the top of a steep slope. From there, the oak forest spread to the horizon, but before they met, it was crossed by a substantial coiling river. The mere sight of it crunched my belly with nerves. Somewhere, over that horizon, or the one behind me, was my betrayer. I would find them, and I would kill them. That much I knew.

That scene, and those questions, that vow, however, were for another day. I lowered my gaze, taking in the Hollow and tracing the faint outline of the castle wall as it poked and prodded the oaks to garner my attention. “Down there?” I asked.

“That was the worker’s village, Master Daniel. There is a stream running through it and easy access to the farms once cleared. So it serves the castle well.”

“Then, Barnaby, that is where we shall build the first cottages.” I swung the axe onto my shoulder and began the descent, picking out the odd step here and there—the ones that hadn’t been buried beneath scree and turf.

Thus began a day little different to the previous. A day of swinging my axe and eating Barnaby’s broth. A day of uncovering stone and stripping it of moss. It was honest toil, and it built my numbers, and Barnaby and I chatted, although neither of us knew much of anything. By its end, I had three piles again—wood, wood, and stone.

We left it there, climbing back up, rounding the lake, and crossing the brief plateau. Once again, I stared at the stars before crawling into my hut and sleeping fitfully.

* * *

I woke to a pleasant surprise. Barnaby was outside, and he had the company of two men. The first, I soon found out, was called Jensome, and he was a wiry man. Every aspect of him was nook and cranny. If his face were a book, it would have told a tale with plenty of intrigues, twists and turns, with a likely sting in its tail. He was an older man, around Barnaby’s age, and had a bald crown like his, except Jensome’s hair hung like curtains of embered ash and perched on his narrow shoulders. He wore a long, woolen coat with patches on its elbows and boots that came above his knees. Salt of the Earth came to mind.

The second, called Robert, was a fresh-faced barrel of a lad with bright ginger hair, curly and tumbling down his back. Unlike Jensome, he wore a beard but kept it trimmed. He had no coat, sporting a simple tunic so dark it was almost black and half-length pants with boots that came up short and made him look awkward.

“Daniel,” I introduced myself, which brought a cough from Barnaby.

“Master Daniel, my Lord, or simple Sir will suffice. It will be one or the other,” he said, then introduced me to the men, who I then noticed were partially transparent like him.

They grumbled their replies, more intent on eating.

“Have you recalled your ledger, Master Daniel?” Barnaby asked.

“My ledger?” I looked up my numbers, saw it there as plain as day. “No, not yet. Give a man a chance to breakfast.”

He lent me a knowing smile and handed me a bowl. “Of course. Remiss of me.”

A second leaf had been added to my personal numbers. I looked through it as I waited for the stew to cool. “Can I smell fish?” I asked.

“You did say you liked it.”

Stronghold – Nameless

Lord – Daniel Cutterson

Stronghold Level – 1

Population – 3 Cap – 8

Buildings

Cottages – 2 – Level 1

“You spent the night building the cottages?” I asked.

Jensome shrugged. “Most of it. It was nice to get stuck in. Been a long time sleeping.”

“What are you? A builder, I take it?”

He gave me a sly grin, one that told me I had a pleasant surprise coming. “I can build, yes, but it’s not what I do best.”

“Well, spit it out.”

“Master carpenter,” he announced. “Of course, I can’t do much until I have a workshop, but once I have that I can train up Rob if we can work out how to stuff brains in his empty head.”

“Hey,” said Rob, but it lacked that spark called intellect.

“All things are possible,” I said, snatching at my words. “But he might be better suited to something else. Have you thought about that?”

“That he might,” said Jensome, and he turned his attention back to the broth.

“So,” I said to Barnaby, “what’s next?”

He cleared his throat. “I believe your ledger will guide you now, but from memory, we should clear an area for a small field or two. Nothing large, but enough to start some crops.”

“Won’t the knockers and elves wreck it?” The instant the words fell from my lips, I knew that not to be the case. As long as the keep and walls were in good repair, it would be protected. Which, of course, they weren’t, but that was part and parcel of the trials we would face. I scrolled through my numbers to my castle’s ledger.

My castle—yes, I’d adopted it, and in truth, I had a thirst to restore it to its former glory. I had vague memories that this was the path of a Lord and his stronghold, but there was something else enabling it all. Blank… the thought trail had almost reached its conclusion but vanished into the unknown haze again.

Ledger

Sufficient wood and stone gathered to construct a level-one stronghold.

Stronghold constructed.

Reward for stronghold.

Wood – 100. Stone – 40. Food – 20.

Sufficient wood and stone gathered to build two cottages.

Cottages constructed.

Population cap increased to eight.

Population 3.

Reward Granted for building cottages times two.

Wood – 10. Stone – 4. Food – 2.

Prompt – Farm Requirements met

Farm cost – Wood – 2. Food – 1

“So we needn’t have gathered all the wood and stone?” I asked but knew the answer. The castle wanted to be rebuilt. It would reward me. I thought further. “The oaks all around, the tumbled stone—they are there to help us.”

“They will get us on our feet,” he acknowledged.

“Looks like a farm, then, Barnaby.”

“Indeed,” he said.

“Then let’s build a farm.”

We set off after breakfast, rounding the lake and dropping into the Hollow. The two cottages stood side-by-side along the stream’s bank. They were modest, single-roomed, with stone chimneys. “You must have worked hard,” I said.

“It all fell into place rather easily,” Jensome replied. “Simple affairs.”

We carried on through the oaks, climbing piles of stone, fallen trunks and jutting wood until we came to a large mound that spread off to either side. It was the limits of the castle’s grounds and the remnants of a once grand wall.

Jensome looked along its length, taking a sharp breath. “We can replace it with a palisade easily enough. Ten of us, I reckon. Four to clear the trees and make the stakes. Two to fetch and carry and four to put the bugger up.”

I did my sums. “So we build the farm and then another cottage,” I said. “That will mean we can sleep fifteen.”

“Aye,” he said. “And we can prepare while we wait for them to wake.”

I accepted what he said. There was magic in the place, no doubt about it. From Barnaby to Jensome, from the way the cottages built overnight. It was like a memory was stretching and yawning as it woke, demanding restoration. I had sympathy for the place as I was like that too. There was destiny there and a path I was fated to follow—that much I was sure of.

“I’ll do my share,” I told all three. “I have to work on my numbers, so I’ll not hear any dissent. Barnaby, you place the farm. What are we talking about here?” We climbed over the tumbled wall and stood by the stream. I saw it then like my mind painted it on the forest and its undergrowth. It was a rectangle, twenty-odd feet wide and fifty long. “That it? We only have to clear it?”

“And build a shed,” Barnaby added.

Which was fine. While Robert and I took turns swinging the axe and felling the oaks, Jensome set about building the shed. The man was a master, so swift and efficient with every movement. Each joint was perfection, each binding sure. It was far too good for farming tools.

It took us two days to complete the task, half of which was chopping up the felled oak, which we prepared into palisades and carted to the other side of the tumbled wall. The morning after we’d cleared the small field, I received an update on my ledger.

Farm complete.

Population increased.

Population – 5.

Reward Granted – Farm times one.

Wood – 5. Stone –2. Food – 1.

Prompt – Wall Requirements met

Wall cost – Wood – 12. Stone – 6. Food – 1.

Food Production – 4 per day

Food Consumption – 2.5 per day

* * *

Whether my memory was coming back or whether it was like walking and breathing to me, the economics of castle building and its day-to-day were simple fare. It ran in my blood. A sound build demanded resources. Everything grew from them. Get the timber yards pumping out beams, the quarries carving stone and farms churning out food, and the rest would follow.

But I had a leg up. The castle had once been a grand affair, and much of the stone used to build it was still there, as was the wood I’d need—literally growing on trees, and there was food to be had. The lake teamed with fish, the trees with squirrels, and there were rabbits and snakes and all sorts hiding among the piles of stone. Even so, I would always be happiest with plenty of production.

“But for now,” I told Barnaby, Jensome, and Robert, “we spend a portion of every day felling every oak on the castle grounds and piling up every stone, cleaned of moss and mortar. We build up our stores.”

“Then we need a warehouse,” Jensome said. “To build one of them, we need a simple workshop. The trusses and the like need fashioning to take the spans. I’ll need a good bench and saw for that.”

I wanted to curse but had the sense it was always like that. Everything needed building at once, but that wasn’t possible. I thought and thought, trying to find a solution.

“Another two cottages and a farm,” I said. “That will get us sixteen good men and women. The farms will swallow four of them, leaving us twelve—thirteen with me. That’ll get the wall done. You said ten, didn’t you, Jensome?”

“Ten would be perfect, but we’ll get a load done with less, and if we’re cute enough about felling the trees on the perimeter, there’ll be less fetching and carrying.”

“Good man,” I said. “Cottages first?”

“Why not? I could build them in my sleep.”

“Or mine,” I said and laughed.

We set about it, and it was a grind and a slog, but within a few days, we had four cottages and two farms. The population of my nameless castle had risen to ten—short of where we needed to be but good enough. There were two couples, roused no doubt to farm, so farm they did. Rosie and Jim, he a sour-faced man and her all smiles and dimples. Frank and Jenny, she a rounded woman with an earthy sense of humor and him a quiet fellow with a beak of a nose.

Barnaby, Jensome, and Robert made the number seven, and the three new additions being Archie, Frederick and Buster, brought it to ten. Each was a character, and all were not suited to building a palisade wall. Archie was a stone man—preferred a mallet and bolster to a bowsaw and chisel. Frederick was a soldier—infantry—so somewhat used to digging fortifications, but not on the scale of a castle wall. He could swing a scythe, mind, so he cleared good stretches of undergrowth for us. Finally, Buster, a bullish man, was an arbiter with the most ill-suited frame for his vocation I’d ever seen. He could heft a split trunk on his shoulder and march fifty yards with it before planting it in a pit without breaking a sweat.

“Arbiter?” I queried one day as we extended the wall on our northern flank—the one the elves had been toying with.

“Argah!” he grunted, as was his way. “When I collect taxes, everyone pays. Arbiter I am, but you might want to employ me a scribe to count my collections. Not so good with numbers.”

An arbiter that couldn’t count was a novel idea to me, but I wasn’t about to argue with him—not with my numbers. Talking of which, my numbers had improved, and with the wall around half done, they were gaining the respectability of a pre-pubescent youth.

But it was progress, nevertheless, although I hadn’t shifted intelligence or wisdom, but then again, I hadn’t challenged them either. Two more souls appeared the day we reached two-thirds of the wall, and both were women. First, there was Alex, who cut a fine figure and was a hunter, deft with sling and snare. She linked with the second newcomer, and our menu improved significantly. She was Fiona, who was older than all, and she was both a cook and a dab hand with cuts and bruises. After sniffing out all sorts of herbs and nettles, Barnaby’s stew was no more.

It left us space, and I prayed that whoever came would be strong, as the wall, while near completion, was exhausting. Dolman fit the bill when he came. He told us he smelt Fiona’s cooking, which had roused him. While he was as strong as an ox, and while he could labor twice as well as Robert, the man was a smith and as precious as salt in the mountains. I would have loved to know his numbers, but the men and women of the castle didn’t work like me. They were born to a vocation, and their body grew into it, to degrees. Dolman had arms like a bear and was as strong too. He and Buster soon had the rest of the wall up, leaving Jensome and Robert to form the gates and bind them with twine until Alex could hunt us some decent hide for leather straps.

And so we completed the wall, and the castle rewarded us. I looked on as the ledger listed my rewards and understood them for what they were—gifts to get things started, no more than that—memories of riches past, soon to be used up. So I closed the ledger, knowing I couldn’t build relying on the castle’s morsels. We all relaxed around a campfire, brothers and sisters together—the great wall built. We drank and ate and talked like old friends. But fate, as it tends to, ended any celebration.

* * *

Numbers:

Name: Andros Gray

Known Alias: Phillipe of Byouz, Nunez Excalivar, Daniel Cutterson (in play)

Title: None

Banner of: None

Banner to: None

Deity: None

Level: One

Attributes:

Strength – 6

Intelligence – 3

Wisdom – 3

Constitution – 6

Dexterity – 4

Charisma – 4

Stronghold – Nameless

Lord – Daniel Cutterson

Stronghold – Level 1

Wall – Level 1

Population – 12 Cape – 16

Buildings

Cottages – 4 – Level 1

Farms – 2 – Level 1

CHAPTER 3

It was the morning after the night before. Not that we’d partied hard the previous eve. After all, there was little to rejoice in. We had no tavern, no grand stronghold or feasting hall, but Barnaby had built a grander than usual fire, and Fiona had added something special to our meal. We’d all relaxed, and banter flowed easily. Unfortunately, it all made for tired heads in the morning, and while it was a bright and sunny day, I wasn’t particularly in the mood to begin our next project, even though I knew I should.

I was going to upgrade my stronghold next, and I’ll be truthful, it needed it. We had the stone, timber, and food, so in truth, I only needed to order the build and leave it up to Jensome and the others to commence. I thought, perhaps, the workers should have the day to themselves, having worked so hard to complete the wall. But as I sat close to the fire eating my breakfast, it became clear that they didn’t need the rest. They were all milling around like they needed prompting to live.

Barnaby cleared his throat. “Some direction, please, Lord Cutterson.”

He only called me that when he wanted me to order the workers formally. “Not sure I’m in the mood to start stacking stone on stone or lashing timbers together,” I told him.

“It isn’t a Lord’s purpose to build, sir,” he informed me. “Perhaps you should order your build and tour the grounds. Then, maybe you might plan your next moves?”

“I could show you around,” Alex said and turned my head.

She was a pretty woman, slight as a wisp, with long brown hair and chiseled cheekbones. I’d have been lying if I said I hadn’t noticed her that way because I had, but I’d never been drawn under her spell like I was during that moment. Perhaps it was her hazel eyes, warm smile, or both, but I agreed instantly and ordered the other to upgrade my stronghold.

We set off, heading to the north and the wilder, more overgrown parts of the castle’s grounds. She said nothing at first, choosing to avert her eyes from me as if she wished I hadn’t accepted her offer.

“What are we hunting?” I asked, falling into step. My question was stiff and awkward, and I felt the need to explain. “You’ll have to excuse me. My character isn’t warm yet—perhaps I’m not even likeable. You see, I’ve had a lot of me stripped away by some damnable curse or the other.”

“It’s fine,” she said. “Truth is, I’m not sure if I’ve ever been alone with someone like you. Perhaps when the castle’s all done, you’ll never set eyes on the likes of me again.”

“Perhaps,” I said because it was true, and I liked the truth. It was dear to me. “But it is possible that this experience might be humbling and that it might make me a better man.”

“It might,” she said and lent me a nervous smile. “But here’s the truth of it. You have freedom now, and that won’t last.”

I said nothing for several strides, thinking about her words and wondering at them. They were true. Once my court was formed, once I had a guard, there was no way I could walk the grounds on my own with a pretty woman—with anyone—unescorted. I laughed at the thought, and she glanced at me like she’d done wrong.

“No!” I said. “You are right. I never saw it before.”

“Saw what?” asked she.

“That a Lord might have less freedom than an ordinary man or woman—that he is imprisoned. It is quite the aggrieving conclusion and quite the correct one. I should make plans to ensure I can always have days like this.”

She held her sling, which she spun by her side as we walked. “Why don’t you make a rule to escape your duties once every seven or so days?”

“Why don’t I do just that?” I said, and the ice between us was broken.

It struck me then that she wasn’t as transparent as the previous day, and as I thought back, I decided that none of the others were either. The castle was becoming more rooted. Its core had to be recovering with each restored building. I knew this to be true instinctively, just as I knew the core’s influence spread over the castle grounds from a central point, which was why the walls were circular. The core itself would be in a crypt buried deeply in the castle grounds, and it struck me that I should visit the place, that I should align myself with it as it has clearly picked me to do its work.

Why hadn’t I remembered that sooner? It seemed crazy that my mind hadn’t retained fundamental truths, but at least I was making progress. Perhaps it was all intertwined, so that progress in one area provided the means for progress in the others? I knew enough now for the next step.

“Say, do you know where the dead center of the grounds is?”

“Why?” she asked. “Do you wish to visit our source?”

“It is time,” I said. “I’ve been a meddling guest for long enough. It’ll want my soul, and I, its dedication, if this adventure we are embarking on is to be successful.” I gasped for breath, my anger growing. Then I turned to her with fire in my belly. “There is no quarter for mediocrity, not where my revenge is considered.” My words were filled with venom, and my need to find out who had reduced me so was already eating me from the inside out.

“Then I will walk the walk with you,” she said, a touch too gaily for my liking.

I checked my stride. “Will you be okay? You won’t vanish if I meddle with your origin?”

“I might,” she said. “But if the core truly accepts you, then you will try to become its master. If that is the case, you can command me back if you win.”

I knew that but didn’t know I knew it until her words mortared it in my mind. A Lord or Lady might have three relationships with their chosen dwelling. First, there was one of symbiosis, which was where we were at that moment. The Lord could exist within the castle grounds and communicate with the core, and the relationship would be mutually beneficial. That was the usual way, and if things didn’t work out, then the Lord could walk away, and that was that. On rare occasions, the core might dominate the Lord or Lady, and they would become little more than a tool designed to feed it more power. Such places were evil, their grounds were dark and blighted, and any that fell into their lure was lost forever. The third type saw the Lord dominate the core, and it was tied to that Lord, soulbound, and should that Lord fall, the core would cease to be, and vice-versa. It was all or nothing for me, and I was happy with that.

“I could,” I replied. “But it could also be a trap, and the source might consume me, leaving nothing but a zombie in my place. Nevertheless, it is a chance I am willing to take, are you?”

She bit her bottom lip in a truly seductive way, glanced up at me then nodded.

“Then I will do it, and if I survive, I will make sure you live. I always remember those who had faith in me.” I spoke honestly, of that I was sure. I would always stand by those who did right by me.

We trod on in silence, wading through the scruffy undergrowth, brushing nettles aside and untangling thorns as they snagged at my pants. Before long, we came to a stone circle, each block as white as the day it was set in place. The brambles and nettles stopped short of it, cropped grass taking over, giving the place a neat and tidy look. It lent me brief hope that the core might be orderly. But unfortunately, that hope soon left me. Cores existed on the very edge of Chaos and only maintained their sanity by the application of strict rules. They kept its lattices in place, and should you meddle too much with its method, you invited Chaos into your life, and little good ever came of that place.

In the circle’s middle sat a stone arch which could have been mistaken for the entrance to a catacomb, and as I approached it, I decided it probably was one—that the place’s last Lord was almost certainly buried below. I hovered at the top of a set of steps plunging into darkness. “Are you sure?” I asked Alex.

“I’ve little to lose,” she said, and a torch appeared in her hand.

“Me either. I have a feeling it is here or nowhere for me.” And I did. My fate was inextricably linked to the castle with no name. “What shall we call this place when I command it?” I asked to lighten our mood.

“It must be yours to name,” she replied, stepping forward. “But make it something that cowers your enemy. A good castle name can win a battle before the first stone is slung.”

I knew that to be true. Courage often ran shallow as deep, and a good name spread fear in the hearts of fragile men.

The steps were dished through wear, which was strange. Cores were rarely visited once mastered, although an old castle might have seen a lot of coming and going as its residents died and were reborn. It gave me the impression that I might be dealing with an ancient core, which sent a shiver down my spine. The older the core, the harder it was to bend its will. So I held my axe up, ready to strike should it send its minions against me.

It was a gloomy place. Alex’s torch crackled on the webs as the flames consumed them. The further we descended, the more the webs draped before us. They passed straight through her wispy form, which made me quite jealous, as I fought to stop them from sticking to my face, hands, and axe. It became cooler, and all sound changed to a hollow thrum. My breaths grew shallower as I fought rising angst, then the steps ended, and we stood before an arched corridor, oil lamps lighting our way, their smoky issue staining the walls and ceiling. Fortunately, the webs vanished, so I rubbed my eyes, cheeks and lips and rid myself of their residue. Alex extinguished her torch, and it vanished. I presumed it was a quirk of her ethereal form.

Dim recollections, more instinct than anything, told me I could command items into a place that would hold them for me until I needed them again. Think of a pocket, but much, much larger. Like the realm the core inhabited, storage could be orderly or chaotic, depending on how it was set up. If orderly, the owner always knew what was stored and where it was held, and recalling it was often much faster. Unfortunately, it held much less. On the other hand, chaotic storage was, as its name suggests, a mess. While it could keep a near infinite number of items, when the owner called one, the request had to be pretty specific or the item retrieved might be different item than intended.

As an explanation, suppose a person found a sword broken in two, cast it into storage, and vowed to have it repaired as soon as they happened upon a smith. But unfortunately, the world was busy, and before they came across a smith, they forgot about it entirely. Then, the next time they were in battle, they called upon their storage for their trusty sword, and the broken one appeared instead. Such was the way of chaotic storage. It’s excellent for looting, though.

I decided to look for my storage as soon as we finished with the core. From the groans and creaks that rippled along the corridor, it was growing impatient, so I ventured forth, axe in hand, expecting some monster or ghoul at any moment—expecting a test.

It didn’t disappoint. First, it sent some spiders as tall as my knees, but we quickly dispatched them. Then a dozen skeletons approached cutlasses in hand. I rolled my eyes at that, chopping them down in short order. “Please!” I shouted. “More imagination. Really! I can tell you’re an old core. Surely you’ve some invention by now.”

Its groan thrummed through me.

I sighed. “Send me the slathering wolves then.” And they came, and they were ten times more ravenous than I expected.

Another twenty yards saw us fight off a ragged bunch of goblins, many-legged worms with razor-sharp mandibles, and a swarm of giant wasps. I could have done with a sword. I don’t mind saying—or a spear for the wasps—but I made do with my axe.

The corridor came to an end, and before us stood an iron-braced door. White light spilt from under it. Intense light that was warm and had power, and I wondered if my trial was over, and we had come to the core but knew our passage to be too easy.

“What do you think?” I asked.

“It is a door, and we haven’t come this far to stand on this side of it,” she replied. I liked plain talk and was thankful for it.

I tried the handle, pushing, and the door creaked open, revealing the strangest room I’d ever seen. It had no floor except a foot-wide path that led away, zigging and zagging, curving, rising and falling, doubling back and threading under. Below it lay nothing but an endless fall.

The core hovered in the room’s center, perhaps a hundred yards from me, the path all around it like a tangle of wool. It was brilliant white, like the Northern Star, and I could feel its power, pulsing, beating like my heart. My mouth dried, and my knees weakened. The monsters had been no test. This was the trial. It would attack my mind, and I wasn’t fit for that. Both of those attributes were still at the level of a child. My wisdom and intelligence were but three in score. Hardly enough to go up against a superior intellect.

“Is this it? Is this how you propose to dominate me?” I shouted at it. “You must know I’m weak. You’ve already joined with my numbers.”

It had—it had added the castle’s numbers to my ledger.

But the core, as cores are wont to do, just hovered in its place and shone its power at me and stayed silent. So I dropped my axe and stepped forward. “Stay here,” I told Alex. “This is for me to do.”

Once in motion, my knees stopped trembling, and my heart grew steady. I had a cool head and always preferred doing rather than thinking about it. My balance was good, and I was at the first turn before the core reacted to my incursion. But it did respond, and it attacked my weakest point as I’d suspected it would.

My head swam, a feeling akin to vertigo hitting me like a warrior’s hammer. My knees buckled, and I listed, nearly falling. Staggering on, I attempted to control my swooning mind, trying to counter it like I might have had I been on deck in stormy seas, but it was I that was moving while the path stayed rigid. So, I admitted defeat, went down on one knee, and waited for the feeling to pass, which it did. I stood again and prepared for its next attack, but it didn’t come. So, I trod on.

What followed confused me. It was an avalanche of faces. Some blurred, and others as clear as day. Each tugged a differing emotion from me, but I understood none as I both did and didn’t recognize any of them. I understood that I must know them, that they were visions of my lost past, but I couldn’t put a name or memory to any.

“Master!” Alex shouted and drew me from my musing.

My foot was hovering in mid-air, and had I completed the step, I’d have been lost in that dark place below for a good long time. “Thank you!” I shouted back.

I needed to focus. I needed more intelligence. True to the need, fate gave me another point, but it was hardly enough. “I told you,” I shouted at the core. “I told you my numbers were lacking, yet you test them anyway. If I die, you’ll rest fallow for another age. Your chances of happening on a Lord are limited in this remote place!”

It didn’t answer. I never expected it to. On I went, taking a second, then a third curve with ease before I faced a steep descent. I started down it, my thighs straining and my hands out to maintain my precarious balance. Then I saw her, a vision in a tan cloak and silver boots, long, blonde hair cascading and skin as pale as milk. It was one of the faces, but I didn’t know her name. She waited for me, and every fibre and sinew within me demanded that I reach her. I picked up my pace, slipping on the smooth stone, going too fast. A man appeared behind her—a brute in black, axe raised. “No!” I cried and hurried more. I lost my footing, slid on my behind. The vision vanished and left me hurtling towards inevitable doom. It bottomed out, but my momentum carried me to the next turn. An intelligence score of four was enough to know what would happen next.

I twisted around in desperation, clawing at the stone, trying to grab an edge, to slow myself down. I pressed my boots against it, too, and had some measure of success. I slowed, but the pathway vanished, and I fell. Then, with one last tumultuous effort, I grabbed the edge. My arms and shoulders nearly parted ways as my body snapped taught. I hung, but I’d survived—barely.

There was no way I had the strength to pull myself up, and my grip was failing. Another path lay below and in front of me. If I could swing, I might make it. But my feeble strength was waning—arms arching, grip tenuous. There was nothing for it but to drop and hope, but before, I had to know the answer to a question plaguing me. “Do you know who I am? I knew those people, didn’t I?”

Perhaps it was laughter that filled my head. Maybe it was the madness one might get before a do-or-die jump. I don’t know. But I was sure I could hear chuckling. It was not the evil kind some villain might do before his dastardly plan came to fruition. Nor was it the hearty laughter of a sadist seeing his foe vanquished. It was more the laugh of a child up to mischief.

“Think it’s funny, do you?” I said, my jaw stiff with hatred. “Well, you’ll find no humor in the age of boredom once I’m gone.” And I jumped, missed the path by a whisper, and fell into oblivion.

As I plummeted, I rued my choice to confront the core in such a feeble state. I should have spent the day with Alex making small talk and hunting squirrels. It might have progressed to something more interesting. Or not, I would never know. Then I landed, thumped down, and laughed—I laughed out loud.

The core’s power radiated directly above me, the winding path all about it. “You moved the path, didn’t you!” I called and waited for a reply. “Couldn’t face being alone again?” It was silent, just its gentle thrum rippling through me. I started back up, climbing a steep loop and eventually passing the point where I should have fallen to oblivion. I didn’t slip this time, and soon I was walking upside down, then upright, then at a right angle. “You’ve changed the rules of this place,” I said, intent on taunting it, on getting a rise from it. “Still nothing? Forgotten how to talk?” Then I turned a loop and was close to it, so close its power burned me. “Showing me who’s boss, eh?” I said and strode nearer.

My flesh began to tighten, and then it blistered. The hairs of my brow shrivelled and caught alight. My clothes followed suit, my belt buckle branding me. I tried to stop myself from crying in pain, but no man can be silent when their body is boiling. So I screamed. I cried like a baby. But I kept going, even when my boots melted, and the skin peeled from my feet.

Then my pain ended as death wrapped her arms around me and took me to her soft bosom, and I welcomed her, letting my tears soak her breasts. But she vanished, and I regained consciousness on that damnable path. I was naked, my clothes burned away, but my blisters were gone, my hair was back, and the core gloated at me. It had broken me, but no man or woman could have endured such pain and not be cowed. In my return to consciousness, I seemed to remember more, but knew I needed to continue, not ponder. “I’ll give you that one,” I said. “And I’ll be obliged if we don’t do that again.”

“You have courage, Lord Gray,” it said.

Its voice was like I’d imagine an ocean’s would be. Sonorous, I think is the word. It rolled not like a wave but a changing tide, echoes flowing through coral caves and deep ravines. It had power, lacked focus, was ponderous, and was married to conviction. It was all those things.

“Aye,” I said. “Always have. You have spite in you.”

It let slip a low moan as if disappointed in my observation. “You’d be prickly if you had those annoying elves pinching your borders or the monsters straying where they shouldn’t.”

“Sounds like you need a good Lord to sort that business out for you.”

“Do you know any?” it asked.

I let it have that one. “None that could withstand that burning. Say,” I ventured, “do you know who all those people were?”

“People?”

“The ones you sent at me.”

“They were inside your head.”

I took a step closer; fortunately, it grew no warmer. So I continued until I was nose to glow. “Do you know who I am? Can you fathom what happened to me?”

It made that pondering rumble a little like an avalanche grumbling. “Perhaps, if you serve me, I could look further into that chaotic mess you call a mind.”

“Out of the question,” I snapped, and all hell broke loose. The path under me bucked and spasmed, attempting to throw me. I dropped to all fours, clinging to its sides for dear life. “You must know that doesn’t work!” I cried, and it settled some, but not much. “A core with free reign goes mad and submits to Chaos!” I shouted, and it erupted some more. “Do you want to be a master of nothing but misery!” I pleaded, and it calmed.

“No,” it said. “Although I did quite enjoy causing chaos.”

“You’ve been your own master?”

“Several times.”

It was an old core, as I’d suspected. “And each time you were beaten, no doubt, else you wouldn’t be in such ruin.”

It jerked the path again, and I rode it like the end of a cracked whip. I was getting the measure of it, and my dexterity had increased to four.

“Each time I needed a rest, so I let some fool bargain with me.”

“Is this what we’re doing now?” I asked, my patience coming to an end. “You think me a fool?”

“I think you are more capable than some. Perhaps I might be able to mould something useful from you.”

“Your thoughts be damned. I’ll make a damn fine Lord,” I said.

“Is that why you lay on my altar as strong as a suckling babe?”

It had me there. So I remained silent.

“Will you accept a partnership?” it asked.

“No, I will not. Better we part ways now.” I turned and hovered on the edge of walking away.

“Then no,” it said. “That is not what we’re doing now. I am bargaining with no fool.”

I raised my eyebrow. “Will you accept me as Lord and master of this place?”

“How big and grand do you need it to be to exact the revenge that drives you?”

“As big and as grand as you can get.”

“I do miss my white stone walls—granite, you understand, no other,” it admitted.

“Granite you shall have,” I vowed, knowing how hard it was to quarry.

“If my gates were made of ironwood, they’d be almost impregnable,” it pointed out.

“Then they should be of that wood.”

“With steel hinges, not iron that might rust.”

I set my jaw in place and folded my arms. “Shall we cut the bargaining and get straight to the meat of the matter? You help me, and I’ll give you the best. But there will be some dark times along the way. Even the grandest tales have twists and turns.”

“Only the grandest tales have those. The rest are stories.”

“Your cauldrons?” It was time I tested it.

“Overflow.”

There were two. The Cauldron of Rebirth was vital. A magical thing it could resurrect the dead. While, like all things good, there was a price to pay, that price was small cheese to its benefits. A dead soldier is useless, but a reborn one is worth the cauldron’s price many times. Then there was the Cauldron of Plenty, and while both would be locked away from me for a while, once I’d surpassed its requirements, it would feed an army of any size anywhere. Steal a castle’s cauldron, and their doom is sealed. Steal a castle’s core, and it is yours.

“You have a God?” I asked it.

“I’m fickle in that regard,”—which was the best answer I could hope for.

Different Gods came in handy at different points in a castle’s evolution. For example, I would court Thanamus, the God of hammer and saw, while building—he offered insights into construction that saved time and resources. Or, if I were marching into battle, then Cleosis was the one. Goddess of War, she would put steel into an army’s heart, making them fight like devils, increasing their might and protecting them. After, I would pray to Marriane, for she would turn the dying into wounded and see more return from the cauldron. Such was the way of Gods and the fickleness of Lords and Ladies.

“Then we have an accord,” I announced. “I will restore you to your former glory. I will see banners gracing your battlements and a standard over your stronghold. I will make you the grandest place in the realm.”

“And if you fail, then you will serve me. That much you must promise.”

I let its words linger for a moment. Was it all a grand plan that this wiley old core had hatched? Although, what choice did I have? “If I fail, we both cease to be,” I pointed out. It was the best response I had.

“Not if you swear to me before that happens,” it told me.

“Before?”

“Before the stronghold is destroyed. If that looks likely, then you swear to me, and we choose a different way. It frees me in a time of great need.”

It was brilliant. It was a loophole I’d never heard of. Although it would likely eventually lead to my end, it was better than looming death. “If that is the case, and if it works, then I would run here like a rabbit from a fox.”

“Oh, it works well,” it said. “For me,” it added, and a shiver passed up my spine.

“Then I will do it. I swear that if you serve me and I fail, we will switch before things become desperate.”

“We have an accord,” it said.

The looping path vanished, and I stood on the cobbled floor of a vaulted cellar, the core hanging central to all, spreading its warmth over me.

“Welcome Lord Gray, known as Cutterson. Welcome to Castle Kanazar. You are hereby allotted the title Lord of this place and have dominion over its lands and their shadows of influence. You are entitled to change all things barring its name, which it etched upon its heart. Be warned, take not a woman until the Lording House is established.”

It was the core’s voice, but it attempted to sound like some grand thing. I would later appreciate how much it liked the sound of its own voice, but then I found it mildly amusing and nothing more. Kanazar sounded vaguely familiar, and I felt I should know the name, but it escaped me like it was perched upon a branch a little out of my reach. I’ll admit it was a good and strong name, but one I should have chosen. I was, after all, Lord of it.

It swayed me to further think my bargain might not have been as good as I first thought. But needs must, or the devil wins, and I wasn’t having that. There was the business of revenge to be set about, and I’d a mind to roll my sleeves up and set about it immediately.

But first, I had some business with Alex. My thought of her brought the echo of the core’s warning to mind. It didn’t make sense, and I promptly moved forward thinking about Alex. We were to explore the north of the castle, and more, perhaps.

* * *

Numbers:

Name: Andros Gray

Known Alias: Phillipe of Byouz, Nunez Excalivar, Daniel Cutterson (in play)

Title: Lord of Kanazar

Banner of: None

Banner to: None

Deity: None

Level: One

Attributes:

Strength – 6

Intelligence – 5

Wisdom – 4

Constitution – 8

Dexterity – 5

Charisma – 4

Stronghold – Kanazar

Lord – Daniel Cutterson

Stronghold – Level 1

Wall – Level 1

Population – 12 Cape – 16

Buildings

Cottages – 4 – Level 1

Farms – 2 – Level 1

CHAPTER 4

I left that place in fine form. My constitution had risen to eight, which flooded me with energy and wellness. The gain almost certainly came from Kanazar’s intense heat, from the healing of my terrible burns. I’d increased my dexterity, likely through all the slipping and falling as I’d negotiated his strange path, which was all to be expected as it was how the numbers worked. They perceived a need and adapted, and mine was great. My intelligence, thank the Gods, had also increased because the core and I had sparred with words, and it had almost bested me.

I was sure the core was named the same as the stronghold and that I’d made a bargain with some long-lived entity that held most of its cards close to its chest. It knew too much and had maneuvered me into a deal while giving itself an exit and me an entrance into its servitude. Only a being of magnificent wisdom could do such a thing, which was a worry for another day.

My blood pumped with new energy, and my mind was so much sharper than before. I’d hoped to merely survive my interview with the core, but I came out renewed, revitalized and more my old self. Although much weaker than days passed and forgotten, there was improvement, which put a spring in my step. I took Alex by her hand, squeezing it to reassure her, and led her from that place. We hurried along the corridor, up the steps and into the stone ring.

“Is it done?” she asked.

It was. I could see it looking at her. She was whole again, her body as solid as mine and very lovely too. “It is, and now I’m ravenous,” I said, and I was, for more than mere food. My encounter with Kanazar had filled me with vitality, while my age asleep had left me brimming with lust.

My enthusiasm stumbled a moment as I remembered the warning that I’d been given from Kanazar. Why was it raining on my Lordship?

“Then let’s go,” she said. “We’ll head north a little. You can set a fire while I catch lunch. I have some wine and bread, so a little meat will suffice.”

“Sounds wonderful,” I said, and it did. It was what I needed to start with.

It didn’t take me long to get a fire going, and I rested back against a fallen trunk, the sun on my face, and I dozed off while Alex hunted. The ground I lay on belonged to me, and I could feel its acceptance running through me. I was Lord of this place, and it was mine to command. I had power—was power—and everything was mine to take.

“You were smiling while you slept,” she said as I woke.

She was crouched by the fire, turning a spitted hare. Her hair partially covered her face, but I thought she was smiling. She’d shed her hunting jacket, her undershirt white, hugging her figure and leaving little to the imagination. “I was dreaming, I think.” I grinned. “Perhaps I still am.”

“Don’t you know if you’re dreaming?” she asked and missed my compliment entirely.

I scoffed at that. “My mind’s a bit of a muddle since I awoke. I’m not sure how long I was lying on that altar. Might have been a day or eternity. Did I dream then, or was that reality and sleep came later? Did I sleep while you cooked, or am I sleeping now?”

She laughed, which annoyed me as I was being deadly serious, and she took the hare down, carving it on a wooden block. When she snapped me a leg, I forgave her, and my mouth watered. It smelt fantastic after Barnaby’s mundane stew. “No, you are not sleeping now, and I should know. If you spent an eternity on that altar, I was double that in the Cauldron of Life.”

“What’s it like?” I asked, taking my plate and tucking in.

“In the cauldron?” She scooched around and faced me. “Like sleeping, except there are no dreams.”

“So, nothing?” It sounded terrible.

She gobbled down some meat and bread, tilting her head from side to side. Then she ate some more, cleaning her plate with a final chunk of bread and licking each of her fingers. Finally, she replied.

“There is something. A sense of impatience is the only way I could describe it—like you are about to burst through a doorway, but something holds you back. Alas, though you might strain, it is to no avail. You are there, and that is that. You are alive, but all is black, and time passes with you waiting, and no more happens than that. So, it is different from dreaming because when I dream, I do so of colorful worlds where fragrances assail me, and my clothes brush my skin, itch, or chaff, and my fear is real, as is my joy.”

It struck me that I knew the feeling she described that it had been my companion for a long while. She described what I’d recently been through accurately, but where she said it was like straining at a leash and waiting to be released, I’d found it more like swimming in an oily sea, knowing the surface was close but finding it beyond my reach.

“The others,” I then asked, “were you aware of the others in the cauldron with you? Kanazar’s cauldron must have been pretty packed. Or is it Kanazar’s or some common pool.”

“Common, not Kanazar’s,” she said. “I know that name. That is now my source.” She looked away from me. “That is this place.” Then she held my gaze. “No. I was alone. As far as I knew.”

“Good,” I said.

“Why?”

“I think it might drive you insane if you were trapped with others. I know it would me. Think of the hysteria—the dangers of rebellion. No, to endure it alone is best.”

“What was it like for you?” She bit her lip endearingly.

I stuttered, momentarily distracted. “I, erm, found time had no meaning. I was trapped, and it could have been for the snap of my fingers or the passing of several lifetimes. Better it like that than discussed for the length of it.”

“I suppose.”

“At least you weren’t in pain. So there is comfort in that.”

“Comfort? Why?”

“Because there will be battles ahead, and some will return to the castle’s cauldron because of the choices I make. It helps me to know that there is no suffering there.”

She set her plate down, as did I, and we sat back against the trunk. “It is good that you care.”

I grunted, and she leaned her head against my shoulder. I put my arm around her. “It could be looked at like that, or it might be selfishness on my part.”

“How so?”

“I’ll not carry any guilt when they are cut down in battle. So, I can throw them forward, caring little for their lives as I know they will be renewed.”

“There is a cost to maintain to resurrect a soul,” she pointed out.

“There is, and while I haven’t the price yet, I will probably judge it steep. Anyway, I don’t plan on wasting lives, but it does settle me for when I might have to.”

She turned her face up, and I turned mine down. Her lips parted, hovering close to mine, and I could feel her breath brush my skin. My blood raced, passion taking hold of me. The years, or the moments—as I’d said, I did not know which—had given my body a thirst. I pulled her close, and we met, and my hands strayed to her bottom, pulling our groins close, hers grinding against me as I hardened. It was what I needed, and at that moment, everything I desired in life, my thirst for revenge forgotten. It was heaven.

But as her hand reached down and cupped me, as I grasped her breast and my breaths quickened, my mind exploded with blinking red, and a terrible pain sliced through me.

I pushed her away, holding my head, fearful it might split in two. “What the hell’s happening?” I cried, but deep down, I knew. The castle was under attack.

“It is the farms!” She jumped up, pulling me with her. “We must get to them.”

“Yes,” I said, and we ran south, not stopping, forgetting all that had almost passed.

I calmed the red noise, turning it from overwhelming pain and visual distraction to muted warning. There was no information to go with it, simply a subliminal knowledge of what and where the attack was happening. The pain was mine to bear. By attacking the farm, whoever, whatever it was, attacked me.

We reached the plateau where Jensome and the others were upgrading the stronghold, but there was no sign of them except their discarded tools and a toppled ladder. So we continued to the steps, down them rather scruffily, and into the Hollow. It was there I noticed the smoke, and my heart sank.

Barnaby met us at the wall. He held the gate open, and I passed through it. “What do you know?” I asked.

“That you are too late, my Lord. Our farms are razed.”

“What of Rosie and Jim, Frank and Jenny?” I asked, breathless.

“All returned to the cauldron. Not a pretty path either,” he said, eyes cast to the path. “Frank took one to the back. Looks like he was protecting Jenny. She died cradling his corpse.”

“What attacked us?” I needed blood. I needed vengeance. “Damnable elves?”

“A small band of knockers. Robert and Fred chased them away. I think Fred took a chunk from one.”

Knockers were evil creatures. Human in shape but no more than four feet high, they swarmed their prey, killing without reason or hesitation but with unsurpassed viciousness. Their skin was blue, their hair white, and their men outnumbered their women two to one. I knew, as I knew certain things, that they cherished all things silver and shiny but needed no excuse to raid in its absence. They were despicable creatures that had to be exterminated wherever they sprouted, and I was in the mood to do it.

I passed through the gate and sprinted to the farms. Devastation met me there in the form of burned crops, gutted sheds, and the stench of a routing. Rosie, Jim, Frank, and Jenny had long departed for the cauldron, but their blood still blackened the soil.

Jensome sat on a stump and conversed with Archie. “I think a wall there should do it.”

“No walls,” said I, butting in. “A weed will always grow back unless you tear out all its roots. But I hear you.”

“A watchtower would give us some notice,” Archie said.

“Clearing some more oaks would give us clear ground,” Robert added, strolling out from the trees with Fred beside him.

“We do all that,” I said. “But we can’t do it instantly. We’ll need that workshop to build a decent tower, so we’re hamstrung there. Plus, we are capped at sixteen from the cauldron, and our number has been reduced to nine with me.”

“That should increase soon, especially if we improve some cottages so more can come,” Barnaby pointed out.

“Or build a simple tavern. That always makes fellows more likely to wake,” Jensome said.

“We need it all but can’t have everything.” I thought long and hard as all eyes fell on me, tapping my foot on the ground and scratching at my stubble. “Barnaby, do we have the wherewithal to build a tavern?”

“Too early,” he said. “But Fiona can make some ale, so that should keep morale up.” He cleared his throat. “As long as no more get slaughtered.”

Morale—I remembered it then. It underpinned the entire workings of a stronghold. A contented worker was a productive worker. A happy soldier fought to retain that feeling. A tavern gave morale aplenty, but we couldn’t build one yet.

“They won’t,” I said. “Robert, Fred, how many knockers were there?”

“About fifteen, no more than twenty.”

“A match for three of us armed to the teeth?”

“A match for four,” said Archie, and Buster made it five, then Alex six.

Jensome and Barnaby elected to stay and protect Fiona, who had remained at the stronghold. It was the right thing. Neither of the men were fighters. “Can you carry on with the stronghold while we’re gone?” I asked Jensome.

“There are only a few trimmings to complete. I can do that,” he said, “then crack on and improve a cottage.”

“Do that then. There is nothing to do here for now. We’ll head to the old armory and see if we can’t scrounge more weapons. I have a spear at the stronghold and an axe in hand. Alex has her sling and a knife.”

“I got this,” said Robert, a held up a lump of wood. Fred had the same.

“No,” I said. “We prepare. Hotheads will see more with Kanazar, and we can ill afford that. We must eliminate these vermin with no loss to ourselves.”

“Pay the price and resurrect them,” Alex said.

It was the right thing to do. “Barnaby, have we the food needed to pay our tally and retrieve our dead?”

He bent his head low. “Alas, we cannot rouse them. They will wait in Limbo until we can.”

“What are we short?”

He raised his eyebrow. “Why, a temple, of course, and before you ask, the list is long. We’ll need a workshop, smithy, feasting hall and tavern—a level eight stronghold.”

“Damn the Gods,” I cursed and remembered the requirements as they were pointed out to me.

They would have a very long wait, but I was resolved to see them restored again.

* * *

I swapped out my axe for a spear and a knife. Buster took the axe, and it better suited him. I wouldn’t have liked to come across him in a dark alley. Alex stayed as she was. There were bows, but their strings had gone, and their grips rotted through. Robert took an axe like mine, while Fred found a small, round shield and a short spear. Archie retrieved a long-handled hammer from the ruins of the stonemasons. It was always best to fight with what was comfortable in hand.

We were a motley militia, that much was true, but we had a fire in our bellies, made all the stronger because of Barnaby’s pronouncement. There would be no rebirths until we had a temple. The four dead, though we did not know them well, were stranded in Limbo, and we didn’t know what that place was like. That filled us with anger.

Alex led the way, tracking the knockers through the oak woods, though in truth, they’d left a trail even I could follow. The ground was dry, with fallen branches snapping underfoot and leaves crunching. We climbed ridges, slipped into gullies, walked beside streams and forged through thick undergrowth. It was land rich in slate, fresh water and greenery. It was good land, bountiful, and the squawk of birds and the scurrying of mammals brought joy to my heart. We could eat well. The hunting was good. But we needed the farms, for they paid the construction tallies, and their produce revived the dead—or would one day—or so I thought at the time, but fate played a game with me there too.

We crested a steep rise, slate shelves for steps, moss cushioning our climb. Alex raised her hand and signaled us low. I drew alongside her. She pointed but needn’t have.

Their camp, for what it was, lay below. It was a cozy affair, nestled in a bowl, a stream running through. They’d chiseled a few caves into the slate, and smoke issued from tiny chimneys. A large fire lay central, and there the knockers gathered. One played a flute while several danced, clapping and cheering. One dancer stood out, holding a multi-colored cloth aloft and parading it like a trophy.

“That’s Rosie’s shawl,” Alex whispered, and I lost my head.

The correct way to attack the camp would have been to let Alex reduce their number with her shot while we circled and flanked. That was not what happened. I tore loose, my rage spilling from my mouth, and all followed me.

A spear is a great weapon. It has range, can be withdrawn quickly if its point is shaped right, and works well for a man with a good dexterity score. My numbers were lacking there, but I made it work. We had the surprise in our favor and were on them before they could gather their arms. Buster sliced and chopped, felling knockers like a farmer might crop corn, and Robert did likewise, though with a slower tempo. I stabbed and butted, punched and kicked, and killed my fair share of the little fellows, each death a little absolution. Alex chased a couple into their caves, and only she emerged, blue blood covering her face. The others? Well, they acquitted themselves well, but I did not catch note of them during the melee, so I cannot comment on how they fought, simply that it was over shortly after it had begun, and we found joy in that.

Do not believe it if someone tells you revenge is hollow. It is not. We razed their camp as they had our farms, and Archie ruined their caves with his hammer, closing each in a way only a man familiar with stone and rock could do. We retrieved good loot, too—no gold or silver, but some scavenged items that must have originated from the castle. Perhaps old resources that lay abandoned in the oaks. Alex found two bow saws, Robert two sledgehammers, and a handful of chisels. We retrieved scythes, spades, and forks—no doubt from our farms, and some food, which would come in handy until we’d mended their handiwork.

We were exhilarated. Battle does that to you. But there was still lingering sadness, as I’d been Lord of this place for but a few hours, and I’d already failed my people. I dropped my portion of the bounty, noting Jensome had completed the stronghold, and slunk off to the lake, where I stripped and dove in, washing the grime and blood from me.

It was a little time later that I noticed her. Alex stood upon the bank watching me. We had unfinished business, and my groin stirred in ever-hardening anticipation. She shed her clothes, wading into the water in all her naked glory. She had a fine figure, perhaps a little slim for me, maybe not, and I wondered at what she would feel like, how it would be when I slipped into her. I prayed to every God I remembered that she would soon let me know.

“It is good to wash off the stench of battle,” she said, keeping her distance.

“It is,” I said. “Look—” I could hardly speak; such was my desire.

She held her hand up. “Don’t. I was wrong to throw myself at you. You lit a fire in my belly, perhaps fanned by an age of waiting. But the Gods frowned on our eagerness, and we paid their price.”

“Their price?” I asked.

“Rosie and Jim. Frank and Jenny.”

“We couldn’t have known,” I said. “Their blood isn’t on our tryst.” I spoke the words but knew hers to be true.

“It is, and you know it. We have no time for frivolity, not yet, not now, not until this place is on its feet.”

I had been warned, but I still made to say something in defense of sating our needs, but she stopped me.

“By that time, you will be an important Lord, and I will remain a lowly huntress. You will not want me then. So, it is best for me, and you, that we take this no further.”

Her words hit me in the gut. I wanted to argue but knew only actions could persuade her to think differently of me. “It does not feel best,” I said, finally getting a word in. “But the time certainly isn’t right, not so much is to be done. Those poor four are in Limbo, but I will see them returned. So I will work day and night until we are established. We will speak more in the future about both our wants.”

The words spilt from my lips, and every part of me above the lake’s surface showed them to be true. Certain parts of me—one in particular that was submerged—did not. I thought I might have passed myself off as honorable.

Alex finished her washing and waded back to shore. “Are you coming? Fiona will have the food ready.”

“I will linger a little longer,” I said, not wishing to wander from the lake and expose my duplicity.

She smiled and nodded at my midriff. “Careful, I hear the pike are biting and not fussy about the size of the bait.” Then she laughed, and I blushed.

CHAPTER 5

My level two stronghold was roomy. It had a hearth with a stone chimney and thatch for a roof. My feet didn’t hang out of its end when I lay down, and it came with a bed, a table and two chairs. A cooking pot hung over its fire, and before that stood Fiona, stirring her latest creation.

“What have we for breakfast?” I asked, sitting up in bed, stretching and yawning. While I could have lived a long and fruitful life without her being there, it was my life at that moment. There was no privacy, and as if to press home that point, Barnaby walked in without so much as a knock on my brand-new oak front door. He carried two scrolls.

“Morning stew,” Fiona said. “It’s the same as evening stew but with fewer flies in it.”

“These,” said Barnaby, “came with the upgrade. One is the design of a workshop and the other is a simple barracks. Which should Jensome build next? He’s repaired both farms and one cottage has been extended, so he’s at a loose end.”

“Both farms and a cottage?” I said, disbelief coloring my tone. “How long was I asleep for?”

Barnaby lent me a waning smile. “We had some rather fortunate luck. Two folks emerged from the cauldron.”

That pricked my attention. “Two?”

“A fellow called Miggs.” Barnaby moved closer. “A joiner by trade. By the Gods, he’s fast where Jensome is precise. They complement each other like cheese and wine. Exactly what we needed.”

“The other?”

“As useful as a wooden dragon. Chap called Bridges—a pikeman. Can’t do much else apart from stand and hold.”

“Takes nerve to do that with the enemy bearing down on you,” I pointed out.

“Agreed,” he said, “but we have no need for an infantryman at the moment, and he can do little else than stand guard, though what over, well, I haven’t the foggiest.”

“Arm him with a spear and have him patrol the wall. That will serve to give notice to our enemies that we are watching.”

“Very good.” He held up the scrolls. “Which should we build?”

“I think the workshop first and then the barracks. Yes, that order.” I slid out of bed, pulling my boots on and buttoning my undershirt. “If I’m right, the workshop will speed up our building—give Jensome and Miggs a place to fabricate certain items.”

“Shall I get the others to help?”

“No.” I scratched at my stubble. “Have Archie collect up as much stone as he can. Robert can clear the oaks. Which leaves Buster and Alex. I fancy they will be farmers for the day.”

Barnaby puffed out his cheeks. “They won’t like that, my Lord. Farming is for—”

“Farmers, yes, I know that. But, get used to it, Barnaby, because you’re a farmer too, as am I.”

He stiffened, his back straightening, mimicking his lips. “I am? You are? I hardly think—”

“I’ll not hear another word. We need the farms working, and we four are spare. Plus, if any knocker raiding party comes our way, you can raise the alarm while Buster, Alex and I fight them off. I’ll not have more farmers consigned to Limbo while we build an army.”

“There must be a better way.”

I drew beside Fiona.

“Don’t even think about asking me,” she said without looking up.

“I was going to ask for some of your wonderful stew,” I said.

“That I can do. Knocker bait, I’ll not be.” She spooned me a bowl.

“Some stew, Barnaby? Might want to fill up. I hear farming’s tiring work.”

“I’ll instruct the others,” he said stiffly, spun upon his feet and left.

“Not impressed,” I muttered.

“He’s a steward,” Fiona muttered. “Thinks he’s second only to the Lord and Lady of the place.”

“And is he?”

She grunted. “In peacetime, maybe. Once war comes knocking, you’ll need a good hero. That much is for sure.”

“Let’s hope the cauldron provides one.”

“Or the gods.”

She placed a lid on the pot and made her excuses, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

With Jensome and Miggs, initial construction would flow. Simple buildings needed wood and little else so a carpenter and joiner would move things along nicely. When buildings became more complicated, I would need a mason to fashion the stone, a smithy for nails, hinges and braces, and a pottery for roof tiles and copings. But I couldn’t think too far ahead until the place was secure.

It would be a juggling act for a while, but I decided that upgrading the palisade for a decent wall would be a priority. If Archie collected enough stone I could set him and Robert the task of erecting towers at regular intervals and have Jensome and Miggs reinforce the palisade with a walkway. Then Bridges could patrol its length with a decent height advantage.

Building up a castle was painfully slow, and I would need a distraction to stop myself from grinding my teeth to dust. So I chose to pair myself with Alex, thinking I might get to know her a little better even if she thought my interest was merely fleeting. That decided I set out after Barnaby, finding him at the top of the steps overlooking the Hollow.

“Still not impressed?” I asked.

“I dislike the early days—all the mucking in. It ill suits me.”

“You’ve done this before?”

“I believe so.”

“But you don’t know?”

He furrowed his brow. “I don’t remember, but everything feels familiar. I think the cauldron makes you forget—or gives one a fresh start—so long as the castle is renewed.”

I clapped him on the shoulder. “Then you’ll know that this is only temporary. We have a cap of twenty folks, so plenty spare. More will come soon, have faith.”

“About that,” he said. “I fear that those in Limbo slow the cauldron. I can’t be sure, but I think it is like that.”

I laughed then. Things were going against us. “Then you’d best get used to farming.”

Barnaby’s expression soured, so I climbed down the steps and walked through the Hollow and soon caught up with Alex and Buster whose faces matched Barnaby’s scowl.

“If I can farm, then so can you,” I said, grabbed a hoe and realized I hadn’t the foggiest idea what to do with it. Rather than lose face, I hoed like a demon, soil spraying and varying divots appearing about.

“Do you know what you’re doing?” Alex asked.

I continued, doubling down on my folly. “Hoeing. What the hell do you think I’m doing!”

She laughed then, holding her sides. “That’s not how you do it.”

“It’s how I do it,” said I, then hoed some more. I’d made a large circle of roughed-up soil and pretty proud of it I was. “There,” I said. “All ready for planting.” I brushed my hair from my eyes. “I’ll fetch some seed.”

“What are you going to plant?” she asked.

“Vegetables,” I declared. “Green ones at that.” I grinned at her, and she held out her hand.

“Give me the hoe.”

“Why?”

“To do it properly. First things first, you make a long furrow.” And she did, and it was much neater than my effort and ran the length of the farm. Then she traced her way back, and there were two. “A little more like it,” she said.

It did look more orderly. “I’ll grant you,” I admitted.

“Your turn. I’ll fetch the seed.” She handed me back the hoe, flashing me a smile that gave me hope farming might not be the whole day’s entertainment.

So, I hoed some more, this time in straight lines, while Alex planted and covered the seeds, and when we were done, we sat and admired our handiwork.

“Haven’t grown much,” I said after a short while.

She laughed. “We have to water them first, then every day until it rains.”

“It’s a boring business this farming. Is that all they have to do?”

“It’s all we have to do because we haven’t the lore. We can’t make the crops grow quickly as a farmer can.”

“Lore?” I asked. The feeling that I should know all this rippled through me.

She looked at me like I’d asked the daftest question. “Do you recall nothing?”

“Little,” I admitted. “It’s like following an overgrown path. I see glimpses of the mud now and then—know roughly where it’s going—but that’s it.”

She pursed her lips, hesitating before she explained. “Everyone born of the cauldron knows some amount of lore. I, for instance, know the lore of hunting and all that it entails. Thus, I am a hunter. But the complexity of lore I can know is governed by the level of the stronghold, for my law is tied to that building and one other type, the farms. Because hunting is a lore of the land, I have an affinity with farming. Hares, for instance, love feeding on a farm’s crops. So, the two are linked. Which is how I knew how to use the hoe and you didn’t. So, my lore will improve as the stronghold and the farms increase in level, and I will become a better hunter.”

It began to come back to me. “So Jensome will become a better carpenter as the workshop and stronghold levels?”

“Not so,” she said. “The workshop is first, a timber mill is second. The two are linked, and through that marriage comes the increase in lore.”

“Got it. Archie would be linked to a mason and a quarry?”

“Just so,” said she.

“Then it all comes down to needing everything done and done right away. There’s little point in building a mill at the moment, not with all the oaks growing throughout the grounds. A quarry seems fruitless too, given all the stone laying around. Yet we need both. It’s a conundrum, that’s what it is.”

She sniffed the air. “It is, and it always will be. Nothing is ever enough.”

“No, we want it all.”

“It’s quiet here. The knockers won’t return today or for a while. They’ve likely seen their ruined camp and retreated to regroup.”

“Are you sure?”

“I know their scent now.” She scrunched her expression up. “We should scout the entire perimeter. Check the elves to the north. Let them know we’re not afraid to venture beyond the palisade.”

“What about the farm?” I asked.

“Buster and Barnaby can handle that,” she said.

“Then I’m game, but before we set out, I want to talk about what you said to me by the lake. That bit about—”

“Don’t.” She pressed her fingers to my lips. “Just don’t. There are some things that must be and others that may be. Let fate deal with the difference.”

She sauntered off, chatting with Barnaby, then signaling me into the forest. I picked up my spear and followed like a dog. I was enchanted by her. I wanted her with every fiber within me.

* * *

The knocker camp was tidier than I remembered it. The bodies had vanished, as had the bloodstains, and only small ash mounds remained where the fires had once danced. Alex signaled me on and through, declaring it abandoned but we both knew other camps would spring up. It was their way.

A little while later we came across several abandoned lumber mills, each with huge, rusting bench saws and chain vices to hold substantial trunks in place. Alex noted their exact location, and we moved on. It would take less time and resources to repair them than build new ones, so they were added to the list of things I would build once I had labor spare.

We continued south and east, and the ground became rockier, slate vanishing in favor of granite, and the sharp gullies blunting to undulating slopes. The forest took on an elderly guise, with the oaks growing taller and fatter, and bright green moss blanketing all. As we rounded the stronghold’s southerly point, this transition strengthened, and it was like the forest grew a consciousness, and I could hear its ancient tales through the creak of its aged branches and the ripple of its breeze-blown leaves.

Alex sat upon a huge root, swinging her feet. “So this would be the land of the elves—my guess.” She glanced up. “One of these mighty trees would be enough to upgrade our entire wall.”

I sat beside her. “Don’t you find it odd that the land changed so dramatically in such a short distance?”

“Another thing you don’t remember?” She sat back, resting on her elbows. “Castles—strongholds—the lairs of Lords and Ladies, always spawn where three resource areas meet. If you’re lucky you’ll have stone, wood and good farmland. That’ll give you a good start.”

“So, we’ve got wood, wood, and what else?”

She laughed then. “No, this area is wood, pure wood. If you can control it, you’ll never go short in the early days. The other is a mixed resource. There’s some wood, some stone and land that can be cleared for farms. It’s okay, but not good in the long term.” She shrugged. “You can’t do anything about it.”

“What’s the third—you said we have three.”

She shrugged again. “Not been there yet. That’ll be in the northwest. This,” she said, spreading her arms about. “This will cause you enough problems.”

“Why?”

“Because, elves, that’s why.” She stood, jumping on the root and looking about. “Can you feel the eyes on us?”

Once she’d said it, I could—I really could. I’d thought it a mere facet of the ancient place—a presence like a silent library might have. A shiver rippled my spine. I stood beside her, trying to spot one.

She laughed. “You’ll not see them unless they want you to.”

“Will they attack?”

“They might, although they’ll be more scared of you than you them. You are the Lord of the stronghold. Their fate rests in your hands.” She glanced at me. “Their only hope is to kill you before you become too powerful.”

“That sounds bad.”

“True, but they don’t know”—she leaned in and cupped her hand over my ear— “how feeble you are.”

I grinned, puffed my chest out and held my spear like it was an enchanted artifact. “Then we’d best play the part of mighty folk.”

We marched through the ancient forest like we owned it, although I’ll admit we stayed close to the palisade and that I was comforted by the sight of it. We passed through without incident, which was a relief in the end. If the elves had attacked, we wouldn’t have had an answer. As we reached the end of the mighty oaks, what confronted us gave us pause. The sight was nothing more than astounding, and a complete contrast from its mighty trees and flowing moss, for it was bare by comparison.

A vast grass-cloaked escarpment angled to a river that wound to the horizon where mountain peaks appeared too small to be snow-capped. It was a conflicting view, that took me a while to fully understand. “We are in the mountains,” I said. “A valley high up.” Then a word came to me that brought me both comfort and angst. “Isolated.”

Alex exhaled. “That explains the elves,” she said.

“How so?”

“You really don’t remember anything, do you?”

“Only ghostly images.”

“Elves were forced from the lands of man. They were slaughtered in their thousands and fled to the Stormbane Mountains never to be seen again.”

“So we are in the—” My voice trailed off.

“In the Stormbane, yes. Untonoir—The Wild Lands.” She ran her fingers through her hair. “We are separated from civilization.” She turned to me. “What did you do?”

“Do?”

“To be outcast. To be consigned to one of the doomed lands? What the hell did you do, Daniel Cutterson?”

I crouched, my hands clasped, knuckles white. I could sense the isolation. It was all around me. The cold wind held it. The snowcapped peaks edged it, and the ancient forest pushed me towards it.

“I was betrayed,” I eventually said. “That much I know. That much I am sure of. Someone—someone over those mountains betrayed me, and I’ll not rest until I find out who and why.”

She laughed then, ambling down the escarpment some twenty paces then looking back up, facing me. “Why do men say that? Why do they rush to confrontation? You will rest, Daniel Cutterson. There is no shame in that. You will build strength, rest, and make ready, then, and only then, might you find out who and why.”

I followed her down. “But my vow sounded better that your quite plausible path.”

“That it did. Now look upon your north-eastern wall and imagine it built from grey stone and as tall as a cliff. Wouldn’t you prefer to seek your revenge from such a castle rather than the wood palisade you see?”

“I would,” I vowed. “I would,” and I sat on the grass, and she sat with me.

“This is good farmland,” she said. “Enough to feed a great castle. Along with a cauldron of plenty, the army it can bear will be a force to be considered.”

“Yet we don’t have enough folks to work our farms.” I picked up a stone and tossed it away. “But then, we’ve only been at it a couple of days.”

She threaded her arm through mine. “Bit-by-bit,” she said, her voice soft. “Before you venture beyond those mountains, there’s the small task of ruling this one.”

“The Wild Lands?”

“Untonoir.”

I laid back. “You know, it’s going to be a long time before I’m an important Lord that hasn’t the time for you.” I chuckled to myself. “We could keep ourselves amused until then.”

“I’ll make you a deal, and then I’ll consider it,” she said.

“Name it.”

“Take the ancient forest. Subjugate the elves. Become the Lord of Wood, and I will consider your proposal.”

“The Lord of Wood,” I said, softly.

CHAPTER 6

She had me. Why, I did not know. I sensed I wasn’t usually a love-struck pup, that I was strong and forthright—devil be damned, and women were my playthings—that sort. It may have been my time asleep, the added zest my growing constitution filled me with, or the exhilaration of seeing the stronghold grow, I didn’t know. But the sight of her took my breath away, her smell evoked distracting thoughts, and when she touched me, my blood rushed. Not that she had much competition. During the early days, Fiona was the only other woman, and she had a face like a bag of mallets. But that sorry state of affairs didn’t last forever.

The cauldron failed us during those early days, barely spitting out a single soul until our population cap hit forty. Whether some unknown multiplier kicked into action, or whether we’d worked so damn hard that we deserved help, and it finally gave it. I’ll never know why, but all of a sudden, they came, and they came in droves.

We had a level three stronghold by then, along with a level two wall and four cottages—two at two and two at three. Jensome had his workshop, a simple affair that was always choked with sawdust and smelt of freshly cut oak and had helped Archie build his masonry as well as restore the smithy. The only other building we’d managed to renew was the barracks, home to Fred, which pleased everyone as his feet stank from all his walking and questionable washing habits.

We’d formed a tight-knit group, often working until the moon shone brightly, and so when the new folks came, they were strangers, and tension came with them. Fortunately, the first out was a family of six, and they were farmsteaders—a variety of farmers, one with a bite, who, according to Barnaby, spawned naturally should the stronghold be a border one and liable to constant routing.

A farmsteader could defend his or her land and often doubled as militia should the stronghold be attacked. The head of the family was a white-haired fellow by the name of Greg. He stood six-five with shoulders like an anvil, and biceps as hard as stone. His moustache framed his mouth, dropping past his chin to touch his white neckerchief, and his eyes sparkled with enthusiasm, which he had in spades. Whether he was talking about soil and fertilizer, fencing or irrigation, the man found interest in every aspect of the topic. He was, quite simply, irresistible, because everything he said was like fresh air.

“You can turn over the farms to me and my own,” he told me, booted foot resting on a fresh stump, a tree laying by it which I’d swear he felled with one strike. “There’s only six of us, but there’s more in the brew, and we’ll build our own homesteads, so we’ll not take up your cottages. They’ll come and join us once they know a good cot’s ready, so as long as you don’t mind, we’ll just grow this land and expand.”

He introduced me to his family, to Gregson, Meg—his wife, Little Greg, Little Meg and Bones, and I shook each of their hands in turn and thought my fingers would never recover.

“Don’t grow this land,” I said. “Let me show you another place.”

I took them to the escarpment, to the land edged by mountains, and a look akin to ecstasy spread upon Greg’s lips, and for a moment I thought the big man would cry. Instead, he patted me on my shoulder and said nothing, then hugged me and nearly crushed my ribs.

After that, I didn’t have to worry about food production. Looking back on it, Greg’s spawning was a turning point for Castle Kanazar. My luck appeared to have changed. It hadn’t, of course, but when life throws you good fortune, celebrations are in order.

The farmsteaders weren’t the only ones that came from the cauldron. Two more infantrymen appeared—Gerald and Jameson. Both were as lackluster as Fred—donkeys with little spark and all plod. It enabled us to have two guards patrolling at all times, which was an improvement.

Soon after two young women waltzed into the stronghold. Both were archers but could double up as hunters, although without the tracking and trapping skills Alex had. Della had long, blonde hair drawn back into a rather impressive tail while Sarah sported cropped brown hair that was rather fetching in an impish way. Each was lithe and silk-like in movement. If I were a military man, which I had no doubt I was, I’d favor my archers over my infantry any time, although for the wrong reasons. Both women, like Fred, Gerald and Jameson, were obedient to the point of service. Both were a delight to be around, sharp, alive and witty. I stationed them, much to my regret, on the northeast wall facing the elven forest. I wanted my intentions known, even if the elves had remained quiet up until that point.

That made twenty folks, with four still in Limbo. We lacked builders, with Robert and Buster seconded to help Jensome and Archie. It slowed us, and it could have been said that we were in no rush. But I was. I needed more soldiers so to subjugate the elven forest which would force Alex into a choice. So when four more souls spawned from the Cauldron, I prayed for builders.

I prayed for builders, I got woodsmen and women—two of each, the men named Pholo and Tillman, and the women, Edsel and Tyler. It led to a discussion which Barnaby and I chaired, but in truth, no one said much, simply looked at us for direction.

“We have a choice to make,” I said. “We can put the four newcomers to work building and ease Jensome and Archie’s workload, or we can renovate the two lumber mills and start milling sawn timber and fine planks.” I looked around the table, my eyes falling on Jensome.

“You’re the Lord,” he said. “You tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”

“I was after your opinion.”

Barnaby cleared his throat. “Jensome is not here to have an opinion. He’s here to fashion things from wood.”

“Then I’ll have yours and be quick about it,” I snapped.

Barnaby ducked his head. “I’m not here to offer opinions either. I am here to guide you with my wisdom and knowledge.”

I saw little difference but was quickly learning that Barnaby was a pompous ass who like his position more than life itself. “So, no one cares what we do?”

Silence followed, for a while.

“I do,” said a deep and resonant voice which belonged to no one I knew.

It was then that I met Lysander, and my life changed for both better and worse.

He took up the doorway, both in stature and presence, beguiling the room with his scattered glance and deep hazel eyes that drew me into a mind that I would never fathom. Dressed in black apparel, he resembled a mix of fighter and enchanter. His cloak hung loosely about him and was long but not the heavy robe a conjurer might wear, nor the lighter affair that swordsmen favored. He held a staff, but it was plain, of a light wood, and could have been a fighting stick as much as a magical instrument.

“Introduce yourself,” Barnaby huffed, wanting to exert his importance on the newly spawned.

“Lysander,” the newcomer said, but in such a way it seemed we’d known it all along. “And it appears I’ve arrived in the nick—” He paused, his eyes falling on Alex. “Well, what delight do I see? As tasty as the reddest of apples, no doubt sweeter than a berry. A hunter,” he said. “A huntress.” Then cocked his head. “And a seductress.”

“Now you stop there,” said I, standing and slamming my fist on the table.

He grinned. “Begging your pardon, my Lord.” He swept a bow, but it was mockery, no more. “Her charm has already landed. I shall step back and leash my charm. Where was I?”

“Arriving in the nick of time,” I said, cooling and taking my seat.

“Ah yes,” said he. “In a land barren of opinion, a counter one can be the difference between life and death. When your Lord asks for one, he should receive it. As there is no other at this table with the wherewithal to express one, here is mine. You should build a mill or two and get fashioning planks. Why? Because you cannot make a tavern without planks.” He picked up a chair, spun it around and sat, resting his arms on its back. “And without a tavern, your morale will ebb like a moon-drawn tide. With a tavern, your ale will taste like golden honey, and you’ll dance, and you’ll laugh.”

“Aye!” said Jensome, and he banged the table before casting his gaze to it and retreating into his shell.

“What will you be contributing?” I asked, a little put out by his entrance but grateful for his insight. Then, I imagined Alex dancing and laughing, and falling into my arms, and a tavern I wanted with the thirst of a parched man.

“Me? Not a great deal to begin with. I’ll eat some food, save it going to waste and drink all the ale I can before it sours.”

“Is that it?” I snapped. “We’ve no room for freeloaders.”

He turned his considerable gaze upon me. “Oh, I’m no freeloader. I’m your hero.”

Barnaby spluttered into his ale. Alex covered her mouth as she gasped. Jensome smacked the table again, grinning and displaying his lack of teeth.

“You’re our hero?” I said.

I knew of heroes, in that foggy way I had. Every castle had one or should have, and that hero was similarly bound to the orb as the Lord. Similar, in that once dead, they fall into a place where they waited until a new orb became available, picked them, or whatever mysterious mechanics went on there. But heroes were normally knights, swordsmen, berserkers or beasts who could wield ten-foot axes. Lysander didn’t look the hero type. If any, he looked like a meddler.

“Are you sure?” said Barnaby.

Lysander jumped up, pacing the room and smacking his lips together. “Am I sure? As sure as I am that you, Barnaby, have an idle streak and duck your share of work. As sure as I am that Jensome has found a patch of powder wort and smokes it daily.” He pointed at me. “Which is why he cares not to offer an opinion. As sure as I that you hold your candle for the delightful—”

“Stop,” said I. “Stop now. You’ve made your point.” I noticed Alex covering her smile, her eyes upon the wizard, and I hated the look glazing them.

“The question that should be asked is this: could a conjurer, wizard, spell monger, whatever you will, make a good hero? That is a more interesting question.”

“I take it you have an answer,” I said.

“I do. Clearly not. If I were a useful hero I wouldn’t have been in the cauldron, would I?”

“Then you’re no use to us,” Barnaby said.

“Says the recently spawned steward that must have failed this very castle. I believe heroes and Lords are the only fresh blood in a newly wakened stronghold,” Lysander pointed out.

“You are correct,” Barnaby admitted.

“My demise and the reasons for it are a mystery. Perhaps I was undone by a towering mage with a maxed-out tower that crushed me like a bug?” He shrugged. “Who knows?” He turned to Alex. “Tell me your name, princess, and I shall conjure you a thousand doves to trap.”

“Her name is Alex, and she’s quite capable of hunting her prey without aid.” I stood wanting to say more, but Alex replied and cut my words away.

“And talking,” she said. “I’ll not succumb to flattery, Master Lysander. And it is my understanding that a wizard without a tower can do nothing but the simplest of spells, so there’ll be no doves. I take it you don’t have a tower in your pocket?”

He held her challenge, matching her stare with his until he broke away. “No, not yet. I feel I’ve come early, which may be good or may not.”

“How so?” I asked.

“A wizard or witch usually spawns once their tower is ready and grows with that tower. I know I’m right in saying that you cannot even conceive how to build my tower until your stronghold is level eight, and that’s a way off.”

“Aye, it is,” Jensome confirmed.

“So, you can labor,” Barnaby said and puffed his gut out, his smile tumbling down his double chin.

“Or,” said Lysander. “I could see if the rules can be bent.”

At that point, he had my full attention. “And how would we go about that?”

His eyes filled with mischief. “We go and pay homage to our core. A flattered core is a pliable core, after all. I take it you’ve met it.”

“I have.”

“And?”

“There is something to it. Kanazar is an old core, a wiley one. I fear it has an agenda and has already forged a bargain with me.”

“Which is?”

“Between me and it,” I told him.

“As it should be.” He crouched before the fire, staring into its embering flames while making strange patterns with his hands. “An old core could be stuck in its ways, always failing, never learning. That is one possibility.”

“Another?” I asked. “A more hopeful one?”

He turned, the fire roaring to life behind him. “We could be at the point where its planning is done, and we are the chosen ones. We could be on the verge of something wonderful.”

I ordered the mills be built, and we left, my hero and I, and we walked like brothers.

And so it would be.

* * *

Numbers:

Name: Andros Gray

Known Alias: Phillipe of Byouz, Nunez Excalivar, Daniel Cutterson (in play)

Title: Lord of Kanazar

Banner of: None

Banner to: None

Deity: None

Hero: Lysander

Level: One

Attributes:

Strength – 6

Intelligence – 6

Wisdom – 4

Constitution – 8

Dexterity – 5

Charisma – 5

Stronghold – Kanazar

Lord – Daniel Cutterson

Stronghold – Level 3

Wall – Level 2

Population – 25 Cape – 38

Buildings

Artisan

Workshop – Level 1

Masons – Level 1

Smithy – Level 1

Military

Barracks – Level 1

Resource

Cottages – 4 – Level 1 (2) Level 2 (2)

Farms – 3 – Level 3 (3) – Production 36

CHAPTER 7

The steps to the core had widened, and the cobwebs had vanished. There were lanterns on either side, and they spread bright light revealing intricate stonework—rusticated joints unheard of in a lowly stronghold like mine. Lysander paused beside me, missing nothing.

“Hmmph,” he said. “Here waits a core that thinks itself grander than its present state.”

“It has a way about it.” It did. Its presence flowed upward, but it was welcoming, with a tinge of annoyance.

“Have you upset it?” he asked of me.

“I’ve yet to fully come to know my previous self, but I sense upsetting things is a quality I have.”

He laughed. “Then we shall get along famously, for I know I am accomplished at that.”

We pressed on, descending and coming to the corridor, which had also improved, light wells replacing the torches and a small drinking fountain greeting us, prompting thirst within me. I bent and drank, and if water could be mead, it was. Strength flowed into me, but not that of muscle, instead, of fortitude and conviction. I smacked my lips together. “You should try some. It has something about it.”

“I’ll not drink from its influence until it knows me,” he replied, and I understood his reasons. Cores could be spiteful—especially those that ran dungeons.

We strode to the corridor’s end, noting two oaken doors on either side.

“They’re new,” I told him.

“I wonder where they lead.” He tried one. “Locked, stuck or barred.”

“Mine too.”

Another pair faced us, but I knew they would open. Rather than knock, I marched on, sweeping them wide and making my entrance. A large hall greeted me, as it had before, but this one was grander, which was to be expected given the stronghold’s progress.

Its interlocking cut-stone walls spread in a circle, completing a round vault-like place and vanishing to a domed ceiling that was as black as night and speckled with stars. Lysander drew a sharp breath as I soaked in Kanazar. It hovered above a circular column of, I imagined, quartz or some clear crystal. It had grown to twice the size of our previous meeting, and, perhaps, as much brighter. A spark occasionally emitted from it, arcing to the ceiling and striking one of the stars.

The doors slammed shut behind us, making my heart leap, and fear brushed my heart.

“Kanazar,” I said. “I bring you your hero.”

“No,” it said. “You bring me the hero I selected for you.”

Technically, the core was correct, but I didn’t fancy letting it know that. “I see you’ve done the place up a little,” I countered. “Love what you’ve done with the ceiling.”

“My abode grows as the stronghold levels.” Its light blinked. “It is adequate for now.”

“We are building day and night. I won’t rest until the place is of a decent size.”

“You won’t rest until you have your temple. Such concern for a few workers might be your undoing.”

“It won’t be, and I’ll not rest until after that.”

“But you will soon run out of wood. What is plentiful today is scarce tomorrow. Such is the way of a growing stronghold.”

“Resource always limits,” I said.

“Then I suggest you strive to control the forest.” It pulsed brighter when it wanted to make a point.

“I have plans to do just that. But that’s not why we’re here. A question, if I may. Why now? Why have you woken Lysander when I have no tower to bring his magic to the fore?”

“And,” said Lysander. “More importantly, is there a way around it? Can we gain an advantage?”

Then the core chuckled, and that dumbfounded me. “You should both work on your intellect first. Let me ask you a question. Where does all the power come from?”

“The power?” I queried.

It brightened as if to make a point. “That which makes the castle function—both cauldrons, the magic of this place, the glue that holds it together. What enhances your strength, powers the lore, and drives the monsters away?”

“It comes from you,” Lysander announced. “Yours is the power that holds all together.”

“Mine,” said Kanazar. “The power is mine. What you see is manifestations of it, channels, if you will.”

“So!” Lysander said. “The tower, my tower, when it is built, is a conduit and no more?”

“Is a conduit and so much more,” said the core. “My power is beyond measure—beyond what you can hold. Too much, and your mind fries, too little, and it is useless. Through my will and craft alone, I transfer to you that which you crave.”

I thought on it. “But that isn’t the whole truth of it, is it? There are rules you must follow, which is why a wizard’s tower cannot be constructed until the stronghold is eight. It is why a lumber mill must be built to progress a workshop.”

“The land has fabric, and that fabric is the root of all lore, and lore rules all. If a tower were built out of turn, that fabric would tear.”

“So!” said Lysander again. “How can we cheat? For I am born, and my tower is not.”

“I must abide by the lore. A tower cannot be until its permitted time.” Kanazar dimmed.

Lysander approached it, walking its circumference, deep in thought. “Do I need such a conduit? I can feel your power leeching into me like a warming sun.” He struck the stone flags with his staff. “Is that it? Can I absorb the power I need to progress my magic?”

The core was silent momentarily, its brightness flickering. I later came to understand that it was a sign it was mulling choices. I waited. Lysander glanced at me, the floor, the stars then the Kanazar. “Well?” he demanded.

“It is possible, but not without risk. The conduits are in place for reasons. They protect the sanity of the beneficiary as well as the stronghold’s foundation.”

“If it’s madness I risk, then I’ll take the chance,” said Lysander.

“I say caution.” I joined Lysander close to Kanazar. “There is no reason to risk madness to gain just months.”

“There is every reason!” Lysander snapped, his face reddening. “Might I remind you we are pups? That we are starting over where others have lived an age?”

“I know that all too well. What difference a season when we face an age of gradual progress?” I countered.

Lysander remained silent, but I sensed him boiling inside. I was seething too. It had hit home how far behind we must be, that all my urgency was futile.

“I am no pup at this,” Kanazar then said and took us both by surprise, Lysander stiffening while I tapped my lips and arched my eyebrows. The core continued. “Neither of you considered our position. It is no coincidence that we edge both the old and new lands.”

“Continue,” I said, intrigued.

“The lands dominated by Lords and Ladies are long scrubbed of excitement. All talismans and artifacts are held by the powerful. What is the point of seeding a new stronghold there?”

“But these lands are not?” Lysander came alive, pacing, gesticulating, stopping and tapping his staff. “There are powers buried about?”

“There are, but to hunt such things requires power. This is the conundrum you face.” Kanazar crackled, static lightning arcing to the stars. “Choices are the reason I selected each of you. Both have the mettle to make hard ones. Whether you have the instinct to make the correct ones is unknown.”

Then Kanazar dimmed, and his static ceased, and behind us, the chamber’s doors swept open.

“Time for us to leave,” Lysander said. He’d paled, and his hands shook slightly. “We need power to get power.” Then he spun upon his heels and marched through the doorway, stopping abruptly a few paces along the corridor. “Well, what have we here?”

One of the two doors was open, and beyond it lay a room. Frugally furnished, with a modest-sized cot and a bedside table with a single oil lamp, it resembled lodgings at a low-grade hostelry. “Sleeping chambers.” I said the obvious when nothing else sprung to mind.

“Not only that,” said Lysander wagging his finger at me. “It is a hint—a clue from Kanazar telling me I should stay here a while, soak in his power.”

“How do you figure that?”

“The door was open—why would it be open when it was locked before?”

That changed nothing. “You’d risk your sanity on the whim of a core?”

“Better than risking death.”

I took his point. We were weak, too weak to survive any encounter with a half-decent foe. Behind me, the other door was shut. I tried its handle, but it didn’t budge. “Only one of us,” I said.

“Me, only me. I must sleep here a few nights, perhaps more, and grow.”

“But how will we know when you must stop?”

He sat on the bed, looking up at me. His eyes were drawn, bruised bags under them, and his hair ranged wild. “I’m tired,” he said. “Sleep will come. Whatever happens, happens then. I’ll not know.”

“I don’t like it.”

“It is a hero’s duty to take risks—to become strong and defend the stronghold come hell or high water.”

“A hero must survive and fight the day.”

“You know I’m right.”

I exhaled, my breath hissing between my clenched teeth. “One night, and we reassess.”

“Daniel,” he said. “Should I call you Daniel?”

“It is the name I’m using, so yes.”

“Daniel, if I slobber and wail, if I grunt like a pig or bark like a dog tomorrow, put me out of my misery.” He made puppy-dog eyes at me, the edges of his lips downturned, but he couldn’t keep the guise up long and soon doubled up, laughing like a fool.

“I declare you insane already,” I said. “There is nothing this experiment can do to alter that.”

“Your face,” he said. “You must learn to lighten up.”

“And you must learn patience. This isn’t worth the risk.”

“I cannot conjure the simplest of flames,” he said. “What kind of hero is that? I’ll not be useless for an age while the stronghold grows, nor will I saw wood or pummel stone to be a part of this place. I’m a wizard, goddammit, and I’ll get my power one way or the other!” He lifted his feet, swiveled, and lay down. “Please, close the door on your way out, and do not return. I will emerge come morning.”

“And how will you know when that is?”

“My bladder will tell me.” He covered his eyes with the crook of his elbow, and I left, closing the door behind me.

A chill evening awaited me. How I could have done with the tavern we’d yet to build! To sip ale, listen to a fiddler, perhaps some tobacco—to forget my troubles. Taverns were good for that. Lysander was right, we needed one and soon. Rather than return to the stronghold, I chose to wander to the lake, to sit on its shore and watch the still water. I had to think about all Kanazar had said. It altered my thinking greatly.

So I sat, the lake’s surface still, and the brightening moon sending a silver stripe along its length. A waft of lavender drifted over me as a breeze welcomed me to a secluded spot. Rather than gaze over the lake, I lay back and soaked in the night sky. There I thought, trying to make head and tail of things. For Kanazar had, perhaps unwittingly, divulged secrets about cores that I was unaware of—that they influenced their position was news indeed.

It was well known that when a castle was sacked one of three things happened. The core could be subjugated and swear allegiance to its conqueror. This always led to the Lord or Lady’s end, but that end was only temporary all the while they kept their heads. They would return, in days, years or centuries when a new core selected them. Or, the Lord might surrender and swear loyalty to the victor. The stronghold would then become a suzerain and feed their conqueror resources, soldiers, siege engines and the like. The core would have little option but to comply as its Lord lived.

The third option was core destruction. This would lead to the stronghold fading to ruin or vanishing. After a long while, it was thought that a new core was born, and that ruin could then attract a new Lord or Lady. But it was so rare as to be mere rumor. Besides, any new Lord reborn would soon be put to the sword by their nearest neighbor and the core taken.

“Cores cannot move their stronghold,” I said, more to hear the words than break the comfortable silence. As I said it, though, I knew it not to be true. They could. Kanazar had. And now I understood why some castles vanished. A fresh start gave it a chance of survival. So, assuming that Kanazar’s last stronghold had been sacked and had moved here, I deduced that a core had to be of a certain power to manage to perform the small miracle of selection.

With that reasoning buttoned down, another anomaly reared its ugly head. Alex had told me that we had two out of three good resource areas bordering the stronghold. If Kanazar had the pick of any place to grow the castle, why not pick a spot that had wood, stone and farmland close? Why settle for a spot that had a mixed area that Alex had said was useless in comparison?

Assuming Kanazar had enough intelligence to spawn the stronghold where it wanted, that meant that there was something about our positioning that negated the third, poor resource area. That train of thought opened up another—what attracted it to this place? What was so special about it?

It appeared cores were more than mere servants to their masters, and I wondered whether they weren’t the puppet masters. If that were the case, I’d made a terrible bargain, as surely it would engineer my downfall so it could take charge and I could live in servitude for an eternity.

One other thing worried me, interrupting my muse, and it was a simple thing. Assuming the civilized land beyond the mountains was home to dozens of Lords and Ladies, countless heroes and cores, then what hope did three failures have? For failures we all must have been to end up consigned to this place. A failed Lord, wizard and core versus the rest of the land, I scoffed at that.

“I thought I’d find you here,” said Alex. She didn’t startle me, and I wondered at that. Her voice soothed me, and I liked its timbre. It might have been that, but I thought it more—like I expected her to join me at any time—like I wished her by my side.

“Lysander has stayed with Kanazar,” I told her.

“Is that wise?” she asked, crouching beside me.

“He wants to leech power from the core. No, it’s not wise, but then, I don’t think he is either.”

She laughed, and I sat up, drawing my legs in and hugging them.

“Do you like him?” I asked.

“He is a breath of fresh air in a stuffy room. What’s not to like?” She sat. “I think him wise but reckless. It is possible to be both.”

“Am I stuffy?”

She pushed me. “No, not you! Barnaby, Fiona, Jensome—even Robert acts like he’s carrying a dozen more years than he has. The place needed livening up, and Lysander came. For once I could see the place becoming more fun. Yes, fun, that’s what. He’s in no danger, is he? Tell me he’ll be okay.”

“I was worried, but I’m not sure I am now. I’ve pondered our good friend Kanazar, and I think there’s more to it than a lump of shining magic. It does what’s good for it, and surely a mad hero can’t be that.”

“Mad?”

I shrugged. “Something about lore travelling directly into the mind—unfiltered, I think it called it. Kanazar warned that insanity might follow.”

“You let him do it?” She tensed. “Knowing that, you let him do it?”

“He’s his own man. Had I stopped him he would have snuck back. Like I said, a mad wizard can’t be of use to the core, so I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“Then I won’t, though I will. I won’t be able to stop myself.”

“I’ll confess—me either.”

“Just so long as you didn’t do it through jealousy.”

“Jealousy?” I said, curling my lip, reacting a shade too fast.

She sniffed. “You know what I mean.”

“I hold no jealousy,” I lied. “Though he has charisma in abundance. A hero has attributes, you know. Take care his numbers don’t seduce you.”

“You have attributes too,” she said and snuffed out that argument. “And you failed,” she added, needlessly as far as I was concerned.

“Ah, but all I have to do is capture the elven forest and then you’re mine,” I countered, determined to hold her to her vow no matter how pathetic it made me look.

She pushed me again, then pushed me harder until I rolled onto my back. She straddled me quickly, pinning me down. “I said I’d consider it and no more.” There was challenge in her tone.

“Liar!” I said. “You promised.”

“To consider,” she insisted, then trailed off, looking into my eyes. “Daniel Cutterson, you are intolerable.”

“I am your Lord.” I grinned, enjoying the feel of her on top of me. “You will do as I ask.” I was enjoying the moment, the closeness, the playfulness.

But she said no more, bending close, her breath on me, her lips brushing mine, then pressing, and she kissed me, and I tasted her sweetness. She withdrew and stood over me. “I’ll consider it long and hard. That is all I promise, although only if I were to be one of your Ladies,” she said, smiled and jumped up. “You have more recruits at the stronghold. Seems the cauldron is fit to burst and intent on spitting them out right now.” Then she left, leaving my heart pounding.

“Anyone useful?” I called after her but received no reply.

CHAPTER 8

I woke to a moody sky, ruffled clouds racing over the stronghold, the sun straining to gain control. The fresh breeze filled me with hope—hope that things were finally slotting into place. Sleep is a strange bedfellow; it can confuse or clarify. It had chosen the latter, and my path had become clearer. Not concerning Alex, that was a tangle of the heart, and no amount of sleep could unravel that. It was more, my path toward growth.

Another four had come. Two archers named Billie and Charmaine, strong and forthright women who needed no direction and left immediately to join Della and Sarah on the northeast wall. A rather surly fellow called Broadchurch claimed he was a captain and had previously served in the infantry. I wasn’t sure about him. He looked more like a quill pusher, and I didn’t have room for that sort. He was accompanied by Fenwick, a young lad and a runner. He would come in handy later, but with an army of nine, perhaps an indulgence.

But it gave me options, and nine was better than five, and the peace I’d enjoyed since the knocker raid wouldn’t hold. The question that plagued me was why? Why had the cauldron suddenly spat out so many folks? Then I noted my population cap had shot up to fifty-eight, and yet I’d built no more cottages. As I stared at it, it ticked up to sixty-four. I scratched my head, rubbed my eyes, and checked my cottage numbers, noting it still sat at four. Then my gaze fell upon the farms.

I no longer had farms, instead, I had farmsteads—three at level three and one at level one. Each potentially housed six people, increasing my cap by twenty-four. It was no wonder the cauldron had sprung into life. My cap was twice my population. Not only that, my food production potential had shot up to forty units a day while consumption was only twelve. It made for an interesting dynamic. In theory, by having farmsteaders instead of farmers, food should never be an issue, and I wondered if it was the boost I needed—if it could propel me to mediocrity. I’d settle for that.

Forgetting all else, I headed to the northwest third and the farmlands. Gregson met me at its edge. He was riding a piebald and had the easy way about him that comes from being on home turf.

“Come to check up on us? Needn’t have bothered. We killed the lot before they even got to the farms.”

He put two fingers in his mouth, and a shrill whistle nearly deafened me. A horse came galloping, chestnut in color with a white flash on its nose and matching socks. It slowed as it approached me, then circled, standing by me.

“Hop on,” said Gregson. “It’s taken a liking to you. Dad said it’s yours if she likes you. He reckons a Lord shouldn’t be walking farther than one building to the next—certainly not this far out.”

I hopped up, sliding into place. It was unnerving without so much as a blanket, let alone a saddle and my feet dangled hopelessly without stirrups to give me purchase. Having said that, after a few strides, the horse adjusted, and my concerns vanished. “What’s his name?”

“She hasn’t got one. We don’t name our horses, just let ‘em roam free and whistle them when needed. Name her if you like. Yours now.”

I liked and thought of a name, calling her Willow ever after. “Thank you,” said I.

“Don’t thank me, thank my dad—perhaps my mum.”

“I came to see your father. Be obliged if you could take me to him.”

“Sure. He’s working Farm Four and One.”

“Two farms?” I asked, momentarily confused.

“No, Farm Four which is level one. We have a system which saves confusion later on.”

I had been truly blessed the day the farmsteaders spawned. Then I recalled his opening words, and I drew alongside him. “You were attacked?”

“Wouldn’t say that,” he replied with a grin. “More, we were approached, and they were attacked. Dad always says kill first talk later when it comes to goblins.”

Some deep-rooted hatred boiled up inside me, and before I fully understood where it came from, my words spilt with heartfelt disgust. “I hate goblins.”

Memories came flooding back—not useful ones about my situation, but relevant for that moment. I could see the filthy scum, their dirty green bodies, pointed, rotten teeth, and their wide, boggle eyes all crazed with veins and yellow from the drink. The smell—I remembered the stench they carried about them like an aura, and their incessant chatter—tinny—every word snapped short.

“You and me both,” he said, chuckling. “You know what I hate the most about ‘em?”

I didn’t. “No.”

“Them stupid helmets they wear. The copper ones that look like skull caps. What’s the point? One good thwack with my axe and their heads split like rotten pears.”

I could think of a few worse things about goblins. Like the way they tore their victims limb from limb, or their tendency to roast prisoners alive on a spit. But for the sake of a little diplomacy, I simply grunted my agreement.

The farmsteads spread before me in an orderly fashion. The fields were laid out in ranks, crops sprouting in symmetrical furrows. Each farm had four fields apart from the one farthest which had two.

“Is that the new one?” I asked.

“Yep. Be level two before the end of the day. We’ll get it to three and start the next. Soon as the stronghold upgrades, we’ll go to four.” He paused. “About twenty.”

“Farms?” I queried.

“Goblins,” he replied. “We killed about twenty. They’ll be licking their wounds, but it ain’t the last we’ve seen of them. Ain’t the last.”

“Six beat twenty?”

“Three. The others were kipping. Didn’t want to wake them up. ‘Course, twenty is manageable. If they come with much more, we’ll all be back in the cauldron.”

There was no way I wanted that to happen. “When do they attack?”

He blurted a laugh. “Why, middle of the night. When the heck else do goblins attack?”

“Was checking. Might have been a different type up here.” I thought hard. “I can spare—”

He held his hand up. “Talk to Dad about it. He’s fierce independent. Probably refuse any help.”

We turned down a path between two fields, then across, aiming directly at the last farm. Greg was working the plot, his white hair and neckerchief giving him away.

“Ho!” he called, waving as we approached. “If it ain’t royalty.” His smile gave away his joy, but I had the feeling that joy came easily to him.

“Ho!” I shouted back. “I hear you’ve got a goblin problem?”

“They’re pests, that’s fer sure, and they’ve tasted our blood now. They’ll want more.” He looked at the sky, wiping the sweat from his brow. “Reckon tonight or tomorrow night. They’ll aim to get it done with numbers.”

I jumped from Willow, squaring up to Greg. “I haven’t many soldiers, but what I have are yours.”

He laughed and clapped me on the shoulders, holding me at arm's length. “Kind of you, but I’ve a mind to deal with it myself. These are frontier lands. If it weren’t goblins it would be trolls, if not them, some other monster. One good thing about being at the top of a slope.” He hugged me tight, and I looked where he did. “Everything rolls downhill.”

There stood Little Greg and Bones and a pile of logs.

“Ain’t they beauties?” Greg said. “Rolling logs—can’t beat them in the early days.”

I imagined them gathering a pace, bearing down on the goblins and crushing the bones out of them. A grin spread. I relished the thought.

He pointed down the escarpment. “See those pits?”

I couldn’t. “Nope.”

“Good, because the wife and daughter have dug and hidden about a dozen—not without planting a few stakes, mind. Gregson’s gonna start making the torches soon—goblins hate bright fire, in case you didn’t know—while I carry on improving this farm. Level two by nightfall.” He winked at me.

“What if a thousand come?”

“Then we die or run,” he said. “If a thousand come and you’ve given me your soldiers, then we die and so do they. So, you see, what’s the point in more deaths?” He cuffed the sweat from his brow. “Do you think I’ll run?”

“No,” I said, never more sure of myself than then.

“Damn right, I will. Farmsteading rule number one—if you can’t win, don’t even try.” He tapped the side of his head. “Not just a box of rocks.”

Running was good. Running saved their lives.

“We’ll need to deal with them at some point. We’ll have to wipe out their nest.”

“Aye,” he said. “Need to fire the vermin in their homes. Trouble is, they have magic users, and I hear ours is a pup and nothing more.”

“He is hampered without his tower,” I said cagily. “But we’re working on it.”

“Let’s just hope they aren’t too adventurous. A farm isn’t usually enough to bring out much more than skirmishers and looters. The hobs won’t come for a few iron tools and some stringy humans.”

“Nothing stringy about you,” I replied, and I broke away from him. “Tell me, these farms you build, goblin attacks aside, how many level ones can you have done in a few days?"

"Can do two a day to level one, one to level two—that's with what I’ve got and working hard, mind.”

“Build as many level ones as you can, for now, and I should be able to send you more folks.”

He prodded my shoulder. “Farmsteaders, only them. Oh and a pigger, if one comes out, and a herder.”

“That it?”

“I’d live with a shepherd as long as they come with a decent dog.”

“The level one farms?”

He shook his head. “I’ll get on it in the morning—if I’m alive.”

“Good man,” I said, and I mounted Willow and trotted away.

I rode back to the stronghold and sat with Barnaby, telling him my plans.

“So, abandon all and build cottages?”

“Another four to level two. Should only take a few days.”

“As soon as the lumber mills are done?”

“As soon as that.” I sat back, pondering everything. “Have you seen Lysander?”

“Not since he accompanied you to the source.”

“I’ll stop in on my way to the northeast wall. I want to make sure all is quiet there.”

I had an ominous feeling that the elves might wake up soon and attack. That would give me knockers, goblins, and elves to contend with, and there was no way I could win if my population was spread so thinly—there was no way I could win without an army of twenty or so.

As fast as things came together, so they unraveled.

“Where did you get her?” Alex asked me as I approached. She stood by Willow, stroking her.

“A gift from the farmsteaders.” I patted the horse. “I’m going to check on Della and Sarah and make sure Billie and Charmaine are settling in. You wanna come for the ride?”

“I’m off to hunt.”

“Then, next time.”

“What of Lysander?” she asked.

“Not seen him. I’ll stop by Kanazar on the way.”

“Then I’ll come,” she said. “And I’ll try and dissuade him from his folly before he loses his mind.”

I clenched my teeth, wanting to retort, but relented. Jealousy is a bitter friend. One no one wants to court, but one that is persistent. “I doubt you’ll have more luck than me.” I mounted Willow, and she jumped on behind me.

“But together we might. You need a lucid hero,” she said and wrapped her hands around my waist, pressing her chest into my back.

Was I a fool for my jealousy? It certainly felt like it.

Lysander was sitting atop one of the upright stones, and he was looking at the sky as if searching for a distant star. I immediately feared the worse, as did Alex—her grip on me tightening. I hailed him from afar, then again closer, but he remained still.

We dismounted and approached. “Lysander? Has the core deafened you?”

“Lysander,” said Alex. “Say something!”

And he did, and it was filled with madness. He tore his robe off, standing and shouting. “The stars are falling! The end is coming! We are all going to die!”

“No!” said I. “We are alright, Lysander. Come down and we can talk.”

“It’s me, Alex,” said Alex. “Jump down and sit with us.” She leant close to me. “This is your fault. You let him do it.”

I checked my temper. “It was his— Curse this—” I cleared my throat. “Lysander, I order you to come down.”

Rather than obey, he began barking like a dog, then howling at the sun. I exchanged glances with Alex. Her scowl laid the blame on me better than her words ever could. The Lysander stopped, and he stared at us both but said nothing.

“Lysander,” I said. “Jump.”

And he jumped and landed right in front of me, doubling over with laughter. “You should have seen your faces,” he said, tears streaming down his cheeks. “Priceless, I say. Absolutely priceless. And you, fair Alex, I didn’t know you cared, but hoped it might be so.”

She slapped him then, and a fine one it was. “Don’t play stupid games!”

I tried to grab hold of the situation. “So, you’re not mad? You stayed though? All night?”

“I did. But alas, no magic. My constitution grew some, mind. Enough that the slap didn’t hurt.”

Then Alex kneed him in the groin. “How about that?”

He doubled over, howling and cupping.

“I think he felt that,” I said.

“Damn you need to learn to take a joke,” he said, and stormed off, headed in the direction of the stronghold. “I need food and ale, then I’ll return.”

“No magic at all?” I called after him.

“None,” he said.

“Then I’ll meet you back there. I have another thought on it.”

“As long as it doesn’t involve my nuts, I’ll listen.”

We watched him walk away. “He certainly has a way about him,” I admitted.

“Shall we carry on?” Alex said, and it was plain she didn’t want to talk about it.

“I suppose it was quite funny,” I said, climbing on Willow. “Although he probably didn’t expect you to—”

“He deserved it,” she said. “Men and their games. Perhaps he has damaged his mind and that’s what made him play the fool.”

“I somehow doubt it’s the first time he’s done that. To the northeast wall?” I offered her my hand.

She hesitated. “No. I think I’ll go after him—check he’s okay. He’ll be your linchpin at some point. One of us should keep an eye on him.”

“He’s fine. Like you said, playing the fool.”

“I’ll make sure,” she replied and walked away.

The fires of unwelcome jealousy flickered back to life, my gaze lingering as she threaded her way along the narrow path, her hand trailing across the top of the long grass. She paused, turned, lent me a fleeting look, and then hurried on. Was she playing me? Stringing out my emotions and keeping me hanging on? Games! I had no time for them. I had citizens in Limbo—possibly a hellish place. There were goblins poised to attack, knockers testing my defenses, and elves lurking, waiting, biding their time.

Citizens?

Was that what they were? I’d slid into the role of Lord with ease and was comfortable with it. So, a seasoned Lord used to having folks do his bidding. Was that why she intrigued me so? That much I could only find out by asking her. But it begged the question: what type of ruler was I that I’d been betrayed and cast to this place? Was I a tyrant? I didn’t think so. Nor did I think I was the type to pillage other lands. But I wasn’t weak—that much I was sure of, and nor was I anybody’s fool. Someone, some faction or alliance was playing a game with me. It would be one they would lose.

The stretch of land between Kanazar’s crypt and the northeast wall was pleasant. Before long I came across the ruins of substantial dwellings, run-down barns and crumbling walls. I wondered what they might have been and decided on houses of some kind. Not like the cottages in the Hollow, something much grander. There were nine in all, one much larger than the rest. I imagined a table, with me at its head and four knights on either side. Could that be it? Could I have more than one hero and did we all live here in pomp and grandeur? The thought didn’t sit right with me. I would be comfortable there, but Lysander didn’t fit the scene.

After that close community came a natural bowl, perhaps some theater or arena, and then the ruins of a secondary wall that would hem in a killing field between it and our restored one. I made a note to build a palisade there as quickly as possible. The area was too isolated and open to an incursion. If the elves had anything about them, they’d have a toehold here before I could rouse a decent force. The damn place was too large to defend with the scattering of folk I had.

Della hailed me from the wall’s walkway, her shock of blonde giving her identity away. I kicked Willow into a gallop, waving back. I’d accustomed to the horse quickly and rode without thought, patting her, appreciating her beauty and easy way.

“My Lord,” Della said, jumping from the walkway and holding Willow while I dismounted. “It is an honor to have you come.”

“The honor is all mine,” I said. “How goes it on the wall?”

“All duty is a pleasure,” she said, demurely, averting her eyes and bowing her head.

“You can look at me, you know. I’ll not bite.”

And she did, her gaze so different to Alex’s. There was no challenge to it. There was nothing but wonder as if I was some God and she was in rapture. Her mouth hung partly open, bottom lip quivering. “As my Lord sees fit.” She took a breath, her inhalation stuttering. “Would my Lord like to walk the wall with me? I can take you to Sarah and Charmaine. Billie is sleeping at the moment.” She led me to a ladder, just sticks and twine, and was up it in a second. The view was a delight.

I followed, soon upon the walkway, a hand on the palisade. Despite it being level two, it was flimsy, too flimsy, the whole thing moving underfoot. “Seems a weak wind might have it over in the blink of an eye.”

“It’s stronger than it looks, and like us, my Lord, it will grow stronger in time.”

“But it’s not strong enough right now.”

“It will suffice. It has to.”

“And the elves?” I asked.

She drew beside me. “We see fleeting glimpses. They will not attack the wall.”

“How do you know?” I could feel her presence. It was like a boiling heat—a roiling cauldron of nerves and anticipation. I wondered why, questioning the effect the encounter was having on her. Feeling the effect it was having on me. If a libido could burst, mine was set to.

She pointed along the walkway. “See there? See where the oak hangs over the wall? Why scale a palisade when you can climb that which is familiar to you and drop over it."

My mouth hung open. “Well, I’ll be damned. We are that exposed? Why don’t they attack?”

“Sarah has some ideas on that. She has high intellect—higher than mine.” She edged away from me, rubbing her palms on her tunic. “Excuse my nerves, my Lord, I have never been so close to one as important as you.”

“Nonsense,” I said, then checked. My wording was wrong. “I mean to say it’s all nonsense. I am your Lord, yes, but there is no need to fear me. Plus, it seems to me you are plenty intelligent.” I was smug with my reply. “And beautiful, very beautiful.” So, I ruined it with my next words.

She blushed. “You are very kind. But it is true. Sarah’s intellect is superior to mine. Although, we are archers, and I am the better shot.” She grinned then, dimples deepening, and it was glorious to see her face light up. “I know what I’d rather be.”

“Fantastic,” I said, like a fool.

“Come,” she said and walked away, the sway of her hips exaggerated.

By the Gods, I had no idea how I resisted.

I paused, trying to compose, both admiring the view and realizing that my jealousy had vanished. All thoughts of Alex fawning over Lysander were less overwhelming. I’d been a lovestruck fool hooked by the first pretty face to spawn from the cauldron. Did I need Alex’s complex attitude, or would Della’s simple adoration suit me better? It was a delightful view, and it came with no intricacies or appeared to. I elected to relax—as much as I could while imagining dozens of elves dropping from the oaks, knives in hand while I rummaged with the delightful Della.

“Why does she think they’ll not attack?” I called after her.

“I’ll let her tell you.” She stopped by a particularly impressive tree, its branches reaching over the wall and into the killing zone. “They are beautiful, aren’t they?”

They were—captivating was the word. A heady bouquet of bark, moss and sap-soaked leaves overcame me. “Acorns,” I said, reaching up, ready to pluck one. They were tiny, light green, with their tiny caps set at jaunty angles. “It is spring,” I whispered. “By the Gods it is the rebirth.” Up until that moment, I hadn’t taken note of the season. Kanazar had roused me at the perfect moment.

“It is,” said Della, and she straightened. “A great time to sew seed, don’t you think?”

I rolled my eyes and bit my lip.

She walked on, leaving me wondering at the meaning she’d stitched into her words. “Great time indeed,” I said.

Sarah was sitting close to a small fire in the center of a square stone tower. She had a blanket over her shoulders and turned a small spit, a squirrel, or some such unfortunate dropping fat globules onto glowing coals. The snap and fizz of the boiling fat sent smoke up and unleashed the mouth-watering smell of roasting meat. She looked up, mouth agape, rushing to stand and attempting to bow simultaneously. She nearly upended the spit, but caught it in time, recovering, half kneeling, half crouching. “My Lord, forgive me. I did not expect you. Della should have announced.”

I raised my hand. “It is nothing. Carry on.”

“It is everything,” she said. “My thanks for gracing us with your presence. Would you eat with us? We only have meat and berries.”

“No bread? No stew?”

“These are early days. We all do what we can. Once the steward sorts out the supplies, we will eat better.”

“It will be done, and you’ll not be forgotten any longer,” I said and crouched by the fire. “Della says you have a theory. That you think you know why the elves don’t attack.”

“I do,” she replied and sat cross-legged. “So would you? Would you honor us by sharing our food?”

“I would,” I said. “I would be honored indeed.”

“The pleasure is ours,” Della said, joining us.

“Your theory?” I asked again.

Sarah passed me a bowl half filled with fruit and meat. “It is the rousing, the bleakness is over. We know elves sleep through the bleakness, as do their trees. The probing Barnaby spoke of was them awaking and entering the grounds to retrieve stored food. The castle has been dormant for a long while. It would be foolish to think that knockers, elves, and perhaps other fey, hadn’t used it for themselves. Barnaby was a mere wisp before you came—a ghost, and as such, an annoyance to them and nothing more. But when you lived, he became more substantial, and then we came along, and the stronghold changed, its heart beating again.”

Her voice was soft and gentle, and her words drew me in. They made sense too. “You think that’s why they stopped coming?” I asked.

“I do, and I think they will remain quiet all the while we leave their trees alone,” she added.

I took a bite of squirrel. “Oh my,” I said as its taste erupted within me, juices running from the corner of my lips. “That is perfection.” I composed my face, wiping the juices off before speaking again. “We’ll need their wood. That much is as sure as the sun rising. Look at them! Look at their size. One could build an entire wall.”

“We will need it,” Sarah said. “But may I make a suggestion?”

I studied her then. Her short brown hair, sharp cheekbones and large eyes gave her an elven quality, and I wondered at her heritage. Mixing was rare but not unheard of. “Have you elven roots?” I asked.

“Uncertain,” she replied, cryptically.

“How so?”

She stared over the fire, her eyes an interesting mix of hazel and green. “I am of the cauldron. All before is lost. All after is for your pleasure.”

By pleasure, she meant service, of course. But I was a mere mortal—well, immortal all the while my head and shoulders met—and wondered if it meant anything else. “So, your suggestion?”

“Only take their wood when you can defend these walls.”

It was sound advice, with one flaw. “We’ll only be able to improve these walls so they are substantial enough to defend if we chop their wood.” I indicated the overhanging boughs. “These must go.”

“They must,” she said.

“Perhaps an accord can be reached?” Della asked.

“An accord?”

“They allow us to prune their trees and in return, we leave their forest alone.”

I pondered it as Charmaine dumped herself down. Where the other two were lythe, she was sturdy. Thick of neck, with jowls like a dog, her mouth was set in a line that hinted war was to come and that it would be short and brutal. Her shoulders were rounded, and didn’t imply strength, they fair yelled it. She was, in short, a bear of a woman. “Or we could kill them all,” she said, grabbing the part-stripped carcass and picking its bones clean. She stopped chewing as if thinking and chewing taxed her too much. Then she shrugged. “What?”

“This is your Lord,” Sarah said. “You’ll show him more respect.”

Charmaine eyed me. “I know. But I’ll not grease him up more than you two have. Some prefer plain talk.”

“Then talk plainly,” said I. “You have my permission.”

“Speaks a lot of sense, does Sarah. Do what she says. Don’t mind me.” She grinned or did her best. Her mouth was surprisingly small. “I like a fight.” Grease dripped to her chin. “But then, I hate the cauldron, so best to ignore my call to war.”

“I have my own mind and make my own choices, I’ll have you know,” I said.

“Then you’re the best type of Lord we could hope for.”

I fancied she was toying with me. “That remains to be seen, as does how good a soldier you are.”

“Me? Adequate with the bows we have, but I’ll come into my own once we have the long ones. Built for them, I am. Level four range, if I’m not mistaken.”

She was correct. A range enhanced the archer, naturally. I added it to my list, along with all the cottages, a new wall, an improved stronghold, the lumber mills, tavern and quarries—upgrades to all existing artisan and military buildings. The list was endless. “You’re not,” I said. “But it’ll be a while.”

“Then best leave the forest alone.”

Della and Sarah nodded.

“But all three of you think the elves will stay away?” I asked.

“All the while they see the wall manned,” Sarah said.

“Which of you is best with the bows we have at hand?”

“That’ll be them two,” Charmaine said. “Their hands couldn’t pull a long one.”

A plan formed in my mind, thankfully.

CHAPTER 9

It was a full moon. Whether that was an omen or not, I didn’t know. I rode ahead of the others, Willow’s stripe shining silver. Lysander grumbled and grouched. He’d told me he’d be useless, and maybe he would be. He hated me mounted while he was not. Hero, he was that, and he thought it elevated him above the others. Alex marched on the other side of me. Lysander and her had fallen out—no doubt because of her interfering.

I’d told her that he wouldn’t be turned from his path, but she knew better. I thought it could have been the shoots of infatuation, although she had denied it. The far less complicated Della and Sarah marched behind us. Call me shallow, but my mind tended to wander to them rather than Alex. All the time asleep had made me desperate for release. Such was the way of things.

Broadchurch, Fenwick, and Jameson brought up the rear. Broadchurch sported a scowl. He’d demanded he march up front with me, but I’d made it plain who was Lord and who was, as far as I was concerned, an infantryman with no rank. At first, he’d attempted to argue, but, oddly, Barnaby had silenced him. Which was a revelation—the steward had authority over all of them, and I’d not seen it until that point.

“You’ll prove yourself to your Lord, and then, and only then, might he consider elevation.”

So, Broadchurch marched at the back, hating every step.

We left the stronghold’s safety, passing through the northwest gate, and I called my fledgling army to a halt, observing the farms, and over, the escarpment. It was dark, and it was chaos. I could see nothing for a moment. But my eyes adjusted, picking out the dull flash of copper, the glint of iron. There was screaming, but not the elongated scream of a human, the chopped bark of dying goblins. I guessed the pits had skewered a few when the battle had begun and tried to spy the rolling logs but couldn’t in the gloom.

“To battle!” I cried. “Archers to the flanks and aim into their midst, pick off stragglers. The rest of you with me.”

“Goblins!” Lysander cried, all thought of his feebleness gone. “I hate goblins.”

We have that in common.

I kicked Willow on, levelling my spear, and I galloped towards the affray. It was a scattered battle, the clank of swords sporadic, and I took it all in as if second nature, which I guessed it was. I estimated the enemy at some fifty or sixty vile creatures. They had no formation, that gone if it ever existed.

“They are skirmishing,” I said, as the lay of the land became clearer. “They are ghosts.”

Outnumbered, the farmsteaders were fighting the only way they could. Springing up, taking a few enemies down, and then vanishing before they were overrun. It was a good tactic, but one I had no intention of following. I ploughed into their ranks like a man possessed. My spear flashed; its double-edged tip shaped like an elongated teardrop. It was perfect for running through and retracting, slicing, or running across a back, or leg. It was a versatile weapon, and one I used deftly. The goblins fell, but I was one man, and there was plenty of vermin to deal with.

Broadchurch’s throaty roar told me he’d engaged. Despite my earlier remonstrations, he ordered Fenwick and Jameson about. It was no bad thing, the pair of them didn’t have a brain between them. The fizz of arrows pleased me, their dull thwacks as they hit their marks, even more so.

I couldn’t see Lysander, so wasn’t sure if my plan was working. It was a desperate move, but one born of foggy recollection. Either it would or wouldn’t—either he’d be slain, or he’d emerge a changed man. He didn’t want to wait for his power, and nor did I. It was worth the risk.

A flash of white caught my attention, followed by another, then a deep growl of rage so feral it might have come from some damnable monster. Goblins surrounded Greg, but the foolhardy farmsteader stood his ground. He had a scythe in hand, its handle shortened for the fight. I steered Willow to him, picking off a couple of the scum on my first run through. Then she hit a stray log, unseating me, sending me flying. Twisting, I managed to bring my weapon out of harm’s way, thumping to the ground back first, my lungs emptying and ribs cracking.

I didn’t tarry, rising despite the pain, hurdling the log, and joining the fray. Pain lanced through me, but quickly diminished. Another memory broke free of my sleep’s fog. We healed quickly, Lords and heroes. The more our constitution increased, the shorter our path back to full health. I didn’t dwell on the thought—didn’t have time. A filthy goblin bore down on me, already close. I slid the spear through my hands, shortening its reach, then jumped forward, ducking under a badly swung hatchet—no match for my weapon. Once impaled, I jinked to one side of the stricken creature, jerked my spear from its open guts, and screwed my face up as its foulness belched out. I spun around, giving the dying goblin a smack on the back with the blade’s flat and seeing it tumble over the log. I picked up its hatchet, a crude weapon with a chipped edge. It would do, so I sheathed it in my belt.

“Ho Greg!” I cried, feeling truly alive for the first time, every muscle eager to contribute, each of my senses alive.

Not waiting for a reply, I dove into the fray, stabbing, slicing and then discarding the spear as things became too compact. Drawing the hatchet, I savaged all around me, raining blows with the half-blunt weapon, cutting occasionally, stunning every time. It would be hard to describe the horror of fighting goblins at close quarters. The stench of their foulness very nearly ended me. The gruesome, twisted faces flashing in the moonlight were enough to riddle my dreams with horror for a good few nights. But, inch by inch, corpse by corpse, I made my way into the throng, soon side-by-side with Greg.

“Having a good night?” I asked, and he swept his scythe and took a goblin’s head.

“Glad to see my Lord,” he replied, teeth gritted. “Was strugglin’ a bit, don’t mind sayin’.”

“I thought you said twenty or so.” I swung the hatchet aiming to cut a neck myself, but the damn thing snagged. “Blunt as anything,” I said, choosing to punch the creature instead.

“Never could count well. Meg cooks the books.”

“Handy,” I said, and it was. Who enjoyed ledgers?

“Take my knife if you want,” said Greg. “Need both hands to crop heads well.”

He swung his thigh in my direction, offering it up, and I unsheathed it. It was a cruel-looking affair with a serrated blade of a dozen inches or more. “Nice,” I said, discarding the hatchet.

It was good to have a knife in hand, and it was familiar too. My stance altered without me thinking, and I opted for a counter-offensive mode. Baiting the goblins closer, I ducked and weaved, my waist still, but my upper and lower body in constant motion. The goblins fell in short order, and as I dealt with the last few, I noted Greg stood still, leaning on his scythe and watching me do all the work. Then there was no more to be done, so I stood still too.

“You fight well,” he said. “Like a storm.”

“I think I am an accomplished warrior,” I replied, looking about and seeing mere pocket battles, all fizzling out as the goblins skulked back to the shadows.

“And a welcome addition. I confess I was confused when the first arrows struck.”

“I didn’t come alone.”

“You son-of-a-bitch!” Lysander cursed, marching up to me.

His expression was one of rage and glee mixed, and the rage lost, glee winning out. “I could have died,” he said, then hugged me, clapping my back, staff in hand. “One of those damnable goblins charged me. I squared to it, standing my ground. You’ll never guess what happened next.”

He waited.

“What?” I finally said.

“It was only the smallest fart of a fireball. Barely left my staff’s tip before dropping and snuffing out, but it was magic.”

“And the goblin?”

“Poked its chest with my staff then smacked its head. I can still do that. Point is, I got a dribbling of magic. Kanazar’s ploy is working. I’m headed back there now.”

“No! Don’t! Nurture what you have. Don’t risk madness.”

But he’d already turned, waving my protests away. “Hero, remember? I’m the one who’s supposed to be in the midst of battle.”

“You’re a wizard,” I cried. “You aren’t supposed to be anywhere near it. Wizards are renowned cowards.”

“Paper soldiers,” said Greg.

But he was gone. There was no dissuading him.

* * *

The cauldron held up its end of the bargain—well, the one I had struck in my mind. I built cottages, and it tried to narrow the gap between Castle Kanazar’s actual population and its cap.

We had twelve of them, six on either side of Hollow’s first street. Half were at level one, two were two and four were at three. When combined with the eight farmsteads—four at level one and four at three, it gave me a cap of one-hundred and thirty-six. Of the thirty new residents that the cauldron gifted me since I last reported, four were farmsteaders, three woodcutters and three quarrymen. Given I had quarrymen, and that I needed stone, I had two quarries opened, both in the mixed resource area. The extra farmsteaders gave Greg a militia of ten, which would have probably been enough souls to keep the goblins at bay, but I didn’t fancy taking any risks. Fortunately, the cauldron provided an answer in the shape of two cavalrymen named Butterworth and Gemmerson, and they took turns patrolling the exposed escarpment.

Four more infantrymen also ambled from the cauldron. They had one thing in common with the others, and that was their paper-thin character. I wondered whether it was a trait, or if they had to nurture their charisma. Perhaps they were made of sterner stuff than wit. Broadchurch had proved a capable commander during the previous goblin incursion, and he assumed command, taking up residence in his barracks during the day, organizing patrols and training the men one-on-one.

Some artisans came too. A potter named Cleo was as brash as any I’d met—or could recall meeting. May was a middle-aged woman who specialized in herbs and waltzed into the stronghold gay as you like, laughing and joking with Daisy, an alchemist, in tow. Probably the prize of the bunch was Saxon, a veritable beast of a man and a steelsmith to boot. If ever we needed a trade, it was his. A few were useless to me at that point. A lamplighter came—his name was odd, Greasby, and for some reason, it didn’t sit well with me. The cauldron also spawned two gardeners, even though we had no gardens. Named Gobben and Mateus, I set one about the lake, making nice with that place, and the other I charged with smartening up Kanazar’s stone circle.

Nine more came, most with building trades—a thatcher, two stonemasons, a carpenter, two laborers and a plasterer familiar with the art of wattle and daub. Which left two out of thirty yet unaccounted for, and I left them for last as they made things interesting, very interesting.

They came in quick succession, spat from the cauldron like an afterthought, but their very presence amused and intrigued me. It intrigued me because I wondered at the reasoning behind it all. I’d already concluded that the cauldron’s issue wasn’t entirely random. It sent what it thought was needed—I was sure of that. By building all the cottages, I had skewed what it thought I needed. I supposed it assumed the stronghold was more advanced than it was. Thus it sent me gardeners when I had no gardens, and a lamplighter when I had no lamps. So, in its infinite confusion, it sent me Jessabel and Anna as well.

Jessabel announced herself in a unique way, and that was by entering the stronghold’s long room cleavage first, then after a short while, the rest of her. That is to say, she was a busty woman, rosy of cheek and full of smiles, and I was immediately comfortable in her presence. She sat at my table, slouching on her chair, appraising me long and hard.

“I think I’m early. Expected a bustling place with shops and eateries, a full barracks, a stable and range. Nightlife—a bit of that.” Then she lifted her eyebrows. “It should be interesting if nothing else.”

I had an idea what trade Jessabel plied but wanted some confirmation. “I take it…”

She sat up, resting her elbows on the table and cradling her chin. There was challenge in her eyes. “You guessed right. I’m a companion to many, a listener to some and an escape to others. I’m loved and loathed, cherished, and castaway. Yes, my Lord, I am a—”

“Companion,” I said. “I like that term. It is somehow less belittling than the others. Alas, I have no house for you, and coin is not our way as yet, so early, yes you are. But what are we to do with you?”

Then, in short shrift, while my question hung in the air, I pondered having one companion when Anna walked in. She was different from Jessabel, and had less pronounced curves, although those she had were in the right place. Demure would be a good way to describe her. Between the two, if I had secrets to spill, it would be to Anna. She took a seat beside Jessabel, and sat, hands clasped, chin down. “I am Anna. I bake pastries, but fear I’ve woken too soon,” was all she said.

Jessabel laughed. “Two problems for the price of one!”

Barnaby, the only other present, then broke his silence by spluttering.

“I see no problem,” I said, speaking before he could and meeting Jessabel’s gaze. “All know that my memory is foggy, but I have good instinct for what is right and what is wrong. There is nothing immoral in the trade you ply if it is done for honest exchange. So, this is what I think. We are about to start work on a tavern, but I lack any that understands how to run that place. Am I correct in thinking that you would usually provide refreshments for your guests?”

“I would,” she said. “Food and drink. A good house is a whole evening affair, not a tawdry, fleeting, moment.”

Anna said, “While I’m not a general cook, I could provide food, especially the bread, making it even better than the general fare.”

“Very good.” I had the feeling that I might well have visited such establishments during my previous life. “Then you both will find a way to run my tavern and your other business in harmony. There is only one issue, and it is that of bargain. Without payment, there can be no trade.”

“That puts a hoe in the spokes,” she said.

“Indeed but bear with me. Regarding the tavern, all shall be free, and in return, you will get the building, food, and what you need for brewing ale and making bread. We will soon have a pottery, so mugs and plates will follow. Once the smithy of the right level, knives and spoons will follow.”

“We will have to address the monetary aspect of the stronghold at some point,” Barnaby pointed out. “A town needs taxes.”

“A town needs many things,” Jessabel said.

“Indeed, and at that point, all things will be renegotiated. We can only travel the path that is in front of us.” I cleared my throat. “Are we in agreement regarding the tavern?”

She held my gaze momentarily before nodding.

“I think we are.” Anna chimed in as she nodded.

I focused on Jessabel. “Then to the other business that comes part and parcel. As I said, there is no coin. Should you come to a suitable arrangement with a visitor, then your agreement is your own.”

“Sounds fair,” she said.

“But.” I raised my hand. “There will be no debt. There will be no ledgers, and there will be no favors. I’ll not have any man—”

“Or woman,” she pointed out.

Barnaby reddened.

“Or woman,” I said, taking all in my stride. “Running up tallies they can’t afford. That goes between everyone that provides a service for another as well. If one takes a cut from the other, it must be paid there and then. Whatever arrangement you come to, until the first coin is minted, it will be by agreement.”

To that, she pursed her lips. “Except it isn’t as clean as that, is it.”

“How so?”

“There will always be one I owe.”

“Who?” I asked but had a clue.

“You,” she said, her lips finishing in a pout.

“You will owe me nothing, and if Barnaby were to come and visit you, then he will need to come to an arrangement the same as everyone else.”

“You’ll not catch me skulking through such a door.” Barnaby banged his fist on the table, even redder than before.

“You haven’t tasted my roasted chicken yet,” said Jessabel. “Have you walked the tree, steward?”

“No,” he said.

“Then what’s a little company?”

He shrunk into his coat.

“Do we have an agreement?” I asked.

“On one condition,” she said.

“Ask it.”

“The first cook or ale master that comes from the cauldron is mine—the first lad too. I’m fond of cooking but am more of an overseer, and I despise washing. If you agree to that, I’ll run your tavern. As to owing you nothing, that will never be the case. You are my Lord. What’s mine is yours, same as any trade.”

“It will because a debt is no debt if it is never called in. Welcome to my stronghold.” I stood, and I offered her my hand. “I imagine our morale will improve to no end. I consider you both a great addition to the place.”

She took my hand, and I drew hers to my lips, kissing it. “When will the tavern be done, Barnaby?”

“Day after tomorrow.”

“Take a cottage until then,” I told her.

“I’ll not be idle—I want to contribute,” she said.

“Then do so, but I’ll wager a day off will make little difference and you’ll both be hankering for one in a while. Running a tavern is no easy life. Why not look around the grounds?”

“Will you escort us?” she asked.

I considered it, but not for long. I liked her. She was easy, and everything was upfront—everything.

“Why not,” I said. “As soon as I’ve had my morning meet.”

I took Anna’s hand in agreement as well and felt an immediate connection as our eyes met. I brushed her hand to my lips as I had with Jessabel, but the heat was such that my mind raced to kissing her whole body. From her blush, she had a similar reaction.

I grinned and couldn’t help the desire in my eyes as I released her hand. She returned my gaze, matching my intensity.

“I look forward to your company, my Lord,” she whispered as she nodded.

They left, as did Barnaby.

I sat by the fire and mulled my eager agreement. I had several things to do the next morning, and all involved touring the grounds, so it was no skin off my nose. I wished to visit the lumber mills and quarries, more to get my bearings than anything else. The site of the tavern was also on my list, so that worked too.

There were several natural springs about the stronghold’s grounds. Most drained into the lake from which a river ran headed to the escarpment and through the farms via the Hollow. Some formed streams which joined to a small river which ran south. It was along this river that the artisan buildings were to be constructed. While technically not of that class, the tavern would brew ale, rear chickens, perhaps pigs too, and have a few goats. The brewing of ale sat it firmly with the artisans, while the animals and ingredients put it in league with the farms, and the tavern itself lent it a commercial aspect. It fitted nowhere and everywhere, but it did need water, so I had chosen a spot at the head of the street, first in line for the freshest water. After all, one didn’t want one’s ale any more fruity than it had to be.

That prime position gave it some prestige. I wanted it to become the focal point of the stronghold and intended to put a feasting hall opposite it. But, and I was no prude, a companion added a new dimension. It wasn’t the sexual aspect—every man and woman spewed from the cauldron had desires. Lust was not the bastion of a few, but the home of many. It was jealousy that was the issue, and I worried that I had already subconsciously leveraged it.

Had I agreed to show the girls around to elicit a reaction from a certain archer named Alex? I felt our relationship had cooled since Lysander had arrived and the attack. Although as my interaction with Anna had shown, my desires weren’t focused solely on her either. Every day, at the morning meet, she beseeched him not to go back to Kanazar, and every day he did. I told her time and again not to bother, and she shook her head, telling me that Lysander needed a firmer hand to grow well. Yet still, I was infatuated with her, so much so that I hadn’t pursued Sarah or Della even though one or both were clearly interested.

Had I agreed to escort Jessabel and Anna to get under Alex’s skin? I wasn’t sure. Then as complicated matters are wont to do, mine became even more entangled. There was a knock on my door and before I could answer it, Sarah slipped through.

“My Lord, might I have a word?”

* * *

I’d taken to having a morning meeting with those I considered important to me. Barnaby was one, as was Alex despite her distance. Lysander came, and I often considered that the point of the meeting. Had I contrived it to appraise him? I would have liked Greg to attend but trusted him to get on with the business of farming and securing our northwest border. Jensome sat with us, but he only agreed with any who asked him, unless it was building-related, then he had plenty of opinions all based around carpentry being the best trade with all others imbeciles. Broadchurch slumped in a chair, puffed and pompous, but he had a sharp mind and knew his soldiering, and his opinion was worthy. Lastly, there was Fiona, because she’d been with me from the beginning, and nothing swayed her opinion barring herself. There was much value in that.

“Our meet must be brief this morning as I have visiting to do. We have enough bodies to propel this stronghold forward and release our kin from Limbo, so I wish to make sure things are on track and plot our next phase. Therefore,” I said, “I’ll get straight to the point I wish to discuss. Last night, Sarah came to see me.”

“Sarah?” asked Broadchurch. “The archer from the goblin skirmish?”

“What did she want?” Alex interrupted before I had a chance to answer the infantryman.

“She has made contact with the Elven Queen.” I said it directly, offering no other explanation and then studied their reactions. Most were piqued interest. Alex was a mix of rage and confusion.

“Who?” asked Lysander. “What queen?” He had bags under his eyes and was pale as river foam.

“Leyathel,” said I. “Leyathel is, according to Sarah, queen of the elven tribe that lays claim to the forest on our northeast border.”

“Sarah took it upon herself to negotiate with our enemies without the approval of this council?” Barnaby asked.

“Is that what we are?” I asked. “I thought us just an informal gathering. But”—I pondered it – “I’m not averse to making it official.” I thought some more. “A council—so we are that. Yes, she did, and I suppose she overstepped, but I’ve a feeling she has kinship there—not with that tribe, you understand, but she has an elven slant.”

“Then how do we know she’s not a spy?” Alex asked.

I shrugged. “She’s from the cauldron, so, like you, Kanazar’s child. Mind,”—I raised my palm—“that doesn’t mean she can’t be swayed away, but her morale would have to be in the gutter. I think it too early for that kind of disquiet.”

Barnaby grunted, which I took as agreement.

“Correct,” said Broadchurch. “I’ve witnessed such men, remember them through the cauldron’s fog. Sniveling wretches to a man when caught. I’ll tell you this, you don’t forget treachery easily. There are signs: the shift of their eyes, the way they walk a street, always looking around, and sweat, sweat is the biggest giveaway.”

You don’t forget treachery—yet I had.

“Lysander?” I asked.

He pushed his rowdy hair back and engaged me with his smoldering eyes. “There is no treachery yet. There will be, but not yet.”

“How can you know?” Alex snapped. “Sweat? I sweat when I hold my draw ready to loose. I sweat when I toil, and I look around me as I walk. It means nothing. A good spy does not give their game away.”

“Granted,” I said, coolly. “But I think myself a good judge of character and sensed nothing but a will to help in her. She has a sharp mind, and more, she has no reason to betray us.”

“So good a judge that you offer our tavern to the wench?” Alex countered, and I stiffened.

“I think so, and I’ll not hear a word said against any profession, nor any practitioner. We are an autocracy, and my word wins. If we become a theocracy, then I’ll be gone, and the stronghold will be dust. I say we have no laws against their trade—”

It was her turn to hold up her hand, the hint of victory turning up the corners of her mouth. “I never said anything about her trade. I was merely commenting on the cleavage that thrusts before her and announces her arrival some moments before the rest of her follows.”

And I grinned at her words, which infuriated her all the more. Despite all, we were one and the same. Her first impressions matched mine to a tee. One day, she will be mine!

“Try getting past her chest—” I said.

“An almost impossible task.” It was Lysander’s turn to interrupt me.

Alex slapped him playfully, and he flinched away, brushing his arm. All was not rosy in the enemy camp. And yes, Lysander felt like an enemy where she was concerned.

I spoke again. “Try talking to her. She is as genuine as you. I am showing her around the estate later. Why not accompany us?” I issued the challenge, suppressing my smile.

“I will,” she said. “I will. You are right. I apologize.”

Just like that, she snatched victory from me.

Then she turned to Lysander. “Would you like to come? The fresh air won’t kill you.”

“I must practice my magic,” he declared and piqued my interest.

“You have progressed?”

“Muchly,” he replied. “A little more and I think a visit to the goblins is in order.”

“Why stir the hive?” I asked.

He was silent for a while, but then smacked his lips together and steepled his hands. “Because of what Kanazar imparted to us. Do you not recall? Of artifacts and talismans?”

I remembered then. The core boasted powerful items that lay scattered throughout these wild lands. “You think some there?”

“A good place to start.”

I scraped at my morning stubble. “Broadchurch, how versed are your men at close-quarter fighting?”

“I can increase my training. Seven days and they’ll be proficient. Increase my facilities and it will help.”

“The barracks?”

“Those,” he confirmed.

“Barnaby?”

He rolled his eyes, as was his way whenever I asked about construction. I was sure he could picture all the works in his mind and thought me inferior because I couldn’t. “The mills are done,” he replied with a sigh, “as are the cottages. We have a team on the smithy, and we're going to commence a wall upgrade. You ordered that yesterday.”

“Delay that. Switch to the barracks, all the way to three. Our military must always be prioritised.”

“Too right,” said Broadchurch.

“Might I remind you that everything’s a priority?” Barnaby said, his tone tiresome.

“You might,” I said. “But it won’t stop me from changing my mind if I think a new course is best.”

“We could start the wall,” Jensome said, one of his rare contributions. “The smithy is mostly stonework while the wall is largely wood. I believe the next phase is a secondary palisade to open a killing field. We have more woodsmen and woodcutters than mills to house them.” He scrunched his wizened face, and we all waited for his pronouncement. “So, I reckon the fastest way to get the wall upgraded would be to have them make a level one lumber mill to pump out palisades. Gardeners can dig—we’ve got spare gardeners. They can plant stakes in the ground if they can root a stump. That way, I believe, you can have all you want.”

“Did I mention I need a tavern built in short order?” I ventured.

Jensome smiled. “I heard. Did I mention myself in any of the other work? I don’t think I did.”

He said little, but when he did, it was golden. “Thank you, Jensome. Can you schedule all that please, Barnaby?”

“It will be done.”

“To your satisfaction, Lysander?”

“It will give me time to better myself. Leyathel, let’s return to her. I’ve a mind to join you when you meet her.”

“Leyathel?” I asked, momentarily forgetting. “Ah yes, the meat of our sandwich. Back to that.”

“Do we trust Sarah?” Alex asked before my words had settled.

“We do,” I said.

“Then tell us how she came to meet with the elven queen.”

I stood and walked to the door. “I can do better than that. I can have her tell you the story.” I opened it, and she strolled in, a delight as always.

Sarah sat next to me, silent at first until I prompted her to speak. “Tell them all of Leyathel as you told me. Leave nothing out.”

She sat up, back straight and chin jutting. “It had been going on for a number of days,” she said. “It began as rustling, the leaves quivering when they should have been still, branches swaying contrary to the breeze.”

“What started?” asked Alex. “Get to the point.”

“The introductions,” she said. “What do you know of elves?”

Alex smirked. “How to pin them with arrows.”

“Then I’ll beg your patience while I explain, as you cannot have been close. To begin, I must tell you a few things. Elves are fiercely territorial when it comes to other elves. They cherish their trees,”—she levelled her gaze on Alex— “in a similar way a woman might covet a man.” Then she looked away. “It is not the land, the mud and dirt, they care about. They want the trees, and they want them all for themselves. But the trees don’t care for this, and they creep and butt with other trees, and so, from time to time, though more like age to age, one tribe might come to meet another. Though fierce when they have to be, elves are shy creatures, absorbed with the beauty of the land, as happy isolated as together, and so, when a meeting of trees occurs, a kind of courtship follows, where elf tests another, and peace or war will follow. Thus, the leaves rustled.”

“So they thought you an elf?” Alex said with a yawn.

“She has elf in her,” Lysander added. “That is plain to see.”

“Lost to the cauldron,” I said. “But let’s assume that—the tale certainly bears it out. Please, Sarah, continue.”

“After attracting my attention, they revealed themselves—fleetingly at first, then lingering. A glimpse became a stare, a head, shoulders, and a body, until, one day, Izzy sat upon a bough, one leg drawn up and his chin resting upon his knee. ‘Your King is a busy so-and-so,’ he said, his voice more lyrical than a well-blown flute.

“‘I have no King,’ I riposted, ‘but I do have a Lord, and he is a busy man.’ With that, he chuckled, then said, ‘If he’d have woken a dozen of your years ago, then he could have taken his merry time.’”

The elf had a point.

“So you and this Izzy had a chat,” Barnaby asked. “Did anyone witness this?”

“No. The elves only made themselves known when I was alone.”

“Convenient,” Alex muttered.

“So,” said Sarah. “I got to know Izzy quite quickly because elves, once they’ve conquered their shyness, love talking. He chatted about his trees—he has over twenty, and he talked of his tribe and his Queen, Leyathel. But there was more. He talked of their fear and their rage. How ruined mills had appeared in their forest one day, and how the stronghold had manifested at the same time.”

“There are mills in their forest?” I asked—she hadn’t told me that part.

“Apparently.”

“Are they still there?”

“No, they dismantled them, ground their stone to dust, and rotted their wood. But it led onto to the subject of our intentions, and I spoke plainly. We would need wood. They had it, and I did not doubt that we would take it.”

“What did he say to that?” Lysander asked.

“He left, and I didn’t see him again for a day. When he did come, he bid me with him, and I went.”

“You see,” said Alex. “This is the bit I do not get. You’re telling me you wandered off into elven territory without so much as a thought?”

“No, I gave it a lot of thought. A war between the elves and us would send plenty of our folk to the cauldron. A chance at peace risked only one.”

Alex sighed. “Fine.” She buried her face in her hands. “I believe you. You’re just perfect.” She sat up. “I’m sorry. Continue.”

“What was she like?” Lysander asked.

“Leyathel?” Sarah asked. “She was everything I imagined from an elven queen and more. I think they must measure charisma in a different way from us, because if the same, her score would be in the thousands. I could feel her radiance from a hundred yards away—feel her love from twenty and was desperate to meet her by ten. Such is she, but then my gaze fell on her beauty, and I’ll admit, my knees caved and my heart broke.”

“Broke?” I asked, even though I had heard the story before.

“It broke because I knew I could never have her, kiss her, lay with her. I was destined to simply be her messenger. That was why my heart broke.” She was silent for a while as if wrestling with that terrible revelation all over again. She sighed, a heartfelt, full-bellied sigh that displayed her empty hope. “She is the most beautiful creature I have ever set eyes upon. There is radiance surrounding her, and I think it is her perfection repelling all that is impure. I cannot describe her, for to do so would fall so short that I might tarnish her forever in your eyes. Save this, she is gentle. She is kind. She is warrior. She is perfection. She is all this and more, and to cross her is to invite your own death, but to love her is heaven. Those are my observations.”

Sarah fell silent then, and although I’d heard her words before, my mind numbed at the thought of meeting Leyathel. I trembled at the thought, yet I couldn’t wait.

“Would you say you fell under her spell?” Lysander asked.

“Yes, wizard,” Sarah replied.

He pushed his fingers through his hair—meaning he was contemplating his next words. “So, could it be the case that she’s asked this meeting with Daniel to enthral him? Could she be aiming to make him smitten and thereby control our Lord?”

“Entirely possible,” Sarah said.

“Yet you countenance such a move?”

“I do.”

“Why?” Lysander asked.

“Because she asked me to, and it costs me nothing to do her bidding in this. Also, I can see no other choice. There is peace, and there is war. I see no advantage to war with our neighbors.”

“The purpose of war is to subjugate those neighbors and then take their resources,” Broadchurch said.

“Even if it means ending something so beautiful?”

“Especially if it means that,” he barked.

Sarah left, and we discussed it. Broadchurch, as military men do, thought her motives were entrapment and voted to erase the elves and extinguish their threat. Jensome voiced no opinion, while Lysander wanted a meet—I think he wished to learn their magic. Alex sided with both Broadchurch and Lysander, her mood swaying between war and adventure. Barnaby was tongue-tied. He cared little for beyond the walls unless it affected production. To date, it had not. Fiona, the unlikely Fiona, offered me the sagest council.

“If this is to be a truly great stronghold, it must become one through war and wedlock. That is how dynasties are made. The stronger the Lord or Lady; the greater the number consorts.”

She meant what she said, and I knew it to be true. Lords were known for taking more than one consort as their power grew and to increase it more. Ladies were also able to do the same. It was our way, and our longevity made it work. Only the long-lived might understand the simplicity of multiple partners. Boredom, for instance, was a much bigger threat to a relationship when that marriage had no end. It was true, of course, that some—take Alex as an example—would only live a fraction of my span, but even so, the spice of life could be found in variety, where eternal monogamy led to the inevitable, and that was messy severance.

So when Fiona suggested wedlock, it was the diplomatic variety that she proposed, even though it was much the same in the end. I knew it to be the sensible route—given Sarah’s description I was fair gagging for it to be—but I wasn’t settled on it anyway.

“I’ve barely woken,” I said. “Perhaps some time to stretch my limbs?”

It was meant as it was said, but Alex found some nuance in there that offended her. “Is that what you intended for me? To stretch your limbs?”

“I think he wanted to stretch your limbs, my dear,” Lysander said and received another whack.

“I meant what I said,” I snapped. “I’ve barely walked this land one cycle of the moon. I’ve yet to see it wane—and we’re discussing marrying me off for oak.”

“By the sound of it, you’ll get a lot more than timber,” Lysander said, a glint in his eye and a curl on his lips.

Barnaby cleared his throat. “Might I point out that all this is moot?”

“How so?” I asked.

“You cannot make an official arrangement here until your Lording House is built, and you cannot fulfil that bargain unless your prospective wife agrees to a dwelling of her own, built how she would like it.”

“My Lording House?” Damn these missing memories and my lack of understanding.

He nodded. “Not far from the stones. The ruins are there—I’ve seen them.”

As had I, and there were nine houses in all, which meant…

“Eight wives,” I muttered, not quite knowing how I felt about it. Perhaps like a fool with too many balls to juggle. But the warning had meant to spur me toward getting the house done. I was chafing at the restriction but didn’t want that known or talked about. I was in control of myself and needed to establish my stronghold in the right manner.

“How quick can we build the Lording House?” Fiona asked.

“When I grow more hands,” Jensome said. “But I’ve a suspicion that I’m not the one that builds it. I couldn’t build it until the plans come available. Ashamed to say, never built one before and my lore doesn’t extend to it. So my guess is the source sees to it. Although I do believe this is the earliest I’ve been called out of the cauldron. Maybe the plans and lore will arrive when needed.”

I smacked the table. “There will be no alteration to our plans! And I’d be obliged if we didn’t marry me off to the first elf that flutters her eyelids at one of ours. We’ll meet her—see what she wants. Sarah shall come. I will attend, as will Lysander. One more will balance the party.”

Boradchurch reared, but I signaled him down.

“I think I know your mind, Broadchurch. Perhaps some other?” My gaze fell on Alex, who I was sure had already offered to come, though perhaps that was for the tour. I was tired, and the day had barely broken. “You? Do you fancy it? You, who is the only one undecided—let’s see how you sway. For war or peace.”

She dipped her head and accepted.

“Then we will go this evening and hopefully strike an accord. Broadchurch, you will get your war—you forget the goblins. I suggest we only hunt conflict on one front at a time. After all, we’ve not heard the last of the knockers either.”

He stood, chair legs scraping on the flags. “I shall prepare for that. Sooner done, sooner we can move what troops we have to the next front.”

He left, as did Jensome, Alex, Lysander, and Barnaby. Only Fiona remained, which I thought strange.

“You know they’ll have that tavern up before any of the other buildings,” she said.

“I’d not wager against it.”

“And you’d be wise. By the by, the two sorts you have running it, I approve.”

“You do?” I said, for some odd reason, it surprised me.

“Men need company, and the cauldron is frugal with it. Bread and desserts have the power break through exhaustion and lighten a person’s load. The town needs a tavern, and I’m not sure the two mix. Yet, I approve as needs must in times like these. I will help you there.”

“How so?”

“I’ll be cook. That way, I can make sure that balance is kept, and allow Anna to focus on finer things or what needs doing. Agreed?”

“It would please me immensely.”

“Want to know what would please me?”

She was an ugly thing, a treasure, but with a face like a molding potato and warts the size of a cow’s udders. I hoped it wasn’t me that would please her. “A new cooking pot?” I ventured.

She grimaced. “It would please me to see your Lording House started sooner rather than later because that is the house I shall run, and it will be run well, and then you can focus on all things Lording.”

I mulled it, but only quickly. She would run a fine house.

“If you make the tavern work, then I will get to the house,” I promised her, knowing it was as much for me as her.

“Good.” She stood. “Do not discount the elf queen. These are the wild lands. A better alliance might not be possible.” She stomped to the door. “Do trolls have queens?” she asked. “Might be stronger than an elf, don’t you think?”

CHAPTER 10

Fiona’s parting words were food for thought. Some memories had come back to me like they were stitched into my fabric and there to be read when my mind strayed across them. This one came like a belch in a swamp, buried below the murk one moment, flying free the next.

Wild Lands—there was no such place. An observer, looking from on high, might look upon the so-called civilized lands—those of Lords and Ladies—and wonder at the perpetual war they raged upon each other. Wonder how those weren’t called the Wild Lands, or Untonoir, as Alex had called them.

While I didn’t remember much, I had the feeling an awful lot wasn’t known. It was an untamed land—a land of fey, and mythical creatures, of trolls and leprechauns, of sprites and fairies. They feared it, those Lords and Ladies in their fancy castles, with their pristine battlements and flags flying in the breeze. The reason why, I knew. They were more comfortable waging wars they could win—picking on minor strongholds, easy battles—paper castles. The so-called Wild Lands didn’t conform to their will, and so they declared them evil, off limits, and that was that. They could avoid them, and all the peril they held, and be fearless in their own throne room.

I didn’t have that luxury. I had to adapt. But first, I had to show three beauties around my estate. There was Jessabel, the plain-speaking whore with a chest to die for, and there was Anna, so demure and quiet I wanted to cuddle her and more, and there was Alex, who I thought I loved, probably lusted, and almost certainly detested, dependent on the time of day.

It would make for an interesting morning.

I chose to leave Willow stabled primarily because it was a fresh, bright, spring morning, the bleakness long over, and secondly, I had one horse and three companions. It wouldn’t be gentlemanly to make them walk behind me, after all.

We met in front of the stronghold, though that was, perhaps, too grand a word for a wooden dwelling with one long room, a scullery, and a single bedroom. Once the wall was done, we could improve it, give it a lick of paint, perhaps an upstairs. It was a quirk of castle building that no other structure, no matter a resource or building, could be above the stronghold’s level. It was a lore thing—as far as I knew, and Barnaby couldn’t enlighten me further. It was lore, and that was that—there was no altering it for me. My wizard, however, thought he was above the lore.

Lysander might well be able to cheat the system by bathing in Kanazar’s power, but I was sure anything he gained would be skewed and offset by some unknown penalty. Talking of my resident wizard and his magic, it was going well—if well meant he could conjure a fireball large enough to make a crater, around the size of a freckle, a fingernail deep in a piece of wood. Just as long as his aim was true, he could easily blind a goblin or two. But it was progress, and, like Castle Kanazar, from acorns would grow mighty oaks.

“Good morning, ladies,” I said, addressing Jessabel and Anna.

Jessabel, whom I heard preferred to be called Jess, looked as fresh as a daisy. She’d partly covered her impressive cleavage in a shawl and wore tight pants and a bright cotton shirt. It made her less appealing from a sexual angle, but only a touch. Some folk had the talent to twist desires, and the lack of skin made her all the more interesting—it was the unknown, the unconquered, the mystery. Even though I knew a pair of firm, voluptuous breasts lurked there, I couldn’t see them, so imagined them with even more gusto.

Anna had opted for similar garb but looked more ordinary. Still a beauty, mind, but firmly behind Jess in the desirability rankings. She was plain that day, holding the promise and beauty of simplicity in her hand and enhancing it with a demure smile and a flicker of her eyebrows. It worked, sending shudders to my groin.

Alex had upped her game too. She had her hair drawn in a tight tail, which made her attractive in a domineering way. I imagined, well, let’s just say I imagined several scenarios and in each, I held that tail tightly.

I took in all while greeting them and was unable to decide if I was a letch or lothario because of it. The latter sounded better. Then, what point was there in being a Lord if one couldn’t enjoy the finer things in life? The truth was, certain pressures were building, and they needed release. Lord, I might be, but man I was, and all men have desires that need fulfilling.

I headed toward the south gates as they replied and fell into step behind me.

“Where are we going, my Lord?” Jess asked.

“To the new lumber mills first. I’ve a mind to quantify our progress before I meet with Leyathel tonight.”

“Leyathel?”

“The elven queen,” said Alex, her tone one of boast. “I’m accompanying Daniel. It should be an interesting evening.”

Jess laughed. “I’ll leave that to you. I can imagine better times than traipsing through a forest in the dead of night. That time is for a bed, sleep, or other games, depending on what takes your fancy.” She sashayed off in front and opened the gate with ease. There was strength in her delightful frame, and it added to her allure.

“But,” said Alex, then quieted. She’d lost that brief exchange.

“I would have liked to see the elven queen,” said Anna. “Leyathel is a beautiful name. I’ll wager she is too.” She looked at the blue sky wistfully. “As beautiful as a star painted on a deep blue sky.”

“We’ll see,” said I, all business then. “A bargain must be made. We require her wood.”

“Perhaps she wants yours,” said Alex with a smirk, and I laughed at that, and she joined in, which broke the ice on the day, thankfully.

The lumber mills, as they usually are, were bland affairs. Heady with the scent of chopped wood and sawdust, each was a shack, a bench or two, with a few trunks on one side and planks piled high on the other. All looked to be working satisfactorily, but I cast my critical eye over them and the trails leading to and from and decided that we could improve efficiency if we build decent infrastructure from the off.

Jess introduced herself to the woodcutters and woodsmen, announcing that the tavern would be open shortly and that entertainment would be available, and that brought a rousing cheer. She then added invaluable bait.

“The faster those planks come, the quicker we can upgrade and expand.”

I swear they had doubled their speed before we were at the path’s end.

I took a detour then. Alex held a basket that had our supplies in, and I fancied lunch. Between the mills and the early meet, it had been a busy morning. We ventured north to the border of the mixed resource area and the elven wood, and we made a space in the clearing between. Anna unfurled a blanket while Alex and Jess unpacked the picnic, and we sat in the sun and ate and drank.

“So,” said I, “we have the beginnings of a town, and I care not for the bluster of men because I know that the fabric of women is what holds a home together.”

“You make no sense,” Alex said. “Speak plainly, not fancily.”

“Take Broadchurch,” I continued unabashed. “The man is useful, a bit of a brute, perhaps, but a good military man. He could run a town’s military as Barnaby could run its logistics. But that’s what it would be. If Castle Kanazar is to be special, it will need more than that.”

“How so?” asked Anna in her squeak of a voice, so quiet a good breeze would drown it out.

“We need the place to be home—one that each citizen would defend to their last drop of blood. That does not come from tyrants or pompous bluster. It comes from the heartbeat of the place. It comes from the fabric that holds it together.”

“From us?” Alex said.

“From you. I’ve been thinking about it. Why do you think Lording Houses were conceived? One Lord running the place under the advisement of eight ladies? I’ve questioned it, and it must work for it to be included in the structure of these strongholds, though I confess I do not recall them at all.”

Jess furrowed her brow. “I’ve lived before, in other castles, not this one, and I can tell you, even with the cauldron’s fog I have never heard of more than a couple of Lording Houses. If every Lord had eight wives, then they could dispense with my services. I have known many Lords to take more than one wife, but mostly as political arrangements. That’s not to say they didn’t enjoy being Lord of their manor with many of the women on their estate.”

Jensome’s words came back to haunt me— “I can’t build it until the plans come available.” Why was I being pushed to formalize a harem? Is it from within me or is it more than that? I knew I wasn’t a Lord to force his attention on a servant. I looked forward to having deep relationships with a few rather than casual with many. It was a part of who I was.

But another thing she said pricked my fancy. “Other Lords?” I inquired. “Do you mean to tell me that you aren’t of Kanazar’s cauldron?”

“I came from there, yes,” she said. “But only because it pulled me from the pool.”

I twizzled a stray hair, trying to picture it. “Could you explain exactly how it works?”

“I could explain how I think it works, but the others might have a different sense. For me, it is like swimming in a great sea, and we are all fish. Kanazar’s cauldron casts its net, and that is a specific one that is hunting fish like me. But there are other nets too, all trying to catch a house lady such as I. Then I, the fish, choose the net that appeals to me most and become trapped in it. Kanazar’s cauldron then picks the fish it wants from the catch, and in this case, I am then me and am reborn.”

I looked at the others. “Is that how you two found it?”

“Similar,” said Anna. “But I think it is a light, and that I am wandering in the darkness. The light, though, calls for someone like me, and I go to it, and hope it opens a way for me.”

“And you, Alex?”

She shrugged. “It woke me and chose me. I have no recollection before or after.”

I mulled more. The important points were that the cauldron picked, and it picked from a pool common to all castles, and that was different from what I thought. My castle, a growing castle, had a great need, so it attracted talent—yes—talent, over the others. Kanazar picked—that meant he controlled my citizens. The core was responsible for giving me the tools to make the castle great.

“It’s a true partnership,” I muttered.

“What?” asked Alex.

“Nothing,” said I, and I sat back, soaking up the sun and drinking my wine.

It was as much on Kanazar as me. If the castle failed, we failed, not just I.

I hadn’t thought much of my attributes because they were growing steadily, but as expected. My wisdom had risen a couple of points. I’d imagine because I’d had to make some hard choices. My strength and constitution were static, but then I’d not battled since the goblins, nor did I build anymore. Charisma, well that had added a point, but it still wasn’t sharp enough for me to bed Alex and test my floundering dexterity. My intellect had risen three points, probably because I was desperate to unravel more secrets, so was constantly thinking. The numbers rose but weren’t impressive. I elected to start running the grounds every morning, perhaps lifting some logs, and performing some shapes. I’d not become some fat and bloated lord. That’s not for me.

“I think I need to keep in shape,” I said. “I shall run every morning to make sure my gut doesn’t reach my knees.”

I announced it on purpose. It meant I had to follow through or lose face.

“You are trim enough,” said Jess, a strand of long grass between her teeth. “Buff enough to make this girl want to give you a free one.”

“Jessabel!” said Anna, with a slap and a giggle, but she eyed me all over.

“Don’t feed his ego,” said Alex. “He thinks he can have any of us.”

“I disagree,” said I, easily, not rising to her bait. “I think the opposite. All my advances have fallen on frosty ground, which shows how poor I am, especially given the bleakness is over and done, and the rebirth has arrived when all are eager to couple.”

“A man’s view,” Alex said.

“I’ll run with you.” Anna changed the subject, for which I was glad. “I like to run. Once I trained with a roaming army. Many of them used to run. I joined them, and it was a wonderful time.”

“Tell me of it,” I said.

“Of it?”

“Of the land you ran. Can you recall it through the fog?”

“Oh yes,” she said. “It was blue and yellow, and the land slipped underfoot. It was hot all the time, and I was constantly thirsty. We ran first thing in the morning when the sun was red. There was a great sea, and the sky was empty of clouds.”

“I think I know that place,” I said, my heart skipping a beat. “I think I know it, but I can’t name it.”

“Its name was Anderlay,” said she.

I closed my eyes and tried to recall more. Anderlay! I knew it like I knew where my leg itched. I knew it like I knew when to breathe. But more, I had no clue, just a tugging of my heartstrings and a yearning in my gut.

“One day,” I whispered. “I will return to Anderlay.”

“I hope I can come,” said Anna, and suddenly I hoped it too.

We left the clearing a short while later, idle chatter filling the time. Anna kept glancing at me, and I her. We had a bond that ran deeper than any other—a mysterious place that we both knew, a connection beyond Castle Kanazar. In that one, fragile, moment when she’d talked of Anderlay, she’d surpassed all others in capturing my eye.

After visiting our new quarries, which proved blander than the lumber mills, we made our way back through the abandoned farms, the Hollow, then past the lake to the Artisan’s Road. True to his word, Jensome had commenced work on the tavern—he, Robert, Greasby the lamplighter, Miggs the joiner, and Ben the thatcher. It was plain to see that more worked this place than any other. I questioned Jensome on the matter.

“Ah,” he said, “about that.”

“Well?” I asked tapping my foot.

“Tis a quirk of the lore,” he said, “that in usual circumstance you build to level one, then two and so on, but I’ll speak plainly if you don’t mind, because I like plain, and you speak it too.”

“Then speak it.”

“A level one tavern is little good to man or beast. As soon as it is built, we’ll have to throw everyone out, close it, take the roof off and make it level two. Then in moments, we’ll be shutting again to bring it to three. Now,” he paused, one eye enlarging and promising words of consequence. “I’ve built a few taverns in my time, and I know what goes on from one to two then two to three. I reckon I can get this place passed as a one before complete, then build on to two and do the same to three. Sort of bending the lore, but not breaking it, if you catch my drift.”

I caught it all right. Oh yes, I caught it. First Lysander had an appetite for cheating, now Jensome. It appeared the cauldron’s net tended to catch folk who enjoyed a shortcut. “I approve. Do it on any building you can,” I said. “And get the barracks to three, then after a range and stables. There’ll be no rest until we are a thriving town.”

“There will be a special reward for all who work on my tavern through the night,” Jess said, with a wink, and the hammers swung and the saws sawed.

She truly was a gem.

So we returned to the stronghold, and I arranged for Anna to come first thing in the morning. We would run, and we might talk of Anderlay, and more memories might be born. I bid the other two a good afternoon and retired inside to take a nap. I wanted to be fresh for Leyathel—to have all my faculties about me.

But sleep evaded me, replaced by endless yellow hills, moving with the wind—a sea of sand butting to a sapphire ocean. No more came, not even a star to give me a hint as to where the place lay. Nothing. Then I slept, and I smiled, and I woke with a start.

Alex stared down at me, her hand on my cheek.

“You mumble when you sleep,” she said. “The place she described to you is special, isn’t it?”

I lay still, sensing a change in her—the bleakness gone, and rebirth’s thaw come? “It is,” I said.

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

She bent close, her lips nearly touching mine. “Then we must find out.” She sat back, then swiveled around, shoving me over and lying by my side. “I remember nothing before this. I envy you a history.”

“Nothing?” I asked. “Do you think this is your real birth?”

“My first time?” She grasped my hand, squeezing my fingers. “I think it might be, but I worry some darkness has scrubbed me. I fear that I am bad. It makes me…” She said no more.

“Erratic?” I ventured, then wished I could suck the word back in.

“Just that,” she said and closed her eyes. “I want nothing, and I want it all, but more, I do not want to waste my time. I’ve a feeling it will be brief.”

“Why?”

She shrugged but didn’t explain.

“If anything happens to you, then you go to Limbo, and I’ll work day and night to get you out.”

“Thank you,” she said, and then she slept.

* * *

Lysander was becoming more disheveled by the day. His once fine garb truly resembled that of an eccentric wizard, and he’d taken to drawing a rune on his forehead. It was blue—a stain he’d had Daisy the alchemist concoct. His mood was as dark as a thunderhead, and his wit as fleeting as lightning. So when he came to the stronghold that evening looking as sharp as his first day, I wondered what had changed.

I was sitting at the table with Alex, eating some of Fiona’s broth and drinking a mug of watered wine. Things had truly thawed between Alex and me, and it pleased me. We’d shared a bed, but no more than that, though it was a start, and I was infatuated with her again—and Anna, I confessed to myself.

“Is the old Lysander back?” I asked, attacking my round of bread like a ravenous dog. Anna’s expertise evident in each mouthful of happiness.

“I feel great. The deed is done—the path is clear. I have a way, and that way demands only minimal exposure to the core’s power.” He sat, clicked his fingers, and signalled Fiona some food and wine. “See! Didn’t go even slightly mad.” He twitched, then twitched again.

I expected Fiona to give him a damn fine tongue-lashing for his rudeness, but rather than that, she served him with a smile, filled my mug and Alex’s too, and then retired. So I corrected him. “Do not treat others with such indifference, not in my stronghold, not in Castle Kanazar. Are we clear?”

He inclined his head, a devilish smile following. “We are, and you’re correct, but I’m a wizard, and they are rude to all.”

“Use your staff as a crutch, not your profession,” I said. “Besides man, she makes your food. Need I say more?”

He smacked his lips together. “You needn’t. It’s a fair point.”

“So, why the sudden change?” I indicated his garb, his shaven chin, and his prim hair.

He attacked his bread with a similar gusto to me, filling his mouth and chewing. Sitting back, he looked up at the thatch. “You are right. That bread and food are heavenly. She deserves a throne, not my scorn. I will mend my ways.”

“Good enough. The time will come when there is a hierarchy, but it is not yet. Now, answer my question.”

“This,” he said and turned his palm upward.

A bright red ball appeared, rotating, incandescent, a fiery orb that nigh scorched my face. It was the size of an apple, and it was magnificent. My smile broke, and I clapped.

“You have it? You have your magic?”

“All the numbers,” he said. “And the trees too, though much is closed to me and will remain so.”

“But how?” I asked, knowing full well. “I mean, I know how, but how do we bend the way? It is supposed to be cast in iron.”

“It is not, and so all is not.” He leant over the table. “I believe all things can be meddled with. Ask your man, Jensome.”

“But there is a penalty,” I said. “There must be.”

“Why?” Alex asked. “Perhaps the lore is more a guide. How do we know it doesn’t want us to find new ways?”

Lysander snapped his fingers. “That’s it! That’s exactly it! Progress! How do we know it doesn’t covet progress?”

Alex seemed to grow with his praise. I thought I saw a fire lighting in her eyes, and she smiled, and I hated it. But I agreed with them, and I hated that too. “We built too many cottages and received many from the cauldron.”

“And more still come. There must be ten, fifteen, outside, Daniel. You have started something here, my friend, something special.” His expression urged me on, and I grasped his enthusiasm, and I clung to it for dear life.

“We,” I said. “We are building something special.”

We three leaned in, and we held each other’s hand and formed a ring, one that would bind us.

One that would tear us apart.

* * *

Numbers:

Name: Andros Gray

Known Alias: Phillipe of Byouz, Nunez Excalivar, Daniel Cutterson (in play)

Title: Lord of Kanazar

Banner of: None

Banner to: None

Deity: None

Hero: Lysander

Level: One

Attributes:

Strength – 6

Intelligence – 9

Wisdom – 6

Constitution – 8

Dexterity – 5

Charisma – 6

Stronghold – Kanazar

Lord – Daniel Cutterson

Stronghold – Level 3

Wall – Level 2/3

Population – 72 Cape – 136

Buildings

Artisan

Workshop – Level 2

Masons – Level 1

Smithy – Level 1

Military

Barracks – Level 2/3

Other

Tavern – Level 2/3

Resource

Cottages – 14 – Level 1 (6) Level 2 (4) Level 3 (4)

Farmsteads – 8 – Level 2 (2) Level 3 (6) – Production 88

Lumber Mills – 3 – Level 1 (1) Level 3 (2) – Production 28

Quarries – 2 – Level 1 (2) – Production 8

CHAPTER 11

Leyathel, her name evoked origins within me, those of ages long past, of the land’s weft and weave, its intricate thread and my place within it. Elves, they messed with my mind simply by existing, made me question everything about myself because their purity was rooted deep inside me, even if man and elf were enemies. I couldn’t understand why. With trolls it was clear. They were huge, filthy beasts with little going for them—monsters to be exterminated on sight. Knockers were the same, though smaller and more mischievous, while goblins had nothing going for them. Put simply, they were the vilest of creatures. Yet elves, our mortal enemies, were different.

Why I loathed them, I didn’t know. It was a conflict that I had to resolve if I were to meet one. Prejudice and preconceived hatred are easily shattered by familiarity. Would Leyathel change me? Why was I worried about it? Were they simply too damn similar?

Why did I loathe elves?

Man dominated lands that man wanted to, and to my core, that philosophy was branded as a divine right. Yet, Sarah had told me of Castle Kanazar’s sudden appearance adjacent to the elven forest, of how the mills had appeared within their spread of colossal oaks. In my gut, I knew it to be our birthright to settle any place I had a mind to. In my heart, I knew it was wrong.

Was Castle Kanazar so different that it already had me questioning my humanity? Beliefs that were ingrained in me. My weft and weave, goddammit!

“Filthy elves,” I muttered, wishing I had a looking glass to check the fall of my hair and the pallor of my cheeks—preening myself, so I could impress her.

Had Kanazar chosen any other spot—next to dwarves, amid harpies, on top of gnomes—I’d have not given their extermination a second thought if it benefitted the castle. But beauty is always harder to destroy, and there was no doubting that the elven way was that. So what of my ingrained hatred? Could the flutter of a slanted eye turn me?

The conflict was strong.

My door creaked and Alex poked her head through. “Are you ready?”

“Fumbling around, I’ll admit,” I replied. “What is it about elves?”

She spun me around to face her, then cupped my cheeks in her soft hands—archer callouses aside, naturally. “I’m nervous too,” she said. “But what have we to lose? It is war or peace, and we were expecting war.”

“It is that. Deep down, I do not want that forest destroyed. It relaxes me. I like it there. But in my gut, elves are fey—they are the enemy. Monsters dressed as pretty folk.”

“That is their magic. Never underestimate the power of their enthrallment. We have walked it, been close today. Its charm has hoodwinked us.”

“Its charm is evident.” I brushed her cheek, my fingertips lingering on her neck.

“It’s wood, nothing more. They dress it to be a fable, but it is wood, moss, squirrels, and wild boar. Ask yourself, what are elves if not overblown gardeners?”

I laughed at that. “We both know it isn’t that simple. They are more than that.”

She looked away. “Yes,” she said. “They are.”

Lysander waited in the long room, still looking sharp. He was in easy conversation with Sarah, sliding a fireball from one hand to the other like it was the most natural thing in the world to do. She was clearly drawn to him, as were all women, or so it appeared, and hung on his words.

“Wizardry,” he said, “is an art like any other. It is no greater calling than archery, or thatching, or any other. All contribute to the good of the castle.”

It was a lie, plain to see, but all boasts are engineered to sound good, no matter their truths.

“Rubbish,” said Sarah, no one’s fool. “Wizardry is a complex thing. To shoot an arrow is an easy matter. Flattery comes in all guises, Lysander, and the condescending type is its worst manifestation.”

Lysander’s jaw dropped, and Sarah continued. “Let me give you some aid. Della, my companion and friend, is more beautiful than me. Her figure is fuller, smile broader, and—and she would admit this herself—she is easier in the mind. Your charm would see her on her back in moments, so I’d suggest you concentrate your efforts there. A new castle bubbles with lust. Should be easy pickings for a man of your obvious beauty.”

He took a step back. “You think me flighty? You think I’m only after a dalliance?”

“I do,” she replied.

“I’m very good.”

“And very persistent.”

He bowed. “Only a fool climbs a tree to snatch a lofty apple when others are in reach. Della, you say?”

“She’ll need some pursuing,” Sarah said. “But not enough that you’ll tire.” She looked at me, and I covered my smirk—a moment too late. “My Lord, are we ready?”

“I think we are. Lysander, do you still wish to come, or have you business on the northeast wall?” I asked.

“I have, but the sort that can wait while my imagination riots.” He took Sarah by the arm and steered her out. “Tell me of Della, of her intricacies and foibles.”

“So you can exploit them?”

“Exactly.”

“And what do I get in return?” she asked.

Fine women, I was blessed with them.

Alex threaded her arm through mine, and we left the stronghold like two couples on their way to a dance.

We walked through the ruins of the Lording House, and the eight other suspects. If no one knew or had heard of a Lording House, then how come all understood that they existed? When I’d first strolled through them, I’d thought they might house me and my eight greatest knights—that we’d shape a kingdom there, all gathered around a table, goblets full, a spitted boar roasting. But this new thought was odd and exciting, daunting and possibly disastrous.

I wondered if I’d been married before, perhaps in Anderlay, then thought about her, this mysterious wife. What had she been like? Fiery as Alex was? Intelligent like Sarah? Comfortable as Anna? Perhaps a combination of all? More to the point, what must have happened to her? Did the traitor kill her, dungeon her, or take her for his own? My anger grew, and my muscles tightened.

“What is it?” asked Alex.

“Anderlay,” I said. “It is beginning to annoy me. I wonder what mess I left behind.”

“And who,” she said, like my thoughts were a book she’d read.

“Can Kanazar help?” she asked.

“How could it?”

We strolled on; my musing had put us some fifty yards behind the other two.

“You say it placed this castle—that it chose this spot above all others.”

“Yes.”

“Then it must know the land. Surely it would know where Anderlay was? After all, couldn’t it have chosen that place to spawn this castle anywhere?”

Her words rooted me to the spot. “It must.”

I wanted to turn back right then. We were close to the stone circle. But what was Anderlay? “I will ask Kanazar one day but delay as long as I can. That place is only a dream at the moment, and it can’t become more until we are strong. Even if I left a family there and they are suffering, there would be nothing I co do.” I inhaled, my heart pounding.

“There could be nothing there,” said Alex, coaxing me on. “It might only be a place you visited once, yet it is a vivid memory.”

“But it might be everything.”

“Then this meeting is all the more important.”

She was right. It was. If there was a way back to my old life, it was through this place and no other.

“It is,” I said, and we walked on.

When we came to the wall, surprise, surprise, Della and Lysander were flirting outrageously. Sarah had been right; I could see the blonde archer’s feet inching apart as Lysander’s charm landed and pulverized her into submission. It provoked a few told-you-so glances between Sarah and Alex and me, about which the other two were oblivious, and we nigh had to drag them apart as we climbed the oaks and dropped into Leyathel’s forest.

We waited, moss underfoot, sparkling here and there as moonshine speckled it. There was no doubt that magic, in whatever form the elves had it, was more potent. I stretched, a yawn coming, and then threw Sarah a questioning look.

“We await Izzy,” she said. “He will guide us.”

Then Izzy dropped from the tree, standing barely a foot from me. I flinched, but no more, and he regarded me, then Lysander and finally Alex.

“Just four? No army?” he said, his voice pitched high, but not overly so.

“Do we need an army?” I replied.

“Depends on your intent.” He jumped to Sarah, a spring akin to a dance move, all elegant and silky. “My Sarah,” he said, knelt, and offered her his hand. She took it, and he placed an acorn upon it. “From my tree. Newly dropped today.”

“There are acorns all around,” Lysander scoffed. “What is so special about that one?”

Sarah took the acorn, thanking Izzy, who was in front of the wizard before I could blink.

“Most acorns don’t grow into mighty oaks. That one does,” he said.

“Most? Hundreds will litter the woods soon,” Lysander retorted.

“Food for the forest’s children, no more than that. Only precious acorns grow new trees, those with a spark of magic. This way.” Izzy slid away.

He was of average size—the height and build of an adolescent boy that had shot up and was yet to fill out. Although gangly did not adequately describe him, for he had none of the awkwardness such a lad would display, quite the opposite. He flowed. He slid. He did not make a sound. Sarah followed him, not hurrying, making him wait. So Izzy darted, then stopped, darted then leapt and sat on a bough. It was easy to follow him, for his white hair glimmered as it caught the moonlight, his pale face ghostly, and his chatter endless. He told us of each tree we passed, its achievements and its history. I found that I wished to be interested but couldn’t be because nothing of interest was said. Trees be trees, and not a vast amount happens to them from one day to the next. Unless you’re an elf, then they’re fascinating.

We eventually came to a narrow path that switched its way up and down hills, ended at riverbanks, started at the same, and did what paths do best. I relaxed. The air was fresh, the scene, magical. Lysander muttered and moaned the whole way, asking how much farther, why Leyathel hadn’t come to us, and questioning if we would receive food and drink when we finally arrived.

“We are going around in circles,” I told him. “We aren’t too far from where we started.”

“What?” he questioned.

“If you were Leyathel, would you want us to know where you lived?”

He grunted, which I took for understanding. Izzy grinned, then switched our course. We came to a ravine of damp slate shelves and moss clods, a small stream in its crease. He skipped down it, and the rest of us followed carefully. I lent Alex a hand, but as much to steady me as her, and then we trudged the stream to the cut’s end where a hole greeted us into which the water flowed.

“Down there?” I asked.

“Do you trust me?” Izzy said, and he jumped, and he vanished into the hole.

All four of us swapped glances, none wanting to be the first until Sarah stepped forward and followed the elf.

“She was bound to be first,” said Alex. “She trusted him.”

“But do you trust her judgement?” Lysander asked.

I did, so I jumped, and I plunged into darkness, resisting the urge to scream. Then something caught me, slowing my fall. I slipped off it, my hand trailing its greasy wetness. Accelerating again, another thing caught me, and this time I could tell what it was—what they were—from their earthy yet wooden smell. They were the roots of mighty oaks, and I was being passed from one to the other. Until I wasn’t, and I dropped through darkness into soft light, landing on smooth stone, crouching, and reaching out to steady myself.

“Alex? Sarah? Lysander?” I called, then looked up.

“They are with Izzy,” she said, and she was the most beautiful creature I had ever laid eyes on.

Izzy’s size, slim like him, she wore her posture proudly. Her hair cascaded in tight curls, from her crown to her hips, and it was white, brilliant white, radiant like her.

“Leyathel?”

“I am, and you are Andros, Lord of the castle you name Kanazar. You go by the name Daniel, which I like much better.”

She stood before me dressed in a tight brown robe, its bottom trailing behind her, and sleeves tight then loose, hanging open at her wrists. She did have an aura, and it was white but subtle, lighting a cavern with a pool in its center.

“Why have you separated me from the others?” I asked, and she offered me her hand. I took it.

The cavern’s walls had been smoothed, and its floor polished. By the small circular pool sat a crescent-shaped bench and took up a third of its perimeter. I hesitated when she didn’t answer. She turned, pressing her body against mine and looked up into my eyes. “Because I wished to meet you. I didn’t offer to meet the others.”

I laughed at that, but only because I thought how disappointed Lysander would be. “The others only came to see you.”

“And they will,” she said. “Once we are ready; once I am ready.”

“Ready?”

“Yes,” she said and looked at the pool. Her robe fell to the floor, and she walked naked to it, stepping in, slowly sinking. My gaze lingered on her. It was true, all true, she was the most beautiful creation that could ever be. “Come, I must freshen you.”

“You mean to wash me?”

“Have you seen yourself?” She rested her arms on the pool’s edge, her ensuing smile simple nectar.

I was filthy, the roots and mud having ruined my carefully preened look. “The entrance was unique,” I admitted.

“Then bathe, and swim, and we will talk.”

There are times when you have no option but to shed your clothes and hop into a subterranean pool with a beautiful elven queen, and this was one of those. I stripped, barely covering my arousal, and entered the pool. It was bottomless, but I floated, finding it comfortable and relaxing. The water was tepid, yet I wasn’t in the slightest bit cold, which was always fortunate in those situations.

“What shall we talk about?” I asked as I held her gaze, which was intense, crystal-green eyes boring into me but softly, a conundrum, a confliction of feelings.

“Your wood?” she said, playfully.

“My wood?”

“It is why you are here, is it not? You have a need, and you see that need fulfilled by tearing down my forest, killing my children, and chopping them to planks to line your floors and walls.”

It summed it up perfectly but did seem a trifle brutal when put so directly. “It is,” I admitted, seeing no point in lying. “But not all for planks. There are palisades and roads, ceiling beams and weapons to consider.”

“You think this amusing?” she asked, her playfulness draining as her expression turned stony.

“I find this meeting unique, you exceptionally beautiful, and your description of what I need rather vulgar.” I found it difficult being trifled with, even if naked and exposed and more than a bit aroused.

“But it is vulgar, and so much more than that. Some of my trees are a thousand turns old.”

“So seasoned,” I said, then held my hand as fire burned in her eyes. “Let me be clear. I need wood. You have wood, and you have a way to get me the wood I need while retaining the forest you love.”

Her expression didn’t thaw. If anything, it hardened. “If you think I’ll give you the smallest twig from the smallest branch of the tiniest oak, then you are mistaken.”

I closed on her. She shrank back, then reached and pulled me closed. Her grasp sent shivers of pleasure through me, as though she brimmed with ecstasy and some spilt into me. “You will do as I wish,” she said softly, her pupils changing again, becoming a kaleidoscope of green, black, and pure light.

“I’m pretty damn sure I’ll do anything you want, my lady, and I’m sure my heart will become yours,” I admitted. I was a realist, after all, and she, as I have said, was remarkable. “That aside, we still need to reach an accord else we end up at war.”

“You number less than one hundred. War will be brief.”

We were close, her face nigh touching mine. I could taste her sweet breath, feel it brush me. Her hands held my sides, resting just above my hips. She was mine to have, there and then, if I dared.

“We grow daily. The time for you to attack is now.”

“First, I should remove their Lord and their wizard from the castle,” she countered, and my heart sank.

I pushed her away. “Is that what this is? Is it treachery?”

“It can’t be treachery if there is no loyalty.”

“Do you attack Kanazar?” I demanded she answer.

“Say I was doing so. Who would defend you? The brute you call Broadchurch? A handful of archers? The farmers are too far away.”

“Broadchurch is capable,” I admitted. “And a brute.” I cooled on the outside but boiled on the in. “Well, have you attacked? So I know what size fool I've been. My gut told me to fight rather than talk. Perhaps I should have listened to it.”

“You should not. I do not attack you. On the contrary, your presence benefits me.”

My rage ebbed. “How so?”

“You think you’re the only one that covets my wood? What do you think props up goblin mines? What warms a troll during the bleakness? There are many chipping away at my realm.” She smiled and lowered herself farther into the water until it touched her chin. “What makes you think you’re so special?”

“I—” I had nothing to say, relief busy sweeping through me.

“Follow,” she said, and she vanished under the pool’s meniscus without so much as a splash.

I followed. It appeared where Leyathel was concerned, that I was the obedient type. Besides, it didn’t take an age to weigh up my options and realize I only had that one course of action. Her aura lit the way, and I followed, the white of her soles kicking, the occasional glimpse of her bottom, and more, a delight, and soon I was smiling. Relief, and the sight of a beautiful, naked, elven woman, was all the reason I needed to do so.

We swam for a while, and during that time it never crossed my mind that I hadn’t breathed, but as soon as it did, panic set in. I swam harder, faster, catching up to her, tugging at her heels. She flipped around, a questioning look upon her beautiful face, hair floating like a majestic halo. I signaled my nose, my mouth and chest. She laughed in return.

Is this how you kill me?

My thoughts swam, dark patches appearing in my mind’s eye, and my lungs tightened, near implosion, and I wanted to scream, but I had nothing. Then she grasped my head, and she pulled me to her, and our lips met, and all panic left me as my lungs filled with water.

I lived, somehow, I lived in that strange, underwater place.

“There, you can breathe now.” Her words came directly into my mind. Her smile lived in my heart, and as she pressed against me once more, her heat filling me.

“I can,” I said, though I had no idea how.

“Follow,” she bid me, and I did so willingly.

We swam through tunnels, across caves like maws, riddled with teeth, and in seams so wide I couldn’t see their sides, but low enough for my heels to scrape. The world under the forest was no bland black slate, but a sandwiching of color, whites, mauves and browns. It was beautiful and terrifying, but Leyathel’s light comforted me, and eventually, we swam upward, towards a silver shimmer, like sunlight trapped in molten glass. Leyathel shattered it, as did I, as we surfaced. I coughed, lungfuls of water vomiting out, then gasped and coughed, gasped and coughed.

“You should have emptied before you surfaced. It is easier. Same when you go under—breathe out before.”

“I didn’t know I could breathe underwater.”

“Then why did you follow?”

It was a good question, one answered easily. I’d had no choice but didn’t wish to admit that. Plus, it wasn’t the entire truth. Swimming behind her had been a delight. Worth the risk? Totally. “You could have killed me at any time. You didn’t, so you earned my trust.”

“Was that the only reason?”

I couldn’t resist. “Well, that and it was a pleasure to follow. The view was delightful.”

She reddened a touch but recovered quickly. “You are too kind. Come, we are tardy.” She swam away, towards a distant shore, and a white palace that stretched to a cavern roof. It was, as she, magnificent, with round towers and crenelated walls, arched windows, and crystal facades. Giant roots, polished to mirror-shine, angled along its walls creating walkways and steps. It was strange, but my first impression was correct. It was magnificent.

Two elves dressed in silver armor greeted her as she rose from the water, draping a bright green cloak over her and covering her wonderful nakedness. I hesitated, wondering if I’d get one or if I was destined to enter this elven palace with all my glory on display. But I trod upon smoother stone, then another that was higher, and I realized they were steps, and the only way was up. Fortunately, my fears weren’t realized, and they gave me a cloak that matched hers, and we stood side-by-side.

“Welcome to Selleviene, my home when I’m not tending my tree.”

“Is that, are they, its roots?”

“There are. They defend me even here in the heart of The Under. Come, your friends await you.”

She made to walk away, but I grabbed her arm. “We haven’t concluded our discussion.”

She pulled free, then leaned in close, whispering in my ear. “The night is yet young, and I’ve yet to have your measure.”

“I think you know me well. I think you have my measure and more. Now you merely play with me like I’m an amusement.”

“Perhaps.”

“Then know this. You have me where you want me. I am at your mercy in many ways but trust me, if there is duplicity in you, then I will go down fighting, and I’ll not be bested easily.”

“Duplicity? In me? I think you forget who is elf and who is human.” Then she walked, and after a while I followed, catching up and walking by her side.

“I take it elves aren’t duplicitous.”

She laughed. “Some, most, perhaps. But not me. I see no point and say what I see and speak what I feel.”

We climbed a few steps, then hopped onto a root, walking its steep slope. “What do you see in me?”

“Eagerness,” she replied. “Eager for a conclusion. Eager to see your friends. Eager to complete your castle and eager for your revenge.”

“You know of the treachery I suffered?”

“I guessed at your motivation. It colors you like a dark cloud.” We came to a balcony, two large doors leading to a dimly lit room. She turned away and looked out over the lake. “Don’t hurry to your revenge, Daniel, else you might waste this life too.” She reached and turned my cheek, then kissed me on the lips, a slow and lingering one. “And what a waste it would be. I shall see you later. Izzy will take you to your friends.”

Then he appeared, and she vanished into the room, leaving me gawping after her as an adolescent boy.

“Come,” said Izzy.

So I followed.

He led me to a small room where my clothes lay, cleaned and folded. I took a moment to dress before following him again.

* * *

The room was modest, functional, but not as you’d expect of a palace. It was too comfortable, with soft furnishings strewn about its odd shape. I doubted there was an angle in the place. Everything was smooth, rounded like a great clay clod had been washed away and left the room behind. It was contrary to the highly structured outside and the severe hallways I’d walked to arrive there.

Lysander lounged on a cushion, his boots off and a wine goblet in hand. “You swam here?” he asked, then studied the goblet. “I haven’t the foggiest what this concoction is, but it is delicious.”

“I did,” I replied. “Underwater the whole way. It was interesting, to say the least. She filled my lungs with water, and I could breathe and talk.”

“Do you think you’ll be able to do it without her there?” Alex asked. She paced the room, clearly unable to relax, unlike Sarah who sat on a chair at a table hewn from a single trunk.

“I don’t know, but I’ll find out at the first chance. Could come in handy, very handy. So,” I paused, “I think she is after a bargain.”

Lysander lifted his brows. “How so?”

“Just hints, but the goblins and trolls niggle her. The question is, do we deal?”

“Why not?” Sarah asked, and I sat with her at the table, Alex joining us.

“Why not? Because if the damnable goblins can take what they want, why shouldn’t we?” I replied. I wondered if they’d thought through this as I had.

It was a fair point, one I doubted I’d have made had Leyathel been there. Her mere presence bewitched me. Therefore I had to decide on a course before I fell under her spell once more. But there was one fine reason for having her on my side—two, actually, but I could only dream of the second. I wanted to see if any of my trusted three saw it.

One thought he did but wasn’t thinking enough.

“Just take what we need and damn the consequences,” Lysander said and yawned as if the whole affair was tiresome to him.

“They have numbers,” I pointed out.

“Numbers mean nothing if they have no mettle, and I fancy that’s the case.” He conjured his fireball. “There is always one way to eliminate the problem.”

“Burning all the wood we need isn’t it,” I said and turned my attention to the other two. “Well?”

“If we ally with them, a third of our border is more secure. Any that attack would have to breach the elven forest to get to us,” Sarah said.

“Exactly!” I snapped my fingers. “If we can resolve this, then we get wood and security. Although Lysander is correct. Their weakness is fire, and the time to attack them is high summer, so we’ll have to deploy on their border before then.”

“You are already talking about defending her border? Did she steal your heart so easily?” Alex asked.

“She could have—could have easily. She has rare beauty—even more so once her robe dropped. But my judgement is not swayed by perfect breasts and a devilish smile.” I looked her straight in the eye. “Well, not always, there are exceptions.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“I answered one. To address the other, let me tell you this, and Broadchurch would agree. It is better to keep war as far away from our castle as possible. If we fight enemies at her borders, it is better than our gates.”

“Makes sense,” said Lysander, and he extinguished his fireball.

“Your magic is coming along nicely. Still just the one spell?”

“For now,” he said. “But it is a handy negotiating stance.”

“For sure, though you could do with larger balls,” I said, paused, and waited for the inevitable.

Silence fell. Then Lysander snorted. Sarah covered her mouth, shoulders juddering. Alex and I burst into fits of laughter, and Lysander finally dissolved.

I took some of the drink after that, filling a goblet from an exquisite jug of polished oak that featured some kind of nymph or sprite on the handle. I studied it. “Of course, there is a bigger picture we are not addressing.”

“Which is?” Lysander asked, finally joining us at the table.

“We aren’t in human lands. Other Lords and Ladies aren’t our neighbors, nor our immediate enemies.”

“Exactly my thinking,” Sarah said. “Elves, knockers, trolls and goblins are as much potential allies as enemies.”

“That!” I said. “We are in a new land. We are wildings now, no longer of the civilised races. We need to make alliances and to do that, we need information.”

“Like?” Lysander asked.

I leaned forward, clasping my goblet, squeezing its stem. “Do they band together? Are there alliances in place? If they join us, will they help us come the day we descend from this place? But there’s more—so much more.”

“How far do these lands stretch?” Alex asked, her voice soft and awe coating her wide eyes.

“Yes. You, Lysander, and you, Sarah, might recall your old days or you might not, but this new place, the Castle Kanazar, will be unlike anything before. We can stick with the old, or we can embrace the new. Those are our choices, and they begin this very night.”

“Was she really that beautiful that she turned your head east?” Lysander asked.

I pondered his question, but not for long. It didn’t merit an answer, for it cheapened every word we had said. But there was one truth, and it was inescapable.

She was. Yes, she was.

CHAPTER 12

In contrast to the strange guest room, the hall was a lavish affair. Great pillars held a vaulted ceiling, all stone polished and daubed with stunning scenes of their forest, each column a mighty trunk, fanning to a canopy, intertwining, becoming one vast scape. The floor was smooth too, worn, no doubt, through the ages. There were springs, and waterspouts issued from towering walls to pool together and run in rivulets and streams. It was a vibrant place, made all the more so by the chattering elves.

Izzy was our guide, although his full attention fell on Sarah as he pointed and explained as a host should. I couldn’t catch every word but heard enough to understand that each column’s tree was once that of a queen or king, and that with every passing, so a new column appeared, and the hall extended.

There were tables, but no formal layout, instead a casual scattering of them, large and round, with high back seats that appeared carved from bone or stone or some such thing. Wine flowed, or their equivalent and food was abundant—fruits and seeds, nuts and berries.

And then I saw her, and she was more glorious than my recent memory. Gone was the plain brown dress, the bright green cloak, replaced by white and magnificence. She wore tight pants tucked into knee-high boots and a jacket that emitted a military vibe, covering her modest cleavage, which I mourned. She radiated warmth, her light brighter than before, a shimmering aura that made her long hair heavenly, and her smile was devastating. My heart paused when our eyes met, and my knees weakened when she cut through the throng to greet us.

Leyathel took her time with Lysander, introducing him to an elf named Shelough, who practiced the old ways, and so engaged him from the off. It helped that she had innocent beauty, the type that would attract the wizard to defile her. I hadn’t known him long, but I knew him well. Then she spoke with Sarah and Izzy, and their comfort was apparent.

Alex leaned in. “Are we sure they haven’t met long before?”

I watched them a while longer. “I would think they have. There is familiarity there.”

“So, she lied. I knew it!” Alex spat in a sharp whisper.

“Perhaps. Yes, at best there is omission.”

“We form no alliance with these connivers.”

“We tread carefully,” I said. “Haste is no friend in this, and alliances are not marriages. They can be broken.”

“Unless they are,” she pointed out, and before I could reply, Leyathel was at my side.

She called over a tall elf, broader than most, with chiselled cheekbones angled like his eyebrows, and hair as soft as silk. Had I been of that persuasion, I would have fallen in love right there. His name was Nathanofel, and he was a warrior, and Alex was away with him, steered through the crowd before we could exchange another word.

Leyathel turned her attention to me, and I bathed in her radiance, all thoughts of treachery fleeing to the dungeons of my mind. “Are you rested?”

“No,” I replied. “We spent the whole time trying to fathom your motives.”

“Did you reach any conclusions?”

“We did. Time will tell if they are correct.”

She said nothing, taking my hand and leading me to a table where an old elf sat, eyes milky, beard impressive. He held his head tilted slightly upward, the way blind folk do, and looked in my direction, acknowledging me as I sat beside him. Leyathel sat opposite me.

“This is Canavar. He has walked these lands since before Lords and Ladies came. If it’s history you are short on, he can tell tales that would see even Broadchurch weep.”

“An honor,” I told him. “But it’s wood I need, not tutoring.”

“Why not have both?” Canavar said. “Greed is the way of your people.”

“It is the way of all,” I snapped, then took an offered goblet and drank. The sweet wine mellowed me. “Though we humans are particularly fervent in its pursuit, I’ll admit.” I sat back, my gaze meeting Leyathel’s. “I know nothing of these lands.” I shrugged. “In truth, I know nothing of my lands, but there I can operate on foggy instinct. I would like to understand the world I am in.”

“A lifetime’s task.” His voice was monotone, devoid of emotion, precise with perfect annunciation. “Perhaps not such a broad thing.”

“Who are elves aligned with? I know that goblins and trolls are their enemies, but who are their friends?”

He grunted. “This land is not as simple as that. There are no grand alliances, banners, or powerful houses. This place is chaos, and what is today, need not have been yesterday, nor is it likely to be tomorrow.”

“Which is why man beat you back to these borders.”

“Man!” said he, throwing his head back further and slamming his goblet on the table. “There is one thing that could unite us, but the mere act would destroy all.”

“Why?”

Leyathel reached across the table, taking Canavar’s hand. “Calm. Daniel is a human.”

“I am calm, and I’m aware. I can smell him.”

There is a certain affront at being told you smell, especially if it was hinted at the smell was no rose garden, but I declined to rise to his bait. “I am not like the others,” I said, then wondered why and whether every human said the same.

“You are exactly like the others, but with understanding comes new morality.”

His piousness was exactly the reason most hated elves. Well, I had the feeling it was the way history was scribed rather than anything. Hatred of them was ingrained in me, that much I knew, but they seemed quite normal, which was odd. My gradual acceptance didn’t stop Canavar from getting up my nose. “I did not come here for a lesson.”

“Nor I to teach. Simply know this. Various paths lead to the same destination. A troll doesn’t think much about anything, so it has only one way open to him. He uses his hammer to get what he wants. The knocker is a contriving beast, he can use force, or he can steal, whereas a gnome relies on trickery, guile and cleverness. All these paths are open to humans, yet they always use the way of the troll.”

I took a drink, relaxing, feeling a little surer. “But I am here, and I’m not swinging a hammer, nor am I swiping a sword.”

“Broadchurch wants to,” Leyathel said.

“I’m not Broadchurch.”

“Perhaps that’s the reason you are here,” he said, and then he took a sip of his drink, and I had the feeling they’d both got exactly what they’d wanted from the exchange.

I thought for a while but reached no conclusion, only that the old elf wasn’t a flatterer. “What do you think of me?” I asked Leyathel, wincing as she began to answer, but it wasn’t so bad.

“I think you need wood, and you will do anything to get it. Your revenge, remember, it is fog all around you. I have wood, and I have a price, but trust me, your motivation will not bring you happiness.”

“Which only matters if it’s happiness I seek. What if it’s simple satisfaction?”

“Then have your wood and let’s be done.”

“You would let me destroy your trees.”

“I would not.”

“Then what?”

She grinned, and my heart turned somersaults. “All things die. All things break. We have wood, and we have a price.”

“Enough wood to keep me going?”

She pursed her lips. “So I am told.”

“Your price?”

She grinned. “Not so fast. Canavar, tell him of Okanau.”

The old elf grunted again. “The troll king?” He tapped the table. “He is one. There are many. Trolls have kings for everything. Kings of a tribe, kings of a valley, a king of kings. Okanau is one such troll. He is the King of the Great Shade, and it crawls towards this land as surely as the sun rises and sets. It is a stain that must be eradicated before it touches our great trees, else all will be lost. It is the spawn of Chaos, the Great Shade, the end of all things and the beginnings of others.”

I blinked. “You want me to kill one troll, and for that, I get all the wood I need?”

“For that you get everything,” Canavar said, and he turned his head to Leyathel.

She looked away, biting her lip, tense.

“Everything?” I inquired.

“You don’t understand,” she said. “The Great Shade kills everything, leaving only blackness in its wake. The land is charred from its evil. If Okanau touches our boundaries, our trees will be scorched, our time will end.”

“Are you sure it heads this way?”

“Vellara has seen it,” Leyathel said.

“Vellara?”

“Our witch and seer. She sees everything, and she has seen our end.”

“So I fail?” I said.

“No, there are two possibilities,” Leyathel said. “There is our end, and there is our beginning.”

Which was typical of seers. They hedged their bets, so their prophecies came true. It was a neat trick. Whatever happened, Vellara would look fantastic.

“Both are a little open to interpretation,” I pointed out. “Why can’t you hold back this Great Shade? I am a pup, barely capable with my training sword. You lot have been around an age, surely you have more power.”

“For that very reason,” said Canavar. “The Great Shade, it is peculiar.”

“How so?”

“It sees your strength and turns it against you multiplied a thousand times.”

I smacked my lips together. “So, this Okanau is no warrior.”

“He is a warrior.”

I nodded.

He will see my strength and turn it on me a thousand times.

“Could I see what I’m up against?” I asked.

“Tomorrow,” she said. “Will you do it?”

“I’d like to see this wood,” I said. “Only a fool would pledge to a vaguery.”

“Tomorrow,” she said.

“Then what of tonight?” I asked, painting my most devastating smile on my lips.

“Tonight, we dance,” she said. “For tomorrow we might die.”

“I can get on board with that.”

* * *

We did dance. It was a night to remember—a night of faces staring into my eyes: Leyathel’s, Alex’s, and Sarah’s full of innocence. Lysander broke hearts that night. My jaw ached from smiling. It was a night filled with memories to cherish, none more so than Leyathel, when her body pressed against mine, the heat of her groin and the softness of her breath. Elven dancing was driven by emotion, and my dances with Leyathel had been sensual ones, barely a hair between us, our bodies one. I imagined her naked, holding me, grinding her body against mine, and it drove ecstasy through me, and by the end, I had been desperate to have her. But she’d said goodnight, with the promise of good morning, and I’d had to settle for that.

We met early, all four of us and Leyathel and Izzy. Nathanofel was there too and drew Alex to him like a bee to a flower. She seemed to fawn over him but kept glancing back at me like her flirting was designed to focus my attention back on her. It might have, but I had my own distraction.

“Why the warrior?” I asked of Leyathel. “Do we need protection?”

“I am not allowed to venture beyond the confines of our forest without my ward. He must step between me and death should the need arise. Take care around him, Nathanofel has been known to be rash.”

“As have I,” I said. “It is a male trait.”

“Not specifically,” she said. “Alex has fire. Her loins yearn for you.”

I scoffed. “Her head knows not what she wants. One moment it is Lysander, the next it might be me.”

“It is you,” Leyathel said. “It has been and will be only you, regardless of doubts that cross your mind. She sees the same milestone that must be crossed before you can build a home.”

They gave us horses, mine and Leyathel’s were white—a custom Canavar told me sometime later, reserved for courting couples. I did not know it then but did note the wry smile on Izzy’s lips.

The coupling of myself and Leyathel, Nathanofel and Alex, Izzy and Sarah, left Lysander spare. While he did not comment on it, it was an awkward thing as we rode in pairs with him alone. He said nothing, but I could feel him mulling it. I wondered if he’d done something to deserve the slight, perhaps attempted to lay with an elf or two, but I didn’t ask.

We rode up a vast root that eventually opened to the day—a vivid scene of emerald, sunlight filtered through an oak canopy, captured by moss and reflected. Everywhere looked magical, the oaks so much taller than by Castle Kanazar, as broad as a cottage, lit by morning’s slant. Walking the horses through that place toyed with my significance. We think of ourselves big and filled with importance. We are not. No words were spoken, serenity was our companion, and we walked all day until we came to a river, fed by a waterfall, with a pool that was idyllic. There we met Lysander’s companion, and the question I hadn’t asked was answered.

She was Vellara, and she was their witch, though no hag with boils and carbuncles, a hairy lip, and a hooked nose. She was green, admittedly, which was certainly a distraction, and she was naked, which was another. Her emerald hair hung over her breasts, but only reached a little below, leaving all in view. She stood upon a rock, watched us approach, then stepped back and vanished with a splash. I looked at Leyathel, who was impassive, then Lysander, whose mouth gaped open.

“What was that?” he asked. “Some nymph or sprite.”

Leyathel laughed, as did Izzy. “One of us,” he said. “She is a witch, follower of the Wrath Goddess Crayll, and quite the eccentric.”

“Why is she so”—Lysander screwed his face up— “green?”

“What’s wrong with being green?”

The voice came from above, and there stood Vellara, dressed in a black cloak, a light affair that fluttered in the breeze and was partially see-through. She held a staff that sparkled as the sun's rays hit it, and a creature sat upon her shoulder, its scaled skin glistening, and its tail winding around her neck.

“Simply a peculiar choice,” Lysander answered, appearing unfazed by it all.

In a blink she appeared in front of his horse, standing, reptilian friend nowhere to be seen, but staff pointing directly at him. “If I gave you immense power and the only cost was an orange head, would you take it?”

I’d thought he’d snatch at her proposal, but he didn’t. He patted his horse, jumped down and approached her. “Tell me more. What shade of orange? Vivid like a pumpkin?”

And that was how Vellara came to be stitched upon our tapestry.

We lunched at the pool, a simple affair of biscuits and berries—as bland as porridge, but full of energy, and then we rode on, leaving Lysander and Vellara in deep conversation. She assured us that they’d catch up, and I had no reason to doubt that, given the witch’s talent for simply appearing.

“Why is she green?” I asked Leyathel.

“Vellara lives differently from us. She is one with the forest, taking power from everything rather than one or two trees. It fills her, and our power is of that color. It is both a boon and a bane.”

“How so?”

“To store power is something fantastic, but when she’s drained, she’s as pale as me. Our enemies can tell she’s spent, so they know when to attack.” She paused. “Should I be telling you all of this?”

Leyathel wasn’t naïve—not in the slightest. Every word she uttered was considered. Her slip-up was no such thing, and her question was phrased so she could gauge my reply. I was sure of it, or paranoid—one of the two. “Unknown,” I said. “We’ve reached no agreement yet.”

I chose truth because there could be no perceived treachery in it.

“Then for my sake, we must.”

“I’ll wager her magic is nothing like Lysander’s. Is it elemental?”

“Natural. But don’t take that to mean ineffectual. A plague can kill more than any battle.”

“Indeed it can,” I said and began worrying. I’d been leaning more toward vine traps and poisoned spines.

We travelled the forest, and that journey mirrored the previous for its wondrous sights so merits no more description, save to say as we reached the limits of the forest, the trees reduced in size until they were ordinary, and I imagined a great hump in the land behind us, giving away the path to Leyathel’s palace.

By early afternoon we stood on the edge of the forest looking out over the so-called Wildlands. The land was creased like screwed-up parchment, some blanketed with long pasture, clumps of trees, dark forests, bare rock, and all rose to distant mountains, their peaks reaching for the stars. Under normal circumstances, it would have made me wonder if I shouldn’t set my sights on it and ignore the lands of Lords and Ladies. But the blight was visible, and it was also terrifying.

There was darkness there, and it meandered through the valleys like a plague of locusts, all in its path dying, the land behind it black. It was such an odd sight that I double took, sure my eyes lied. I could see its beginning, and I could see its end. More, where it had been was evident but recovering. It was a towering mass, like an earth-bound thunderhead, like a storm strolling on a spring day. It was terrible. A blight. I could only wonder at its true size, the real nature of its turbulent chaos as I looked upon it from afar.

“So it crawls across the land, then the land recovers?” I asked.

“It does,” said Vellara, dropping from a tree and landing beside me. “But the land is changed, its children are twisted replicas of what went before. Flowers that spit poison. Hares with claws and fangs. They rarely survive, and after a while, the land slowly returns to how it was.”

“Not so bad, then,” I said.

“Except it’s getting more powerful,” Lysander said, appearing from behind a boulder and strolling towards us. “Think of it as a life cycle. It feeds on that which it thinks is its victim’s greatest strength, turning it upon them to defeat them. Once dead, they are ground to black dust and left in its wake. Those particles coagulate and become versions of what they were, dying all over again.”

I looked at him, part of me wondering who the hell he was, the other questioning what had happened to him. “You have seen this?”

“She took me close. We flew upon the wind.”

“The wind,” I repeated. “You must tell me about this magic, but for now, let’s focus on the blight in hand.”

Leyathel spoke then, her voice soft, trembling. “Grassland can recover, as can a rabbit warren, a river rat, but my tree, our trees, are thousands of years old. They cannot recover. This blight will be our end. Our reincarnations will be inextricably corrupted.”

“I will fight this Great Shade. I do not fear Okanau. I will hamstring him, and when he falls, it will be his end,” Nathanofel vowed, his back straight, chin high.

Leyathel reached for him, resting her hand on his gauntlet. “And Okanau will turn your craft against you a thousand times more. How can you best your better self? It is impossible.”

“Better to try than not,” the elven warrior said, but I could tell his bravado was shallow. Mine was, so why should his be any different?

“What about magic?” I asked, turning to Vellara.

“The corruption would end me, blacken my veins, rot me from the inside out.”

“We will kill him,” said Lysander full of confidence. “We will return and kill this beast.”

I creased my brow. “Haven’t we a date with a certain goblin friend of ours first?”

“Once that is done. Shouldn’t take more than one good battle to defeat that rabble. It makes the next one free.”

I admired his mettle, but he appeared a little ambitious for my liking. “One war at a time,” I said.

“It is,” he replied, ever the pig-headed one. “First the green vermin—” He hesitated. “No offence, Vellara.”

“I’ll not lie and say none taken,” she said stiffly. “But I’ll forgive if you teach me that trick.”

I guessed which one.

“First we kill the goblins—one battle and battle won. Then we take on the blight.”

I couldn’t fault his logic.

CHAPTER 13

I woke before sun-up, in my bed, in my stronghold. Part of me wished to be with Leyathel in her palace, deep under the oaks. All of me wished she was lying by my side. Our goodbyes had lingered until Alex had steered me to the wall and then admonished me for being caught in her spell. Enthralled, enchanted—she threw every word for it at me. Perhaps she was right, but I thought there more to it than that.

We had to think differently—scrub the inbuilt prejudices of our misty past. Our fate was mixed with them, these monsters we’d been conditioned to fear and hate, and it was no easy task shedding that. Yet it was Alex, who claimed to have no past; that was most vehement in her distrust for them. Perhaps Leyathel was right, maybe she did hold me in her heart. If so, she had a damn strange way of showing it.

We’d reached some marker in our stronghold evolution, and a list of builds completed and available had been painted alongside my numbers in my mind’s eye. It was a strange thing, which I don’t think I’d had before, but it gave me a great overview of all that had progressed while we’d been away. I was sure it would be a huge asset, once I’d become used to it. At that time, it gave me an annoying headache, along with vital information.

Jensome’s building shortcut was shaving good time. He’d gotten the barracks, wall, smith, tavern and workshop to three. Teams were working on the range, stables and new lumber mill, the latter nearing completion.

But it wasn’t all due to Jensome and his little cheat. Eighteen more souls had joined us, twelve shortly before we‘d left for the elven forest, and another six in the two days we’d stayed there. The influx was slowing, but then the gap between the population capacity and our number had narrowed. My first thought was to build more cottages, but my second was the one I decided upon. We needed to get used to the new folk before more turned up.

Of the eighteen, two were farmsteaders, and they had suspiciously familiar names—Gregmore and Meglen. I suspected that Kanazar was collecting bodies from a small pool of some dead or dying castle. But the core seemed to choose the best, so I wasn’t about to storm down there and have a row. My food surplus was holding steady, and I wouldn’t have minded betting that Greg kept an eye on it, balancing advancement with need.

Four more military men had come, five if you counted Pip the stable boy. Three were infantry, giving Broadchurch eight men under his direct command, and one a horseman, giving the castle a total calvary count of a measly three. With my four archers, it gave me an army of fifteen. While not enough to take on the world, it was a good enough size to control a spread of land inhabited by simple militia. We should, at the very least, have been able to keep the mixed resource area and the farmsteaders safe. Plus, we almost certainly had the numbers to hurt the goblins.

Jensome, who’d become my unofficial foreman, received a plumber, a wattler, and two laborers. So, his progress had been enhanced somewhat. I had plans for the laborers, and perhaps anyone else who was spare.

Kanazar also offered us some clues regarding the direction the castle should go, plucking a watchman and mate from the Sea of Souls, as I’d named it in my mind, and sending them through the cauldron. I added a watchtower to the list of new builds that I would order during the morning meeting.

The last four from the cauldron were a barmaid, smith’s mate, a seamstress and a spinner. Two of them pointed to new buildings for the artisans. It appeared that Kanazar thought we needed a kick up the ass regarding our building selections. Perhaps it was the reason for the overview in my head? Perhaps Kanazar had seen an error in my thinking and attributed it to a gap in my knowledge.

But at the head of my list was a stronghold upgrade. It was available, and we had the lumber and stone needed. By moving to level four we could upgrade the military building as well, and that would improve my fledgling army to no end. If he had spare labor, then a watchtower, seamstress, and a potter could be built while the upgrade was under construction.

With that all in order, I rose from my bed and was about to wash when there was a knock on my door.

“Come,” I said, expecting Barnaby.

Anna poked her head in. “Do you still wish to run? I came yesterday, but you were away.”

If I was honest, I’d completely forgotten. But I did need to improve my constitution and strength—I did need to look after myself for the trials to come, whether pleasurable or not.

“Very much,” I replied. “And I’m sorry I missed you yesterday.”

She had her hair back. Her cheeks were flushed and her breath shallow.

“You ran here?”

“I thought I’d warm up. Don’t worry, we’ll go slowly.”

I pulled my shirt over and tucked it into my pants. “You think me weak?”

“Well, maybe you should show me what strength you have,” she said, her face stony then breaking to a smile.

I darted for her, pulling her close. “I’ll be first to wherever we’re going,” I said, suddenly breathless, our closeness having an immediate effect on me.

“Then it’ll be back here, for that is where we are headed.” She pulled away, slipping through the open doorway and across the long room.

We ran, and it was glorious. We edged the lake’s bank, took the steps to the Hollow, then through that sleepy place to the wall where she turned and headed west. Much of the grounds were overgrown, but there was a path that led through the new palisade and to a stone tower. We climbed the steps and onto the wall’s walkway where we ran its perimeter. The wall had barely reached three-quarter tree height, so our view was limited, but occasionally we would get glimpses of the land beyond, its rolling hills and stunning valleys. Then, upon the horizon grew mountains, and the tree-cloaked slopes gave way to grassland, and our view became breathtaking.

Before long we came to look over Greg’s farmsteads, and it was there we took our first rest. I was blowing by then, stitches on both sides, and I leant on the wall, wheezing a little while Anna suppressed her laughter.

“You think this funny?”

“I think it fine,” she said, taking a sack from her shoulder and offering me a water pouch.

I uncorked it, and it was glorious. Brushing my lips on my sleeve, mopping the sweat from my brow, I gave her back the half-empty pouch and rested properly, studying Greg’s farms, his layouts, and defenses. It was clear to me why he hadn’t expanded our holdings. He’d built defenses on every boundary that faced the mountains. There were ditches filled with sharpened sticks, banks of earth tossed from them. There were watchtowers, and I had no doubt there would be hidden traps.

“He does a fine job,” Anna said. “And he’s a nice man.”

Her words surprised me. “You’ve met him?”

“He came to see Jess—so yes.”

“To…”

She rested on the wall, matching my gaze. “To ask her to be nice.”

“Not to…” I was tongue-tied, messing it up. “I mean…”

“Greg? No, not for himself—not for his pleasure. He and Meg are inseparable. She came with him—was looking for Saxon or Dolman to repair some tools and make horseshoes.” Anna laughed gently, like snowfall. “She assured Jess that he was suitably cared for in that area. Jess gave her a couple of tips.”

“So, Megan and Greg came to see her to ask her to be nice?”

“To his boys,” she said, and it all made sense.

“Ah, Gregson and the others.”

“Yes, them. He said he’d rather it with someone he knew, so he came to see her. Brought gifts too. A straw fairy for over our door, and a wicken each for the private rooms.”

“A wicken?” I asked.

“Tis a spirit trapped in a wicker cage. You hang it close to your bed and it protects you. If some contrarian comes and wishes you harm, the wicken breaks free and makes merry hell.”

I exhaled, my breath whistling. “He’s a fine-standing man.”

“He is, and I hope his sons turn out well. If she can help, then she said it would be her pleasure. Jess says she has experience coaxing the young ones to life.”

“Coaxing?” My questions were short—my words awkward—but only because I hated imagining Jess underneath a selection of men. Some of that thought was rubbing off on my thoughts of Anna. That I realized was the reason for my tongue-tiedness and not some petty embarrassment. I was having difficulty containing my jealousy because, at that moment, I wanted all the beautiful women all for myself. It seemed I was a glutton when it came to women.

“The young ones need everything right. They must walk away like they’re on clouds. It is about learning as much as pleasure. Too much is said about conquest—too much is boast. Greg knows—he understands the urges his boys will have, and he’d rather them sated than some poor innocent to have their attentions forced on her.”

Her words pleased me, and they angered me. Were their eyes turning to Anna? “You think you aren’t innocent?”

“I am a long way from that. This life, my last, and if the fog permitted me to see further, I’ve no doubt the ones before that.”

“Anderlay,” I said.

“Yes, that place. Far from innocent.” She smiled her expression wistful.

“Do you remember more?”

“Just the ocean, as blue as a sapphire and endless. Such a contrast to the sand.”

“How did you die?” I asked.

I did so matter-of-factly. We lived with death, and not many achieved a ripe old age. Perhaps it was the cauldron that made us comfortable with it. Perhaps not. I was fine with death, with them swimming in the so-called Sea of Souls, but not with Limbo, for that place was both close and out of reach.

“I ceased to be,” she said. “I remember a face and an offered hand, and then they grew distant, and I was no more.”

“Your Lord was beaten, his core destroyed.”

“Yes.”

“In Anderlay?”

“That was where I was. I know no more.”

“Thank you,” I said then.

“For what?”

“For all you do.”

We continued talking, and I felt like we’d known each other before because of how easily we interacted. She listened and encouraged while also sharing nuggets of who she was. Those were the precious foundations of a deepening relationship.

* * *

I took a swim after my run. Anna did not join me. I suspected she’d shared too much, for she ran ahead until we had circled back to the stronghold, and she kept her distance, which was fortunate, for my mettle was up, and my desire needed quenching. We agreed to meet same time the next day, and even as I bathed, the lake cool, I couldn’t wait to see her rosy cheeks and hot, sweating body.

Cold water and clarity go hand in hand, and my thoughts on her cleared. I loved her, that much I knew, in the same way I loved Alex and Leyathel. It settled me to understand and accept myself. I was a hopeless fool when it came to women, and knowing it made me all the stronger. Perhaps this place was my future, with its Lording House and the eight wives I was destined to take.

I swam the length of the lake and back, then did it again. It was refreshing. I was refreshed. And I laughed as a stray thought meandered through me. Was eight enough? Should I build more houses? I laughed again, as I thought I might need to up my constitution more. With that attribute came stamina, and I’d need plenty of that to satisfy eight, let alone ten or twelve.

There were worse issues to contemplate, especially as I hadn’t secured any of them yet.

I walked back to the stronghold with a spring in my step, falling in stride with Lysander who was headed that way too.

“Been sleeping with Kanazar again?” I asked.

“Indeed. Vellara taught me much,” he said with purpose, like it caused him pain. “But, in doing so, she showed me how truly weak I was, even given my progress.” He stopped, faced me. “I need more, Daniel. I need that damn tower.”

“I’m ordering the stronghold upgraded today. It’ll be a quick build.”

“I’ll need it at eight, and the builds will be slower each time. I cannot wait that long.”

“And you haven’t,” I snapped. “You are already on your way! No other wizard would have a spell without a tower.”

“Other heroes would have a building by now—a barracks, stable or range.”

I grabbed him, but he shook me off, so I grabbed him again, my strength winning. “Listen to me, dammit. A wizard is a slow-burn hero. That is true. But the benefits, well, they counter the wait in the end.”

“They might,” he said, taking my hand and easing it from him. “But I’m not any wizard. I’ll not be waiting while others do my fighting. I’ll not be useless.”

“Was she that good?”

He scoffed. “Compared to me, yes. She showed me stuff, and I learned it. Now?” He looked around, then removed my other hand, taking a step back and spinning. “Now I cannot replicate a single thing she taught me. I cannot fly on the clouds, spring from one being to the next. I cannot slip to nothing then reappear.”

“Perhaps—”

“Perhaps be damned. I cannot do it because she’s not here to help me! Do you know how that makes me feel?” His last words were feral, spoke in a low growl. He eyed me, stare filled with violence, poise ready to spring.

I said nothing as there was nothing to say and waited for him to continue.

“No words?” he said. “No words of encouragement?”

“None worth saying. I’ll get you your tower as fast as I can, and we’ll rout the goblins in a few days. If there’s a bane to be had that will help you, it is yours.” I paused, then cracked a smile. “Well, what do you know? I did have something to say. Have you eaten?”

He stared at me, and I countered it and sent back more. My lips quivered to a smile, and so did his, then he howled with laughter, as did I.

“Early days,” he said.

“Aye.”

“Hate them.”

I draped my arm over his shoulder and steered him to the stronghold. “I think I do too.”

“Still remember nothing?”

“Still got no tower?”

He grunted, as did I.

* * *

I reported back to my trusted table, which had one addition, namely Sarah. I spoke of Leyathel, and all she demanded to give us wood, and fielded questions, some pertinent, others not so. Barnaby hit the nail on the head, so that was the one that took up most of the meeting.

“Why us?” he asked, a question simplistic in words but complex in the answering.

“I take it you mean why should an ancient race of elves, clearly more powerful than us, think we have a better chance of defeating Okanau and his Great Shade when we’ve only existed for a score or more days?” I expanded.

“Yes,” he said, jowls flapping.

If he was expecting some insightful conclusions, then I disappointed him. “Not the foggiest, but I have thought about it.”

“Care to share?” Sarah asked. “Because it has kept me up this last night as well, and I can offer exactly nothing.”

“Well,” said I. “I’m not far in advance of that. My initial thoughts were that the elves were powerful, and a thousand times more powerful than powerful is one hell of a gap, whereas we are feeble, and a thousand times that is only slightly more feeble.” I sighed. “So, we could fluke it.”

“Fluke it?” said Lysander, and he roared again, banging the table with his fist. “That is one way to go to war! How did you win? We fluked it.”

“Have you had any thoughts?” I asked, a little put out that my actual theory had been thought a joke.

“Not a one, barring, a spell. If I could contrive a spell that might hurt the spellcaster—a self-inflicted spell if you will. Then the same spell, a thousand times more powerful might kill the wielder stone dead.”

Silence reined.

“That’s actually not bad,” said Alex. “So if I could make an arrow that would double back on itself and wound me, then Okanau might shoot his own and it would tear right through him.”

“Or a spear, perhaps,” said I, thinking we might be getting somewhere.

“But, why us?” Barnaby asked again.

“I think we’ve answered that,” said Sarah. “Elves cannot think in such a way. There isn’t enough darkness in their minds. To hurt ourselves might be the only way to kill Okanau.”

She was right, of course, but it didn’t please me to know we were so flawed.

“We will all think and revert tomorrow. To other business,” I said. “Jensome, I applaud you. The progress is amazing. What say we upgrade the stronghold to four, then get right on with the wall and military buildings?”

He chewed his lips. “The stronghold I can do, then either the military or the wall. We haven’t enough wood for both.”

“Military and watchtower?” I asked.

He chewed some more. “Stronghold first. While that’s cooking, another lumber mill, then watch tower and another lumber mill.” He looked at the ceiling. “That should see the stronghold done. Then we keep on the lumber mills while we upgrade the military. Production should keep up with build like that.”

“Precious,” I said.

“What?” he asked.

“You are precious, Jensome.”

“Do we need so many mills if Leyathel is going to provide wood?” Barnaby asked.

“She might, or she might not,” I said. “A castle eats wood like a dog eats a bone. If she comes through, we accelerate. If she doesn’t, then we have been all the wiser. But there is another way. I ran today. I ran with Anna, and we took the southwest wall, and do you know what I saw stretching from it to the horizon?”

I didn’t expect or get an answer, so I pressed on. “Wood, I saw wood. Possibly not as good as elven wood, but it will suffice if needs be. Broadchurch!” I barked.

He started, slobbered a little, and then sat upright. “My Lord?”

“Had you dozed off?”

“No, My Lord. I was in quiet contemplation.”

He’d been sleeping.

“Contemplate this,” I said. “Clean enough of that forest for Jensome to build six mills. I want it secure and guarded. Jensome, agree the site with Broadchurch and erect the watchtower to suit. Build a cottage close by for the watchman and his mate. Other than that, Barnaby, order the builds.”

“I will. Might I say that we need to add warehousing at some point?”

“You might, though we’d only have rats for stock at the moment. But yes, if we get spare, begin raising a few. I’ll leave where up to you, but somewhere central, not in a burning arrow’s reach.”

“I will.”

“Good. Any other business.” Then I remembered something. “Laborers, Jensome. What do they do?”

He sniffed. “What they’re good for, little. What’s on your mind?”

“I visited the lumber mills. Well-constructed like anything you’ve had a hand in, but poorly linked. Might we use them to widen the paths and scatter stone chips from the quarries—make the beginnings of roads? It might up our efficiency.”

He scratched at his beard. “Might well do. Cheap too.”

Barnaby cleared his throat. “A good road will add a tenth to production. I’d suggest we use all those without proper employment to help. Even an arbiter can scatter stone. Jensome, you crack on with the building, leave the roads to me.”

I sat back, leaving them to it, but caught Broadchurch’s eye and bid him hang around after the others had gone.

“What know you of the elves?” I asked him.

“Not much,” he said, sweat beading on his brow, which wasn’t extraordinary.

“Then how come they know you?”

He shrugged and reddened somewhat. “Perhaps the archer spy?”

“She’s no spy.”

“Begging your pardon, Lord, but she could be.”

“I judge we discount her, though, yes, accept her tongue may have wagged in idle gossip with Izzy. Tell me, have you crossed the border into their forest?”

“Not that I’m aware of. I have taken the men—” He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them and wiped their wetness away. “I might have, but I wasn’t aware it was off-limits. They’re only elves. Might be more powerful, but they’re nothing more than flighty scamps. Nothing to fret about.”

“I’m not fretting,” I said, coolly. “But I’d be obliged if you left their woods alone for now—while negotiations proceed.”

“Better to kill vermin when you can,” he said.

“Then you’ll have something to do when Barnaby raises those warehouses. Mark my wish. No more incursions.”

He stood, fully red in the face, and held his hands behind his back, as upright as he could get. “As you say.” He left, and I watched after him.

He was headstrong, which might be good, and it might not. I wasn’t about to dwell. I had business elsewhere.

* * *

“What do you know of Anderlay?” I asked the core.

Kanazar had grown again, its presence imposing. Static sparked, reaching the star-filled roof, crackling and popping much louder than before.

“Of where, what, or when?” it replied.

“Don’t play with me. I know you know the lands of man and woman. You must know each speck of dirt to place a castle just so.”

His light pulsed, and the low hum grew and faded with each. “Say I don’t, what then? Say I only know what’s good land and what’s bad, what then?”

“Rubbish,” said I. “You purposely steered this place away from Lords and Ladies. You hid us here among the magical races. For that, you have to know what’s what.”

“Say I thought this was the place to be? Say I thought that what’s been tried a thousand times should not be tried again?”

“Don’t play with me.”

It dimmed momentarily, before slowly coming to full brightness. “Did I pick you or you me?”

The question stunned me. I guessed at the former—had always thought it that. Was the other even a possibility? Does a Lord pick his core? I thought not. “I did not pick you.”

“How can you know when you can’t remember?”

“Anderlay?” I asked weakly, losing the conversation.

“Means nothing to me.” Kanazar dimmed to dark and signaled our meeting over.

I sat in his darkness, stars overhead which was an impossible feat, and I waited for something to happen—for inspiration, or a sign, any sign.

Kanazar might not be lying, but he was holding out on me. I was sure of that.

“What has Anna to do with this?” I asked on the spur.

The orb flickered—I saw it, was sure of it.

* * *

As I left, there was Lysander. His hood concealed most of his face, so I couldn’t read his expression but knew it to be brooding from the tension that appeared with him.

“What is Anderlay?” he asked, his voice soft, breathless as if the air was too thin to feed him.

“It is a place,” I answered.

“One that is important to you?”

“It might or might not be. I have only a recollection, a tug from my past. Have you heard of it?”

“No,” he said and walked from the chamber, then into his room. “These are my dreams,” and he presented them to me.

I gasped, stifling it too late. Horrors daubed each wall, screaming figures charcoaled upon them, twisted, bent and broken. I took a step back, not wanting to be near the mind that had conceived them but gathered and forced a gulp. “Taken up drawing? Is it that tiresome down here?”

“Before you say it, I’m not insane.”

“I didn’t think you were. There isn’t a living being that hasn’t drawn such horrors at one point or the other.”

I moved closer, my shock ebbing, reaching close to the drawings but not touching. They were well drawn, the detail intricate and, I’ll be frank, stunning. If any had ever captured the moment a human endures ultimate suffering—that time before his heart says it’s had enough and stops for good—it was my wizardly companion.

“You mock?”

“What do you want me to do?”

He sat on his cot; an unruly affair of tossed blankets stained with sweat patches. “I want you to help me understand what I was.”

I sat with him, steering the blanket aside. “I don’t even understand myself—what I was.”

“You do,” he countered. “You simply don’t know your past. It might be dreadful. It might be glorious. And yes, you may well have been betrayed, but you know yourself, Daniel. Know yourself well enough to slip into another name, another skin, and play the same person perfectly.”

“Is that what I’m doing?” I said stiffly.

“Is it not? You have three aliases. What man has those unless there is some duplicity there? A spy? A fraudster?”

He had a point.

“We were talking about you.” I wanted to itch and wriggle. Talking about my past-self made me squirm inside.

“My point is, you know deep down whether you’re good or evil. What do you feel?”

“Good,” I said, glad of the switch. “But surely an inherently evil man thinks he’s good too?”

Lysander drew his hood back, shaking out his hair. More runes adorned him, strange sigils daubed in blue. “I say good. You fret about those in Limbo. You care enough about the elves not to plot their destruction.”

“Alex thinks I’m smitten with Leyathel.”

“Who wouldn’t be? Besides, take no note of her. She thinks you are smitten by every girl with a decent pair of breasts and a firm behind.”

“I am partial to a nice pair of breasts,” I admitted, and he grunted, which was as close to merriment as I could have hoped for. “And a firm behind. It is best to have something to hang on to.”

“She has jealousy for you.”

“So,” said I, trying to be upbeat, “we are decided that I am good.” I studied the room again. “I think that you are at least a little twisted.”

He jerked upright from the slump he’d withered to. “Twisted?”

“Look…” I spread my arms wide. “These are the drawings of a man who has seen or suffered horrors. No man goes into battle and comes out the same.”

“I feel it,” he said.

“Feel what?”

“An overbearing weight that presses down on me. I want to run, Daniel, but I know it will be futile. So, I have to stay and fight. But, and this is the crux of it, I don’t know what I’m fighting.”

“Is that why you must get strong as soon as you can?”

He slumped back, holding his temples and looking at his boots. “I think so. I don’t know. Fear drives me, but the fear of what—”

“All this,” I said indicating the drawings.

“Of what’s inside me,” he said. Then he turned his head, hair draping like ragged curtains, his eyes shining through. “I’m scared of my darkness.”

“A good thing to fear.” I smacked my lips together. “But a busy mind doesn’t look inside. It looks out. We should focus on the troll and leave your mind to tidy its problems.”

“The undefeatable troll.”

“The very same,” I reiterated.

“But how do we beat him? How do we beat this Great Shade, this Okanau?”

“I’ll think of something.” It was bravado. I had nothing.

He cupped his chin, his eye on a particularly gruesome daubing of a child holding up its own severed leg, face twisted with anger, screaming from the stone. “I know a way.”

“Well, now would be a good time to spill.”

“It is the spell of sacrificial retribution.”

“A mouthful,” I noted. “What is it?”

“It was, I believe, one of my final hopes—a spell I would cast when all else was lost.”

“How does it work?”

“By draining the spellmonger.” He inhaled, then ran his fingers through his hair. “I would channel my energy, my life source, into the spell then force it out to overwhelm my enemy. It drained me but was catastrophic to any foe.”

“How would it help kill the Shade?” I knew how. I wasn’t dim. But I wanted him to think of things other than his dreams.

He grinned and turned to me, madness in his eyes. “If the troll takes my power and magnifies it a thousand times, it would empty him. He would vanish and be done.”

It was brilliant, that much was plain. It was our salvation, and for a moment, relief swept through me. “You don’t know how to cast it, do you?”

“Not a damn clue,” he said.

CHAPTER 14

I swam later that afternoon, and I didn’t stop until my skin had shriveled and my muscles ached. I would have to defeat the troll, so I needed to be strong. Whether I believed Okanau could take my best talent and turn it back on me a thousand times, I could not decide. How did they know? The elves might have made it up to coax us into attacking. Their magic was better—Lysander had confirmed that, but better than what? Him? He could barely cast a fireball. By that token, how much stronger did I have to get to be as strong as them? Humans were, after all, known to be more powerful by comparison. It was too muddled—too uncertain. No wonder the Lords and Ladies left these lands alone. Chaos? Had someone called it Chaos?

The sun set as I sat on the bank and mulled. I was alone, it helped, and then I wasn’t.

“What are you thinking?” Alex said, joining me by lying down beside me on the grass.

“I’m wondering how to beat the troll. It’ll come down to me and him, as it should.”

She grabbed my hand, pulling it to her breast. “Surely you cannot beat it. The terms make it impossible.”

“The terms are whisper and rumor. What if Okanau is just a troll, a plain old troll that grunts and farts and swings a club?”

“What if he isn’t?” she said, and the circle of futility was complete once more.

I lay back, watching the sky darken and the stars brighten, and after some time, a good while, she rested her head upon my shoulder, and her breathing became steady as sleep captured her. So I reasoned with her because the sleeping make good listeners.

“A spell, by its very nature, is not free power. That much I know. If it emits energy, then it draws the same amount. So, if the troll takes my best skill and improves it a thousand times, whatever energy my best skill draws from me will be magnified by that amount and be drawn from the troll. Where does this energy come from?”

That was my first question, and the answer was easy. So I replied to myself.

“It is drawn from the land. The troll sucks the life from the land behind it and uses that. It explains why he is always moving as dead land gives him no power.”

Whether my conclusions were correct, I didn’t know, but they stacked—the theory worked. Following from it, there were therefore two ways to kill him, and neither involved me fighting. The first was to stop him moving. If he couldn’t draw from the shade, then he couldn’t perform his spell, and therefore he could be vanquished. The second was a slant on Lysander’s retribution spell. If I could force him to draw more power than his body could stand, he would enter a cycle he couldn’t escape from and would, possibly, explode.

The thought made me chuckle.

“So,” I continued. “I need to make my best skill a feat of strength that nigh drains me in the doing, so that when he performs it, he will either fail, and the failure will kill him, or he will die from the energy rush.”

Alex stirred, her hand moving from my chest to my belly, fingers spreading, reaching lower. I closed my eyes and stifled a gasp. Then, I moved it back up a touch and wondered when I’d become so damn honorable.

“What if my best talent was lifting rocks and crushing my foes?” I mused, and the more I thought about it, the more convinced I became.

If Okanau were to duplicate it, he would try and lift a boulder a thousand times heavier than mine. His body would surely give out. For a start, his bones wouldn’t be able to take the weight unless the magic reinforced them. His muscles wouldn’t be able to lift the rock without more magic. He’d have to draw so much power. Both would see him fall. Both would need a thousand times my effort.

“I have it!” I said.

Alex stirred, moaned, and began brushing my groin. “Daniel,” she whispered, but her eyes were still shut, and her words were part of a dream. But it was my name, and it wasn’t Lysander’s.

“Yes, my love,” I said.

“Daniel,” she said, and her hand tightened around me.

“I am here.”

Her grip loosened, and her hand fell away, and she turned, struggling to get comfortable, so much that she woke. “Did I dose off?”

“Yes,” I said, sitting up and drawing my legs together. “You did. You were dreaming.”

“What about?” she asked, flicking a look my way.

“Probably me and the troll. You called my name once.” I shrugged. “I don’t know. It was your dream.”

She sat up, bringing her legs in. “It was more than that. We were together, in your Lording House. We were man and wife, and we were happy.”

“That sounds wonderful.”

She grinned. “You and me...”

“Just us?”

Her eyes widened as if she were realizing it herself. “There were others… Beautiful women… How can that make for happiness?”

I’d wondered that too. “I’m not sure…”

“It’s not that it’s unusual for a Lord to have more than one wife, and I understand it—marriages of convenience—a home on the estate somewhere. But eight… We were all so close, all smitten, and you were passionately in love with each of us. How can that work?”

I wouldn’t answer her—not truthfully, anyway. I could love more than one woman—that much I knew. I could love her, Anna and Leyathel together without an issue. But how they fared in return and well, with each other, I couldn’t fathom that.

“Perhaps there is a way, and the building of the houses makes it all fall into place?” I flung myself back down, seeking solace in the stars. “I can’t make head or tail of this place. None of it makes sense.”

She lay back down, snuggling in. “No, it doesn’t, does it? But I’m happy, especially sharing this moment with you.”

* * *

It was night, and I was lying on a bank with a beautiful girl in my arms. Then it was day, and she’d gone. I looked up my new numbers. The new stronghold was underway, so returning to it was immediately removed from my plans. I’d missed Anna, again, anyway but I doubt she’d scold me. She didn’t seem the type, and I was her Lord.

Instead of Lordly duties, I decided to begin my training. The boulder idea was the best I had, so in the absence of anything better, I was going to start my training. At worst, I’d get a shiny new strength number. At best, I’d beat a troll, save a land, and get the girl or several of them.

Sometimes a man’s just got to make things work…

I decided the quarry was the place to start, so headed to the Hollow, the abandoned farms, then out into the mixed resource area. The new roads I’d hoped for hadn’t been started, but then, they were an if-and-when thing, so I wouldn’t make a fuss.

Barnaby and Jensome had built two quarries, both were of their simplest form, which was a barely chiseled rock face and a shed. The build must have focused more on the simple building than the business end because I could have cleared a dozen clumps of moss and achieved much the same clean rock face. The daily production of each was only four stone blocks—about enough to build a small well.

But we still had plenty of the stuff scattered about the castle’s inside, so we wouldn’t be needing to up production any time soon. I’d received the grand total of one quarryman from the cauldron, reinforcing the quarry’s current insignificance. His name was Claus.

“Claus!” I hailed him as I approached.

He was a big man, broad of shoulder, with muscles like pumpkins and hands that made the great hammer he grasped tiny.

“Lord Daniel?” I asked.

“The very same. I need a favor.”

He set his hammer down, head first, and leant on its shaft. “I’ve got plenty of time to grant you favors, but it’s not my place. I’ll do your bidding, just ask.”

“I need rocks, or more specifically, boulders. I need one I can lift, but not easily. One I can barely lift, and one I cannot lift, but is not an impossible task. Could you do that for me?”

As I said, he was a big man and not one I’d fancy messing with. His long hair was tidied into a leather torque then flowed to his bare shoulders where it met sweat and grime. He raised his great hammer, swung it over his shoulder, and headed to the closest face. With one mighty swing, the rockface exploded and showered me in scree, and a split appeared, then another, and a rock tumbled out.

“Should be the easy one,” he said.

I picked it up. It strained me, but not overly. I could train with it. “Perfect,” I said.

He swung again, and chippings strafed me once more. Another rock tumbled out, larger than the first. “That one?”

I rubbed my hands together, spat on each palm, and then braced. Straining, I eventually picked up the rock. “Again, perfect.”

He looked me up and down. “Slightly bigger?”

“Slightly.”

He swung one final time. A larger rock rolled to my feet. I tried to lift it, and I failed. “Excellent,” said I. “I’ll set up over there.”

He leant on his hammer once more. “Mind if I ask why?”

“Upping my strength.”

“Not got what you need?”

“I have to kill a troll in a rather unique way.”

“I can think of better ways, but you’re a Lord and I’m a quarryman, so if you don’t mind, I’ll sit and watch.”

“Haven’t you quarrying to do?”

“Four stone is all this one can give. Three are sitting over there. One more swing and I’m half done for the day.”

I didn’t like the sound of that. “Can’t you upgrade the place?”

He shook his head, his face clouding like I’d just insulted his mother. “A carpenter is needed. These hands can’t work wood.”

It was the way of things.

I trained all morning, and by the end of it, I still couldn’t lift the third rock. I told Claus I’d return later, and he looked at me like I was a fool. Perhaps I was, but my strength number was increasing, and that was what I needed. Wiping my brow, I thought about another swim. Lifting stones was thirsty work, but fortunately, I had a level three tavern, and it was a much better alternative. Plus, I hadn’t darkened its doorstep yet. It was high time for a visit.

Things were going well. The stronghold neared completion, and at level four, all other buildings could improve. Artisan’s Road was getting busier as well. There was a smithy, a workshop, a mason, and a tavern. All were level three and all looked grand. But I only had eyes for the tavern. It was barely two stories. The upper level was a roof room, probably two, given the nature of Jess’s work. The roof was thatch, and the windows had no glass or shutters, so I could hear that it wasn’t busy, which pleased me. All needed to work—to get the castle and its commerce up and running as fast as possible.

As I marched through the door, what little conversation there was died. There, sitting on a stool, was Lysander, ale mug in hand, and with him sat Jess, Anna leaning over the polished counter. She pushed herself off, sidestepped the other two, and bid me good day.

“Apologies for this morning. I fell asleep by the lake.”

“With Alex,” she said and poured me a white ale.

“We were talking and dozed off,” I told her.

“If that’s what they’re calling it,” she said with a sly wink.

“We didn’t,” I said.

“Do what?” she asked.

“Anything.”

“Why not?”

“I…” I gave up. All three stared at me.

“Got the measure of you, she has, my Lord,” Jess added and cackled.

“Our great Lord,”—Lysander joined in— “is a good soul. He’d not defile Alex without being sure of his intent, because he cares for her.” He laughed, a sharp burst—forced. “Has feelings for you too, Anna.”

I took a draught of my ale and regarded him. He was drunk, or certainly on the way. I didn’t care to be the butt of further jokes. “To have morals is no terrible thing.”

He pointed at me, made to say something and stopped, drank, then made another effort. “Perhaps, but to die without a smile on your face is a terrible waste. Jess is mighty good at rectifying that.”

“Lysander!” I cautioned.

“What?” he said, palms upturned. “It is what she does. No insult delivered.”

“Only flattery received,” said Jess.

She spun around, facing me. Her cheeks were rosy, and she smelt of flowers. Her ample cleavage drew my eye, as those things had a tendency to, and for a moment, I forgot all, wondering, simply wondering. But embarrassment caught hold of me quickly enough, and I fought to conceal it with bravado.

“Flattery intended. I don’t belittle what you do—” I began to say.

“No, but you paint it with shame by your stuttered words,” said Anna, calling me out.

“It is not shame.” I decided truth, the notion I told myself I lived by, might serve me well at that moment. “I see you as a highly desirable woman, fulfilling a very important position. I am simply jealous of others taking it while I won’t be able to.” I looked intently at Anna. “My desire for another won’t allow it.”

It worked, and Anna looked away, her flush my trophy.

“Well, I certainly am not a Lady nor desire such a position.” She looked between Anna and me. “You can’t leave me shorthanded here,” Jess said. “Unless you get the cauldron to send me one as capable with her fantastic cakes, then I might consider it. Each relationship needs time to bloom.”

“It is something I shall live with. My sleep stole this morning’s time with her, and I shall never get that back.” While I talked, I focused on Anna. At first, she shied away from my words, but then she met my gaze, and challenge glossed hers.

“My Lord speaks fine words,” was all she said.

“He is a flatterer,” said Lysander. “He’ll fill those Lording houses with ease. Without setting his sights beyond our immediate borders, he has candidates for three warm hearths. I doubt there will be an empty bed left for the likes of me.”

“Nonsense,” said Jess. “Once your magic is up to scratch, there’ll be beds aplenty. Why, Daisy was hankering for your magic staff only yesterday. Said you could stir her pot with it anytime.”

Lysander picked his staff up and held it high. “This old thing?”

“Not that,” said Jess. “The one she spoke about was much smaller. Have you a second?”

She roared with laughter, as did Lysander and Anna, as did I.

“So, to the serious business,” I said, once the laughter had died down. “I think I have a way to beat the troll.” I told them about my plan, and no one dismissed it out of turn.

“We need to know more,” Lysander said.

“More?”

“We’ve seen this Great Shade from afar, but only have the elf’s words to guide us. What’s to stop us going up close and taking a look-see?”

“We would have to pass through elven lands.” I shrugged. “They would join us and then we could be called out for not challenging it.”

“But,” said Lysander, “if we travelled through the mixed area, then follow its river through to the first foothills, we could then drift east, over the ridge and then sweep in behind. Assuming, like most caravans, the troll’s eyes only face in the direction he marches, we might be able to observe them for a while.”

I liked the plan but questioned how he knew so much of the land’s lay.

“I looked at the map,” was all he said to start.

“Map?” I prompted.

“In your banner room.”

When I said nothing more, he continued.

“Banner room, next to the scullery, in your new level four stronghold. I’m a hero, I need no permission to access it.”

“My banner room,” I repeated slowly. Then, the fog of my dimness lifted. “In my new stronghold. The banner room in my new stronghold.”

I checked my numbers, and it was there, in all its shining glory. We had a level-four stronghold!

True to form, Jensome had already moved on to upgrading the military buildings, and, I noted, he was already building a new lumber mill in the southern forest.

“My new stronghold,” I repeated, leant over the counter, cupped Anna’s face, and kissed her squarely on the lips. “Level four, you know.”

I slid off and pecked Jess on the cheek. “Lysander, we have business with the troll.”

“I have business with this ale.”

“You’re coming.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“Nope.” He held up his mug. “Staying.”

“We’ll go deeper into the goblin mines.”

“Ale, beautiful women, why would I move?”

“It’s where the good stuff is.”

He sank his ale.

* * *

Raised voices greeted us at the stronghold. Gregson towered over Barnaby, and I assumed it was he who was shouting. I was wrong. It was Barnaby, and something had shaken his tree.

“We have no spare wood, and that is that,” barked my steward.

“Then,” said Gregory, nice and evenly. “My father told me to tell you that there’s been an issue with today’s harvest, so there’ll be no food tomorrow.”

“You threaten me?”

“No, I tell you.”

There was silence then until Lysander walked up to them. “He is twice your size, Barnaby. If he does, I’d take note of it.”

“No threat,” said Gregson. “Ma says a threat carries a certain amount of uncertainty. This has none. No lumber. No food.”

“Why?” I asked, and Gregson spun around.

“Beggin’ your pardon, my Lord. Hagglin’ with the steward is all.”

“Haggling?” I said. “Why no food?”

“Because we’ll have to cut lumber. Can’t cut lumber an’ crop, simply ain’t possible.”

“You all have to cut wood? Can’t some cut wood while others harvest? It’s how you built your fences and sheds.”

“We do and we have, so we’ve never asked before. But our next upgrades demand loads of wood.”

“So cut loads of trees,” I said.

“That’s just it. We ain’t gifted in the lore like a woodsman. Takes us all day to lop a decent tree down, strip ‘n split. Just how it is. We’re farmers, not woodcutters. We can’t cut enough wood without stopping farming.”

“It doesn’t change the fact that we have no wood,” said Barnaby. “If I had wood, I’d give it. But Jensome is getting through it like a drunk drinks ale. We’ll have plenty of wood just as soon as we get a mill in the elven forest or six in the southern woods. That’s the difference between using the right area and the wrong one.”

“I’m working on it,” I said.

“I could work on it faster,” said Broadchurch, sneaking up on us. “My lads are getting the hang of marshalled fighting now. A few rounds on my new level four square will get them up to speed with the pike and the halberd.”

“And we need wood to make level four farms. We fill bellies but we’ll split them open if we have to.”

“One moment,” I said and delved into my numbers. “Gregson, relay this to your father. If he can wait two days, the new mills might be churning out more timber. He’ll have first pick to improve the farms—”

“But what about—” Barnaby protested, but I raised my hand and glared at him.

“I’m speaking, so please don’t. They’ll certainly be up and running in a couple of days if he could do me a personal favor and get you boys over there to give Jensome a hand. I hear there might be some big cats in the area—easy meat for you frontier lads, and you could do lugging and splitting and anything that doesn’t need building lore.”

“Or we could just set up in the elf lands,” Broadchurch said.

“Perhaps you’d like to take a leaf out of Barnaby’s book and learn when to shut up, Broadchurch. There’ll be no incursions while I am talking to Leyathel. Trust me, long term, my deal is better.”

Gregson looked away from me, shaking his head. “I’ll speak to him, but he’ll not want to leave the farms unprotected.”

“And they won’t be,” I said. “Our friend Broadchurch, here, will be moving his whole infantry to the edge of your farmlands where they will be setting up camp. That’ll give the goblins a few nights to get used to seeing them there. He will patrol the farm’s edge, and that will allow the goblins to think we fear them. Fear equals complacency, and then we attack.”

“Camp?” said Broadchurch. “When my barracks has just had a refurbishment.”

I turned to Lysander, who was squeezing his temple like the whole conversation pained him.

“Shall we promote Sarah to the head of the army? She’ll do what she’s told without questioning us,” I said.

“Do what you want,” Lysander replied. “I think I’ve got a hangover already. Are you sure this can’t wait until morning?”

“Positive. We’ll travel by night and be on his tail in the morning. Otherwise, we’ll get there at dusk and not be able to tell shadow from darkness.”

That, of course, wasn’t the reason. It was to keep Lysander away from his bed near Kanazar and see if it lightened his dark moods a little. He was getting more erratic by the day, and the thought that the core’s power was eroding his mind was growing in me.

“Then promote Sarah over Butterscotch and be done with it.”

“Broadchurch,” said Broadchurch, defeated.

* * *

We left them to it. My orders had been issued, one, admittedly, disguised as a favor asked, and they’d been told to work it all out or face my wrath. It soured my mood which was then instantly lightened when I approached the stronghold. It looked mighty fine.

It was no grand keep, nor a magnificent palace. Our strongholds weren’t built that way. Whether it was because the core controlled the pattern, or whether it was a design that had evolved through trial and error, I did not know. But deep down, I did know this: a wall always surrounded all, with only the resources on the outside—the farms, lumber mills, quarries and iron mines. No dwellings clung to the wall’s skirt, no commerce was done in its shade, all that happened within. It made the wall a long affair, and of paramount importance. Which was one of the reasons a wall had to be upgraded in line with the stronghold. It couldn’t lag behind—the lore demanded it.

The stronghold, which could be regarded as the keep or castle itself, was almost central, a little south of the core, which was true-central and radiated its influence over all other buildings. None could be higher than it, only equal. Which, I supposed, was the reason its progression was dear to me.

Only one dwelling, and I use the term loosely, wasn’t available for upgrade, and that was the core’s chambers. That place was its own, and we Lords and Ladies did not interfere with it. That it didn’t upgrade did not mean it didn’t change. It was altered by the core’s whim, but only on the inside, not on the out. It would always be a creepy entrance positioned in the middle of a stone circle and never take up more or less room.

That was the strangeness of our strongholds—our seats of power, and it was, as the saying goes, what it was.

All this meant that seeing a newly upgraded stronghold—seeing my newly upgraded stronghold—was better than anything in the land. It infused me with new power. It sent my pulse racing.

There was stone, and not just about the chimney. It formed the building’s corners, its door linings, and the sills of its windows. Archer slits broke the plank cladding, and a second story had been added.

“Stairs, Lysander. We have stairs and extra rooms.” I ran to it.

There were steps leading up to grand, double doors, and the first gargoyles stared out at me. The thatch was gone, replaced by slate tiles. Where Jensome had found them was a mystery—probably salvaged from ruins—but neither did I care. They gleamed orange, painted by the last of the sun. And there were quartered windows—no glass mind, but I wasn’t worried about that. I ran my hand over the doors. They smelt rich, the earthy oaken smell bleeding from them. I pushed, and they swung in, hanging on hinges of iron. Beyond those doors was a room to behold.

It had a grand inglenook of grey stone and black slate, and flags spread upon the floor, a thirded bond which appealed to me. And there were grand, high-backed chairs facing the fire, two in number. We sat. We couldn’t resist.

“This is a little more like it,” I said, and Lysander agreed with me.

But I couldn’t sit there. Like a child on their naming day, I was up to see what other treasures I could find. There was a scullery, a study, a banner room and, as he had told me, a map room. It was there I lingered and traced our likely journey with my finger. I had, perhaps, underestimated my venture.

“Are you truly sure tonight’s the night?” he asked again.

“It would be quicker to travel the elf’s lands,” I muttered. “But I don’t want them knowing our trust is in doubt.”

“I see that, but it’s a two-day thing. We need Alex to hunt unless you’ve become proficient—I know I’m not, and we need a fourth to make the party right. I’d suggest May. Do you know her?”

“May?” I asked.

“She is an herbalist. She might find treasures as we go.”

“I take it she’s easy on the eye?”

“I haven’t noticed.”

He was lying, and he didn’t mind me knowing. He smirked and gave it away. “But you do know her?”

“Of course. She supplied the wort that Daisy uses to make the ink for my drawings. Really, Daniel, you’ve only a handful of citizens. You should know them all.”

“I should,” I said. “So we should bring both. At least three of us are capable with weapons.”

“I think May will be fine. I’ve seen her wield a blade to chop fern and root. A knocker will be no issue.”

“Then go fetch them.”

He chuckled. “You can do it from here.”

He tapped a blue rune, etched with others along the map’s margins. It was a figure holding a ledger, and as he pressed it, my mind blinked and a list of names obliterated my sight. I thought of Alex, and her name came from the list and the rest vanished. Summon or allocate? It said under. So I summoned, as I wanted. I thought of May and repeated the process. I’d done it all before. It was that familiar.

“What happens now?” I asked.

Lysander produced a bottle from his cloak. “We sit by the fire and wait.”

“Good plan,” I said.

“Second thoughts, you sit by the fire and wait. I’ll watch from distance.”

“Why?” I asked.

“You just summoned Alex. How do you think that will go for you?”

* * *

It went badly. She was not amused. Apparently, and I only had her and May’s word for it, a summoning pinched the mind unexpectedly. I did not recall that. The first time it could cause one to jerk, cry out, or, as was the case with Alex, make bowels spasm as the body stiffens.

She was still miffed as we left the grounds.

I’d left Willow behind as I was uncertain the terrain we’d be travelling would suit. Lysander walked with May. Alex broke the trail up front—she had fury to spare—so I lagged behind. It was the safest place. It gave me a chance to appraise May.

She was an earthy sort, as would befit an herbalist. Shorter than Alex, she was neither fat nor slim, but powerful, which didn’t suit my image of one. She was plain as day but pretty plain, not average plain, and her character suited her look. It too was neither fiery like Alex, nor sensual like Leyathel, or gentle as Anna. She lived within Lysander’s shade, and there she found comfort, hanging on his every word and laughing at his jokes, no matter how poor. But it wasn’t all one way, he listened intently as she plucked a leaf and described all its benefits in great detail. It was like listening to a new couple—nauseating. They were the best of the best and no one else could get close.

I wasn’t the only one who noticed. One moment, Alex was hacking her way through a particularly tangled undergrowth, the next she stood still, machete by her waist. “Will you two shut up for one moment?” She rotated like a demonic soul. “You, Lysander, your jokes are not funny. You, May, his jokes are not funny, and your leaves are only interesting to you.”

They stopped. They looked, and they burst out laughing.

“What?” said Alex, and I’ll admit, I was curious too.

“I won,” May said. “I bet you’d shout before Lord Daniel, and he said vice-a-versa.”

Lysander sat upon a rock. “Thank the gods that’s over. My jaw aches.” Another bottle came, and another cork popped. “We should call it a night and get a fire going. Eat something, huh? I’m starving.”

He had a point. The moon, I imagined, would be high, somewhere beyond the forest’s canopy. “Let’s do that. We’ve made progress, more than I could have hoped.”

Lysander cocked his head. “How could you know that? It’s all the same.”

I suffered then from the cockiness of knowing something others didn’t, and I wanted to cherish it a while longer. There was a quirk with the map in the stronghold, and it was one I’d been getting used to since we’d left the wall. It, like the list of citizens, was in my mind should I require it.

We’d travelled around a quarter of the way to the southern edge of the mixed resource area and had another half at least to go before we had to turn east and out of the painted lands. By that I mean lands I could see clearly in my mind. They were the stronghold—the heart of everything and the center, the farmlands and the edge of the mountains that hemmed them, the elven forest, and the so-called mixed resource area we currently travelled through. The rest, well, it was greyed out in a fade. I could make out, for instance, the mountains dropping, but no more than a few hundred yards of misting, and I could see the plains beyond the elven forest, but not as far as the troll’s shade. But it would do, and it was a timely advantage.

I let slip a grin, and that was all Lysander needed to unravel my game.

“You have a map, don’t you?”

“A map?” asked Alex. “Give it to me. I’m the one who needs it. I’m out front.”

I laughed at that. “If I could, I would, but it is inside my head along with other treasures Kanazar has seen fit to bestow.”

“Others? Is that how you squeezed my mind and ordered me to you.” She reared up again. “Never do it again.”

“I can’t promise you that,” I said, sitting. “Think of it as a call rather than a summons. If I’d have shouted across a courtyard, you wouldn’t have taken offence.”

“But I’d have had warning. I’d have seen you.”

“Not necessarily.”

She kicked a rock from the undergrowth, then another. “True, I suppose, and sometimes I forget you are my Lord. Perhaps I will get used to it.” She rummaged for more rocks and stones, setting them in a circle. “I’ll go find us some busy animal that can’t sleep. May, you gather the wood.”

“What shall we do?” asked Lysander.

“Do what important folk do while their minions provide for them,” she said, dripping with sarcasm.

“What is that?” Lysander smirked—he enjoyed her games more than me: cool one minute, warm the next.

“Plot and plan. What else?” she said, and she was gone, swallowed by the darkened leaves and the twittering forest.

So, we did as asked, and we plotted and planned.

“I cannot find it, this map,” Lysander said, took a swig from his bottle and offered it to me.

“It is with the numbers.”

“Not mine.”

I took a draft of the wine. It was some berry concoction, too cold to have been in his pocket all this time. “Perhaps it is a lordly thing.” I studied the bottle, feeling it, trying to understand. “Where do you keep this? It’s cold.”

“In my storage.” He tapped his head. “It is in here with everything else. Did you think I was lugging around countless bottles?”

“I didn’t think anything. When did you get it?”

“I’ve always had it.”

I looked through my numbers again but could find nothing in any of the tabs. “I don’t have it.”

“Think,” he said. “Just think things into storage, many things. I suppose it’s like a bag except I bear its weight all over, and that weight is far less than what’s in it.”

“A magic bag?”

He huffed and took the bottle back. “Something like that.” He held it up, and it vanished. Then it reappeared again. “See? It is easy.”

“I know what it is,” I grouched. “I just don’t have it.” But then I thought of one good thing. It was magic. “Your second spell. Congratulations!”

“Not a spell. It’s something I have, like my numbers.”

I rummaged through my numbers a second time. “Not there.” It was annoying, so damn annoying.

“What level are you? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“One,” I replied. “It hasn’t budged and I’ve increased my numbers. I can’t understand it.”

“You don’t remember anything, do you? Your level has nothing to do with your numbers. It has a life of its own.”

“Really?”

“You’ve improved yourself more than I have, and I’m level two.”

“So, I simply sleep with a core or get drunk in a tavern, and I’ll level up?” It was grossly unfair.

“No, you have to do something it judges remarkable—extraordinary. I jumped from one to two when I conquered my spell without a tower. Think of it as an award rather than reward. A present for doing the daring do,” he said, swigged, and passed the wine to me.

“Killing a dozen or so goblins wasn’t enough?” I kicked at the dirt. “Nor swimming underwater for an age?”

“Clearly not. Perhaps it has to come from you?” He pointed to his heart. “From here.”

“A daring do,” I swigged wine, still not quite getting it.

“I want it now,” I said after a while. “I remember all its advantages, the two types, chaotic and not. It would save carrying this spear, and I could have an extra.”

“Where do you think my staff is?” Lysander rubbed his eyes. “Sleep is for sobering the body, not walking through a forest.” He yawned. “Where shall I set up my bed?”

My stomach tightened. “You’ve a bed in there too?”

He ignored my question.

“Or I might have a bath.”

“It has room for a bath?” I nigh screeched.

He laughed, and I felt like a fool. “No!” he squealed, then laughed some more.

May returned and she set the fire before sitting and emptying her pockets. She had countless: in her jacket, her pants, her shirt, and her undershirt and even her boots. In short order, there were green leaves, red and gold, along with flower petals, mushroom caps and slithers of bark in a pile before her. She arranged all, then each vanished in turn.

Was I the only one without magical storage?

“Does everyone have it?” I asked.

May looked at me, screwing up her freckled face in confusion. “Have what?”

“He has no hidden places,” Lysander explained. “Our Lord is still a pup.”

“As am I,” said May. “But it comes with my job. An herbalist is also classed as a gatherer, so the core sees it as essential to ply my trade.”

“And it isn’t for a lord?” I snapped like a petulant child.

“Bite Kanazar’s head off, not May’s. Hers is far too pretty.” Lysander had a point. She was pretty, in a wholesome sort of way.

“I’ll not bite anyone’s head off, but I will have a word with Kanazar when I’m back.

Alex returned empty-handed, and my stomach groaned, knowing my hunger wouldn’t be sated. She squatted by the slowly catching fire. Her tripod appeared, a spit and pot. I scratched my chin. She skinned a rodent of some type, spitted it, then sat back. “What?” she said, a waterskin appearing.

“You have storage too?”

“Of course. Hunter and gatherer, one of the perks. Have you not got one?”

Lysander roared in laughter, and I ground my teeth.

It rained the next morning and that made things lean towards miserable. We made much slower progress, the mud slippery underfoot, the whip of the undergrowth soaking us through. Lysander grumbled the whole time. He’d made merry with his storage, drinking the night away, darkness clouding him, and when he slept, his grunts and groans hinted at terrible nightmares. The temptation to turn around and head back became overwhelming, but we were a day out by then. As I thought things couldn’t get worse, so they did. We began to climb.

There was a terrible day which turned to night, one spent in a cave, partway up a hill, watching it pour as the moon resolved, blurred by clouds into some vague aura illuminating an oil scape of leafy canopy and jutting rock. I sat against the cave’s wall, out of reach of the wet, my head turned north where I imagined Castle Kanazar. There was a bed, in a level-four stronghold, and there was comfort.

Alex made a fire, but the wood was damp and the smoke, choking, so we kept it low and it barely warmed. She curled up close to May, two desirable girls made less so by the mud and slurry about them, and us, Lysander and I, two lotharios wet, stiff but not stiffened. It was a dire night, with a morning following that fared little better.

Then it was noon, and the sun tore the clouds apart, and it warmed us, and our mood lifted instantly. We’d crested a ridge, a few hundred yards above the treeline, and with the sun’s appearance came a clearer view, and what a view it was. All morning I’d stared at my boots and the ground they climbed, but then, as I stared from the ridge, wonder filled me.

There was forest, sure, and it hung like a blanket between us and the next ridge, then another, and then it, like the rain, was gone, replaced by grassland, its green much lighter, much brighter, way more cheerful. A new land lay beyond the forests of the mixed area and bordering the elves to its north. It was the plains we’d needed, but they were still a good distance away.

“Could we make it?” Lysander asked. “I’m sick of this forest, its clawing brambles and stinging nettles. I can’t breathe in here.”

“Nor me,” Alex mentioned, “and this is my terrain. Hunting is always easier in the forest, but this place is tired and unkempt. Something is missing.”

“It is old,” said May. “Old and muddled. It has slept for too long—needs waking. The elves, they tend theirs, clear out tired trees, no matter their emotional tie, which gives space to the new. This one is choked. It needs a good forester. With one of those, and wood from the elves, we will never run out.” She glanced at me. “A good forester has lore for blood. If I were the worshipping kind, I’d be praying the cauldron spits one out soon.”

A forester? I looked up my citizen list. We had woodcutters, three in number, and these turned rough wood into planks, and we had woodsmen and women, five in all, and they chopped down the trees. I guessed the felling was random, that with guidance from this forester, that would become more selective and increase the perpetuity of the resource.

“A forester,” I said. “Would that I could demand my core to provide one.”

“Aye,” said Lysander. “The power to command it would be a rich one indeed.”

An inclination came to me. “Could we?” I asked him. “Could we command the core? Could I command it? I am supposed to be the Lord of the place. Am I? Or am I a stooge that inadvertently does its bidding?”

“A dozen questions in one,” my wizard replied. “I think there is truth in there somewhere. It is erratic—Kanazar is—it influences us. If you want to command, to be a king, then the core must do your bidding.”

I chewed his words. “It is hard to command something that is so inert to all things around us.”

Alex spoke then. “Is it though? Everything wants power. It wants power, else why would it grow, why would it progress the castle? That is the way you make it obey you.”

“How so? Explain.”

“You are its conduit. The longer you are it, the more it has to lose if you die. It will have to start over, become feeble again. Without you, it is nothing.”

I could have kissed her, under any circumstance, but then in particular. She was right. I had to stop being in awe of that thing and assume my rightful place. It was my servant—a conniver for sure—but a servant without a doubt.

I leant over to her, grabbed her cheeks and drew her lips to mine, kissing her, then withdrawing. She followed me, pouncing like a cat, straddling me, and kissing me hard. Her lips were soft, her smell one of sweat and honesty, and her breast pounded against my chest. Alex was mine during that moment, and Lysander and May didn’t exist. I understood what it would be like to lay with her—a sparring of equals—no submissive, neither dominant, two bodies writhing as one, two minds attuned. She withdrew as quickly as I’d lunged.

“I shall go hunt,” she said, and a bow appeared on her shoulder, a quiver strapped to her leg.

I’ve really got to get me some damn storage!

CHAPTER 15

We reached the forest’s edge late the next afternoon. One moment our light was speckled, dappled with green and slanting, coming from behind and casting shadow in front. It was damp, but not from rain. It was trapped, the mud was spread over clay, great banks of the stuff that showed itself in creases and slips. It made for wet going, sodden feet and soaked pants. But it kept the undergrowth low and filled the air with the stench of rot. So when we saw the darkness ahead punctured by light, our spirits rose.

Not that mine could rise farther. Although, as was her way, Alex had confused me. From us kissing, then serving me roasted bird later and finally lying by me, she’d ignored me all day, like nothing had passed between us. Lysander had perfected his questioning glance, but I had no answer for him. I had no clue what went on in that girl’s head and perhaps never would.

Lysander, for his part, was playing a longer game with May. They’d started our venture as flirting friends and had progressed steadily. As we reached the forest’s edge they were co-conspirators, gossips with no one to gossip to, and a pairing that had more between them than they’d had before. He was, in short, a few drinks in the tavern short of bedding her without even kissing her.

We burst into the sunlight, glad to be free of the clutching trees, and we raced a few hundred yards away from their shade before we remembered we’d left ourselves hopelessly exposed. There was a bark and then chatter, and we looked about—looked from one to the other then scanned the grassy plains. More noises came, cracking across the open land, nattering through the knee-high grass. Then a head, two eyes and a snout, perked ears, faced us, then dropped out of sight. Then another, some distance away from the first. Barking behind, to the side and in front.

“They’ve surrounded us,” said Alex.

“Who have?” Lysander asked.

“Not who,” said I. “What, and that what is wolves.”

“A pack,” Alex said, and May let out a whimper.

Of the four of us, she was the least capable. She was a gatherer, no more than that.

“Can you fight?” I asked.

“Some,” she said, but not convincingly so.

“Do you have a weapon?”

“My knife.”

How I wished I had a spare spear. “Get in the center then. Alex, Lysander, we form a protective ring about her. Can you pick any off?” I asked Alex.

She already had her bow nocked, taught, and her aim wandered smoothly. Then she loosed, and the swish of her arrow set my heart racing. It ploughed the seed heads, slamming into something with a dull thud, followed by a squeal, followed by silence then excited chatter. “Yes!” she said and nocked another.

I held my spear tight, glancing from Alex to Lysander. “Now would be a good time to bring two great axes from that handy storage of yours,” I said.

“I’m a little light on those kinds of stores. My wine is heavy enough even with the magic, a couple of weighty axes would bring me to my knees.”

“Then we shall throw bottles at them.”

“We shall do none of the sort.”

Another twang, fizz and thump saw Alex nock once more. “I hate this part,” she said, like being surrounded by wolves was a daily occurrence for her.

“But you appear rather good at it,” I pointed out.

“One tries to protect one’s Lord and master,” she said and let fly again.

As I said, she’d cooled since the bliss of the night before, not that we’d done anything but sleep.

The grass ruffled, three, then four and more furrows headed towards us at speed.

“Here they come,” she whispered, and her bow sang until it didn’t, but I never turned. I had my own problems.

The beast leapt, bursting from the grass all slather, claws, and fangs. It was huge, half my size or more, and its forepaws had splayed talons that glinted in the sun. I braced, gauging its leap then rushed forward a few paces and planted my spear’s butt, and holding, I gritted my teeth. It was inevitable that the great beast would impale itself, and it was also inevitable that my spear would snap, such was the ferocity of the beast.

It hit me, a dead weight of muscle and bone, and it sent me crashing back into May. Its breath was foul, rancid meat mixed with bile, yellow teeth flashing, and that growl, that hate-filled rumble that resonated right through me. A bright red flash exploded, and the stench of burning fur pervaded all. Then all descended into chaos, if it wasn’t already at that point.

I caught sight of a dozen things at once. May’s horror—her eyes, her terror-filled eyes. Lysander’s palm alive with red fire, long grass flattened and slick with darkening blood, blue sky—a sanctuary overhead, another snout, wrinkled, lips high and jaws snapping. I hit that thing, and I hit it again. I rolled, crawled, and a thump sent me flat. My surprise fled, replaced by cold efficiency, and even as a wolf raked my back, I slowed my erratic glances and readied myself. Three things stood out from the slathering tumble—my halved spear, its head embedded in a fallen beast, another partly on me, dead too, no doubt Alex’s handiwork, and her outstretched hand. I took it, wriggling out from under the wolf, May screaming blue murder, Lysander cackling, a madman for sure. I knew it then.

“Take it!” Alex screamed, her cheeks smeared red, forearms too.

Then I had a hand axe, and I also had another foe. Instinct took me over, and I bellowed and sprang, meeting the damnable wolf, chopping, splattered with hot blood, some mine as my flesh opened, the flash of claws passing away from me. I ducked, punching up with my axe, liking its weight, its short handle, and its speed of use. Another slash, a thud and squelch. Blood, so much blood, and weight, a dead weight that I shook off. There was no respite, nor was there room, my axe falling, rising, arcing across, up, sideways. I sprang and crouched, grabbed fur and yelled, even punching and kicking. It was no glorious affair of stance, thrust and parry. No room, there was no room.

I was down, on my back, axe lost. Reaching while straining, a dripping maw inches from me. A handle, slick and wet, slipped through my fingers. I clawed again at it. The maw closed. I had it then, the axe not the maw, and I screamed, my swing impeded, half-hearted. I was tiring, losing too much blood. More blood rained down on me, the beast’s neck opened. Ragged hacks opened it more, and it sank onto me, its mouth slamming into my cheek, bowels emptying. I slid out from under, staggering, left alone momentarily.

I saw Alex then, and she was magnificent, jumping, spinning, ducking, and jinking; all the while her knives danced, finding arteries, spewing blood her reward. She was magnificent. It was the only word that could describe her, and she was beautiful. I understood her in that moment. She was alive when hunting, not so when not. She liked to fight, the craft of the battle, and she liked to win, to kill. Such was she, alive right then and in her element.

It was done. I sank to my knees, axe by my side, as the remaining wolves squealed and fled. She felled another, and quiet reigned. I fell forward, planting my nose in sodden loam, and there I let the world slip away.

* * *

I woke, which was always a good thing after a battle. Alex stared down at me, framed by night sky, the moon her halo and the stars shining for her. She smiled. I’ll not say that during that moment I was in heaven because we should avoid cliché at every opportunity as it demeans the individuality of that time. Suffice it was her and it was me and there was no other between. I stared up and I was hers.

“You saved my life,” I said.

“Twice. But you saved ours double.” She held a dripping cloth and dribbled water into my mouth. Not water, too sweet for that. It was wine.

“I think not. I caught glimpses of you. You were magnificent.” She had been, like no other, and it made her more desirable to me, if that was possible.

“I felled some, yes, but you… The hand axe is your weapon. With a small shield… no, with two axes, you would be undefeatable.”

“I think I killed a couple,” I admitted.

Then May appeared, a nasty gash on her cheek. “Thank you, My Lord. Without you, I’d have been done for.”

They were getting it wrong. It was Alex that had pulled me from under the first and killed a second that had been on me. She’d ended the last while I knelt. “I fought,” I admitted.

Lysander laughed then. I gathered he was a little way off, out of sight, yet his mood rolled over me. He was merry but with a bitter twist. “Their bodies piled around you. Don’t be bashful, Daniel, you can fight like no other I’ve seen, and it wasn’t even you.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, trying to rise, failing

“I saw you, man. Your eyes, they were distant. You had no fear, and I mean none. It was unnatural.” They were thoughts, spoken before digested, disjointed into jerky prose, and as he spoke his voice became louder, and then he was one of three heads looking down at me. “You took wounds that would have killed a lesser man and yet they didn’t even slow you. What are you, Daniel Cutterson, a wolf disguised as a sheep? Is one of the others a great fighter?”

“One of the others?” asked Alex. “One of what others?”

“I have several names,” I admitted, seeing no point in hiding my truth from her. “They are at the top of my numbers. I think my real name is—”

“Shush,” she said, touching my lips. “Some secrets are that for a reason. You are Daniel. Perhaps you are not strong enough to be the others. Maybe it is dangerous to be them.”

“Pfft,” said Lysander. “How much stronger does a man need to be?”

My strength had grown. The boulders, running, perhaps the romp through the forest had increased it, and the battle had added too, so its number stood at nine. Before the battle, my dexterity had been a measly five. It was nine as well. Four had been added either during or after the battle. Even though I was happy with that, I still fell short.

“A lot,” I said. “I’ve a feeling this battle will be nothing but a skirmish before my life is done.”

“Probably right,” he said. “My dexterity grew some and my fireball is nearly a handful. Conflict works.”

“Well I hate it,” May said. She brushed a tear from her eye. “I thought you were gone, My Lord.”

“Please, call me Daniel, I have enough of the Lord stuff from Barnaby and Broadchurch.”

“You, we, we were all close to death.”

“It appears that I’m not so easy to kill, and nor are you, May. So don’t fret.”

Which was, of course, something I did know. It was hard to kill a lord, but not impossible, and we could be incapacitated, crippled if you will. I tried to sit up, but my gut erupted in pain. Alex held me down, lifting a cloth she’d draped over my stomach. “You took a raking to your gut. It was deep, but it is healing fast. I think you mend quickly.”

“I do,” I said, “and I’ll heal a lot quicker once my constitution number grows. It’s only eight.” I looked it up. “No, it’s ten. Well, that’s an improvement.”

My heart raced. Had my level increased? No, it was still one. What the hell did I have to do to raise it? “How many did I kill?”

“Wolves?” Alex asked. “Ten or more. I took four.”

“Three for me,” said Lysander, but May remained quiet.

I tried to rise again and managed it. “I think I’m healing.”

“You should rest.” Alex shuffled away; her silhouette framed by a roaring fire. She was beautiful, moved like a cat. She looked around. “Or eat. Are you hungry?”

I was. “Yes.”

“Then you should eat. If it leaks from your belly, then we’ll know you aren’t fixed.”

It was a sobering thought. “Lysander,” said I, “have you any of that wine?”

“A bottle or two. Do you want to test your guts?”

I laughed but forced it short. My body wasn’t ready for mirth.

He uncorked one and handed it to me. Then another appeared, and he held it up. “To us four and our survival.”

“Us four,” I said.

Lysander shuffled closer to me. “A thought and it might be premature. This thing you do with the rocks.”

“Yes?”

“Apart from growing your strength, it is a waste.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s not, nor will it ever be, your greatest talent. Fighting is unless you have more hidden.”

He was right. Damn, but he was right. If I had killed ten, or more for that matter, then I had fought well, very well. So if I faced the troll, Okanau, he would fight a thousand times better—according to the elves. That caveat was needed. “Then we have a problem.”

“Indeed. Perhaps our journey will uncover something.”

I did not leak Alex’s meat concoction—it might have been stew or broth or something in between—nor did my wine spew from my ruined gut, which was fortunate. By the end of the meal, I’d regained all my mobility, felt much better, and had a measure of energy back. I stood, waiting for my balance to return. Alex was busy skinning the wolves while Lysander collected their teeth. May, for her part, rummaged the guts, picking things out that might be useful to Daisy, our resident alchemist. I didn’t fancy scavenging, besides, I had nowhere to put anything. Which, yes, still ground on me.

Once they were done, the wolf bodies were piled high, guts spilt everywhere. Carrion would come soon, and they would bring scavengers, who would entice predators, who would prefer fresher meat, like us. We hugged the fire that night, feeding it constantly, one of us always awake.

The morning would see us at The Great Shade’s edge—the edge of Okanau’s madness, his chaos. If ever there was a night we needed sleep, it was that one.

We didn’t get it. The howls of the grasslands were ever present.

* * *

Sunrise brought racing clouds and a warm breeze. The long grass swayed. It smelt of summer and better times, but ahead lay darkness, so contrary to all its surroundings. From distance, it was a strange thing to behold, like a vast, black slug crawling slowly across the plains. It was, I supposed, a few hundred yards long, fifty or so feet high. I couldn’t see its breadth. Darkness was all we could make out, apart from the dead place behind it.

We headed for that, wanting to understand the devastation it wreaked, hoping that would give us glimpses into the abomination itself. I felt fine, better than that. My wounds had healed, and my numbers were higher. Increased constitution gave me more energy, more vitality, and more libido. Which was unfortunate because Alex was looking mighty fine, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.

She’d cooled with the night, sliding from affectionate concern to cold indifference as I’d healed. Her mixed signals were driving me crazy. One moment I was close to her bed, lifting its blanket and preparing to slide in and warm my body against hers, the next I was shut out, not even close.

She signalled us forward, zigzagging, headed for a stand of trees, birch, I thought, silver trunks swaying in the breeze. Whether any of the troll’s entourage was watching us was impossible to tell, but we exercised caution. The wolves had been a good lesson.

“It is empty,” Lysander said as we crouched low on the stand’s edge. “Barren, like fire scorched it.”

“Crisped,” said May.

I squeezed my eyes, hoping to see something more, perhaps the hideous creatures Leyathel had mentioned. Ah, Leyathel, sweet Leyathel, her with only one mood! What bliss that must be. “We study its edge, where the blackness changes.”

“Why?” asked Alex.

“To understand it.”

“Won’t they be watching?” Lysander asked.

“Short of a cloaking spell, and I take it you haven’t one of those in your storage, I’ll risk it. Wait here. One’s enough.”

I scrambled forward, keeping as low as possible, and came to the Shade’s edge. It smelt of nothing, which stunned me for a moment. I’d expected ash, or char, or something as it looked like the grass had been burned away. But close up, it was smooth, just black like ink stained the mud. A little farther away it was speckled with green, tentative shoots peering through, and the mud was lighter, brown not black.

“It’s recovering,” I muttered, then brushed the grass. It tingled, like stroking sparks.

I lurched backwards, pulled from behind, my vision a blur, but Alex became clear. She jumped over me, short axe in hand, then a swipe, and a wet thud, and she crouched by me. “That was close,” she said.

“What was?”

She held up a green stalk, as fat as my wrist, a scarlet head filled with fangs topping it.

“What the hell is that?” I asked.

“Dunno, but it crawled up behind you, stalking you, and was about to strike.”

“Oh.”

“Three times.”

“What?”

“That’s three times I’ve saved you,” she said.

I was on my feet instantly, crouching. “Have you a spare weapon?”

She tossed me the hand axe, then another. “I prefer my knife, but the axes come in handy sometimes.”

I weighed both up, testing how they felt. Comfortable sprang to mind, quickly followed by familiar. “I will fight with these. You are right.”

“Of course I am.”

I narrowed my eyes. “How can you be so sure?”

“I know you, Daniel Cutterson, know you better than you know yourself.”

She scanned the shadow. “Why can’t we see into it? It’s too weird—too strange. Counter to all—counter to lore.”

“Here comes another,” Alex said.

The plant stood four feet high, perched upon the roots it used for walking. Its scarlet head was a crown of petals, and inside were rings of fangs. It sped up, racing towards us, petals pulsing wide then narrow, fangs chomping. I jumped forward and met it, diving at the last moment and chopping at its base. It fell, and it was no more. “Nothing hard.” I wiped sticky sap from the axe’s blade after I’d completed my roll and stood with effect.

“Not on its own,” she said, “but imagine if every blade of grass rose and charged.”

I did, and it sent chills up my spine. “This way.” We headed into the gloom.

As we walked, all noise quietened. The breeze stilled. The smell of the meadows vanished, and the light faded. There was nothing but an empty place, with a slippery blackness underfoot. I paused momentarily, firstly to gather my courage, for the emptiness sapped it, and second to wonder at our direction, because all ways were equal, none different from the other.

“Which way is its head?” I asked Alex and she shrugged in reply. So I continued, but uncertain we ventured in the right direction.

A thing came from the gloom. At first, it was a welcome sight as it was something different, but as it closed, I saw it for the horror it was. Once, and I guessed at a while ago, it had been a wolf. As it approached us, it was some distance from that. Its eyes glowed red, incandescent red, as did its nostrils, from which smoke billowed. Yellow fangs littered its jaw and its hideous breath rasped like a dying old man. Patches of skin, devoid of fur, were cracked and broken, red veins like magma crazing them. I saw all this and more, but one thing drew my attention above all others, and that was its claws. They shone like freshly-blooded steel, and the thought of them tearing my skin nearly unstitched my waning courage.

But it appeared I wasn’t that person, and I attacked before it did. I ran at it, sliding the last yards as it sprang at me. I couldn’t hope to match its force, so jinked to one side, ducked my shoulder, and rolled, coming to my feet and twisting around. A short leap saw me close to its behind, and I struck once, a sweet and brutal swipe that cleaved a rent in its hip muscles. It spun, leading with flashing claws, but I ducked and rose, then jumped back and assessed. It caught thin air and unraveled its knotted body by flipping its behind. We faced each other again.

“Strike one for me,” said I, a smile creeping onto my lips.

It appeared to care little for my joviality and leapt again. I received its attack, dropping to my knees moments before it landed. The creature sailed over me, my position preventing me from stroking my blades across it. But then, that hadn’t been the point of my move. I was behind it, and as it skidded to a halt, before it had registered where I was, I’d leapt at it, both axes flashing down, both chopping at its gash. Flaming blood erupted, splashes burning me, and I rolled away, landing adjacent to the beast, springing forward and twisting around. Chop! Chop! I opened a wound on its neck, then danced away to assess again.

Alex was on it then. While the abomination looked at me, its evil red eyes filled with bitter confusion, she ripped it from shoulder blade to flank without any effort.

It died then, and I wasn’t sure why. We’d struck no mortal blow—though perhaps we’d severed an artery or two, but we later concluded that the mutations weren’t quite right. That they had a tenuous grip on what life they had left, and it took much less to sever that.

The fight had, though, stripped us of any speck of direction. We had no idea where the head or tail of the thing was—this Great Shade, as the elves had named it. Then, I remembered my map and painted it in my mind’s eye. “This way,” I said, and we ventured on.

Sometimes things were that easy, but not often.

There were more beasts in that hellish place. A brace of rabbits with blood-red fangs and back legs that could break a man’s leg with their snap. They proved easy pickings. A snake that spat flaming darts was a little more difficult, but not much. There were eagles my size or bigger—flightless, their wings turned to blades, and there were big cats, mutant bees and ants that were as big as dogs. But all these things were fragile. All had their weaknesses.

Upon my map was painted The Great Shade, and it was a slow-moving grey worm, short but fat. But there were degrees of grey, and the tail was lighter than the head, and within the head was a spot so black that I instinctively knew that nothing could be there—that to step inside that place would mean that both Alex and I would cease to be. I fancied it was where the mutants were made, that what it swallowed was soon spewed out, modified and reborn as a demonic concoction—a sort of twisted cauldron.

“We should go before this place affects us,” I said, and Alex didn’t argue. She followed one finger crooked around my belt like she was scared to lose touch with me. I liked it, I confessed to myself.

When light returned, a few twisted souls later, we welcomed it and dashed through the green meadow like summer had come after an eternal bleakness, arcing around and back to the stand where Lysander and May waited.

“What was it like?” the wizard asked me.

“Like death.” Then it came to me. “Like I imagine Limbo,” and four faces haunted me, those of Rosie, Jim, Frank and Jenny, and I told him of the empty space and my theory on it.

Alex went into a bit more detail concerning the mutations, The Great Shade itself, and what it was like.

“It makes sense,” said Lysander.

“What does?” I asked.

“For every night there is a day. For every summer there is the bleakness. Why not the same for cauldrons? You might have hit the nail on the head. Say it is.” A bottle appeared in his hand, soon uncorked and partially empty. “Say it is, then this Okanau is its master—”

“Or slave,” said I.

“Granted. The cauldron sucks life from all around, but Okanau and his minions are its chosen ones, so they remain unaffected. What if the black space is that absence, and the grey you walked through is regaining its vitality.”

“It’s a start,” I said. “But not the whole picture.” I mulled it and then mulled some more. Alex hunted our lunch, and we ate and drank, and it was fine. She was neither caring nor frosty, a mix of the two—normal, perhaps, and we formed a plan.

It was a simple one. We would skirt the Shade and, while keeping ample distance, come around to its front. There, we would look from afar and try and gather as much information as possible without engaging Okanau. It was the best we could hope for—gaining some knowledge of the task we faced.

We chose to return to the forest’s edge, though, in truth, none of us wanted to go back into that unruly place. But we did fancy its cover in case Okanau sent out patrols. So we marched its margins, and we came alongside The Great Shade’s front, and what a strange sight it was.

Okanau strode out in front. He wasn’t in the sun, instead, on the very edge of the dark magic’s influence. I wasn’t able to recall ever seeing a troll before, along with most other things, but he was, somehow, almost exactly as I’d thought he would be. He was tall, probably ten or twelve feet, and he was green—a dirty green and speckled black with blemishes, like a weed-choked pond crammed with frogspawn. A double belt crisscrossed his chest, and from it hung skulls, presumably of his vanquished foes. His pants were rags and of no discernible color—a patchwork of stains, mostly blood, I imagined. He held a club, which again, came as no surprise, and he was ugly beyond my nightmares.

Behind him, a small troll army marched—if shuffled along in an unruly gang. It would have been the stuff of Broadchurch’s nightmares. Behind that came a great wagon with at least ten axles, and more trolls sitting on it, walking alongside it, even pulling it. At the back of the wagon, a woman sat upon a throne, gloom sweeping from her like breeze-blown smoke. The throne, I could see, was made from bone.

“That is one stunning woman,” Lysander said, under his breath.

“You must have better eyes than me because I can barely see her through the gloom. But it is clear she is our foe, and that the twisted darkness comes from her.”

“Can you not see the light that radiates all around her? Can you not see her skin, so flawless.”

“It appears grey and gaunt to me.”

“Then your eyes deceive you. She is young, her cheeks are defined like none I’ve ever seen, and she holds herself with majesty. I tell you this, Daniel, she is a princess and hostage to this wicked troll and his dread magic.”

Alex squinted. “I think she might be the cause of this.”

Lysander turned on her. “No, she is trapped, and I will vanquish that troll and free her.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” I said. “We assess today, then, the gods willing, we raid the goblins and find something that might aid us, because I’m telling you, Lysander, we have nothing that can counter this magic.”

He shrank into his cloak. He knew I was right.

“Who is that?” May asked, and she pointed.

“It is Nathanofel,” I said. “What is he up to?”

“Who?” asked May, and I remembered she hadn’t been there.

“He is one of Leyathel’s knights, sworn to protect her.”

Nathanofel rode a piebald horse, and he was charging straight for Okanau.

“The fool means to take on the troll,” Lysander said, and just as he did, Nathanofel drew his sword, raising it and hollering some high-pitched war cry.

“He’ll die,” I spat, rising.

Alex pulled me down. “You’ll not reach him in time. Better to watch. If he wins, we go home.”

“And if he loses,” I said.

“Then he does, and we learn something.”

The elf jumped from his horse before he reached The Great Shade, and the horse wheeled and bolted—brave horses are the stuff of fantasy, not reality.

“Okanau! I dare you to face me,” Nathanofel screamed.

“I will face you, elf,” said the troll. “But I tell you this. You will be defeated. Whatever you have, I have it and a thousand times more. Go home and suckle on the breast of Leyathel while she has one, for soon I shall reach her forest, and I will consume all.”

“He means business,” said Lysander.

“Sounds confident,” I admitted.

Nathanofel braced, then charged, then jumped as he entered the shadow. It was clearly his plan to get the first strike in and fell Okanau before he could counter. It didn’t work. A sword appeared in the troll’s hand, and it was of an impossible size. I doubted it was a thousand times larger than the elf’s, but it was big enough to be unfeasible. I’d say it was ten, perhaps fifteen, feet long, and it swept toward Nathanofel much quicker than his did to the troll. When it met him, it sliced him clean through and Nathanofel was halved.

“Yea gods,” I said. “We are doomed.”

“Not as bad as you think,” Lysander said.

“How the hell do you conclude that?”

“Well, we know a thousand was an exaggeration. I’d say that sword was barely ten times the size of the elf’s and around the same faster.”

“Well, that’s better then,” said I, and for some reason we laughed.

“The elf is dead, and you laugh?” said Alex.

“What else is there to do?” I replied. “We have to beat that—wood or no wood—for it will be at our door soon enough.”

“I could reason with her—the woman, the sorceress,” Lysander said. “If what you think is true, I could talk to her one magician to another.”

“And become an abomination? Spat out by her magic to wither and die because your body is so twisted it will not function?” I asked. “I think not.”

“Then how will we defeat it?”

I clapped Lysander on his shoulder. “We pray the goblins are hiding something. We beg the gods it is a bane so powerful it can defeat that troll. We pray and beg, my friend, for there is nothing else. Now, let’s make haste home.” I paused. “We go via the elves. We see Leyathel and give her the news.”

“I’d leave out the bit where you laughed,” Alex said.

CHAPTER 16

I faced Kanazar, the orb sparking and crackling. It hovered above its crystal, the dome of stars over it receiving its erratic outbursts. I could feel its power and knew it to have grown. Gone was its infancy, before me hovered true might.

“Well?” I asked of it.

“I have heard of such things. But it is close to our bargain. What you are seeing is a thing already agreed to.”

“Our bargain?”

“Just that. If you are vanquished, then you will become my servant. That is not too distant from this Okanau to his lady.”

“You would turn me into a monster?” I tensed; my hands bunched into fists. Lightning flashed from it, lighting my face, making me wince.

“I would allow you a bit more hatred and a little more ruthlessness, but otherwise yes. You would be considered strange.”

“But not a monster?”

“It depends on your position. From the outside in, it might look like that. Do you think this Okanau despises the lady on the throne? Is Okanau a monster to other trolls? Humans are quick to make outcasts. Yes, you would be considered a monster, but no, I do not think of her as one.”

“Do you know her?”

“I do not. But she commands a core, and that core can travel, thus you see this shade dragged behind. Look up, Daniel, and you can see mine. Have you the power to move me as she has hers?”

It made sense—more than our theories. “That is your shade?”

“Contained by the dome, yes.”

“How can we win? How can we beat this thing?”

“You can’t.”

“I said ‘we’ not me.”

“You command me. Tell me what to do.”

“Tell me how to destroy her.”

“As I have said, I do not know her, so can’t know how she moves the core.”

“So, I’ll need magic.”

“Of some description.”

“Can you not accelerate Lysander’s tower?”

“Even if I could, it would not help. Hers must be powerful magic beyond Lysander at this time.”

I felt my stomach bind. “Then what am I to do?”

“I have already prepared. Your Lording House is built. Take the elf woman as a wife and her power will be yours. You can rebuild her forest once the troll has passed through and harvest its wood. The rest is irrelevant.”

“But it will come here!” I protested. “The sorceress will turn this way.”

“She may, and the outcome will unfold then.”

“So, you can’t help me?”

“I already have. I built your Lording House.”

“I will find a way.”

“If you choose to face her, Daniel, do not let her troll sever your head. Crawl back to me and become my servant.”

“I’ll find a way,” I repeated.

I left that place and sat between the stones. There was little doubt in me that Kanazar was biding its time until I failed—that its ultimate goal was to control me and the castle. Which was fine—not ideal, but fine. I survived, I suppose, in some twisted form or the other, and it was better to live and contrive a return than to be consigned to the emptiness. But, while I was young in the skin I currently wore, I wasn’t foolish enough to dismiss its advice. The core had told me not to face her—we were both convinced it was the sorceress and not the troll that was key.

“My Lording House,” I muttered, and I wondered what it was like.

After all the doom and gloom of the past days—Leyathel hadn’t taken the news of Nathanofel’s demise well—I needed some positivity. So, I ventured there, curious what my new home looked like. It was level one, so I guessed it would be crude—a shack or a shed and no more.

I was wrong. It was much grander than that, towering two floors high and stout. It had cornerstones and shuttered frames, a grand front door with a path leading up to it, and gardens on either side. Its façade was planked wood, but its roof was thatch not tile. From its stone chimney rose smoke which curled to a blue sky. With my hands behind my back, fingers intertwined and chin jutting, I walked the path as a lord would and knocked on my door.

It was Fiona that opened it, her mottled face a picture of happiness. “Welcome Lord,” she said, her tone mocking, and she opened the door fully, ducking a half-bow. “Welcome to your Lording Home.”

A planked floor led away, polished and shining like a placid lake. On either side, tall, plastered walls, painted a creamy white, rose to heavily corniced ceilings, corbelled archways and fancy dados ran their length. The hall ended some way away, opening to a place I couldn’t see which ended in a large quartered and glazed door and through it lush gardens sprayed their color.

“This is beyond our capability,” I said.

“Jensome didn’t build it,” she said. “One moment it wasn’t, and then it was.”

“Kanazar,” I said.

There were two possibilities. It could be a figment—a magic augmentation of some simple building veneered with a grander one, or the core could do as it wished regarding this Lording House. The latter wasn’t inconceivable as it could fashion its own place. The former, well, if it had that type of illusionary magic, then it had no need for me.

“This Lordings place isn’t ours to build then,” I said and walked in.

The hall echoed, that empty sound of a place in need of furnishings, nicks and knacks and the like. There were doors nestled within grand architraves, but I elected to nose there later, choosing instead to walk to the hall’s end where I came to a grand reception room, a sweeping staircase, and a wall of windows on either side of the glazed door.

“Breathtaking,” I said, and Fiona agreed, drawing beside me.

“And it sent me a cook. It knows, you know,” she said tapping the wart on her nose.

“Knows what?”

“That Jess needed a cook if I was to run this place. The gardeners are already at work, and I’m hoping for a maid now the cauldron is busy again.”

“We need soldiers and woodsmen, quarrymen and farmers first,” I said.

“Nonsense. We need you to wed that lovely elven queen, have Kanazar build her a place and then you get her army. Quickest way to get soldiers and accomplished woodsmen.”

She was right, of course. If the terms were right, her forest, and everything in it, would become mine—at worst, some shared arrangement, but preferably an allied expansion. I wasn’t in the business of appeasement. I had an empire to build, and fast.

“There are things to be done before that bridge is crossed,” I said and moved to a seating area, a low table the right height for my feet, and the cushions a luxury that would take some getting used to. “Besides, she was quite miffed that we watched her hero diced and did nothing to help.”

“Well, she’ll get over it. So, food or bath? Both are ready. Kanazar gave me notice you were coming.”

“There is a bath?”

“There is, and the water is warm, though how I’ve no clue, and there is a selection of clothing hanging in a dressing room next to your chambers.” She fair beamed, wringing her hands. “Oh, Daniel, this place befits a mighty Lord.”

“I think that is what it wants me to become. If I grow, its power follows.”

Her face clouded then, and for a moment I thought it was rage that filled her, but it was not. “Then that’s what you’ll become, for we’ll not lose this place, no matter the cost.”

“A bath, I think,” I said, wanting away from her then. I had some thinking to do, and the subject needed my contemplation and not the influence of others. “Up the stairs?”

“And straight on,” she said. “There’s a bell. If you ring it, I’ll serve your food.”

“Where?”

“The dining room, of course.”

“Naturally,” I said.

I’ll be honest, as I ascended the stairs, the same compulsion took me. There was no way I was going to lose this house—they’d have to sever my head and then stamp it to a pulp before I’d give it up. If it took me swearing to Kanazar when all was lost, then I’d do that too.

This was my home.

* * *

I fell into step with Barnaby as he headed to the stronghold. “Ah, Barnaby, I’m glad I caught you. Could you call everyone for a meeting?”

“They are waiting,” Barnaby replied. “Fiona said you were on your way—that you were refreshed and raring to go.”

Refreshed was an understatement. My bath had revitalized me. Every fiber in my body was alive. I could have fought anyone, debated even the brightest scholar, and made rampant love to all eight of my wives, as and when they came to be. Perhaps that was the point of the revitalizing water—maybe there was magic mixed with it that would make me virile enough to satisfy all. I wouldn’t have put it past the meddling core.

“I feel fantastic.”

“Even though…” Barnaby left his words unfinished.

“Even though we face an undefeatable foe? Yes, damn it, Barnaby, even though that. We will find a way.”

I burst through the doors and marched into my banner room where sat Sarah, Lysander, Alex, Jensome and Broadchurch. “So, Broadchurch, what news of the goblins?”

He regarded me, his puffed-up assurance a little muted under my enthusiastic gaze. “They have skirmished, nothing more. Tested our camp one night and got a damn fine spanking for their trouble. Such was the ease, I dispatched a few men to help the woodsmen and Gregson with their knocker problem.”

“What problem is that?”

“They have taken exception to our new lumber mills,” Jensome said. “The farmsteaders handled it, alongside the woodcutters, but we’ll need soldiers stationed there if it carries on.”

“If there’s a camp, we eradicate it,” I said. “There’ll be no half measures—no appeasement.”

“Before or after the goblins and knockers?” Broadchurch asked.

“Do they attack daily?”

“Yes. Two, sometimes three times.”

“Then right after this meeting. Lysander, Alex, are you up for a little fun? We can’t afford our behinds to be exposed while we face the goblins.”

“Well,” said Lysander. “I’m not as refreshed as some. I haven’t bathed, nor sat in my gardens. I haven’t relaxed on a cushioned chair nor snoozed in a four-poster, but I am awake.”

I reddened a little. “Yes, well, perks and all that.”

“I’m ready,” said Alex stiffly.

It would be one of those days.

“Broadchurch?”

“It was the plan I hoped for. My steel is sharp, and my mettle matches it.”

“You have steel?”

He coughed then spluttered. “Well, no, it is a turn of phrase. I believe the smithy needs to be eight for a blast furnace to work.”

“Eight,” said Lysander, “everything revolves around eight.”

“Talking of which, Jensome, a progress report?” I was itching to get to the knockers.

“Thought you got it all in your head. Thought you had the numbers there, like.”

“I do, but I want you to give the table an overview.”

Jensome, not one for words, cleared his throat and began, umming and aahing occasionally. “The, err, stronghold is four, as you can see. In the absence of direction, begging your pardon, Lord, we know the trip, umm, took longer than planned, we, ahh, upgraded all to four and built a watchtower too. All the while, we levelled the lumber mills, so everything is balanced. Then we hit a snag.”

“A snag?”

“Let me,” Barnaby said, and the relief on Jensome’s face was clear. “The cauldron stopped sending us workers. We had the mills but ran out of folks to chop wood. So, we upgraded several cottages to two and sent Gregson and his men back to build a couple of new farms.”

“And now?”

“We have a trickle,” he said. “First, and rather disappointingly, a cook came. Fiona was pleased and left the tavern, but you know all that.”

“Others?”

“Seven infantry, two archers, three cavalry.”

“No woodcutters?”

“Four, and two woodsmen—man and wife, a great team. Also, two farmsteaders. A nice balance. We need a population that works from the ground up.”

“Good work,” I said. And it was. They had filled in well. “But, looking at the figures our population cap is one hundred and seventy-two. If all seventy-odd came and filled the castle, I doubt we’d have the food. Be mindful of that. What is the wood situation?”

“We can build,” Barnaby said. “But not any big upgrades. We haven’t the wood or stone to add to the wall, so we can’t progress the stronghold. We need that elven wood.”

“Even with the mills?”

“Even so. We have plans to increase the watchtower, and the men to build it. It would give us more advanced warning of knocker raids.”

“Do that then and keep on building the resources. Broadchurch, state of the army please.”

“My eight original, plus Robert, are all trained as high as the barracks allow.”

“Robert? Your man, Jensome?”

“He always wanted to be a soldier,” said Jensome.

“Fair enough.”

Broadchurch cleared his throat. “All are ready for the goblin raid. Butterworth and Gemmerson—the cavalrymen—have volunteered to come. They can use a spear as well as any.”

“And I’m coming,” said Alex.

“Then that makes fourteen with Lysander and I. Perfect number for a tunnel sortie.”

“And the recruits?”

“Can patrol the walls while we set about our business. Any knockers looking will see a presence and fear it.”

“Good. We move on the knockers right after this, then, depending on how that goes, we meet up at the farmsteads and make plans for the goblins.”

I clapped the table. “Any other business?”

Alex drew my gaze. “Will you be taking Leyathel for your wife now that your Lording House is complete?”

The question took my breath away, and at first, I couldn’t reply. Thoughts came at me from all angles, visions of Leyathel, of Alex and Anna. My path was murky, but my duty was as clear as crystal.

“If it benefits this place, then yes.”

Her chair tumbled back, and she thumped the table, storming out of the banner room, my answer clearly not to her liking.

Lysander smirked, avoiding my eye and shaking his head. “Just bed her, man,” he said.

Barnaby left, mumbling excuses about some task or the other, taking Broadchurch and Jensome with him.

“Should I do that?” I asked, staring at the ceiling.

“She knows,” said Sarah. “She knows that this place comes first and that she might come second. She has always known that ever since she’s been in love with you.”

“Then what’s her problem?”

“She doesn’t want to come third.”

It struck me then, precisely what she’d said, and it stunned me, although it probably shouldn’t have. “In love? With me?”

“Yes, you dumb ass,” said Lysander. “None of us stood a chance with her. Her attention to me was prompted by her devotion to you and the lord’s need for a strong hero. I’ll grant you her attention was nice, but it was always you in her eyes.”

“But how?” I said. “Love is not for me, I know that. My weddings will be political, will be for resources.” I sighed. “I cannot have her because she’ll want me all to herself.”

“Ask her,” said Sarah. “Forget about the childish games and ask her what she wants. She knows this place, your duties. She knows, Daniel—knows everything but one thing.”

“One thing?”

“What you truly want of her.”

“What do I do?”

“Go to her!” Lysander barked, grabbing a bottle like he meant to wring its neck.

“I suppose I could, but we’ve knockers to rout.”

“Ask her,” said Lysander. “It’ll do us all a favor. At least you’ll fight with a clear mind.”

“Ask her,” I repeated, glancing at each of them. “Good talk. Great talk. I’ll ask her.”

And I left, brushing Broadchurch off by telling him to muster the men at the old farms. I raced to the lake as I knew she’d be there.

She was.

There was a small, grey bluff that spilt the lake’s bank. On each side grew water lilies and reeds as tall as a man. Unless you knew it might as well not have been there, for only the smallest path led to that secret place. I’d found it once when bathing, and I’d told Alex of it and no other. It was a good place, where you could think things through.

She was there, knees drawn up and her chin resting on them. Her shoulders quivered, and her quiet sobs transcended the buzzing of a dragonfly, the tweet of a kingfisher. The smell of lilies was all about, heady, and I sat with her.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “It was insensitive of me.”

“No, it was me. I asked and the answer was my price. It wasn’t my place.”

“But that’s just it. It was your place. It’s always been your place ever since I woke. It’s always been you, Alex, that’s taken up my dreams.”

“No other?”

I sighed then, but not out of petulance, more from the knowledge that my next words would ruin our moment. “There are others,” I said. “Leyathel does color my dreams, and Anna sits in my mind on occasion. I’m sorry. There are others. I don’t want to lie to you.”

I expected her to leave then, but she didn’t. “There will be nine,” she said. “I know. I went to see Kanazar.”

“Eight,” I corrected her. “There will be eight.”

I wanted to ask her to be one—wanted to tell her that I’d favor her over all the others, but it sounded so crass, so damn spoilt—so lordy when that wasn’t me at all.

“No, there is one that sits above all others, and she is the lady of the Lording House.”

“Fiona?” I said, coming down with a bad case of dumb.

“What?” she asked, then spat a laugh and didn’t stop for a while, and my curtain of stupidity was drawn apart and the truth of it shone through.

“Oh,” I said, and our eyes met, and her lips quivered, and the dragonfly quieted, as did the kingfisher, as did I.

I became lost in her then, her irises a myriad of colors, pupils a wide and dark place, her breaths short and the only sound apart from mine. I reached for her cheek, so soft, so pure in the sunlight, but my heart pounded, and I stopped in case she might stop me. But she didn’t, she reached and pulled my hand to her, and I rested my palm on her cheek. “I—”

“Don’t.” Her voice was a breath, nothing more. “Don’t say another word.”

I slid my hand to the back of her head, her hair soft. She leant close, our lips barely touching at first, breath mixing. Then she clasped the back of my head and pulled me onto her as she lay back on the cool grey stone, in that place, surrounded by reeds and perfumed lilies, alone, together, one.

Our urgency came then, and our kisses turned to smiles, breaths shallow, fumbles erratic, missing, touching, undoing, and tugging. Then we were naked, she and I, and though I’d seen her before, it was the first time that I’d possessed that beauty, that her scent mixed with mine, that her smoothness touched me. There I found my utopia, in her breasts, so soft, her thighs, so warm. We were together as one, both desperate to feel every part of each other’s body—to explore and discover.

Our tongues met, sensual at first then passion mixed, and I pressed my hardness onto her, and she matched me and more. We were frantic, both wanting that discovery to be eternal, but needing satisfaction to start, needing something more, desperate to be one, for me to have her and her, me.

Her heart pounded, as did mine, and she opened her legs and allowed me in, a silked stroke that saw me gasp as indescribable pleasure ripped through me. I stopped there for a moment, at the height of my thrust, our groins one, me deep inside, and I lifted my head and stared into her eyes, and there I saw what I needed, and that was love, and I gave mine back to her as I planted my lips on hers and succumbed to the passion of newness, the heat of the first, the glory of it all.

We were slow. We quickened. We slowed once more. Then we found rhythm, and we smiled as I became lost in my ecstasy and it was eternal, just as I’d imagined it would be, until my selfishness took over. She bucked under me, urging me to finish, to complete our union and seal our love, and I did, my back arching and my vitality streaming into her, and then I relaxed, my head falling beside hers, and she pulled me close and into a hug that should never have ended.

I slid from her, resting naked upon my back, our fingers intertwined, and we were silent for a while, the sky our blanket.

“We’ll wed,” I said.

“We have knockers to kill,” she pointed out, then laid on her side, her elbow crooked and head on her palm. She stroked me with her other hand, then reached down and cupped me and held me. “And then goblins, and then it’ll be night and we can do this all again.”

“I’d like that,” I said.

“So, we can walk the tree on the morrow. If you want.”

“I do,” I said, and then she dressed.

“I must go ahead and scout the knocker camp. Broadchurch will be waiting for directions.”

“He will,” I sighed, and I pulled my pants on and boots and plucked my shirt from where it hung on a reed. “About the others,” I said.

“Don’t,” she said. “We will work that out.” She slipped away, through the reeds, along the little path that only she and I knew, and I watched her go.

“You will be my wife and you will live in my house,” I called after her, but she didn’t hear.

I found my jacket on the edge of the bluff, a slither away from a soaking, put it on then headed back to the Lording House to get my spear.

It was a pain being level one and having no storage, but I had a spring in my step and a smile on my face and thought nothing could ruin my day.

But fate isn’t that kind, and something did, and it became the worst day of my life.

* * *

Numbers:

Name: Andros Gray

Known Alias: Phillipe of Byouz, Nunez Excalivar, Daniel Cutterson (in play)

Title: Lord of Kanazar

Banner of: None

Banner to: None

Deity: None

Hero: Lysander

Level: One

Attributes:

Strength – 8

Intelligence – 9

Wisdom – 6

Constitution – 10

Dexterity – 9

Charisma – 7

Stronghold – Kanazar

Lord – Daniel Cutterson

Stronghold – Level 4

Wall – Level 3

Population – 101 Cap – 172

Buildings

Artisan

Workshop – Level 4

Masons – Level 4

Smithy – Level 4

Military

Barracks – Level 4

Range – Level 4

Stables – Level 4

Watchtower – Level 4

Other

Tavern – Level 4

Resource

Cottages – 12 – Level 2 (8) Level 3 (4)

Farmsteads – 10 – Level 2 (2) Level 4 (8) – Production 144

Lumber Mills – 8 – Level 4 (8) – Production 128

Quarries – 2 – Level 3 (2) – Production 24

CHAPTER 17

My stomach rumbled. I should have eaten, but the day was one of threads intertwined to form yarn connecting every event, and it had left me no time. I was making love to Alex. I was walking to the old farms, Lysander by my side. I was meeting Broadchurch and others, and we were racing through the forest.

Lumbermills churn out lumber. Ours were no exception. The woodsmen felled trees using lore to speed their axes and judge their cuts so the tree landed where they needed it to. The woodcutters used their lore and took the trunks and split them into planks. Our planks were mostly unfinished, but at level four, the construction of large bench saws was underway. As such, it was a busy place, and our presence hindered rather than helped. So when Alex returned, breathless like before, there was a ripple of relief from all parties.

Broadchurch barked at her for being tardy, and I would have said something, but she stayed my tongue with a gesture that should have stayed between us, but Lysander didn’t miss.

“Did you sort things out between you?” he asked, as we rallied together and formed columns.

“I did.”

“Was it all you hoped for?”

“It was,” I said and cut off his next enquiry. Some things were too precious to share, and I didn’t want Lysander’s lewd comments to sully something so pure. For once I’d had the Alex I’d wanted from start to finish, and judging from the sparkle in her eyes, the old one was gone, although she’d never be forgotten. I had to keep my wits about me, after all.

We marched then, Alex on point, two infantry after—Fred and Bridges, if I remembered rightly. Robert fell into step with me, making our row a three.

“Joined up with Broadchurch I see,” I said.

“I did, My Lord. Laboring wasn’t for me, and I was all fingers and thumbs when it came to carpentry. Drove poor Jensome up the wall, I did. This is for the best.”

He’d always been a strapping lad, but he’d filled out, was broad, with a chest like a barrel and swagger, he had swagger. “I think you’re right, Robert. I think you’re right.”

“Plus,” he said, “I’m good with the spear.” He held it up. “This one’s got great balance.” It vanished, and a longer one appeared, its blade curved like a scythe. “But this one’s my favorite.” A halberd replaced the last.

“You’ve got storage?” I said my day souring. “You’ve got storage?”

Robert threw his head back, his laugh louder than the sound of chopping behind us. Lysander cackled, as was his way. I was sure he was turning into an evil warlock by the day.

“You put him up to it?” I demanded.

“Would I?” he said filled with the innocence of a mischievous child.

“Quiet in the ranks,” cried Broadchurch, quickly looking around, the blood draining from him. “Begging your pardon, Lord. Not you, of course.”

“Don’t mind me, Broadchurch. Command as you see fit.”

I edged over as Robert fell back into rank. Broadchurch had them marshalled well, and I was hoping they’d be well drilled in their fighting too. I edged over to try and sneak a peek at Alex. She was a little ahead, slipping through the forest with barely a sound. Magnificent, that word only barely described her. She was so much more than that. She glanced over my shoulder, caught my eye and winked at me, her smile infectious. I winked back, unable to stop mine from spreading. We were lovers, and that was all I’d hoped for. It was better than that, better than I could have dreamed.

We came to a shallow river, Alex wading to its center. She beckoned us all in, and we followed, marching with the flow, ducking under boughs and brushing overhanging branches. The air thickened, as it tended to do when trouble hung on it, and the murmur from the ranks quieted. The river’s chatter increased, its flow squeezed, foaming white, and Alex signaled us down, to the side, so we single-filed on one bank, edging forward, keeping low. Then as we bunched close to a meander, the word spread back, and on Broadchurch’s signal, we raced forward.

She’d picked our spot well. The knocker camp lay a hundred yards away, perched on the opposite back a little downriver. We were on them in moments, our cries ripping through the forest, my spear ready, Lysander’s staff primed, halberds high, scythes low. I jumped the low bank, hurdling a fallen trunk—the camp’s perimeter, and we were in amongst them, my spear jabbing, while others did their work. There was blood, and there were cries. We’d taken the knockers by surprise again, and they died as they scrambled for their weapons.

Let no one tell you battling vermin is satisfying, that beating an inferior foe is in any way an achievement. It isn’t. It is slaughter, and that is all. There is no honor in it. There is only death, and if we’d a scribe to note our heroics, they would tell of a battle quickly won, and they would fail to mention the female knockers and their children that died that day. They’d fail to write about our rout and how barely one of us came away with a scratch, because they only write about glory, and when a tale is told around a firepit, it is all any want to hear about.

So we came upon the knockers, and we left not one of them alive, and we threw their little bodies into the river, and we destroyed their camp. More would come, as they had before, but then we had our victory, and when more did come, they would die the same way.

We didn’t linger there, some looted a bit, others washed in the river cleaning themselves of the murder. It wasn’t guilt that soured my thoughts, it was the futility of it all. If knockers had an ounce of intelligence, they wouldn’t raid and harry us. But they did, so they died.

Alex walked beside me on the way back, but we only spoke a few words. Somehow talk of the battle would sully what we’d shared earlier, and neither of us wanted it.

“Halfway there,” she said, and I took that to mean we’d battled once, had one to go, and then we could go to bed.

Ah, bed and Alex—could there be anything better?

We arrived at the farmsteads as the sun slipped below the mountain skirt. It spread gold across Greg’s fields, and what a stunning sight they were. They were a chequered affair, everything neat and orderly, fences marshalled like Broadchurch’s infantry, pathways free of weeds, stone scattered to give a good grip. The farmsteads were orderly too, each in a line, the makings of a street already evolving.

“Greg!” I said, upon seeing him. His fantastic mane of brilliant white hair matched by his neckerchief and a broad smile.

He hailed me back. “Ho, my Lord, is this the night?” He jinked and stabbed at the air. “Do we fight filthy goblins? Run rivers of green blood?”

“We do, and we delve deep. You and the others must guard our backs while we go hunt artifacts.”

He took a step back. “A good lesson should suffice. It’ll keep them at bay for a while.”

My gut tightened. “We do not appease,” I told him, visions of dead knockers flashing through me. “Never.”

“I hear you. It’ll only come back to bite you anyhow. But you’ll not fight on an empty stomach. You all are invited to a feast.”

He marched away towards a farmstead, then around it where several of them gathered about a huge firepit, a spitted pig turning. I recognized Gregson, Meg, Little Meg and Greg, they called to Alex, Lysander and others, and it warmed my heart that a community was building, relationships fermenting, none more so than mine. I caught Alex’s attention, and she smiled back at me, then Greg caught hold of me and took me to a long table where he filled a mug with ale and slid it to me.

“Barns,” he said. “We need to raise barns to keep the surplus food in. They’ll be blight, pests and we’ll lose some to scavengers and rodents. Summer will come and go, and yields will drop. It seems a long way away.” He raised his hands. “I know that you’re hellbent on getting that stronghold high, but sometimes he who walks gets farther than he who runs.”

“I have folk in Limbo.”

“And you’ll likely have more before the night’s done. But you’ve got responsibilities to those who need to eat. We don’t know what the winter’s like here, but looking at those peaks over yonder, it’ll not be kind to us. We’ll be building stables and sties and the like—be digging cold stores to keep the meat right. We’ll be hoarding wood—all the things that survivors do. Take a leaf from our book as if the land is buried under a few feet of snow, then we won’t be cropping at all.”

“Sound advice,” I told him. “But we’ll build next to nothing without a load of wood.”

“Then make next-to-nothing a barn or two,” he said, and then Meg joined us, plates in hand, and I ate, and it was delicious, and I finally sated my hunger.

* * *

I had snatched words with Alex, they were awkward yet exhilarating. The infant communications of a new relationship—the sparring of a deeper partnership. There were other signs, of course. The way she brushed my arm sent ripples of delight up me, a glance, a shared laugh. They all added up to something nerve-wracking, something shared, and the promise of the night, perhaps morning, to come.

First, we had goblins to kill. I understood that we would not exterminate the whole goblin race during the night, but I intended to dispatch a message to their hobgoblin paymasters deeper underground. Come to my castle and there will be a price, and that cost will not cover what you might plunder on the occasional successful raid.

Hobgoblins and goblins alike were not random scavengers. They worked to a code and that code was survival first and prosperity later. Naturally, what they thought prosperity differed from us in the same way a fat mule carcass was riches to a lion.

Goblin prosperity was a full gut, a pile of hoarded treasure, a scalp, perhaps a skull, hanging from a necklace. It was pier prosperity, being meaner, stronger, more bloodthirsty than the next. They cared not for a good pair of boots or a nice hat. They didn’t like fancy meals or courting a woman. Theirs was more basic, but it had to add up. Twenty goblins dying for nothing was not a bargain worth having. The warriors gained nothing but a painful death. The hobgoblin chief lost part of his army. It diminished him to lose numbers. Better to sack a simple farming village than face the wrath of a lord. It was goblinomics, and it was a thing once understood that could be translated to most enemies.

I called the knockers vermin because that’s what they were. Vermin differed from those versed in commerce. They had no motivations and cared little for themselves or their tribe. If a knocker lost a fellow tribe member, it meant nothing to him. They were simple creatures—live, fight, eat. They knew no other way. Which was why they had to be exterminated wholly.

Which all meant our task was simple—make the goblins pay a price that wasn’t worth paying again, and then they would leave us alone. So, when the stars shone brightly, we set off for the mountains, flaming torches in hand, with Alex ahead, choosing our route.

My sight was good at night. Whether it was a lord thing—a factor affected by my attributes—I couldn’t recall, but I had noticed distinct improvement with each point gained in constitution. Alex needed no torch for darkness. She could see as well as any nocturnal animal, perhaps even a goblin, though it is a fallacy to say that any creature can see in pitch black. There needed to be some light for sight to work, be it the moon, stars, or candlelight. Even goblins had light in their deepest, darkest tunnels and lairs. They nurtured a luminous lichen-type plant that spread on rocks and emitted an eerie green glow.

Nature helped them too. It compensated them for their gloomy habitat. They had a grand sense of smell and particularly sharp hearing. A goblin did not always need light to see its prey. It could hear it coming, smell its odor blown along a tunnel. It knew from the moment Alex stepped near the cave’s entrance that we were coming.

The cave was a good size, a few men across and high enough for the long spears to miss its roof. By the flaming torchlight, it looked a dark shade of grey, but in truth could have been any color, such was the cloak of night. It was rugged, coming to a peak which rapidly fell to a modest height, but enough to get through without bending. Several bats flew overhead, spooking the men, some ducking, others cursing, while some braved it out pretending to have anticipated it. Broadchurch quietened them, which was good discipline but pointless given every goblin near about would have already been alerted to our coming.

“They will ambush us,” Lysander said.

“Yes, it is only a question of how deep we get. Keep your shield up and watch out for murder holes.”

He raised his to make a point. “Broadchurch thinks they will run.”

“Unlikely,” I said. “They will want your staff—that is the prize. You may not fully understand the power it holds, but I’ll bet their shaman will feel its draw.”

“So, I am bait?”

“You are.” It wasn’t worth dressing it up. “But you knew that, so don’t act surprised.”

He grinned then, and his staff appeared. “I have a new trick,” he said, and its tip flared red.

“Another spell?”

“The same, a little modified. It’s easier to maintain compared to the fireball.”

“It puts a target on you.”

He paused, then walked forward, into the tighter tunnel, barely room for two abreast. “Then I’d best hope Mad Daniel comes and protects me.”

“Mad Daniel,” I repeated. I knew he existed. I’d seen the dead wolves.

The path narrowed until we were a single file. The men fell silent, only the shuffling of feet and the occasional clank of spear tip and rock disturbing it. Dripping, interminable dripping, measured time as slowly as it could, and the echo associated with underground spaces came and went. We travelled down, down into the guts of the mountain where the air was chill and distant goblin chatter set my teeth on edge. I wanted it done, over with. I wanted battle for that only had two conclusions—death or glory.

Then the first lichen spread their glow. Randomly shaped patches that could be construed for signs, spectres, or things more sinister. They spread up ceilings, coated random rocks, and gradually, breaking out from local light, they began to illuminate all.

We travelled a narrow path that squeezed between rock pillars, which gave glimpses of something beyond, but not enough to be certain. It could have been other paths or goblin hideouts. It could have been anything. Then they vanished and left us hopelessly exposed walking a ridge that vanished to nothing on either side. Our flames barely reached the rock above, and the lichen glowed in clustered speckles, lending the impression they were quite some distance. A few of them made strangled noises, a few others whimpered.

“We’re exposed,” Lysander shouted.

“Shields up,” Broadchurch barked, and the men tightened, shuffling closer to each other and turning their rectangular shields so that they interlocked and formed a long barrier protecting our midriffs. He was a pain, Broadchurch, a pompous pain, but he knew his stuff.

I followed suit with mine and felt better for it, and we continued like a strange centipede, deeper into the goblin’s lair, along the narrow pathway, chasms on either side. No attack came, but the chatter increased. It echoed towards us, chopped words I couldn’t understand but knew to be excitable ones. There was a trap, and they couldn’t wait to spring it.

It was cool, even so, sweat dusted my forehead. Alex was a little in front, darting forward, crouching, then waving us on. I didn’t like it, but there was no way I could bring her under my wing and protect her. She’d stab me herself, despite everything. Well, perhaps not that, but our budding relationship would be done. She thrived in danger otherwise what kind of huntress would she be?

“It’s clear,” she called back, crouched by an arched hole as black as night apart from a speck of bright green.

“What is that place?” Lysander asked, his voice snappy which told me he was at the end of his tether.

“A tunnel,” she called back.

“Then check it for traps. They think we’ll rush in.”

“No don’t!” I cried, but she was gone, and Lysander shushed me.

“It’s her task. She’ll not thank you for interfering.”

“I know,” I said, “but it doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

We edged on; our pace painfully slow. It wasn’t the mission I’d thought it would be—not the fast in, slaughter, quick rummage in the deep, then home for supper. It wasn’t that at all.

A crack rang out, a gasp—female—Alex. I jerked forward. Lysander held me back. Another snap, but no gasp, no cry. My heart stopped. I shook Lysander off. “She needs me!”

Then she appeared, a smile, a wink. “All clear,” she called, and she waved us in.

Lichen spots illuminated our way. The passageway was tight, floor smooth and worn. It was a different kind of danger, but the same in a sense. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. We marched on, a cracked spear leant against the tunnel’s side, a little way along was another. Two traps, both sprung by Alex.

“Hold,” her voice rippled along the column.

“What?” Broadchurch grunted; his breath labored.

“We’re at the end.” She said no more, but Broadchurch broke rank and moved up to her, then called back and bid me on.

I squeezed through, and then I was aside her, reveling in the smell of her sweat, the touch of her hand on my shoulder. There was a downward ramp, and it curled around a cavern that was almost circular, and there, at its base, was a great firepit, glowing orange. The walls surrounding it were honeycombed, their pock glowing with the odd, green light.

“Their settlement,” Broadchurch said. “They wait in the wings ready to attack.”

“Perhaps,” I said. “But what of what we can’t see? What of the wall under us? We won’t get to see that until it’s too late.” We wouldn’t. We’d be a third of the way around before we got a glimpse. “If there’re archers there, we’re done for.”

“True,” said Broadchurch.

“Then we spring the trap,” Alex said.

“What have you got in mind?” Whatever it was, I wouldn’t like it.

“I’ll take two shields, dart down the steps to there.” She pointed to a spot halfway around. “I’ll swivel and plant the shields. It gives us a head. You take two more, Daniel, and join me.”

“What if you’re under fire? I’ll not be able to get through. Best we both go, swivel and crouch together, then, if needed, you can return shots while I hold our defenses.”

Broadchurch grunted. “Think you’re giving the blighters a bit too much respect.”

“The same ones that could have already killed us had they a mind?” I said.

“Exactly, but they haven’t got a mind, have they? My point entirely.”

Lysander joined us. “What’s going on?”

I explained. “I don’t suppose you can send fireballs around corners, can you?”

He squeezed through, his neck appearing to elongate but I doubt it did. “How about this? You need a distraction. You run, and the instant you set off I send a fireball into that pit. It explodes, and there you are, shields up and ready.”

It worked for me. “Alex?”

“Sounds the best of it.”

“It is,” said Lysander. “Especially if I join you. Two ranged attacks are better than one.”

“Still think you’re overthinking it,” Broadchurch grouched. “But in case you aren’t, clear out their ambush and then signal us all charge. Another fireball or two in that pit would be a welcome addition.”

“If I’m alive, the fireballs are yours,” Lysander said, and Broadchurch relayed the plans to his men.

My breath became sparse, blood racing. Fear was within me, which was a strange animal, and not one I recalled having before. Perhaps it was because I had much to lose, or maybe because it was one last battle, then to the Lording House and bed. It might have been both, or I could have caught it from the men, all I know is that when Alex looked me in the eye and asked if I was ready, I wasn’t. I wanted to grab her and take her from that place and lock her away where no harm could come to her. But I said yes, and she nodded, taking two shields from Broadchurch, then another two for me, grabbing my spear then hiding it in her storage, before craning her head out of the tunnel. “Ready, Lysander?”

He held up his hand, fingers crooked to form a cup, and an incandescent ball appeared. “Oh, yes,” he said.

“Go.”

And we went, Alex first, me scampering after. Lysander’s fireball streaked past us, exploding soon after, sending me bandy, but I quickly recovered, nearly crashing into Alex who’d already turned and had her shields planted. I slid by her side, stacking my shields, and she handed me my spear so I slipped it through the holds and we had a wall of sorts, and just in the nick of time too.

Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Three arrows hit our shield wall. I bore its weight while Alex conjured her bow and quiver. She peered through a crack. “Six,” she said, her voice hushed. Then she shot an arrow, knelt, redrew, and whispered, “Five,” peering again. “What the hell is he doing?”

I snatched a look. Lysander dangled from the tunnel, two soldiers holding his legs, and he was… No, he couldn’t be! But he was. Lysander was giggling, trying to hold it back, but visibly giggling. His shoulder shook. His mouth grimaced, and he dangled closer.

The goblin archers were holed up in a small cleft that reminded me of a balcony on some grand house. Lysander signaled to us, palms up, then snickered again. The man was mad.

“He wants to know how far,” she said.

“A few feet,” I said.

“I can see that!” she hissed. “Tell him, not me.”

“You want me to shout it?”

Another five arrows fizzed the small length between us and the enemy, drumming our shield wall. “Unless you can use that summoning thing,” she said.

I couldn’t, although it would have been handy. “A few feet!” I shouted and received some excited goblin chatter in return, plus another five thwacks.

The soldiers dropped him more, and he conjured a fireball, tossing it into the goblins. They pulled him back, and he sent another ball into the pit, running towards us howling with laughter, diving behind the wall and chuckling some more.

“What happened to the explosion?” I asked, sneaking a look through the split in the shields. The goblins were panicking, running around the cleft.

“Wait for it,” he said and snickered.

It exploded soon after that, and goblin parts rained down on us.

“All clear,” Alex shouted, and before I could join Lysander laughing, we’d dismantled our wall and I’d grabbed my spear. As the men raced from the tunnel, filling the cavern with their battle cries, I raced after Alex, Lysander trailing me, and we hit the floor below, soon backs to the firepit and waiting for the inevitable attack.

It came, and it came hard. They ran from the honeycomb, green faces twisted with rage, yellow eyes wide, hats askew, and weapons chipped and blunt. We worked hard. My spear never stopped. It thrust at their guts, their necks, their calves, anywhere and everywhere, and memories came back to me, of shield walls and tight places, of men dying next to me but still standing for a while, of hopelessness and reaching, stretching, to simply kill someone, no matter how, no matter who.

But it wasn’t quite like that. I had Alex next to me.

Then there really was a shield wall, and we ringed the fire, and the goblins pressed. I jabbed over my shield, killing many, suffering cuts and bruises. I braced and with a mighty shove pressed forward. They pushed back, threatening to upend us into the pit. “Push men!” I screamed. “For you! For me! For Kanazar!”

“For Kanazar!” they cried, and we all pushed out, and the goblin line faltered.

“Push!” cried Broadchurch, his voice more thundersome than mine.

A red light shot up behind me, and a loud bang erupted over us, sparks zipping everywhere. The goblins flinched, and it was all we needed.

“Push,” cried Broadchurch, and we pushed, a true jaw-gritting push that made my calves burn.

“Here,” Alex shouted, grabbing my spear and tucking my hand axes into my belt. “You fight better with these.”

They galvanized me, and I bellowed, emptying my lungs. It turned to a scream and the goblin before me stumbled back, and I was over him, shield forgotten, axes in hand, my rage taking over. I was among them, and they fell in twos. They fought like goblins, sly and sheepish, trying for my legs, and my spine, aiming for my hamstrings. I fought like a man possessed, not caring where I struck, as long as it was hard, fast, and bloody. I fought a trail through them, Lysander’s flashbangs lighting my way.

Others did well. There was Gemmerson, the cavalryman, his blonde fluffy hair was stained green with goblin blood. He wielded an iron sword, spinning and parrying, spinning and thrusting, always moving, always killing.

Robert had a single axe, but a hefty one that killed swathes of them in grizzly arcs. He had that look, madness in it. No carpenter was he.

There was Frederick, and there was Broadchurch, and there was courage everywhere. Then there was only whimpering, and screaming, and chopped goblin curses. We waded in their corpses and picked ours out. We’d lost three. I didn’t know their names, nor was I certain if that made it better or worse. Unlike the goblins, their bodies vanished, sucked to Limbo to join four others.

“I will look up their names,” I said.

“No need,” said a bloody Broadcurch. “They were Gerald, Henry and Grubb.”

“I knew Gerald, didn’t I?”

“By name—one of the first, but I doubt you ever spoke.”

“No, probably not. But I will, one day.”

“Well,” he said. “We’ve given them a bloody nose. Let’s go back and have some tucker.”

“No!” Lysander’s voice cracked. “No! You promised me, Daniel. You said we’d go deeper, find a bane, sniff out an artifact. There is something here. I can feel it in my bones.” He lit his staff, and it glowed red. “You promised me, Daniel, promised,” he growled.

Alex sat on the firepit’s edge. She was tired. I could tell. Hell, my bones ached, my rage gone. “Can’t we—”

She shook her head, glaring at me. “What good is a lord’s promise if it is broken? This is important and the iron is hot.”

“Exactly!” Lysander snapped his fingers. “What good, eh? We won’t need everyone. Their main force is gone. Six should suffice. We’ll be quicker, quieter, slip in, slip out, search the place and if we can’t find what I think is here, we go, and you’re a man of your word.”

He was irresistible, was Lysander when his eyes sparkled and his mouth curled to a smile.

“Four volunteers then,” I said. “What four want to come?”

“I will go,” said Alex. “I am the hunter.”

My heart sank a little.

* * *

There was Robert, his face smeared green with blood, eyes narrowed, mouth set in a grim, determined line, and there was Gemmerson, who’d acquitted himself well with his iron sword. Finally, there was Jameson who wanted revenge for the fallen Gerald, and that was the best reason any of us had.

Beyond the honeycomb lay the goblin village, if indeed it could pass for that. I supposed it could, though there were no constructed dwellings. They lived in burrows and shelves scraped from the subterranean rock, a light hue to it all, perhaps taupe though hard to tell in the lichen-dominated light.

There were dens around the length of a tall man and the height of a short one, and each was different from the next. Most had charcoal spread upon their walls. One had short stick men attacking a larger one, a moon overhead and dots for stars. It looked a hopeless affair. But in the next, the tall man had fallen, and the short had set upon him. It was their recollections of battles above, and only the victors got to draw history. A smoothed gravel pile served as a bed, and there was lichen upon one wall, a sheet drawn up, and, presumably, let down when the goblin wished to sleep, and there were nick knacks—bits of things stolen from above. A piece of cloth, its color long faded sat with a single boot, and by them was a pile of kindling, though no fire was evident. This was the domicile of a well-off goblin, for there were other places much smaller.

Some were long shelves carved in the rock, like coffins with no sides. These were stacked high, with hand and foot holes leading up, and there were open spaces where gravel pillows served to cushion a wretch’s neck. It was a desperate place. The poorest of all on the surface would be better off than these.

But we had no mercy. They wanted what we had, and we didn’t want them to have it. It was that equation that didn’t add up for the goblins. So while we set about looking for Lysander’s artifact. we slaughtered them as they cowered in their hidey-holes.

“It is close,” he said, eyes wide with excitement, cloak fanning as he whipped one way and then the other. “I can smell it.”

I knew little about my previous life, save Anderlay and also a shield wall—a battle of some kind, but I did sense that I had never possessed magic. I did not understand it in the slightest. How he could make fire without flint or wood was beyond me. How he tossed it around like a rock was even farther away. But I accepted it as I knew it to be there, and so I believed that he could smell artifacts too.

“Which way?” I asked. “Give Alex a clue, because all we are doing is slaughtering helpless wretches.”

“They weren’t so helpless when they done fer Gerald,” said Jameson, his revenge unsated.

“No,” I admitted, “they were brave when they had numbers.”

“It is this way,” the wizard insisted. “Don’t you see how their burrows grow larger, and the path wider?”

“I see squalor in abundance, and the stench is making me gag,” I said. “But I’ll take your word for it.”

So, we moved on, and we killed some more. Lysander was right, the burrows were larger, and soon enough we came across a chest, then another, and one for every burrow. Gemmerson pried them open with his iron sword, but we found no riches, no gold, or talismans. They hoarded bootlaces, belts, and other stuff, particularly socks, and extra holes didn’t seem to matter to them.

“Here’s your magic bane,” said Alex, holding up a pair of ragged pants, holes in the knees, barely a button on them.

“It is here. He is here. I can feel him.”

“He?” I questioned.

“A shaman, a magicker. There is one here.”

“They why didn’t he fight?” I asked, alarm bells ringing in my ear.

“That I don’t know,” Lysander said.

“Perhaps behind there?” said Gemmerson.

They were so out of place it was quite inconceivable that none of us saw them until we were on top of them. The doors were tall, shaped in a gothic arch. They weren’t grand—not polished or anything of the sort. Quite the opposite, each panel was chipped and scratched, and it appeared that woodworm had once had its terrible way.

“They are looted from a lord,” I said, and wondered at the site of Castle Kanazar, whether there had always been a castle there and Kanazar had squatted in its ruins. Were these my doors? I had a feeling they were.

“Shall we?” said Gemmerson, his voice more authoritative than mine. Some men were born to order others around.

“I fancy getting out of here as quickly as possible,” said Alex, and I was right there with her.

“Me first,” said Gemmerson. “Then you, Robert, and you. Don’t know your name.”

“Jameson.”

“Nor am I interested. Then you, Lysander and Lord Daniel then Alex.”

“Why me last?” Alex asked.

“Because, my dear,” he replied, voice dripping with condescension, “one only gets so much luck in battle, and yours must be all used up. You were devilishly fortunate on those steps.”

“Luck, or saved by some damn fine wizardry?” Lysander asked.

“Ah that,” said Gemmerson, in his element. “Perhaps you might like to send one through the doors if we open them a shade?”

“Perhaps I might,” he said and brought his palm up and crooked his fingers.

“On three,” said Gemmerson.

I readied my battle axes.

Robert and Jameson forced the doors. Lysander threw his fireball, and we were through, running, yelling, weapons ready. Robert swung his mighty axe, the blade cutting a fine silver arc, gleaming in the blazing torchlight of that place. He sliced clean through a goblin's neck, dirty green blood fountained as he kicked its twitching corpse, axe raised before it hit the flagstone floor, and falling, embedded in a copper helmet, a goblin, eyes wide and getting suddenly wider.

Gemmerson’s blade danced to a different tune, one of parry and cut, slice, and thrust. It was a delight to watch but overindulged for this type of battle. He fought no knight, no fencer, no cultured master; he played rushing goblins in armor stitched together with laces—ah laces! —that was what they were for. He didn’t parry some hundred-folded sword but a blunt spear with a cracked-in-half shaft, and so he carved through them like a butcher through suckling pigs.

I raced through the center, Alex by my side, Lysander a little in front. He sent his fireballs ahead, and I quickly realized how feeble they were in the vast open space of the vaulted hall beyond the arched doors. They’d been devastating in the archer’s hole surrounded by rock, but in the open, they rather fizzed a little and popped, and bounced off the enemy to explode on the floor, where they severed legs quite well but little more. It was a bizarre sight, seeing the goblins fall, boots gone, feet too.

We had entered a large hall. It was rectangular, with another set of doors in front of us which were identical to the ones we’d come through. Rock pillars, sculpted to look like mortared stone, rose from the corners and two points along each length to then reach up to a point and form a smoothed stone ceiling. There were, of course, no windows, but lit alcoves replaced them, each with a burning bowl from which wispy smoke rose, its scent mixing with the filthy goblins to produce a dirty, sweaty smell masked with by heady perfume.

There were no pews nor tables, although they wouldn’t have looked out of place, and there was no high altar. There was a fire pit, and in it, a fire burned, and over it, a cauldron boiled, and behind it, a goblin shaman sang. He sent forth his goblin minions, born of that cauldron, clambering out in an endless stream, to battle with us, to wear us down.

My battle axes swung, the cauldron’s issue no match for me. If the goblin priest wanted to spawn its children to face my wrath, then so be it. I wanted to polish my craft, and it was a fine way to do it. So we had a bargain, some commerce, that old friend goblinomics. Lysander gave up on his fireballs, turning his staff into a club and knocking seven bells out of them.

“Keep fighting!” he shouted. “Keep battling closer to the cauldron. We must upend it, or he will wear us down.”

“Good practice,” said Alex as she struck and then wheeled, skipping away from any counterthrust while stroking her blade in reply.

We formed a line, and slowly gained ground on the busy cauldron, the proliferating goblins. The shaman sang his tune, either unaware of us or unconcerned.

I began to tire; I don’t mind saying. Killing one is easy, a score of the foul creatures is a little more tiring, and many more than that erode the stamina. It was a strange thing, stamina, for it was affected by a trio of attributes. Good strength meant less stamina used to complete a task. A great constitution gave a good foundation—a nice load of stamina to start with. I mustn’t forget dexterity, which was like flux, oiling each movement so less stamina was used. My numbers were growing, but they weren’t magnificent, so I began to blow hard, and my legs slowed.

Still, the goblins came.

“He means to end us. Lysander’s right. He’ll wear us down. Do something!” I yelled.

We six advanced, but Gemmerson’s strokes were slowing, Jameson’s thrusts were weaker, and Robert winced each time he lifted his mighty axe. Alex hid her blade, her bow and arrow appearing, and she loosed a dozen arrows at the singing shaman.

He was a goblin, but he wasn’t too. Goblins came to shoulder height and no more. Hobgoblins were the height of a man, occasionally taller. The shaman was somewhere in between, and I guessed that he might be a hobgoblin bent by the weight of time, hunched over with the burden of dark magic. He was dressed in a ragged robe, black with dull stars speckled upon it and a hood pulled up, but baggy and leaning to one side so the top of its head was still visible, straggles of white hair hanging limp.

The arrows hit this abomination, and they hung there for a moment, seemingly attached to the cloak, before falling harmlessly off. She tried again, another bunch of arrows clustering on the cloak before falling harmlessly to the flags.

“It’s the cloak!” Lysander said. “It’s an enchanted cloak! Aim for his head.”

She adjusted her aim and hit straight away. I tracked the shot between hacks and what a one it was. It flew over the cauldron, between two emerging goblins, and thunked into the sorcerer’s head, black blood dripping limply from all around. The shaman looked up. He looked up, and he stared at me with black eyes. And for a moment, the cauldron stopped spewing its foulness, and its issue froze, and we stopped, surprised by it all. Not a sound disturbed the hall as the shaman spoke.

“Welcome Lord Daniel,” it rasped. “Welcome to thy doom. Defeat me and that which will be your end will be at a start. The shadow of thy rotten core shrouds you like a swaddling cloak. Lose to me and that which will be your end will be at a start. Your rotten core demands it.”

He reached, and he pulled the arrow from his head, and he dropped it in the cauldron, then continued, his whiny voice slicing right through me.

“For each action, there is a reaction. For each murder, there will be a death. For each love, there will be hatred.”

“Words!” I shouted back at him, and the cauldron bubbled, and the cauldron boiled, and from it rose two goblin archers.

I knew what would pass before it did, and that made it doubly worse. I watched in slow time, and that doubled my anguish again. They drew back their bows, and magic arrows appeared ready-nocked. They turned them towards me, their mouths twisted in a smile, and the pressure of the un-loosed arrows pounded on my chest as I waited for their hurt. Their smiles vanished, their aim switched, and their arrows flew.

“No!” I screamed but screams never turned a shot from their home. “No!” I screamed again, as Alex flew back, one arrow shattering her skull, the other piercing her heart. “No!” I screamed for a third time, as her corpse hit those dull flags and her skull fractured like a toppled egg.

There she lay, ruined.

For a moment, I did nothing, my grip slowly tightening on my axes. Lysander tried to speak, but his words became lost somewhere between their thinking and saying. Mine mingled with them, stifled by something else that grew inside me. That thing tightened my guts beyond a simple knot, into a tangle that would never be unraveled, compressed so hard it might well become precious. It contracted every muscle within me, tightening every sinew, stretching each ligament. It was a sentient thing that kindled another, and that manifested as fire hatched within my solidified center. That fire expanded, fighting against that which held it until it had no choice but to tear it all asunder.

And I exploded.

I was up, and as I was on my feet. The battle recommenced all around me, but it mattered not. It was inconsequential to me. I ran, my strides long, green vermin cleaved along the way. Yes! I called them vermin because all were to me then. Every enemy I had, would have, might have, was vermin. There was no longer a distinction, and there never would be again. I came to the cauldron, and I jumped upon its rim, then leapt over it and landed by the shaman, dropping one axe and grabbing that thing by its mangy throat. I powered back, slamming against the great doors behind it, forcing it through the wood, shattering them open.

There, in a dark and gloomy place, I powered on, slamming the shaman into a wall, cold, wet, slimy, and I inched close, my gritted mouth on his ear. I said no clever words, said no words at all, simply bellowed my cry, braided with anguish and tied with hatred, until my lungs held nothing but sorrow. I slammed him then, against that cold and slimy wall. I slammed him once, then again, and then a thousand times until my stamina was gone, and I slipped to my knees, surrounded by goblin mush, and I sobbed, for my love had gone. She would be in Limbo, and I had a long road to get her out.

After some time, a hand rested on my shoulder. It could have been friend or foe. I didn’t care. But it was Lysander and had he no words, then it would have been better, but he did say something.

“Come, let’s leave this place. We have work to do.”

I let those words sink into the oblivion of hatred and despair that was me, and there they boiled until I consumed them and digested them. My voice, when it came, was unlike what I was used to. It had little emotion but was as sharp as a razored edge. It was me, as I was then devoid of emotion, a blind man finding his way in an unfamiliar and hostile world.

“We wouldn’t have been here if you hadn’t insisted on finding your magical trinket,” I said, my voice full of gravelly breath.

“The cauldron is yours,” he said. “It is no—”

I rose then, in one slick motion, and I had Lysander up against the wall before his next word was out. “I don’t want any cauldron! I don’t want any magical artifact. Don’t you understand? Doesn’t anyone understand? I want her—I want Alex. I want her now!”

I drilled my stare into him. He didn’t crumble. He didn’t back down. He met me and his arms came around me. “I will work day and night to get her back. I will use what we’ve won this day to get her back. We will do it, Daniel. We will do it for her.” He thrust me away, arm's length, and I understood the measure of his strength. Wet glazed his eyes, and his lips quivered, and I knew without a doubt in that speck of time, at that moment so tiny that it might easily have been missed, that we were true brothers.

I placed my hand on his shoulder as I nodded. “She will return to take her place at my side,” I said. He held my eye and nodded before I turned from him and left him standing in that place, that dark and square sanctum.

I marched to the fire pit, the cauldron hanging, the fire cold, and I steadied myself on it, but it vanished—its magic gone. Stumbling forward, I lurched around the firepit, catching myself, coming to the place where she had fallen, where her blood once pooled and her brains spilt from her shattered skull, and there was her bow. My hand closed around its redundant wood.

It was too much for me, and I closed my eyes. I already ached from her absence, feeling the absence of her presence. I gathered my will and strength to face the monumental work and effort that would be needed to restore her to me.

CHAPTER 18

If I’d said I slept well, I would have lied. It was nearly dawn when we emerged from those damnable caves, and I summoned Willow and rode to my empty Lording House. The soulless house whose path I should have walked with Alex, whose bed I should have lain in with her. It was lifeless, as was I.

Early morning, mid-morning, or high sun, which I did not know, Anna woke me, and she sat by my bed, a brew of Fiona’s nettle tea in hand. “I know,” she said.

“Alex,” I said.

“I know.”

We stayed like that for a while, me in bed, still half-dressed, and she sat and holding my tea. Then it struck me that I had work to do, that I needed to raise the stronghold to eight and get that temple built, pay the tally and release Alex from Limbo.

I tripped over my boots, tired legs giving way, crashed to the floor then, rose. “We have work to do.”

“They said you’d say that.” She rounded the bed, helped me up and sat me back on it, kneeling before me. “But they urged calm. There is a path, even in the mists of your loss.”

“What’s to be calm about? There is a path, and that clear path is simple. Stronghold level eight, temple the same, and we can free Alex.”

“That is a destination. The path is undecided. We should run, and you can clear your head. You have a sharp mind, Daniel. You will find it through exertion, and there you will know the best way.”

“We need wood. We take wood. We need stone. We find and take that too. I don’t need to run to know that.”

She grabbed my hands, her eyes beseeching me. “Don’t you understand what is at risk here?”

There was something in the tautness of her face that concerned me. It was more than simple worry. I held my haste. “Explain it to me.”

Her lip quivered. She looked down to avoid my eye. When she spoke, her words were full of breath yet quiet, forced from her like she dreaded their utterance. “If you die, her Limbo is lost.” She looked at me then. “If you die now, she can never return. She is gone forever, her soul destroyed.”

There it was, the final shackle clasped about me and snapped into place. “Suddenly my life is precious,” I whispered.

There is a certain attitude that comes with the informal immortality enjoyed by a Lord. As previously said, we could only die if our heads were removed from our bodies, something eerily in common with the undead, but that is another matter for another time. It meant that risks taken were lesser risks than otherwise would be. So, I could dive head-on into battle safe in the knowledge that if it all went sideways, at least I’d live again.

“It has always been precious to us,” Anna said, sitting by my side. “Lysander—”

“Let’s not talk about Lysander,” I spat.

“Lysander is beside himself.”

I hung my head. “I know. He’s feeling the weight of his desire for the artifact that pressed us on and brought us to that hobgoblin abomination.”

“I heard from Gemmerson that it was Alex that put herself forward.”

“She did,” I said, and shook my head, fresh loss washing over me because she had, and there was no point in denying it. “It changes nothing because it was mine to deny him and gainsay her. I will remind him, but not now. I need more time.”

That was the real truth spoken, plainly, sharply, and like a sword through my own heart. It was mine to command, and I’d let Lysander have his way knowing we needed something more to face the troll. I could have said no, but we’d known the truth that we’d fail if something didn’t change. I fell silent, a myriad of alleys opening to my thoughts, but none with the end I wanted. “A run?” I said eventually, having no words.

So, we ran, and we raced the northern wall to its apex, a point where the elven woods met the wild pasture of Gregory’s lands, and we sat upon the wall’s walkway, the need for random chatter absent, but our fingers intertwined.

“It is like a great wave about the break upon a sea of green.”

“There were waves in Anderlay,” she said, and I knew it to be true, great waves, towering water masses that crashed upon the golden sand yet budged it not a bit.

“Do you like what you do?” I asked.

“What I do?”

When I didn’t answer, she asked another question.

“I know you’ve only seen me serving almost as a barmaid, but I have been able to do some of my focus and lore. Is that too low a position for you?”

I stuttered at first but then composed enough to mash a response together. “No, of course not. I’ve performed the lowest tasks to help us grow and meet our needs. I find it awkward when I think of you doing what you have.” I mulled it. “I think it is low, concerning you, because you are so much greater.”

It was the truth and was no surprise that it was her that they sent to test my waters. I loved Alex but had a soft spot for Anna.

“Does a woodcutter like sawing planks—and I’m talking about the actual act of sawing—or does he like looking at the finished work? Does a sculptor prefer chiseling or the moment he sits back and regards his sculpture?”

“The latter, but you know that.”

“It is the same with me. I like it when someone comes in, and they are tired, hungry, overwhelmed, or all those things, and then I provide them a nourishing meal including a dessert that captures their excitement and happiness in a bite. After, I sit back and look at them, and they are calm, content, and reflective of how much they enjoyed it. That is when I know I have served well.”

I looked at her, but she avoided my gaze, staring along the forest’s margins once more. I joined her gaze, wondering what Alex would tell me to do. Would she have me rush to her rescue, the consequences be damned, or would she, like all the others, urge caution. How could I know? How could I guess? I did not know what Limbo was like.

“I still wish it could be more for you,” I said.

“Why?” she asked, a single word that challenged me more than any other could.

“What does it matter why?”

“It matters.”

“Just know it is how I feel.” I stood, flexed, and stretched. “We should get back. I must meet them all—Barnaby and the others.”

“One thing,” she said, tugging my arm. “One more thing. You must carry on.”

“What?”

“I know you were going to ask Alex to be yours.”

“How could you know that? We’d only just decided.”

“You are clear to me—everything about you. There is Alex, and there is Leyathel, and there will be others.”

“There will be none until Alex is back,” I told her, tone curt, muscles tense. “That I—”

“Don’t,” she said. “Don’t vow. You are not like other men. You cannot be alone.”

I inhaled, the type of breath that tolerates but only barely. “What type am I? And who are you to suddenly see each of my facets?”

She wilted. “I’m sorry. I overstepped.”

Then I sagged, my mood fragile where she was concerned. “No. I’m not right.” When I breathed then, it was deep and prepared me for her judgement. “Tell me of myself. Perhaps you know me better than I do.”

“You can love more than one, and each one will feed your strength. It is vital you continue.”

“Continue?” She had my interest then.

“To—” she stuttered.

“To what?”

“To build your harem. That is what.”

Harem? A vague memory came to me. It was of legend, a rumor, the whisper spoken in the dusty side chambers. It was of a lord so powerful that he was undefeatable. A lord that was more than one—that was the sum of many. A harem lord. Not just a man with multiple women, but one able to gather strength and power from bonding with each woman. But that was all it was, a legend, a dream, what men wanted but could not have. It was a thing constructed in the dreams of those who yearned for the ultimate power.

But was it fact?

It was there before my very eyes, and I knew it. A Lording House created by the core itself? Eight accompanying plus one mistress to make nine? I’d thought it about diplomacy, about wedlock to secure lands, but it was more than that, for the legendary harem lord gained the power and wisdom of his wives, and it made him strong—stronger than all.

“It is the last thing I want to think about right now. Her bed isn’t even cold.”

“It is the way to get her back.”

It was. I knew its irony. The taste, though, was too bitter. The hurt too fresh.

To rescue my love, I’d have to betray my love, for I’d promised she’d be first.

“She’ll understand,” Anna said.

She stood and walked away from me.

“What would you bring me?” I asked, on impulse.

She smiled, her bangs curling on her cheeks. “You know everything I bring. But I don’t need a seat at your table to bring you your calmness and harmony, to ease the tensions of your day.”

Then she ran away, and I followed.

* * *

We sat around the table, one seat empty. Lysander studiously avoided my gaze, tapping his index finger on the table. His hair curtained his face, concealing his expression. My mood soured just by being reminded again of the loss.

“We need wood,” said Barnaby. “We cannot progress the wall until we have wood. The quantities rise each time we move up. Our stone will be tight, so we should invest in more quarries now and start stockpiling.”

“We have lumber mills. We’ll build more. We get wood,” I said, slapping the table.

“We don’t have the labor.”

Broadchurch cleared his throat. “Now, I might be a military man, and matters of production may lay with our erstwhile steward, but I know one decent mauler is worth a dozen lesser infantrymen of the same level.”

“What’s your point?” I snapped; my patience paper thin.

“His point is,” Barnaby said, “that an elven lumber mill would produce ten times the wood for the same manpower.”

“We could do it with elven mills?” I asked.

“Within a few days.”

“Your advice?”

Jensome perked then. “We use the existing lumber mills to build quarries, excess planks go to making great roads. Then we stockpile stone. If you make a deal with the elves, then we divert everyone to build mills there.”

“Barnaby?”

“It is the only way,” Barnaby said, “to get what you want quickly.”

“What do you think, Lysander?” I asked.

He turned to me; eyes raw with grief. “I think I have a way,” he said.

“A way?”

“To kill the troll. To fight the Grey Sorceress.”

And it was then that I knew driving us so hard to find his artifact was the right decision even with the loss.

It was part of his thirst for power. He was desperate to be the hero he’d been spawned to be. Just as I wanted to be the Lord I was meant to be. I couldn’t imagine the pressure of spawning so much sooner, without the corresponding power for an already weak starting class. I also knew that Alex and what she’d meant to me mattered to him. I questioned then whether he’d ever cared for the women he’d pursued or if they were a distraction from his weakness but left it in my head and unasked.

“How?”

“I understand its greatest weakness,” he said, stood, and marched out.

“What do you need to do?” I shouted after him, unable to contain the question.

* * *

Sarah walked with me, Izzy above, jumping from branch to branch. The majesty and the peace of the forest still stunned me even though it wasn’t new. Their broad oaks towered higher than mine, not ten times, but maybe three. Their trunks were fatter, boughs stronger, and where mine reduced to twigs, theirs still had branches. It was, I decided, all in the canopy.

Yes, one of their trees was ten of mine, and Barnaby was right.

“What of the shadows?”

“Okanau’s Shade?” Izzy questioned, and I wondered at it as surely that should have been all that consumed him or any elf.

But then, that was the conundrum of elves, a result, I thought, of their mixed heritage. Elves, any elf, would tell you that theirs was the original race and that from them all sentient races spawned. Theirs was the only pure line, and other mixes had spawned other races. Which always led me to think that if they were so pure, why were they coupling with other animals and making things such as knockers and trolls, and what bland animal would mix to make a human? Or were humans simple elves where the magic had fallen off?

No, I’d long decided that elves were the unholy union of human and fey, even if the logistics of that mix didn’t add up. Somewhere along the line, some human had coupled with a fairy and elves had come to pass. It mattered not if I was right or wrong, it only mattered that I held my tongue and didn’t mention it to the elves themselves. They were precious like that.

“I take it there is only one shadow crawling towards you led by a troll and driven by a sorceress.”

“There is,” he said, sitting on a branch and swinging his legs.

“Then that one.”

“It is still a number of days out.”

There it was again, the conundrum of the elves. I touched on it before but became distracted. Elves could be so serious as to be mundane and humorless, but a moment later be so flighty that their intellect seemed little more than a child’s. There was no in-between. It was one, or it was the other. Izzy lent towards flightiness where Leyathel sat firmly on the serious fence.

“How many?” I asked, tiring but knowing patience was the key.

“Several,” he said, rolled the branch and landed in front of me. “Probably three or four less than when you last saw it.”

And there was his game. He called my bluff.

“I saw it, yes, but didn’t study it enough to measure its passing. You watch it all the time. How long?”

“Ten.”

“Days?”

“And nights.”

“Is that all?”

“It must be enough.”

Then we walked and Izzy walked, jumped, swung and dove, and he did it in circles and swirls until we were hopelessly lost, until we came upon her tree. It was the grandest of the grand, its trunk so wide a hundred men couldn’t have linked hands around it, so tall it touched the stars, its canopy the breadth of Castle Kanazar.

“Twice I have seen this wonder,” Sarah said, and I glanced at her.

It was the first time for me, both others they had blindfolded me. It appeared I was trusted, to some degree. “Twice?”

She swallowed her words, rouged, then said, “Izzy and me,” and I understood.

Large doors sat at the base of its trunk, not polished or planked, but grown with intertwined hinges. Inside, a spiral step way led down, the wood formed not carved and leading to a landing, then more steps, then rock, then more steps. I began to wish I’d swam. Suffice it to say, I was hot, sweaty, and drained when I came into her palace and grateful to be shown a room with a bathing pool and cloak draped upon a modest bed. So I bathed. Who wouldn’t?

My grief at Alex had been pushed to the back of my mind, I thought it likely the forest’s serenity, but there, lying in the bath, it all came crashing around me. I saw her swimming in an endless ocean, its water black, its foam grey and the sky overhead was cloudless and midnight blue. I saw her again, this time marching up a dune, her feet slipping in the sand, her skin burned, and lips cracked. Her eyes were drawn, bulging with hunger, cheeks gaunt, all skin and bones. She reached the dune’s apex and tumbled down the other side. The desert was endless, the sky blue, and the sun was unrelenting. There she was again, wading through snow, her clothes mere rags, fingers black, ears and lips too. She trod a mountain pass, its length behind vanishing to a speck, the same in front.

Water drizzled over me, washing away my tears, and a song shifted through me, echoes inside a seashell. There was receding, the desert gone, the sky and sun, and a void replaced it. Then Alex came, as she once was, her face radiant, smile intense. It settled me, but I wept all the same.

The song strengthened, and I knew Leyathel had come. It pleased me, settled me, for her song was everything and more. Then she massaged my shoulders, and she told me everything would be fine, but it wasn’t, it wouldn’t be, so there was that.

Her song ended, and my trance broke. She stood before me, an elven queen, a woman.

“Why do you come? Have you let another of my kin die? Watched while a troll ended him.”

“No,” I said. “What is dead cannot be undead.”

I learnt much later the fallacy of those words, but at that time, it was a turn of phrase.

“Then what? You seek to replace your lost love?”

Her words sliced through me. “You cannot replace her!” I spat.

She smiled then. “Good, because I don’t care to. What do you want, Daniel Cutterson?”

I saw no point in beating about the bush. “Your wood,” I replied.

“Kill the troll,” she said. “You made your bargain. You know your end as I know mine. Kill the troll, and it’s yours.”

“You offered me some wood. You offered to send me adequate wood. I need more than that.”

“More than that isn’t mine to give. I am custodian, nothing more.”

I stood, the pool about covering my modesty. “Then I will take what I need.”

She straightened, her presence growing into something more powerful. “You can try, but my soldiers are no knockers to be slaughtered while they sleep.”

“Broadchurch is capable and getting more practiced by the day.” I pulled myself onto the ledge, not daunted by my nakedness—well, perhaps a bit.

“Broadchurch is a savage.”

“He is capable.” I stood. “Capable of taking a few trees while the woodcutters set about them. They’ll be gone before you can respond.”

“You would loot me?”

I stood, approaching her. “I would.”

She furrowed her brows, bringing them to a point. “You would do this?”

“I have to build to get her back.”

“She means that much to you?”

“She does.”

“And me?”

The question stopped me in my tracks. “You?”

She walked away, picking up the robe from the bed, then coming behind me and draping it over my shoulders. “Do you know so little about elves?”

“I know a few things,” I said.

“Have you eaten? Have you eaten since?”

“Since Alex?”

“Yes.”

“No. No, I haven’t.”

She clapped her hands, and the doors swung open. “Come,” she said, and led me to another room, sitting at the head of a laden table while I sat opposite. There was food, elven food, which doesn’t merit a grand description. Suffice it to say it was mostly green. But there was wine, and it does, and it was the sweet-tasting drink from before, perfection in a mug.

Leyathel was aloof for a while like the distance between us had constructed a wall. I was awkward too, wishing I’d planned my move beyond the simple travel to see Leyathel and demand some wood. She was intoxicating, of that there was no doubt, and though my grief was raw and bloody, her beauty was without question. Thoughts of her, visions, wandered through my mind. She was on her back. I was on my back. We were both standing, her milky white skin smooth against mine, breasts just so. I reluctantly pushed those thoughts away and hastily built a wall, formed from my grief and mortared by desolation, but it did not hold firm. Leyathel was too powerful. Her aura enhanced her if she needed that, and those perfect breasts nudged my daydreaming.

Perhaps Anna was right, maybe I was destined to sup from more than one cup. Or was that who I was? I’d asked myself that question before. Alex was dead, my grief still under my veneer of normality, yet it was not enough to hold my desire back—to hold me back. I could still see beauty, appreciate it, want it.

“What thoughts cloud you?” she asked.

“Bad ones.”

“Bad ones?”

“Well, not bad, not even unwelcome. How best describe them?” I didn’t want to. I didn’t want her to know my thoughts. How could I be motivated by the need to revenge my own mysterious betrayal when I was a traitor to a promise I’d made to Alex?

“Try,” she said and sipped her wine.

“Can we negotiate for the wood?”

“If you tell me your thoughts. Before you do, though, let me forewarn you that I am a good judge of what is a lie and what isn’t.”

It didn’t surprise me. She had astounding charisma, of that I had little doubt, and with it came the ability to understand others’ charms. If a man lied, it could be seen, a shift in character, a flaw in his charisma.

“I was imagining making love to you.” There, it was out in the open and she could judge as she saw fit.

“Wouldn’t that be a compliment?”

“I would hope you take it that way.”

“I do.”

“Then that is what I pictured.”

“Do you find me desirable?”

“I do.”

“Did I disappoint?”

“When?” I asked, fidgeting on my chair. It was unnerving, talking so, far too direct for me.

“The pictures in your mind. When you laid with me. When you took me, and I writhed in ecstasy under you.”

She was playing with me. It was apparent, so I played too. “You might be over-imagining there. Perhaps it was over in moments, and I left you wanting.”

Leyathel laughed then, and stopped, and became deadly serious. “No, not moments. A man doesn’t fantasize about his shortcomings. In your dreams you are powering into me, your manhood increased beyond its norm, your strokes are long, and my gasps are longer. I throw my head back and claw your back. As I reach my heights, as my back arches, and I impale myself on you again and again. All the while screaming for more, you hold, in total control. Then I wilt, spent, and then you thrust your seed into me, and everlasting stream of sweet goodness, the milk of life.”

Close, I thought.

“I have to admit,” I said, dusting small beads of sweat from my forehead, “that I was contemplating the positions more than the act itself, but if I perform to half your vision, I’ll die a contented man.”

“And I too will be fully sated,” she said, let slip a grin, and drank to cover it.

She recovered quickly, as did I, above and below the table, and she spoke again. “I know my lore. I can nurture a tree from nut to sapling to fully grown in the time it takes for a man to think about harvesting a field of corn. I know of the interaction of the insects, the frogs and toads, the weeds and undergrowth, and the animals and birds. They all adhere to lore in some way or the other—all apart from the human who thinks himself too good for its mortal chains. I know all this, and I know something more.”

“Oh really. Do tell.”

“I know of your love for Alex and the brutal mechanics of Kanazar. Her influence bleeds from her lair and poisons the soil around us all.”

“Her?” I said. “Does the core demand that title?”

“It is a choice, and I choose it because a woman has more depth to her scheming than a man can ever dream of.”

“Her it is then. What scheming?” I asked innocently as if I hadn’t picked up that my core might be a plotter.

“She seeks to recreate the Legendary Harem Lord that once ruled these lands.”

“That,” I said and chuckled. “That is mere legend told to adolescents so they can find personal relief in the threads of the bawdy tales.”

“It is not. He existed.” She spoke concisely, cleanly, making sure I understood her words.

I wondered then. “And if he were all-powerful, who defeated him?”

It was her turn to laugh, but it wasn’t pleasant mirth. “Who always defeats an all-powerful ruler but himself?”

That got me thinking that perhaps she was being serious. “Didn’t his harem advise him? Surely a few women kept him grounded.”

She peered over the rim of her raised mug. “Mayhap he chose unwisely. A swordswoman, a charger, a mauler and the greatest archer that ever lived offered him only a narrow view of victory.”

“Just four?”

“Just four.”

“So, if this legendary lord were to invite you to his bed, apart from a capitulating performance without equal, what would you offer him?”

She set her mug down and engaged my stare. “I would offer him the workings of the world. You have Broadchurch to run your army, why would you need eight of him?”

“I would not replace eight women with eight Broadchurches. That would be folly,” I said.

I’d wanted to correct her, to tell her that it was nine and that one lived in the residence and was considered first but chose silence on the matter. Then came the sight of eight naked Broadchurches taking turns with me, a vision so distressing that I gulped at my wine to try and scrub it, desperately imagining Leyathel reaching climax.

“I want no Broadchurches in my harem,” I said and screwed my face up, smacking my lips together.

She laughed, and the purity of it erased the bloated infantryman from me, and I took a long breath. “What else would I need?”

“Why don’t you tell me?”

“So,” I said, inclining my head and putting on an intellectual guise. “The rules are that I get to pick eight women, and each would have a unique talent?”

“That would help you build or perpetuate a castle, yes, those rules.” She raised her eyebrows until they were plumb. “Pick wisely and remember, an archer, mauler, sword and rider could not perpetuate what they won.”

“I understand,” I said. “I take the rules and look at them thus. All things come from resources. That is how they start, and that is how they continue. So, first on the list”—I allowed myself a smile— “is the Lady of the Wood. She is someone who can talk to the trees, who cares and nurtures them and whom they grow for, and she provides me with endless wood.” I pressed my hands together and touched my fingertips to my lips. “Would you know one such as she?”

“I might,” she said. “Continue.”

“Then there is stone. With stone, we build great walls. With stone, we sculpt magnificent buildings. We fling stones at our enemies, and we crush them to make our roads. Number two on my list would be the Lady of the Stone, and she would be able to reduce mountains to plains, carve swathes from escarpments, and dice it all to blocks. We have stone, and we have wood.”

“Wise. The third?”

“The third is perpetuity, and she is iron. This one can sniff a seam of the stuff from a hundred yards. She knows which kink in a rockface conceals a ferrous secret. She can extract it and turn it from ore to ingot, the purest ingot, with ease, and when our furnace deserves further attention, she knows the mix to make the finest steel. With Our Lady of the Iron, we will never want for weapons, armor, or horseshoes.”

“And food is the fourth?” Leyathel asked. “This becomes predictable.”

“Not the fourth, no. Nothing can produce that which a Cauldron of Plenty can. That thing can feed the biggest army and stretch its march through a desert and barren land. No, I think I will choose morale. This lady knows each of my citizens by name. She has time for each, the patience to make all smile. She keeps all happy and darns holes in their strife.”

“The Lady of Morale,” said Leyathel, and I told her yes. “The next?” she said.

“My Lady of Steel and my Lady of Diplomacy. These two come hand-in-hand. They work together. One is my blade and the other my healer. One comes to kill, and the other mends the wounds. With these two, I expand my lands. The blade wins some, and Diplomacy wins the rest.”

“You couldn’t resist, could you?”

“A warrior? No.” I smirked. “I’m human, after all.”

“That makes six. You have two more.”

“I do. Number seven is the Lady of the Law. She it is who keeps the order, who works with Morale to oil the wheels of my empire, to keep it running and all who contribute will thrive, and all who don’t will wither. There is right, and there is wrong, and there is the palm of justice ready to slap evil down.”

“I approve. Number eight? Make a wise choice, for it is your last.”

I sat back and thought. What else would I need? What was I missing? “I am torn,” I said.

“Between?”

“Commerce. A Lady who is adept in commerce could bring me great riches. Great riches could pay a fine army. Fear binds a country, but commerce could bind an empire. The Lady of Commerce would be useful indeed.”

“Granted. And the other?”

“A priestess and a religion. But and I don’t say this lightly. Religion can be a blade that cuts two ways. It can give hope where there is none—”

“You have Morale for that.”

“I do, but religion is a little more than that. It gives a reason to live, a reason to comply.”

“You have to pick one.”

“I think commerce,” I said. “The other will grow legs on its own—a statue here and a story there should do it.”

“There,” she said. “You have your harem.” She let her words linger, not saying what was obvious, what sat between us taut with tension.

“I do,” said I. “And I must fill it.”

She stood, walking the length of the table slowly, then pushed my plate away and sat, her legs on either side of me. “It all starts with wood.”

“It does.”

She leant forward, and my breath fled. She reached, cupping my cheeks and bringing my lips to hers, breath sweeter than wine. There she held and we savored each other. She was a dream, a vision blurred by the purity of her aura, and in that moment, I thought her mine. In that moment, I was desperate for her to be mine.

She kissed me then, softly, our lips barely touching, her tongue tracing mine so gently, like a feather, like silk. Then she pulled away. “There will be no occupying our lands, no incursions, no chopping or firing. We will provide the wood you need, and you will give us seven days’ notice of your requirements. If they cannot be fulfilled, we will tell you when they can be. The forest is mine, as is any expansion to accommodate your needs. Do we have an agreement?”

I would have given her all at that point, so mesmerizing was she, but there is infatuation, and there is lust, and there is a bargain. Two can be mixed, but the third should never be tangled in that weave. “We do not. There will be no seven days because you will sit at my table, and from that table, all choices will be made and so, when there comes a need for wood, you will make the choice the same as any, so you will create your notice.”

“I will sit at your table,” she said.

“You must do more. Don’t forget, you are part of it—of Kanazar’s twisted game. You are mine, as I am yours. You live by the Lording House—there, that is the world we are imagining.”

She drew closer again, and our eyes met, her challenging gaze morphing into a duality that matched mine in intensity and meaning. “Is that all we are doing, imagining?”

“Isn’t the Harem Lord a myth?” I said, breaths shallow.

She kissed me then, hard this time, her hands about my neck, pulling me onto her, and I became lost inside her aura, the manifestation of her charisma, and there I found solace and peace, and I knew I had my wood, and that I was one step closer to rescuing Alex.

There was no pretense. I wanted her, and I wanted her despite the bargain we struck and the reasons I’d struck it. I wanted her even though Alex had only just departed. But I justified it by dressing in that need, and then I had no guilt. She pulled away, bringing me to arm’s length. “I am yours,” she said.

I rose then, towering over her, pushing her back onto the table and scattering the remnants of our meal, and I kissed her hard, pressing myself onto her, our groins grinding with the heat of new passion. I needed her, needed her absolution, to scrub my recent memories, to freshen my slate. I used my rage, at the goblins, the troll, and Fate, and I changed it to passion.

She pulled at my shirt, and I tugged at her tunic, and we were soon partly naked, her magnificent breasts under me, so soft, so firm, so virginal. Then she reached down, and she touched me, and I her, and I thought that it might end there, her interpretation of my dream shattered, and my shame complete.

But it was not to be. The doors burst open, and Izzy ran in. “They attack us!”

And it was over, just like that, in the blink of an eye, three words robbed me of her. From budding romance to abject hatred, from lust to rage, the fragile cogs of love turned. She pushed me back, a kick completing my fall, my chair upending me, and sending me sprawling to the floor. Then she was dressed and over me, a knife in hand. “Was that your game?” she spat, eyes afire, chest heaving, muscles so tight they bulged on her slight frame. “You are worse than the troll and the pox that drives it. You are insidious. At least Okanau has the decency to show his shade where you hold it in your heart.”

I scrambled back, but she followed, her pace matching my desperation. “I know nothing of this! I came in good faith.”

“Then you shall die in good faith too. There is only you, without you the castle withers. If I strike now—”

“You die and I die!” I shouted. “You cannot beat the troll. You said so yourself.” Though in truth, I did not know why. They appeared quite capable.

“Better to die now knowing what I know, than live in the shadow of evil.”

“I know nothing of this attack!” I screamed, rising, the wall my prop.

She stopped, froze, her rage melting away and confusion replacing it. “Are you sure it’s them, Izzy?”

“It is Bluster and Bark and the wizard called Lysander. They ring a tree while their cutters do their work.”

“Lysander?” said I. “And I take it the other is—”

“Broadchurch,” said she. “I could have predicted it would be that murderous man.”

“Izzy,” I said. “How soon can you get back there?”

Leyathel moved on me again, her knife raised, and another appeared. “He is not yours to command.”

“I asked. I did not command. Well?”

“Not long,” he said.

“Tell your people—” I hesitated when Leyathel tensed. “Please?”

“What do you want done?” she said.

“Nothing. Do nothing. Lysander has magic.”

“More than his small fireball?” Leyathel asked.

“He found something in the goblin temple. He thinks he can defeat the troll. Do nothing, and I will sort this out. Attack, and then we will destroy each other before the troll even gets to us.”

Izzy looked from me to her and back.

She relaxed, her tension flowing away. “Do nothing, Izzy. I will bring him with you the old way. It is the fastest for him.”

There was doubt in Izzy’s eye, and I didn’t care for it. “I have swum with her before,” I said, and he laughed and left, which worried me a little.

I stood and smoothed my cloak down. “Why didn’t you kill me? You had the chance.”

Her expression was one of hatred and nothing. She was numb, as was I. Extremes of emotion can do it, leave one soulless and empty. “I can tell lies when I see them. Get dressed, you’ll not like what’s to come.”

I didn’t.

We raced from that place—the one that was very close to utopia, but we didn’t go to the lake. There was a hole, about sixty feet across and dropping into the bowels of the earth. Its walls were mud and rock with filamentous root shoots binding them and larger ones dangling. I peered down, but there was nothing. I say nothing, there were groans and moans and the yawnings of beasts best left undisturbed.

“What now?” I asked, and she looked at me stone-faced.

“Now, you scream, but trust me, close your mouth before it all goes dark.”

“Dark?” I asked.

From the chasm came a thing. It resembled a worm in shape except its skin was wrong, flaking, like a zombified creature. Mud chunks fell from it, and countless mycelia striped its length swaying to and fro in a tidal fashion. Its tip split into four, but there was no gaping maw within their midst, but more of the same flaking skin.

“What the hell’s that?” I asked, my gaze glued to its slow but steady progress towards us. If ever I’d needed a sharp steel sword, it was then.

“It is Root.”

Which was a name that fitted it, except roots didn’t travel, and nor did they have all the other things. They just were, and unless you tripped over them, they didn’t merit further chatter.

“What type of creature is it?” I asked without much hope of an alternate reply. I had the terrible feeling that it was a root and that they didn’t comply with the restrictions my thoughts put on them.

She let slide a laugh that made my gut knot.

“I take it,” I said, “that this root will take us lower, to some subterranean stream perhaps, and a boat? A boat would be nice.”

“A boat would be nice. So would a decent neighbor who didn’t slaughter my children.”

She had a point, and it was a difficult one to counter given what had occurred, save parroting my innocence, which would have bored me too.

“Always preferable,” I said. “But often unachievable. I have to say, your table looked much better with the food on the floor and you on it.”

If in doubt, dig a deeper hole.

She flashed me a look that was both anger and humor, though I couldn’t gauge which one had the upper hand.

“Let’s see if your humor is still intact once you have travelled the mud.”

There it was, issued by that sharp tongue of hers, confirmation there was no boat.

“Mud?”

But it was too late for an explanation. Another Root had appeared, provided the creatures had the same name, and it intertwined with the first, its four-pronged toothless maw opening and shutting. Then, one shot towards me, wrapping its prongs around me, lifting me. I gulped down a scream as Root waved me about like I weighed nothing, no more than a twig. I caught glimpses of her. She stood upon the chasm’s edge, a smirk upon her face, the artistry of her beauty all the more enhanced by it too.

“Not all the power is yours, Daniel,” she said, and the second root lifted her and then drew her down into the black and beyond my sight.

The root stopped playing with me then, and I plunged, the chasm’s sides blurring until all was dark and only the breeze of speed was upon me, the lurch of my stomach informing me we went deeper.

As alluded to previously, my memory of specific events that had taken place before my waking in Castle Kanazar was gone and only reappearing in small parts, but my instinct, knowledge of certain things, like what an elf was, for instance, was there and whole. It was a hard concept to fathom, but one I simply accepted as I had no other choice. Another memory-not-quite-memory I had was one of what had come to pass with regard to me. I knew that I enjoyed being in trim, women in general, hated carrots, couldn’t tell the difference between mauve and purple, that sort of thing. I also understood that I had been in tight situations before and that danger wasn’t a distant friend. This was one of those times.

It was hazy down there, dull light filtering down. We slowed, and I caught sight of Leyathel, her smirk still in place. The chasm’s side cracked, and a much larger four-pronged root erupted from it and curled around her. Then it withdrew, and she vanished into the rock and mud. I closed my eyes briefly, not wanting to witness my fate, but there is something tragically addictive about watching your own demise, and when I heard the wall crumble, and its shrapnel strafed me, so I opened them.

It came from the murk, a thing so large it dwarfed me, and I was passed from one root to the other, and then chaos. It pulled me into the crazed rock, already broken by its emergence, and as it withdrew, so the rock over the tunnel within collapsed. I did scream then and got a mouthful of gravel and rock for my troubles.

Close your mouth before all goes dark, she’d said.

It was dark, but it was also hard to cry out in terror with my mouth shut. Rocks fell behind me, the crush occurring the instant the root withdrew. We travelled along, at speed, I sensed, and then up, and even faster. Instead of crushing rock falling, an immense drop would have opened up. Or so I assumed.

The mud came then, and it was worse than the rock. It peppered me with its powder, falling the instant the root withdrew, crushing me like some grotesque bowel ejecting its matter. I clamped my eyes shut, closed my mouth, and brought my knees to my chest, holding them and praying for a time when it would all be over, one way or the other.

It did end, as all things do, but most without such a flurry, nor so dramatic an exit, or, perhaps, entrance. One instance I was fetal, and the next I was born, bursting from the soil, my eyes stung by the bright sun, filtered green by the spread of oaks slowly resolving around me. The root dropped me and retracted, and I fell onto the disturbed earth and set about sitting up. I squinted, and squinted some more, then stood.

“Lysander?” I said as I took in the scene and brushed myself down.

There was an oak on its side, certainly not one of the largest, but no sapling either, and beyond it woodcutters stood, axes in hand and faces grim. After them came a usual-looking woods, which led me to deduce we were on the periphery of the elven lands and bordering our mixed resource area. There were my infantrymen, and they crouched behind the fallen elven oak, shields up, spears primed.

Leyathel stood by my side, and behind me, in a semicircle, stood several elves, all with metal drawn. Over me, standing on the branches of their oaks, perched at least twenty elven archers, and each had their bows nocked and aimed. Broadchurch was to the side, his hands in the air and his face ruddy with anger. Izzy stood by him, an arrow drawn and aimed directly at his temple.

“On my command, all your men die,” said Leyathel.

“And on my command, mine come. There are archers too, but they don’t show yet,” Broadchurch spat.

She inclined her head. “I don’t like you, Broadchurch. Your manner offends me.”

The moss under him opened, and four root tentacles closed around his bloated frame, grabbing him and drawing him down. He lost control then, screaming and begging for mercy.

“Hold!” I commanded, and to my surprise, the root stopped. “Lysander, what is the meaning of this?”

He stood defiant, shoulders back and chin jutting. In any situation, he cut a dashing figure, and this was no exception, though he swayed somewhat. “One of their trees gets us the wall. All this folly delays her return.”

“I did not ask for this! One tree takes us a step. What of the rest of the path? What of that? That was the accord I was trying to reach.”

“Is that what it was, an accord?” Leyathel asked, and my heart sank.

“More than that as you know,” I said.

“I had to do something!” Lysander protested.

“I was doing what needed to be done. Your trinket was to help with the troll, not trying to solve my problems on your own.”

He laughed then, right in my face, and he magicked a wine bottle into his hand and drank. “It is our trinket, and you looted another. Do not pretend it was for just for me.”

I had forgotten about the cauldron, but then, how could it vanish if I had no storage? I was tempted to look up my numbers, but it was a little too tense for that.

“Even still this wasn’t yours to decide!” I said, rather than admit my mind had wandered.

He reared then, his expression clouding, red fire crackling about his free hand. “You have no clue what it’s like! You could find comfort in sitting in a glade, drinking mead, and sucking on a honeycomb, while I’ll find none until that damn tower is built. Now we both are even more oppressed to rise up quickly.” He marched forward, closing the distance between him and Leyathel. “And you, my Lady, have a thousand trees, and you can grow more with ease. Do you deny us this one?”

“I liked this one,” she said. “It held my borders well for a hundred years, and then your axes came. I will never forget that.”

He shrugged and drank. “Well, it is down now, might as well put it to use.”

“Lysander! Hold your tongue. You are drunk.”

“I might be,” he said, “but I am doing something.”

“As was I, you fool. Hero? You are not heroic. You conquered a tree, one tree.” I clapped and clapped slowly, and then the ground beside me heaved and stretched and Vellara appeared. Their method of travel would take a little getting used to.

Bright feathers entwined her hair, and her green face was striped blue. “What brings you to our woods, wizard? Are you so weak you cannot nurture a tree of your own? Are you so feeble you need a gang of cutters to help you murder it? I thought you had potential, but now I see you are nought.”

Her words rocked him back on his heels, but he took a slug of wine and steadied. “I have magic aplenty and will have more once Kanazar’s power is focused on my temple.” He paused then, his scorching gaze falling on each of us in turn. “Perhaps I have erred here—perhaps not. There is greed in this forest. You see all yet do nothing—such is the way of elves.” He sneered then, his hatred clear. “Fight your own fight and kill Okanau yourself. You claim to have power, Vellara, why don’t you end the troll? Why not get your precious trees to open the ground beneath him and swallow his caravan whole?”

“It is not as simple as that,” she said, cool and without anger, and she marched up to him, and circled him, her extended finger trailing him. “But you know that. We talked of that. I thought you wanted to understand our way.”

“I did, and I do, and it is clear to me.”

“What is?” she asked, her lips close to his ear, her hand on his waist.

He pushed her off, dismissing her guile. “You cannot get your hands dirty for fear of sullying your magic in the same way you cannot risk the purity of the trees. There is only room for one shadow in this perfect place, and that is night.”

It struck me that his words, his interpretation of the elven way was mine too. They were a pure bunch and rarely liked to risk that perfection. “What do you propose?”

“This tree-killer cannot propose anything!” Leyathel said. “It is I who will determine his fate.”

“No, it is not,” said I. “I am his Lord and his judge in this. I decide and you agree or don’t. That choice is yours and will determine our relations.”

She stiffened. “There will be no relations.”

And for that, I was sad. Her body had such promise, after all, and her mind was sharp, and our discourse, pleasant.

“For a start, notice how Broadchurch still lives,” said Lysander. “His soul is too bleak for the soil hereabouts, his heart too dark for their fertilizer. That was a bluff. They cannot deal with the troll because they fear its shade—they fear her—the sorceress that drives Okanau.”

“We do not,” said Vallera, but without conviction.

Lysander staggered a little, steadying himself before sitting on the fallen trunk. “Have you ever heard the tale of Winyek? It stays with me despite rebirth.”

“Now is not the time for alehouse stories,” I said.

“Oh, it is exactly the time. Winyek is the elves, and the elves are Winyek. He was a man, a slight man, who ate well, drank only spring water, and exercised every day. He had a full set of white teeth and a full head of hair. His skin was as unsullied as hers.” He pointed at Leyathel. “And his nails had no yellow. Winyek was perfection, yet he died all the same.”

“All men die,” Leyathel said.

“They do, but Winyek died young, and he died of a cold—a simple corruption that lesser men would have brushed off.”

“What has this to do with us?” I asked.

“That is why they fear the troll’s shade. It is why they can’t kill Broadchurch, not on this land, their sacred land. A land that a drop of two of corruption would stain forever.”

“What about over there?” I asked and pointed to the mixed resource area.

He grinned and it quickly changed to a grunt, then a scowl. “They have no power over there. They are mortals like the rest of us. The magic of purity is blunt. It takes rage and torment to unlock its true potential.”

“No!” said Vellara. “There is magic in all places. You mistake our lore for yours. They say you need a temple to progress, and we need our trees. Tell me, what is the difference?”

Then Lysander produced his staff and crowning it was an emerald jewel from which dread emanated. “The difference is, my dear, I am not scared to progress other types of magic. May I introduce my new friend the Stone of Moiral, from it, fates are written.”

I was, I’ll admit, taken by surprise. That the hobgoblin shaman had magic was not in question, and what power it had been, constantly spewing goblins at us. My regret was that I’d underestimated him, and Alex had paid my price. But this jewel, this Stone of Moiral, well, it was evil, and it was powerful. It was daunting and exciting.

“Can you control it?” I asked.

“I can. We have an understanding. It wants what it wants, and I’ll feed it as long as I get what I need.”

“Which is?” I didn’t like this turn of events—didn’t like it at all, but it might come in useful. Suffice to say, I had mixed feelings.

“Power,” he said, then knelt while bowing his head. “The power to serve my Lord and master as befits a hero.”

“Well,” said I, “perhaps begin by following my orders.”

The jewel pulsed and for a moment I worried. There was a light inside it, and it called to me, attempted to beguile me, as such artifacts tend to do. It could have gone either way, but I resisted, barely, and came out all the stronger for it. It warmed then, its green glow coupling with the foliage overhead, and Vellara gasped. “It is our jewel,” she said. “It is the Jewel of Everything.”

Leyathel covered her mouth, tears glazing her eyes. “How have you made such a beautiful thing an abomination?”

“It is a fine line between purity and evil,” he said, and I wondered which he was.

“What is the Jewel of Everything?” I asked.

“It is the foundation of all, the keeper of our mana, the binding of our book,” said Vellara.

“Then how come the goblins had it?” I asked.

She looked away, then at Leyathel, who answered.

“Knockers stole it.”

“Ha!” said Lysander. “Careless. Well, it’s mine now.”

It appeared human-elf diplomacy was not important to him. Perhaps I did need a Lady of Diplomacy.

“But can it kill trolls?” I said aloud rather than thought.

“It could ensnare the troll,” Lysander said. “We will only know when I present it to him.”

“If it tries to trap the troll, then the troll will take its power and magnify it by trying to take you,” I said, following my thoughts to a logical conclusion. “So, I say it will be ineffective.”

“But,” said Lysander. “Imagine taking control of a mind by making yours a thousand times stronger than before. Madness has to follow as the brain’s lattices strain under the burden of it all.”

“So, you are banking on it trying to take your mind and failing.”

Lysander shrugged. “Well, the stone is the most powerful thing about me.”

I couldn’t fault his logic, but his conclusions were a fine thread, and he was risking his life hoping it wouldn’t snap. “So, what are we going to do about this mess?”

“I demand justice!” Leyathel spat.

“I think,” I said, turning to her, “we have already seen that you are in no position to demand anything. Unless you wish to prove Lysander’s conclusions wrong?”

She glared at me, and for a moment I thought she might smite me where I stood. A roll in the hay was certainly out of the question—at that time, anyway. I hadn’t given up hope of future relations, but one should know when to withdraw. My words, predictably, went down badly.

“You are on my land,” she said, and it rumbled and heaved to prove it.

Vellara reacted. She pointed at Broadchurch and two things happened simultaneously. The root released the infantryman who remained knee-deep in mud and a vine dropped from the oak above and curled around his neck. It then tightened and Broadchurch stretched and began to resemble a rope with a large knot tied in its middle.

“Stop!” I ordered, no anger in my voice, just resignation. “Can we stop this game? Lysander, back away. Leave Leyathel’s lands. Vellara, let Broadchurch go and he will leave too.”

“Or else what?”

“Or else we will let the troll roll into your lands and consume more than one tree. He will lay waste to hundreds.”

“But—” said Leyathel, and I raised my hand.

“No buts. Let Broadchurch go now, or we sit in our castle and wait and watch your lands transformed to ash. Kanazar is confident she—assuming it is she—can repel Okanau and kill the Grey Sorceress.”

“Then you don’t get your wood,” Leyathel said.

“No, but the trees grow back. True, we will have to wait, but that is all, and I will mourn Alex the whole while. But you will be dead, so that’s not your concern, and I will mourn that too.”

“And to think—” she spat, but I stopped her again.

“I would prefer none of that happens, but Broadchurch dies, and that is what passes.”

“You would rather me dead than him?”

I regarded Broadchurch, who at that time was a man of contrasts. His legs and neck seemed a little too thin while his stomach and head were rather inflated, the latter also very red. “No, I don’t think I would, but that isn’t the outcome in either scenario. Either you both die, or neither of you do. The last one is the one I choose.”

There was a standoff where no one made a sound, apart from Broadchurch who made strangled ones that made my spine shiver. The Leyathel raised her hand, and Izzy and his elven warriors melted away, back into the forest, and Vellara snapped her fingers and Broadchurch fell. Lysander took cautious steps back.

“Shall I signal the woodcutters forward,” he asked, mischief filling his words. “I mean, it’s dead now, and our wall…”

He left the rest unsaid, which was probably for the best.

CHAPTER 19

We had our wall, and we had little else. I was seething, Lysander was drunk, and Broadchurch was washing his breeches. There was little point in calling our council to meet with three missing, and I was including Alex in that.

There would be a lull, as there always was when building a settlement, as a wall is not a quick thing to construct. I put all of Jensome’s men on it to speed it up, but even so, it would take several days. Our situation needed thought, and it required reflection, and I had the time for both. So, I went for a swim and did lengths, and I thought after as I sat on our bluff where Alex and I had made love.

I needed Leyathel. Our discussion, while flippant, had sown an idea inside me. Eight females—strong ones, capable, not weak marriages to gain land but partners with a vision, and that vision began with a strong castle and a purpose.

But what was my purpose? What did I want? Revenge sprang to mind, although I still wasn’t sure what I was avenging, apart from my betrayal. Perhaps a well-run holding, happy subjects, money? Did I want money? I wasn’t certain about that. Perhaps I wanted what all leaders want, and that was power. I could feel that yearning within me, a growing hunger to expand my lands.

I had to have her forest, her, as well, come to think of it. It was mine by right, a resource bordering me. Negotiations would start again. But what of beyond those lands? What of the forest to my south, the plains beyond Leyathel? What of the goblin mountains and all they held? Was there my stone? Did they have it?

I looked up my numbers, noting a few nice increases, most notably charisma, which surprised me, but then I had talked my way out of a sticky situation with no loss of life. Then I studied my population and saw several newcomers had arrived. There were woodcutters and a woodsman, three builders and a seamstress, four archers and two cavalrymen but no infantry to replace my losses, and a forester. My eyes lingered on him.

His name was Chivers, and he was my first forester, and my position with Leyathel had just improved. A forester was, as far as I recalled, about as close to an elf as a human could be. He knew trees, how to grow them, how to nurture the forest. Within days my wood production would increase. He’d select the correct trees to be felled, then reseed and grow new. He would, in a nutshell, sort my lumber situation out. So I hailed him and requested he meet me in the tavern. I was famished anyhow, and Anna would be there, and I fancied her company, if she wasn’t playing barmaid to a packed tavern—a thought that ground on me somewhat.

My, but I was flighty with my affection!

The tavern was substantial at level four, its upper level boasting several bedrooms, and its lower had an office, a backroom, and a scullery. It was busy and I was greeted as befits a lord—a doff of their caps, a jink of a bow, a curtsey. I could pretend I didn’t like it, but I did. It made me feel important, like a real Lord and not just someone playing at it.

Chivers was a tall and broad man, hard to miss as he was alone, standing at the counter with clear air beside him. His shaggy brown hair reached his shoulder blades, as did his beard. There was little else outstanding about him. I expected him to have a deep and booming voice, and he didn’t disappoint.

“Chivers?” I asked, and he replied yes. “Come sit with me.”

Anna slid me an ale and a wink. I sipped the first and reveled in the second, reluctantly sitting with the forester and not her.

He had great shelves for eyebrows, so bushy I could not determine if he looked at me or his ale. “What can I do for you, my Lord? Barely got the cauldron’s wet off me, so I’m not versed with hereabouts yet.”

“Understood,” I replied. “But the wither and whether of our woods is not why I’m here. You know your lore, am I correct?”

“Of wood and forests, I know it yes. I can sing a sapling to a tree in a year, can seed a field in a day. I know my lore, and I know it well. I was responsible for a great forest, I think.” He creased his monumental eyebrows. “I’m sure—it’ll come to me. Deer is the key, and the big cats to keep them in check. A forest needs fresh but clings to old. Doesn’t know what’s good for it, that’s the trouble.”

“What do you know of the elves?”

“Good with trees—very good—can grow them large and mighty, and the wood is good, fine lumber. But there is inefficiency there. No colossal tree grows in moments. Only an elf has the years to see it.”

“I’m told they can grow my wood quickly.”

“Aye,” he said. “They can, but if you’re expecting the seasoned wood of aged timber, you’ll be mistaken. Quick-grown trees are not their specialty.”

“But they are yours.”

He inclined his head. “They are.”

“Then this is what I want you to do.”

I told him, and he left, and I toyed with my drink and hoped I’d made the right choice.

“A kiss for your thoughts,” said Anna, bringing fresh ales and sitting.

“A kiss I can give, but my thoughts are mundane. They are of lumber and logistics, of building walls and strongholds.”

“All those things interest me. The running of a tavern, a street, or a castle, all fascinating.”

“Really?”

She grinned. “No, not really. They tire me. Don’t you have Barnaby to do that?”

“A steward can work to a playbook. The castle would be built, but it would take time, and we don’t have that.”

“Then, why don’t we go for a walk? Why not enjoy some solace?”

“Aren’t you busy?”

She blushed. “No, not I. Not today. The cauldron blessed us with two new ladies—Shelby and Demi. One wants to work with Jess and the other is a barmaid.”

“Two?”

“It knows. It senses the extra rooms and provides accordingly.”

“So you’re free?” I asked.

“I was never a prisoner to baking or serving. The bread and cakes are done for the day. It’s something I’m doing until a better offer comes my way,” she said.

“Then I’ll offer you something else.”

“No, not you. It cannot be you.”

Before I could say a word, she was up, grabbing my hand, and leading me from the tavern. We walked toward the Lording House, her in front of me, and we sat in the long grass staring at that place. “Tell me your plans,” she said.

So I told her. I spoke of the Lady of Wood, of Stone and Iron, of Morale and Diplomacy, of War, of Law and Commerce.

“What of Alex? Does she get the ninth spot?”

“You know about that?”

“I do, somehow. Not sure how, but somehow, yes, I know it as sure as I know that Fiona is the glue that will hold the daily work of the house all together.”

“How?” I asked.

She shrugged, and that served as an answer.

“Would you like to see inside?”

“No. Take me to Kanazar.”

“Why?”

“I wish to speak to him.”

“I’m told it’s her.”

“I think not.”

I decided it was neither.

* * *

Kanazar’s power crackled. I hadn’t visited the core since the stronghold made level four, and I wasn’t surprised to see that it had grown again, as had its chamber, which had altered somewhat too. Gone was the flagged floor replaced by an inverted dome that matched the one above to make the inside of a sphere. Kanazar hung in the middle, crackling both above and below, and it awed me. We could still approach by way of a bridge, but one that had no supporting struts, no arches. It was, to all intents and purposes, a road that hovered, magic, perhaps, impressive, certainly.

I held Anna’s hand, her palm moist, and we stepped in, walking slowly to witness Kanazar’s great power as it was, cracking lightning to the stars. She gathered, though, and her back straightened, and she thrust her chest forward. She had guts, did Anna.

“Who wakes the great Kanazar?” it said.

“You don’t sleep, and you know it,” said I. “And, another thing, you are aware of all movements in this place, so know it is Anna and me.”

“You failed. You lost the elven woman.”

“Not yet,” I said. “Tell me, why are there gates in the goblin city that belong here? Why are they there if this place is new?”

“There was always a castle here. I took a fancy to it.”

“That’s not all though, is it?” I said. “There is a connection to this place. I feel it. I sense it. There is something you aren’t telling me.”

“There are things you don’t deserve to know yet. Things you can’t understand yet.”

“I’m sure there are,” I said, but I had what I wanted, and that was confirmation—an understanding that the core had an agenda, and I had to find out what.

“What of the fields beyond the elves, can your influence spread beyond them?”

“You don’t control them yet.”

“No, but I will.”

“Level one gives one, level two gives two, must I continue?”

“So, I am two behind.”

“Three. Only the farms dominate theirs.”

“Then send me more woodsmen, and I will catch up. Anna has a question.” I had no more. I hadn’t prepared—nor expected to see the core that day and didn’t want to waste my time with idle chatter.

“I wish a change of job,” she said, her voice soft and insignificant in his presence.

“What is wrong with the one you have?” it asked.

“It bores me, and I can do better.”

“Any job?”

“There is one I would like.”

“Think it, and I will consider.”

Lightning cracked from it, randomly, like it was excited.

“Consider it done.”

It said no more, and its light dimmed as it dismissed us.

“What did you get?” I asked on the way out. “I can change it—you know that don’t you?”

“You can,” she said, as we climbed the steps and came to the stones where she sat on the grass and gazed at the orange sun. “But only the core will give me benefits, only it can give me the lore to make me great at what I do.”

“Then tell me.”

“I will not, Daniel Cutterson. I will not.”

She reached for my hand, and she pulled it close, and she stared at the darkening sky, brushed gold as it was. “Do you ever wonder what they are?”

“What?”

“The stars, do you ever wonder what their purpose is?”

“Light,” I guessed. “Though they aren’t as bright as the moon.”

“It’s not that,” she said. “It’s something more, and one day I will know.” She fell silent, but the tension between us grew, like the coming of a storm. “One day,” she finally said and turned to me then, dusk’s burnished light brushing her cheek, and she kissed me, softly at first, then hard, then soft again, her lips lingering on mine.

I was breathless. It was what I wanted, what I needed, love—the elixir that oiled me, my motivation. I understood it during that tender moment when I barely touched her and she me, our breaths one, our heartbeats the same. Tension rose inside me, the unwelcome urge to break that magical moment and take her, own her, possess her, but I resisted, reveling in the anticipation of the unknown.

“Slow, Daniel Cutterson,” she said, then pressed her lips on mine to hold any response I might have.

I slowed, more strained, every urge in me ready to shred her clothes and pin her wrists to the grass, to take her and conquer. But this was more than simple lust, although that was there, straining at its fragile leash. It was a beginning, and while I was reveling in a path untrod, I had the sense that familiarity would be as good. I stroked her cheek, static between us, and I fell into her eyes, so filled with longing.

She pushed me gently, her palm on my shoulder, deftly removing my jacket before I came to rest on my back, the scent of grass heady. The orange sunlight had gone, replaced by the spread of night and the stars she so desperately sought to understand. A name came to me, and it was Abbaddin. It was high above me, close to the waning moon. I wanted to say its name, to tell her I had an inkling of their way, but she unbuttoned my shirt, slowly, and with each came a kiss just above, and with each, I crawled closer to utopia.

Then she was below my shirt, her game continuing, until one final kiss lingered on me, over me, and I found that place that all men hanker for, and it was bliss. She lingered there for some time, and I stared through the stars, my focus consumed, polarized, my pleasure complete. But then, as I reached my brink, her kisses travelled up me, landing upon my lips once more and resting there, her breaths faster.

I grabbed her, my passion breaking free, a wild animal needing sating, but she forced my hands down, her strength surprising, and she shook her head and pinned my shoulders as she straddled me. She shed her shirt then, pulling it over her, hair cascading all around, settling on her slender shoulders, brushing her breasts.

“I—” I said, but she raised her finger to her lips and bid me silent, then bent, holding my cheeks and kissing me once more, with passion this time, with the intensity of imminence that told me our time was close.

She stood, one moment our lips touching, the next she towered over me, and she slipped her boots off and tugged at her pants. “No matter the romance,” she said, a smile upon her gorgeous face, “this bit always breaks the moment.”

But it hadn’t for me, for I saw her then in all her naked glory, from her face, so familiar, to below that, and it was all I’d ever imagined and more.

“No,” I said. “No, it doesn’t.”

She laughed. “Oh it does, and there is no need for it to be so magical. Look at the stars, the moon, the breadth of the night sky. We are but two, Daniel. We mean little.”

We didn’t. We meant everything during that moment. Alex was gone, Leyathel with her, and only I and Anna existed, under the stars, within the stone circle, by Kanazar’s lair.

“Do you like what you see?” she asked, her hands stroking her body, first her breasts, then the flat of her stomach, then her silken hair that shimmered in the moonlight. There she lingered. There she played, and her face rose to the moon, neck slender and taut, and her breaths came in gasps, and I became lost between her legs, watching as her fingers blurred, understanding her completely, as she took her pleasure above me.

For myself, my hands brushed my chest, then I touched myself, but somehow she sensed it, breaking from her ecstasy to glare down at me. “No,” she said. “Just watch. Just wait. Your time will come,” and I complied. I was at her mercy. And I watched, as the moon rose higher, and her strokes quickened, back arched, soft moans escaping and jewels glittered the hair between her, and she stopped, and smiled down at me, then lowered, as my time did come.

A short while later, a little shorter than I’d have liked, we stared up at the stars and I told her of Abbaddin.

"You wanted to know what the stars were,” I said. “I think it came to me.”

“You were looking at the stars while I was above you?” She slapped me with the back of her hand.

“Before,” I said. “During I was consumed with the beauty of it all.”

“Good,” she said, and I looked over.

Her body was brushed with moonlight, glistening silver, her breasts high, nipples higher and her stomach flat. It was a glory, a study in perfection, and I would say I’d had her but had the feeling she’d had me. She was staring at the moon.

I pointed. “See the bright star close?”

“Which one?”

“By the cluster of three all in a line. The bright one above is much brighter normally, but the moon dulls it. That star is Abbaddin.”

“Abbaddin,” she repeated. “I don’t know that name.”

“Nor should you,” said I. “I think only learned scholars and navigators understand the stars. I think I knew them once.”

“Before?”

“Yes.”

“Is it always there?”

“Abbaddin moves like the rest, but it is always north. See how it is above and yet over there?”

She raised her hand then moved it wide. “Always?”

“Always. Some, I believe, call it the North Star, but I think I prefer Abbaddin. It gives it character, perhaps mystery too.”

“Then I shall search him out every night, and every night I will know where north is.”

“I think it unimportant to us currently.”

“I think you are right.”

She switched then, on her back one moment, her side the next, fingers tracing mystic patterns on my stomach. “You want to know what job the core gave me?”

I set my hands behind my head, offering my body to her in the hope she’d ride me once more, or perhaps I was enjoying my absolute compliance, my fate at her whim. “Very much.”

“You might not like it.”

“But I might.”

She bit her lip, her hand lingering on my belly button. “To be the ninth,” she said. “To run the Lording House and keep your mind sharp, body sharper, and the others in order.” She pressed her palm onto my chest, holding me firm as I jerked up. “Do not fret, I know that place is Alex’s.”

“It is,” I said. “Or was,” I corrected. “In my mind, it is where I saw her, but since my talk with Leyathel, since ours too, it clarified it more, I do wonder.”

“Wonder?” she asked, easing the pressure on me and shifting her hand lower, fingers nestling in my hair.

“I wonder if Alex is suited. Her temper is volcanic, and she is no diplomat. To keep eight ladies in line—”

“They shouldn’t all be ladies,” she pointed out. “No ladies would be better for you. Women are all you need.”

“Regardless, Alex would tear herself in two trying to keep a couple happy. I could see her purposely seeking Limbo once more just to escape.”

“Perhaps the core thinks that too. Maybe that’s why it chose me.” She sat then, crossing her legs but still gripping me, slowly stroking, rousing my attention. “But I can find another thing to do.”

“It is perfect,” I said.

“Really?”

“Yes,” I gasped, my pleasure rising. “It is perfect, and you will be perfect. You relax me and make my thoughts clear. You said yourself that it is your greatest talent.”

“That and this,” she said and lowered her head.

And I looked at the stars again, at Abbaddan and the others, but I did not think what it all might mean. I did not care what was north, south, east, or west of the stone circle. I cared only for Anna and me and my pleasure, and this time she didn’t stop until I was complete, and we were one at that moment, her mouth around me as I surrendered completely. She was my ninth. She was my second, my first, but she would always be Anna, and hers was the most difficult task.

It was to keep me sane.

* * *

Afterwards, we walked to the Lording House. She held my hand the whole way, talking about structure, our morning run, and what I should eat and drink to become strong. How afternoon rest was important, and enough sun, and learning elven lore so that I might get closer to Leyathel. She had a thousand ideas and more, and I wondered if most were a result of her job—of Kanazar’s endless plots.

The Lording House was different, I noticed it as we walked its path. There were oil lamps illuminating the way, and the house was brighter, its walls brilliant white, and each window was alive with flickering light. The gardens had been tidied, and before we came to the door, it swept open, and Fiona beckoned us in. She’d never done that for me before.

“I’m glad you chose her,” Fiona said. “I think Alex, and I would have fallen out, and if you think I’d get used to elven ways, well, you have another thing coming. No, I’m glad you chose her. We can work together.”

“I see the house is happy too. It appears to have been spruced up a bit.”

“That happened a while back. Didn’t you notice?”

“I saw little through my grief,” I admitted.

“Well,” she said. “You should see now. There are new rooms, and the master bedroom is much larger. We have hot water, and there is a sun terrace out back.”

“And this didn’t just happen?”

“A little while ago.”

“My numbers, perhaps,” I said. “The Cauldron," I muttered.

"What is it, my love?" said Anna, and the last two words meant everything to me.

“I must check my numbers.”

“And you must be famished too,” said Fiona. “Come, the house alerted me to your return, and so I made you some food. No stew or broth for you anymore.”

That pleased me immensely.

We sat at a long table in a lavish dining room. I already suspected that my Lording house had levelled, as had I, and that it was tied to me in that way.

“Go on, check them,” Anna said as Fiona served lamb cutlets and roasted vegetables and uncorked a bottle of wine.

So I did, and I wasn’t disappointed.

Numbers:

Name: Andros Gray

Known Alias: Phillipe of Byouz, Nunez Excalivar, Daniel Cutterson (in play)

Title: Lord of Kanazar

Banner of: None

Banner to: None

Deity: None

Hero: Lysander

Level: Two

Attributes:

Strength – 9

Intelligence – 9

Wisdom – 7

Constitution – 11

Dexterity – 10

Charisma – 9

Harem

1/9 – Anna

Stronghold – Kanazar

Lord – Daniel Cutterson

Stronghold – Level 4

Wall – Level 3 - upgrading

Lording House – Level 2

Population – 113 Cape – 204

Food Consumption – 103.3/160

Storage – Less than 1% full

Buildings

Artisan

Workshop – Level 4

Masons – Level 4

Smithy – Level 4

Military

Barracks – Level 4

Range – Level 4

Stables – Level 4

Watchtower – Level 4

Other

Tavern – Level 4

Resource

Cottages – 12 – Level 3 (12)

Farmsteads – 10 – Level 4 (10) – Production 160

Lumber Mills – 14 – Level 4 (14) – Production 224

Quarries – 4 – Level 2 (2) Level 4 (2) – Production 56

I was level two, and I finally had storage, and I thought I was right, my Lording Home was linked to my level. At first, I’d thought it because of Anna, but the timing was wrong. I’d missed my advancement, fogged with the grief from Alex’s death, busy with Leyathel, and then all else had distracted me. But Fiona had said that the house had been grander for a little while. Or was that it?

I’d not seen its new brighter decoration earlier when Anna and I had looked upon it before travelling to see Kanazar. Perhaps it was linked to both, and while it would begin to upgrade with my level, it was closed to me until I’d settled on Anna. It was possible. Perhaps next time I’d notice, but in essence, the mechanic was unimportant. A bit of whitewash and a few lanterns meant little to me. I furrowed my brow.

“Fiona, you mentioned new rooms. What are they?”

She shrugged and pulled a long face. “The doors are shut, and I can’t get in, but noises are coming from one.”

We ate, and we drank wine, and we shared small jokes, furtive gazes, and stolen touches like new couples do, and then once done, we raced to the first door eager to see what was inside. I pressed my ear to it, and Fiona was right, there were noises, faint and muffled, nothing distinct—a hubbub perhaps.

I had no weapon, but I couldn’t recall where I’d left them—the two hand axes that Alex had gifted me, my spear, none of them. Then I remembered my storage and the missing cauldron and thought they might be in there. Searching my mind, I found the tab, right with the others but misted and grey. I focused on it and it became clearer, as if simply needed some acknowledgement to become important enough to announce itself.

There I found my possessions, and for a moment they confused me.

Storage

Weapons

Hand Axes – 2

Spear – 1

Rusty sword – 3

Catapult – 1

Other

Goblin Cauldron of Rebirth – 1

Slaker Stone – 1

It was a strange list and led me to the assumption that I’d levelled up late in the fight and a little before I’d entered the goblin temple. Somewhere during the melee I’d picked up three rusty swords, possibly looting them without realizing, and this Slaker Stone, though quite what that was, I didn’t know. So, I stepped away from the door and called for it, hoping it was a stone and not some giant boulder.

It was a stone, and it was the size and shape of my hand and, perhaps, as thick as my thumb. It glistened in the lamplight, seeming to be wet, so I stroked it with my finger and found it was. A legend then popped up in my head.

Slaker Stone – Brush any blade across this stone and it will sharpen it beyond compare.

I grunted.

“What is it,” asked Anna.

“A whetstone of sorts,” I replied and called for one of the three rusty swords.

It was a dismally disappointing piece, short, but not a dagger, and the grip was small—suited to a child’s hand, or maybe a goblin? I ran its length down the slaker stone, and as the metal touched it, so the rust vanished, and a new blade appeared. The stone was, in short, priceless. I offered the sword to Anna. “This might suit your grip better than mine.”

She took it, swishing and swashing up and down the hallway. “I think it will,” she said, and it vanished. “So that—”

“Renews the blade with just one wipe,” I said. “A precious item indeed.”

“What else have you got?”

“Two more of those swords, a catapult, which might come in handy, and a Goblin Cauldron of Rebirth, which I’m entirely uncertain about.”

“Doesn’t that type of cauldron take your dead from a battle and revive some in the same way our Limbo works?”

“Alex and the others are in our cauldron now, in theory, but we don’t get it until level eight. My question, my worry, is what the hell do I do with a goblin one?”

Then I wondered if there would be a legend and if it would appear if I held the thing in my hands. So I dismissed the Slaker Stone and called for the cauldron.

It appeared, a strange little thing about the size of a cooking pot but the shape of an upturned hat. It was heavy, made of iron, I assumed, and its sides were carved with sweeps and arcs and dots and squares that looked much like the tattoos a warrior often had painted on their arms—some long-lost language of the Gods.

Cauldron of Rebirth, Goblin, Annuck Tribe – The Cauldron of Rebirth offers sanctuary to your fallen warriors and subjects. It homes them in a place called Limbo where they may stay until their tally is paid. Should the keeper of the cauldron be slain, then those souls will be lost forever unless the cauldron is claimed by the killer. Then, all souls within the cauldron can be rebirthed by the new keeper of the cauldron, and they will be loyal to the claimant. He who holds a tribe’s cauldron has sway over that tribe’s loyalty and morale.

Current state of the Cauldron of Rebirth, Goblin, Annuck Tribe – 278/50,000

Morale required for rebirth – 5 units per goblin

I held it out like it was poisonous. “I did not expect that,” I said.

“What?” asked Anna.

“There are two hundred and seventy-eight goblins in there and if I revive them, they are mine—loyal to me.”

She clasped her hands to her heart, kinked her head to one side and stared at the thing. “Its runes are glowing,” she said, and I saw they were, and they were the deepest shade of red, gruesome, and arcane. “That thing is evil.”

I pondered that, not wanting to put it back in storage, but not knowing what to do with it either. “Are elves evil? They are classed so by the Lords and Ladies in castles below, but here they are our neighbors now. They don’t seem so evil close up, and if elves aren’t the evil monsters we’ve been told they were—that’s been inbuilt into our psyche, what of goblins?”

A strange thought crossed my mind. If, and it was a long if, with many holes in its theory, I could rule the Annuck, could I use them for my stone? Could I rule the mountain? I sounded Anna out, and slowly, in that hallway, by the door with strange noises coming from within, she came around to the idea.

“I guess the best way would be to rouse one and see what happens.”

It was sound advice—the soundest. Rather than try and rouse dozens of the little beasts, one would give me a good understanding of what I was going to be up against—whether it could be a boon, or if it was a bust. “Well, I need to find somewhere to set the thing down. Somehow, the idea that I have a load of half-dead goblins swimming around in my storage doesn’t appeal to me.”

“I can see why. Perhaps in here?” Anna opened the door before I could stop her.

“Wait!” I said, unable to draw my axes.

She waived her little goblin sword about. “It’s alright, I’ll protect you, my lord and master.”

I liked the way she said that. I’d have use for that on other occasions.

Fortunately, there were no ghosts, monsters, ghouls or other such things hidden in the room. There was a table, and it was large and round, and on it was an undulating landscape, forests lining two-thirds of its edge and farms the other third. A wall hemmed those off, and inside the wall was a stronghold, some cottages, a stone circle, a smithy, a tavern, some military buildings, and more.

“It is Castle Kanazar,” I said. “It is this place—look, there is the Lording house.” I set the cauldron on the floor.

She bent over, pointing at the barrack from which shouting came. “Broadchurch is training his men,” she said, and I saw the infantrymen and Broadchurch’s stout frame. Then I saw Jess approaching the tavern, and Saxon the steelsmith standing outside his smoking forge. There was Greasby the lamplight lingering by the workshop and Cleo the potter mixing clay by the stream. They were all there, my subjects, and I was a god, watching from above.

“It is my stronghold table. Look, there is the lake, the stone circle. Those are the elven woods, and that way lay our lumber mills. It’s coming back to me, but is still vague, like I know I’ve used one before, but am not sure I can recall how.”

“It will come in time. Look, that wall is shelved. Why not put the cauldron there? It can be for your trophies.”

It fitted, and I sat it centrally.

“Are you going to recall a goblin?” she asked.

“No, not yet. I want—” I broke off. What I wanted was to go to bed with Anna in my arms. “I think we look in the other rooms. No, perhaps not. It is late.”

“It is, and we must run in the morning. Good habits should always start on the first day.” She took my hand. “Let’s go to bed.”

It was a fine idea, made all the better by her, because she’d be there. But I couldn’t get it out of my head that it was the same night I’d planned with Alex, that I was somehow cheating on my promise to her.

“Yes,” I said. “Let’s.”

I had to forget that. What was done was done, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.

“Let’s go to bed,” I confirmed.

“And sleep,” she said. “We have an early start.”

I pulled her from that room. “And sleep.”

She grinned but with a measure of regret.

“After,” I added.

CHAPTER 20

After our run and subsequent bath, we breakfasted on fresh bread and eggs, nettle tea and honey. Then we checked on the table and the cauldron just in case some damn goblins had managed to crawl out. The wall upgrade was proceeding well, much of the southern portion done, the western flank scaffolded and ready, and the eastern flank, which I now regarded as our safest, was yet to be started. The parade ground was quiet, but twangs and thwacks came from the range as archers practiced.

There was a note to inform me that two stonecutters and three quarrymen had arrived during the night, and I thought that Kanazar’s way of prompting me to build more quarries. It was empowering looking down on my holding, that god-like feeling from the day before still holding strong. I liked it but resisted the urge to pick Broadchurch up as he emerged from the tavern. I could have held him, legs kicking, and admonished him for being late on parade. Before the urge overwhelmed me, I left the room, taking Anna with me.

Then we stood outside the second door, and the same nerves filled my gut. The previous day had been a good one with nothing going wrong. I wanted my luck to hold so I could get my mind straight and ready myself for the troll encounter. To die then, when I had just experienced utopia, several times, would have been such a waste.

No sound came from the door, which made it all the more unnerving, but I opened it and marched on through with the spine of a man wanting to show his courage, and I stopped short, a few strides in. The room was plain, with no fancy cornices, no moulded architraves of rolled scotia. Its walls were plastered and painted a dull white, and its floor was planked. But that didn’t make the room uninteresting because in its middle was a simple stone archway colored black and veined gold—marble or granite, it was hard to tell which.

There were small symbols carved upon it, a burning sun, a tree, a tuft of grass, a mix of both and a rock, there was a lake, a fork, and a building. The stone was cool to the touch, and as I ran my finger over the tree symbol, it glowed green, and the space inside the arch misted then cleared and a section of scaffolded wall appeared, the great elven trees towering above it.

“I wonder,” I said and leant through. Then I was outside, by the trees, close to the wall, or part of me was. My lower body wasn’t there. Anna’s head and shoulders appeared by my side.

“This is—” she said but didn’t complete her sentence.

“A portal,” I said. “We can jump anywhere within the castle boundaries.”

“Perhaps further if we control all of the area,” she said.

It was an interesting notion.

The second door was less daunting. Both the others had proven useful, so there was no reason to suspect the third would be a gateway to some hell or the other. It wasn’t. Precisely what it was, though, remained to be understood as it either didn’t work, or we couldn’t work it.

It was a plain room, similar to the last, and in place of the portal stood a pool, its sides made from interlocking stone like a drystone wall. It was waist-high with a ledge large enough to lean on, and it was filled with silver liquid, its surface like a mirror.

“What do you think?” Anna asked.

“No runes, no signs, no carvings, nothing. There are no pointers, no clues what it is.” I trailed my hand along the ledge, walking its circumference. “I feel no static. It is dead,” I said, disappointed.

“No,” said Anna. “It is not alive yet. We haven’t qualified—we are not at the correct level.”

“Like the temple and our cauldron?”

“Just like that,” she said. “Think about it. This place is built independently of the stronghold. It is of Kanazar, and so out of sync. What if you need a barn for it to work, or a level eight watchtower? A lot of things happen at eight.”

“Yes!” I said. “What if all those things, but there should be some clue what it is.”

She leaned over and looked into it. I did too, and there were two of us staring back. “A mirror,” she said. “What does a mirror do?”

“Reflect?”

“Reflects images—people. Could it be a magic pool—like the archway takes you to different places, perhaps the pool takes you to different people?”

It was a good working theory—as good as any, so we settled on it.

“I must go and see Lysander,” I said. “We must make a plan for the troll.”

“He’ll be in the tavern. Always is.”

The troll—the damnable troll and his Grey Sorceress. Why did they have to destroy my day?

* * *

It was early, and Lysander was nowhere to be seen when I arrived at the tavern. Jess was there, and the new girls, serving breakfast to several builders, Jensome included.

“Lysander, eh?” he said, looking up, spoon in hand. “Was rotten drunk last night. Had a head on him, you know—you know what he’s like when he turns. Right dark he was.”

“So he’ll be sleeping it off, then,” I said.

Jensome pursed his lips. “Might be, but like I said, he had that head of his on. Said something about having it out with the elves—going toe-to-toe with their best and claiming the forest for once and all.”

“He said what?”

Jess came by, sniffing at the air. “That hero of yours is out of control. Flipped he did, flipped, I say.”

“Why?”

“Was when I told him the wall would be done in a couple of days and we’d have no wood to upgrade the stronghold. That riled him some,” Jensome said.

“Riled him alright. He’s trouble that one, mark my words. Said something about a troll too. Mad, he is.”

“Aye,” said I, “but he’s the only hero I’ve got, so he’ll have to do.”

“Say, you stealing any more of my workers today?”

“One’s enough,” I said and winked.

“Not what I heard,” she called after me as I left.

The news didn’t particularly worry me. He’d a tendency for both things—getting drunk and mouthing off—telling folks he was going to do some grand gesture or the other. I put it down to the unsated needs of his job. Heroes had to be heroes, without the praise, fear and adoration they were left empty, devoid of job satisfaction. They searched for trouble, hunting it out so they could be what they were destined to be—heroes.

Lysander, as far as I could tell, had been expelled from his Limbo—the place where heroes awaited selection—far too early. It didn’t excuse his drunken antics, but I understood them. Once we were battling, once we were adventuring, he’d come into his fore and the rest would be forgotten. To find him, all I needed to do was trace his likely route to the elven forest and I’d come across him comatose in some field, under some trees, or collapsed on some pathway. He’d be there, somewhere.

There were plenty of things that could have killed my good mood. Lysander was one of them, and, if I recalled correctly, he had a history of it. I called for Willow, mounting her and galloping away.

I didn’t find him, not a trace, not by the lumber mill we’d used to chop up the elven tree, so I dismounted and walked the length of the wall, and bumped straight into Sarah, hurrying the opposite way. “Come quick. It’s Lysander,” she said.

She grabbed my hand, leading me along the wall. Izzy was there, sitting on a branch that overhung our lands. He looked like he had all the time in the world, as was his way, but I could tell he was nothing of the sort.

“What’s up? He fall down drunk in your forest?” I said.

“Perhaps better, maybe worse, depends on your point of view,” Izzy replied.

“Try your point of view.”

“Then worse, or better, depends. I don’t like him, so if he dies, better. But if he kills the troll before that, then better too.” He levelled his brow and scratched at his chin. “Both outcomes better. Who knew?”

“He’s gone after the troll on his own?”

“After fighting the woodsman, Chivers, and calling out our Queen. Vellara eventually restrained him, her vines proving too strong for his fire. We’d thought he’d sleep it off, but if anything, he woke up in an even sourer mood.”

There was a story there, probably a long one, but I thought it best wait. It sounded very much like I’d be lacking a hero by the end of the day, and that would be a disaster. “Take me to him.”

Izzy did, and Sarah followed, and I learned another way of traversing the elven woods.

It was pretty standard stuff if you were a squirrel. The idea was based around the unused catapult in my storage and was ideally suited to someone with an elven frame rather than a fully grown human male. It involved jumping from branch to branch by using the spring in the wood to propel you on. Every now and then, a vine would offer itself up and we’d swing for a while, but mostly it was jumping and springing.

It started awkwardly, and I fell a couple of times. Despite my protestations, even demanding a root ride at one point, Izzy insisted it would work for me. It did, eventually, and I think it had as much to do with the trees helping me, or Izzy’s lore, as anything else. Before I knew it, I was racing along, running the air, bounding through the trees, then dropping, tumbling, then slowing as a branch set me down, and I stood in a clearing, one immense tree facing me, and Leyathel standing before it.

“We meet again,” she said softly. “The circumstance strained, once more.”

“We do,” I said. “I hear you’ve had a visit from my errant wizard.”

“From him, yes. I never thought he’d have as much bluster as that foul Broadchurch creature, it appears I was wrong.”

“He was drunk. Don’t tell me an elf has never had a few too many of those sweet-tasting wines.”

“They have, but belligerence isn’t usually its manifestation.”

Which left either food, sleep or the other as far as I could fathom, but I digressed. “Well, Lysander has a chip or two on his shoulder. I’ll not make excuses, just point me to him and I’ll get him out of your way.”

“Would that it was that easy.”

“What isn’t easy about it?”

“He insulted Vellara within the boundaries of her power. Such a thing is unwise.”

I disliked her manner, her confidence too high and her aura, usually so radiant with goodness, had dulled some. “What has she done to him?”

“He asked to face the troll. I believe she facilitated that request. We are, after all, an accommodating race.”

“You did what?”

“I did nothing.”

“Take me to him.”

“You cannot order me about like some serf. Might I remind you that your wizard stomped through our lands, threatened us, and then ridiculed us, and in return, we gave him what he wanted.”

“He is driven to be a hero when he hasn’t the power to be one. He will change, Leyathel, and he will be a good friend to all who stood by him. Be mindful of that.”

“There is a threat there, unsaid, but there all the same.” She took a step towards me, then more when I didn’t react. She reached, caressing my cheek. “We are possibilities, you and I, perhaps victims of circumstance. He is a wedge between us. Have you considered you might be better off without him?”

I had considered it. Lysander was a liability, but then he was the same trouble that had gained me the Slaker Stone, the goblin cauldron and secured enough timber to upgrade my wall. His methods were chaos, but he did push things forwards, and… life would be so much duller without him. There was no way I could sell him out.

“We will need him, you and I, when we finally unite. Trust me on that. There is power in chaos and only demise in order. But you elves would know that better than most.”

She snatched her hand back. “You would insult me too?”

“Face facts, your power wanes. I’ll bet elves weren’t always so impotent that were imprisoned in their forest. If this place caught fire, you’d have no option but to flee and be powerless or burn and realize how feeble your magic is. Lysander might be erratic, but he’ll soon be more powerful than Vellara. Who do you think might beat the troll?”

She was stone-faced for a moment, then her hand returned to my cheek, and tears glazed her eyes. “A harsh truth, Daniel, but one we’ve known for a long time.”

“What is the truth? Why do you hide in this place? Why do you refuse to risk yourselves away from your forest?”

It came to me before she answered. They were afraid, like a Prince never allowed to leave his castle, like an old woman scared to leave her hearth. They were afraid and vulnerable.

“There is only one of you that has any spark, and he will only dare chance an overhanging bough, never jump on our wall, never walk in our grounds.”

Her mouth opened a little, lips quivering. “I see it, yes, I see it. Izzy, he has something about him.”

“I can break this demise for you. I can make you powerful again, but you must trust me, trust us. Whatever you think of humans, we make the worst enemies, but I’ll tell you this, if you’re our friends, we would die for you.” My voice had been low, the rumble of distant thunder, but then it grew, and I growled, “Now, where is he?”

She dithered, all sixes and sevens, her shoulders bent and head sagging. Then she straightened as new resolve appeared to fill her. “We will talk of this later,” she said. “Lysander is at the edge of our influence. He faces the troll, but there is something you should know.”

“He faces the troll? Alone?”

“Yes.”

“What else?”

“The Shade has changed. It is taller now, wider, a roiling mass of grey mist as tall as our oaks. There is thunder in there and lightning, and many trolls have gathered under his wing. It is dire, My Lord, dire indeed. I can only see one outcome.”

I also, but I didn’t tell her that. “Sarah, go back to the castle. Get Broadchurch. He might not be well-liked here, but he’s the best we’ve got. Tell him to bring everyone that can hold a pitchfork or a spear. Get him to call Gregory, I’ll need his lot too. Izzy, you go with her and don’t leave her side—step on lands other than your own and know they don’t poison you—that you’ll come to no harm but become stronger. Do that, then lead all to where Lysander stands, and by the Gods, I hope you aren’t too late.”

“What shall I do?” Leyathel asked.

“Where’s Canavar?”

“I am here, Lord Daniel.” The old elf stepped from the margins. “What can I do for you?”

“Leyathel will take me to my wizard, by whatever foul means she can muster this time. You, rally all your troops and meet us there—everyone—and tell them to prepare for battle beyond their tree’s shade.”

I took a breath then, as Canavar and the others set about their orders, and I regarded Leyathel, expecting thunder in her eyes. But it was absent, and there was steel there. I thought then, and I hoped it would come to pass, that she would be more than just my Lady of the Wood. “Come,” she said.

I dreaded what was in store for me—the subterranean waterways, the roots, or skipping the trees. The latter was my favorite. But, true to form, it was none of them. She set her fingers in her mouth and whistled, the sound so shrill I barely picked up its pitch. Two magnificent brown horses burst from the trees, barely a sweat on them, moving so gracefully they hardly made a sound. Leyathel greeted them, and they neighed and bowed their heads, shying away from me and getting as close to her as possible.

“You take this one,” she said.

“A name?”

“I doubt you could even say it, and you won’t need to. She will follow and all you have to do is hang on.”

Somehow, I knew there’d be a catch.

My horse, who did remain nameless, ran like the wind, dodging every tree, hurdling every river, following each gulley, and scaling every ridge, all without breaking a step. Before long, my grin turned to laughter, the type that’s close to insanity, the sort you rarely share with others. It was pure glee, and I was a child once more. There was no catch.

But it was soon done, and what might have taken a day took so much less, and she pulled her horse up, and we stared down a moss-blanketed slope, pocked with towering oaks, and ending in the turmoil of chaos.

“Are you ready for this?” she said, her words barely audible.

“I am,” I said, and coaxed my horse on, down the slope, weaving through the trees, the smell of goodness fading and that of evil growing.

The grey, the turmoil of the troll, occupied all, spreading across the fields like some ghoulish dust storm. It had grown, rising high as she’d said, and it came to a point, vague figures blinking in and out of view. There was power there, immense power, and although it was some distance away, I could already feel the storm of its turmoil upon me. Howling wind that held the direst spirits, that screamed anguish with every gust, assailed me, and I was mortal in the face of it.

Then I caught sight of him, Okanau, the demon troll, and I did gasp. Dark powers normally corrupted their followers, leaving them bent and broken. Not so, Okanau. He had grown and was no longer troll-size, more a colossus, a beast from some immoral place fed powers beyond my comprehension. When he strode, the ground trembled. When he cried out, the thunderheads all around him growled and grumbled, and lightning crackled inside its tumultuous cloud.

All things, and there were many, that strayed too close to Okanau’s chaos, were caught in his power, lifted like they weighed nothing, pulled upwards and in, a nightmarish twister of suffering perpetuated by their screams, their agony, their rebirth, as the twisted agents of this chaotic magic.

And although I couldn’t see her, somewhere in that hell sat the Grey Sorceress, in her caravan, puppeting her giant creation and hiding within the roiling mass of her potent spell. My knees very nearly gave way. My resolve almost crumbled. But then I saw him, Lysander, and my anger grew.

There was the line of the elven forest, a green tsunami waiting to break upon the plains and spread its magic and tranquility, and there was the towering pandemonium that was Okanau and his entourage, and between the two, so insignificant he might be a bug, stood Lysander.

A bluff had formed, no doubt from roots, and it rose like a tongue poking from the green, and on it stood my wizard, and he was bound hand and foot to it, lashed with lesser roots, but lashed all the same. He sagged, not standing proud and facing his doom, but limp and lifeless like he’d already accepted it.

I turned to her then, Leyathel, and I glared at her. “You offer him as a sacrifice?”

“I—” she said, but it was clear she hadn’t expected it either.

I didn’t wait for her answer but turned my horse and raced the margins, thundering towards the promontory. As I neared, the magnitude of the root bluff became clear, the way it thrust from the trees, curling back under to avoid touching the cursed earth beyond their borders. I wheeled my mount back inside the forest, coming to the promontory’s beginning, jumping off and scrambling up. There I found Vellara, and I grabbed her, spinning her to face me, the howling wind all about, battering us with its debris. “Release your magic! Release it now!”

She laughed in my face. “He asked me to bind him, and he told me not to release him until it was done.”

Leyathel joined us. “Is this true?” Her words were all but lost to the edges of chaos.

“It is, by all that is pure, and curse all that is evil, it is true,” she shouted, her words lost soon after.

I looked at the elven queen, and she looked at me, and we both ran for the bluff’s end.

Okanau’s terrible storm had closed, its winds battering the treeline, tearing branches whole, stripping leaves and lifting full sods. We fought our way to the end, both clinging to Lysander’s restraints when we got there.

“What are you doing, man?” I screamed. “It’ll kill you, slap you down like a bug.”

“It’ll kill all of us,” he screamed back, the wind whistling between us, the thumps of Okanau’s strides cracking through me. “Go, go now! It might not work.”

“What might?”

“No time!” He looked forward and stared straight into the chaos.

I grabbed Leyathel. “Go back! Marshall your troops. Do as Broadchurch says. He knows! Trust him!”

“And you?”

I closed my eyes, then opened them and saw her as she was the first time, as Leyathel, so pure, so damn beautiful. “I stand with my hero.”

She bit her lip, her head moving—an imperceptible nod—a regretful one, and I thought I saw a tear fill her eye, but then she was gone, lost to the swirl, the foggy chaos that announced Okanau’s arrival.

“You sure about this?” I asked my wizard, the space between us suddenly calm.

“Sure? No,” he said, and a bottle appeared in his hand. “But I’m drunk enough not to care.”

“Shouldn’t you be preparing some kind of spell or the other?” I asked.

“How do you think you can hear me? One of Vellara’s,” he said. “Some good spells that one. No good for fighting, but good all the same.”

“I’m happy for you,” I said, and the time for frivolities was done.

There, towering over us, was Okanau. He lumbered closer, and my lungs emptied, my stomach knotting. I wasn’t a coward, not by any means, but my goblin sword, with or without the Slaker Stone, was entirely inadequate, and while my spear might cause the troll minor discomfort, it would be no more than an insect bite. We were naked before the terrible thing.

“I think he’s going to dispense with the pleasantries and simply smash us to a pulp with his fist,” Lysander said. He swigged at his bottle. “You want some?”

I did. “Please.” So I swigged at his bottle, and we awaited death.

“Who dares challenge Okanau?” the troll boomed out, his voice resounding through me.

“You or me?” I asked.

“Just got your spear?”

“I have a catapult about me somewhere.”

“Got your storage then?” he asked and took his bottle back.

“Yep.”

“I’m pleased for you.”

And I could tell he genuinely was.

“Who dares challenge Okanau?” the troll thundered again.

“I guess it’s me then,” said Lysander. “I do,” he shouted.

If possible, the dread troll rose taller, his shoulders straightened, and his face clouded with anger so complete that I waited for his fist to crush us once more. “Show me your weapon, and I will smite you with the same but a thousand times more powerful!”

“Hardly an incentive to show him one, eh?” Lysander shouted as the maelstrom grew once more. “I have no weapon!” he shouted up.

“I have a goblin sword you can borrow,” I suggested, as I worked out our options and found I could count them without any fingers.

“Then tell me your greatest skill and I shall outdo you a thousand times over!”

“I have no skills. I only have my mind. That is my greatest thing,” he shouted back.

The troll threw back his head and laughed. “Then I shall crush you with mine.”

The wind rose, whipping around me, twisting, ripping through me. Behind the troll, a thousand ghouls and specters cackled as they flew past, and all around his feet, his minions gathered, clubs in hand, and I knew then, that as soon as Lysander and I fell, they would attack.

I pulled my spear from my storage, feeble though it was. “Well?”

Lysander made to reply, but then his whole body fell limp, and he screamed, a gut-wrenching, howling scream. He turned his head to the sky, blood streaming from his eyes, neck tight, strings ready to snap. He screamed again, before the first had finished, and I went to him, casting my spear aside, and I propped him as he writhed in pain and anguish.

Okanau bore down on us, his great face coming to within touching distance of ours. His foul breath wafted over us, and even through the terrible gale that was all about, its stench sickened me. I stared at him, defiance all I had left, holding Lysander, propping him, as the troll brought his power to bear.

Lysander’s howls grew. He spasmed, blood gushing from his nose, his ears, bubbling from his mouth. Then he changed, his agony becoming ecstasy, his ecstasy turning to laughter, fits of maddened laughter that scared me more than all that had passed combined. He dissolved to helpless laughter, blood splattering me, and I stared at Okanau, wondering if the troll had destroyed my wizard’s mind.

But something had altered. The troll looked uncertain, then its rank brow furrowed, and lines crinkled his foul, wart-laden skin, and his crazed eyes bloodied, and his pupils expanded, tearing at his irises, peeling his eyes, and leaking their fluid. He screamed then, the troll, as he clawed at his ruined sockets and fell to his knees, and a crack appeared on his clump-strewn head, crazing like a boiled egg, splitting, leaking black matter, drips at first then sprays of the foul stuff. Then, with one great howl, Okanau looked up, howled one last time, and his head exploded, strafing us in his foul brain matter, dousing us head to foot in his rotten blood.

And the wind died, and the storm relented, and for a moment, just enough calm came for me to ask one question with one word.

“How?”

A scream broke that calm, one so thin it could have cut glass. It was a scream of rage, a scream of surprise, a scream that was filled with total retribution. I knew who it was. I feared her. It was the Grey Sorceress.

“Now!” Lysander shouted, his voice weak, his frame weaker.

The roots sprung away, freeing him, and he slumped to the bluff as it retracted into the forest, and the clouds rose again, and the chaos returned, and the troll army roared its raggedy battle cry, and the Grey Sorceress sent forth her evil horde.

I dragged Lysander into the forest, his body limp, coated in blood, some his, mostly the trolls. Vellara was there, and she took him from me, and her chants filled me as well as him, renewing my energy, scrubbing the horror from me, and reviving him.

Then Leyathel was by my side, and she handed me a sword, a fine blade of elven steel, its haft bejeweled with aventurine. It was a treasure, and in any other circumstance, I would have thanked her profusely, perhaps dared a kiss. But it wasn’t that time, as the fog of war enveloped us, the tendrils of the sorceress’s dread mist entered the elven woods.

“Quick!” I called to Vellara, “Do something—we need some protection.”

It was four against a hundred, perhaps more, not odds I would have gone with. Vellara nodded, all pretense of elven superiority gone, her doubt cracking the shell of her isolation and fear bleeding through. She lifted her hands, her aura intensifying, shining with emerald brilliance to coat the troll’s mists in something magical, but turned sinister, their intent staining it, souring her purity. In the shadows, there came their first appearances: the glint of an axe, the red of maddened eyes, and the yellow of rotten fangs.

“What devilry has she in there,” I whispered, breathless, my fear mixed with something new. It was exciting, like I was meant for this dire situation, like I thrived for it. I pulled at it, needing its youth and welcoming it, and calm filled me, a change from my usual rage. I then noticed things hitherto unseen. Our position was terrible, but not unsalvageable. We were open on four sides, six if you counted the sky and forest floor. Six sides, only four of us—not great fighting odds.

“Move between those trees,” I said, and we did, and they covered our flanks. “Vellara, can you thread a wall of something behind us?”

She didn’t answer, but her magic gained a new focus and behind us roots bucked and heaved, broke free of the mossed soil and then stitched together.

“More of the same,” I shouted and glanced at my companions.

Lysander had perked a little, though still leant heavily on one great trunk. He had his staff in hand, its orb glowing, illuminating his pale, drawn face, eyes deep in their sockets.

“You good?” I asked him, tracking the flashes and glints as the mist thickened.

“No,” he said, “but I’m better than I was.”

“You?” I asked Leyathel but she said nothing, looking straight ahead, her mouth slowly opening and tears meandering down her powder-white cheek. “What abomination is this?” she asked, then said, “Oh no,” and her shoulders sagged, and she looked beaten. “Oh dear God no!” she wailed, broken.

It was Nathanofel, or some twisted version of him forged in the fires of hell and sculpted by the Grey Sorceress herself. He was barely recognizable beyond his abnormally large frame, his sharp face and arrow-like eyebrows. Gone were his green eyes, replaced with fiery red. Gone were his pale features, his skin mottled and crazed, charred black, ember grey, flaking, crazing, brilliant red lines showing through. His once shining greaves and bracers had blackened, and his cloak was of that color too. He was no elf, not then. He was something that needed to be put out of its misery.

“Nathanofel,” I breathed, barely able to comprehend the depths of his corruption, to accept the horror of the Grey Sorceress’s meddling.

“Daniel,” he said, his voice no longer high and songful but dark and rumbling.

“Nathanofel,” I said. “You’re looking a trifle peaky. Do you need a tonic? Perhaps a healing spell? Vellara, can you help?”

“You die now,” Nathanofel said, which I found a trifle short of him, but he’d never seemed the chatty sort.

He growled, some sniveling sound that seemed to signal to the wind because it whipped up ferociously, spinning the mists into mini vortices which danced about the moss, boring into it, picking it up and sending it about.

Leyathel stepped forward, tugging at my arm and moving past me. “Nathanofel,” she said. “Remember, remember what you were.”

“Who speaks?” he said.

She sagged a little then, like his slight meant the world to her, and not in a good way. “Do you not recognize your Queen?” When he didn’t answer, she continued, reaching out, resting her hand on his bracers. “It is me, Leyathel,” said she. “You don’t have to do this.”

He had his sword. It was long, more suited to slugging than fighting, and certainly not a typical elven blade. If I could avoid his first few strokes, then I had hope. But a thought gripped me, and I knew it was one I’d had before. Just how did you kill something that was already dead?

“My Queen,” he said, though every part of him visibly resisted. Then he strained, barely grinding his words out, every neck muscle taut, veins popping. “Kill me.”

It was all the invitation I needed. I jumped forward and thrust, aiming for his belly. It was always good to weaken an opponent, and a few stabs to the belly usually did the trick. He barely reacted, his lumbering form appearing to lack his old dexterity. I pierced him, the tip of my new sword slipping into his gut. But there was no blood, no cry of pain, instead, he drew his mighty sword back and prepared to take us all in one fell swoop. So I skipped back to afford myself room for the next strike, I sliced at his crooked elbow, and it was like hitting steel bone. “Goddammit,” I cursed and readied to counter his inevitable attack, futile though it might be.

His strike came, an arc so slow and terrible that it entranced me momentarily. Lysander shot a scarlet fireball at him. Leyathel backed into the root wall, and I prepared my stance, readying to attempt deflection rather than risk shattering my nice new sword. Then, as I winced and waited, a root shot from the soil, coated in Velarra’s verdant magic, and it grabbed his wrist, pushing his sword up and letting it trace a line above us. Lysander’s magic landed, exploding, firing his clothes, spotting like blazing tar.

“More of the same,” I shouted, stabbing him once more with the same negligible effect. “My sword is no good.”

Lysander shot another, and a second root curled around his boot. I hacked at his arm, seeing if I couldn’t un-limb him. He struck me with his free fist, my jaw cracking as the force of it sent me sprawling. More roots came, seemingly gaining confidence, or perhaps it was Vellara getting in her stride.

“It is mine to put him out of his misery,” Leyathel said, and brilliant white flames crawled along her sword’s edge, and she slid forward, close, so close to him that one strike from his mighty sword would end her. She struck then, a diagonal cut that sliced his shoulder and shattered his upper ribs. I winced at the ease with which she’d ruined him, the dread simplicity of it all, and, if I’m honest, wondered why she’d waited.

Leyathel set about her one-time servant with a clinical simplicity that had both me and Lysander watching awestruck. She was no feeble elf queen, but a warrior in the waiting, and between her and Vellara, they reduced poor Nathanofel to chunks which spat and hissed as they kissed the wet moss.

I fancied asking her a few questions, mostly revolving around sharing certain information before a battle rather than during, but as Nathanofel lay in smoldering, so the Grey Sorceress’s minions finally showed themselves, as did Okanau’s enraged trolls, and we had barely time to exchange a glance.

We formed up, I and Leyathel in front, Lysander and Vellara behind. The battle with Nathanofel had exposed both our strengths and weaknesses, and it was time to take as many of the foul creations with us before we’d inevitably be overrun. It had been brief. It had been fun.

They came at us then, and we fought. There were misshapen ones, their faces twitching with pain, trying to rearrange themselves. They hacked at us, strokes jerky, leaving their limbs exposed, and we dispatched them with ease. Leyathel moved silkenly by my side, her blazing sword showing no mercy, giving no quarter. She was magnificent, the complete warrior, and perfection too. She’d kept her talent hidden, or perhaps we’d unleashed it—shown her what was possible with rage, with hopelessness, what could be achieved by stepping out of one's comfort zone. Or had it all been charade? Had the meekness of the elves been nothing more than a bluff?

There were ghouls, gargoylian abominations, creatures that had strayed into Okanau’s shade only for the Grey Sorceress to rearrange their features and reform their minds. They leapt at us, and we countered. They ran at us, and we blocked. They flew at us, and we smote them in their droves. We were as one, my Queen and I, and if a thing broke through, if too many attacked at once, the Lysander was there with his fiery magic or Vellara with her roots.

There were other things inside that swirling mist. Things with little form, dark thoughts, black verses, evil sprites, and enraged elementals, and these we could not kill, nor could we blunt their attack, and slowly but surely, these wore us down. It took Leyathel’s beauty to fight them, Vellara’s roots to consume them and the land’s grace to bury them, but each victory came at a cost, one we couldn’t conceive at the time, but it did manifest.

There was once vibrant green moss underfoot. Then it was dry, crusted, and lifeless. There were once green leaves over us, but they fell, blighted by the pox. Slowly, the purity of the elves was eaten away, and evil took root in their forest.

Then the trolls came, each twice as tall as a man. They were enraged beyond what normal trolls could be—fired up by the sorceress, foaming at the mouth, blue veins popping on their massive foreheads. They came at us with clubs, with great axes, with daunting hammers, and they crowded our little spot, each of them sure they’d get the killing strike.

I tired, going down on one knee, struggling to rise. “There’s too many!” I said.

Leyathel did the same, beaten back by the ferocity of their blows. “Where are they?” she asked.

A root shot over me, but gone was its unsullied perfection, replaced with knots and gnarls, scabs and sores, black fungus eating its length. It speared one, tip steaming as rank troll blood coated it. Then it shattered, splintering into a thousand pieces, and Vellara sagged, her magic spent, her life close to its end. Lysander grabbed her, pulling her to him. “We need to get her out of here!” he screamed.

But there was nowhere to go, and slowly, her root wall began to unravel.

I swapped out my sword for my hand axes, the fighting close and bloody. Troll breath overcame me, troll blood coated me. Their numbers were endless, their fury only matched by mine, as slowly, gradually, I descended into my madness. Then I saw nothing but glimpses. A troll arm spun off into the murk, a face split in two, teeth and fangs splintering all around. Nothing was complete, everything a snapshot of my anger.

“We have to go!” Leyathel cried, her beauty doused in gore.

But there was nowhere. I understood that. If the forest fell, the castle, Kanazar, wouldn’t stand a hope—its infancy its weakness. Their rage, their numbers, their strength. The Grey Sorceress had come too soon for me, and she would take my early triumphs and stamp them into the black dirt.

Then the sound of a horn. Such a thing was out of place among the shouts and snarls of the trolls. It came again, along with the thwick- thwack of arrows, and it came again accompanied by the thunder of hooves.

A glow came upon me. It was like being soaked in warm blood or walking into the sun after a long time in the shade. It rippled through me, and my legs woke, bent beneath me then demanding to rise. My sword arm gained strength, and my fury, which had waned by then, rekindled, and as I buried my axe deep in a foul troll’s neck, as the press of them sent me tumbling back, I knew some healing spell had been tossed my way.

My axes blurred as I fought, hacking and slashing; troll blood flowed like a summer thunderstorm, drenching everything in my path. I fought in a zone of desperation; always surrounded by more enemies. Time had no meaning as I was an instrument of death.

Then the press toppled me over, and I thought the end had come, and I lay there, buried under a mound of bloodied trolls. My breath came in stolen gasps, troll blood spewing into my open mouth, my arms pinned, my legs lost to a tangle. Still, I hacked at them. Still, I tried to kill as many as I might. There was no room—no room, there was no room.

It came to me again, that long shield wall, that breathless press, the hacking and the killing, the screams of men dying where they stood. Anderlay. Sand and sea. Oh, my dear Anderlay!

Then the horn sounded, and it was close, and it offered me hope even though there was none.

“Get off me!” I cried. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe.

Then something changed within that fog, under the press of the trolls. A hand gripped me, but no talons punctured my skin. A troll shifted, sliding, body limp. A face came into view, hair as white as snow. Then it was gone, replaced by shouting. Then it was there again.

“Sleeping on the job, my Lord,” said Greg, and he pulled me free, but dropped me instantly, a scythe in hand, silver swinging, trolls falling.

I staggered, barely able to stand, one axe in hand, the other lost. From the fog came a troll, its hammer raised. I aimed an exhausted swing at it, missed, my body taken with its momentum, staggering, falling, on one knee, then up. It turned, mist swirling around it like a cloak, mouth moving, chattering, spitting unintelligible curses at me.

There it was again, that warmth, that energy, rippling, filling, sating. The troll came at me again, this time I had it. I jumped, twisting in midair and bringing my axe to bear, aiming for its neck, slicing its face—half its jaw gone, blood gushing. It staggered on, and I buried my axe in its back, severing its spine and cutting the strings that worked its legs. I grabbed its hammer, then quickly discarded the idea when I could hardly lift it.

“This yours?” Gregory asked and handed me my axe.

Then that damn horn again—or was it, Hell yeah, that horn again? More hooves, closer this time. The mists broke, and two horses flashed by, riders with swords, iron on flesh, gone, hidden by the mists, hooves receding. Trolls fell but more came.

Gregson was by my side, pitchfork in hand, stabbing wildly. I swung at a troll, but it dropped before my hit landed, an arrow shattering its head. Some twisted abomination crawled over it, arms a foot longer than they should be, hairless, wide-eyed. It launched at me, clawing at my face. I swung too late, falling back again, rolling on instinct, over it then, raining down blows, chopping it to mush. Gregson pulled me off, shoved me towards more, and my axe sang, my energy returned, and they fell.

More hoofbeats. More swords. The call of the horn. Small scenes played out in the fog while all around stank of blood and voided bowels. Greg’s hair no longer white, his neckerchief crimson. Gregson’s mouth opened, a cry trying to pierce the din and he ran at a troll, pitchfork levelled. All the while the fog, the damnable fog, robbed of vision, my world no more than a few ghoulish feet in breadth.

They streamed through our weary ranks—my army of three. Elves, green and fresh, hair as white as snow and faces pure and free, swords virgin, spears unblooded. They hit the trolls, carving through them fresh against weary, and a slither of sunlight touched me, and it was heaven.

I sank to my knees and turned my face upward, and I wondered how, and for a moment I thought it was over.

“You took some finding,” Greg said, his hands on his knees, his breaths coming in gasps.

It struck me that I didn’t know where I was. That somewhere along the line I’d burst from the trees and rushed through the fog. Of Lysander, Leyathel and the others, there was no sign.

“I think I got a little carried away.”

Greg grunted. “That you must have.”

Hooves thundered once more, and Gemmerson pulled up, sabre dripping with dark blood.

“The elves are routing them, little blighters have their tails up. I think you’ve created some monsters there.”

“Lysander? The Queen?”

He grinned. “I think she’s mourning your loss, and he’s drinking it away. I’ll get note to them that we’ve found you. Though the gods alone know how you’ve got this far.”

“Broadchurch?”

“Operated a flanking movement. Turned half their number away from the forest and allowed us to carve them from the middle. Brilliant really, although I fear our infantry is decimated.”

And then he was gone, chasing trolls, sabre high. Gregson had taken a bad cut to the side, so Greg helped him back, and I watched as they went, the line of the elven forest a few hundred yards back, and what a welcome sight it was too. I yearned to be back there, in its moss-soaked wonderland, under those broad canopies, the smell of leaf and bark abundant, and her, Leyathel, and further, in my castle, Anna, and sometime later there would be Alex.

The elven trees, my unexpected sanctuary, in plain view until a mist finger curled around me, thickening, stifling my scene. I brushed it out of the way, but my hand passed right through it. I brushed it again, my arm slowing as the mist thickened, soon fog, soon as solid as my arm, soon wrapped around me, constricting me, pulling me.

“No!” I screamed as the tendril lifted me over the advancing elves, over the retreating trolls and to the heart of The Great Shade, to the Grey Sorceress.

CHAPTER 21

The Grey Sorceress stood before me. I brushed myself down, a little annoyed that the giant, foggy tentacle had simply dumped me from on high and left me to crash through her caravan’s tarp to smash onto its planked floor while taking out a rather simple, but from what I’d gathered during my brief glimpse of it, elegant, drinks table. But I supposed on balance it was quite the impressive entrance. So there was that.

She was an imposing figure, not in stature, more a presence kind of thing. The grey aspect of her name began to make sense for her hair was of that color, though she was not in a way elderly. She was around my age, in looks at least. Magic was a tricky beast when it came to assessing such things. For instance, a thousand-year-old warlock could resemble a youth, but only in looks. The sorceress was young. I could tell by the way she held herself, the tilt of her head as she appraised me and the freshness in her eyes. No amount of magic could ease the burden of time from weighing down one’s shoulders, and hers were straight, as was her posture.

“You are named Daniel Cutterson,” she said, her voice soft but commanding, stiff with annoyance.

She brushed a stray hair from her face. It hung long, evenly parted, and tidy. Her eyebrows were darker, thick but not bushy, and under, her eyes were colored silver. I continued my rise, not feeling, nor wishing to show any fear. I’d found myself in worse positions quite recently, and this was preferable to being crushed by ten or twenty dead and dying trolls. “It is the one I’m currently using, yes. I take it you’re the Grey Sorceress. I think that even a child could have added more flair to that name.” I was standing by then and assessing my likely options for escape.

There was the rather large hole in the roof, of course, and a door behind her. A dozen windows punctured the wooden walls, but none were open. It was quite the substantial caravan and furnished to suit a Lady taking a long ride. Yet something appeared off. Why would someone so powerful wish to travel with trolls? The place stank of their sweat and mess.

“My name is Morgan, Grey Sorceress is a name given to me, not one chosen by me. The distinction is important.”

“What do your friends call you?” I asked on impulse. For a psychopathic killer, my then mortal enemy, and the orchestrator of the army I had recently fought, she was quite beautiful, almost fragile.

She sat upon a cushioned couch, the type strained by multiple buttons and invariably uncomfortable. “That, I will decline to answer.”

“Because you have none?”

She sat upright, her slender hands poking from her grey robe, a light affair of cotton, not wool, and certainly not suited to a battlefield. “A spiteful thing to say, but not unexpected. Someone who sees themselves as the champion of all things good is invariably hiding a much darker side.”

“Just an observation,” I said and sat on a couch behind me, the shattered table between us. “And I might remind you that I am not the one that sits in a patch of darkness that is consuming all in its path.”

She smiled, but dipped her head demurely, which was slightly off-putting and knocked me somewhat from my kilter. “How else is a girl to get the attention of a newly birthed Lord?”

“You wanted my attention? Why? I am as weak as a newborn pup.”

“Hardly,” she said. “I take it your memory is foggy?”

“As foggy as the mists surrounding us, yes. I know things I shouldn’t, and I don’t know others I should. And vague memories haunt me—there is that.”

“Your wizard bested my troll. Is he as weak as a newborn pup?”

“He is. The only mystery is how he did it, not whether he is strong.”

She was surprised by that. “You don’t know how?”

“Not a goddamn clue.”

“It was fortunate but sad in its own way. Sad for him.”

“How so?”

“His current greatest talent is self-destruction. I should have seen that coming. He was very sly in that matter.”

“He was very drunk. I doubt he knew.” I laughed then. The irony was huge. Had Lysander’s biggest flaw turned out to be our salvation? “So, the troll—?”

“Okanau imploded, his grief was too much to bear. He saw himself as a thousand times worse than Lysander assumes himself. It is why he clawed his eyes out. He couldn’t stand to see the wizard’s perfection in the face of his self-loathing.”

“All things are relative,” I said, a little too stunned to come up with something better.

“It was fortune?”

I pursed my lips, debating whether to tell the truth or not. I chose it as it would probably annoy her more than a lie. “Yes. We had nothing.”

Her mask slipped, her recent neutrality turning to anger that flashed across her, gone before it stuck, but not unnoticed. “Then nothing won this round.”

“Round?”

“Did you think you’ve won the war? This is but the start, Daniel Cutterson.”

“Unless?” I sensed we were negotiating, otherwise, I’d be dead.

“Unless?”

“Oh, come on! You had a fog tendril pick me up and bring me here. You could have had me impaled on a spear, shot through with a hundred arrows, hung there while trolls sliced me with their axes, any number of things.” I thought for a moment. “I’ll wager it was harder to bring me here and avoid their wrath than not, especially as I stood with Lysander while he destroyed their leader.”

“Which means?”

I thought for a while. “Which means, you want something from me.”

“Perhaps I want to see you suffering.”

“I’ll wager whatever you want entails that.”

“Say I did want something,” she said, rising and approaching a sideboard where she poured two drinks. “Wine?”

“Would be lovely,” said I, relaxing and knowing I had some reprieve at least.

She handed it to me, then returned to her seat. “Say I did want something, what price could I exact on you to make sure you did it?”

“Why not ask? I might be going in that direction anyway.”

“You might, yes.” She paused. “No, you will be. You certainly will be. You won’t be able to resist. Perhaps I need you to travel there sooner than you wish?”

I sipped my drink. It was wine, blood-red wine and a little fruity for me. “Tart,” I said. “I prefer the elven wine. You?”

“I find their wine like them, sickly sweet,” she said.

I wondered at the surreal-ness of it all. Talk of elven wine had evoked images of Leyathel, and all of a sudden, I was in the mood to be with her and not with this witch. “So, what is it you want of me?”

She laughed then, and it was a chill laugh. “In a hurry to get back and celebrate your victory?”

Something in her manner made me wary. She should have been a little more miffed at the way Lysander had slaughtered her hero—how the elves, Broadchurch and company had decimated her ranks. But she wasn’t put out in the slightest. If anything, she was acting like she was the victor.

“I am,” I said, my honesty getting the better of me. “I find female elf queens far more pliable while celebrating a great victory.”

“I doubt you need a few dead trolls to secure what you want. I imagine you’re quite the charmer.”

“It’s been said,” I admitted. “And if I was ever in the mood for a mad witch, then rest assured you’d be my number one target.”

She stiffened then, like my barb had hit some mark or the other. “My bed can’t be won by charm. Trolls have a better chance at the moment than you,” she snapped.

A more hurtful remark, there wasn’t. “Ouch,” I said, wincing. “But you still haven’t answered my question.”

“Answer mine first. What purpose did Okanau serve?” She leant forward, her cloak opening slightly revealing a plunging neckline of some proportion, and, nestled in her ample cleavage was a silver necklace from which hung a multifaceted moonstone gem, a light inside, like a tiny, trapped sprite.

I sucked my lips in, a dread conclusion forming in my mind. I hadn’t thought, hadn’t wondered—hadn’t tracked back when I’d had the chance. Where had The Shade started? Why had it moved so slowly?

“Was it all a charade to get my attention?” I asked as she’d already alluded to that.

“In part.”

I closed my eyes as a pit in my gut opened up. “To draw the elves out.”

“A pleasant by-product.”

Which left only one thing, and I thought, and I remembered back, and I saw the moss frazzling, the leaves dropping, and the bark cracking. And I remembered Lysander’s scorn for the elves and their purity. And I knew then, I knew her intent.

“To bring evil into their forest.”

She pouted and then said, “To kiss their purity and mix it with corruption. The blight of the elves, Daniel, that is where we are.”

“Say it. Utter your curse.”

“My curse?” She extended her finger, tapping her nose before licking her fingertip and pointing at me. “Your curse. The blight of the elves begins this day, and each day that blight will increase, and before the rise of the next moon, it will have consumed a third of their lands, and a third thereafter shall it lay all asunder until everything is lost to them and they, and their precious trees, become dust. Only you, Lord of Wood, only you can save them.”

I sagged under the weight of her curse, understanding and marveling at her plan—the way I had been maneuvered into position. “How do I stop it?”

She clapped then. “Now you’re talking. Now you’re understanding. Now you see things clearly. How? How do you stop it? Let me ask you this, what can you possibly do that I cannot?”

I could think of nothing, for all I had, all I was, at that point in time, was nothing compared to her. I shrugged. “I am at a loss. What do I have that you don’t?”

She frowned. “I am truly disappointed, but then, you are a pup, as you say. You have this, Daniel Cutterson. You have credibility. You, sir, are a Lord, and as a Lord, you can seek parlay with your kin.”

I frowned. “You want me to talk to another Lord?”

“I do.”

“Why?”

“They have something I want.”

“Well, spit it out.”

She stood and paced the room. “Very well. Beyond the mountains lay the lands of the Lords and Ladies. You must travel, Daniel, to the gateways of those lands. There stands a castle, and it is called Brightwater, proudly protecting the lands beyond. It acts as a buffer between the civilized world of Lords and Ladies and these wild plains. The ruler of Brightwater is Lord Bright, and he holds all monsters accountable. He slaughters goblins in their droves, enslaves elves, chains trolls, and uses them in his mines, to build his walls and to cut his stone. The fae power his lamps and heat his water, and fairies scrub his floors.”

“Sounds quite the man,” I said, flippantly.

“Who is or isn’t the monster is a matter of point of view,” she said, and I conceded that point.

“You want me to kill him?”

“You can if you want, although treachery such as assassination within castle boundaries carries stigma amongst your kind, and that is costly. No, what I want is simple. His high priestess is called Vale, and she has a staff. That staff is called Finnigan, and Finnigan carries a stone such as this.” She held up the moonstone. “Bring me the stone, and I will cease the blight.” She smacked her lips together. “I’ll even let you keep the staff if you can persuade it to give it up stone without a fight.”

“You talk as though the staff has a mind of its own.”

She laughed then. “What makes you think it hasn’t?”

I glossed over the comment. A lot of weird things had happened since I woke up in Kanazar. “I do this thing and the blight ends?”

“It does.”

“Then consider it done. Once I find a way down the mountains, of course. Got any tips for that?”

“Befriend the goblins and they will be only too happy to help you. They, of all the allied races, have the greatest hatred of Bright.”

“The goblins,” I repeated.

“Seek out their shaman, Kanak, he will aid you.”

I close my eyes, screwing their lids tight and pinched the bridge of my nose. “I don’t suppose he has a staff with a jewel atop it and is the keeper of the cauldron of Annuck?”

“That is he,” she said.

“Then we have a slight problem.”

* * *

It was a long walk back to the forest’s edge, but it gave me time to think. I had to decide how to handle Leyathel. There was, of course, honesty. I could tell her everything, say we will prepare and then carry out Morgan’s quest, retrieve the moonstone and save the day, but felt that she might demand immediate action and that I would have to either argue with her or acquiesce. That would lead to drama, and I did not do drama. So, as I halved the distance to the forest, I decided that the whole truth was out.

That left me needing a lie, and the question was how large the lie would be. At some point, I’d have to explain my actions, and that might be tricky. Plus, there was the small point that I had been abducted by the sorceress, survived, and was now merrily walking back completely unscathed. It would be pure foolishness to pretend we’d swapped pleasantries and I’d persuaded her to turn around and hightail it back to wherever she came from.

There was, though, a middle ground. One where I could tell the whole truth but conceal some of it—a lie by omission if you will. That settled, I emerged from the depths of my muse, picked my way through a few dozen troll corpses, and fell straight into Leyathel’s arms.

“We couldn’t believe it,” she said. “We thought you dead, but knew you lived.”

It was mixed messages. I furrowed my brow in confusion, then relaxed it as I bathed in her happiness. In truth, I was happy too, glad to be away from Morgan and her cold, steel heart. Yet, blight aside and murdersome intent, the Grey Sorceress was quite intriguing. I cast that thought aside, stamping on it and squashing it into the ground. “How did you know I lived?”

“Because I lived too,” said Lysander as he broke the shadows and came to me, arms open. “And I’m glad the wait is over. The battle sobered me up, and I was reluctant to get drunk again until I knew whether I’d have to pursue you.”

We hugged then, and I was truly pleased to see him. “Well, pop a cork, my friend, we have respite, but not for long.”

“You talked to her?” he asked and Vellara appeared, using her staff as a crutch, the end of her big toe blackened.

My heart sank. “What’s the matter with your toe?”

“It touched the black of the trolls. Their blood stains our forest. It has burnt the moss and mold grips the tree roots.”

I knelt by her, lifting her foot to my nose. It stank of rot, and I feared the worse. So, I told them my half-truth. Well, all of it up to a point.

“And that’s as much as I know. The curse will grow, and there is only one solution, and that is to find a staff called Finnigan, and upon it is a moonstone. If we bring that moonstone back, then Morgan will lift the curse, and all will revert to how it was.”

“But we don’t know where this moonstone is,” said Lysander.

“Only that a priestess called Vale wields it. Look, Kanazar might know. Someone must know. I vow I will find it and reverse this thing.”

“And so it comes,” said Leyathel. “The curse of us all. It was said it was foretold a lord would rise and so would begin our decline. I thought it because of you, now I find that you are the only one that can save us.” She turned to me, pulling me close. “What should we do?”

My words formed a lump in my throat, the lie weighing them down, pulling them back. But deep down, I knew it was necessary—knew it was the right course. “We join forces. The blight will consume all. We take the trees out of its path—create a fire break—and use those trees to feed the castle with the wood it needs. We give the blight nothing, slow its growth and refuse to feed it, and all the while, we hunt out this Vale. I have the mind it is a Lordly name, and there is a room in the Lording House that resembles a pool.”

“What of it?” she asked.

“There is fog in my mind, but I think it is a way of talking to other lords. I will ask Kanazar what level the stronghold has to be for it to activate. It is our only hope.”

“My only hope,” said Vellara, and we all looked at her toe.

“There might be another way,” said Gregory, as he came in from the wings. “When one of us gets black finger from the cold, it’s lose the finger or die. Most everyone chooses the finger.”

“You want to cut off my toe?” said Vellara.

He shrugged. “Not particularly, but if that crawls to your foot, you’ll lose that, and so on, until there’s nothin’ left of you.”

She closed her eyes and nodded. “Then do it.”

I turned away and let Gregory do his work, Vellara’s screams filling the woods. A gut feeling told me it wouldn’t work, that Vellara and the forest’s health were connected. But in some twisted way, I had got exactly what I needed. Barnaby would get all the lumber he needed and more, and I could grow the castle, close on level eight and Alex’s release from Limbo.

As I strolled away, Leyathel’s threaded her arm through mine and pulled me closer. “You must rest.”

“I need to understand these lands,” I said. “My gut tells me you are all monsters—that is my heritage. But my situation demands I know better—my relationship with you tells me it must be better.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Tell me of kinfolk and fae. Help me understand the knockers and trolls.”

She laughed then. “We shall return to my tree, and we shall bathe, and we shall eat, and there I will tell you all.

* * *

I bathed alone, which was not quite how I’d imagined things going on the long walk back. While we strolled, she barely let go of me, holding me tight in case another misty finger scooped me up and took me back to the dread sorceress. She talked of nothing important during that pleasant trek with no mention of goblins, the fae, or of other monster races. Instead, she told me about the fabric of her land, the function of the trees and the strictures that nature put in place that inhibited their ability to help the elves—a roaming root was about the sum of it. Those great oak trees, for instance, couldn’t race around the land collecting enemies and flinging them about. They were rooted, and their power was limited by it.

She told me of the foundations of Vellara’s magic, the power of various flora and the properties inherent in some rocks and minerals. There was much to it, but it was not powerful magic, more subtle manipulation. I could also see that the elves were also limited in power, and when I questioned her on her numbers, she looked at me as if I were odd. I got the impression they had them, but either they increased so slowly as not to be noticeable or not at all.

My numbers were growing nicely, and I doubt that I’d have survived the press of the trolls without their increased influence. My constitution certainly saw me through, and my strength helped me battle when the rage took me. Yet, once again, I thought myself missing something.

There was a link between Kanazar’s power and the stronghold’s level, and I wondered if the same wasn’t true of me, perhaps even Lysander and the others. This also led me to question whether Anna would grow now that she was inextricably linked to me.

It gave me much to consider, and while the lull after the great battle was welcome, there was still unfinished business in what I considered the first phase of my new life. I had secured my wood, but the agreement needed ratifying. I also needed a source of stone to begin the next phase because that resource would begin to become scarce. Then there was iron, soon that resource would come into play.

But, as the bathwater warmed me, eased the tension in my joints and calmed my busy mind, I thought it prudent to deal with what was in front of me, and that was a meal with a beautiful Elven queen where we would sit at a table that had shown promise before. And so, I rose, dried myself and dressed in the cloak provided, and I joined Leyathel, the table once more resplendent with food, that again did not merit description, and wine that was as sweet as her.

She, leaf garland in her hair, sat close to me, and we ate, and then she talked of the races that dominated the wilder lands, and I didn’t interrupt, save the odd question, but I did revel in her soft tones, and the touch of her hand when it rested on mine.

“I should start with the elves,” she said, “for my view is slanted there, as you can imagine. We are the custodians of nature, the law of the land, or we were a long while ago. Once, there were no Lords, and there were no Ladies, and forests and long pastures dominated all but the mountains and the oceans. Elves clustered in the forests’ centers, and our power radiated out from there. But our magical influence spread only a little farther than our bounds, and where it did it enhanced the land and offered some animals sanctuary from others. That we didn’t dominate all gave the land much-needed variation. We saw that. We applauded it.

“Beyond our influence were trolls and knockers and the anarchy that came with those. They were chaotic in their ways, and the land was all the better for them. There were the fairies and the peskies, sprites lived in streams and brooks or flew on the wind or lurked in crags and crevices. Hundreds of beasts grazed on the long pastures, and others fed on them, and so on and so forth, left alone as the magical races preferring the shade.

“But even amongst that long grass, small spirits wove little dwellings, and there were gnomes and other races closer to man. In the mountains, dwarves built their stone homes, and they rarely mixed with any, and under, the goblins scratched out their lives, marauding now and then, as is their way. It wasn’t a land without conflict, as all races had their borders, and those can cause friction, but it was the rise and fall of day, the ebb and flow of the tides, and no more than that.

“Then came man. Some say he arrived on ships, settling on the coast then bludgeoning his way inland. Others say the castles simply were—one day not, the next there—and the Lords and Ladies spawned about the same time. All I know, all any of us know, is that our peace was shattered like a mighty hammer taken to a frozen lake. They were not happy with sharing land—land they saw as theirs, and they razed our forests and slaughtered our kin. They brought weapons beyond ours, and their magic wasn’t natural but manufactured, and we suffered, and we died.”

I squeezed her hand then, wanting to say that we weren’t all like that, but knowing it was scant consolation wrapped in a lie. That I was like that, and it was our way, and I could offer no apology for that. So, I remained silent at that point, and let her continue.

“Troll blamed goblin, and goblin blamed dwarf, and all blamed the elves for the human incursions, because, after all, we had appointed ourselves custodians of the land, our arrogance our only qualification. But, as droves of kinfolk left the lower lands, most starving, wounded or suffering blight. The dwarves opened up the mountain passes, and the goblins revealed their secret ways and paths. For the first time we were united, and we came to this land. Here a fragile peace held, soon returning to our usual tensions.”

“So, when my castle appeared the first time?”

She smirked then. “That Lord was fragile. He saw an opportunity at first but soon tired of it. We played our merry games with him, the goblins attacking his fields while the knockers probed his southern flanks. We toyed with his mind, destroying his wall with roots or pinning his guards with our arrows. Slowly, we whittled him to naught. But in truth, there wasn’t much wood on him in the first place, and he abandoned that place, and it fell into decay, and it stayed like that for a long, long time.”

“And then I came along.”

“And then you and The Shade appeared soon after. Whether by coincidence or design, both hatched, and we were left with choices to make. The goblins insisted on attacking, and the knockers will always side with that plan. We were swayed that way, but Izzy and Sarah talked, and that is a story you must hear from them, and she told Izzy of a strong Lord, but one who appeared to be fair, so we watched you.”

“Watched me lumbering around like a clueless ox.”

She laughed, like glitter falling. “Yes, a little. But we saw what you did to those knockers, and we knew you lived by a code, and that code was simple to understand, not deceitful, not changeable. It was close to ours, to that of the troll and goblin. They’d chosen to test you again, and you’d paid them back twice over.”

“It cost me too.”

She ignored my words, consumed by hers. “Ah! Alas, the demise of the elves!” she lamented. “You made us recognize how far we’d fallen, and for that, we carry shame.”

“There is no need to have shame,” I said. “Join me. Get your people to train with mine—the archers can use my range, the swordsmen my barracks and the riders my stables.”

“But Broadchurch?”

“Will make your men spit feathers, but they have a choice. Be weak like you are, or grow strong with me, grow strong with Broadchurch.”

She bit her lip. “It’s a tough choice.”

We both laughed at that, and she pulled my hand to her breast and held it there. I let my eyes linger on her, concluding that I was correct, that the elves had more power than they displayed—had more than they cared to use. She had been far from useless during the fight, after all. “I think you’ll find your power comes back faster than you think.”

“But what will we be? Are we destined to become your slaves, your subjects, or will we remain a proud and independent race?”

“You will carve out a place that suits you. If you wish to live close to my Lording house—if you want to occupy one of those eight spots, then that is your choice.”

“It is not a choice I can make,” she said, “unless you ask me to be one of yours, unless you ask me to be one of your ladies.”

“Then I shall do just that.” I stood, brushed the table clear then picked her up and placed her upon it. Then I kneeled, took her hand, kissed the back of it, then looked up into her summer eyes. “Leyathel, be my Lady of the Wood and help me bring greatness to all.”

She stared down at me. “Greatness? Is that all you want?”

“For now,” I said. “What else is there?”

“Unity,” she said. “How about unity between your race and mine?”

“Then unity is it,” I said, and she pulled me up, her strength surprising, and she clamped her legs around me, drawing me close, a hair’s breadth between us.

“How close should our races be?” she asked, breathless, her mouth slightly open, and her eyes partly closed.

“Intimate,” I said.

She pulled at the rope fastening my cloak and slipped its knot, sloughing the cloth from my shoulder, the garment puddling on the floor. “And now you are naked before me,” she said. “You have no secrets.”

“But you do, my Lady,” I said, a flush filling my face, temples pounding.

“Shouldn’t one have her secrets?”

“No,” I said, my voice an octave higher than it might be. “No, there should be no secrets between us.” There was one, though, and it hung over me like a dark cloud. But I was too far gone for admissions, every inch of me pulsing, wanting her, needing her.

She pulled at her robe’s string, its front falling loose, and I pushed it back, peeling it from her to expose her milk-white skin, her shoulders, breasts, and nipples. I paused, soaking in her beauty, every inch of her nakedness radiant with her light, her aura, her goodness. I wondered then, how such beauty had fought with such fury, and I pondered how powerful she might get once the bonds of her isolation shattered.

Then she slipped from her cloak, and she sat there naked. I very nearly lost control. Her legs were parted, the soft down of her groin exposed. The scent of nature was all around me: the oak of the table, the tang of the food, and the bouquet of wine. All of it mingled with her, the earthiness of her skin and the vibrance of her excitement. I could resist her no more, pushing her back and possessing her, our bodies one—joined groin and mouth.

“My Lady,” I said, my words throaty as I attempted to contain my urgency.

“My Lord,” she replied, and raised her legs, crossing her feet behind me and pulling me in again and again.

The softness of her breasts cushioned me, the probing of her tongue excited me, and our lovemaking drove me to the very height of passion. I found a place where there waited only euphoria, the agony of untimely pleasure, completion, and the joy of a journey started, any awkwardness done.

She smiled up at me as I spasmed, emptying my seed into her, planting our future and cementing our partnership. “Come,” she said, “fill me. For this is the beginning, and there will be no end.”

I shivered, every part of me alive, none of me wanting it to end. Then clarity came, and she was there, under me, and she was no longer Leyathel the Elven Queen but part of something more. There was her and there was Anna, and I understood then that they fitted together as I fitted them.

My power grew once more, and I took her again, there, on that table, in a tree, in a forest, by a castle in the mountains, where I became Lord of Wood.

* * *

Numbers:

Name: Andros Gray

Known Alias: Phillipe of Byouz, Nunez Excalivar, Daniel Cutterson (in play)

Title: Lord of Kanazar

Banner of: None

Banner to: None

Deity: None

Hero: Lysander

Level: Two

Attributes:

Strength – 9

Intelligence – 9

Wisdom – 8

Constitution – 11

Dexterity – 10

Charisma – 10

Harem

2/9 – Anna, Leyathel

Stronghold – Kanazar

Lord – Daniel Cutterson

Stronghold – Level 4

Wall – Level 4

Lording House – Level Two

Population – 111 Cape – 204

Food Consumption – 103.3/160

Storage – Less than 1% full

Buildings

Artisan

Workshop – Level 4

Masons – Level 4

Smithy – Level 4

Military

Barracks – Level 4

Range – Level 4

Stables – Level 4

Watchtower – Level 4

Other

Tavern – Level 4

Resource

Cottages – 12 – Level 3 (12)

Farmsteads – 10 – Level 4 (10) – Production 160

Lumber Mills – 14 – Level 4 (14) – Production 224

Quarries – 4 – Level 2 (2) Level 4 (2) – Production 56

CHAPTER 22

I was a little miffed, I’d admit, that my strength, constitution, and dexterity hadn’t grown at all during the battle with Morgan and her minions. But I wasn’t upset enough to let it spoil my day. I had, after all, gained a much-needed point in wisdom, perhaps because of my handling of the situation, and another in charisma, no doubt awarded for the charm I’d displayed to Morgan and Leyathel. Although, that wasn’t the reason I had a spring in my step, no, one of the reasons was because Leyathel rode by my side as we entered Castle Kanazar’s gates, a few dozen elves behind.

The battle had been as costly to them as us. I’d lost several infantrymen, a precious cavalrymen, and an archer. She’d lost twenty-plus of her kin. Those that came behind us were the first—riders who would train with Gemmerson, archers with Sarah, and melee with Broadchurch. Together we would form a great army, strong enough to protect our borders from monsters and lords alike. It would be the start of something great—a joining of races about a common theme, and fortunately, that was me.

Which was the main reason why I was happy.

I waved away Barnaby’s enquiry telling him that I’d be back, and I told Jensome to crack on with any build when he told me the wall was done. It wasn’t the day for planning. It wasn’t a day for sitting in a stuffy long room in my stronghold and haggling over who would have what lumber and what stone. No, it was a day to rejoice, to celebrate an unlikely victory even though Morgan’s curse hung over us, and we were yet to begin her quest.

I rode through the artisan’s area, and past the stronghold, which sat there yelling at me to call for its upgrade. I rode on to the Lording House, Anna waiting on its steps. We dismounted, but she barred our way.

“You must present her to Kanazar. There she may request her Lady’s House, and the core may or may not grant her wish.”

I tried to judge Anna—to see if she was frosty. After all, we’d only been together a few days, and I’d already brought a second wife home. But her expression displayed no emotion, just simple efficiency, and so, without further ado, we departed, Leyathel and I.

We walked, hand in hand, and quickly came to the stone circle, then descended into the core’s lair. It had changed little since my last visit, but then the stronghold hadn’t upgraded, so nor would it. We stood on the promontory, Kanazar hovering, its globe all about us, its energy crackling, snuffing out stars as it did.

Leyathel’s grip tightened, and her lips formed a tight line. The core was a blatant manifestation of great power, almost certainly contrary to all she believed. Rather than be awed further as it increased its lightning, she relaxed her grip and smiled, taking a step forward until she was at the very edge of the rock. I sensed then that she was offering herself to Kanazar’s power and took a step back, letting her stand on her own.

Lightning cracked all around her, tumultuous, whips of radiant light. There she, arms outstretched, teasing the hovering core, tempting it to pierce her heart with one swift strike. Kanazar’s storm grew, forks of light crackling across its dome, and her radiance shining brightly.

“Who comes before Kanazar?” it asked.

“Oh come on,” I said. “You know very well who stands before you!”

Sometimes the core loved the grandiose.

“I am Leyathel, Queen of the Wolding Forest, Mother of the Oak,” she said.

“And what do you want?”

“Your permission to live within the walls, for my people to join your lord’s, for me to join with your lord.”

“And in return?” it asked.

She hesitated then like the answer was a step too far. Kanazar let fly a slew of lightning bolts that smashed into the globe about us, the resultant cracks, deafening.

“You do not cow me, core,” she shouted, her voice finding strength where my knees lacked it. “I would rather jump than fear you.”

“Brave words,” said Kanazar. “But the question stands.”

“You have my loyalty.”

“No matter?” it said.

She sagged a little, and I wondered why—wondered exactly what the question meant.

“No matter,” she replied.

Kanazar calmed, no lightning coming from it, a soft glow replacing its brilliance. “Then imagine and it will be done.”

She knelt, bowing her head, and I approached her, standing behind, and I waited until she rose.

“It is done,” she said, and we left that place, climbing the steps and coming out, sitting for a while in the stone circle.

“A bit full of itself,” I said. “But I think it means well.”

“It cares only for Kanazar.” She glanced at me. “Never think otherwise.”

“I don’t. It has its plans, and I have mine. Fortunately for me, I am in its plans if mine fail.”

“As am I,” she said.

“Was that what it meant by ‘no matter’?” I asked.

“I swore loyalty no matter what happens to you.”

“Comforting.”

“It cannot survive without you. By swearing my loyalty, it ensures I’ll be around if something happens—no matter what.”

“Then thanks are in order, and thanks go hand in hand with wine. We should go back, and you should get to know Anna and Fiona.”

“Fiona?” she said.

“She keeps the house, cooks and stuff.”

Leyathel lay back, staring at the sky. “I feel I’ve never been so far from tree cover. The sky is so naked, so big, the horizon so broad. How do you do it? How do you not feel so small as to be insignificant?”

“I’ve never lived in a forest. Too cramped,” I replied.

She pulled me close. “Then we must help each other get used to this new way.”

“I think I might enjoy that,” I said.

“I should return to the forest,” she said wistfully, her eyes far away but in that direction. “The blight, I can feel it like a thorn stabbing at me. It will grow.”

I thought about prompting her—about tearing down the trees and making use of their wood before it rotted—but thought it prudent to wait. It was a wise move.

“We will tend the trees closest, but it is not in us to cut them down. You will need to dispatch cutters, and I’ll want the forester Chivers there.”

“I’ve been meaning to ask you about him. How did you all get on?”

“He is close to us. He understands the circles of our way. Last I heard he was returning to you to walk the southern woods—the wild and untamed lands. Perhaps, and I say this without agenda, we can influence that place.”

“I will send him, and tell Jensome to send you his best. We will set up a mill, and it will be done quickly and efficiently.” A thought came to me. “Can you not take a cutting of each and plant a grove hereabouts? I would have no objection to that.”

She reached for me then and pulled me close, kissing me, not with lust or passion, but with the tenderness of budding love. Then she rose and walked east, and I sat there and pondered for a while. But then my grin spread, and I was filled with joy. I had my wood—a whole forest of the stuff, and my army was swollen with elven archers, riders, and melee. I had two beautiful wives as well. But there was a downside, and that was the curse and the quest, but solving that was for another day.

I sprung up, pumped the air with my fist and headed for the stronghold, summoning Barnaby, Lysander, Jensome and Chivers along the way. I left Sarah and Broadchurch out of it. They had their hands full with military matters.

Before long, I sat in the long room. “Chivers, you are to go to Leyathel and arrange to remove all trees in the way of the blight. Jensome will send you builders, and you must pick your best woodcutters. I want no joking or larking, just sombre cutting as if we were felling a God. Got it?”

“I have it. It is a poor day that sees those magnificent oaks toppled.” Chivers replied. He had an easy manner, and when he spoke his words flowed like a river.

“Poor for the oak, but good for us,” I pointed out, which gained me a raised eyebrow from the forester, and given how bushy they were, that took some effort. “I mean that in the most tactful way possible.”

“Of course, My Lord.”

“Daniel, call me Daniel,” I said. “The need for deference is light in this room.”

“Daniel,” he said awkwardly.

I turned my attention to my favorite carpenter, “Jensome, have we enough stone?”

“For upgrading the stronghold?”

“What else?”

“We have. It’ll use up all the blocks we scavenged from the ruins during the early days, plus any new produced, but we’ll scrape through.”

“Scrape through?”

He pushed his hat back and regarded me, talking slowly like I was a little dim. “We need more quarries but we haven’t the labor to dig and setting a random worker in a pit is next to useless.”

“A problem I am aware of and seeking a solution to.”

“More cottages,” Barnaby grunted, coughed, and then spluttered some. “We need to skew the cauldron again.”

I disagreed with him. Barnaby tended to look just in front of his face and no further. “Trouble with that is, Barnaby, unless we have loads of idle quarries, it won’t favor us with stonecutters. Leave it with me.” I tapped the table, debating how much to tell them, then choosing nothing. “Let’s raise the stronghold to five and see where we are. Jensome, will you have spare labor?”

“Some. There’s intricate cornice work on the next build, plus some fancy interlocking stones and a decent amount of joinery. The laborers will be pretty idle fairly quickly.”

“But they can build roads?”

“They can.”

“Then have them do this. Construct good roads between the farms and where we intend to raise barns, then, once that’s done, start extending it towards the goblin caves.”

Barnaby properly spluttered then. “What possible reason could we have for doing that? So they can attack us quicker?”

“Something like that,” I said cryptically. “I want to keep them subjugated, so if they attack, we should engage them quickly and away from the farms.”

It was a weak lie, but one that should keep him from thinking too hard about it.

“While we’re planning,” I said quickly, to get them thinking of something else, “perhaps we should think about a warehouse or barn. They are just made of wood, yes?”

“Up to level five, yes,” Jensome confirmed.

“Then put that next. Gregory’s right, we need to start building stores for winter, especially now we have our elven guests.”

“Will we be living with the monsters or are they residing outside the walls?” Barnaby said, recoiling from me.

His pompous manner riled me instantly.

“I’ll not have that speak in my stronghold. The elves fought well, ask Broadchurch, ask Lysander.”

“Aye,” said Lysander, “they fought well, steward, better than you. Call them monsters again, and I’ll get their witch to grow a thorn tree out of your ass. See how you like that when you sit.”

“They have a witch?” Barnaby spat.

Lysander turned his broody eyes on the steward. “A witch to fear, with black robes and a pointed hat, a crooked wand and a broomstick. Aye, they have a witch, and her skin is green.”

Barnaby paled. “Is this wise?” he asked. “We’ll be in league with—”

“Yes, steward?” Lysander leaned forward, closing the distance between them.

I wanted to put an end to his baiting but was enjoying Barnaby’s discomfort too much. I decided, though, that a more even approach was needed.

“It is wise to meet some elves and then you will discover that they are simple creatures like us, intent only on living their lives. This place we call home is not the land of Lords and Ladies but of other races. We either battle with all or we change.” I stood then, my chair scraping back as my anger was kindled by Barnaby’s tinder. “Is Leyathel a monster, or is she mine and living with me at the Lording House? There are alliances to be won out here, Barnaby, and I intend to have them, but I’ll not worry whether they’re human or not.”

Jensome scoffed. “It’ll be a queer time working with them lot,” he said. “But I doubt they’re any worse than that insufferable lamplighter Greasby.”

“There’s good and bad everywhere,” I acknowledged and let the matter drop. “What about you, Lysander? What do you intend to do with your time?”

“Tonight? Get drunk and lay with one of the new women.”

“Walk with me first,” I said and turned for the door. “Gentlemen, it’s been a pleasure.”

It was dusk, and the castle was silent save the dull thack of arrows. Sarah was a hard taskmaster, and I had no doubt Izzy would prolong the training. It was cool, the taint of wood smoke mixed with herbs wafted from the tavern. I waited for Lysander, both falling into step when he emerged.

“What do you want?” he asked. “If you’re worried about that self-destruction thing, I got it under control.”

We wandered towards the tavern, not by intention, but neither of us turned away.

“Does being under control mean drinking yourself to oblivion, sharing a whore’s bed and sacrificing yourself to a troll?”

“The first two, then yes. The last?” he clapped his arm around my shoulders. “There was no way that troll would beat me. The Grey Sorceress—”

“Morgan?”

“Yeah, her, well, I might have underestimated her.”

We walked on a few more steps, and I realized he’d told me something and nothing. “Do you remember before?”

He laughed. “I remember some things, but it’s like you. I know what a flower is, can even name a dozen, but I couldn’t tell you if I’d ever picked one. I understand the weave of the world but have no clue about the pattern that has gone before.”

“But can you remember if you were always this erratic?”

He laughed then. “Erratic? Is that what you think I am? Mad is most folks' summation. You’re still wondering if it’s the nights I spent with Kanazar, but I can tell you no. The core didn’t make me mad; I was always half-baked. Do I remember my character and all its glorious flaws? Yes, I do. But—” He stopped, then took a step forward and turned on me, finger-wagging and staff planted. “I know, I feel it right here in my gut that I always tried to hide that part of me. Well, no longer, Daniel. I’m unhinged. I’m one paddle short of a waterwheel. I am Lysander, the Mad Wizard, and this time, I’m embracing all my flaws.”

“Is this all some kind of ploy to get a moniker to stick? If you wish to be referred to as the Mad Wizard, just say the word. But you’ll need to twitch your eye a little, perhaps dribble a bit—you know—foam at the mouth.”

He twitched, then twitched again. “Like that?”

“A little spit.”

He grinned and then laughed, and I joined in, and we completed our stroll to the tavern.

We met Jess inside, and Anna was there too, helping out behind the counter. Being my lording wife didn’t excuse her from honest toil. We four sat at a round table by the hearth, and I savored the atmosphere for a while before I spoke.

“I want to run something by you three. With Alex absent, I’m most likely to get an honest opinion from you all than the fiff-faff that Barnaby and Broadchurch give me.”

“Spit it out,” said Jess.

“Very well. We’re at the end of the first part—that bit where wood is so short as to stop everything. That is solved. Stone, part two, we need it, and I think I have a way of getting it.”

“Build more quarries,” Jess said. “Good for business the quarrymen are. Don’t see them one day to the next, but when they’re in they know how to have a good time.”

I nodded across at a small knot of elves. “What do you think of them?”

Jess shrugged. “Don’t say a lot. Fishes out of water. We’ll get them out of their shells. They’ll join in nicely.”

Anna caught my eye, her expression one of fearful curiosity. “You’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking, are you?”

“That depends on—” No! I wasn’t going to play that game, so I spat it out. “Goblins,” I announced. “We need stone. They have stone. It seems to me that our destinies are intertwined.”

I raised my ale mug to my lips and concealed my smirk as I gazed upon their horrified faces, then took a long draught, as, well, why not?

“But they’re…” said Anna, and Jess nodded in agreement.

Lysander laughed—a long and throaty affair that could have been part of his ploy to be named Mad, but was, in all likelihood, just his warped sense of humor. “By the Shade, I like it!”

“By the Shade? Is that a new curse?”

“It is.”

“I’m quite partial to it,” I said.

“Then you may use it too.”

I was just about to thank him when Jess said, “Goblins. You wish to go into business with goblins? No good will come of that.”

“No,” I said, my hand raised in defense. “You misunderstand. I don’t want to bargain with them. I want to become leader of their tribe—I wish to take them over.”

“The goblin cauldron of rebirth,” Anna said.

“The very same.”

Then, Lysander’s laugh did ring through the tavern, and many a fearful look came our way.

* * *

We entered the room, the town table in its center, a shadow cast over it like a veil indicating night had come. Jess had elected to stay behind, work her constant burden and welcome friend in equal amounts. Lysander stayed with her. Ale and women interested him more than my potentially futile plan.

I checked my initial notification over to persuade myself that my intended course of action was the correct one.

Cauldron of Rebirth, Goblin, Annuck Tribe – The Cauldron of Rebirth offers sanctuary to your fallen warriors and subjects. It homes them in a place called Limbo where they may stay until their tally is paid. Should the keeper of the cauldron be slain, then those souls will be lost forever unless the cauldron is claimed as death occurs. Then, all souls within the cauldron can be rebirthed by the new keeper of the cauldron, and they will be loyal to the claimant. He who holds a tribe’s cauldron has sway over that tribe’s loyalty and morale.

Current state of the Cauldron of Rebirth, Goblin, Annuck Tribe – 278/50,000

Morale required for rebirth – 5 units per goblin

It said nothing about my temple having to be a certain level, and if the goblin temple, or whatever version of that they used, had to be, then surely it was. After all, the goblin shaman, Kanak, had been able to summon their dead at will.

I took it from the shelf and placed it on the floor. “What next?” I asked.

Anna looked inside the cauldron. “Looks empty.”

Morale! I needed to use my Morale, but as yet, I didn’t have access to it. Was that the reason that I couldn’t bring Alex back? Could I not access my morale until I had a level eight temple? I flipped through my numbers hunting for it, for some greyed-out tab hitherto unseen.

I found one that held the number of roads I had, their length and their state of disrepair, and it was linked to a logistic officer, but when I selected it, the grey solidified and it became clear, prompting me to appoint someone to the post. There was another marked stores, and I needed a warehouse for that to work, but still, merely selecting it brought it into play. There was a religion tab, an army tab—there were scores of the things. It was like I’d woken them simply by selecting them. Then I saw it, one called Morale, and it was linked to a jester, and it showed gardens, a tavern, a feasting hall, monuments, and an arena. As its writing thickened, a score became clear, and it was a tally of points gained from having all these things and those points were influenced by the number of people, the space, the interaction of folks and the fullness of their bellies.

Mine was a lowly score because I only had a tavern and none of the other things, but as I also had a low population with space to spare and only a few people in Limbo, it appeared my subjects were quite happy with their lot, and so, while my score was small, my morale was high. I could easily afford to lose five points, hell, I could raise all of them without too much fuss.

The only issue was how.

I touched the cauldron, grasping it firmly, then hunted for a tab with its name on it. There, deep within my numbers, colored a dirty green, it was.

Cauldron of Rebirth, Goblin, Annuck Tribe

And then it spoke in my mind.

“Do you wish to raise the dead?” Its voice was sonorous, echoing within me, deep, like the grind of rocks.

“I do,” I said, and Anna looked up, mouthing words at me which I ignored.

“How many do you wish to rebirth?”

“One.”

I waited, holding the cauldron. My Morale tab flashed, and I guessed my tally had been paid. Then remembering that Kanak hadn’t been close to the cauldron—that he’d stood a little away from it—I stood and backed away, and Anna stood too, and we waited.

It smoked, wisps of green spewing from it to pool on the floor and swamp our feet. Anna and I swapped nervous glances, then the deep voice sounded inside me.

“Tanaka, Rock Crafter, highborn female. Rebirth complete.”

A head appeared, bright emerald hair, and it rose, revealing a pale green face, eyes closed, button nose and tight lips. Then shoulders, swamped by her flowing hair, and high breasts covered by a green tunic, ragged but not overly so. Then a body, curvaceous and desirable, and she stepped from the cauldron, her pastel legs, perfection. She opened her eyes, and they were large, violet, and lovely.

“Oh my,” I said, a smile forming on my face.

“You!” she spat. “It was you who killed me!”

To be continued…

Afterwords!

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RETURN OF THE LEGENDARY LORD 2

A LITRPG FANTASY

CHAPTER 1

Well, that makes things a little awkward, I thought.

The brief pause hung heavily in the room. Tanaka, the recently-revived goblin beauty, glared at me, having accused me of her murder while standing in the Goblin Cauldron of Rebirth. Anna was open-mouthed, either astounded by the goblin rock-crafter’s beauty or by her pronouncement. I hoped for the former but suspected the latter. Tension cracked and fizzed, a pit opened in my stomach, and I quickly thought how to diffuse the situation.

“During the heat of battle, perhaps I did, errm, kill you. That must have been it. But know this—while I have no reason to make amends, I have roused you from your slumber, and I have a proposal for you.”

It wasn’t a bad effort, but it didn’t work.

“You slaughtered me in my hole. Murdered me while I cowered in my burrow.”

Okay, she might have a good reason to hate me, but battle was battle, and we were merely paying the goblins back for attacking our farms. My breath caught in my throat. She was gorgeous, her large breasts barely covered by her ragged clothes. Her emerald hair shimmered in the lantern light like a living thing. A thousand thoughts passed through my mind, all of me and her—me, with a goblin! It went against everything I knew to be correct.

Before I could rinse those scenes from my mind, she launched herself at me. I reacted slowly, my instincts blunted by her ferocious beauty, and I was suddenly on my back with her straddling me, punching and clawing. Her violet eyes were narrowed to slits, her face screwed up into a rictus of rage. I fought her, struggling to grab her wrists, to stop her blows raining down. I caught one, straining against her surprising strength, her knees clamping me in place as I bucked and tried to unseat her. With one hand out of action, she resorted to punching me with the other. I took a few hits, and then my rage hatched, tiny at first but rapidly growing. My free hand bunched to a fist, and I drew it back, ready to shatter her jaw. Suddenly, she flew backward, with Anna over her, dragging her away by the hair, kicking and screaming.

Anna tripped over the Cauldron of Rebirth, falling back and taking Tanaka with her. Snarling goblin cries filled the room, mixed with Anna’s feral growls, skin slapping on skin, and the grunts of straining and wrestling.

I pulled myself up, using the town table to steady myself, and there I savoured the unexpected but strangely arousing sight of two scantily clad girls fighting. Anna, my first wife and the so-called Ninth, edged it slightly. She had a vicious side I’d not witnessed before and was going at the goblin rock-crafter with no holds barred. Tanaka, the recently-awakened goblin, was attacking Anna with almost equal gusto. Clothes were being ripped away, which increased my interest. That was until I came to my senses and waded in.

Grabbing Tanaka, I pulled her back, still kicking and screaming. She was desperate to rail on Anna again, her beef with me seemingly forgotten.

“Stop!” I yelled, expecting her to ignore me, and I was amazed when she immediately ceased struggling.

“I will listen to your words, Holder of the Cauldron,” she said, her voice downcast like her head.

I spun her around, but she didn’t look up. Instead, she dropped to her knees, head still bowed. “Your words will hold sway over me, but I’m still wrestling with the images of my death. I will be more helpful when I’ve processed my return, Boss.”

The instant change, the contrast, stunned me, so having been granted respite, I pulled up the cauldron’s legend and read it.

Cauldron of Rebirth, Goblin, Annuck Tribe – The Cauldron of Rebirth offers sanctuary to your fallen warriors and subjects. It houses them in Limbo, where they may stay until their tally is settled. Should the keeper of the Cauldron be slain, then those souls will be lost forever unless the Cauldron is claimed as death occurs. Then, all souls within the Cauldron can be rebirthed by the new Keeper of the Cauldron, and they will be loyal to the claimant. He who holds a tribe’s Cauldron has sway over that tribe’s loyalty and morale.

Current state of the Cauldron of Rebirth, Goblin, Annuck Tribe – 277

Morale required for rebirth – 5 units per goblin

So, I thought, she was loyal to me. Clearly annoyed, since I was the one who had killed her, but loyal all the same.

“Can we have some calm, please?”

Anna stood, brushing herself down, a fetching cut striping her cheek. “She fights dirty,” she growled.

“I’d just died from my point of view, and you pull hair,” Tanaka snapped back.

“Yeah, well, it was a compliment, not an insult. Girl’s gotta use whatever she’s got.” Anna drew aside me, facing Tanaka. “But know this. You touch my man again, you give him so much as a scratch, and I will end you.”

It was possibly the most arousing thing I’d ever heard, but there was business to be done, so I had to let that growing arousal deflate.

“Are you calm, Tanaka?”

“Yes, Boss.”

“Anna?”

“As a tranquil lake, Daniel.” She emphasised my name, like using it was a reinforcement of her position.

“Are you hungry?”

Tanaka nodded, bit her lip, her small sharp teeth sending shivers up my spine. It was a curious thing. Goblins, for me, had always been dirty-looking, bottom-feeding scum—the lowest of the low. Even after my reincarnation, an built-in hatred of all the monster races remained entrenched within me. Goblins weren’t warriors. They were marauders that liked nothing more than killing women and children, pillaging farms and crofts, razing easy targets and running from anything that offered a substantial challenge. But there before me was something entirely different. She was clean, probably scrubbed by Limbo, smelling fresh—though seasoned with the residue of her anger— and her teeth were white, not the rotting yellow fangs I imagined.

“Anna?”

“A little scrap always puts me in the mood for a nibble.”

There was a knock on the door, and before I answered, Fiona stepped in. A straightforward appraisal, her wart-spotted nose high in the air, appeared to satisfy her. “Dinner is served.”

Suspicion took hold of me, but I didn’t dwell on it. If Fiona had some insight into the mechanics of the Lording House that enabled her to anticipate certain things, then it was fine, and there was little point in looking into it further. “Thank you, Fiona. Ladies?” I said. “Shall we dine?”

“As Boss requests,” said Tanaka.

I had a mind to ask her to call me Daniel, but I was enjoying her deference too much, so I accepted her compliance and marched from the room, Anna’s arm threaded through mine.

Fiona had set the table by the long glass wall overlooking the gardens. It was dark out, a stunning sweep of star-filled sky stretching over the neat, youthful bushes and shrubs. We sat, Anna and I together with Tanaka opposite us. Fiona served a mix of meats and vegetables, seasoned with herbs, that smelt like heaven on a plate.

“What do you remember?” I asked Tanaka, dreading the answer but still poking the bear.

“When?”

“When I killed you.”

“Little,” she said. “Your face, creased with anger, then nothing but caves—endless caves.”

“Limbo?” I asked.

She was the first I’d pulled from that place, and I was desperate to know what it was like. My first love, Alex, was there, killed by the goblin shaman Kanak, and her fate was eating away at me. Tanaka nodded, picking up a slab of meat and biting a chunk off. I took a sip of wine, preparing myself. “Exactly what was it like? Caves, you mentioned caves.”

She shivered. “It was scary,” she said. “Like walking through an empty place expecting something to attack you anytime. Empty, so empty. Yet there were shadows everywhere, things lurking, but nothing struck. That made it worse because there was no end, just eternal fear.”

My gut knotted. Alex would be there, someplace like that. Wandering Limbo alone, terrified, waiting—waiting for me to keep my promise to her. “Godammit!” I cried, banging the table.

Anna grabbed my hand. “It might not be like that for her,” she said, but I knew it would be the same: she’d get no special treatment.

“I don’t remember killing you,” I told Tanaka. “But as I said, I’ll not apologize. Your tribe raided our farms twice. The first time we didn’t react and more came, intent on wiping out my people. You brought it on yourselves. We had to teach you a lesson, or even more would have come.”

“Yes, Boss,” she said. “But may I say something?” She looked up, meat juices seeping from the corner of her mouth. “Might I tell you things you cannot know?”

“You may,” I said.

“It is the hobs that drive our warriors to harry you.”

“Hobgoblins?”

“Yes—them! They have enslaved us. They control our core, and until you came along, our cauldron as well. They take our food and our possessions, and steal all our loot and everything we make.”

“Kanak? Was he one?”

I hadn’t been able to tell during the fight, but I had suspected. Kanak had been taller than the others but not as tall as a hob, although age had bent his back. My focus had changed when he summoned two goblin archers from the cauldron, and they’d pinned Alex through the head and breast.

“The worst,” she said. “If you didn’t do as their priest said, he killed you—real death, never to enter our cauldron. He was a dark one, driven by all that is evil.”

“Then you’ll be pleased to know that I also killed him. When you return underground, you will not have to worry about him again.”

“You would release me?”

I sat back, wine in hand, picking at my food while I regarded her. “I have a mind to. There are some two-hundred-and-seventy Annuck souls in Limbo. Why? We didn’t kill close to that number. So, they must have been there before.”

Her eyes filled, and she brushed away a tear. “The Annuck had no morale. We lived in suffering, no food, rags for clothes, nothing. The hobs beat us, forcing us to work their mines, pulling foul banes from the rock and the larva pits.”

“Foul banes?”

She stared at me then, her violet eyes filled with horror. “Artifacts, things best left lost. They seek to remake some talismans to give them dominance over man.”

I raised one eyebrow, thinking, Now that would be one handy thing to have.

“You killed Kanak?” she said.

“I did. He killed someone I loved, so I beat him to a pulp, and I’d do it again in a heartbeat. But, it seems I cannot release you while the hobgoblins are a threat.”

“They will be worse now. Their thirst for power is unquenchable. They will want the cauldron back. Without it, the Annuck will vanish into the caves and labyrinths when they get far enough from our core.”

I drummed my fingers on the table. It appeared that one problem solved threw up two new ones. I’d only recently defeated the troll Okanau, with the help of my erratic hero, Lysander. Subsequently, I was forced into a bargain with Morgan, the Grey Sorceress. While that bargain remained unfulfilled, a blight would eat the elven lands, from which I desperately needed wood.

Morgan required me to retrieve a jewel called Moonstone, which sat atop a sentient staff called Finnigan, held by a magicker called Vale in Castle Brightwater. She served Lord Bright, whose castle dominated the pass separating the lands of Lords and Ladies from those of the magical races—the so-called monsters.

Which was the root of my second problem.

I needed the goblins on my side for two things—the stone, and access to the lower lands.

In essence, without a pact with the goblins, I’d have no stone and no wood and my castle building would stall.

“Then we will kill the hobgoblins and return the caverns and caves to the Annuck tribe,” I said, and both Anna and Tanaka gasped.

A hobgoblin was, after all, twice the size, power and maliciousness of a simple goblin. Their magickers delved into darker arts, summoning spirits best left alone and rousing beasts from the bowels of the land. They were, in short, an entirely different kettle of fish to the much-weaker goblins.

“You will need to kill Throkka Shadowfist.”

“Sounds a nice chap,” I said. “A magicker or a warrior?”

“Warrior,” she said. “He and Calavork rule the Annuck.”

“Calavork?”

“An evil priest. Worse than Kanak.”

Which made sense. If the hobs had managed to leash the Annuck tribe, they would have to control their core—assuming this Annuck she spoke of was their core. It also explained why the hobgoblin Kanak was able to use their cauldron. It didn’t explain how he’d spewed goblins from it without the Annuck's morale unless he’d used the hob morale, like I’d used Kanazar’s to rouse Tanaka.

“Okay, so let’s get this straight,” I said. “Throkka Shadowfist holds your core.”

“Yes—no, more Calavork. Throkka is a warrior.”

“But I hold your cauldron.”

“Yes.”

“So, if I rouse the goblins in it, who will they follow?”

She shrugged. “Your words hold sway over me, and I would follow you even though you killed me.”

“Yes, yes,” I said. “Can we get past that?” It was a fair-sized ask.

She sniffed, then said, “I am slowly. My death anguish is fading, and my heart and mind are becoming free to see things as they are, not based on those emotions and circumstances. But it takes time for it to fade fully. I follow you, but the closer we venture to the core, the more I will become subservient to it, so I might betray you and side with Throkka.”

“Then the others would be the same?”

“Mostly, but it would be harder for me to disobey the core because—”

She cut her words off, leaving something unsaid.

“Because what?”

“Because of my heritage,” she said, but refused to be drawn further on it.

* * *

Morning brought sunlight and joy to me. My chambers were on the second floor, and they looked south over the eight plots that would house my chosen wives. As far as I knew, Leyathel hadn’t returned from the Wolding Woods, where she was overseeing the removal of her trees to create a firebreak between the blight and the healthy wood—my healthy wood.

A handy bonus to the ever-increasing blight was an ever-increasing wood supply, enabling me to upgrade my stronghold and more. The downside was that I had to act miserable about it.

My joy that morning, though, was not for my wood supply, but for a different reason, born of waking with Anna. She was my first wife and my Ninth. She was charged with my well-being and keeping me sane, and she’d already proven skilled at distracting me with her talents—twice that morning, and the sun had hardly risen.

“Come quickly,” she said as she stared from our window.

She was naked, which was perfect, her slight body framed by the orange glow of morning. “What is it?” I asked. “I have a charming view. Moving would only spoil it.”

“Kanazar has built her home,” she said.

Kanazar! If ever there were a thing to douse my growing desire, it was thinking about my scheming core. While I was its master, it often felt more like I was its servant, living by the whim of its choices. The Lording house I lived in was its creation. The fact that I would have nine wives was its idea. But it did have its uses, and as long as I prevailed, I wouldn’t have to worry about the dire bargain I had carved out with it.

I reluctantly slid from our bed, striding across the room to stand behind her. Leyathel’s home was much as I’d expected. It was never likely to be made from stone—no rectangular monstrosity for the Queen of the Elves—but nor was it a tree, which I had expected, although it was tree-like. To best describe it would have it as a stout mushroom, with a wooden stalk and the cap a blanket of green. A small front door, a few windows dotted about, and several balconies completed it.

“It is…unique,” I said.

“Is that moss or leaves covering it?” Anna asked.

It was hard to tell, but the more I looked at it, the more it fitted. Leyathel would love it, and that was all that mattered.

“Do you think Tanaka is highborn?” I asked.

“Thinking about bedding her already?”

“No,” I lied, stiffening as I thought about it. “Just a question. She became very punchy when we asked her about it.”

“I’m guessing she still thinks you might use her to bargain with the hobs for stone. That bargain could become more attractive if she tells you who she is.”

I took her point. The thought had crossed my mind—do a deal with the hobs and avoid a battle or secure the mountain for myself. The first was the easiest way. “Then how can we persuade her differently? I don’t want to rouse more goblins. We should work with her.”

She reached behind, pulling me closer, pressing my groin into her buttocks. “What are your plans today?”

“Changing by the moment,” I said, hardening.

“Not your immediate plans. The rest of the day.”

“Hold a meeting. Order builds—we have completed the wall and built a warehouse, but all have stalled. Discuss our next moves—that’s it, that’s what I need to do. Then I was going to see Greg, tell him of my plans with the goblins—sound him out and keep him in the loop. After that, go and inspect the blight. See if I can’t gauge its progress.”

“Take her with you. Let her see we are no threat to them if they do not threaten us.”

“Hmm. Good point, and it reminds me that I need to deal with Broadchurch. He still has not fully accepted the elves. That must change.”

She turned her head and leaned it back against my shoulder, so our faces were beside each other. “If he can’t, then he goes. This is your castle, Daniel. These are your plans. If any don’t like them, dispatch them—send them to the cauldron. No mercy.”

“I know, love. Thank you for the support, but I’ve trod this road before. I’ll brook no recalcitrance. It was a near thing with his support of Lystander. He was a hair’s breadth from death.”

She nodded and pulled me tighter. “I want you to be the greatest lord you can,” she said. “Everyone under you will follow your commands. No exceptions, not even for those within your inner circle, regardless of station or service.”

And there it was. She would fully support my rule and be watchful for any that might give me lip service but seek their own schemes. When I was too busy to see discrepancies, she would be there watching to catch them. That was the function of the Ninth. The eight others, well, I would choose them to further my ambitions, power, and fulfilment. Leyathel, for instance, would be in charge of wood supply and her knowledge of the world would be invaluable. My next would take care of stone, then after iron, and those three would be my resource foundation, leaving five places open. The Ninth was all about me, and I’d thought it would be Alex, but Anna was perfect. I pushed my erection through her thigh gap to rub across her wet pussy, needing her, wanting her again.

“But, before you go anywhere, there is one little matter to attend to.”

I moved my hands to cup her breasts.

“A run,” she said. “We must keep working at your numbers.”

“But the other enhances my constitution and dexterity,” I pointed out.

“Then we do both.”

Numbers, it was all about them…

* * *

Numbers:

Name: Andros Gray

Known Alias: Phillipe of Byouz, Nunez Excalivar, Daniel Cutterson (in play)

Title: Lord of Kanazar

Banner of: None

Banner to: None

Deity: None

Hero: Lysander

Level: Two

Attributes:

Strength – 9

Intelligence – 9

Wisdom – 9

Constitution – 11

Dexterity – 10

Charisma – 11

Harem

2/9 – Anna, Leyathel

Stronghold – Kanazar

Lord – Daniel Cutterson

Stronghold – Level 4

Wall – Level 4

Lording House – Level Two

Population – 111 Cap – 204

Food Consumption – 103.3/160

Storage – Less than 1% full

Buildings

Artisan

Workshop – Level 4

Masons – Level 4

Smithy – Level 4

Pottery – Level 1

Seamstress – Level 1

Military

Barracks – Level 4

Range – Level 4

Stables – Level 4

Watchtower – Level 4

Other

Tavern – Level 4

Warehouse – Level 4

Resource

Cottages – 12 – Level 3 (12)

Farmsteads – 8 – Level 4 (10) – Production 160

Lumber Mills – 8 – Level 4 (14) – Production 224

Quarries – 4 – Level 4 (4) – Production 80

CHAPTER 2

The silence told me everything I needed to know. Broadchurch looked fit to burst. Jensome scowled. Lysander chuckled, taking a swig from his bottle and composing, while Barnaby coughed into his handkerchief. Even Sarah stared, openmouthed, then recovered quickly and looked away. I’d expected it. Goblins were our mortal enemies, had always been so, and they’d killed ours in battle as we’d killed theirs.

“I know what you’re thinking, and there’ll be no blame. But, I want you to appreciate our situation, the flux of it, the flow that might accelerate our growth.”

Lysander pushed his hair back, took another swig, and broke the silence. “The elves fought well, I’ll grant you that. But this? They killed Alex.” He thumped the bottle down. “One of them killed Alex.”

I was ready for that. I’d done my soul-searching before I’d summoned Tanaka. But her tale—her explanation of the underground hierarchy, had helped, giving me an advantage over the others. “They did,” I told Lysander, focusing on him and him alone. “And they didn’t. I can tell you the story, or Tanaka can, but know this; I am your lord, and my choice is final.” I switched to Broadchurch. “Like the elves, I will tolerate no dissent. Don’t think for a moment that I’ve forgotten your direct disobedience when encroaching on elven land. Think only this—how lucky you were that things were moving quickly. Now they aren’t. Now is the time for me to set all things in order.”

Broadchurch reddened and looked away.

“You can expect to be stripped of command if you put one step out of line during these next few days. If you don’t, you might get what you want quicker than you think.” I let my words sink in.

Broadchurch sighed and turned back. “I’m sorry, my Lord. Please forgive me. I’ll seek to follow your commands wholeheartedly and get past my ingrained feelings.”

Lysander sat back, boots on the table, cradling his wine. “I’d like to hear what she has to say. Why not? Then, perhaps, you might share your plan—the reason for all this, because I’m fairly sure you aren’t doing it to cleanse your soul.”

“That I will.” I smirked. “And you’re right. I have my motives.”

I eased Tanaka forward, and she relayed the words we’d rehearsed on the way there. She stuttered at first, but then her hatred for hobgoblins shone through, and when she finished, little had changed about the table, their expression still twisted with anger.

“So,” I said. “There you have it. Broadchurch, you will get your next fight, but it will not be against the goblins. It will be with them, against their hobgoblin masters. Lysander, you will get to go even deeper into the bowels of the land where the same creatures hunt artifacts beyond your wildest dreams; powerful banes that might enhance your magic and ready you for the battle to come. What about you, Barnaby and Jensome? What do you get from this deal? Tanaka, what is your class?”

“Rock-crafter,” she said.

“And what does a rock-crafter do?”

“We form stone, molding it to our will. I can extract it from the hardest seams, turn it into blocks, pillars, or whatever you need. I can form tunnels, bridges or rest areas. I am a crafter. I have rithimarelldyl.”

“Which is?” Lysander asked.

She pulled a pebble from her pocket and held her hand out. “It is warming lore.” The stone then changed, turning red, glowing like a hot coal. “May you never be cold again.”

“My friends,” I said, “my fellow leaders, the council, I propose we set aside our past prejudices and form new alliances. All of you are from defeated castles, be it this one or another, so all of you have been defeated by a Lord or Lady. Even if the fog doesn’t allow you to see, yet there is no hatred in you toward humans.”

It was Sarah who stood, and it was upon her I was secretly relying to help the others fight against their prejudices. “I have been accused of spying for the elves, when I only wanted to forge an alliance that saved us from war. Whether it did or not, I don’t know. Fate’s twisted roots weaved a strange path, and we followed, and it proved me correct. Thus I sit here in place of Alex. These are the Wild Lands. There are no Lords and Ladies to forge alliances with. There is no good or bad. And though the cauldron fogs all our minds, I suspect that each of us has, at one point or the other, had an enemy become a friend and a friend turn into an enemy. I don’t know where this will lead us, but I stand with my Lord.”

Lysander thumped the table. “Only a fool makes the same mistakes over and over. I’m with Daniel. We try a new way. We become pariahs in the lands of Lords and Ladies if that’s what it takes, and we go deep,” he said with a wry smile. “We find magic beyond the scope of Lords and Ladies.”

My wizard was no fool—certainly not the one he often pretended to be. He’d used my gambit to push his agenda and extend his magic's boundaries. It was a good move, a great move, and there was no way I would deny him. If I was willing to try a new way, why should I expect him to be restrained by the old? Why not explore new magic, and if we knew it was foul, then what difference to our thoughts on elves and goblins?

“It gets us stone?” said Barnaby.

“A mountain of the stuff quarried by lore beyond ours.”

Barnaby remained silent for a while, lost in thought. Then he looked up, his eyes tired, drawn, dark bags under them. “Then why not? Goblins,” he grunted, “never thought I’d see the day.”

“Nor I,” said Jensome. “I’ll bet you Archie will want a word. That man’s a genius with stone, but I’ve never seen him mold anything.”

“Let’s get this straight,” I said. “Because I’ll not go through this again. Times are different. Our position is different. So, our alliances will be different. Broadchurch, do I have your support? Will you train goblins like elves? Will you see they can defend themselves, come the day we try to regain their freedom?”

He flushed again. There was little doubt the man was a hard nut to crack, but according to his words, he’d seen the change needed. “You say these hobs are slave drivers?”

“Yes,” said Tanaka.

“And that you only fought for them because they made you?”

“That, and humans have always been the enemy.”

“And if we free you, how do we know you won’t turn against us?”

“There is only one human here I have a right to kill, but I have already vowed not to—I have already forgiven.”

Broadchurch guffawed. “You think you have the right to kill someone here?” He looked around the table, a wet smile on his lips. “Who then? Which of us should you kill?”

“My boss. Your Lord.”

Broadchurch roared again. “And why do you have the right to kill him?”

“Because it was he who put me in the cauldron. He who struck me down while I cowered in my burrow. His axe plowed through my neck.”

Broadchurch spluttered. “Well, yes, then I suppose you have.” He composed. “Then how do we know you won’t turn once we have freed you?”

It was a valid question. “They won’t,” I said. “Because I have their cauldron with two-hundred-and-seventy souls in it, and as soon as we capture their core, we’ll have sway over their morale and loyalty.”

“And just how do you propose to get their core? With the remnants of my infantry and a few ill-trained elves?”

“No,” said I. “I will rouse the goblins, and you will train them, but we cannot send them underground until we have the core. Six of us will go, just six. Myself, Tanaka and four others. She will lead us to the Annuck core, and we will steal it. Once we have it secure, you can invade.”

I would have liked it to be a well-thought-out plan, but the truth was that I hadn’t expected the meeting to go as well as it had and had prepared nothing further. But, when asked, it had come into my head, so it was my plan—whether a good one was another thing.

“Their numbers will help swell our meager ranks,” Broadchurch mused. “It is novel, I’ll give you that, and I’ll say it—put it on the record—the elves fought bravely and with honor. I can relate to that. So well, why not?"

To my surprise, they’d all agreed to something I thought outlandish but had hoped they would see for the grand plan it was. Tanaka herself had thought it strange, an unholy alliance. An age of being enemies would do that for you. The question remained, Could we be friends? Not all goblins would be like her, just like not all elves were Leyathel.

We had crossed the first hurdle. The second would be the blight. But there was still business to be done. “How go the builds?” I sat, bidding Tanaka sit next to me.

Jensome grunted, but Barnaby answered.

“We have no stone. What we quarry, we use. We can build, but nothing substantial. We’ve constructed a level-one pottery and seamstress today, but are reluctant to use stone on anything else, as we knew you’d want it saved for a stronghold upgrade. We’ve transported the agreed-upon wood to Greg, so he should increase the number of farms soon.”

“Take me to the quarry,” Tanaka said. “I might be able to pull stone.”

“Pull stone?” Lysander asked.

“Bring it closer. Perhaps find new, better seams.”

“We can stop by on the way to the elven forest,” I said, eager to press on. “With regard to the current builds: use the time to lay out everything we’ve been putting off. We’ll have a feasting hall, a rally spot where Broadchurch can muster his army, a hospital, and a school for little ones. Barnaby, please set the castle out in readiness for when we can push forward and build some more cottages—all level one. Complete streets, and let’s prepare because if this plan comes off, we’ll not be short of resources again until we get to some major builds.”

“And iron mines,” said Jensome. “We’re going to need some iron mines. The need for it is outstripping what we can scrounge from the ruins.”

“Do you have a spot in mind?” I asked.

“There’s one—it’s right in the mixed area. It ain’t great, but it’ll get us what we need for now.”

“Iron?” said Tanaka. “There is iron beyond the Annuck lands, but the dwarves control it. They’ll not be easy to bargain with.”

I mulled over her words. They were helpful but for another time. We had enough on our plate. “Build the mines where we can,” I said. “We’ll see if we can secure the Annuck, then look at diplomacy with the dwarves.”

I chose to cut my losses then. Things had gone well enough—better than that, and Lord or no Lord, I didn’t want to push it. There was only so much change folks could take in one day. I stood. “That’s about it, then. Sarah, would you accompany us to Leyathel, perhaps through the quarries?”

Lysander stood before she answered. “I’ve a mind to come. I fancy getting to know a little about this stone magic, this—what did you call it?”

“Rithimarelldyl,” Tanaka said.

“That, yes. It is always wise to know what is possible, even if one can’t actually perform the act. And, not forgetting, we may need all the magic I can muster if I’m to go against a Lord’s sorceress without the benefit of a tower.”

There was silence for a while before Barnaby asked the inevitable question. “We’re to go against another Lord?”

Lysander feigned surprise. “What? Daniel, haven’t you told them of your bargain?”

Sometimes I hated my hero.

* * *

“One thing at a time,” I told him as we walked to the tavern for lunch. “I wish to share one thing at a time—sometimes. Now you have them all worried about an encounter with a Lord that won’t happen unless we secure the Annuck’s lands.”

“Are they lands?” he asked. “They are underground, so do they count as lands or are they”—he shrugged—“just caves?”

“A point I don’t wish to debate at this moment. The one I do wish to talk about is you telling everyone what I have told you in confidence.”

“Then you need to tell me which parts of what you tell me are secrets and which aren’t, because I’m not a mind reader.”

“How about following my lead?”

“I’m your hero, not a goat. Talking of secrets you sprang, I take it I’m one of the six?”

“Six?” I asked, knowing full well what six he was referring to but wanting some time to select them. There was Gemmerson—I could rely on him. Robert? He was a stalwart, ever reliable. Sarah was useful, but only with a bow, so she was out. Alex—Alex would have been perfect. She was proficient with a knife. I thought about Izzy, and once in my mind, he didn’t leave.

“You know full well what I’m talking about.”

“I think Gemmerson—the cavalryman is accomplished with a blade. And Robert—him too.” I turned to Lysander. “Izzy?” I asked.

“Me!” he growled. “I take it that I’m coming. That concerns me, but yes, Izzy is a good choice. He can sniff out a fast path.”

“If Izzy goes, Leyathel will want to as well, which makes six,” I pointed out.

“Then seven it is, for I’m coming.”

“Then why did you ask?”

He grunted. “Perhaps I’m polite. Did you ever think of that?”

I nearly spat my teeth out. “You? Polite? No.”

“Leyathel’s a bad choice.”

“Why?”

“You’ll protect her. Besides, she needs to focus on the blight. Izzy is enough. It keeps the elves part of this.”

“If it works, a small group might not be a bad way to retrieve the moonstone.”

“Outwitting a hob is one thing. A Lord and his magicker, well, that’s entirely different.”

I knew it. Deep down, I knew it, but I was already struggling to think of a way to break into a Lord’s stronghold and steal a powerful magical item, a possibly sentient one. We fell silent. I mulled over the point and guessed Lysander did too.

Sarah was deep in conversation with Tanaka, who was drawing the attention of everyone we passed, elves included. It was one thing telling my closest council that we’d reached a tentative agreement with one goblin, and another thing entirely to communicate that with the rest of the folk. There was, however, one easy way to do it, and that was to get Jess on our side. She was the glue that held all the folks in Castle Kanazar together. If she told them it was a good thing, then it was. Fortunately, Anna would have already laid the foundations for that to occur.

Predictably, the tavern’s hubbub wilted to silence upon our entrance. All faces turned to us before settling on Tanaka, followed by sneers and anger, mouthed curses, and underhand gestures. But, as I knew she would, Anna had played her part well, and Jess came over, all rosy cheeks and large bust, and she took Tanaka’s hand and pulled her in, fussing all the way and seating us in the center of the tavern.

“What?” she cried. “Never seen goblin royalty before? Never heard of a peace envoy? No! You probably haven’t, which is why he’s the Lord and you aren’t. Now, get on and drink your ales. Next one’s on the house.”

There were cheers, predictably, which confused me.

“Aren’t all the ales free? We have no money yet,” I asked, sitting beside Tanaka.

“Makes no odds,” said Jess. “There’s nowt a drinker likes more than hearing the next ones on the house.”

Then there was ale and nibbles—some form of dried pork skin by the look of it—which were rather magnificent. Tanaka tucked in, polishing off the bowl before I’d savored even one. She ate like the pig she was eating, and I noted that not only myself but Lysander, Sarah, Jess and a dozen others were staring at her open-mouthed.

“What?” she said, looking up. “Must eat in case the hobs come.” Then she paused. “Oh.”

“I’ll get another bowl,” said Jess, and she headed to the counter.

“The hobs are not coming again,” I assured her. “That part of your life is over now.”

“Over,” she repeated and then downed a whole mug of ale, looking this way and that until it was gone.

“Tell me,” I said, as she let out a rather magnificent burp, “how deep is the hob stronghold?”

“The stronghold—yes, it’s big, it’s called Treygorva. It fills an entire cavern. Only one path through, guarded heavily. Killing hobs is no easy task.”

“We could flush them out,” said Lysander.

“Good plan,” I said, “but we must find the Annuck core before worrying about all that. I’m guessing it’s in a temple or sacred place surrounded by guards and shamans.”

“No,” said Tanaka. “On show in the trophy area next to the arena. No one would be stupid enough to try and take it.”

Granted, she had a point. “We will take it,” I said, “and we will rouse your fellow tribe’s folk, and they will rise up and fight for their independence from the tyranny they have endured.”

She shrugged, a little too noncommittally for my liking. “Might do.”

I let her words linger while I formed my own. “Which means?”

She shrugged again. “Goblins like being told what to do. Not sure they’ll rise unless someone tells them to.”

Jess returned with two plates of the curly pork things, one suspiciously like a part of a trotter. She shoved one under Tanaka’s cute little nose. “Here, get them little pointy teeth around that lot.”

“Where’s Anna?” I asked.

“Gone back to that nice house of yours. Something about gardeners and getting Leyathel’s home all nice and ready for her Highness’s return. You’ve got a good one there. Understands her work. You are one lucky Lord.”

“I am,” I agreed.

“By the shade, so you are,” said Lysander, trying to shoehorn his catchphrase.

I returned my attention to Tanaka. “Will they follow you?”

“Me?”

“Are you goblin royalty or not?” It was a direct question, purposely said to give her no leeway to avoid answering it equally directly.

“No—yes—maybe,” she said, then her cheeks darkened to hunter green. “Yes.”

“Why hide it?”

“Because if hobs knew.” She drew her finger across her throat. “True death.”

“So, you…” I prompted.

“Lived as the lowest of the low. They only gave me a burrow when others attacked me.”

“Why would they attack you?” Sarah asked, reaching out to touch her arm and offer reassurance, but Tanaka shied away like she was scared of the closeness.

“To have me. To defile me. I learned to fight back, but that only made things worse. I knew who I was. I knew what it meant. When I was young, I’d watched them kill my mum and dad, spiked on pointy rocks. So, I never told anyone who I was.”

“But Tanaka’s your name?”

“My real name is Tanaka, born of Nonn. Nonn is the highest house.”

I could see it—see it in my mind. She would return, and she would announce herself, and she would be queen again.

* * *

Claus regarded us with suspicion and outright hostility as we approached the quarry. My three stones were still there, moss tops like jaunty hats. His quarry had grown and had a little rest hut, some scaffolding, and a small tunnel leading into its hillside. However, he sat on a chair, stripped of his top and soaking in the sun.

“Busy as ever?” I asked.

“That a goblin?”

Some folks held their lord in fearful deference. Others strayed closer to the line of indifference, and others still completely ignored lordly respect. Claus was in the last group. I could, of course, have had him beaten, lashed within an inch of his life and then chained or stocked and had all and sundry thrown at him, but I was sure enough of myself not to need false platitudes and folk who said it as it was were refreshing.

“It is a goblin, and she is under my protection.”

“Is that what they’re calling it nowadays?

I coughed, Lysander laughed, and I got straight to the meat of the matter. “How much stone does this place produce?”

I knew, of course. It was on my stronghold sheet, but I fancied him telling me.

“Forty units.”

“So, around half a day to do it, judging by your current restful state.”

“Normally done by lunch, yes.”

It puzzled me why he couldn’t service two quarries, but Barnaby insisted it was out of the question, and I’d left it at that. “Therefore, the maximum a single quarryman could produce is eighty units?”

“Sixty,” he said.

I furrowed my brow.

“It’s all about the lore,” he explained. “At level four, the quarry’s lore enhances my stamina enough for me to quarry forty units. The maximum the lore can prop up my stamina is sixty stone. That is, unless you study its lore at a school, then it can increase.”

That cleared a few things up.

“So, a quarryman, any quarryman, can only extract sixty units, and this can only increase if someone studies quarrying lore at school.”

“Yes.”

“Tanaka, can you take a look, please?”

Claus began to rear up like he didn’t want a goblin touching his precious quarry. My eyes sent him daggers. “She is rithmillidill, or something like that.”

“Rithimarelldyl,” Lysander corrected as Tanaka took a step forward. “She is also a rock-crafter, so I suggest you take note of a new way of doing things.”

“Scrawny thing couldn’t lift a mallet,” Claus said.

While Tanaka assessed the situation, I approached my three rocks, limbering up. “It’s been a while.”

“You did it once and once only,” Claus reminded me.

I picked up the smallest rock, holding it above my head. “Once was enough,” I said.

“If I recall, you struggled with the next.”

I eyed him. He was a little too familiar for my liking. “But I did do it.” I braced and strained and lifted it, throwing it down with disdain. “Two down!”

The third boulder sat there, smug, unmoving. I’d attempted and failed before but was more muscular, dextrous, and determined. I grabbed it, took the strain, and exhaled. Then I lifted. It rose. I squealed with what little breath I had left. Then I dropped it with a dull thud. “Better than last time.”

“Aye,” said Claus. “Yer came close. Just a whisper away from lifting it a thumb’s width.” He got up, groaning as he rose. “Let’s see what that wee creature is up to.”

Tanaka was sniffing the rock, her hands stroking it simultaneously.

“Looks like she’s lost her mind,” Claus said. “Too much sun, probably. Don’t like the sun, goblins. Bodies start boiling up.”

“She’s performing rithmirrid— Whatever it’s called,” I said.

“No,” said Tanaka. “Sniffing rock. Touching rock. Finding out how old it is and what it wants. How hot it likes to be.”

Claus smacked his lips. “It’s a rock. Hit it with a mallet, and it cracks.”

Then, Tanaka began humming while scratching at the rock with one finger. I squeezed my eyes. “Is that a crack?”

Lysander leaned in. “I think it is.”

Then Sarah pointed. “There’s another.”

“By the shade,” said Claus, and I scowled at him. “She’s doing something.”

She stood back, beckoning everyone with her, and the rockface slid, tumbles of boulders stacking in orderly piles. “There’s a bit,” she said. “You want more?”

Claus muscled his way to her side. “More? No, I don’t want more. A few more of you an’ I’ll be out of a job.”

“Please, show us some more,” I said. “Don’t fret about the job, Claus. We need someone to dig some sewers and cesspits.”

“Well,” he said. “It’s inhuman. That’s about twenty days of work sitting there.”

“I can do better,” Tanaka said, and she vanished inside the quarry.

I was beginning to see the Annuck cauldron in a different light. A few more rock-crafters, maybe even a couple of goblins versed in the other thing, rith-whatever, and we’d have the quarries emptied in days—no more waiting for stamina and quotas.

I thought it was good fortune to revive her out of all the goblins in there—freeing the one goblin that could give us what we needed, and wondered if Kanazar hadn’t had a hand in it. Still, I then discounted that as a stretch too far as my core undoubtedly couldn’t influence another’s cauldron. Still, all of a sudden, teaming up with the so-called monsters wasn’t just a marriage of convenience. It was our leg up—our way to narrow the gap between us and the Lords and Ladies.

It was the crux of the problem I’d been wrestling with since Morgan, the Grey Sorceress, had charged me with retrieving the moonstone gem. Lord Bright, who had it, or rather his sorceress Vale, would be years ahead of us in power. She would have her tower and probably a level thirty and above or maxed at forty, so Lysander would be a fly buzzing around her, annoying but gone with one quick swat. I’d be the same if Bright challenged me to a duel or, worse, a straight fight.

The unlimited oak from the elven forest allowed us to narrow the gap. Tanaka would help more. This alliance with so-called monsters was proving my only hope. It would probably only accelerate our demise—bring them all here faster. Because they would come, the Lords and Ladies. They would come in force. I knew it.

I followed Tanaka into the cave, Lysander by my side, his staff glowing red at its tip and illuminating the place. It was a tiny affair compared to what I thought it might be. There was a path that led deeper into the quarry, and there was a wheelbarrow.

“If this is level four, what is a level one like? A divot?”

“No wheelbarrow,” Claus said, entering. “Now, best be careful in case she brings the whole lot down with that fancy trick of hers.”

The goblin was at the end of the tunnel, singing her song and tracing a circle with her hands. I watched, fascinated, as she swayed and gyrated, lost to the world, consumed by her ritual. There was no gradual cracking this time, but one immense bang that had me cringing, knees bent and hands up. But the roof didn’t come down, nor did the walls fall inward. Instead, a circle of black had appeared, and Tanaka walked backward, bringing with her a great plug of rock like a cork drawn from a bottle. It barely fitted through the cave’s entrance, but the magnitude of what she'd done became apparent once out in the sun. There was a sausage of rock about twenty feet long, sitting, ready for cutting. Then, with a single tap and a sharp bark, Tanaka reduced it to perfect stone cubes, each the length and breadth of my forearm.

“Now that is a neat trick,” said Claus, and he turned to Tanaka, his earlier derision gone. “I don’t suppose you could teach me, Missy?”

“More rock,” she said, pointing at the three rocks I’d lifted.

She walked over to them, stacked one on the other, then carried them back, setting them down and reducing them to bricks like the others.

“Done,” she said and brushed her hands together. “What?” she asked as we all stared at her. “Did I do good?”

“You did good,” I said, groaning inside as Lysander chuckled.

She smiled at me, enjoying the praise before she blushed.

* * *

It was a scab, a crawling malaise of black crusting earth, bubbling and boiling, spitting foul gas into the air, belching and burping, then settling, reducing, becoming ash to be swept by the wind and scattered afar. All that was left was blackness, the eternal shade, the curse of the elves and their end.

It was the size of our long room, perhaps twenty feet in one direction, ten in the other, shaped like a waning moon or a bite, like demon spawn had feasted upon the place. Beyond the treeline, there was meadowgrass. It was short, about a hand high, but it grew taller as the escarpment tilted away. Of the Great Shade, there was no sign of its passing. The long pasture had recovered. Only the elven woods continued to suffer, singled out to perpetuate the blight, seeded by elven purity and fuelled by a troll’s fetid blood.

The Grey Sorceress, Morgan, had cursed this place, and her curse would grow daily. A third of Leyathel’s Wolding Wood would be no more come the new moon. Come another, most would be gone, and by the third, there would be nothing but black lapping at my castle’s eastern walls, hopefully to be repelled by Kanazar, my errant core.

Chivers was there, my recently-spawned forrester, and he was in deep conversation with Leyathel, my second wife—first of the eight—Lady of the Wood. I had charged Chivers with clearing a firebreak to hold back the blight. At least, that was my duplicitous request. It wouldn’t work. You cannot snuff a curse simply by removing its fodder. It would crawl along regardless. But it did give me a good supply of elven wood, which would grow by the day as the blight increased in length.

Even without the blight, Leyathel would have supplied my castle’s needs. With it, though, my stores would bulge. It was a boon, a temporary boost, and once we’d completed Morgan’s quest, it would be gone. So, what was the phrase? Make hay while the sun shines.

I would speak to Leyathel about the curse since I was sure she realized by now that a firebreak would do nothing.

Tanaka had recovered from her exertions at the quarry. She had pulled two-hundred-and-fifty units of stone from the quarry, plus the hundred harvested outside. It was a significant amount. Ten of them would get us the stronghold upgrade. Ten more would build our next wall. It put context on our feeble resources—our level four efforts that pumped out measly amounts of wood, stone and food. Her actions had me thinking, Just what could I do—what could a human do—if he teamed up with the so-called monsters? It was a rumbling thought that was growing inside me.

She marveled at the towering elven oaks, almost cowering, not used to such heights. Seeing her under a blue sky whose magnitude confused and awed her was strange. Living in caverns and caves, tunnels for streets and subterranean pools for lakes hadn’t prepared her for the great outdoors. But she adapted quickly, though I could tell she felt more settled under the oaken canopy.

“Chivers,” I said. “How goes it?”

“Terrible,” said he, glancing at Leyathel and shaking his head. “Tis a terrible business. Sadness beyond the soul’s ability to hold.” He walked up to me, towering above, a great shaggy man. “They talk, these trees. They know what’s right and wrong, and they understand they’re doomed. They’re offering themselves up. They lean and fall. It’s a sad thing. Sad.”

“It is,” I said, then went to Leyathel, my hand in hers. “We will beat this,” I told her.

“But not this day,” she said.

“No, not this day,” and as I said it, a groan rang out, a cry of wood splitting, the creak of a trunk toppling, and the crash of a canopy crushed under its own weight.

“I can’t bear it,” she said.

I was lost for words, knowing how she felt about the massive trees, so I held her tight in my arms.

Leyathel looked upon the goblin for the first time, her hatred plain to see. What is she doing here?” she spat.

“She is part of my plan,” I said, taking Leyathel to one side and explaining.

“The moonstone gem is part of a greater thing. It is upon a staff called Finnigan, owned by a sorceress, Vale. These are Lord’s names, and the lands of Lords and Ladies are at the bottom of the mountains that edge our farms. An accord with the goblins gets us through those mountains, into their deep, and out into the lands where the moonstone might be. We need her, Leyathel.”

I waved back at the black curse. “As I’m sure you can tell, this is a curse born of the Grey Sorceress. A firebreak won’t prevent its growth, only meeting Morgan’s demands will. I’m sorry for the deception of using a firebreak. I hoped it would be easier upon you until the depth of the curse was born out. We’d just saved the wood from the troll, and I didn’t want to crush you with the full impact of the curse.”

She met my gaze and looked intently in my eyes. “Lover, I desire the full truth above any pain it may cause. Fear not about my ability to cope. Thank you for addressing the deception before I had to bring it up. We are partners and mates; only the truth will allow us to grow closer and stronger.”

She turned her gaze to Tanaka as she thought.

Elves, like all sentient races, twist their view to suit their needs. Leyathel needed me to find the moonstone and hand it to Morgan to stop the curse. The filthy goblins, as she thought of them, could help make that happen, and so foul goblins became goblins, and Leyathel approached Tanaka.

“Welcome to my Wolding Wood, though I fear you have come at a terrible time,” she said, indicating the blight. She looked Tanaka up and down. “Rags? He has you dressed in rags?” She switched her attention to me. “Have you no seamstresses?”

“One thing led to another,” I said.

“I did tell him,” Lysander said, coming beside me and resting his hand on my shoulder. “But he said there would be no better place to clothe goblin royalty than your chambers, my Lady. By the by, Vellara wouldn’t be about, would she? I wish to talk about magic and advancement with her. I must learn some of her concealing spells and, this time, learn how to replicate them away from this place.”

Lysander’s standing with the elves had improved somewhat since he had defeated the troll, Okanau, and Leyathel’s smile broadened upon seeing him. “She is at my tree, as is my seamstress and spinner. I can take a break from this morbid work to clothe this one. Royalty, you say? I wasn’t aware goblins had such things.” Leyathel took Tanaka by the hand. “But if our goblin friends can help us in our time of need, then I fancy I must learn all about it, and what better time than a dressing?”

What better time? I pondered.

* * *

I sat on a chair, wine in one hand, my other drumming its arm. Leyathel paraded in front of me, a skimpy number of shimmering white lace and netting. Even its full effect on me, couldn’t raise her spirits. She tried, bless her, but the whim wasn’t with her. She could barely raise a smile, as her mind couldn’t be turned to playfulness at the moment.

“You look lovely,” I said. “A jewel. I will walk the tree with the most beautiful elf ever lived.”

If in doubt, lean on charisma, not that I needed any. She really was mighty fine.

“How?” she asked. “How can I parade such things when my trees are eaten alive? How can they think of marriage?”

By ‘they,’ she was talking about the elven hierarchy—like Canavar—who, like Broadchurch, was reticent about this deal—this alliance of human and elf. As humans thought themselves superior to elves, so vice-versa. Only marriage and equality would quiet their whispering lips.

“It is a formality. You are my Lady of the Wood, and yours is the first seat at my table. If they need wedlock, then give it to them. It means the world to me, and it means nothing. The world because you will become my wife. Nothing, because I don’t need it to love you.”

She rushed to me, kneeling, kissing my hand, and smiling. “And I am the same. We will do it. But I’ll not try on more clothes. These will be fine.”

“Better on the floor and you naked on the bed,” I said.

“That will be sooner rather than later. We have a new home to play in.”

“That we do.”

She sat on my lap and clapped her hands. “What of the goblin? Does she make your blood quicken?”

“I’d rather not speak of that with you in my arms, but I’d be blind not to see what’s before me,” I said.

She leaned close to my ear. “I’m not blind either, and I know the places your mind goes when it sees a form made for pleasure. I’m sure you’ve had thoughts of taking her until she cries your name out in the night.”

“Well, maybe a bit,” I admitted. “Her sharp teeth worry me, though.”

“Prepare to be a little more interested,” she said, and the doors swept open.

Tanaka strolled in, and she looked absolutely stunning. Her emerald hair cascaded in wavy curls, framing her wide, violet eyes. She was pouting, like she hated the pomp, and her sultry look made her all the more alluring. Her impressive cleavage forced open the high collar of her brown felt jacket, and her white shirt framed it. Her sleeves stopped shy of her elbows, and several wood bracelets slid up and down her forearms as she posed for us. Each time she pushed her bottom out, her pants accentuated the curve of her buttocks and sent my pulse into overdrive. Then I noticed her calf-high boots, and I nearly came there and then.

“Quite the transformation,” I said, then repeated it twice, wondering when the room had gotten so hot.

“You like?” Tanaka asked. She blushed as twirled before facing me again and asking, “Do you find me pretty, my Lord?”

“You’re more beautiful than I could imagine, Tanaka.”

Her eyes widened, and her blush deepened as she leaned forward to touch my arm. She whispered, “My death and past are like a faded nightmare from childhood, and I find that I want to please you, my Lord.”

Leyathel chuckled, breaking the moment before she said, “Your outfit is gorgeous and accentuates your beauty. It’s much more fitting for a princess. Is the shirt a little tight? They can let it out, you know.”

“Tight is good. Tight doesn’t snag on rocks.”

“Tight is good,” I said. “Very good indeed.”

Leyathel squeezed my knee hard. “Now we eat, as Daniel struggles with his appetite for other delicious morsels.”

She was sharp. She was beautiful. And she had my measure.

CHAPTER 3

The remnants of the castle’s temple overlooked a small courtyard with a central well. That courtyard had once been full of oaks, like the temple. Moss-covered stone had littered the place, piled high and strewn about, and old timbers and roof tile had filled the gaps. Only one structure of any prominence stood: the altar with its nigh-indestructible granite top. It was here where I had first woken up, so it was a fitting place to rouse the first goblins.

My thinking had changed. Initially, I’d thought it best to wait until I had the Annuck core, but with Tanaka confirmed as goblin royalty and the possibility of pulling more rock-crafters from Limbo, the urge proved too much to resist.

The temple was as good a place as any for another reason: there was no easy escape. Broadchurch’s infantry covered the exits to the courtyard, so any unexpected reactions from the goblins would see them straight back in the cauldron.

Tanaka, in all her new finery, stood opposite me over the cauldron, ready to greet the newly-awakened goblins. She was every bit a royal, stunning in her new garb.

I pulled up my numbers, selected the cauldron’s tab, and paid the tariff. The cauldron bubbled and boiled. A head appeared—a copper helmet indicating a soldier—bony head, scrawny neck, narrow shoulders, and rags for clothes. He swiveled to face me, hair poking from the odd helmet like scruffily-bundled thatch. He had eyes the shapes of teardrops sagging to his cheeks. Their irises were downcast, looking past his prominent nose to his teeth which were skewwhiff and poking from his dark green lips. On the positive side, he had a short axe tucked in the rope that served as his belt.

Muckspur – common soldier – scrounger.

It wasn’t the best start.

“Muckspur,” I announced.

“Huh?” he said, saw I was human, tried to scramble from the pot, tripped, and fell flat on his face.

“Rise, Muckspur. I, Tanaka-re-Nonn, do claim your allegiance. Do you accept my command on behalf of the Nest of Nonn, or shall I dispatch you to Limbo to writhe with the worms for eternity?”

Most of me wanted him to return, but I supposed we’d need meat for the grinder sooner or later. All battles required sacrifices, and Muckspur was perfect.

“Human!” he shouted, wide-eyed, then rose, saw more and ducked back down.

I sighed. He was not the cream of the crop I’d hoped for, and perhaps I’d already picked that with Tanaka, but one lived in hope, so I invested another five morale and prayed for better.

The cauldron continued to bubble and boil; a leather hat popped up first this time. Like the copper helmet before, it was a tight skull cap, except its owner's head was somewhat misshapen and reminiscent of an egg. Below the hat came another thing. This one’s hair stuck to his long face and was a bright shade of red. He had an elongated forehead and eyes the shape of potatoes. If I could have guessed, I’d have put his intellect at one, which would have been grossly unfair of any on that score. He was slightly larger than Muckspur, hands dangling by his side, one holding a broken spear. It was truly dismal pickings.

Swillgobbler – common soldier – scrounger.

“Swillgobbler?” I said, more a mix of a question and amazement than a statement.

“Human,” Muckspur shouted as Swillgobbler climbed out of the cauldron.

The words seemed to hit the new goblin and failed to penetrate further. Two different things to comprehend were clearly too much for him.

“Eh?” said Swillgobbler.

“Humans,” said Muckspur from his hiding place.

Then Swillgobbler noted Tanaka and a low groan spilled from his lips. “Errr,” he said, and he fell to his knees.

“Rise, Swillgobbler. I, Tanaka-re-Nonn, do claim your allegiance. Do you accept my command on behalf of the Nest of Nonn, or shall I dispatch you to Limbo to writhe with the worms for eternity?”

“Nonn, Nonn, Nonn,” he said, standing beside Tanaka, albeit a little behind. “Queen,” he added, and Muckspur appeared to understand and fell in rank with him, which was an unexpected boon and prompted some hope within me—soon dashed by the subsequent spawning.

Slugfest was a disgusting creature. Born of the cauldron’s wetness, he still glistened even after slipping onto the granite altar. The goblin male had, I concluded, a perspiration issue. He was neither slight nor large, mediocre in every sense apart from his bent nose. He didn’t resemble a soldier, didn’t resemble anything. Fortunately, his legend gave away his occupation.

Slugfest – common soldier – tunneller.

Then I noticed his hands and feet. Each had elongated appendages. Where Muckspur’s fingers were knobbly with sharp-pointed nails, each harboring his next meal, no doubt, Slugfest had hands resembling shovels, with webs between his fingers and great claws on their ends. His toes splayed, and I guessed they would give him great purchase when pressing into a rockface. Then it came to me, the reason for his wetness. It was slime that would enable him to get into the tightest spaces. That revelation both elated and disgusted me. He slipped from the altar and knelt before Tanaka, who looked at me.

“Slugfest,” I said. “Tunneller by all accounts.”

“Rise, Slugfest. I, Tanaka-re-Nonn, do claim your allegiance. Do you accept my command on behalf of the Nest of Nonn, or shall I dispatch you to Limbo to writhe with the worms for eternity?”

I fancied he wouldn’t mind writhing with worms for an eternity, but I waited for his reaction.

“Nonn, Nonn, Nonn,” said Slugfest, and he rose and slid behind the other two.

Slugfest’s class, I supposed it was that, cheered me somewhat. I’d seen what Tanaka could do with her rock-crafting and was intrigued by what a tunneler might be able to do. My joy was short-lived when another common soldier named Finkslurry emerged, a scrounger like the other two. Scrawny and pathetic, with barely a light behind his yellow eyes, he had a chipped and blunted sword in his rope belt. As he fell into rank behind Tanaka, I noted Muckspur had vanished.

“Where’s Muckspur gone?”

Tanaka looked around, then shrugged.

Lysander, recently returned from the elven wood, then perked. He was sitting on some tumbled stone by the temple’s entrance, his wine bottle in hand and a slightly amused look on his face. “He strode off into the courtyard. I’m unsure, but I think he fell into the well.”

“Why the hell didn’t you stop him?”

Lysander screwed his face up. “Have you seen him? I’m not touching him. He’s filthy. I might catch the pox or something.”

“Broadchurch!” I shouted, and after a short while, my military commander came.

“My Lord.”

“Did you see a goblin enter the courtyard?”

“Fell into the well. Saw the state of him and thought good riddance.”

“Well, fish him out, would you? He’s going to be part of your infantry.”

“Begging your pardon, but he didn’t have a look that inspired me to think he might be able to follow any orders, one simple one, even.”

Broadchurch was right, of course, but that wasn’t the point. “Fish him out. We might be able to influence his intellect.”

“To grow an oak, you need an acorn at least. Judging by the goblin’s look, he hadn’t even the cap.”

Before I could say anything more, Broadchurch about-turned and left. While talking, Slugfest had half-crawled under a pile of timber and was busy scraping at the temple’s flags.

“What’s he doing?” I asked Tanaka.

“Tunnelling. He can’t help it.”

“Well, order him not to.”

“I did. He’s pledged allegiance to me, which was nice, but as I said, it means nothing without our core. I fear they will be no use until we have it.”

She was right, of course. Without Kanazar, there was no way that Barnaby and the others would take any notice of me unless by fear, coercion, or, I thought, reward. So, I could frighten them into obeying or get the core—or bribe them—there was that.

“Offer them something for their cooperation.”

“They are hungry.”

“Then offer them food.”

“Chow!” she cried at the top of her voice.

Slugfest began reversing out of the woodpile. Finkslurry, who’d started to wander off, returned to his position behind Tanaka, and Muckspur climbed the steps to the temple, dripping and quivering, a red-faced Broadchurch behind.

“Might I say this is not your best idea, my Lord?” He emphasized the final two words to show his discontent.

For once, I agreed with him. “I concur, but the slimy one over there is a tunneller, and I’ve a mind he may come in useful for the next part of our plan. I need a few, so we’ll have to pull more of them from the cauldron, but, as they say, if you’re training one idiot, you might as well train two.”

“Who says that?” asked Lysander, and I hated him for it.

It took twenty more reincarnations to get two tunnellers, and I looked at the shambling horde before me, and I knew it would be chaos in Castle Kanazar until we had the Annuck core. A more sorry bunch I’d never seen.

We had a total of fourteen common soldiers, scrounger-class: Muckspur, Swillgobbler, Finkslurry, Snaggletooth, Grumblewart, Muckmire, Snivelsneal, Wretchedgrub, Stinkfoot, Scurvytoad, Filthfang, Sludgegut, Nibblefingers, Wartknob and Grubnash. Then there were the three tunnellers: Slugfest, Drillshank and Spelunk, all with strange shovel hands and splayed feet. Then, surprisingly, and all in a row, five female crafters: Scrapnail, Stitchwitch, Forgefire, Sparklegrind and Whittlerock. The final was the prize; her name was Mudpaw, and she was a rock-crafter like Tanaka. She could help ease Tanaka’s burden, because crafting rock took stamina, and goblins, like humans, only had so much.

Mudpaw’s name, however, led me to wonder…

“Tanaka, let me ask you something. Why do you have such a name when the rest are far more descriptive? Mudpaw, Scrapnail and so on. Tanaka seems a little too normal—human-normal, not goblin.”

“Ah, that,” she said. “My name is Stoneweaver—my worker name. They called me that all the time I was in the nest. Tanaka is my highborn name.”

It made sense and reinforced my growing suspicion that the goblin hierarchy was class-based. “Will Mudpaw run if we assign her a quarry?”

“Probably, and to mine stone in a mountain, you’ll need more than a weaver. You’ll need a cracker, a mover, and a weaver. Whittlerock is a cracker, but you have no mover yet.”

“But you can move rock. I’ve seen you do it.”

“I can pull plugs, but I could not easily move rock from the bottom of a pit to the surface.”

I looked at them all, penned in the courtyard as they were, milling around, a couple trying to dig their way out. “Where are the tunnellers?” I asked, then immediately said. “Forget it. I’ll follow their trails, then spot their shovel hands.”

All three huddled close to the well. Slugfest, identifiable by his large, crooked nose, was talking enthusiastically to Drillshank, whose nose resembled a corkscrew, while Spelunk, the smallest of the three, looked on.

“Summon those three. Tell them we have a vital mission for them, then have them meet up at the quarry where I shall put together our infiltration party. And Mudpaw too—why not, might as well bring her as well.”

Tanaka snapped to it while I spoke with Lysander.

“Are you ready to go get this core?”

“I am,” he said, “and I have our sixth.”

“Our sixth?”

“The sixth member of our party.”

I quickly recalled the other five: Lysander, Gemmerson, Robert, Tanaka, myself, and I thought Izzy. “Izzy?” I asked.

“Vellara is coming,” Lysander said.

I cast a beady eye over him, wondering at his scheming. “Your reasoning?”

“We have been practicing her cloaking magic—magic that I think will be paramount for us to steal this core successfully. But we’ve hit an impasse. She cannot perform it outside of the Elven forest, and I cannot perform it without her being there. So, if we wish to use her magic—if we wish me to have magic beyond that of my fireball—we must fathom a way between us. I sense we are close. It’s only a matter of how close.”

“Close because of the Moiral stone?”

Lysander produced his staff upon which the Stone of Moiral sat. He’d looted the artifact from the hob Kanak when we’d routed the Annuck in their nest under the Storbane Mountains. We’d later discovered it was also called the Jewel of Everything and had once belonged to the elves.

“This trinket,” said Lysander. “Yes, this stone has more to it than meets the eye. It is called Moiral, the stone upon which fates are written, or the Jewel of Everything, from where all Elven magic flows. But I fancy it is more than that. I think it is a conduit—a magnifier of power. Consider how I beat Okanau.”

“You bested him because your self-destruction was your greatest talent.”

“Indeed, so it was said by Morgan, the Grey Sorceress, but what if that wasn’t the only reason? Might I remind you that we witnessed Nathanofel’s demise, and the sword that diced him was in no way a thousand times bigger or faster than his? Morgan’s magic was exaggerated, and isn’t that often the case. I say this, yes, I can be morose and tend to self-deprecate, but not enough to tear my eyeballs out, even if my moods magnified a thousand times.”

“You think it was the staff that killed him?”

“It certainly helped. I think it took an idea I thought might have a chance at working, magnified its intensity, and then I think the stone attacked Okanau addressing the evil it saw within him. I also believe it protected us in some way during that initial skirmish. Three against an army never usually lasts that long.”

“You think it's that powerful?”

“I think its power isn’t known to us, and I certainly don’t have the means to look inside it. All I know is this: when I’m with Vellara, I can channel her magic—feel it as if it were my own. It is a strange thing indeed.”

“Then she comes. I assume she can use a knife or some such weapon.”

“She is devilish with a sakoura.”

“A what? I’m not familiar with one of them.”

“A knife about so long”—he widened his hands to the width of his shoulders—“with a wicked hook on the end.”

“Novel,” said I.

“Why do you need the tunnellers?”

I raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“No. On second thought, don’t answer it. It’s a shame the stone doesn’t magnify my intellect.”

“Then we’d all need one.”

* * *

“Again,” I said, sitting on a rock outside Claus’s quarry.

Slugfest rolled his eyes, slime dripping from him. “Again?” he asked, his voice a strange mix of grumble and screech, like all his words were formed in the back of his throat, then thrown forward and ejected from his mouth like a trebuchet throwing rock.

“Your tunnel was magnificent,” I said. “The problem lies with Drillshank and Spelunk and their interaction with your spiral. You have to tunnel so close to each other that when Mudpaw pulls the plug, Tanaka can fold the rock and set it aside.”

“So, closer then?” Drillshank said. His voice was different again, like a door creaking open and slamming shut on the last syllable.

“Closer. Tunnel, pull, fold. Tunnel, pull, fold.” It was an ambitious plan that could see us drill our way at speed straight into the heart of the hobgoblin city.

Tanaka dropped to a crouch beside me. Perspiration jeweled her forehead, and she blew a stray emerald bang from her eyes. “You think this will work?”

“I think our plan is fraught with danger, but yes, this will get us to the city, so one part will work. For the rest? Not sure. Much will depend on Lysander. First though, before we even try to take the orb, we shall form a beachhead deep underground, a hollow unknown to the hobs where we can launch our theft, then gather for the main attack when that day comes.”

She glanced at me. “You think everything through so well?”

I brought some wine from my storage, uncorked it and took a long slug. “Nope,” I said. “Well, not recently. But this is a mission I can get my teeth into. We have a prize to steal, then an uprising to facilitate—two separate actions needing very different preparation. The key is stealth, we get that right, and we can get away with murder.” I switched my attention to Lysander and Vellara, watching them momentarily. “Their part is as important as any.”

We’d shelved our plans for Gemmerson and Robert accompanying us. Tanaka had detailed the depths we’d have to tunnel to reach the hobs, and taking two more would make little difference. If the hobs found us out, then we were likely dead, and two more fighters wouldn’t change that outcome, but they might make a noise—get a sudden dose of claustrophobia, lose their minds, and start screaming. We had to minimize that possibility.

“How do they do that?” she asked.

Vellara stood a little way from Lysander. Apart from my initial observations, I’d not let my gaze linger on her for long. Hopefully, she would be Lysander’s, which was enough for me. She wasn’t to my taste, either. There was something about her that didn’t fit for me. Besides, I had Anna and the lovely Leyathel to tend to my needs, which was enough for now.

There were similarities between Vellara and Tanaka. Both had green skin, but seeing them so close together, it was clear that Tanaka’s was much darker, richer, and more vibrant. Vellara’s also paled as she used her magic reserves. It was wishy-washy, a little bland. Both had green hair, too, although Tanaka’s was fuller, with delightful curls. As I compared the two, I appreciated how much I favored the goblin over Vellara, each comparison falling to her as I chalked up points for and against.

Her company was easy too. She had relaxed, no longer frightened of her own shadow, and the more she commanded Slugfest, Drillshank, Spelunk and Mudpaw, the more she grew into her future role—as a goblin leader.

Of course, I wasn’t blind or daft as to where it all might go. I needed a Lady of Stone, and should my political maneuverings provide the desired result, she would likely be that Lady. My thoughts on goblins had undoubtedly changed, though when I looked at their scrounger-class soldiers, I had doubts.

“What are you thinking about?” Tanaka asked me.

“The truth?”

She nodded.

“I wonder what happens if it all goes to plan, that is all. You will give me your stone as compensation, of course. That is my price for this. But I wonder…”

“Wonder what?”

I said it then, and the words came easily, and I wondered for the first time when I’d become so committed to filling my harem. “Whether we could do so much more.”

Before she could answer, Vellara let out a shrill cry, filled with uncharacteristic joy, as Lysander vanished. I stood, clapping and yelling. It was the first time they’d pulled it off outside the elven forest. Tanaka jumped up, clapping too. Then Vellara vanished, and our joy doubled, and before I knew it, we hugged, both of us cheering on the magickers. “It’s going to work,” I said. “We’re going to get that core.”

And she looked up at me, her expression alive with hope, and I fell into her violet eyes.

“Now you two,” said Lysander as he reappeared. “Let’s see if we can cloak four.”

“Claus?” I shouted, attempting to wake the quarryman who’s settled into his chair for the day, knowing the goblins would dig out far more stone than him.

“What?” he spluttered, waking.

“Keep watch, man. You’ve got out of a day’s work. Keeping an eye shouldn’t hurt you. Tell us if we vanish.”

He blinked, yawned, and shook his head. “Tell you if you’ve vanished?”

“Yes.”

“You haven’t vanished.”

“Not yet!” I shouted, a slither away from giving him a beating.

“You’ve vanished now,” he said.

I bunched my hand into a fist. “I swear—”

“No, My Lord, you really have vanished.”

“And Tanaka?”

“The goblin’s gone too.”

“By the shade, Lysander, you did it!”

“By the shade, I did,” said Lysander from close by, although I couldn’t see where.

Which was going to cause an issue I hadn’t anticipated.

“So, we can’t see each other too?” For some strange reason, I’d thought we would be operating in some different place where we could see everything, but they couldn’t.

“You’re either invisible or you’re not,” Vellara said and resolved before me.

It was great progress, but it did throw up a problem. If we didn’t know where we all were, the odds of us carrying out the robbery were much smaller.

Tanaka and Lysander reappeared. The wizard looked as troubled as I was. “It’s a problem, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Is there any way we could see each other?” I held my hand up. “No, you’ve already answered. I might have to rethink, but without knowing exactly where the orb is, we’re screwed. We can’t just walk around the hob city undetected, can we? I wonder if Kanazar can help."

"You ask the core, and we’ll work on it,” Lysander said.

“I might have something,” Vellara said. “It’s a plant—no—let me see if it works first. We can try something—I think we can try something.”

“Me thinks we done good,” said Mudpaw, interrupting, and she pointed.

The goblin crafter stared at me blankly. I followed her finger to the cylinder of corkscrewed rock she’d pulled from the hole that Slugfest, Drillshank, and Spelunk had created.

“Can you fold that?” I asked Tanaka.

“Yes,” she said, flattening the rock, then folding it into a tiny cube. All that remained of the tunneled rock was a scattering of powder and the rock cube.

“You’re doin’ all this in secret, right?” said Claus.

“We are,” I said stiffly, my patience for the man fraying.

“Then might I make a suggestion? Why not make the cube a stopper for the tunnel, like a lid? Then you can hop in the tunnel, close the lid, and no one will be wiser.”

It was brilliant, surprising in source, but brilliant.

“I could kiss you, Claus.”

“Rather you didn’t. Why not kiss the goblin instead? You know you’re itching to.”

Which was his second, albeit unwelcome, observation of the day.

* * *

It turned into a day of threes.

Anna had baked cakes, which proved one thing to me. There were actual benefits to lore, and even though she’d turned her back on her baking to become my ninth—the glue that would bind my harem—the lore of her past profession still lingered within her. It had to, for they weren’t normal cakes. They were delights giving pleasure beyond measure. It was, after Fiona’s sumptuous meal, some concoction or the other that resembled a thick stew drizzled over roasted potatoes cooked in pork fat, that she presented them. I would have asked her what the special occasion was, but I knew already.

There were three reasons for celebration. Firstly, Anna and Leyathel sat at my dining table, the first time both ladies and I had dined together. Secondly was the small matter of presenting Leyathel her Ladies' House, the strange mushroom-looking dwelling that Kanazar had built for her. I had not been in, but Anna had nosed, opening windows, airing the place and adding some homely touches. Then there was Tanaka and her goblins.

We’d had a good day—all round—and good days deserved celebration because there would be darker ones ahead. Tanaka was staying with us in the Lording House, which, while a temptation, was also a delight. Gone was the goblin I had hatched from the Annuck cauldron. Gone was her need for vengeance—it had somehow transformed into interest in me—and gone was her timid demeanor.

The excellent day was partly caused by us closing in on a decent plan to steal the Annuck core from the hobs. We had a team, albeit an odd one, but it was a team all the same. It consisted of myself, Tanaka, Lysander and Vellara, Slugfest, Drillshank, Spelunk, and Mudpaw. We lacked fighters, but it was a tradeoff for silence and usefulness. We only needed fighters if we fought; if we got into a battle with the hobs, the plan had failed, and we were doomed. So, we had a team, and tomorrow saw one last practice at Claus’s quarry, and then it was a go.

That made it a good day, but the overall acceptance of the goblins within Castle Kanazar had transformed the good day into a great one. What had first manifested as abject hatred had changed to approval for three reasons. Firstly, the infantry Broadchurch had gained were as useless as my first impressions told me. But some quality about them was endearing, and folk started looking upon them like impish and slightly backward children. They also learned quickly that they could only push the goblins so much before rage came upon them, so a boundary formed, establishing a relationship. Because of that, the fear folks held for the goblins vanished, and as most prejudice is born of that thing, that went with it too.

The crafters were the second reason why everyone accepted them: Scrapnail, Stitchwitch, Forgefire, Sparklegrind, and Whittlerock. They were all pleasant-looking females, and while none held a candle to Tanaka, they each had endearing qualities. They all excelled in their crafting. Scrapnail could fashion the most intricate details in the hardest rock. While generally used for carving boundary runes underground or forming great sigils in rock faces, Jensome could immediately see uses in construction—in creating mortices and intricate locks. Stitchwitch was also helpful to him. She could fuse two rocks, so if Jensome needed a larger lintel, or a column attached to a bearer, Stitchwitch would sort it for him. Sparklegrind could hone and smooth block to achieve a perfect fit time and again. Whittlerock, as her name suggested, could fashion magnificent statues, carve flutings in pillars, and turns and scrolls in cornices. According to Jensome, our buildings would become works of art because of them. That pronunciation rippled through our growing settlement, still in infancy, where any help was greatly appreciated.

The third reason was one of resources. Tanaka’s stone-plug-pulling exploits of the previous day hadn’t gone unnoticed. All the stone was piled high by the stronghold. Wagons had trundled up Artisan’s Street, the loads on view to all who cared to look. When folk found out the goblins could quarry so efficiently, it added to their growing stature. The speed with which an enemy could become an ally gave me hope—hope that I could carve out an empire in these so-called Wild Lands, hope that we might become strong enough to go against Lord Bright when he found out who’d stolen Vale’s moonstone—if, indeed, we got that far.

“To our new partnerships,” I said, raising my wine mug. “To elves and humans, and goblins and humans—may we prosper together.”

“And to goblins and elves,” said Anna.

“An unlikely alliance,” said Leyathel.

She’d come back from the Wolding Wood that afternoon. There was, she’d concluded, little she could do to stop Morgan’s curse, and Chivers, my forester, was taking the care and consideration she’d hoped for when removing the great oaks. For me, for Castle Kanazar, we were benefiting greatly. All our other mills had been repurposed to saw the great trunks, and sawn and finished planks were piling up in our warehouses. While Leyathel had accepted her forest’s fate, she was still desperate for us to accelerate our plan.

She regarded me. “So, what more can you tell me of all the Grey Sorceress demanded of you?”

I had come clean about the curse, but we hadn’t discussed the whole of my time with the sorceress. It was not only time, but I also felt a compulsion within me. Ever since we’d sat, her gaze had implored me to share so we could grow closer, and the need to had become overwhelming. I had to tell her all and found that holding back was unthinkable, even if I wanted to. At that moment, I wondered if the Lording House was molding me to be more truthful with my ladies.

“You know most,” I said, straining against my need to babble. “I never lied. I merely didn’t tell you all.”

“I know you never lied to me. You forget, I can tell. But why didn’t you trust me? Think not of the possible pain, but of the deeper bond we’ll share with the full truth,” she said, her eyes engaging mine, locking them in place.

“Because she has set me an impossible task, which needs careful planning. If I fail, then all this goes to wrack and ruin. I cannot afford that, even if it means a few more trees die. For that, I am sorry.”

“And I am not a simple child who would throw a tantrum. Even the trees understood their future.”

“But, if it came to it, you would want every tree saved.”

“I would but accept caution is fine, so long as it’s not teased out to gain more wood. Elves and haste is not a partnership commonly had.”

“More wood was a consideration, but I would not extend your pain beyond where I have to because, contrary to some thought, I can appreciate the glory of your forest. However, my plan is multifaceted, but if you need me to, now that we have the time, I can share it with you now.”

Goddammit, the truth is a hard paymaster!

“What is the point in having two wives, two ladies, if you cannot discuss the castle’s direction with them?” Anna asked. “And to offer sage advice, I’d suggest we need to know your entire thinking.”

And so it was, the Lording House revealed its true purpose, and so I explained all. First, though, I stood, for things felt much better explained when one was pacing. There was thinking time between paces, which was always a good thing, for it was, as I had alluded, a complex plot that relied on several threads coming together. But, as I walked, it became clear to me—the simplicity of it all.

“Think of this as a caper,” I said. “It is a blag—a robbery if you will, and the first components of any good robbery are the team. I’m pleased to say that part is complete. Each member has their part to play, which is integral to the robbery’s success. We have Slugfest, Drillshank and Spelunk, and they are our tunnellers. Mudpaw is our crafter, responsible for pulling the plug, forming hand and footholds, and helping her is Tanaka, the fourth member of our team, who will create the rest areas. Tanaka is responsible for covering our tracks, and she will also join the insertion team. That team consists of myself, Lysander and Vallera. Lysander and Vallerra take care of the concealing magic while Tanaka and I hunt for the core. Once we’ve stolen it, we retreat, leaving the tunnels in place but hidden, ready for phase two.”

It all sounded so easy.

“I’m going,” said Leyathel.

“Alas, not,” I said. “And in this, my position is rock solid. You are too important to risk. You have your forest, your people—both need you. With Chivers’ help, you can replant your trees, recreate your forest, and escape the curse. This is what you should be doing, preparing for our failure. Because assembling the team is just one part; after that, we have to steal the core, and if that isn’t dangerous enough, the next part is worse.

“Once we have the core, we rouse the rest of the Annuck. We arm them, bind them to Tanaka, and then, along with the elves and Broadchurch’s army, attack the hobs deep underground in their nests and burrows and exterminate them. That is a battle I’ll grant you, Leyathel, because if we lose it, no one will escape the hobs’ wrath.”

“So,” she said, “you sack the hobs and control the goblins and all their cities in this part of Storbane. How does that help?”

“It gives us access to their high pasture,” I said, my voice barely a whisper.

“Their?” Anna said.

“Lord Bright of Brightwater. Annuck lands, historically—before the hobs—Annuck goblins harried the Lords and Ladies of the area daily. Lord Bright placed his castle in a pass that separated man and monster. They tasked him with protecting them. I’d imagine they gave him great artifacts to do it and even allowed paid-for mercenaries to prop up his forces. Lord Bright is used to goblin skirmishers, so he is an easy target for a diversion to bring him out from his walls. There, we can play. There is only one problem.”

“Which is?” Anna asked.

“Vale,” said I.

“The sorceress you mentioned before,” Leyathel said.

“The very same!” I said theatrically. “Vale holds a staff called Finnigan. The moonstone crowns it. Two things we are unsure of. First, we have no idea what the moonstone does. Secondly, we suspect the staff is aware, so it is a mighty artifact. Combine the two, and I suspect we are looking at the artifact that holds all magical races in check—that prevents them from taking Brightwater and accessing the deeper Lands of Lords and Ladies. Which means one thing.” I paused for dramatic effect.

“What?” asked Anna.

“It means that Morgan means to invade. It means she needs the moonstone to further her dastardly plans. It means we likely have a common interest with the Grey Sorceress.”

“Oh no,” said Leyathel, “don’t even think about a treaty with that bitch.”

I paused as her words hung in the room. “Oh,” I said. “I’m not, but knowing your enemy’s motives is understanding their next moves. It means we have a good bargaining position if we recover the artifact.”

“In what way?” Leyathel asked stiffly.

“Well, we will hold the power that she wants. Surely we can then demand what we already desire? We might come out of this even more powerful than we think.”

“First,” said Leyathel, “we must get this all-powerful object from its wielder. What plan do you have for that?”

“At present?” I stifled a grin. “I have nothing. But if phases one and two go well, we will regroup and plan for the final gambit. Who knows? Something might turn up that helps us. After all, there has to be something here they fear to dedicate a lord to the defense of the Stormbane.”

I sat. I’d said it all, and in the saying, I realized exactly how futile the whole venture was. If we didn’t fall at the first hurdle, the second would surely get us; if not, then the third should prove impossible. “It’s do or die,” I said.

Leyathel drank her wine down in one great swig. “And you would do all that to save my trees?”

I inhaled deeply, suddenly tired of it all, of the non-stop challenges I’d faced from when I’d woken to that moment. “I would do anything for any of you,” I said.

And in my heart, I knew I had not only meant Anna and Leyathel, but Tanaka too.

* * *

There was moonlight, and it glowed upon the Lording’s House, its gardens and its sole other building. That building stood an ancient oak’s height from the main residence and bathed in the light, its cap gleaming silver as waxen leaves sucked at its luminance before sending it on in shimmering silver tones. Stars dotted the sky, the Northern Star at the head of its trio and called Abbadin by some. Somewhere, someplace, under Abbadin, lay Anderlay and all her secrets. All the talk of Lords and Ladies had thrust that mysterious place into my mind, unwelcome though it was then.

Anna knew of Anderlay, though apart from golden sand, a sapphire ocean, the pounding of waves and the drums of war, we knew nothing else. Such were the mysteries of our past, the fateful recalling of a faraway place. Yet, I knew my path headed there. The silken threads of my fate had already woven their way into the Storbane and then on through High Pasture to Brightwater, but that would not be their end, for they could only end at one place, and that was Anderlay.

The moon, however, was not the only thing that shone. Leyathel did. Her aura brushed all, so strong it was, so full of vitality counter to the health of her woods. Anna could take credit for some of that, for the welcome she had visited upon Leyathel, as could Kanazar for constructing both places, and some of it fell on me.

We walked, hand in hand, towards her new home, and a comfortable silence held between us. I’d said my piece, the truth I thought might paint me a deceiver out to strip her forest of its timber while my glacial plan began. She’d heard that plan and seen something different, that of a man who would lay his life on the line for his love, and I fancied it had made her love me all the more. Sometimes the truth is all it takes to paint a hero, and this was one of those times.

“It is homely,” she said as we approached.

“It is,” said I, my voice husky from all the talk, lubricated only by wine. “But I like it.”

“You’ve been in?”

“No. From without, I like its look from there. It’s no great oak, yet it seems to live though I know it can’t be.”

“I’m sure Kanazar is powerful—know it—but the creation of life on such a grand scale must surely be beyond the core.”

I reached, touching the trunk’s barked skin. “It feels real enough, but then so does stone and wood. I think it’s not alive, though. It does not live because it is too uniform. Real bark flakes—it might be strong, but it feels fragile. Life is like that—precarious. This is too solid.”

“It is just so. Nothing that lives holds permanence. It is the one thing a core refuses to acknowledge. It despises creating a fragile thing like life. That is why, I believe, they need Lords, Ladies, goblins and others.”

“But not elves?”

“We have our cores, but they are within, not without. We discarded ours a long time ago.”

Normal folk would have reveled in her words, seeing them for the truth and purity with which she spoke, but I saw an opportunity. Were there elven cores littered throughout the world, their power going begging? It was an interesting thing. Was that the true nature of the Jewel of Everything? I stowed those thoughts away, pushing them to the back of my mind and ignoring their incessant knocking. I opened the dwelling’s front door and ushered my lady in.

The room was round, with a spiral staircase in its center. It was warm, but there was no fire. A pile of stones in an iron grate generated the heat and negated the need for a hearth and flue. A table and chairs were by one of the windows, and loungers spread throughout the rest of the place, with a small scullery across from the door. It was a modest home, a simple design, and made for lounging and little else. Leyathel drew it all in, her hand on her breast—I was jealous of that hand—and she gasped. “I adore it,” she said, and sat by the warming stones, staring at them, then at me, then jumping up and grabbing my hand and leading me to the stairs. “Let’s see what’s up here.”

Then we were ascending, round and round, round and round, and then we were in another room with a grand bed, star-white linen and netted surrounds, pillows like marshmallows, and two quaint side tables on either side, slices of a trunk with warming stones on. Opposite was a bath carved from one piece of wood and varnished, with some pipe over it, a cork stopper holding the water back. She gasped, and I gasped too, the stars painting the windows, the moonlight streaming through the staircase that carried on up.

She hesitated. I’d like to think of her torn between the bed and me and exploring, or rather, the bed and exploring me and continuing up the stairs. Unfortunately, she chose the latter, but it only delayed the inevitable. So we climbed, and there we found something a little bit special.

The tree’s cap was no cap but a terrace of sorts. It was round, around twenty feet and centered on the stairhead. The tree’s canopy rose about ten feet high but was open above, creating a serene, private terrace with the night sky as a ceiling and the moon as a lamp. There were chairs and a table, even a lounger, and there, not in a corner because there wasn’t one, sat a pool with rocks and plants and a waterfall that drizzled its flow over moss-coated pebbles. It was an inconceivable magical conundrum that needed questioning, but we took it for what it was—a gift from the gods. She looked at me, and I at her, and then we kissed, understanding the inevitable and knowing its end.

I broke away, needing to inhale for fear of dizziness overtaking me. Her lips, so vibrant on mine, tingled with her overflowing vitality. But she was not in the mood for respite, soon on me again, her hips grinding against mine as she pulled me to her, tongue probing with passionate urgency. My hesitance, born of surprise, quickly vanished as my virility swelled, demanding to be unleashed upon the gorgeous elf. Courtship be damned, my pumping heart told me as I tore her dress from her, and she ripped my shirt from top to bottom.

We staggered back, still locked together. We were two. We were one—a writhing multi-limbed organism fighting with itself to shed its unnatural skin and return to its virginal state. The remnants of my shirt fell to the floor. She tugged at my pants as I tore her panties from her, grasping her tight ass and pulling her to me, crushing me as I hardened against her. Then she was sitting on the pool’s short wall, and I was over her, then in, wading the thigh-high water, picking her up and kissing her before lowering her, and we were standing again, her aura lighting the pool, my passion igniting a flaming fire within me.

“My love,” she said.

“My love,” said I, and we kissed, more tenderly this time, under the moonlight, standing in her pool.

We kissed for a long while, the agony of my restraint delightful torture. Then she reached for me, her hand clasping my shaft, and she held me, squeezing gently while she probed my mouth and ran her fingers through my hair. Then she broke away, falling slowly to her knees and circling her tongue over my cock as I turned my head upward and searched the stars for the god that had blessed me so.

There was a utopia in that night sky, and there was pleasure under it, the likes of which I had never had before. So deft was her tongue, licking and probing, that groans escaped me, cries of desire, for her mouth’s caress was too much to bear. As I reached my climax, as the swelling began, so she stopped, and I damn near growled out in frustration, but up she came, rising from the water, a goddess herself. She kissed me again before backing away and laying back against the pebble waterfall, its course then altered to cascade about her perfect breasts, her stomach, to thread through her snow-white hair. She parted her legs, gaining purchase on the walls on either side to beckon me onto her.

I stood before her, savoring her naked beauty, the pure perfection of it all, and I wondered again why the gods had blessed me. Then I held myself, narrowing the gap and sliding in, where I stopped, reaching the extent of my length as the cool water cascaded around us. Lifting her, I slipped my hands under and held her shoulders, then lowered myself to her. The water, she and I became one as I began my rhythm, lost in her beauty, the touch of her breasts, the flowing water on my chest, my groin, around the base of my dick. But that all was second to the pleasure I found within her silken pussy as we flowed together, her motion matching mine, stroking me with her wetness, each ripple, each sinew within her heightening my pleasure as it rubbed me over and over.

My world was scattered, its pleasure coming from too many places, true ecstasy rippling through me in waves, and as my strokes quickened, her lips found mine again, our tongues entwined, so tender, so gentle, such a contrast to my frantic thrusts. I needed release, but she kept me wrapped in tender love. One part of me romanced, while the other demanded satisfaction. The conflict of it all brought new waves of pleasure. I wanted to cry out, to pin her by the wrists and slam into her until she begged to be filled. I wanted to slow dance under the moonlight. I wanted to spill my seed there and then. I wanted it to last forever. I demanded completion, but she held me locked and at her pleasure. And then it passed, that urgency, the need for self-pleasure, and she cried out, a great ripple shivering through her body. In my sudden calm, I found my release, and I came then, not with a growl or a grunt, but with a contented smile upon my face, an exhalation. I looked upon my elven queen as she displayed every expression of her orgasm, as her lips parted, her eyes shut, and her aura shone brightly beneath me. My seed flowed, and she tightened around me, and then she opened her eyes and whispered my name, and my utopia found its place not in the stars but under me, and she was Leyathel.

CHAPTER 4

It was a fantastic morning, although broody, with grey clouds overhead and the threat of rain in the air. I had a spring in my step, as I always did after a night of intense lovemaking. It had been a great night, fantastic, and all I could have dreamed of. After our initial passion subsided, we’d talked, and it had been easy, and I’d learned much about elven culture, history, and hopes. Hopefully, she had learned about me too, as I’d found my words flowed, the wine my lubricant, her attention my spur. Then I had returned to my Lording House to sleep with Anna, who’d woken me early, and that was another reason I had a spring in my step.

My morning run with her had passed off pleasantly. She held no hint of jealousy—although her lovemaking was intense, so perhaps there was some—nor were there any remarks other than encouragement and thankfulness that Leyathel was comfortable in her new home. She did ask me about my intentions towards Tanaka, but again, not out of jealousy but a need to prepare the goblin girl. I told her straight. We had to come through the next phase of our plans before I could be distracted by another lady, which meant I would restrain myself. Not that I had made any moves in that direction, although that is not to say I hadn’t imagined her naked, her pastel body under me, hair as green as a fresh pasture.

But it was not a day for dreaming. It was one for setting the stronghold build, marshaling Broadchurch, and ensuring my lazy steward was up to scratch. Barnaby enjoyed an easy life if he thought he could get away with it.

I was at the stronghold briskly, the walk from my Lording House no more than a few moments, and outside milled Lysander and Vallera. Both looked particularly excited.

“Ho, Daniel,” said my wizard. “We have news.”

Vallera wasn’t one for such delight. She was the type bent on mystery, always alluding to her doing or being something of an enigma. I noted she had one of Lysander’s runes daubed in blue on her forehead and new leather bangles adorned both their wrists. Lysander had straw in his messy hair and hadn’t trimmed his stubble that morning. “Been dragged through a hedge backward?” I asked.

Lysander straightened. “We have reached an agreement and are now one. What it is like to be in love, Daniel! What a joy it is! We shall soon venture into danger together, fortified by our love.”

I furrowed my brow. “Didn’t you say Leyathel shouldn’t come on the mission because I might stretch my neck for her?”

He checked, clearly taken aback. “I was—” he said.

So, I clapped him on the back. “It wasn’t something I was worried about. Hell, I’d look out for anyone—even Slugfest.”

“Then you should be pleased for me. It might settle my mind.”

“Congratulations! You are headstrong, but—” I was about to say it was a quality I admired when Vallera butted in.

“Oh,” Vallera purred, “I will look after him. Some potions calm.”

I was not too fond of the sound of that. Part of the enigma that was Lysander was his erraticism. From it came his drive and creativity. Remove that; he’d only make half the wizard he might one day be. “I don’t need him calm. I need him edgy. That way, we get progress we might otherwise miss.”

“There’s no need to worry. Look.” Lysander strolled away, brushing off my arm. After a few paces, he blinked out of existence. A few more saw him back. Then gone, a jump and back. “We have perfected it, and we can tune another into our illusion. It is a shame Tanaka, isn’t here else we could demonstrate.”

“This is good—better than good. Any downsides?”

“Length. We will only have so much time before our lore runs its course and the spell ends. All magic links to—” he squeezed his eyes together— “It’s not stamina as I’d thought, but rather something deeper. It’s lore, which makes the most sense, but I find it has a name.”

“It is called mana,” Vallera said, her gestures one of an over-enthusiastic storyteller, all arms and head wags. “It sits alongside stamina but is fed by magical lore.”

“And have you any proof of this?” I asked.

“It is green and sits in my skin, which gives me my hue.”

“What of Tanaka?” I asked. “She’s green, and so are all the goblins.”

She shrugged. “It is possible that they all have mana but know not how to use it.”

“Or they’re just green,” said Lysander, making the most sense of any of us.

“Assume you are correct. How come Lysander isn’t green?”

Lysander clapped, winked, and said, “By the shade, I have you there!” I rolled my eyes.

“Explain.”

“I found it—a tab in my numbers—I store my mana there, and there is a bonus. The more I use magic, the more it grows. But, at this moment, the length of time we can stay invisible is limited by it.”

“Which means we’d better be sure where the Annuck core is before we attempt to steal the thing.”

Lysander raked at his stubble. “Which means that. I think—more put forward as it is your risk to run—Tanaka might have to scout the city. There must be goblin servants running around, so she should pass for one of them.”

I sighed. “It is the part of the plan I despise the most. We are going into the unknown, which is always bad.”

“Aye,” he said. “It is that.”

“There are plenty of goblins hereabouts,” Vellara said with a yawn at the end. “Surely one or two must have been there and might know the layout—perhaps even act as our guide if we extend the party by one.”

I pondered that. We had over twenty of the creatures amongst us. She was right. One must have been there. Even if we could get a sense of what the place was like, it would be of significant benefit.

“I shall call each into the long room after the meeting. Tanaka will be there presently before we go to the quarry. A fine idea, Vallera.” I paused. “Oh, and Lysander, you might want to pick the straw from your hair before you walk in. You look like you were rolling in the hay all night.”

He gave the elven witch a lustful look. “Maybe we were, maybe we weren’t, but many things boost mana, and a night of passion might or might not, but it was certainly worth the try.” He grinned, and I nearly vomited. New love was always a mystery to me, unless I did the loving.

So we went into the meet, and the clouds won out the bright day as Broadchurch’s face was full of thunder, and I had no reason to doubt why.

“Those damnable goblins are insufferable!” he said before I’d even sat.

“How so?” was my response. I poured myself a morning ale to take the edge off his bluster.

“They are as thick as two short planks, if those planks were devoid of brains entirely. I asked them to present arms, and they flapped their hands about. I call them to attention, and they screw their faces at me and stare. When they march, they care not for direction; if I say wheel, they roll on the floor. Then, when I’m at the end of my tether, and about to send each to the pit, they start trying, like it’s all a game to them.”

“There is patience needed there. I’ll admit,” I said. “They are used to one type of battle command—go forward, or a worse death awaits you behind. I tell you this, Broadchurch, if you manage to whip them into shape, I’ll forget all our past disagreements and elevate you to Commander of Kanazar. How’s that?”

He perked then, his barrel chest inflating and his array of chins falling in line. “The little blighters are flighty, I’ll grant you. But I will prevail.”

With that solved, I turned to Barnaby and Jensome. “How are we doing on the builds?” I looked up my numbers, then looked again. “We have enough stone for the stronghold? How?”

“Mudpaw spent the night practicing her tunnel boring,” Barnaby said. “And by that, I do mean the whole night. Claus’s quarry is just a great divot in the land, devoid of any more useful stone. It’s filling with water—that was the only reason she stopped.”

“We’re building her another quarry a little way over,” said Jensome. “Sent the wee green thing home to have a rest, but she’d have none of it and holed up in Claus’s shed. Tellin’ you, that one is a hard worker. Never liked goblins. Thought them filthy scroungers, but those crafters are proving their worth.”

“We can start the stronghold,” I repeated.

“We can,” said Jensome. “But your plan for more stone had best come to fruition. We’re going to run out of quarry sites soon enough. Then everything will grind to a halt.”

“I hope to have some news on that soon. How long for the upgrade?”

Jensome squeezed his eyes and then whistled some. “I dunno, but a good guess is five days, might run to seven. Stone’s quarried, but there’s a load of it to move yet.”

“How’re the roads going, Barnaby?”

“Slow. You can guess what resource is the issue.”

“I thought they only used stone chippings. I was at Claus’s yesterday, and there was a pile of them there.”

Barnaby smacked his lips together, closing his eyes and inhaling. When he opened them, he failed to look at me, which meant a feeble lie was coming my way. “I meant labor.”

“How so?” I asked, pouncing. “What of Buster, the arbiter who has nothing to collect, or Greasby, the lamplighter with no lamps to light? I’d imagine Ben the thatcher is often at a loose end. Have you not considered them? Or do you sit here all day?”

He reared up immediately. “I do no such thing. If you recall, I alone looked after this place for a thousand years. If roads need building, I’ll build them, but I am a resources man, not logistics, and certainly no gang hand. I find such things tedious.”

I sat back, considering. Was he as useless as it seemed, or was it a lore thing? Was I asking him to pitch into something he wasn’t good at? Was it similar to when I farmed and was terrible at it? It was, and I knew it. “Then stick to warehousing. I’ll have someone sort it out. Make sure the resources are there, mind. That is one excuse too far when it’s all you have to do.”

I needed a logistics man, an engineer, and some groundworkers. I needed some luck with the cauldron. We still had spare capacity, but it wasn’t spouting folks like it used to. Probably because while there were extra lodgings at the farmsteads, the town cottages were pretty cramped with goblins. I decided the roads would have to wait. There was little point in employing people for jobs they were ill-suited to, and I should have learned that lesson a while ago. Had I been a little more ruthless, I’d have considered sending the likes of Greasby to limbo and saving on their food and lodgings.

“We’ll up resources once we’ve upped the stronghold—all of them, cottages too. Right, any other business?”

There was silence momentarily, the type that preceded an awkward question. Eventually, Barnaby cleared his throat. “Some of us wondered why you’re risking your neck for the elven wood. Why bother with the curse? I heard you were pretty confident Kanazar could deal with it, so—”

“So why not strip it of wood and worry about it later?” The thought had crossed my mind. “Let me remind you of something. We need wood in perpetuity. Not just for this upgrade, the next wall, a new warehouse. We are headed for a level five stronghold out of forty. How much wood do you think we’re going to need for that? The elves are a gift, Barnaby, one that will keep giving, as are the goblins. You asked, and that is why. We will be good allies; in return for being good allies, we get what we want. That will make us strong, not a quick pillage, not raping the elves of all their resources and seeing their homes razed. Is that clear enough for you?”

“Crystal,” he said. “But I was not the only one who needed it answered.” His gaze fell on Broadchurch. “Others did, too, no matter how content they look at the moment.”

Broadchurch spluttered. “I am a military man, Barnaby. I follow orders and trust our Lord’s instincts implicitly.”

“Let me translate,” I said. “Broadchurch follows orders most of the time except where it comes to taking elven wood because he thought I was appeasing them.” I paused and raised my eyebrows when he snorted. “What? Did you think I’d forgotten about that?”

“I thought I acquitted myself well during the battle for Wolding Woods. I thought that was compensation.”

“It was,” I said. “But it doesn’t hurt to remind you that I haven’t forgotten your little transgression, does it?” I smacked the table. “Right, any other business?”

There was none. “Lysander, did you have any luck with our invisibility problem?”

“The one where we can’t see each other?”

“The very same.”

“Yes and no. Yes, Eggerwort paste works. No, because we haven’t got any.”

“Where can we find it?”

“Deep in knocker territory. Too far for us to go now. Daisy can knock up a similar paste, but it’ll only last briefly.”

“Then it will have to do. Have her knock out some pots of the stuff.”

I looked around the table. “Any more?”

Silence greeted me, and during its pause, Tanaka knocked. “Are we ready?” she asked.

* * *

Mudpaw was in a state. She was a strange thing and didn’t hold a candle to Tanaka. I couldn’t quite pinpoint what I found odd about her, save that something didn’t quite fit. She looked a little dirty, but probably wasn’t, appeared awkward, but wasn’t clumsy. Her black hair was lank and long and lacked life. Yet, she was bubbly and tended to say daft things and get her words in a twist. I liked her, but not in the same way as Tanaka.

She was also dead on her feet. “Practised hard, did I. All night I went, all night. Can do it now.”

“Do what?” I asked.

“Pull the plug right.” She yawned, and I yawned with her. Such was the way of yawns and late nights.

“But you didn’t have Slugfest and the others to help you.”

“No need. We only need them to grind the rock to dust, not to practice tunnels. Show you.” She swayed some, rocking on her heels. Then she reached forward, her fingers straining, and she pulled a plug from the rockface, backing away and dragging it until it fell at her feet. She chopped at the rock, which disintegrated into stone blocks. “See?” she said, then sat on one of the rocks and fell asleep instantly.

I glanced at Tanaka, Lysander, and Vallera, shrugged, stepped around the sleeping crafter and approached the resultant hole, peering in. “Could we have some light?” I asked, not quite believing my eyes.

Lysander appeared by my side, his staff in hand and a red flame lighting its end. He pointed it into the tunnel, the flame flaring and illuminating all. “By the shade!” he said.

“Do you have to shoehorn—” I stopped, my words robbed by surprise. There, leading down into the earth, was a tunnel, its bottom lined with perfect steps. “By the gods!” I said. “It’s ideal—better than ideal. It’s perfect. We could send a small army down such a thing.”

“Do we need the worms?” he asked.

“Worms?”

“The tunnellers. Do we need them?”

“To get rid of the rock, yes. To do that so Tanaka can fold what’s left and form a plug.” I took a step back, allowing Tanaka to look. I needed pause to think, to understand that Mudpaw had crafted the implausible and could very well have altered the mission with it.

“Do we just take an army down there and have done with it?” I asked aloud but answered before anyone else could. “No! We prepare that assault simultaneously, and I know just the folks to help us do that.”

“Who?” asked Lysander.

“Greg and the others.” I took a breath, excitement coursing through me. “And Broadchurch too. Him as well. This changes everything but the final execution.”

“How so?”

But my mind was racing too fast for me to answer. Logistics—it all came down to logistics. One day, and that day was much closer than before, we’d have to travel the mountain’s guts to get to the lands of the Lords and Ladies. That journey I’d always seen as a dire trek through underground caverns and caves on uneven pathways that dipped and curled through unimaginable terrors, and rockfalls, ran along daunting ridges and passed through fields of stalagmites and stalactites. I hadn’t seen an orderly march through tunnels, down even steps all dotted with restrooms and passing areas.

“Tanaka, do the hobs have rock-crafting?”

“The hobs have lost many arts. Crafting is one of them. They rely on goblins for everything, so they do not need them. Such is the way with gifts. Unused, they fade and die. Hobs know the lore of fighting, persecution, and dark magic. That is where they are, and that is where they will remain.”

“So, if we were to construct a way into the mountain that would take us deep enough to access the lands of the Lords and Ladies, would the hobs be deeper or that level?”

“Deeper,” she said. “Much deeper.”

“What are you thinking?” Lysander asked.

“We steal the orb, raise the goblins, and finish the job. I’m sick of having this whole thing hanging over us. Plus, we can have a little scout of Castle Brightwater.” I clapped my arm, about him drawing him close. “We start, Lysander. We put things off no longer.”

“We’ve put nothing off. Might I remind you we are yet to measure a season in this place?”

“But it seems longer—such is the way of starting afresh.”

“So, what’s the first step of this new and fantastic journey?”

“Drawing Greg in,” said I. “We need some builders too—just two—good with wood.”

“You do not need builders,” said Vellara. “You need elves versed in rathmeradyll.”

I sighed. “In what?”

“Rathmeradyll.”

“Which is?” Was there really a need for such unintelligible words?

“Wood-crafting—ancient lore that would see all you need become one. A Root Mistress, a Nurturer, and a Former. These will extend and bend live wood to your whim.”

“I take it you have such people?”

“We do. Ask Leyathel for Sylvanheart, Woodwind, and Oakensong. Oakensong can nurture two cuttings into great oaks, forming your tunnel’s entrance, its doors and lining its walls and restrooms. Woodwind will shape and smooth those roots, while Sylvanheart will keep them living, extending them deep into the heart of the mountain. Such was the way of day’s past when, with the dwarves of Iron Mountain, we did make the ancient ways that led under the mountains and allowed us to escape the tyranny of the humans.”

There was a lot of information in Vallera’s words, not least the mention of Iron Mountain, but that was for another day. By the sound of it, with the help of both goblin and elven crafters, I could form a viable route right into the heart of the Stormbane. The only possible resistance that might come my way was if we were to break through into an existing passageway accidentally, or if an enslaved goblin crafter were to break into ours. So, in essence, we would play a game of cat and mouse while closing on their city.

It also raised the possibility of using the goblins in limbo as a meatshield distraction. I could, in theory, rouse them en-masse, throw them into the hob city as a distraction while we robbed the Annuck orb. They would get slaughtered, of course, and I might have to wait for more morale before bringing them from Limbo, but it might work… It was a great plan, and as I thought of it, my gaze fell on Tanaka, and I imagined her thoughts. I then decided to bring it up later, if at all. She was getting into her stride as a leader. A bit of self-genocide probably wouldn’t help her confidence.

I chose silence on the matter. “I must go to Leyathel,” I said. “Tanaka, Lysander, can you make sure that Slugfest, Drillshank, Spelunk, and Mudpaw are all in sync and get some practice in—for the stone, if nothing else? Then meet me at Greg’s. Vallera, you come with me. We’ll explain what you need. Then I’ll head off while you fetch the crafters. Got it?”

They had it, and our plan had grown its own legs.

Things were finally moving again.

* * *

I called for Willow, not through laziness, you understand, but through compunction. Sometimes it is good to stretch your legs; others, feeling the wind on your face, is nice. It was such a time. My mind was cluttered, not with confusion but from possibilities. Many had opened for me, and most were unexpected. I hadn’t foreseen how shackled a human was by going it alone in the land. The so-called monsters, the goblins and elves, used lore as intended, while we used it to pursue bigger, more destructive arcane spells. Not that I had any objection to those, but having both would be nicer.

Atop Willow, my soul searching reached new depths. There was power—the power to wield a great sword or throw a fiery ball—which was our measure. Had not Morgan, a human, wished the troll Okanau to display his through magnifying a mighty sword? But what was power, and what was truly overpowered? Surely the ability to form a great path through the heart of a mountain was a manifestation of great power? If I could perfect it, my armies could spring up anywhere. The combination of a human general and monster crafters could well be undefeatable. No castle would be safe—no land beyond my reach.

For that day, though, I had to perfect the tunneling. In my weakened state, taking on a Lord would be folly indeed. There were steps I needed to take. A soldier trained in a level four barracks could not hope to defeat one trained in a ten, twelve or fourteen barracks, let alone higher. I had no clue how high Bright had progressed Brightwater, but I imagined it would be higher than a measly four going on five. I was a pup—newly born, incredibly weak. Fortunately for me, the creatures surrounding me were too.

I kept referring to the goblins and elves as creatures, but I did not see them as that. I saw them as us, as humans, or derivatives thereof. Yet, I had no word for that. They weren’t human, so I couldn’t collectively call them that, nor were they fey. Fey, for me, were fairies and sprites. They were once monsters, but that name didn’t fit anymore. Monsters scared children. They ate folk. They did everything monsters did, and goblins and elves no longer qualified. I failed to believe that which was rooted deep inside me and all other humans in Kanazar.

As I learned more about them; they amazed me and fascinated me with their capacity to love, innovate, and use the land’s power. Perhaps I was biased because of Leyathel and Tanaka, but I thought not. Izzy was a marvel. I was even warming to Vellara. Mudpaw had shown commitment beyond any human so far.

It was a strange time, and the ride cleared some cobwebs, and I thought of a name that prevented me from using the moniker monster or creature. They were my allies—they were the friendly races.

“Ho Greg!” I cried, hurdling a trunk and coming to rest by the hitching rail in front of his farmstead.

He was sitting with Meg on his deck, two mugs and a jug on a table between them.

“A bit early to be resting,” I said, and he looked at me.

“Aye,” he said. “But the farms run, and we either build another or wait and extend these.” He paused, and I noted his usual warmth was absent.

“If you have something to say to me, spit it out.”

“A little bird told me that some helpers of yours have produced the stone to upgrade the stronghold, so we wait for that to happen, and then we’ll upgrade too.”

I dismounted, and Meg got up, offering me her chair, then disappeared inside to grab a third mug and a chair.

“That’s unlike you,” I said.

“What is?”

“You usually talk straight. Don’t dance around a subject.”

“Alright,” said he. “Tell me these goblin rumors I’m hearing are just the idle gossip of dreamers, for I know I’m getting old, but I’m sure I remember you and me fighting the little buggers not ten days ago.”

“Was that all it was?” I asked. “Ten days?”

“Along those lines.” He scoffed. “Could be twenty. Who counts? So, are you going to answer? It’s your turn to talk straight.”

“You know the answer but don’t know the story.”

He was silent, sipping his drink and then preening his fantastic moustache. “Then tell me the story, but no fancifications; just the truth will do me fine. I can judge that better than the dressing up.”

So, I told him. I didn’t embellish, nor did I hold any truths back. I told him exactly how it happened and let his judgement fall where it may.

“No good can come of this,” was his initial pronouncement. It came with much consideration, chewed over like gristle, his expressions varied. My heart sank at his words. Without him on my side, things would be difficult. “And your plans,” he said. “Tell me about them.”

And so I did. I told him of Slugfest, how the goblin disgusted me, but how he went about his work, and that work was dour. Then I told him of Mudpaw and how she’d exhausted herself trying to perfect her part in my plan. And I told him of the curse, of Morgan, Bright, and Vale, how the Stormbane Mountains linked all and everything entwined with the elven crafters.

He raised his great white brows, and his moustache twitched, which was a giveaway for mild annoyance. But he listened, and in these things, that is half the battle won or lost, dependent on judgement. I waited, and after a while, he spoke.

“Now,” he said, “let me tell you what I know of goblins. They are evil creatures who would sneak up on you while you’re in bed. They would skewer you with a rusty blade, and if the resulting blemish didn’t kill you, then infection would get you every time, and a long and agonizing death was your end. They are a mob. Once one is frenzied, so are the rest. That, Daniel, is why I hate them.”

“Hate? I never had you down for hating any enemy.”

He turned to me then, his silver irises filled with fading light, and he reached out, his hand resting on my shoulder. “I hate them because I see us in them. I see our dark side—that one we become when anger is upon us. That one manifested through greed. I battle to keep the goblin from me.” He huffed, sitting back and withdrawing his hand. “I battle to keep that from my boys and girls, from all of us, and it’s one I sometimes lose.”

There was silence for a while, and during that time, I contemplated his words, packed as they were with his wisdom. I wondered about my inner goblin but had difficulty with that comparison, as I knew them, and he didn’t. A great rage took me over when I fought. It robbed me of my memory, and the bodies around me when I came to told me of its savagery. I was a beast—I was the beast he spoke about during those moments. “Have you thought about what they think of us?”

“I have, and that is what worries me most.”

Meg, who’d not said a word up to that point, cried out, pointing, then rushing from the deck and bolting toward the road. I was up in an instant, as was Greg, fearing the worst—expecting it—but it was no attack, no hobgoblin foray. It was Slugfest, Drillshank, Spelunk, and Mudpaw, except the poor goblin crafter had fallen, and she was lying face-down in the mud.

I raced alongside Meg, who had turned over the stricken goblin and was listening for a heartbeat. “Faint,” she said. “Poor thing is at death’s door.” She listened again, shaking her head. “Gregory, pick her up and take her into our stead.”

Gregory—that word was telling in itself. I had never heard her call him by his full name. Despite his hesitance, the farmsteader scooped up Mudpaw, her body limp in his arms, and marched her back to the farmstead, where we all gathered about as he set her on a cot. “Is this the one you talked of?” he asked.

“Mudpaw, yes. She’s exhausted herself.”

He eyed the other three. They glistened in the rapidly-darkening gloom. “I’ll admit, they do little for me. Why are they so slimy?”

“Tunnellers,” I said. “They can dig a hole quicker than you or I could walk the same distance.”

Then he said something strange, and at first, I thought he’d lost his mind. “Are you partial to mushrooms?”

“Mushrooms?” I asked, regarding him suspiciously. “I’m not saying no, especially when garlic and butter fill the cap.”

He nodded, his bottom lip protruding to the edge of his moustache. “Then I might have a use for them,” he said. “Come, we’ll find somewhere to put them up. How long will they be staying?”

“Depends on the elves,” I said. “And Mudpaw. We can’t do a thing without her.”

Once they settled, and with Greg more open to our alliance, I decided it was best to retire and see how things fell during the night. I rode Willow back to the Lording House, where Tanaka, Leyathel, and Anna sat in the scullery with Fiona. They questioned me, and I told them what had happened. Tanaka wanted to go straight to Mudpaw, but I persuaded her against the idea. As far as my experience told me, Meg was a fine woman and a mender of things. Farmers despised foxes, but they wouldn’t see one suffer. “Mudpaw’s in safe hands,” I said, and we left it at that.

* * *

Morning served me another run, which was needed to clear my head, freshen my body, and rid myself of the knots of worry. My strength was rising, the exercise gaining me a point now and then. My constitution was solid—for a new pup—and my wisdom had gained a point, which was a complex attribute to increase.

I had breakfast with the three ladies, and Leyathel questioned me about my plans for the upcoming foray into Stormbane Mountain. She mainly wanted to know about Vallera’s plan and demanded that she come to the farmstead, too. She wished to know how long Slyvanheart could extend the roots into the rock. She had concerns about it and saw it as her role to protect the trees. I had no objection, apart from the size of the party. It was becoming a small army, which would soon be milling around the goblin cave, and would likely make a racket.

But with Leyathel and Tanaka coming, Anna decided that she might wish to attend, so we all set off, the sun on our backs and a fresh breeze in our faces. We only had small conversations, the type for politeness, while we focused on our thinking.

I was pretty open, my plans in the hands of Gods, elves, and goblins. The late addition of the three elven crafters had thrown me off-kilter a little. I’d had a plan, and I had a new plan, but the new one was more of an idea. Whether they could pull it off, well, Leyathel had sewn that doubt within me. But, first things first was whether they had survived the night—goblins, elves, and farmsteaders together.

They had, and Meg was still fussing over Mudpaw, and Greg and the three tunnellers were up to something at the rear of the farmstead. I checked on Mudpaw, left Tanaka, Anna, and Leyathel to their fussing, and rounded the building, coming beside Greg. There, in front of him, were six tunnels.

“They done two each,” he said proudly. “Funny little critters, but they dig as fast as I swim.” He nudged me. “Be mushrooms in there afore long, and I’ll plant some garlic in the shade of those trees over yonder.” He seemed to lose his thread, staring at the trees before jerking back to add. “And we’ve got the goat fer milk, so there’s your butter.”

“So, you like the goblins now?”

He shrugged. “Won’t say like. Not sure that’ll be the case. But I’ll admit, they’ve got uses and don’t appear half as hideous as when they’re coming at you from the dark. I’ll tolerate them, but not sure they’ll ever pass the ale test.”

I had a clue what that was. “Can’t be friends if you can’t drink with them.”

He made a clicking sound and winked at me. “You got it. However, I’ll admit that Slugfest is a funny one. Had me chuckling a few times.”

It was a start and near enough an admission of acceptance. I settled for it. “Seen the elves?”

“The three crafters? Came last night with that wizard of yours and the weird one—the green elf with all the bangles. They pitched up over by Gregson’s farmstead. I think he’s taken them to the mountains for a look-about. Said something about growing the first two trees.”

“The first?” I pondered it. “Makes sense. We can’t do much until he’s grown them.”

Greg straightened and scratched his head. “Then won’t it be sometime before—” He sighed. “Gonna grow it quick, ain't he? Gonna be a towering oak before the day’s done.”

“I wouldn’t put it past them.” I lingered. “So, all is good with you?”

He exhaled, a soft whistling accompanying it. “Guess so. Like I said, they ain’t so frightening up close. Meg’s been fussin’ over the sick one, giving her all sorts of concoctions. You’d better hope they work like us on the inside, or she’ll likely poison the poor little mite.”

“I’ll go check.” I took a few steps and stopped. “And, thank you. Thanks for giving it a chance.”

He didn’t reply, just looked over the tunnels where Slugfest, Drillshank, and Spelunk stood chattering.

Mudpaw was looking better—not fully recovered, but better. I left her with Tanaka and Anna, and Leyathel and I borrowed a couple of horses and headed for the mountains. Once we’d left the farms, we gave the horses their heads and raced up the part-constructed road until it turned to a mud track, then vanished, so we slowed, the tops of the mountains growing all the time.

They were a strange sight that I could best describe as looking at my teeth from the back of my throat while travelling along my tongue. They cloaked a mighty drop; from what I knew of it, their true stature would be daunting from the other side. Yet there were still ravines and scree, crags and creases and all the things you’d associate with rugged mountains. Mostly, their horizon was a series of interlocking ridges dotted with odd peaks, the occasional one capped with snow, but not like icing on a cake—the dirty grey type that informed those in the know that it was a bleak place exposed to every foul element going.

As we closed on the place, the wind picked up, chilled from the upper slopes, biting, causing me to draw my jacket tightly, collar up and chin in. “This place has a strange feeling about it,” I said, scanning the slopes for any sign of life, for Lysander and the others.

Leyathel was quiet, occasionally dismounting and scooping up some soil, letting it run through her fingers. She’d look up at the mountain, her expression one of hatred, and then she’d shake her head.

We found them close to the spot Greg had suggested. It was a ravine, cut in the rock by a stream tossed over scree, craggy scrub barely clinging on. Sylvanheart, Woodwind, and Oakensong stood with Gregson sitting a little way back, and Lysander and Vallera perched upon a small bluff. All carried the same expression, and it was one of defeat.

Oakensong was Izzy’s height but had dark hair and a deeper complexion. He had his hands on his hips and was shaking his head. “You cannot force them because they will not endure.”

“This place is shade from noon until dusk,” said Woodwind, a paler elf—a more classic one, blond, skinny; but awkward, with none of the grace of Leyathel. She spat her words, the admonishment plain to hear. “It matters not the reason. Suffering isn’t something I’ll be a part of.”

“Suffering,” said Sylvanheart, “is the way of things for us. If these two oaks help fifty others, that is a sacrifice worth tolerating. But the truth is, I doubt they can endure here.” He was the clear leader, taller than the others, with sharper features and tongue.

“This is the place,” said Gregson. “It is above solid rock and away from the caves. We mapped The Under. It has to be here.”

Leyathel dismounted, coming between them and kneeling. She cupped a tiny oak shoot, wilted and dry, brushing the powdery gravel from its base. Then, she coaxed it out, roots and all, and it sat upon her hand where her aura bloomed and the tiny oak straightened, its leaves becoming shiny once more. “No,” she said. “Not this place. Pick another. They must thrive for Oakensong to extend their roots.”

Lysander rolled his eyes. “Fill it with goodness and send its roots down. The earth is rich and ruddy Under. It will get nourishment.”

Leyathel plucked the second shoot. “I’d suggest, wizard, that you focus on your tiny fireballs and leave others to administer their talents.” She spun around, facing me. “Pick another spot, one with pasture, loam and water. Have your goblins tunnel from there, and you will have your roots.”

So, we retired from that cold place, the desolate, windswept slope, and we settled in a long pasture close by, which was preferable.

“Gregson,” I said. “A favor. Go to Jensome and tell him to send me Miggs the joiner and a few others. Get Barnaby to dispatch timber. We build here—an outpost, no, a relay station, one we can defend from attack, and in its center shall be the oaks, and between them will be the entrance to the tunnel.”

Leyathel squeezed my hand. “Thank you,” she said, but she deserved the thanks. I’d been remiss, solely thinking about the tunnel and nothing more. We did need a staging post, an advanced position—somewhere we could barracks men before we sent them to war.

CHAPTER 5

She was proved right. The oaks towered above us, their canopies sheltering us from wind chilled by snow, whipped to fury by the criss-cross ravines. All around rang the hammers, chewed the saws, and the bustle of working men and women murmured. We’d lost days, but we’d make them up. We stood between those mighty trees, and Slugfest, Drillshank, and Spelunk dove into the soil for the first time there. They headed towards the mountains, their pitch shallow, and Mudpaw readied.

The delay had done the little goblin good. She was vibrant again, all sharp smiles and evergreen cheeks. Meg stood beside her, the pair having formed a bond during her healing, and she wrung her hands together, her worry plain to see.

“Don’t you strain yourself, little one,” Meg said.

But there was determination on Mudpaw’s face, and not a wink and a skipped heartbeat later, Mudpaw had pulled her first plug, Tanaka had folded it, and the farmsteaders had loaded the dark soil on a wagon. So was the goblin’s rhythm established, and we sat back with the elves as they waited their turn.

It came when the goblins hit rock six turns later. Then Woodwind stood, his willowy frame growing in stature, and he took up a position between the oaks, knelt, touching the earth, and singing his song. Sylvanheart crouched by one oak, palm touching its bark, his song joining Woodwind’s. Oakensong sat by the second, her back resting on it, and her voice, higher, sitting over the others, provided a harmony that threatened to send me to sleep.

At first, nothing out of the ordinary happened. The goblins rested, and the elves sang. Then Leyathel joined them, and Vellara linked hands too, and their song magnified, and one, then two, roots grew from the soil and spread into the tunnel, while branches sprouted from the trunks and wove a grand arch above all.

It was, I decided, time for morning wine. I produced a bottle from my storage and some bread and meat that Meg had prepared, and I asked Tanaka over, and we sat and ate while Meg served up more tucker for the others.

“How are you feeling?” I asked.

She looked mighty fine, no longer the waif plucked from Limbo. Her complexion shone with a healthy sheen, and her violet eyes sparkled. Her hair fell, curls rolling over her shoulders, around her blossoming breasts—those breasts, those damn fine breasts. She dressed simply but made the look her own, wearing skintight pants that cut off a little under her knees and boots that stopped above her ankle. Her shirt was open at the top, laced loosely, with sleeves short like her pants. It suited her in its simplicity and gave her innocence that I suspected was hers to own.

“Nervous,” she said. “It gets close now.”

“Nervous?” I asked, needing her to narrow it down a little. “Of the theft, the battle, or the hobs?”

“Of ruling,” she said. “That is what you want me to do, right?”

“Is it not what you want?”

It was a fault of mine, being a Lord and having it ingrained in me. Leadership came naturally to me as it was a given. I existed, and so I led. Leyathel was the same. She couldn’t sit idly by and watch others do her work—she had to help. It was a compulsion. But, I supposed, not everyone would, and that came as a bit of a shock to me, one I quickly recovered from while keeping my expression neutral.

“It’s not something I ever considered. I was a slave before you—” She paused.

“You can say it,” I said. It would be wrong to say I felt no guilt that I’d killed her, my axe cleaving her throat, but it would also be wrong to say I didn’t. There was no guilt in me for routing the goblins because it was the right move then. But, I cared for Tanaka—not like I cared for the others, something much deeper—and therefore, I cared that she might have suffered at my hand.

“Before you killed me, I was a slave and nothing more. I had no future but one of toil to further the hob’s needs. We were their fodder, positioned so that if you attacked, we would bear the brunt.”

“Did they know we were coming?” I asked.

“They suspected you would. They forced us to harry you, testing to see if you would have the mettle to react. When you beat us twice, they knew you would come, and they retreated to their city.”

There were two ways to take that news. The first was to wonder at their cowardice—leaving their slaves to face our wrath. The second was to wonder if it was a strategy. “Why did they leave Kanak? Why have him exposed?”

She shrugged. “I think they underestimated your wrath. I cannot tell.” She lowered her eyes. “I was dead then.”

I reached for her, and our fingers entwined.

“Don’t,” she said. “Don’t say you’re sorry because it brought us together, and for that, I am thankful.”

“Are we together?” I asked, and her cheeks darkened.

“Would you want to be? Could you lay with a goblin?”

I imagined it then, her emerald body under me, our skin kissing and her breasts in my hands, her lips brushing mine as I slid my cock into her. My arousal came quickly, answering her question better than any words. I adjusted myself, coughing and then smiling. “I think that tells you all you need to know,” said I, and she giggled, and I laughed.

“When?” she asked, her directness taking me off guard.

I wanted to say then and there, then take her in front of everyone without care. But there are paths left better untrodden, and there is digression, so I said five words that I instantly regretted.

“When we get this done.”

She nodded, eyes downcast. “Do I have to lead them? If we win, do I have to lead them?”

“It is what you were born to do.”

“Born to do and suited are two different things.”

“So, what are you suited to?”

“You know. I told you. I have rithimarelldyl.”

“You have told me yes, but it doesn’t tell me what that is.”

She moved closer to me, our thighs touching, and she rested her hand on my knee. “There is crafting, and there is rithimarelldyl. With crafting, I can fold stone, roll pillars, or knead rock into many shapes. It is brutal in its results, forming little beauty or style. If a flagstone is needed, I make one. If an archway is requested, then there is an arch. Rithimarelldyl is different.”

“How so?”

“The dwarves of Iron Mountain have it—or had it once, long ago. Like all things, if it isn’t used, it is lost. Imagine them at their height. They carved great passageways with pilasters and relieved archways, ornate reveals and trimmings. Imagine their vaulted halls and elaborate crypts, and then you’ll know rithimarelldyl.” She picked up a stone, cupped it in her hands, and from them came a glow, and heat brushed me. Then she opened them, and she said, “For you.”

It was a tiny flower—a lily—perfect in every way. It was our flower—mine and Alex.

“You know about Alex?”

She nodded. “Anna told me—she told me how Kanak conjured two archers and turned them on your lover. You wondered why they’d left Kanak there, and I think it was for that reason.”

“For what reason?”

“To strip you of what you loved—to make you mad, compulsive. It is then that humans make mistakes.”

I put that information aside, wanting to focus on the other. “What do you think of my situation?”

“Your—?”

“Anna and Leyathel, and Alex when she returns—if she’ll have me, that is?”

“I’m not sure I understand it all.”

“Nor did I,” said I. “Not at first, but it’s coming to me now. Since I paired with Anna, a greater understanding has filled me. I have more compassion. I can see other people’s points of view much better. Not to her extent, you understand, but to some of it. She will be the glue that holds all together, and I now have some measure of that talent.”

“And Leyathel?”

“It is her that fills me with understanding for all living things. I knew that the trees would not grow on that barren slope. I can feel them penetrating the soil under us. Elven lore is no great mystery to me, not anymore. Can I grow a sapling to a tree in a day? Probably not. Could I coax a root from the earth? Possibly. But I don’t need to because I have her, but it is there—I feel it. I have power over wood. I have a portion of her lore.”

“And what would Alex give you?”

“That much is a puzzle to me. She is brave—perhaps that. She is feisty, so maybe I can become more like her. She doesn’t suffer fools.” I paused. “But I think it’s none of those. It might be her bravery, skill with a bow, knives, or slingshot. It could be all, or it might be some hidden talent. There will be something.”

“And if there isn’t?”

“Then—” I stuttered over the words, for there was only one proper conclusion. “Then I must forgo that love.”

We sat silently for a while, but then she took my hand again and pulled it into her lap. “From me, you will understand stone.”

“From you, I will.” I held up the stone flower. “But I doubt I will ever be able to make you one of these.”

“To make me your Lady of Stone would be enough.”

“Then we win this battle and any others to come, and that is what we do, as long as you know you must share me with the others.”

She pressed her lips together. “What better family than them?”

* * *

There was more to celebrate. The stronghold reached level five, which provoked a flurry of activity. We completed the relay station, which had its own page on my numbers. It was level one because we'd not built it with levels in mind; otherwise, we’d have sped it to five, but it was also peculiar in how it levelled, so increasing the build wouldn’t have helped. All things needed to improve to increase. The archer’s range, for instance, would extend and allow us to use more powerful bows. The tavern’s counter lengthened so the bar staff could serve more customers, and it had more bedrooms to sleep more guests, plus a larger cellar to brew the ale. For the relay station, it was all about connectivity. It demanded the road that joined it to the stronghold was in tip-top condition. I needed that also.

Our tunnelling produced masses of stone, complimenting that produced by our quarries. When combined with our excess timber from the elven forest, they gave us enough resources to increase our wall, but, despite my need to reach level eight, both for Alex and the others in Limbo and for Lysander and his tower, there was one sure way to build a good castle, and that was from the ground up.

Everything started with resources, and while our stone and wood were more than sufficient at that moment, I chose to improve the resource fields first, including the farmsteads and the roads connecting the relay station to everything else. So, Jensome concentrated on those first, and we reaped immediate benefits from them.

Before, the stone had piled up at the tunnel entrance, and we’d often have to pause to clear it. After, it was the wagons that queued and waited. It was a hard choice, but getting Alex back was the ultimate aim, not the path, as Anna had once told me. The stronghold’s increase also enabled us to level the cottages, military buildings, tavern, smithy, and others. It was like a fresh start—a new impetus that put a spring in everyone’s step.

Tanaka’s influence within the tunnel was evident. First came the tunnellers, then Mudpaw, then she, and after that the elves, but Tanaka returned, using her crafting. Her influence was apparent everywhere she went, be it a passing place, a resting place or a gathering area. She changed the walls from chiselled rock to something much more special, adding decoration and function equally. She built scrolled benches for resting, ornate beds for sleeping, and such things as lamp alcoves and water bowls, and it gave the tunnel character and function beyond its obvious nature.

I walked it daily, eager to go deeper. Positioning it farther from the mountains enabled the first portion to be sloped rather than stepped. Flattened roots formed a road, two grooves in place to keep the wagons steady and passing and turning places to keep them rolling. Mud walls vanished halfway along the slope, replaced by rock, and there the goblins had coaxed their lichen to grow, spreading eerie green light over all. The slope ended in a large chamber from which we’d extracted enough stone to upgrade our wall to five. But that wasn’t the reason we’d formed it.

It was a rest and storeroom, marking the farthest point we could take the wagons. From there, the tunnel’s angle turned sharply downward, and steps replaced the slope. It marked the end of any pretense of safety and commenced the descent into the bowels of Stormbane. There, standing at the steps’ top, the palpable sense of evil hit me, and I knew that once I’d trod those steps, there was no turning back.

There was also caution needed. While Slugfest, Drillshank and Spelunk knew where they were tunnelling, they couldn’t be sure they wouldn’t burst through into another tunnel, cavern or cave. They could be digging one moment and facing hob swords the next. I urged caution. I urged quiet. But I could do nothing more as there was no space to accompany them. There was no way to protect them.

We upgraded every resource field while they dug. We upgraded each military building while they dug. Every cottage followed, then the tavern, smithy, workshop, and watchtower, and it was the day we ordered a wall upgrade that disaster struck, and we lost Spelunk.

I was at the Lording House when news came through, and I doubt Willow’s hooves touched the ground, such was the speed I rode her. We hurdled fences, flew through the long pasture, past the farmsteads, and into the relay station. There I pulled up, the place devoid of folks, so I galloped on, into the tunnel, towards the staging area where I finally came across the elves and goblins, Drillshank bent double, crying, Slugfest pounding the ground.

“What happened?” I asked. Then I saw Tanaka, bloodied and bruised, and my rage kindled. “What happened?” I growled.

“Monster,” was her reply.

They urged caution. I heard them, and I ignored them. My rage had gone too far, reaching every part of me, head pounding, teeth grinding. I took those steps two at a time, my axes already in hand. A monster it might be, but I cared not. I might have to build with care, not hurry my way to eight, but by all the gods, if something stood in the way of that greater plan, it would die.

The steps were steep, the tunnel slightly smaller. Roots lined the first of them but soon ran out as I passed the extent of Woodwind’s influence. Then only Mudpaw’s rough-hewn formings were left, but they didn’t slow me. What did was the natural order of things. There is rage, and there is fear. Rage can negate fear and vice-versa. As I descended, the tunnel’s silence grew, a strange hollowness that brought with it a sense of foreboding. I imagined from my alias I might have had three lives to date. However many, they must have played a part in honing my instincts. One of those was to take note of my gut—my fear—because fear doesn’t grow unless there is a good reason.

There were plenty of reasons why my fear was present and gaining a solid foothold. I was alone—the others far behind. There had been talk of a monster, which should have been enough. But the other was more vague. I sensed something. Call it a presence. Call it what you will. But it was there, and it was tangible.

I slowed as the tunnel began to curve in a loose spiral. It restricted my vision. The light was poor anyway, the lichen hardly having time to establish a presence. Reluctantly, I swapped out one hand axe for a torch, lit it, and continued down. The hollowness grew, my footsteps echoing. Then I heard it—a sound like no other. Imagine an old man spluttering and snoring, rasping as his breath tries to fill his old, shredded lungs. Then imagine it quiet, although filling every sense. Think how his breath would smell if a rotting carcass had lodged in his gut, partly dissolved in bile. That stench blunted my rage until it had vanished, and all that was left was exactly what I needed—a heightened sense of fear.

I took the steps slowly, pausing, kneeling, running my finger over a patch of dried blood. Tanaka’s? One of the others? The spiral ran left—by that, I mean the inner wall was on my left. I hugged that wall, choosing concealment over a longer sightline. With my back to it, I continued down. The rasping sound grew. The stench intensified. I reached the end of the steps, cracked stone, jagged edges, and darkness greeting me. The tunnel ended, the steps hovering over an abyss.

I checked my storage—three torches—placed my axe between my knees, lit a second torch and tossed the first. It flared up, illuminating a large cavern, a great wormlike creature coiled in its bottom. Its head snapped around, milky eyes locking on me, and there, hanging from the corner of its mouth was a clawed foot. It was Spelunk’s.

There is another relationship between fear and rage, and that is rage is king. It can snuff fear out instantly.

I tossed the other torch into that place, threw another, called for my second axe, and jumped. While looking quite turgid, the beast reacted with surprising speed, discarding Spelunk’s remnants, striking in the same instant. It caught me midair, snatching a bite. Pain came fast, breaking through my anger and strangling my senses as I yelled. It dulled my reflex, and my first strike went wayward. I cannoned off its body, batted by its tail, and slammed into a wall, falling to the rough ground, the crunch of bones shattering—fortunately, not mine.

A thousand shadows danced on the cavern walls, coiling, swaying, snakelike loops and humps. Dizzy, I was dizzy, and my side throbbed. I had one axe in hand, the other lost. It came at me again, but I dove away, more of a stagger, but enough that it missed. My head swam. I struck out but missed, my legs giving way.

What the hell is happening to me?

I dove repeatedly, trying to keep moving—desperate to evade the beast. Its fangs—the bite—that was it! The creature had poisoned me. My mouth dried. I squeezed my eyes shut, opened them, gasped and shook my head. Wine—I had wine. It had to do. But did I have time? The worm thing came at me again. Two heads? Did it have two heads? Which one to avoid? Both? I dodged one, struck at the other. My axe hit something. Cold wetness splattered me. Then another bite, this one on my leg. I twisted around, smashed my axe into it, raised it, and did it again.

But it was hopeless. It had me. I was losing focus. Thirsty, so very thirsty. I crawled, shadows receding—the worm priming for a strike. I clawed at the wall, found a crack—a split, no, a fissure. I slid into it, bringing my feet close, folding myself inside the tiny place, hoping it was enough. The creature struck, its maw an ever-increasing shadow. It slammed into the rock, spraying me with its venom. But it couldn’t get me. I was safe. Or was I?

Spots of venom steamed and sizzled, acid eating at my clothes, skin, and eyes. Fresh pain spikes stabbed me, and I screamed, unable to move, to escape the pain—to find some cool stream and dive in. There was no room—never was in battle. No room! No escape! I called for some wine, emptying the bottle over my head, rinsing my eyes—the damage done. I called another bottle, drinking it down, hoping for that alcoholic buzz but praying it would flush the venom from me. I downed another, forcing every gulp down.

The worm backed off. My vision was spotty, the torchlight dull, but I heard bone crack, and I knew it had returned to its meal—to eating poor Spelunk. Some avenging angel was I, hiding in a crack and hoping to wet myself at any time—praying that I could beat the creature’s poison. I needed patience—I could have done with it before. I would mend—my constitution would see to that, but would I be better off? It was hopeless.

Then a new light came, and it was red, and my hope took hold again. “Is that you?” I shouted, my voice horse from breathing the acid. “Lysander, is that you?”

“Here,” he said, his voice like a warm welcome—my hero had come!

“The worm—stay away. Venom fills its bite.”

“Must do,” said Lysander. “Your speech is slurred. You sound drunk. Shall I crack some wine open too?”

“Not the time,” I told him.

“Always time for wine.”

There was a green flash. It fell towards me, its light wrapping around me like a swaddling blanket. My pain dulled as my constitution fought back, suddenly aided by the green magic. It was a healing spell. “Vellara, more if you can.” My voice was clearer, but with the healing came sobriety, and my pain returned. I cried out but caught it, not wishing to sound weak. “A few more, and I might be able to attack it.”

Red filled my vision, followed by incandescence and an unholy scream that resounded around the cavern with tumultuous rage as the worm thrashed about. Rock exploded, rained down on me, and I feared it would tear the fissure apart. Another red flash brought more of the same. Then green came with rippling comfort. My pain dulled, which was contrary to the worm’s position. Lysander struck again and again, the creature unable to reach him—unable to poison him. Vallera’s healing spells had returned me to some sense of normality, the flashes lighting the cavern.

It was a nest, but instead of twigs and branches, it was ribs, femurs, skulls, and spines. The stench of death permeated all. Lysander backed the worm into a corner opposite its escape—a round tunnel leading into darkness. Somewhere I might have crawled towards to try and escape it—something I might have been dragged out of, kicking and screaming. But we had the upper hand—the tables had turned.

“Keep it there!” I cried. “Don’t let it escape!”

I bolted from the fissure, putting myself between it and the hole.

“What are you doing, you fool!” Lysander spat. “I’ve got this!”

“How’s your—what do you call it? Your magic reserve?”

I pulled my axes into my storage, then pulled them back out. It was a neat trick that saved me looking for them.

“Good point,” said Lysander. “Getting low.” He slowed his attacks.

“Vallera, you got anything that can help?”

I looked up—she was pale, not a good sign.

“Nearly out,” she said. “You took a lot of healing.”

“Fine. Save it.” I shook my head to rid myself of the last of my fog. “Lysander, one more, as I run.”

The worm was sizzling now, skin punctured by Lysander’s fireballs. I ran for it, Lysander sending his bolt. Then, midway across the cave, I heard Tanaka’s cry.

“Behind the head. Chop it behind the head.”

I jumped as a ruddy explosion obliterated a small part of its eye socket—its milky orb finally gone. Then I was on it, and my rage came again, and I remembered the bites and the acid, and my axes went to work. Then Tanaka was by me, a spear in hand, and she stood, and she drove her weapon into the beast, white milk fountaining around her shaft. She pushed it deeper and deeper, the white liquid spurting up, covering us in stickiness. She strained, and I dropped my axes, grabbing her shaft and pushing it deeper into the beast. It thrashed, its tail sweeping across the walls, bending over, trying to get us. But with one last cry, we forced the spear in further, and it broke through muscle or ligament or some such thing, and it slid into something soft, and whatever it was, it saw the worm end, the creature going limp instantly, the battle won.

“Thank you,” I said, then hailed Lysander and Vallera and said the same. “What the hell was that?”

“We call it Huntekana,” said Tanaka.

“Huntekana? What does it mean?”

“Big worm.”

* * *

By the relay station, a brook threaded through a stand of silver birches. Red cherry bushes grew underneath, along with mint, and some aromatic herbs with small lilac flowers. It was knee-deep, with a shingle bed and loam banks perfect for otters, voles, and the like. There were the usual crescents and arcs, raised shingle banks, slow water, white water, frogs and fish, squirrels and birds and Tanaka.

She lay in the water, letting it wash over her, resting her head on a rock as she looked up at the moon. “You nearly died today,” she said.

I sat in the water, my legs crossed, my gaze focused solely on her gorgeous, naked form, the wetness accentuating her curves, silvery, brushed by moonlight. It was temptation—whether by design or her lack of modesty, she tempted me. I didn’t care which. Instead, I reveled in her beauty. “I’m not so easy to kill.”

“But what if Lysander hadn’t come back? What if Vallera hadn’t cast her healing spell?”

“What if my favorite goblin hadn’t killed the beast?” I asked.

Her nipples sat just above the water’s surface. They were a deep shade of green, a dull leafy color. They were of average size, complimenting her ample breasts perfectly. I might have been able to resist the temptation to take her there and then, but I couldn’t resist such a beautiful piece of art. I reached out, my finger tracing the darkness surrounding her nipple, bringing it to hardness. She held her breath, then looked at me, her violet eyes grey in the moonlight.

“Unfair,” she said. “I can’t touch you!”

“I don’t remember that being part of our deal.”

“We agreed to wait until after we’d beaten the hobs.”

“We did,” I said, momentarily downcast but still toying with her nipple. “But we actually agreed not to make love. That was all.”

“I suppose,” she said, then held my hand to her breast. “My heart is pumping.” She pushed it off, turned on her side and inclined her head. “I would kill anything for you.” Her expression clouded, and she jumped up, water dripping from her like tiny silver sequins. “But you must be more cautious. You should have planned. Lysander could have ruined that worm from afar. Sarah, Della, Billie, or Charmaine could have filled it with arrows. The result would have been the same. Spelunk dead, which I’ll mourn for a while, and the worm dead, which I won't. But, if you’d died, Daniel, I’d have done more than mourn. The hobs would have come—they would win too, and I would be a slave again. Know this; I will kill myself before that happens.” She climbed the riverbank, pulling on her pants, boots, and top. “So this is our deal. You live, and you get me. But only when the hobs are gone.” She waded into the water, cupping my jaw and kissing me. “Am I, aren’t Anna and Leyathel worth living for?”

And then she left, and I was in a brook, naked, hard, and frustrated. But I had her pictured in my mind, her bare form framed, and beside her was Leyathel and on the other was Anna, and she was right.

They were worth living for.

* * *

With more cottages came more people, and most welcome they were, too. Kanazar, true to form, swayed the cauldron to our needs, and those were war. Eight infantry came, six cavalry and ten archers—twenty-four in total, which more than tripled our army. Along with them came two more farmsteaders, two masons, and two wagonmasters.

The wagonmasters were named Jones and Spinks. Jones was an odd man with a fixed expression that varied not no matter his mood. He rarely got off his bench, telling all that his task was to drive the wagon and nothing else. Whatever happened, he sat there, unaffected, stoic, as if nailed to the wood under him. By contrast, Spinks was only too happy to help, and he had a story for every word you had for him. He wore his facial hair in a goatee and always wore a wide-brimmed hat, come rain or shine. Two such contrasting folks there had seldom been, but both had the same effect on our logistics: to speed it up.

It seemed that wagonmasters rarely broke a spoke, never cracked an axle, knew what was fully loaded and what wasn’t, what divots to avoid and when it was too wet to drive. Our efficiency grew, and Barnaby insisted on improving every road so they could race around the castle and its grounds delivering resources where needed. It was also about that time that the wall upgrade commenced. Jensome estimated it would take seven days—seven long days—which was too long. So, I went to see Kanazar to see if the core knew how to speed up the builds.

I hadn’t seen the core since the castle’s stronghold had upgraded to five; I’d been so busy with the tunnel’s affairs. Not much had changed, and without any adventure, I soon stood before it upon the promontory inside the dome that was its shade.

“How are things progressing, my absent Lord?” it asked.

“Absent through work progressing our castle.”

“Or folly, following another’s quest.”

“You know my motives—you know all about me because you’re inside my head.”

“I know you nearly died, and what’s more unfortunate, you wouldn’t have been able to crawl back here and beg me to complete our bargain.”

“I think that bargain favors you, not me.”

“An interesting take. Tell me, through the fog of your rebirth, do you think a castle’s core has ever gained true power? By true power, I mean forged an empire. Some cores dominate small areas, but are there any that dominate more?”

“You know I can’t answer that. Unless you’d like to give me my memory back.”

“How can I give back that which I didn’t take? Although there are ways—there are things that can remind you what you already know.”

My heart stopped. “My memories are inside my mind?”

“Where else would they be?”

“Where can I find these things?”

Kanazar chuckled. “Where do you think? The lands of Lords and Ladies know certain patterns. How do you think they perpetuate when slaughtering so many of their kind?”

“I can’t go there until I can defeat them? I have to grow first. What level is Castle Brightwater?”

“Not something I’m party to either. There are rooms in your Lording House that will connect you with that world. There you will find information. But, take care. Those that poke their head between crenelations often get an arrow in the eye.”

It was a fair warning.

“Perhaps you can answer this regarding the castle and its build. How can I speed up the building? Surely you can send me more builders?”

“Only so many can work on one thing. Jensome is a carpenter and not a foreman. One of those would shave time—when the cauldron allows it. Worshipping the correct Gods will help, but only at castle eight. Then there is morale—Jess showed you what it can do. Offer rewards, and they will reward you.”

I gazed suspiciously upon the core then. It had been constructive, and that worried me. “Why all the information? Worse, why the plain speaking?”

It crackled, lightning spitting from it, hitting on the stars. “I want Alex back. She stirred the pot.”

And then it dimmed, my time with it over, and we agreed for once. While things weren’t dull, having her livened them up some more. She was my spice. Without her, things were bland.

I retreated, stopping by Lysander’s room. His daubings were gone—the horrors deep inside him—replaced by sigils and runes, which meant nothing to me. I was pleased then and grateful to Vallera. Whatever path they walked together, it was calming him. His magic was better, too. His fireballs against the worm had been powerful—no obliteration magic, but certainly an improvement. I closed his door and tried the opposite door on pure impulse. It opened, and I stood in its way.

The room was black. At first, I thought it was charred stone, but it was more than that, like velvet, but as dark as midnight. I stayed on the threshold, still shy of jumping into dark spaces, you know, worms and the like. But then I reasoned it was Kanazar’s doing, and how much danger did the core want to put me in? So I stepped in, and the door slammed behind me, and several things resolved at once.

A rack was in front of me, and on it lay some weapons but no ordinary things. There was a spear, its tip shining silver, shaft platinum with silver bands around it. There was a sword, its blade slightly curved, silver, shining like the spear’s tip. It had a platinum grip adorned with silver rings and a rain guard of the same design. A diamond graced its pommel, spraying light about the room, though it was unclear where it came from. There were a pair of hand axes similar in design, several daggers with varying blades—both thickness and length—and a mighty hammer, a greater weapon I’d never seen. To one side of the weapons rack stood a mannequin dressed in silver armor—gauntlets, bracers, a gleaming mail shirt, and matching pants. There were boots and a half-helm. To the other side was a longbow, platinum and silver, and resting against it was a quiver full of arrows, each with the same color fletchings.

As I reached for the sword, which had garnered my attention above all else, as my hand closed around its grip, a light flashed, and a banner appeared. I took a step back, and I knew deep down that this was my flag, and these were my colors. My stomach tied itself in knots, and I wondered at the conflict in it and whether it mirrored me, for there were my axes, and there was a skull, and under it, around it, over it, was the name of my house.

House Gray, the name thrummed through me, causing every sinew in me to vibrate. The skull stared at me, bursting from the banner as it crawled over the crossed axes. It hardly told the tale of a shy and retiring Lord, one hell-bent on seeing his days out farming squash. It portrayed the aggressor, the one who wanted to dominate all. It oozed power. It sent shivers of pride through me.

Breathless, I held the sword, my instinct telling me I kept it high, my stance adjusting just so—legs parted, knees bent, ready, always ready—space, create space. Then I squeezed my mind to try and remember the last time I used those things. A rising anger filled me, and I rushed from that place, sword in hand, raced along the promontory, and shouted: “You know who I am! Tell me! Tell me, or by the gods, this ends today!”

Its light grew slowly, but it grew, and my mouth dried, and my heart pounded against my ribcage, and I waited for its answer, knowing I had it, that it had wanted me to force it to reveal all.

“Tell me!” I screamed.

“I cannot,” it replied. “I am bound by a solemn vow to keep you from knowing.”

My head pulsed, fit to explode. “By whom? Who ties you in knots? Surely I am the only one who can order you so!”

And before Kanazar answered, it came to me, and I fell to my knees and closed my eyes.

“It was me, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” said my faithful core.

* * *

Numbers:

Name: Andros Gray

Known Alias: Phillipe of Byouz, Nunez Excalivar, Daniel Cutterson (in play)

Title: Lord of Kanazar

House: Gray

Banner of: None

Banner to: None

Deity: None

Hero: Lysander

Level: Two

Attributes:

Strength – 11

Intelligence – 10

Wisdom – 10

Constitution – 12

Dexterity – 11

Charisma – 13

Harem

2/9 – Anna, Leyathel

Stronghold – Kanazar

Lord – Daniel Cutterson

Stronghold – Level 5

Wall – Level 4/5

Lording House – Level Two

Population – 111 Cap – 444

Food Consumption – 169/320 (Goblins factored in)

Storage – Less than 1% full

Buildings

Artisan

Workshop – Level 5

Masons – Level 5

Smithy – Level 5

Pottery – Level 5

Seamstress – Level 5

Military

Barracks – Level 5

Range – Level 5

Stables – Level 5

Watchtower – Level 5

Trap Factory – Level 2

Defenses

Archer Towers - 6

Other

Tavern – Level 5

Warehouse – Level 5

Relay Station – 1 – Level 3

Resource

Cottages – 12 – Level 5 (12)

Farmsteads – 10 – Level 5 (10) – Production 320

Lumber Mills – 14 – Level 5 (14) – Production 448

Quarries – 4 – Level 5 (4) – Production 160

CHAPTER 6

Kanazar’s revelation, my deduction, whichever way history would tell it, plagued me throughout my morning run. I was so wrapped up in it that I stumbled several times, until Anna pulled me over, and we sat upon a bank overlooking the Lording House, the stronghold, then the darker spread of my growing town.

“What’s happened?” she asked. “You were broody last night—didn’t want to lay with either of us and went to bed in a foul mood. Is it Tanaka?”

“No, not her.”

“Have her if you want. Bring her into the house earlier. It’s your Lording House—your rules,” she continued, regardless of my answer.

“It’s not her,” I snapped, exhaled, and pulled her close, the smell of her sweat reassuring, familiar, drawing me back to a surer path. “It’s Kanazar.”

“What about it?” she asked, nestling her head on my chest.

“I know who the core is.” I squeezed my eyes, wanting to cry out, pain lancing through me—not physical, but in my mind, it's chaos too much. “It, we, he and I—he, yes he, I always referred to it as him, and I—we’ve been together before.”

She pulled away, standing, turning and facing me. “You are sure of this?”

I pulled my sword from my storage, offering it to her handle first. “This,” I said. “This is mine—not Daniel’s, you understand—mine, Andros Gray, Phillipe, one of theirs, but I think mine. I think it belongs to Andros Gray.”

She took it, swishing it this way and that. “It is a fine blade.”

“There is more. I have hand axes, same design, spear, armor, shield, and a House.” I brought out the banner and tried to hold it out for her, but it was too large, so I spread it on the ground.

“House Gray,” she said. Then she looked at me, tears in her eyes. “It is a fine banner,” she smiled, dropping my sword. She grabbed me, drawing me into a passionate embrace and kissing me. She then laid me on the banner and had me naked in moments, frantically taking me, draining me of my seed. Afterwards, she lay back, gasping, me still wondering her thoughts. “House Gray,” she said again, a dreamy smile monopolizing her expression.

“What?” I finally asked, hardly the eloquent question I’d been building up to, but a good summary of it.

“House Gray,” she repeated. “Don’t you see? Castle Kanazar is mere blocks mortared to make a place. House Gray is us. It is our identity—something we can forge into being, something to be a part of that links us all to you more surely than any stronghold.”

I did see it, and I did understand it. I’d felt it when I picked up my sword, spear, and hand axes. I’d become it when I put the armor on. I, whatever my current alias, was House Gray. I knew it and had learned it from the moment I saw that skull clawing its way over the crossed axes. No appeasement, that would be our motto, but not on our banner. There I would scrawl a more direct message—there, I would write no mercy and let our enemies tremble at the sight.

“We must go and see Morraine,” she said, and I asked her who. “Morraine, the seamstress.” She rose and folded the banner. “These must fly from every tower, drape from each wall. House Gray must rise again, no matter what’s gone before.”

I agreed. “There’s something else,” I added. “Something about what the core knows and what it doesn’t.”

“What?” she asked, grabbing my hand and pulling me down the slope.

“It knows more than it’s letting on—he, Kanazar—knows more.”

“Like?”

“Everything, I think. But there’s an issue. I ordered him not to tell me anything about my past. What the hell happened for me to do that?”

She shrugged like my concerns didn’t matter to her. “We’re House Gray,” she said. “We all belong somewhere now. We are all part of its cause.”

I guessed that was it. We all needed somewhere we fitted, and once we’d found it, even if we knew nothing about it, we found safety and peace.

* * *

“We have a new build available to us,” said Barnaby as we sat around the table in the long room.

It was a reduced table; Lysander was absent, being my eyes and ears at the tunnel, and Broadchurch was committed to training his recruits from dusk until dawn until they were up to scratch. It left only Barnaby, Sarah, and Jensome, but it was enough to discuss builds. I was eager to press on, wanting to return to the tunnel’s face as I was fully-refreshed and healed.

“Do tell,” I said.

“Well, we have a few, but one is interesting. We’ve already built the trap factory. It gave Jensome the drawings for archer’s towers which he’ll incorporate into the wall upgrade. The plans for the feasting hall are also available now, as is the mint.” He coughed, then cleared his throat. “The feasting hall is an easy choice, as the tavern cannot keep up with the demand for food, so we’ll build that in due course. The mint is another matter. Should we have coin?”

I pursed my lips. Money was fine, and a fiscal system was the norm, I imagined, but we’d gotten on fine without one. “Do we need one?”

Barnaby raked his chin. “I’ve been in two minds about it, but the truth is this: if we are to trade with other lords, then we will. I imagine the currency will be gold, silver, or bronze. It might be salt or something I’m unaware of, but whatever it is, we need to begin amassing it for Castle Kanazar.” He paused. “Or is it House Gray? I received notification that we were part of that House.”

“Not part,” I told him. “We are that House. It is mine.”

“Then your house will need wealth,” he said. He rose. “I shall summon Buster.”

Buster had come from the cauldron early on. I recalled he was a colossus of a man who looked like he had a brutish leaning. He didn’t fit my idea of an arbiter—that was a bespectacled man hunched over ledger, quill in hand.

“Don’t worry, I’ll summon him. Sit, man, sit. What’s the third build?”

“Ah,” he said, smacking his lips together. “That might have appeared upon upgrading, and perhaps I missed it, or it came when you added your house. Either way, it is there now, and it is an embassy. Apparently—”

I cut him short. “I know what an embassy is. Don’t build it above level one. If we do, we announce ourselves to all Lords and Ladies.”

“They can find us?” Sarah asked

“No,” I assured her. “They will know of our existence, enough for them to begin looking. Let’s not encourage that until we have to.”

“Then the feasting hall and increase the trap factory?”

“Yes, that, and I’ll ask Greg to place more farms. We’re tight on food with all the goblins.”

“More came during the night,” said Barnaby. “Another two farmsteaders, several infantry, and two miners.”

“Miners? What point with no mine?”

“There is a place,” Barnaby said. “It’s a poor seam, but then it is in the mixed resource area. We could pitch a mine then begin accumulating the resource. We’ll need to start producing weapons soon.”

“We’ve run out of the ones scavenged from the ruins?” I asked.

“Down to the last pitchfork,” said Barnaby.

“Then I guess we prioritize that,” I said. “Anything else?”

“Just one thing,” said Sarah. “We’ll need to spread Broadchurch’s troops to the south as well as the tunnel. There’s been some knocker activity.”

I sighed, wanting them all for the hob battle. But what was the point of winning that if the rest of the castle fell? “I’ll have him put in a rotation. They can keep the knockers at bay while resting.”

They were sport, after all, and little more.

Buster came then, but I had little interest in thrashing out a fiscal system, so I left it to him and Barnaby, and I departed for the mountains.

I rode Willow, and it felt good—it gave me a chance to think, get used to my standing, and bond with House Gray.

* * *

I had no fear as I ventured back into the tunnel. That battle was over, and the next was waiting; if I didn’t meet it, someone else would have to. It had only been two days, but in that time, Woodwind had extended the roots into the worm’s nest, covering the bones and made the place quite homely—for an underground lair. Tanaka had taken the respite to form a table and stools, and Oakensong had crafted a door over the exit. It created a grand rest area, a much-needed one. I sat, Lysander and Vallera opposite, Tanaka by my side, and the three elves forming their own circle.

“Where are the others? Slugfest, Drillshank, and Mudpaw?”

“Up top,” said Tanaka. “We chose not to tunnel more.” She nodded towards the door. “That way carries on down. We thought we might use it.”

I pondered the point. “Do these worms live alone?”

“They do,” Tanaka said. “The path should be clear.”

Lysander offered me wine. I took it and drank, and Tanaka pushed a bowl of cold stew my way. I wolfed the lot down, ravenous from the journey. “Then we do it,” I said. “But first, I need to tell you about House Gray.” I told them everything, then stood. “I want you to see this first.”

I called my storage tab up, selected all my armor and changed, my sword hanging from my side, shield in hand, skull and crossed axes painted upon it. Chainmail covered my torso, only my lower arms and legs and head free of it. It covered my neck, and I had a good idea why. The armor felt good. It fitted me perfectly, the chainmail so light it was like wearing cotton. “I believe we have a cause, and that cause is the advancement of House Gray. We have a banner, but it is with Morraine, the seamstress.”

“House Gray,” said Lysander. “It fits. Somehow it feels right.” He yawned. “Although I’ll confess, I’m no dog that follows a banner blindly.”

“It isn’t dogs I need,” said I. “It’s companions. Any Lord can have dogs.”

I swapped the sword and shield for my axes, then stood by the door, opening it and breathing in the stale air. “Only Kanazar worries me—Kanazar and me.”

“Why?” Tanaka asked.

“Think about it. What trouble must I have been in to need to vanish and scrub my memory?”

“Perhaps it wasn’t trouble,” she said softly.

“Then what?”

“A broken heart?”

I sniffed at that but didn’t discount it. “Perhaps, but tell me this; I needed to hide, maybe lick my wounds, but someone will find us, and when they do, we’d better stick together, no matter the revelation, or this House will fall before it has even risen.”

I ventured into the tunnel, pausing and listening, its hollowness swallowing me. It led down, which I expected, its walls smooth, but the floor was sure underfoot, Woodwind having already extended the tree roots down. “What happened to the worm?” I asked.

“Stew,” said Tanaka, and my stomach tightened.

I continued into the bowels of the Stormbane Mountains. Tanaka followed, creating hollows, spreading lichen, and we trod silently, listening for something out of place, anything abnormal, but all we heard were the moans and groans of the rock as it stretched and yawned. Then there were voices, thin, chopped, and we crouched, waiting. They faded, and we continued down, and the tunnel ended, an opaque slime plug covering it, a goblin road beyond.

“I guess we know where it hunted,” I whispered.

Tanaka shivered. “I traveled this road many times. To think it was lurking here all the time.”

“How far down are we?”

“Halfway to the city—close to the bottom of the mountains—to the high pasture.”

I listened. More voices came, growing louder. There were two goblins and a hob. They passed by us, so close I could have slit the hob’s throat with my sword. Then they were gone. I teased the slimy meniscus apart with my axehead, then withdrew, watching with increasing fascination as the slime plug remade itself. I punched through it, the resulting hole quickly vanishing.

“I wonder,” I said, listened, and dove through.

The plug reformed like curtains drawing. More voices. I dove back in. Two hobs walked past, taking no note of the plug—not even seeing it. I slipped out, crouching, watching as the hobs walked on, vanishing around a corner.

“There’s another plug on the other side,” I said, then dove back in. “You said you know this path. Where does it lead?”

“To a cave. It gives us access to their high pasture—that of Lord Bright. We raided him from here.”

“Did he ever come to try and rout you in the caves?”

“He would if we stole enough, but his soldiers never ventured far in. They killed a few, then turned and ran.”

“This far in?”

She shrugged. “Not sure, I’ve only heard the tales.”

I was desperate to explore—to look upon Bright’s lands and form my plan, but we had other things to achieve first.

“Well?” said Lysander, sneaking up behind us.

“Goblin pathway,” I said. “I saw a few hobs too.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” he asked. “Might as well see how hard they fight.”

He had a point, and it was the only persuading I needed. I had new armor and weapons, and I fancied testing them out.

“Which way to sunlight?” I asked.

Tanaka pointed, and I jumped out, followed by Lysander, Tanaka, and Vellara.

“Don’t use your magic until you have to,” I said. “Save it until we’re in a corner we can’t escape.”

I grinned at Lysander, and he smiled back at me.

“For House Gray,” he said, and pride rippled through me.

“House Gray,” I said, holding my axes ready.

* * *

Hobs clustered around the cave’s entrance, strong-arming goblins and shoving them towards the cave’s entrance, barking orders, whips cracking.

“They send them to raid the pasture—take the sheep and newborn lambs,” Tanaka whispered.

It was spring, and lambs would be abundant. I thought quickly, deciding on a course. Whatever we did had to be a start—a step in the right direction. If we killed all the hobs, they would assume it was Bright. That would cause one of two things to happen. The hobs would either shrink back to their city where Bright wouldn’t follow, or they’d attack. Both were excellent outcomes for us.

“We do it,” I said. “We’ll take the hobs, but you must tell the goblins to flee. If they attack, then we’ll have to kill them too.”

Tanaka nodded, shook her hair out and inhaled. “I’ll try.”

“Good. Lysander, announce us, please.”

He needed no second invitation, conjuring a fireball and tossing it at the nearest hob. I rushed in, screaming my new battle cry. “For House Gray!” I shouted and was on the first hob before he’d turned.

“With me!” Tanaka shouted. “All goblins with me. Attack the hobs! We’re here to free you!”

Another fireball exploded. My hob recovered, blocking my initial attack with his shield. He was bigger than me, a hulking beast with deep-set eyes and a feral growl. Neither phased me as I ducked and jinked, avoiding his spear and swiping at his calf, cutting muscle, hobbling him. He staggered back, showing his chest to me, and I cleaved him open from neck to gut, then moved on to the next.

A goblin stabbed my side, his rusty blade snagging my chainmail. I batted him in the face with the flat of one axe. “I’m on your side!” I shouted but received no reply as his legs gave way.

The next hob was on me, its spear smashing into my gut. Without the mail, I’d have been in trouble. With it, I’d have a nasty bruise at worst. I grinned at him. “Have to do better than that.” Then I buried my axe in his neck, spun, and severed its spine, kicking him away and on to the next. “Just the hobs!” I yelled, plowing through a group of goblins, batting their weapons out of the way and pouncing on my next victim.

There it was, beyond the falling hob, a split in the rock, bright white shining through. It was their land—Bright’s land, and it called to me, more powerfully than anything ever had, like I was home. I took a few steps towards it, a scarlet explosion over me, a hob on me, in my face, its axe flashing towards me. I reacted. Too late. The axe bit into my leg, just below my chainmail but above my knee. I howled, staggering. Green fell over me, rippling through me, filling me with health, as Vallera’s healing spell took hold. Then my head exploded, my helmet forced down, I gasped, red filling my vision, and my anger came, and it came in a rush so powerful it was a tsunami crashing on a pebble, a storm in a puddle.

* * *

“Stop!” she screamed at me. “Stop!” It was Tanaka, her hands holding me, her face before me. “Stop! It’s over! They’re done. They’re all done!”

I breathed hard, trying to come back, to step away from the precipice. I was there somewhere. Where? Somewhere deep down, in amongst my boiling anger. I had to find myself, so I looked into those violet eyes, nodded, calmed, rose from the hatred, and stood.

There were the goblins, cowering, shying away from me in the cave’s corner, and there were the hobgoblins, ten, twelve, more, and they were mutilated, chopped to pieces, blood everywhere, guts spewed, bowels emptied.

Then there was the light, that slit of light, and it was everything to me, or so I thought. So I walked towards it, drawn to its purity, and I felt the afternoon sun on my face, smelt the fresh grass, sank to my knees, sat back on my heels and soaked it all in. A feeling grew within me, and once hatched, it filled me until I overflowed. It wasn’t anger, nor was it happiness. It was in between.

It was cold-hearted revenge. I wanted to plant my banner in that soil and claim my first portion of land for House Gray, no matter how small.

“So, this is what all the fuss is about?” said Lysander, crouching by me. “Smells sweet down here. Is the grass greener? Are the flowers more potent?”

“The same—it’s the same,” I said, “except this is our land—this was our land.”

“This? Bright’s land?”

“No, not this, but land like it.”

“We’re here,” he said, then shrugged. “So we could go see what Bright’s castle looks like.”

I stood. My blood calmed, my temper gone. “We could, but we’ve got a whole load of goblins to deal with.”

“Tanaka and Vallera could take them back up top. Then all we’d need to do is sneak back up later.”

* * *

I changed from my armor, sticking with my running clothes—the closest I had to peasant clothes. Lysander leaned on his staff, his long cloak making him look like a shepherd—or close to one—close enough. The sun was setting, and our walk to Castle Brightwater was nearly over. We trod a dual-track lane, cattle on one side, sheep on the other, nettles lining our way as the land undulated down the valley. The gentle burble of a stream filled me with peace. The countryside was comfortable, fitted me like a cloak, the scents heady and often carried on a confused breeze. We passed crofts and hamlets, their fences orderly, everything quartered as levied land invariably was. It smacked of an old, well-established kingdom, not one plagued by political unrest nor concerned about goblins. Then we saw why when a posse of soldiers rode our way, headed for the hills and their nighttime patrol.

Their leader held his gloved hand up lazily like we were no threat, and he slumped in his seat, regarding us with casual amusement.

“Gentlemen,” he said. “Not sure we’ve met, and I know everyone up here. So tell me a name and share your business.”

“Name’s Daniel—Daniel Cutterson. Up here looking for some seasonal work.” I screwed my face up. “Nothing doing—doubt you’ll be seeing me again. We’ll try further down the valley. Shame,” I said, looking around. “I think I could belong here.”

He sat straight, looking me over, then Lysander. Then he unsheathed his knife and tossed it at me. I caught it, spinning it around and holding its hilt. It was well-balanced, the blade short, grip leather-wrapped. I handed it back to him. “I’ve got one, but thanks for the thought.”

“Farmer? You handle a blade pretty well for a farmer.” He indicated two men forward. They passed us, then stopped, turning, blocking us in. “What’s your name?” he asked of Lysander, who told him. “A shepherd?” He inclined his head. “Possibly. But you, a farmer? No. I’m not having that.”

I shrugged. “Not saying I haven’t done my share of fighting. I have done my share of a lot of things. Just saying I’m laboring now. You get many goblins around here?”

“There are goblins everywhere.”

“Well,” I said. “There were some gathering up by a cave beyond the pasture. My friend here has great eyesight. Think they might be thinking about raiding.”

“Might have been hobs,” Lysander said and shrugged. “Might not. Like he said, it was a long way.”

The soldier eyed us both again. “Goblins?”

I nodded.

He reached inside his tunic, bringing out a small pouch, then picked out some coins. “The Rat and Blanket—it’s a tavern off Market Square.” He tossed the coins at me. I let them fall on the ground, not breaking from his stare. He pocketed his pouch. “That’ll pay for some ale while I check out these goblins. Tell H that I sent you both. He’ll look after you.”

“H?”

“Harry. Sour-faced fellow on the outside.” He pulled his reins, moving his horse beside me. “Sour-faced on the inside, too. Ensure you’re there when I return, and tell him Sanders sent you.”

“Or?”

“Or I’ll hunt you down.” He looked around. “And I’ll bring more men with me—just in case. Got an odd feeling about you.”

They trotted off, and we waited, swapping glances, swapping shrugs.

“Think we’ve just got an invite into the city,” I said.

“And ale,” said Lysander. “Proper ale.”

* * *

Castle Brightwater perched upon the western flank of the valley, a road switch-backing up to its gates where walls towered high. It wasn’t a level forty, that much I was sure of, but it was up there—perhaps early twenties. It was a castle of turrets and flags—Brightwater’s sky blue and yellow colors. It was a mass of stonework, archer towers dotting the walls. Although I couldn’t see it, I sensed it was damming a valley behind, and there would be some farmland, a water source. My gut told me it was a difficult place to siege, but it also said to me that wasn’t the preferable way to take a castle.

“Shall we?” said I, and Lysander marched up the first switchback, the day fading, gone by the time we’d arrived at the castle gates. They were open, just a couple of soldiers guarding it, if guarding meant sitting down and playing some game involving bone chips and gravel.

I approached them, waiting patiently, then clearing my throat when they didn’t look up. “Good day to you. Which way to the Rat and Blanket?”

The answer I received was incomprehensible. It was akin to the low growls of rock grinding under the Stormbane.

“I’m sorry,” I said politely, only to receive the reverse from the other—talk so fast it was impossible to keep up, and by the time I’d fully digested the first word, he had refocused on the game. Fortunately, Lysander appeared versed in one or the other of the languages and set off up a cobbled street.

“It’s this way,” he said.

I lingered, then set off after him, looking back at the guards and then at him until I caught up.

“How did you—”

He ignored me, cutting in. “So, what level do you think this place is at?” he asked, arms behind his back and chin in the air. “That smithy, for instance, looks like it has a blast furnace, so the place is making steel.”

We walked down a cozy road, with buildings encroaching the street, their upper levels overhanging, borne by mighty timbers filled with wattle-and-daub panels. There was even glass in the windows, some with leading in a quaint diamond shape, and each one had a slate roof, no thatch in sight. I sniffed the air, and while it didn’t smell like freshly-bloomed flowers, it was fresher than expected. There was a gulley meandering down the center of the lane. It was dry, so likely redundant, and I surmised underground drainage had replaced it. I gauged all and then replied.

“My instinct tells me around the twenty, but I might be out. It's based solely on the hearsay that I call a memory. By the way, how did you understand that fellow?”

“He talks Skittish, the other Brutish. It appears I am well-traveled. Ask me where they come from, and I’d be unable to point to it on a map, but I got the gist. The Rat is up there, third on the left, then fourth right. Then by the Fountain of Wilmsous, we’ll find a square with several taverns, and there we’ll find the Rat and Blanket. A posh place, by all accounts, that will cost silver, not bronze or copper.”

“You got all that from those few words?”

Lysander laughed. “That and a lot more. They thought you a pompous ass. He was a perceptive fellow, the one from Skitland.”

I would have replied, but I had no retort. Lysander was in far too grand a mood, and I didn’t want to upset that either. Instead, I looked about at the smithy once more, the weaver next to it, then the glazers and the tile maker. The place was exactly where I aspired my stronghold to be, but so far along, it was a dream. “This is years ahead of us,” I said.

“Only if it isn’t ours,” Lysander pointed out, and he planted the seed within me.

There are two ways to take a mighty castle. You can build one, which Kanazar and I were currently doing, or you can steal one. Sure, you can siege it, attack it, and fight to the last man to get it, but if you are attacking a castle several levels above your own, it is safe to assume that its walls are beyond you and its soldiers are better-trained than yours. So, the smaller castle will invariably exhaust itself on the larger one and become the victim rather than the victor. Therefore, only a fool would attack a more-powerful castle.

The other way was to steal its core, similar to how I would install Tanaka as the rightful Queen of the Annuck. The core was the only issue with that, apart from the Lord defending it to his last breath. They tended to kill any that tried, which was unfortunate.

I raised my eyebrows. “Ambitious, but not unthinkable.”

“Certainly not impossible,” he said in reply. “This castle’s gates were open, and that tells me everything I need to know.”

It told me too. “They’re complacent.”

“Exactly. There is no threat here. I guess that Lord Bright holds the frontier, and in return, a banner protects him, and should that banner fall, then the usurper offers the same deal.”

I thought about it, and I agreed. It all held but with one caveat. “I’ll bet he peddles stories that enhance his prowess. I imagine folk fear those goblins as phantoms in the night.”

Lysander had planted a seed in my mind, and my mind was rich with fertilizer, and seeds rarely stayed dormant in there. Before we’d reached the first turn, I imagined ordering glass at the glazer, having giant banners draped from its walls, and having my steel sharpened by the smithy. I was imagining the place for House Gray.

We meandered through the town, in no particular hurry to get to the tavern, happily savoring the ambiance of the castle that would be mine one day. It would take some time, of course, but then it would take longer to get Kanazar to such a level. So, whether it came off or not mattered little to me then. All that mattered was that I thought about it, and if a plan came, I would pursue it.

Castles were like a beautiful lady. Some took time to conquer, but all were worth the wait.

Wilmsous was a god, by the look of his statue, but not one I was familiar with. He stood upon a platform, naked as the day he was born, and holding a spear aloft, a dead hobgoblin at his feet. He wasn’t a big man, nor was he slight, and he had a brush of curly hair that fell over his ears and a cock that barely reached his balls. It gave me a reasonable indication of Lord Bright’s look, as Lords invariably had their gods carved to resemble them, elevating them by association. Lysander must have been thinking the same thing.

“You’ll be popular around here,” he said.

“Why?” I asked, then wished I hadn’t.

“It seems the gods favor a man with a small cock.”

Again, there was no retort to beat him. “Your wit is sharp this day,” I said instead. “Going well with Vallera?”

He smacked his lips together. “Very well. A little-known fact about the elves is that they enjoy sharing, and Vallera is very generous.”

I paused. “I’m pleased for you.” He couldn’t beat me in a game of elves, for I had the best one already.

We approached the pool at Wilmsous’s feet. There swam small brown fish, which told us another thing about the castle—food was plentiful. I inhaled. The square was large, and the mountain air was relatively fresh there. “I am,” I said again. “I am pleased for you. I poked my head into your room while I was with Kanazar. Those dread daubings have gone. Has she cleansed your mind of them?”

“Hardly,” he said. “She gives me potions that make me sleep. Those calm me, but they are no azoth. They only tame my demons. Shut them behind a door.” He shrugged. “I’ll enjoy the respite while it’s there.”

Then came a commotion, one of bubbling murmur and everyone crossing the square, leaving a shop, or drinking ale at one of the taverns lining it, stopped talking, freezing in place.

From across the square marched a group dressed all in black with hoods high and faces shaded. They were men, judging by their gait, and they pulled a cart in which a woman sat, her face as tall as her neck and painted white with scarlet accents on her lips and the edges of her eyes. She was old but not craggy, and she held herself like a staff was strapped to her back. If there was a depiction of evil, then she was it. Her black hair was piled high, held in place by a torque, and she looked down her long nose like a king might regard a beggar. She had a staff, and on that staff shone a milky grey stone, and above it trailed a black cloud like the stone was burning the air it passed through. She wore a black cloak, its collar stiffened and as high as her ears. As she passed, some fell to their knees, and others averted their eyes, finding interest in the cobbles. None hailed her or bid her good day until she passed Lysander by.

“Good day to you, my Lady,” and he bowed, a sweeping effort that saw him nearly kiss his knees. “May all your gods shine on you.”

The wagon halted, and she turned her head so slowly I expected her neck to creak, and then she answered him.

“Who dares speak to me?” she said.

“A lowly shepherd and no more,” said Lysander and then the most bizarre thing happened.

“No shepherd,” said the staff. “That one has magic.”

CHAPTER 7

A level twenty-one castle comes complete with dungeons, but Lord Bright had not seen fit to upgrade them. Consequently, they were poorly presented, with damp walls, barely a fresh straw stalk, and a rather pathetic man called Calico in the corner. One thing Bright had upgraded was his torture chamber, where his incremental improvements had gifted him with all manner of devices, from a rack to stretch his victims to a scavenger’s daughter to compress them.

The woman was Vale, the rather mouthy staff was Finnigan, and the stone atop it was the moonstone Morgan wanted to get her hands on. Vale had taken great delight in showing us her torture chamber, which made me think she might have pressured Lord Bright into upgrading it, but I didn’t wish to ask her.

I did have options, of course. Changing into my armor was one, which also included killing as many folks as I could before they killed me. Going invisible was another, but Vale or Finnegan would surely detect that. Plus, the enchantment would likely run out before we got very far. Which left make it up as you go along and saved thinking too hard about it all.

“Do you think having magic is against some law or the other?” Lysander asked.

“Perhaps she wishes to be the only one,” I suggested. “But try and keep your mouth shut. I don’t fancy getting tortured.” I mulled my following words, my eye on Calico in case he was listening. “It’s especially horrific when you can't die.”

“I can imagine,” said Lysander as Calico let out a long moan.

My wizard rose, pacing the cell until footsteps sounded, followed by the lock's rattle and the door opening creak. A guard stood there, and behind him, a liveried soldier dressed in sky blue and yellow. “Captain Sanders requires your presence.”

“In the torture room?” I asked.

“Not there.”

“Then we shall come peacefully,” I said. “Could you see to it that Calico’s fed?”

He growled at me, spat on the floor, and drew his sword. I was tempted to bring my garb from my storage and cut him down. As long as I left no witnesses, they could not know I had storage, but I was also intrigued. Detained by Vale but to be interrogated by Captain Sanders told me of some dissent, which was a good thing. If I were to hatch any plan to grab this place, then opening cracks was a fine way to do it.

“Lead the way,” I said and received a crack over the back for my insolence. I made a point of staring into the soldier’s face until he cowered back a few paces. I knew him. I’d recognize him. And I’d show him no mercy.

Sanders sat behind a desk in a rather expansive room packed with scrolls, local maps, ledgers, and rosters, and a couple of swords racked and ready. His room had a glass window and looked out over the countryside, not the keep, which was a sign of good stature. “Dispense with the irons—both sets, then leave us,” he said.

“They’re threatening, Sir—dangerous,” the soldier said. “That one in particular.”

“I’m remembering you,” I said. “Which, trust me, is no good thing.”

Sanders sighed. “All rough-and-ready criminals are dangerous, Jacobs, but these two can’t be that dangerous or you’d already be dead, and when I say dangerous, I mean towards you.” He looked me up and down. “Are you a hobgoblin, Jacobs?”

“No, sir.”

“Then this man is no danger to you unless you annoy him further. Go!”

The door shut, and the three of us were left alone.

“Gentlemen,” he said. “We have a problem. Well, you have a problem, which means I either have one or I don’t, depending on whether it’s worth me getting involved.” He sat back, hands behind his head. “What do you know of Sorceress Vale?”

“I presume you mean the one with the long face and questionable paint,” said Lysander. “If so, she doesn’t like us, and that’s about the sum of it.”

“The name, Vale, means nothing to you?”

“Not from around these parts,” I said. “So no. Is she famous in this little backwater?”

It was a gamble insulting his town, but cool-headed men make few mistakes, so it was worth it. Unfortunately, Sanders had a cooler head than most.

“Not from around these parts,” he repeated, ignoring my stabs. “You tell me you aren’t from around here. Well, let me enlighten you on who she is. Vale is the only one with magic in this town. The main reason for that is fiscal. The second reason is that anyone else manifesting magic has mysteriously died. An unfortunate coincidence, I feel. So, you, with the sharp tongue, are almost certainly doomed.” He indicated Lysander.

“But you can get involved,” said I.

He dipped his head a fraction. “If it’s worth my while.”

“I have silver,” I said, offering him his coins back.

“You,” he replied, ignoring my offer, “what do you know about twelve dead hobgoblins, some with burns on them—magic burns, and others sliced and diced by someone with a clear fury upon them?”

It was decision time. I chose the truth. “They put up a brave fight, but it was ultimately futile. I also know that once the rest find them, they’ll do one of two things—attack or wait and attack.”

“That is your first obvious lie. Hobgoblins never fight well. They are savages—vermin. So, you two killed twelve?”

“I never said that,” I pointed out. “But, just say we did. What then?”

“Well, then I would have a duty to enlist you both in my army, which would put you out of the reach of Vale but also cause me to get involved.”

“This Vale,” said Lysander. “Does she like torturing people?”

“Oh yes, and she’s excellent at it.”

My wizard smiled. “Then I think we’d like you to get involved.”

There was an opportunity rearing its head before me, and, as all folks know, options must be grasped with both hands. Manipulating situations to one’s advantage is critical to all areas of advancement. While Lord Bright was not my enemy—in the sense that we’d never met and had no conflict—he was an obstacle in two senses of the word. His sorceress held the moonstone I required, and he sat in my castle-in-waiting. So, he certainly wasn’t my friend.

There were also two ways to kill an enemy. Firstly, you could do it yourself; secondly, you could have another enemy do it. As luck would have it, I had one of those, the hobgoblins, which left the small but challenging matter of placing the two together and letting them kill each other.

Sanders opened his hands as if waiting for me to offer him a gift. “What do you have to say on the matter?”

“That we saw something which might be useful to your Lord, perhaps even his sorceress.”

Sanders brought his hands together, then pressed them against his nose. “And what might that be?”

I glanced at Lysander. “I believe it is called the Jewel of Everything. A hobgoblin named Kanak wields it, and though it might have looked like a slaughter, I can tell you this, we barely escaped with our lives.”

Sanders clapped his hands together. “I knew it! I’d have wagered anyone on it. You, the pair of you, are adventurers, aren’t you!”

“We are indeed,” I said.

“You fool,” Lysander growled. “You bloody fool. That jewel would be worth a fortune to the right house.”

* * *

The Rat and Blanket was a fine establishment. It had a bath in its yard by its stables, and rooms with quartered windows and beds with bedding that wouldn’t stand on end and wasn’t yet grey with ingrained dirt. It had a fine bar counter and a boar turning over an open fire, dripping fat onto coals that sizzled and cracked, then filling the room with a mouth-watering aroma while coating everything in a thin layer of soot-laden grease. It had barmaids of average looks, questionable ages, and likely pox, but probably a better class of pox than taverns off the main square, or rather, the square dedicated to their small-cocked god. It also had a quiet corner where Lysander and I could talk with our companion.

“Tell us all about Vale,” Lysander said.

“She is evil beyond compare,” said Calico, barely lifting his head from his third plate, this one solely pork as he’d dispensed with all the other rubbish like potatoes, turnips and the like. “Evil, I tell you.”

He smelt slightly better too. We’d spent three coppers of our advance getting him washed and clothed, but a good season of dungeoning and torturing ingrained smells in men that take time to cleanse. Sanders had greeted my request with a raised eyebrow, asking why I would want such a vagabond as a companion. I corrected him, telling him I needed a guide, and what better man than one I already knew? It didn’t satisfy the captain, but as Calico was only a thief, he indulged me.

“Evil because you tried to steal her staff, and she placed you in a dungeon and tortured you for fun?” I inquired.

“Would have had that damn staff too, if it hadn’t yelled out and given the game away.”

“A travesty,” I admitted. “So, apart from being evil beyond compare, what else do I need to know about her?”

“Vale?” he asked.

I was rapidly concluding that Calico was either stupid, an imbecile, or both. “Yes,” I said patiently. “Her.”

“Lives in her tower, up Broad Street in the main keep—nice place, tree-lined, duck ponds, the lot. Tasty, them ducks.”

I added poacher to thief, and my estimation of him recovered somewhat. “Go on.”

“She swans around the place like she owns it, throwing her weight around—what there is of it—like she’s Bright herself and not his magicker. Always present when Bright makes a speech, always there when he receives the people. Some whisper he can’t make a decision without her.”

“Has Lord Bright got no heirs?” I asked.

Calico chuckled. “He can’t keep a wife, that one—not long enough to birth an heir. Keep falling off the walls, eating poisonous stuff, drowning, falling off horses—”

“I got the picture.”

“One managed to bring a child to term, but they both died during the birth. I heard tell from one of the nursing maids that it was like an offal explosion down there.” He nodded towards some indiscriminate place on the sawdusted floor. I had no idea why, but it painted a gory scene. Sex would never be the same again.

“Was Vale there?” Lysander asked.

“Of course. She is the Lord’s Magiker. Why wouldn’t she be?”

“Why indeed?” I asked.

It depicted a scene of an isolated Lord in a secluded castle, who was at the mercy of someone much more powerful than he. One that made me smile, for it was one I could see Daniel Cutterson being painted into. There was but one stumbling block—well, two. I already had a castle to run, and Vale was more powerful than us. But! Never say never, as they say.

“Tell me of Lord Bright.”

Calico shrugged, his words slowing in direct proportion to the scarcity of the meat on his plate. I called for another.

“He,” said Calico, “is a gracious Lord. He wouldn’t have an innocent man dungeoned and tortured.”

“You were hardly innocent,” said I.

“I stole nothing,” he protested.

“But you did try.”

“My hand slipped.”

I sighed. “You already admitted it.”

“Lord Bright,” he said, stuffing his mouth and chewing, grease running from the corners of his lips.

He was a skinny man—probably increased by months of starvation—with a rat-like face and hollow eyes. I felt a bit of fat on him would serve little difference, and his rodent-skew would still be present. His hair, now washed, had a spike to it and was cut above his ears—certainly shaved at one point to control lice. I had no idea why, but I liked him. There was some form of future between us—I felt it in my water.

“I don’t mind him as a Lord,” Calico continued. “There aren’t many that would take to being stuck up here. It’s days away from the closest castle, months away from true civilization. I think that’s what attracted him to the place. Poor man’s frightened of his own shadow. I think he’s a bit of a dreamer, between you and me. You’d always catch him wandering the High Pasture during the early days. Then the goblins came, which frightened him, so he threw the walls up—went into a bit of debt, I heard, and rarely ventured out.”

“Sounds like a mouse, not a man.”

Calico shrugged. “Not all men are suited to fighting.”

“Yes,” I said, “but not all men are Lords.”

It was news, good news, and I could see the glint in Lysander’s eye that told me he was thinking likewise. There was a plan to be hatched and a castle to be taken. Lysander yawned, his attention then roaming over each of the barmaids. “How badly poxed, do you think?” he asked.

“I’m sure Vallera would have a potion or salve to ease the itch.”

“Precisely what I was thinking,” he said and rose. “Are you coming?”

“I think not. Mine only like to share between them.”

He glared at me, then smiled. “I think you are a wise man.”

* * *

Sanders collected us in the morning, paying our tab and turning his nose up when Calico manifested.

“Does he have to come?”

“He’s my squire,” I said, trying unsuccessfully to keep my humor at bay.

“You aren’t a knight.”

“No, but if I become one, I’ll already have him in place.” I mounted the horse Sanders provided. “Forward-thinking at its best.”

“He smells.”

“I think that's probably Lysander,” I said and watched as my wizard scratched at his crotch, looked about, then conjured a vial and drank it, a faint green aura manifesting and then vanishing. He grinned back at me, winked, and yawned. “No,” I said. “It’s definitely him.

“Well, I’ve done my bit. Lord Bright wishes to question you about this jewel.”

“Bright or Magicker Vale?” I asked.

“You catch on quick, Daniel, but a word to the wise—tread carefully where that one is involved.”

Before I could answer back, he’d trotted off, across the square, past the statue, then into a narrow alley that led upward. I followed, as did Lysander, Calico jogging alongside. Above the rooftops, framed by a rocky ridge, was the keep, dwarfed only by Vale’s tower. I couldn’t help but think things were out of balance in Brightwater.

Everything came into perspective when looking from the keep down. There was it, the keep, tall, sheer, towering so high that it cowed me by its mere existence. Then there was Vale’s tower, whose stone mass defied all logic, thrusting upward and vanishing into the cloud. Below, all other things related to Brightwater were inconsequential, like tiny children clinging to a mother’s skirt. It struck me then how far behind we were. The place we stood at was the true stronghold, and the rest was some add-on granted by the level of the place.

Yet, with fair winds and plenty of luck, I might get my greedy hands on it all. Sieging it was undoubtedly discounted. There had to be a point where that operation was too costly unless the attacker’s dominance was extreme. When I had the level to make them, my trebuchets would be no bigger than ants, their projectiles barely able to dislodge a mortar line.

“How can a man be scared of a few goblins when these walls surround him?” I asked.

“A man can be frightened of many things,” said Sanders. “Most of them are in his mind. Lord Bright is no warrior, but he does have powerful friends.”

“But how does that make you feel?” I asked, ever the one for planting seeds.

“Safe in my job,” said Sanders. “One might say, irreplaceable.”

“One might say hanging on at a magicker’s whim,” I said.

“You tread a dangerous line.”

I laughed. “That’s because I’m not frightened of my own shadow.”

Lysander grunted. “Although some days, a little fear is a good thing.”

“Perhaps your friend finally speaks sage words, Daniel. You should heed them.”

“If I’d listened to him last night, I’d be the one weeping puss and scratching. Wise words can be as dangerous as flippant ones. Shall we get this done?” I asked, and the keep’s gates opened.

Within, the keep was equally daunting. There was an alley with murder holes on either side, as one would expect, and soldiers looked out, but even through those darkened slits, I could tell they were only curious who visited, not alert or appraising. Beyond was a rectangle of dull light, and the air was dank, stale, the wind absent. We emerged, and I saw why. The bailey’s walls, dotted with windows, a few open, were so high that the sky was a mere dot in the distance.

A sallow-faced lad took our horses. Poor whelp needed some sun. He smelt worse than Frederick’s feet, like he was gradually moldering in that black and bleak place.

“He stays here,” Sanders said, pointing at poor Calico, who appeared immensely relieved at the prospect of missing the meeting.

The captain didn’t linger, rushing to an archway and passing through a tunnel, then up some winding steps and along. It brought us, finally, to sunlight and a terrace that looked along a narrow valley, its sides steep, quickly sheer, with cascading streams like water spouts and conifer fringes holding back rockfall. A river ran straight, splitting the place in two and then traveling under the terrace, and its banks were cropped grass, and further up, they turned to strips of pasture where sheep and cattle grazed. It was as I thought when I first saw Brightwater, perfect for withstanding a long siege.

Upon the deck, on an ornate chair, silver with royal blue trimming sat the sorceress Vale, and she looked no different, like one scowl was all she could muster, a good day or bad. She bid us seated, so we sat.

“His Lordship isn’t joining us?” Sanders said.

“He has the cramps,” she said, her voice like a poorly-tuned lute. “I fear he gets sicker every day but manages to hang on. Thank the Gods.”

Whatever I thought might be going on there, she wasn’t about to kill Lord Bright. That would be suicide—assuming the castle’s core spawned her. She had two hopes of longevity. The first was to keep him a perpetual zombie—a puppet while she was pulling his strings. The second was to find another Lord or Lady and have them take the castle, which was fraught with danger as they might have a mind of their own.

It was inevitable that she’d broken the chains of service that came with spawning from a core, so it was likely that the morale of the castle had dipped substantially at some point. I regarded her, trying to pick her apart, but her painted face held no clues, and there was nothing behind her eyes.

“Thank the gods for that,” said Sanders with little conviction.

“You are adventurers,” Vale said, coming directly to the point, which I always preferred.

“Of a type,” I said.

“What type?”

“We are not affiliated,” Lysander said, speaking for the first time. “It is a long story that justifies our status as renegades, hence why we were masquerading as farmworkers.”

“But your tongue wags with ease now,” she pointed out.

He indicated the cane. “What point in lying with such an astute little fellow propped up by your side? I’ll wager his pretty hat packs a punch too.”

All the while he spoke, her eyes lingered on me. They switched then, and her full attention fell on Lysander. “You want my cane?”

“I didn’t say that. I merely complimented you on it.”

“But what kind of magician wouldn’t covet such a trinket—a stick with a bite? Or is there more to you than meets the eye?”

“I am what you see.”

“That I doubt.”

“A fireball is my extent. I am no tower-bound wizard, so greater magic is beyond me. I have just enough to aid Daniel, who should be your focus here, while I should only be background noise, muted at that.”

Had I ever doubted my wizard’s mind, all was scrubbed then. In a few words, he’d labeled me inconsequential while elevating himself in her eyes. It was the perfect ploy. She’d little idea which one of us made the choices.

“No tower?”

“None. My Lord vanished, and his castle lays empty to this day. He must live because I do, but there is no tower or prospect of one. So, I remain—” He broke off, his gaze dreamy as he soaked in the vista beyond the terrace.

“Remain?” she asked.

“Constant,” he said. “I remain constant. I have limited magic but will never know my true potential.”

Finnigan, the staff standing by her side, shifted slightly, like it wanted to say something but thought the better. His movement didn’t go unnoticed, and Vale turned to him. “You have something to say?”

“Nothing,” he said, his voice squeaky like before, exactly how I imagined a stick would speak.

Vale shifted. “To the matter that currently keeps you both breathing. You have found the Jewel of Everything?”

“Was it lost?” I asked.

“You know full well it was.”

“I had heard of it,” I said carefully. “But only in tales that said it was fabled. I never took note of those. Fabled items don’t buy you lodgings.”

She frowned, nearly cracking her face paint. “Is this a fable? It is said the elves once had it, that they used it in the Battle of Seven Gardens and laid waste to several castles, killing all. It is told they lost it fleeing the remaining Lords and that it was forever gone, dropped in a bottomless pit.”

“A pit, by its very nature, has a bottom. Whether it’s a fable or not, I think it is true through personal experience,” I said. “It appears that a hobgoblin called Kanak was waiting in your pit and that he caught it.”

“How do you know this?”

“We know more,” said Lysander. “But we would need certain things in return for divulging them.”

She rounded on him then, ice-cold fire filling her. “You are in no position to bargain.”

Once again, Finnigan stirred but said nothing, and the terrible feeling that he knew everything about us rippled through me, tying a knot in my gut.

“We are in a precarious position, I’ll grant you,” said Lysander. “But a position all the same. Do you have wine here? I find my throat parched, and when so, my words become frugal.”

Her lips formed a line so thin it might have been a paper cut, but within moments a servant came, tall as a pike and skinny as one too—the weapon, not the fish. He was dressed all in black and white, with a shining head and wiry eyebrows. He brought wine, introduced himself as Threadneedle, and more apt a name there never was.

“Lubricant enough?” the sorceress demanded.

“A crust of bread?” he ventured, pressing his luck—our luck.

“Will come once you tell me something of merit.”

“Very well,” he said and sipped his wine. “The hob doesn’t know the power of the jewel he wields.”

Threadneedle appeared again, a plate of sandwiches in hand, beef, by the look of them, raw too, quite bloody, which was my favorite. I’ll admit, Lysander played our hand magnificently. He’d hooked the sorceress and was landing her. Sanders, on the other hand, was looking increasingly more uncomfortable. Had I been a betting man—a fair chance that one of my aliases was—I’d have wagered he wanted the jewel for himself. But that made little sense because magic jewels needed magickers to function. Otherwise, they were simply pretty baubles. That string of thoughts led me to conclude that maybe he didn’t want it for himself but wanted her not to have it. That was a small but significant difference.

“Do you?” Vale asked.

Lysander took a bite from his sandwich, making her wait while he chewed. “I know it can lay waste to several castles. I didn’t know that before,” he said. “But the goblin, thankfully, doesn’t use it for that.”

“You’ve seen it?” Sanders sat forward, wide-eyed. “You’ve seen the hobs’ city?”

“We’ve been there,” Lysander admitted, and I nearly spat my wine out.

“Is this true?” Sanders asked me.

It was then I had to pick up Lysander’s lie and understand his intent and run with it, and it was also then that I discovered we could lie in unison.

“It is,” I said. “We went there—you saw the result of their pursuit. We observed Kanak using the crystal in the Annuck temple some levels up from their city, and he was calling forth goblins from their cauldron.” I leaned forward. “He calls an army and uses the jewel to bind them. There is only one thing I can’t fathom, and that is why.”

Silence fell, broken only by some hungry finches that had settled and were merrily chirping while keeping their beady eyes on our food. I took that moment to sit back, finish my meal, and look upon both ridges for weaknesses. There were none, but the beef was delicious.

“They gather an army to siege this place,” Sanders said, his pallor nearly as white as the stableboy.

“I think that's likely,” said Lysander.

“Let them,” I said. “They might sack a few farms, throw themselves against your lower walls, but that is about the extent of their empty-headed planning. You may sit here, enjoy the valley, and whittle your time away while your archers win the day.”

“But,” said Vale. “The Jewel of Everything.”

I let my mouth sag open. “Oh yes, that. Well, that changes—everything.”

* * *

“Well played,” I said, leaning over the table, the tavern busy enough for us to talk freely while Calico stuffed his mouth with more pork.

The man was greedy and had already recovered some of his health. Plus, he was holding himself up and not stinking as much. “Sounds like you got them both.”

I paused, about to expand on my conversation with Lysander, when Calico looked up and grinned. “You two have got something up your sleeves, haven’t you?”

It was the first time he’d expressed interest in anything apart from getting fed and watered, and where he could sleep. However, it appeared he had been watching. Which worried me, as the thought he was a plant placed in the cell to watch us still hadn’t left me.

“What we have up our sleeves and what we don’t, is none of your business.”

“None of mine, no. But Threadneedle told me that strange things are happening in the castle, and he mentioned Lord Bright, too. So I’m figuring—”

“Just eat your pork and thank Daniel for his generosity,” Lysander snapped.

“No, hold. What did he figure out?” I switch my focus. “What did you figure out, Calico?”

“That Vale has Bright enchanted. Sanders is being slowly poisoned by an elixir she gives him for his cough. The elixir also perpetuates the cough.”

“What cough?” I asked.

“He coughs,” said Lysander. “You don’t notice it, but I’ve seen it. Looks at his palm now and then, too. Blood on it, I imagine.”

“Have you any more of that health potion Valerra gave you?” I asked.

He shied away. “What? My health potions?”

“One or two.”

He sniffed. “I can spare two.”

“Three if you steer clear of whores tonight.”

“Then it’s two.” He produced them and slid them across the table.

“I might partake,” said Calico. “Still feel a little queer.”

“Eat your pork,” Laysander snapped and produced no more.

“What of Bright? How far gone is he?”

Calico shrugged. “Threadneedle says she hasn’t let him see the Lord for a few days now. She tells him he’s too tired. But he says him and Bright are tight, and the Lord always called on his counsel. Says he needs to see him but hasn’t got the energy to go the old way.” He got up, plate in hand, and wandered off to demand more pork.

“That man disproves what you said earlier,” said Lysander.

“What in particular?”

“His stomach is a bottomless pit—that bit.”

It did seem so. “What about the other thing?”

“What other thing?”

“The part where Threadneedle couldn’t see Bright, as he didn’t have the energy to ‘go the old way.’”

Lysander pursed his lips. “Nope, missed that completely, but then again, the man bores me to tears. So, hardly unexpected.”

I was about to explain when a thought came to me. I’d already decided to see if I could pay Bright a visit, and if I told Lysander, then he would want to come. If Finnigan was up and about, the cane would, in all likelihood, detect his magic. No, it would be better if I went alone.

“Going to deliver these to Sanders,” I said, scooping them up. “See if we can’t get rid of his cough. You coming?”

Lysander barely heard me. A red-headed, large-chested woman had rolled up behind the counter and was serving mugs of ale two at a time. He was transfixed, which was perfect.

“You two stay here. I won’t be long.”

* * *

Sanders regarded the vial, curling his lip and furrowing his brow. “It’s hardly a sickness,” he said, then suppressed a cough, quickly spasming and snorting.

“I’ll admit,” I said, “I didn’t notice myself. Perhaps I’ve been preoccupied with everything that’s been going on. But Calico noted it, though, possibly because you know each other.”

He drew up at that, head back and looking down his nose. “Know Calico? Not I. Vale had him brought in. Some petty theft, attempted theft, something along those lines. There’s not much in the way of crime in Brightwater. No one starves. Everyone has a roof over their heads.”

He indicated the throng, which was heaving. The tavern was lively—more so than the Rat and Blanket.

I laughed at that. “Men will always find something to squabble about; if they don’t, something will contrive.”

“Surely,” he said, “but a squabble doesn’t merit a long stay in the dungeon nor torture, and both happened to him.”

“How long?”

“Been a dozen days”—he shrugged—“perhaps more. Time passes quickly. You saw how emaciated he was, and that doesn’t happen overnight.”

“No, but he doesn’t seem a beggarly type—nor such a poor thief that he gets caught so easily.”

I pushed the vial closer, the table rough-hewn wood, the tavern we were in a little earthier than the Rat and Blanket. Soldiers, whores, and hangers-on packed the place, and at first, I’d thought it unlikely to find a man of Sander’s standing there, but the quartermaster had said he would be, and those sorts rarely got things wrong. The place was called the Three Swords, and it was one of pipe smoke, ribald, and song, the crowd in its middle swaying to and fro like a confused sea as a fiddler played, and a woman murdered a song. Sanders himself was sat at a table upon a dais hemmed in by an ornate, turned balustrade—an area unofficially reserved for officers and, on this occasion, me, a lord.

“Well, he’s roused my suspicions. Are you coughing blood?”

He frowned, looking away from me and then nodding once while. “Started yesterday.”

I sat back, kicking out my feet. “His story is simple. The sorceress Vale is poisoning you with an elixir to maintain your cough while gradually chipping away at your constitution. If Calico is your man, then you know this to be incorrect. If he’s her man, he’s mentioned something he knows I will bring to your attention. Therein lies the first problem—why should I care about you?”

Sanders went to reply, but I stopped him with a raised palm.

“Just know I do. I despise poison. It is a coward’s way of killing. Now, where was I? Ah, yes. There’s little point in him doing that unless it’s to gain our trust by prolonging your life; unless, of course, that life is already over and the poison has done its work.”

“You speak bluntly.”

“I’ve only that much time. Say Calico’s not your man, nor is he her man. For a moment, he is who he says he is—some poor thief who idiotically attempted to take the staff Finnigan from Vale. Then his concern for your health would be genuine. Did you do him a service while he was in the dungeon?”

Calico, of course, hadn’t displayed the slightest concern for Sanders, but the soldier’s answer was what I was probing for. A negative would mean he was probably telling the truth. Anything else was more than likely contrived—an opening taken.

“I barely noticed the man. If she did torture him, it was during the day when I was about my patrols. I am happy to cross swords with Vale, but only in matters that concern me. Someone who crossed her path doesn’t concern me.”

Which was a lie.

He was scared of Vale’s power. Military men disliked magickers because they hated fighting them. They liked to face a blade or a spear, something they could understand and fight.

I pushed the vial nearer to him. “Then you have nothing to lose by taking it.”

He pushed it back. “Unless you intend to poison me.”

“There is that,” I said, conceding the point. “But, you forget the blood on your palm. You are dying, and there is nothing to lose.” And I pushed it back to him. “And I have nothing to gain by your death. I do not need poison to kill you—you know that.”

He gave up then. No one likes the idea they might be dying, especially when it becomes increasingly probable, and no one likes to know they were deemed easy to kill. He flipped the top and drank it, his gaze not leaving mine. With a sharp rap, he set the vial down. “I guess we’ll know in a moment.”

Then he stopped, and he froze and turned a peculiar shade of green, and then he righted, picking up the vial and staring at it. “Where did you get this?” He laughed, and he laughed some more, and when he was done, he drained his ale. “Oh, that was strange, is strange, but I think whatever ailed me is gone. It clears up the question of whether you wished to kill me or not, and opens up the one of who you are and why you did me such a turn.” Then he creased his brow. “And why are you so confident you can kill me on your whim?”

The first was a question that was also worrying me. The second was obvious—I was a beast.

But, at that time, I needed Sanders to get to Bright, and I needed him to lead a foray into Stormbane where his army and that of the hobs would kill each other. At least, that was my ideal outcome. So, I had to keep playing my game.

“Which I will tell you in time. For now, remember—I am just a simple adventurer. Wouldn’t it be your duty to ensure your Lord isn’t suffering the same fate as you?” I placed a second vial on the counter, snatching it away when he tried to grab it. “I think not,” I said. “I think I’ll come, and when we find Bright alive, I’ll be the one to give it to him and gain his favor.”

“Why? Why worry? Why not move on?”

I grinned then. “Wouldn’t a Lord be rather generous to the poor serf that saved his life? Wouldn’t that generosity be measured in gold rather than silver?”

He scowled then. “So all this is for money?”

I raised my hands in supplication. “Did you think it was for the benefit of your small-cocked God?”

He laughed then, like a drain, not a single cough following. “To the keep,” he said. “To rescue a Lord from an evil witch!”

CHAPTER 8

Threadneedle was barely awake, snoozing by his fire, a rather long nightcap atop his bald head and a strange linen nightshirt covering him from his neck to his feet. He woke to the prick of Sanders’ sword on his cheek and moved carefully, shifting away from danger with a sideways slither.

“Captain,” he said carefully. “What is the meaning of this?”

“It is simple,” said Sanders. “We wish to know about the man Calico, and what you spoke about while we were with the witch Vale.”

“Witch, eh? She fell from ‘esteemed sorceress’ while I slept?”

“Nothing is set in stone. Just know this: there is a dungeon and a torture chamber, and while I find the latter distasteful, Daniel is versed in its instruments and capable.”

Which was news to me.

“Calico? The chap with Scamp?” He steered the sword away from his face, spluttering some. The mention of torture does that to some people, myself included. “Don’t know him, of course. How would I? I don’t leave this place. I believe you should question your companion. After all, Calico is his man.”

“Me or Lysander?”

“How the hell would I know,” said Threadneedle, panic setting in. “Let me repeat. I don’t leave this place, so whatever plots you see, it’s not me.”

He had a point, but things get confusing fast when no one trusts anyone.

“Why tell Calico all you did when you barely know him?” I asked.

Threadneedle’s expression broke then, the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth deepening and the bags under his eyes sagging. “Who else could I tell? You, Captain? You were hardly away from that damnable woman. You, Daniel or your friend? Both of you were with the captain. No, I had one chance to get a message out, and that was him, and if he’d been her spy, then I would be dead now, and you wouldn’t be here.”

It was the truth of the matter, and unless we were ambling straight into a trap, my man Calico was looking increasingly genuine, which I hoped. I was drawn to the hungry fellow.

“Let’s get to the meat of the matter,” I said. “Take us to Bright. Let us see what we’re up against.”

“Now?” said Threadneedle.

“Is as good a time as any,” said Sanders.

“She should be in her tower, but she appears, just appears like she has a magic portal that can take her anywhere on the grounds.”

I knew that stuff existed. I had the means in my Lording House. It wasn’t unreasonable that a sorceress with a grand tower had the same power. Plus, castles were large affairs at a certain level, and Brightwater was no exception.

As I alluded upon arriving there, the keep was a substantial building with, perhaps, a hundred levels and a span the width of my entire holding. It was a lavish affair in terms of space, but when ruled by a paranoid lord afraid of simple goblins, the keep was also an empty place. There might have been a thousand rooms; only a handful were used, and the rest were left to spiders. This both played into our hands and didn’t in equal amounts. It made for fast travel, but every noise resounded like a bell ringing in an empty temple.

We hurried up a rear servants’ stairwell, its spiral much tighter than the grand ones reserved for Lords and Ladies. We went up and up for what appeared to be an endless climb. Threadneedle was surprisingly spritely, and led the way with a guttering candle. We eventually left the stairwell, went this way and that, then traversed a web-strewn corridor, ducked across a great hall, not a furnishing in sight, before coming to a small door, which Threadneedle opened carefully and slipped through.

“This is his chapel. Once a place of worship to all Gods, now defunct,” he whispered and skulked through, holding his nightshirt up.

It had all the usual trapping of a temple—altar, pews, and a few statues, all webbed with neglect and blanketed in dust. The place was eerie, such that a shiver traveled up my spine, and goosebumps spotted my skin. “This place is deserted?” I whispered, wanting to take my sword from storage and get ready. Something felt off. Something wasn’t quite right.

Then we were at another door, and then we were through and into a chamber lit by oil lamps, their black smoke staining its ceiling and leaving a tang on the air. It was a room of regal red, ornately-patterned rugs hanging on walls and covering its flagged floor. There in the center was a wretched cot, in which lay a body so grey it might have been dead. I backed away from the bed, choosing caution, my mind telling me something was askew.

Sanders must have had the same feeling, and he walked away too, pressing himself against a window, slipping its drawcord and opening it. Threadneedle, ever the faithful servant, approached his Lord and master and bent his knee, grasping the man’s hand.

“Oh my Lord, what has she done to you?”

Which were the last words he spoke.

A swish came from nowhere, a sword cutting an arc headed straight for Threadneedle’s neck. The man’s head and body parted, catching Threadneedle’s shocked scream before a sound came. His head rolled away, splattering blood like a wagon wheel passing along a muddy road.

Over the dead man stood a gollum of some hellish making. It was the same grey as the room’s stonework, which led to one conclusion: it had risen from them, was of them, which ruled out bladed weapons. It stood dead still, and a thought crossed my mind.

It won’t touch us unless we go near Bright.

“Hold, Sanders!” I pushed my hand out to reinforce my point. “Let me think.” I inhaled sharply, exhaling slowly and let the passing moment collect my thoughts. “Only one of us is getting out of here unscathed.”

“Then it will be you. I have skin in this game.”

“If it is a game,” I said, “it must be you. I’ll get Bright no further than the town square before your men set upon me.”

“You mean to take him?” Sanders took a step forward, his breaths ragged—a sign of confusion and fear.

“He must be gone from this place—somewhere away from Vale where he might recover. If he dies, you all die.”

“There is no such place. Her reach is long. Her power—” He closed again.

“Stay!” I shouted. “Another step and the thing will attack. Look, there is a place. I haven’t told you all, but this is paramount—you must listen if Bright is to have a chance.”

“Why should I trust you?” He hovered on the edge of another step.

“Because I’m about to fight this monster while you spirit your Lord away. Now listen. Here are my instructions.”

“Your—”

“Yes. I’ll attack. You grab him and make haste. Go to Lysander. Tell him to take you both to Fiona and Anna—got it? That’s the important part, the bit he’ll doubt. You have to persuade him that this is my plan. Throw me your sword.”

“A sword is no use against such a beast.”

“That is why you should trust me. If I survive, you will know all by then, and you can admonish me at your will.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“For my own reasons. Why does a man do anything? Now, shape up! Do you want your Lord to live, or do you want to be ruled by a witch because she’s coming? She’s waking now.”

“I—”

“Make your damn mind up, or I’m out of here and coming back with—”

“With?”

I held my hand out. “With my other plan.”

His eyes flitted between me, the gollum, and his stricken Lord. “You cannot beat it with a sword.”

“I don’t have to. I only have to live long enough to give you time. Then I’ll be on your heels.”

He hesitated one last time, then threw me the sword. I had my own, of course, but I didn’t fancy revealing myself right then. Once gone, after all, he might not run straight to Lysander but take some other course. It was a gamble, and I fancied Vale would have a say in it before the night was done.

So, to make his mind up, I attacked. Striking a gollum with a sword is like sawing an elven oak down with a piece of straw, except with sparks. The beast naturally took exception to my action and attacked me. I backed away, soon against a dresser, along it, then back to a cold wall. The beast punched. I ducked. The wall exploded.

Meanwhile, Sanders was at Bright’s side, ripping the bedding away and scooping up the skeletal lord. He was over the bed instantly, across the room and at the door. The gollum must have had eyes in the back of its head because it whipped around and started for him. Sanders struggled with the door, dumping Bright over his shoulder to free one hand.

Desperate to slow the gollum, I ran, jumped, and grabbed its neck, pulling hard as I wrapped my legs around its waist. Then Sanders was through, the door slammed behind him, and I jumped from the stone beast, my armor on before I hit the flagstone, great hammer in hand.

I had the sense that the hammer wasn’t my favored weapon. It felt, well, hammery. Too heavy at one end, too light at the other. I didn’t waste time thinking why, but would later reflect it was my poor strength number. Instead, I smashed the gollum with all my mustered might.

It froze, the tiniest of cracks radiating from the point of impact. Then it turned, so I swung again, catching it straight in the face and spinning its head. Suddenly, the hammer felt good. Its weight was balanced, which was odd. The gollum staggered back and crashed into the door, so I hit it again, this time on top of its head, which shattered, and the beast turned into a pile of rubble. I stood over it, wondering if the hammer shouldn’t be a favored weapon after all.

I regarded it, but it hadn’t changed—its head was still the same size, and its shaft was no larger. A quick conclusion had me thinking it had adjusted to me, yet the pile that was once a gollum told me that in doing so, it had lost none of its bite. Once more, I wondered who the hell I was.

But that thought didn’t linger for long. There was a shimmer, like a plane of vertical blue sea, the ripples flecked with moonlight, and it was about the height and width of Vale. She was coming and using her portal.

The door was out, the rubble blocking it. A window was left, but I didn’t fancy the drop. Then again, there was a choice—the sorceress Vale and her wrath or plunging to certain death. I raced to the window. There was a garden below, bushes, and what might be a pond—depth unknown. Or, there was a sorceress, temper well-known, power assumed, wrath guaranteed. I jumped, stowing my hammer but keeping my armor on.

Had I been drunk, I would have sobered. I might have screamed if there had not been a sorceress on my tail. I did neither, but I did close my eyes as I rushed towards a bush transected by a dwarf wall. The former cushioned my fall, while the latter bent me double around it. My arm snapped in two, my leg the same, bones glistening in the starlight, washed with my blood. But I was in a good enough state to look up at the window where Vale looked out, an incandescent fireball in her hand.

Were I a betting man, I would have wagered hers were somewhat more potent than Lysander’s. I called for my final healing potion, glad I hadn’t wasted it on Bright, and I necked it in one. My bones mended instantly, their strain and crack so painful I did scream out. Then the ball of blue streaked towards me, and I rolled in the nick of time, coming to my feet and scampering away. Another ripple before me hinted at Vale’s imminent arrival in the garden. I turned, ran into an alley, under the keep, then turned again, then ran, not caring how lost I’d become.

Out into a courtyard, a glimpse of Abbadin the northern star, lent me a clue as to which way I should go. I turned, into the next alley, to another space, cloistered, with an olive tree in its center. Straight on—straight over—into the dark. Her shout rang around me—her demand for me to stop. There were downward steps. I took them, a long passageway at their end. A blue shimmer, like a sea rippling in the starlight—Abbadin, perhaps. My heart sank.

“This way.” The voice was tiny—insignificant and barely audible. A tug followed, and I followed it into a room, then a tiny alley.

“Scamp?” I asked, but the boy didn’t reply.

We came to a round room. He pulled at a grate. “You won’t get in with that garb on.”

I changed, cursing myself for forgetting. Then I became the Daniel they knew. Scamp bid me into the hole. Faced with that or Vale, I didn’t hesitate. The boy slid in after me, pulling the grate back in place.

“Sanders told me to look out for you.”

“He’s a good man. Which way?”

“The long one.”

“Long one?”

“The priests will be all over the town. You’ll not escape there.”

“Then where?”

“Where she won’t expect you. The valley.”

Which was back where I’d come from.

* * *

By dawn, we had climbed the northern ridge. It was bleak atop it, a place of great stone slithers and dry gorse, cuts filled with scree and caves too small to enter but large enough to conceal some predator. It was a place of great twigged nests and spiny bushes that resembled the dead reaching from the rock. It was a devil of a climb, but the alternative was worse. He waited until we crested the ridge, sat on a small bluff on the other side, and spoke.

“So, what are you?”

It was a question I would have liked the answer to, a complicated one for me—simple for most others. “What am I?”

“You command like a commander, but not like Sanders. He barks some to make sure folk follow his orders. You expect it. There’s a difference. Are you a Lord?”

And there I was, undone by a kid—a scamp called Scamp. I could deny it, but there seemed little point. I couldn’t ditch the fellow because he’d saved me, and he certainly couldn’t return to the castle.

Or could he?

“How would you like to stay a lowly slave boy the rest of your life?” It was a tempting offer, no doubt about it.

He considered it for a while. “I’m quite good at it,” he finally said. “But then I might be good at other things, and I’ve had enough of being whacked over the head. So, no, I wouldn’t like it.”

“What would you like to do?”

“Army,” he said.

“Which discipline?”

“Infantry.”

“Don’t—the shield wall is like hell on earth.”

“Cavalry?”

“Looks like glory, but you get cut down by archers, dragged off your horse by melee, and skewered by pikes.”

“Archer, then.”

“Safest,” I said. “As long as the other archers don’t kill you or the cavalry doesn’t get through.”

“I’ll be that, then.”

“There’s a knight—takes a lot of training. You get to ride and have all the gear.”

“I’ll do that, then.”

“Or there’s a wizard who throws fireballs.”

His eyes widened. “I’ll do that then.”

I sighed. “Let’s decide later.”

“So, you are a lord.”

“Yes, you’ll be my man, and I’ll ensure you have a good life.”

“That’ll do,” he said. “I’ll do that then.”

“Good. This is my price.” I leaned in and told him.

He sat back. “I can live with that. The only trouble I see is her.” He pointed over his shoulder in the rough direction of Vale’s tower. “And the stick—the speaking stick—it interferes with everything.”

“Does the tail wag the dog?” I asked.

“Nope, but the stick gets mighty frustrated with her.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “No idea. I’m gone by the time they start shouting at each other.”

“Sensible,” I said.

He looked up with no fear, just concern. “Come on, we best show some toes, or sunrise will give us away. She’s got eagles up there—blind as bats at night, but give them a slither of sunlight, and they’ll see us.” He slid off the bluff, skidding down some scree, traversing it, and running across a brief scrub before ducking into some trees.

We raced through the trees, hurdling streams, scrambling down mud slopes, tearing through grasslands, and resting in caves and hollows. The sky became our enemy, and I constantly looked over my shoulder, fearing the worst, watching for some black shadow hovering over us, waiting and watching. We crested the next ridge by mid-morning, running along it for a while before dipping down and threading our way through prickly gorse that tore my calves to shreds. Scamp turned then, looking up, his jaw sagging open. “She’s seen us,” he said, tearing away, headed for some rocks, shelter, anything.

I glanced behind. A great eagle was there, its wingspan taller than a man, hovering on an updraught, then pulling its wings in and diving. I ran after Scamp, but the boy was long gone, the rocks too far, so I faced the beast as it hurtled towards me.

My spear called to me. Its grip became hot as it demanded to be thrown. I felt it. I knew it. I had to complete its wish. I braced, one foot in front of the other, leaned back, cocking my arm, and then threw it with a mighty roar that clapped around the valley, ricocheting from one side to the other.

The spear sped towards the eagle, which flew towards me, the two meeting in a mighty clash of spear, flesh, and erupting feathers. Then the spear was through the beast, and it continued on its way as the eagle dropped like a stone, crashing into the gorge, more feathers, the corpse rolling briefly, then stopping. The spear, though, began to turn, and in a wide arc, it returned to me. For one moment, I thought it might impale me, and I’d be forever pinned to that place. As I was about to dive to one side, it struck the earth a little behind my right foot, its grip ending up in my hand, and I drew it out, ready for another throw.

“Well, what do you know,” I said, in shock. “A spear that returns.” I looked along its length, not a speck of bird blood staining its magnificence, and thought it right up there with the hammer.

“Woah!” said Scamp, emerging from the rock. “What kind of Lord are you?”

And again, I wished I could answer him, for I wished I knew myself.

We descended the ridge without further incident and were soon amongst the crofts and farms high above Brightwater. Of eagles and priests, we saw no trace, and I guessed that Vale had retreated to her tower and watched from there. I did not know whether she had some all-seeing eye, but it seemed we were outside her ability to strike, which gave me breathing room, and I needed plenty of that.

We came close to the goblin cave at dusk, thirsty and hungry. There we waited and watched, uncertain of its comings and goings. At that point, I came to the idea that I might be powerful. I had a hammer that shattered stone gollums, armor that saved me—mostly—from a high fall, and a spear that ripped clean through giant eagles and then returned to my side. It was hard to imagine what the sword might do, or the hand axes, the shield, the bow and arrows, but it was also hard not to. I had the sword slicing through iron, cutting steel like well-churned cheese. The hand axes would decapitate a man with one stroke, plus return like the spear when thrown, and the shield would turn an ogre's hefty blow. Would the bow shoot an arrow to a star and snuff it out, or catch a king in the eye?

It was hard not to dream, there in the grass, hiding like a coward. But I couldn’t risk the boy, nor did I want any inquisitive eyes spying on us and watching us enter the cave. I stowed my armor and weapons and became the simple adventurer I’d masqueraded as before. Scamp was exhausted, not used to much apart from his castle chores and occasional walk along the valley. I was done too, and I prayed we’d not come across any goblins or, worse, hobs. So at dusk, when we finally broke cover and darted to the cave, my heart sank as three figures shot up from behind bushes, bows primed, arrows aimed at our hearts.

“Stop!”

It was a female voice. I sighed, the fight draining from me. It was Sarah.

“Ho, Sarah, am I pleased to see you!”

The bows lowered in unison, and I grabbed Scamp and ran the short distance to the girls. There was Sarah, Charmaine, and Della, a better sight I’d rarely seen.

Sarah was all business, grabbing my arm and leading me into the cave where a couple of Broadchurch’s infantry stood at the tunnel’s entrance, spears in hand, looking nervous, then relieved, as they followed us. More soldiers were in the tunnel, torches flaming, spears leveled, axes at the ready. And there were goblins, armed, daft helmets on their heads, some straight, most not. As we peeled off, climbing through the worm slime and into the thing’s redundant tunnel, they followed, snuffing their torches, not a word said by any. Then we were in the worm’s nest, then climbing endless steps, then in the long tunnel, Greg’s rich loam on either side of us, and finally, we breathed fresh air, the perfect air of Castle Kanazar, and all was good, and all was right, and I picked up Scamp, and I cradled him in my arms and told him he was safe.

Never had I owed someone so much.

* * *

I relaxed, steam hovering over me, swirling about me like some wraith-born fog, mystical, the heart of our henge, a place from which beheaded riders came, where dragons flew breathing their fire, the home of dreams and horrors, a land of myst and legend. I would live there if I could, and there I would rule, or perhaps chop wood and tend trees, singing great songs and marching slate-stepped valleys, axe tossed over my shoulder and a spring in my step. I might hunt monsters, taking them back to town, trussed like a bird, dragged by my cataphract. Town’s folk would hail me a hero, each as ugly as the next and lacking color—mere greyscale—apart from those women that took my eye. They would be vibrant, and there would be two of them. One would be called Anna, and the other, Leyathel.

Anna sang to me, her voice drifting through my bath’s steam, sitting pretty upon me as she massaged my shoulders. Leyathel soaped my tired feet, her thumbs on my arches, easing knots and aching bones. I sighed, closing and opening my eyes, enjoying the mist’s secrets but reveling in my company. There are times a mind should wander and when reality should be forgotten in favor of fantasy, and there are times when fantasy decides to become a reality. This was one of those.

I cast away all thoughts of myst and warriors, the land and legend, as Leyathel stood, unfastened her robe, and let it drop to the flags. Yet, even though that milken body stood before me, wrapped in steam, breasts hemmed by her flowing locks, coming in and out of my dreamy vision, thoughts of the myst still plagued me. There was something important in them—something I had to remember. But when Leyathel stepped closer, stepped into the bath, and Anna hooked her hand under my chin and raised my lips to hers, all thoughts of myst vanished, and my passion rose.

I had no defense against these women, nor did I want any. Leyathel took my leg, resting my calf on the bath’s edge, then took the other and did the same, sinking to her knees till she was between me, then ducking her head under that steaming water. She grabbed me, delicate fingers around my cock, and I gasped, and Anna fed me her breath, her tongue and mine in lazy battle, her hand stroking my chest, the other cradling my head, as Leyathel’s mouth closed, her tongue free to roam in the underwater bliss, tracing every ridge, drawing my pleasure, filling my myst.

There were gods to thank, too numerous to mention, but any that blessed the elves with their ability to breathe below water deserved a mention. There came to me new heights of ecstasy, warmth on warmth, wet on wet, skin on skin, and Anna returned to massaging my neck as I reveled in those heights, so gentle was she, a feather upon my sensitive self, a fresh breeze on a spring morning. I bucked, trying to force more of me into my favored elf, urgency coming in short gasps. But my tension couldn’t last as Anna’s song drifted in and out of me, as she appeared at the bath’s end, and her robe fell to the floor.

No satisfaction came to me, and Leyathel rose from the water, her long white hair clinging to her breasts, a smile hatched upon her lips. “It’s good to have you back, my Lord,” she said, and she took Anna’s hand and stepped from the bath, silver dripping from her, the mist lit by her aura.

They both came to me then, offering their hands and pulling me up, and I stood there for a moment, a chill shivering over my skin. They led me from the bath and then toweled me dry. I was aching then, needing release, wanting to forget the sensual and have my pleasure. I grabbed Anna, pulling her close, pressing myself against her, wanting to be inside, to slip into her, to feel her gripping me, to keep going until my back arched and my loins emptied.

She pulled me on top of her, then spun me over, her atop me, straddling me, Leyathel grabbing my length and holding it while Anna lowered herself onto me. Then my lungs emptied, not in one great exhalation, but a leaking of pleasure, ultimate satisfaction, as each sinew of hers rippled over me, as her smell enveloped me, saturated with her desire, heady.

I reached for her breasts, but Leyathel pinned my arms to my side, then came behind me, then over me, as she kissed Anna, hovering above me, the white of her down, the pink stripe of her flesh, temptingly out of my reach.

Then she was gone, then her face over mine, our lips meeting, Anna quickening, Leyathel’s tongue probing. The myst returned to me then, that swirling myst, weaving through the henge, only this time, the fog was my heightened pleasure. It was Anna’s quick strokes, the feel of her thighs scraping mine, her hands upon my knees. It was Leyathel’s tongue, her lips, the curtain of damp hair. There was mist and myst. They were two things, not interchangeable, different. One was within, the other without.

I filled—that quickening, the dilation before the inevitable. Anna cried out. Leyathel broke off again behind Anna, caressing her, cupping her perfect breasts. They kissed. They broke away. Anna screamed. Leyathel’s hand reached down, parting Anna’s lips, working her, increasing her, making her whimper, cry out, whimper again. I still held. Mist and myst confusing me. I was close, so close. I nearly had it—nearly understood it. They nearly had me—should have had me, but I persisted.

Anna was spent, falling from me. Leyathel mounted me, her challenge clear. “My Lord,” she said, and she began, her strokes urgent from the off. She reached forward, pinning my wrists behind my head. Her aura enveloped me, breasts close, swaying to and fro, nipples erect, perfection. Her hair whipped me as she tossed her head from side to side, then her static fizzed over me, emanating from her groin, streaking to my head, toes, hands, rippling through me in impossible ecstasy, and I reached heights that never had been—transcendence, mist, myst—secrets to behold. Secrets that were beyond me.

Yet, they were within my grasp. I knew it—knew them. There was something in that fog—something in that pleasure. Was it power? Was it wealth? Was it happiness? It didn’t matter. Didn’t matter at all.

She gripped me, each ridge within her pulling over me, pushing down on me. I tried to go deeper, to vanish inside her. I wanted to be with her, one, but I also needed her friction—that of two bodies, not one. Anna’s song began, whispering inside my mind.

Leyathel murmured, her song muted as she lost herself in pleasure. I had it then. The myst—it was mine. It had always been mine. I had its power. It could not deny me. But what the hell was it?

I turned her onto her back, her legs wrapped around me, pinned her wrists back, and powered into her. But Anna was there, and she pulled my hands away, cradling Leyathel’s head in her lap, holding my shoulders, then cupping my cheeks, pulling my face up, her gaze softening my urgency, her song calming me, and I fell then, fell into an abyss of pleasure, my strokes long, my end close, but my selfish urgency gone. Leyathel bucked and moaned below me, and I waited, waited for my inevitable pleasure to come. When it did, and when it flowed, I pulled away and let it free, and I closed my eyes, on my knees, and my seed spilled, mixing with Leyathel’s aura, her breasts, with Anna, with my Ladies, and I understood, knew where my myst was.

It was me and had always been me, within and without.

CHAPTER 9

There was a point to my morning run other than increasing my constitution and strength and letching at Anna’s bottom. The latter, however, made it worthwhile all by itself. During that time, I could think clearly. If my mind wandered, the time passed quicker, which I liked because I could find no joy in exercise, unlike her.

That day my mind stuttered around the puzzle that was myst. It was a tangible thing. I did not doubt that, but its function, its state of being, was a mystery. I had felt it clear as day as my pleasure had consumed me. It had powered my erection, held my satisfaction until both my ladies had come, and flooded my orgasm repeatedly.

Yet, I sensed that it had been with me all along and had either revealed itself by accident or by need as my pleasure reached heights previously unattained. It was my power—that much I knew. But was it the thing that sent me into my battle rage? Was it my calmness when all others lost their heads? That was the question I hunted for answers to. The rest was irrelevant.

Then she stood before me, hands on hips, a sweat patch blossoming between and under her breasts, the shadow of her nipples visible. “What’s on your mind?” she asked, taking my hand and pulling me onto a grass bank, where we looked over Greg’s farmlands, to the mountains beyond that curtained Bright’s place. “Don’t tell me it is nothing. You tossed and turned all night even though we must have rinsed you of all your energy.”

“You rinsed me of more than that,” I said.

“And vice-versa.” She allowed herself a wry smile.

“Something clouds my head,” I said, unsure how to explain something so abstract.

“Well, spit it out. I’m good for more than your bed and pleasure.”

She was, that I never doubted. Of all the people I knew, she had the levelest head, and her judgment was always unbiased. So I tried to frame it in words that might make sense. “It is something inside me—some force. It was with me when I was with you and Leyathel. I knew it, felt its power, straining at the leash like a chained dog, and either I controlled it, or it did me.”

“Is it new or recently realized?”

A chill took me then, the morning wind crisp but with that hint that rain might come, and clouds gathered overhead. It was no mysterious portent, no omen in the making—just the changeable spring weather, and that was all. I picked a blade of grass and sucked on it. “New to me but always there.”

“That makes no sense. Do you think it has always been there?”

“Yes—I just said that. It’s new, but I sense it’s only newly-discovered. Like finding treasure in a familiar place. Just because you’ve only recently found it doesn’t mean it hasn’t been there a while.”

“Then it is like your expanding numbers—another tab, yet no tab at all until you see it. What is it? Is it tangible?”

“It feels like an extension of my power—my strength, my constitution—everything.”

“So,” she said, teasing the word out as she considered. “So, it is another layer. It is like a cake.”

“This is not about baking!” I said and laughed, but she didn’t crack a smile.

“Why not? There is a cake, and it is you, and it is layered. There are your numbers, and there is you. The numbers are your base, and they dictate what you can do—the heights of power you will achieve that a normal man wouldn’t. Then there is you—your instincts, morals, and numbers have no sway there. So, they are two layers of your cake. But what of a cake with two bland pieces? What would make it special?”

“A nice preserve,” said I. “Perhaps blueberry or red, ripe strawberry.” I dreamed of those bushes then, by some random roadside, offering me, the weary traveler, sustenance.

“A jam, yes, and what is that if not a flux that joins the two, that empowers them both to become more than the sum of two pieces, more even that the sum of three, because its effect is so vivid.”

“You got all that from my frugal description?”

“I was with you all night as you took Leyathel and me over and over. I was chafed and spent, yet you were a beast unleashed, ongoing until we were exhausted and empty.”

“A beast?”

“In the nicest way,” she said, resting her hand on my thigh. “I knew something had changed—had manifested, and we both knew it was no new power but that it was turned in our direction for the first time. Tell me, do you remember killing so many when the rage takes you during battle?”

It was a direct question I wasn’t sure I cared to answer. I was a killer—that much was certain. What was not was how discerning I was. Did I only attack my enemies, or were all in danger? Did I have any control? “No, so far not. I rage, and I wake when all around me is blood and guts.”

“Do you remember every moment of our lovemaking?”

“I do,” and I swelled at the mere thought.

“Then the next time the battle rage takes you, you will know what this thing is because it will manifest and be recognized.” Then she paused, tapping her nose with her finger and breathing evenly. “You mentioned mana—the thing that powers Vallera’s magic.”

“Either I or Lysander might have. What of it?”

“What if your myst is the same stuff but different?”

“Now you aren’t making any sense.”

She slapped me playfully. “But I do. What if mana powers a magicker but myst powers a warrior? Flux,” she said again. “What if it’s the flux that makes your numbers shine?”

What if it is? I thought. Then I wanted more, and I wanted to quantify it, and I wanted to discover its every intricate detail. I wanted its secret. “I wonder if Kanazar knows?”

“Then you should also wonder if it will tell you. Come on. We can’t linger. Your day is full.”

And it was. There was Sanders, Bright, and there was Scamp. Sanders and Bright were with Vallera somewhere within the elven wood, and I needed words with both. Which fitted me as I was to inspect Morgan’s blight with Leyathel and attempt to estimate how much time we had left. Two birds, one stone, so all good.

I also needed to decide what to do with Scamp—I’d made the lad many a promise. Then there was Tanaka and her claim to the Annuck, the hobgoblins, and I had a town to build on top of all that and another I had my eye upon.

“I will deal with Scamp at breakfast, and all will follow from there.” It was a start, and if there was a journey, it was best to start it early.

So, we ran, and then we returned to my Lording House, and I found Scamp at the table, Fiona over him.

His cheeks were red, that red caused by a damn good scrubbing, not embarrassment. His hair was brushed, and his clothes washed. His expression was one of resigned thunder. “Keep her away from me.”

“If you think I enjoyed picking lice from you, scrubbing grease from your clothes, let alone the dirt in every crease and cranny of your skinny little body, then you’ve appraised me badly. Eat.”

He ate, and there was no doubt in my mind who was in charge and who was not.

I sat and regarded him for a while. Anna joined us, and Fiona served a breakfast of cold meats and fruit with warm bread and nettle tea—just what I needed after my recent exertions. “So, have you decided what you want to do?” he asked.

Scamp filled his mouth with a slab of beef, chewing, cheeks puffed. I waited.

“I want to be you,” he finally said, and I supposed that was probably the greatest compliment a man could ever be given.

“Be me? What about our talk?”

“In our talk, everyone was killed or about to be. So, I thought, what do I want to do, and who do I know that isn’t likely to be killed, and it is you. I saw you fall from that balcony—saw you mend your bones. You beat the gollum, and I heard you killed a dozen hobs. Why wouldn’t I want to be you?”

He had a point, but being me wasn’t an option because I was me, and that was that. “Unfortunately,” I said, delaying as no good answer came to me.

“He can be your man,” said Anna. “He can fetch and carry, take your messages where needed, be your eyes and ears and aid you in menial tasks. Then he can learn and find his niche. He’ll stay here. We’ll find him quarters below, and I shall teach him to ride and bake, and Fiona can teach him to heal and mend, and you can teach him to fight and survive.”

“And I can teach him to beguile the women,” said Lysander as he strolled in.

“Lysander!” I cried, glad for a change of subject. “I thought you were with Vallera.”

“I was, but she dispatched me to fetch you, and Anna bakes the best cakes, so even though I knew you were coming, I came to get you anyway. Cake, please?” he said and sat.

Anna blushed and fawned, fetching a plate of pretty little cakes with green and white frosting. There were two ways to her heart, and one was complimenting her cakes. “Just one?” she asked.

“Make it two.”

So, we ate cake and left, but Scamp did not join us. I was overruled in that respect when Fiona and Anna decided his rags needed replacing, his hair cutting and his boots mending. They wanted a tonic for his feet—they’d been wet for an age—and some lotions for his cuts and bruises. I was in for a hell of a day, but he was in for a worse one.

We left then, Scamp’s face a picture to behold, and we marched to the elven woods, to the wall where Sarah first patrolled, and there was Izzy, sitting on a bough as if time held no meaning and we might have gone forward or back, and he would still be seated there.

“My Lord,” he said, giving me a feint of a bow, mockery in his tone. “Do I call you that? Are you King of the Elves, now that you are coupling with my Queen?”

“Coupling? We are rutting like lustful lovers, make no mistake about that, and if you think of me as king, then, by all means call me that, but I’ll tell you this, if I were to be a king then I’d be a king of a place better than this old wood!”

He laughed, as did I. We both knew I didn’t need a title to rule his forest. I became its ruler the minute Leyathel relinquished herself to me. A great king needs no reinforcement. Besides, I was just a lord—a damn fine one, but just a lord.

“Well met,” he said. “I have brought horses, but if you want to travel the roots or skip the trees, we can do that.”

I’d traveled the roots before—getting dragged through mud and rock didn’t appeal to me, and skipping trees was not as exhilarating as it sounded. I chose a horse, a chestnut, and we galloped to Vallera, who lived in a cave by a pooling waterfall, in the middle of the forest. There, around a fire, sat Sanders, and he looked pretty agitated.

“You survived,” he said. “You beat the beast.”

I pursed my lips and widened my eyes in false fear. “A few broken bones, no more than that. How is your Lord?”

“Delirious and anxious to talk to you, but scared out of his wits at the same time. Elves? You trust them? I thought they were creatures of dark arts and foul spells.”

“Evil?” I said, then scoffed. “Yes, I woke up with that sense too. But being neighbors changed things.”

“Same with the goblins?”

“Took a little more convincing in that direction,” said I. “I’ll grant you that.”

“It is a strange world you call home, Daniel.”

I supposed it was, to him—to someone brought up to think of tales of violent fey with blood-red eyes and long curved knives—with slathering mouths and glistening fangs.

“We are pure evil,” said Valerra. “Surely the last lord told you that—the one before this!”

“That is true,” I said. “There was a lord before me, and they chased him from this place, tail between his legs.”

Sanders shrugged. “If they did, I never saw him—heard of him.” He eyed me then. “Really, Daniel, who are you that you accept this—” He spread his arms around—“so readily.”

A bad feeling hatched within me. A terrible suspicion that I was in for some kind of unwelcome revelation. “Is Bright awake?”

“He is,” Vallera said, “but he is weak. There are poisons within him that linger—that are designed to lurk in his shadows. This Vale, she knew what she was doing.”

“Will he recover?”

“In time, but it is no easy fix.”

“I can talk to him, though?”

She shrugged. “For all the good it will do you. Scared of his own shadow, that one.”

“I will come with you,” Sanders said. “He trusts me.”

I shrugged. I needed no escort but nor was I against one. There was little they could do to alter any of my plans. I would grow, and I would avenge. That was the way of things, and it was a fact. I stepped into the pool, wading to the waterfall, then under it, and into Vallera’s cave.

It was of modest size, a decent chamber curtained by the falling water, lit by its luminance, and free of clutter. Several caves led from the main one, and Sanders took me down one, through a fissure and to another place, about as round as nature allows, its roof mimicking a pitch and its floor stacked with ferns to make a cot upon which Bright lay.

He was older than I thought he would be. Somehow I assumed all lords remained similarly aged as me, that their semi-immortality kept them young. His head was propped up on a mossed log, and his breaths rasped. With wide eyes, he regarded me, and I crouched by him.

“This is Daniel,” said Sanders. “It was he who rescued you.”

“Daniel,” he said, his voice like a whispering wind, like a newly-risen ghost, like death waking. “Daniel,” he repeated. “What do you want with me?”

“I want what all men want, which is power. From you? I hadn’t thought much apart from rescuing you from that dreadful woman. But I’ll think further during the next few days. But know this—if you go back there, you will die by her hand.” I made a chopping motion.

He was grey, so close to death. It confused me. It was my understanding our heads had to depart our bodies for us to die, yet this pathetic excuse for a lord contradicted that. One good slap, and he’d be dead.

“Your elf perpetuates me. I’d not be here without her.”

“You are not a true lord?” I said.

His brow creased. “I am; why?”

“You are dying,” I said, disbelief lacing my tone.

“All men die. Lords are no different. Once, perhaps.” He coughed then, a rasping cough that rattled his lungs. “But that is legend, nothing more.”

“All lords die?” I said. The man was mad—lost his mind. “Her potions have scrubbed you of all reason.”

“Your time with the elves has withered your mind,” he said, which was charming coming from him. “All men die. No man is immortal.”

“There are legends,” said Sanders. “Legends that once the lords were long-lived, but they are tales for a grand fire, where ale flows, and children sit, their eyes wide and jaws sagging.” He smiled. “I loved those tales.”

I wanted to scream, to tell him that he’d lost his mind too, but he was telling me in earnest. Everything he said he believed, and their expressions, the way their lips curled and faces scrunched. They were the faces of men looking upon a fool.

Bright chuckled, but it turned into a cough. “Immortal,” he said and chuckled some more.

“What do you know of House Gray?” I asked, and a smile fell upon Bright’s crusty lips, and Sanders stared dreamily at the chamber’s rock walls.

“House Gray,” he said. “There, Daniel! You have heard the stories. The tales of the Legendary Harem Lord!”

Bright grinned, a glow brushing his sallow face as his skeletal hand reached for me and grasped me. “Lord Andros Gray—the world has never known his like! I like the tale of him and the blue dragon of—” He trailed off, a cough, then a rasp.

“Of Karnock,” said Sanders. “The dragon he slew upon the Great Rock of Karnock. One blow from his mighty hammer! Oh, what it must have been like to have lived during those times!”

“And Anderlay? What of that?” I asked.

“Ah,” said Sanders. “Anderlay, the City on the Shifting Sands. I heard a tale once that it was made from emerald—everything in the whole city. Anderlay, what I wouldn’t have given to see that.”

My mouth draped open. My world began disintegrating around me. “How long,” I said. “How long since Anderlay?”

“An age,” said Bright. “An age and another again.”

I stood then, the cave strangling me with its closeness—their words a noose around my neck, constricting and squeezing. Everything I’d thought was wrong—my purpose ripped from under me. I staggered out, making for the waterfall, holding my head under it, falling to my knees. Ever since I’d woken, I’d worked for my revenge—revenge against those that had ended me, but that purpose was gone—stolen from me by time.

And Bright—he was no immortal Lord, no picture of health. He was feeble, a pathetic old man on his back, defenseless like a child. Were there men who ran a shield wall, jumping its crest, and plunging into enemy ranks? Where were those who fought monsters? Was there among them men and women who’d stare at danger and laugh at it? What had happened? What the hell had happened?

Then Sanders was by me, and he grabbed my arm. “What?” he asked. “What is it? Do these legends upset you?”

“What happens when a lord dies?” I asked him, dreading the answer. “What happens to his castle?”

Sanders looked at me blankly. “He dies, and the core picks another. You can petition it, but it will pick who it sees fit to run that place. If he is killed in battle, the victor takes it. Or, he bequeaths it before he dies.”

A great thirst took me then. I bent, cupped a mouthful of water and gulped it down. “And the people of the castle—what happens to them?”

“They—” he paused. “What do you mean? Nothing happens to them. Why would it?”

“They don’t die? They don’t end and fall to dust?”

He stepped back, his face twisting like I was a bad smell. “Why would they do that?” Then he came close, put his hands on my shoulders. “Is that what you believe? Is that what you truly believe?”

“I don’t know what to believe,” I said.

He chuckled then. “We don’t live like those legends, Daniel. Great hands don’t descend from the heavens, fall and smite us. Castles aren’t reduced to rubble when a god becomes angry.”

I inhaled, navigating the uncertain, trying to grasp some familiarity. “What happened to this Legendary Lord?” I asked. “Was there an end for him? What was his name?”

“Andros.”

“This Andros—what happened to him?”

“Why, every child knows that. He sacrificed himself to save his wives—to protect his family. He gave his life that they might live. He paid the ultimate price for his loved ones in a bargain with the Gods themselves.”

My knees gave away then, and I crouched and held my head in my hands. “Return to Bright. I need some time.”

He reached for me, but I batted him away. Then I was alone, and I was lost. I had not known what to expect, and yes, perhaps I’d lived in denial. Did I expect to be reborn, find my feet, and march forth and claim my old life? Yes, no—maybe? But to wake and find I was a legend—and a vague one at that—was too much to bear. And had the pillars of my belief been torn down too? Had the relationship between core and town, between lord and core altered?

Or was it my memory? Had I awoken with a complete set of false assumptions? If not, what possible bargain might I have struck with the gods to save my family and have me tossed a thousand, ten thousand years into the future, to this place, still of Lords, of Fey, but apparently much changed?

Yet, if it had been such a stretch of time, should I really expect all to remain the same?

There was a choice before me, a raw one, but a choice all the same, and it was this, in the end, no more than a change of course, a tack on uncertain waters caused by an unexpected gust.

Instead of seeking vengeance, I would seek the truth—understand what bargain I had made and learn the fates of those I’d loved, adored, and worshipped. I’d search for Anderlay, that place of emerald, the city on shifting sands, by a sea so blue it was a sapphire. That place Anna knew, and perhaps, we’d both find our truth there.

And the gods might help any that stood in our way!

I returned to Bright, and we swapped some words, nothing much of any import, and I didn’t mention Brightwater then. We left him then, Sanders and me, and we talked outside, by the pool, while Lysander and Vallera snuck away together, hand in hand.

“You must return to Brightwater,” I said.

“Vale will kill me.”

“No, I don’t think so. You were gone before she woke. This is your story—listen carefully. The boy Scamp helped me and Lysander spirit Bright away. I was the diversion. Lysander snuck into the castle dressed like you, took Bright, then Scamp helped him away from Brightwater. You were alerted while out on patrol. You raced after them, leaving your men behind—chased them into the goblin cave, then down into the bowels of the earth. There you saw horrors beyond compare—a great gathering of goblins readying to sack Brightwater. You barely made it out, chased by hobs, by goblins, and other foul creations. You tell her—you persuade her that she must help you lead an army before the foul creatures of Under are rallied.”

“All this? What of Lord Bright’s fate?”

That scuppered me for a moment. My plan revolved around him being alive by virtue of the castle still existing—but that didn’t tally anymore. “The core will still be his—so he must live—therefore, Lysander and I haven’t killed him—therefore, he needs rescuing. Otherwise, I might kill Bright and take the core for myself.”

“You could do that when I’m gone,” Sanders said.

“I could, and I might, especially if he breathes his foul breath over me again. Would it be so bad to have me as your lord?” I spread a grin upon my face to soften the blow of my intended treachery.

He hesitated just long enough to let me know it wasn’t such a bad thing, so I let him off the hook.

“You have my word. I will not kill him. But he is in no condition to be a Lord, and he might find peace being something less taxing, and I might offer him that option. The three of us will have that conversation when Vale is done and my other business is settled.”

“Other business?”

“The small matter of releasing Tanaka’s tribe from the hobs, installing her as Queen of the Under, then taking her as my wife.”

“Small matter?”

“Yes, and I will get to that as soon as I have killed Vale, stripped that annoying twig of its moonstone crown, and bargained with Morgan the Sorceress and quashed the blight that ruins this forest.”

“That all?”

“It is enough for the next few days.”

He bowed then. “After, it would be an honor to serve as your captain,” he said.

I rested my hand on his shoulder. “It will be much less boring.”

And we laughed then, and I almost forgot about my troubles.

Almost.

Izzy spirited Sanders away, and Vallera returned to attend to Bright, so I was left with Lysander. We walked through the great forest, treading moss blankets, passing great trunks adorned with fungus steps and coats of green. We walked by silver streams and crunched on shingle banks, spears of emerald light striking us. I asked him of his impressions of the world about us, of its mechanics—how things lived and died, and he, like me, believed it all to happen an older way. It told me that I wasn’t going mad, and it also told me he came from long ago, like me, and our kinship began to make sense.

“You think things have changed?” he said.

“I think we travelled a long, long way while we slept, so I think we should have expected it to.”

“And Kanazar? What of the core?”

There, in those few words, was another fine question.

What of the core?

CHAPTER 10

The blight was the blight, and it had grown. Its battle was ongoing, and its front was a few hundred feet, forming a rough semicircle from where Vallera’s root bluff had jutted forth, the one she’d vine-lashed Lysander to when he’d faced the mighty Okanau. Behind was its crawling malaise, the one-sided fight where it crackled and hissed, foul smoke tendrils rising, soon lost to a breeze flowing in from the valley. But it found no trees. Chivers made sure of that. The grasslands beyond had recovered somewhat, but the elven lands already conquered remained crisped and black. Occasionally, a misshapen beast would rise from the ruined earth, and an elf would dispatch it with an arrow, a spear or a sword. They dreaded that only a little—it was a kindness, after all.

What was leaving them battle-scarred was something all the more insidious. Nathanofel, Leyathel’s first elf—the one charged with her protection, who had been slain by the evil troll—had risen from the dead while spellbound, and she had killed him a second time, and so it was likely that the other elves would rise. They were the fallen, slain during the great troll battle, and they would lumber towards the forest, arms hanging, face sagging, and eyes dead. To kill a beast was one thing. To kill one of your own was another.

Leyathel was there, my goddess from the previous night, and she was grim-faced. We swapped words but wasted them. What could you tell a queen charged with killing her own? So, unable to ease her burden, I bid good day to her, had a short chat with the forester, Chivers, who assured me the business of felling the trees was going to plan, and we left.

“We should go to Kanazar,” said Lysander. “We shall question him about all this time business.”

“What if it’s correct?” I asked him. “What if the core confirms our past is just that and so distant it is beyond reach?”

“What if you had a family—what if I did?”

It struck me then that I’d never thought about my family much. According to the legends, I sacrificed myself for mine. I felt like I should be a sad, sad man to have lost those I loved so much, but I found it difficult to mourn as I had no recollection of them. I did not know who to cry for. I simply knew that I had had a family, I wouldn’t have existed without them. “Then you and I are lost,” I said.

“But how can we be lost if we’ve no idea who we are? We have this—” He indicated all about— “and it is in front of our faces. We have plots and plans. What if this is part of everything? What if your bargain with the gods put us here?” He nudged me then, a sparkle in his eyes. “Why not enjoy it? We don’t remember, anyway.”

And I could see his logic and appreciate it, even let my heart quicken at the thought. But, my foundations had been torn from me, and I had rebuilding to do. “I want to know what I had in mind for myself. I want to understand.”

“Then we start at Kanazar. He gifted you your armor and weapons last time. Perhaps these new revelations will prompt something else.”

So, we did, and they did.

* * *

The core was in its usual spot, hovering, lightning crackling, snuffing out the stars, and it shone brighter as we entered, which meant its interest was up. We wasted no time, my wizard and I, and we strode right up to that incandescent ball of confusion, and I asked it outright.

“Is this the future?”

When I received an abstract answer, the fault was mine as the question lacked depth. So, I tried again.

“What span of time bridges my death and this reincarnation?”

It was better-phrased, and the response alarmed me. Lightning streaked from every part of the core, hitting the dome, colossal thunder ringing out. Then it changed hue, turning from brilliant white to a softer and sunnier color—a bright buttercup.

“The span is beyond your reach,” it said. “Know this, Andros Gray. All you knew are dead. All that knew you are gone. Your life is legend, and that is your immortality now. The number is irrelevant but greater than four figures and less than five.”

“Why here?” I asked, barely keeping my composure.

“Why now?” Lysander added.

“The question unlocks answers, but they are not mine to give.”

And then it dulled, the yellow fading like a guttering candle, the lightning fizzed, and all was silent.

“Do you think it once trod the boards?” Lysander asked. “For there is theatre streaked through it.”

But I didn’t reply. An inkling had come to me, and I turned about, marched to the platform’s end, and veered into my room, where I was met with something other than weapons and armor.

There, upon a stone platform, dressed in bright orange, with his legs crossed and bald head bowed, sat a man. I say bald, but that discounted the long, black ponytail that shot from the back of his head and vanished over his shoulders. His skin was the color of honey, and he held his hands like a monk in prayer. In fact, he might have been one of those, but I sensed not. There was something more profound about the man, something rooted in familiarity that had the foundation of a clear past. Had I been asked, I’d have placed him there, that distant time, in that distant land.

“Who are you?” I asked, and he lifted his head, and his face was featureless, as though his mouth, nose, eyes and ears had been scrubbed away or perhaps not painted by then. But he replied, as these figments are wont to do, and he did so without needing a mouth.

“You know me,” he said. “You remember me.”

He pushed his hand out, a funnel of violet light spinning from it and engulfing me, and then I did know him, and his name was Fennel.

“Fennel?” I asked, but ran straight out of words.

His eyes appeared then, and they were narrow, and the black brows above had an elven quality but shallower. “I am he. What else do you know?” he asked, and his hand shot out again, and that same violet lattice engulfed me again.

“You are my master and my scribe,” I said, and then he suddenly had a nose that was short and stubby and a little turned up at the end.

“I am. Where did I come from?”

“Anderlay,” I said without a moment’s hesitation.

“Indeed,” he said, his mouth and ears appearing simultaneously. “Anderlay, that jewel in the desert, that ship in a turbulent sea. Anderlay, the center of all.”

“But it is no more?” I asked.

“No more,” he said. “Because you unstitched it, and now it is but a muddle of threads in a sea of confusion.”

“Why have you come?”

He uncrossed his legs and sat, sliding off the platform and standing on the cold stone, his feet bare. “Because you sent me to ensure you complete your end of the bargain.”

“Which is?”

He was shorter than both me and the tongue-tied Lysander, his head coming up to my nose, but he had a presence that told me I should confront him with care. He shook out his legs one after the other and loosened his neck. “What would the Legendary Lord Andros Gray dispatch himself into the future for unless it was to save the land? Surely no lesser task is worth his time?”

Those words, above all others, pricked my attention.

“What indeed,” I said.

“What name do you call yourself currently—to save confusion.”

“Daniel, Daniel Cutterson.”

“And this place?”

“Castle Kanazar.”

“Not…?”

“Anderlay, no. I do not know what that place is, save that it was once important to me.”

“You remember nothing?”

“Not a jot. Well, vague visions—a battleline, its press unbearable. A deep blue sea, its expanse unbelievable, and golden sand, the depth of its color so vivid I might touch it.”

“Then I have a lot to tell you, but understand this. I can only reveal as much as you can take. That was the bargain forged, and if we break it, I am no more.”

“You are really here?” I asked. He was tangible—no wisp that was almost but not quite. For some reason, that was important to me.

“I am upon a precarious bridge, one that might be made from crystalline moments all in rank and file, and if one topples, all shatters, and then you will know nothing.”

“Then what must I know?”

He regarded me then, and his eyes were filled with sorrow. “Oh, Andros,” he said, reaching out. “Daniel—I must call you that. Oh, Daniel, it is good to set my eyes on you again. You cannot imagine the trial I have had in the waiting.”

“But what must I know?”

“You must know that this is Anderlay, not as it was, but it could be.”

“This place could become Anderlay?”

He chuckled then. “Same person, different name. Let me repeat it for you. This is Anderlay. You unstitched it, and now you remake it.”

“Do I have a family? Are they here?”

“I will explain much, but not all will please you.”

“Answer me plainly. That is what I like.” My pulse quickened. My hands shook, and my mouth dried.

“That much I know. No, your family is not here. You demanded they be removed. It was your price. Theirs was to be a good and safe life—they were to live out their years in peace and harmony, and so they did, and I watched them, and though they mourned you, it was the right thing.”

My heart stopped beating, and I sagged. “Why? Why didn’t I bring them with me?”

“Because of everything I have said, and because of this.” He spread his hands. “You would never have forgiven yourself for not remembering them, and imagine seeing them, and they had no memory of you. Such is the way of Limbo—of reincarnation. Sleep fogs the mind and scrubs it of its recollection.”

“Then how come you can remember?” I asked.

“I did not sleep,” he said, then yawned and swayed a little like the slightest gust would have him over.

I caught him, and his familiarity washed over me: glimpses, no more than that. A garden, a tower, emerald steps, a gargoyle, wind chimes, a golden sundial comprising a fisherman and his rod—all these things paraded through me, then slowed and faded. It was Anderlay—I’d seen it for the first time, and it was magnificent.

“He’s dead on his feet,” Lysander said. “I’ll help you carry him to the Lording House.”

“No,” said I. “He is my burden to bear. He—” It was impossible to comprehend. Had he waited ten thousand years for this moment?

I scooped him up and took him to Fiona and Anna, sure they would fix him up. I would have more questions, but his health would govern them, and my eagerness would be torture. So, I dropped him there, and he joined Scamp in my rehabilitation home, once a place of such pleasure.

Tanaka was there, grumbling about Broadchurch, Greg, and others. She paced up and down until we came face to face. “When?” she asked. “Broadchurch says he must wait, and Greg builds more farms rather than harry the hobs.”

I made a pained expression. “We must wait, and Broadchurch follows my orders. Greg is militia at best—not his place. We have a hierarchy here.”

“But—”

“Look, I will tell you all. I’ve delayed it for good reason.”

“Delayed it!” she yelled. “Why have you done that? What about my poor goblins, stuck in service—chained, whipped, and starved?”

I furrowed my brow. “Haven't you been subservient to the hobs for as long as anyone can remember?”

“What does that matter?” she snapped.

“Well, a few more days on top of forever is still forever,” I said. “It isn’t much longer.”

Lysander laughed. “You tread a tenuous line if you wish to enjoy those pastel shades this night.” He paused, expecting a reaction, but I didn’t give him the satisfaction. So, he showed me his heels. “I must go—I have to see Jess. There is an ale mug with my name on it.”

I pondered, torn for once between duty and respite. To Tanaka, I said, “Come, come with me, and I will fill you in on my plan.” To Anna, I blew a kiss and silently thanked her for being her. To Scamp—well, his wide and pleading eyes were irresistible, so I let him come too. “We will accompany you,” I called after Lysander. “I have business with Barnaby and Jensome.”

We headed out, and I explained to Tanaka precisely what was happening, and the more I talked, the more unfeasible it became. “There is a sticking point,” I said.

“What is that?”

“How can I get Sanders’ men to kill only hobs and not your goblins? How can I get the goblins to turn on the hobs?”

“Our goblins,” she said. “We can command them if we control the core—has that plan become lost among all the others?”

“My mind is running down many paths,” I said, slapping my forehead. “The robbery—It’s become a part of a much more complex campaign as all the tasks and goals have become entangled.”

“I’m pretty confident in my magic,” said Lysander. “I can channel spells through the Jewel of Everything, and they are much more stable.”

“Tell me the plan,” Scamp said, and I did, and his clean little face scrunched in thought. “You have goblins here, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Then why not do this,” he said and explained a new plan, which was brilliant.

* * *

Importance puffed Barnaby like never before. My erstwhile steward was proud of his achievement, and in truth, his bluster had merit. Scaffolding clad the stronghold, part of its roof missing, a corner tower under construction, and a crenelated balcony nearing completion. On the inside, a sweeping staircase curved upward to a balustraded balcony and then on, hanging in midair like a pregnant pause. There was a new long room, with polished stone tiles and walls and was resplendent with nooks and niches, some lit with oil lamps and others not. There was a reception room, and a long hallway which led nowhere.

There are things more dangerous to a person’s motivation than not giving praise where praise is due, but there aren’t many, and Barnaby’s mouth was open, lips wet and shining, and his eyes were wide with wait. “Well,” he said, and I opened my arms and clapped them on his shoulders and grinned.

“Has a Lord ever been blessed with a more-capable steward?”

It was, of course, an entirely rhetorical question and one that eliminated the need for glowing commendation. Still, if he could achieve the giddy heights of actually doing his job, he needed praise for doing it so that he might continue.

"You have excelled."

I tried to rid myself of all those moments when he’d barely kept awake and pushed myself to congratulate him more. Tears glazed his eyes, his cheeks reddened, and those wet lips quivered, waiting, searching, yearning to hear more. I found the words somewhere deep down in a box labeled ‘Praise for Barnaby,’ and I opened it, dragging them from that dark place and saying them.

“This is fantastic work. However did you get so far? So, that’s the wall completed, and the stronghold started?”

I let go and began clapping, but he stopped me.

“There is more. We have a feasting hall and the early stages of an arena—I took the liberty as our morale kept dipping, so I thought those two things would help stabilize it. I have thrown up two more warehouses, and there are two extra farmsteads, although I cannot honestly claim the merit for them.” He coughed into his hand. “Mind, I did complete the roads that delivered the stone.”

I clapped then, and I meant it. Before, I had been astounded he’d had the gumption to start upgrading the stronghold on his own, but all the other things told me he’d thought sideways, front and back. Had I finally the steward I needed?

“Astounding,” I said. “Need I do anything? Need I review anything?”

“Not a jot.”

“You have enough wood?”

“One warehouse overflows with the stuff—Chivers is most efficient.”

“And food?”

“The extra farmsteads are covering that and the increased population.”

“Stone? Stone must be short, surely.”

“Mistress Tanaka and her fellow rock-crafters have helped immensely in that respect. We have two quarries operating in the mountains. Both keep Jones and Spinks busy, and Broadchurch guards against attacks.

“Then iron?”

“We are struggling there.” He grinned. “But the two mines help.”

“Two?”

“Both level five.” He clapped and jigged a little.

“So, there is little for me to do save tell you to continue. The key is stronghold eight—high military buildings first, then resources, then the rest, the wall and go again.”

“Understood,” he said and dipped his head.

I lingered, looking about. “Nice work, Barnaby. Really, nice work.”

I didn't doubt him, but I checked my numbers quickly…

Numbers:

Name: Andros Gray

Known Alias: Phillipe of Byouz, Nunez Excalivar, Daniel Cutterson (in play)

Title: Lord of Kanazar

House: Gray

Banner of: None

Banner to: None

Deity: None

Hero: Lysander

Level: Two

Attributes:

Strength – 11

Intelligence – 10

Wisdom – 10

Constitution – 13

Dexterity – 12

Charisma – 13

Harem

2/9 – Anna, Leyathel

Stronghold – Kanazar

Lord – Daniel Cutterson

Stronghold – Level 5

Wall – Level 5/5

Lording House – Level Two

Population – 168 Cap – 456

Food Consumption – 235

235/384 (Goblins factored in)

Storage – 71% full

Buildings

Artisan

Workshop – Level 5

Masons – Level 5

Smithy – Level 5

Pottery – Level 5

Seamstress – Level 5

Military

Barracks – Level 5

Range – Level 5

Stables – Level 5

Watchtower – Level 5

Trap Factory – Level 5

Defenses

Archer Towers - 24

Other

Tavern – Level 5

Warehouse – Level 5

Relay Station – 1 – Level 4

Feasting Hall – Level 5

Arena – Level 3

Resource

Cottages – 12 – Level 5 (12)

Farmsteads – 12 – Level 5 (12) – Production 384

Lumber Mills – 14 – Level 5 (14) – Production 448 (elven influence not factored in)

Quarries – 4 – Level 5 (4) – Production 224 (goblin influence not factored in)

Iron mine – 2 – Level 5 (2) – Production 32

CHAPTER 11

Nothing was wrong with the tavern—nothing at all—but I didn’t want to be there. Lysander and Jess fell into deep conversation. Tanaka kept her eye on Scamp, who was into everything and everyone, but it wasn’t for me. The idle talk would have me losing my focus.

I wanted to move things forward, get on and attack the hobs, the castle, or both. I wanted to question Fennel and discover why all this was happening to me—what damned bargain I’d made. Or talk to Bright and discover what was happening in this land that it demanded me propelled ten-thousand years into the future to save it.

I couldn’t sit there and be who I was supposed to be—not with so many unknowns. I rose, made my excuses, asking Jess to look after Scamp, and then I left. Lysander gave me a look, as did Tanaka and a few others. I couldn’t breathe in there. I had to be alone—to seek solace and dwell in my thoughts.

I wandered to my lake—where else? It was the lake where Alex and I had swum, talked, and made love. If I needed her at any time, then I needed her then, and before I knew it, I was sitting on our rock, surrounded by reeds, lilies hemming my front, and the moon bouncing off the water.

Some facts were solidifying, and I had to set them in place before I could move on.

In the old days, Lord, core, and castle were one—linked until death—connected through death, and if the lord died, the castle withered, and those issued by its cauldron vanished. I knew this.

It was how it had always been, and that way was ingrained within me. I lived in harsh times, in an evolution where only the strong survived, and the rest lived by their wits. Think, if you will, an ant colony. Remove the queen, and over time, that place withers and perishes. So it was with us. The lord perished, direction was lost, and the degradation began unless another could be found. So, if a vengeful Lord vanquished you, then he might leave your castle to fall to wrack and ruin or raze it to the ground. Either way, your name was dust. Much concerned the core, its influence, the cauldron and its ability to spawn folks.

Yet, Brightwater proved this was not how things worked anymore. Vale appeared unafraid of killing her Lord, bringing him so close to death that he might have completed the journey all by himself. Would she have been so reckless if the castle would diminish on his death—no, of course not. Sanders, none of them, had even mentioned a cauldron. Was it possible the population perpetuated unaided? Such a thing went against my grain; I did not know why, only that it felt wrong.

Had the bargain I’d forged altered these things? Had it untied man and core? Had it made the cauldron redundant? If so, why? What had made me deal with Gods?

It was clear to me that Anderlay—if the castle I was building was the ruins of that place—had withered and stayed that way for countless years. Yet the bargain I’d forged had ensured my family lived on—they grew old, had lives, children perhaps, and been happy. Fennel had given me that much, but not who they were.

Then it struck me. The castle hadn’t been empty for all these years. There had been at least one other—Vallera had said as much, had laughed about running him off—or had it been Izzy, or one of the others. But if it was my castle, my stronghold and my core, then surely it could only have been me who was reborn here.

My stomach knotted, and I pulled up my sheet, desperate for an answer I couldn’t get there and then. Who was the other Lord? What was his name?

Was it Phillipe of Byoux or Nunez Excalivar?

Was it me?

* * *

I paced the room, Leyathel sitting primly at her table. I liked her place. It was homely in a way the Lording House wasn’t. Everything was as it should be, even the smell, even the moss she’d spread on the floor. It was becoming her forest little by little.

“I must think,” she said. “Bring wine.”

She rose, climbing the spiral steps to her bedroom, but she wouldn’t rest there. She’d climb until she came to her roof garden, with that magnificent pool where we’d made love under the stars, and I’d told her of Abbadin. I gathered mugs and wine, and I followed, and we sat under the stars.

“He was a strange fellow,” she said. “Izzy spied on him but reported all to me. His name will come to me. But why? Why does it matter?”

“Because everything is a clue. This place, Kanazar, Fennel, are puzzle pieces, and I must unlock its secret to understand why I am here—what part I am to play.”

She made a tiny mewing sound, then spoke. “Phillipe of Byoux—not him, certainly. But Nunez—that is familiar. It was many years ago, and such a fleeting moment that I hardly committed it to memory.”

“So, he didn’t build up the stronghold?”

“No, no, he did—it was how we noticed him. Not as far as you have, not even close, and he rarely strayed beyond his walls—his mills and farms were all inside.”

“So he focused on the build quite specifically.”

She shrugged. “I couldn’t tell you, and I doubt Izzy would be able to, either. How you build is a mystery to us. Honestly, we teased him, poked his wall, and he didn’t even fight back. That was that.”

“But,” I said, thinking out loud and not expecting any input, “if he built inside, it wasn’t to get great resources. I’ll bet it was enough to get where he wanted to go and no more. Yes! That has to be it. Assuming it was Nunez—or me—then I roused for a mission, a single reason to set something in motion.” I turned to her. “When you say he didn’t fight back, could it be that he was unconcerned—that your small feints didn’t worry him because he wasn’t staying—that once he could, he was gone?”

“He did vanish,” she said. “One day Izzy saw him, the next day he didn’t, nor any of the days after.”

“So, he left?”

“Or died there.”

“No, Valerra said he left—she definitely said that. But what direction?”

“Not through our lands.”

“And I’ll wager not into the Stormbane either. Which leaves one direction.”

“South,” said Leyathel.

And I sat up then. “Yes, south, and only one thing is interfering with us, and she came from that direction.”

“The Grey Sorceress?”

“The very same—Morgan. What part has she in this?”

Leyathel fell silent, as did I. There was a problem with the spoken conclusion. Not all parties to the conversation might like it. The thread, intangible as it was, formed a link between Morgan and me. Then along a little and by association, it created one between the troll, Okanau, the spell, the blight and so on, and me, which begged a question regarding my motivation.

If I was in league with Morgan, then why—what did I gain, and the answer was wood aplenty. It was a sound string, but a little overheated as waking from eternal slumber to use a life to gain wood for a few upgrades was a bit of a waste when a little battling could have the same stuff.

I thought back. How had Morgan been with me when we met? She’d been a little miffed that I’d killed her troll and eliminated her army, but she’d got what she wanted: leverage over me. If I didn’t deliver the moonstone to her, the elven blight would continue unabated. But she had been pleasant and was damnably attractive. There was that.

“Do you think you met her?” Leyathel asked, with a touch of frost crisping her words.

I reached for her, held hands, and stared at the stars. “I wouldn’t put it past me. I have no idea what Nunez was up to.”

“You might have traveled south—that is what we know and no more. Until such a time as we have confirmed it was Nunez that rose, it is all we know.”

She was correct, but I knew deep inside my gut it had been me. Andros Grey, Phillipe of Byoux, Nunez Excalivar and Daniel Cutterson were my slots and aliases. I cast my mind back to the first time I looked at my numbers and tried to recall their exact wording. It came to me: known alias: Phillipe of Byoux, Nunez Excalivar, free slot.

Free slot—one, no more than that. Was Daniel Cutterson the last life I’d allowed myself? Was this my final gambit? If I was correct, it was time to fulfill my end of a god’s bargain. If I was right, Phillipe must have woken before Nunez, and my plotting—that of a lord ten-thousand years old—was more complex than I’d imagined.

“One more thing. What this Nunez built—the upgrades, the resources. Did they wither and decay straight away?”

She scrunched her face up. “No,” she said. “Now you mention it. They endured—they remained the same for a long, long time.”

“So, he lived for a good while.”

“If you say so. What else?”

“It must do for now,” I said, sitting back and drinking wine.

She held me and, later, more.

* * *

Morning came, and with it a herald. I was enjoying breakfast, the usual assortment of meat and fruit, and was gearing up to ask Fennel a question when my day turned on its head before it had truly begun.

I was summoned to my stronghold by a breathless runner, a lad called Pip. He had come as a stableboy and must have marched a rank or two, for he was now a messenger. He was a scattered sort—eyes that flickered everywhere and hair that could be described as a riot of black curls and cowlicks. His words were much the same, banging into each other, exploding, then settling to silence.

“Quick, come, man, soldier—cuts, bruises, face bloody but not much. Has message, perhaps two—one or the other and both for you.”

“A man? Where from?”

“Through the Under. There’s a land beyond where the water is bright. Brightwater—that’s it. And the note?” He scratched his head. “It’s from Sanders—a captain, by all the details.”

“Sanders?” I said and stood, dabbing meat juice from my chin. “Then it must be time.”

Tanaka rose, her expression a mix of eagerness and fear, violet eyes widening, then constricting.

“What will be will be,” I told her, trying to calm her. She was a novice regarding battle, and grim scenarios plagued those types. “But it likely starts, and that is what you wanted.”

She lifted her chin, pushed her long emerald hair back, gathered it into a tail, and tied it. “I will make ready.”

“Hurry,” I said. “Pip? It is Pip, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Lord Daniel.”

“I remember you—a stable boy—Gemmerson’s lad.”

“That’s me.” He grinned, probably chuffed I’d remembered him. “Not much stabling to be done with only sixteen men and most out.”

“Sounds enough.”

“Prefer the running.”

“Well, run back and tell Broadchurch I’ll be along presently. Ensure he feeds the man, waters him, and has someone tend his wounds.”

“I’ll go with him,” said Scamp, and I saw no reason to object.

“Will you need me?” Leyathel asked.

“Uncertain, but if it means what I think it does, we might be moving against Vale or the hobs. So yes, you should come. You too, Anna. I might need your level head if I lose mine.” Then an afterthought. “What about you, Fennel? Could you advise me?”

“After the fact, maybe before, but not during,” he said. “What’s the point in sending someone such a distance to only see another’s outcome played out?”

Which made sense.

Tanaka returned, then Anna and Leyathel left to get ready, and I was left waiting again. Such was my lot at that time, and a fine one it was, too.

Eventually, we were ready, and we hurried to the stronghold, scaffolding and all waiting for us—Jensome in mid-saw, Saxon hammering a hinge, and Archie chiseling some stone. The others were in the long room, which had changed to a banner room, where mine hung high and beautiful. The skull growled at me, tearing at the axes in a bid to escape the cloth and get to me. House Gray. My heart swelled, my adrenaline pulled. Would my colors finally see battle? No mercy—there was that, but there is no point in approaching war any other way. After, yes. During, no.

The soldier was still breathing hard. His shoulder-length hair was a chaos of mud and sweat, as was his skin and the light armor he wore. He rose as I swept in and took my place at the head of my table, the skull behind and above me, and I imagined I cut a rather daunting figure. “Name,” I asked as my ladies settled on either side of me.

“Hazard, Lord.”

I noted the Lord and not my Lord. It was an insight into Bright’s morale—still intact. “You have news from Sanders? I’m relieved to see he survived the tunnel and the Sorceress, Vale.”

“He fared better than me in the tunnel, but his luck was not so good with her.”

There was hatred there—a loathing for Vale. That was good—perfect. Bright was in good stead. She wasn’t. “But he’s free?”

“Chained to her like a dog—ordered to be her personal guard. I—the men—we think it’s so she has him close, and if he varies, then she can dispatch him immediately.”

“It would be the sensible move. If she has him, she has the army.” Which was bad—I was uncertain if I could trust anything Hazard said, for she might well have contrived it and sent it through him. “The message, please.”

“‘You landed your fish. She moves on the jewel on the morrow.’”

I thought about the words. Was there any depth to them? There didn’t seem to be any, and I hadn’t spent enough time with Sanders to establish covert speak. Landed, fish—you’d need a net to do that. No, a rod—a stick—Finnigan? Was I stretching? Was Finnigan convinced I was a better bet than Vale? Sentient artifacts were renowned for switching sides if a better option came along, so only a fool wielded them unless their power was unrivaled.

“‘The morrow’ is a vague time, for it depends on when you set out,” I said, fishing for something.

“They march on the cave today. There they will pitch and prepare.”

“Pitch and prepare? Is he mad? Surprise is the key, not an announcement of intent.”

It was a disaster, or was it?

“Perfect,” said Scamp, and I hadn’t realized he was with us until he popped up by my side, whispered in my ear, and confirmed my thoughts, which was a little disturbing—like having a miniature me.

“They will turn the hobs’ backs to us. One lot can attack while the other hunts the core,” he said.

I cleared my throat, unnerved how close his words were to my exact thoughts. “Is there a signal—any sign? When will the battle commence?”

“I know no more.” He dipped his head, reaching for a mug, taking a draught—morning wine, I guessed. Then he regarded me. “Might I see my Lord Bright?”

“No, you may not. I don’t know you, Hazard, so I have no idea if you are Sanders’ man or Vale’s servant—note the difference in terms. You might be here to do just that; the message might be the key that unlocks my guard. If Bright dies, my current understanding is that his core can be claimed. So, if you kill him, it is up for grabs.” I raised my hands. “See my dilemma?”

He shot up, scattering his mug. My men moved, spears leveled—my women too. Anna up, Leyathel by my side, and Tanaka instantly with a dagger in hand. I remained seated, proud of them but wondering when I’d come to be regarded as a helpless pup.

I raised my hand and lowered it. “Sit, sit. I mean no offense. I was stating my position, and you either accept it or not. Whether you believe me is irrelevant to me, but I believe I have your lord’s best interests at heart, even though I covet his castle—that I’ll make plain from the off.”

He sat, or rather, he flowed back into his seat. “He is weak but a good man—a good, good man. Fair.” His anger came then. “She—her—Vale,” and he slammed his fist on the table, mug jumping, the fire snuffed out of him replaced by resignation.

If it was an act, it was a good one, and my opinion swayed to him being Bright’s man rather than Vale's. “I will deal with her—the lady that is at the heart of this, and her stick—that weasel of a sentient thing. Do you know much of her?”

“Of her?” he asked.

Lysander walked in, his cloak flowing behind him, and sat on a chair beside Hazard. “Yes, her,” he said, breathless too. “What of her—what is the measure of her power?”

“He would know better than I.” He indicated Scamp and all eyes fell on him.

Until then, I’d thought Scamp was Scamp and had thought no further. But then I wondered if my rescue hadn’t been a little too fortuitous and our pursuit, perhaps a little feeble. He had positioned himself well if he was a spy.

He answered, not one likely given by a spy—but then a spy would do that. I hated spies.

“It’s not so much her but the stick. It has designs of grandeur. Vale, with no tower and no Finnigan, is just a magicker,” said Scamp.

“What about the moonstone?” Lysander asked.

“That belongs to the stick.”

My wizard crossed his legs and sat back, tugging at his stubble, head up, eyes on the beamed ceiling and lost in contemplation. “Yet, they are together.” He paused. “But we are not without power. Ours is fledgling, mind. Then—” he creased his forehead— “Consider this. What is Brightwater if not a backwater? It is far from any seat of power—if those are where they once were. There is that, too. But this place and over the hills called Stormbane are hardly the land’s center. Any ambitious artifact will wish for a move.”

“My thoughts too.” I kept quiet about my wild theory regarding Sanders’ message.

“So,” Lysander concluded. “It is not entirely against us. What we need is for Vale and the hob shaman to exhaust each other, and for that, we need those priests to enter the fray.”

“The hob priests stay deep in the Under,” Tanaka said.

“Not if we steal something of theirs,” said Scamp, adding another layer of confusion to my plan.

“Explain,” I said, more to give myself some time to think than to hear more of his plans.

He sat, and Pip sat with him.

“It’s like this,” he began, pulling a mug of wine close. “If you want to catch a pigeon, grab a chick from an unattended nest and keep it nearby. Its squawks will draw the mother, and then you net her and feast on the bird.”

“Well,” Lysander said, rubbing his hands together. “We’ll not want for meat if we ever take Brightwater.” To which, quite naturally, Hazard reared but backed down when my wizard laughed.

“If you do,” said Scamp. “I can sell you all the birds you can eat. Rats, too, if you’re partial to them.”

“Can we press on?” I asked.

“Well, we’re stealing the core—the Annuck one—so, why not take something that belongs to the priests, too? That will put them on our tails and draw them into the battle with Vale.”

It was a valid plan, but one that saw this battle intensifying. I imagined that Scamp saw battle as a grand affair in his head, but this was one castle against a nest of hobs and goblins. In all likelihood, Sanders had only mustered fifty men, perhaps up to a hundred. The goblins were no more than workers with rusty blades and copper helmets—we'd quickly dispatched them when our barracks were small and insignificant. Sanders would have no issues routing them with a few sword strokes. Depending on their ability, the hobs would be a different matter and might put up a fight. Adding their priests could tip the balance in the Under’s favor.

But I supposed that scenario was great for me, as I could then march in and save the day, kill the hobs, deal with Vale and take all my prizes. The trouble was, any goblin casualties were mine too, and perhaps that counted for Sanders’ army as well.

“I need as few goblin casualties as possible. I'm afraid I have to disagree with your plan, though I agree with its aims. We need to draw Vale to the hob city rather than vice versa. Lysander, Vale’s power—how would it fare in the Under?”

He smacked his lips together. “No more powerful, but that you know. The further she is from her tower, the weaker, but these distances are nothing. To get the moonstone, we have to defeat her. Don’t forget, we have—”

“The advantage of surprise,” I said quickly, still undecided if we had a traitor in the room.

His gaze lingered on me, and he nodded so imperceptibly that it was shared between us and no other. “Yes, that.”

“I think you should focus your efforts on your initial plan,” Anna said. “The only way to save goblin casualties is to have them join us. The only way to do that is to get their core.”

“Surely,” Leyathel added, “being robbed of core and slaves is enough to draw the whole city from the Under?”

“Or keep them there if we linger,” said Tanaka.

So much preamble, and then my ladies clarified it all in a few words.

“We do that then,” said Scamp, and I ordered it so.

* * *

It was a strange case of going around the houses only to return to the same spot and enact the original plan. We gathered, Vallera, Tanaka, Lysander and I… and Scamp and Pip. Not quite the original plan, but improvements were always considered a good thing. Scamp had a leaning towards thievery, probably born of a bored mind in a large keep with few possessions and many available to purloin. He’d lived on his wits, with only the unfortunate Threadneedle to guide him, and that old man could hardly contain the impetuousness of youth. So, the mere idea of a theft, grand as it was, fired his imagination to such an extent it was hard to say no to him. Pip merely came as part and parcel of that enthusiasm.

We gathered in the worm’s nest—a seated rest area by then, and we planned, although it was more marshaling than specifics. As well as us six, a small contingent of ten goblin infantry joined us. Led by Muckspur, the first goblin that I had pulled from their cauldron after Tanaka, they would help us muddle the scene if things became sticky.

“So,” said Muckspur, “you, you, and you,” he scratched his head. “And you and you, but not you, go vanishy, vanishy, and we march to Treygorvo.”

Treygorvo was the hobs’ city.

“Yes,” I said.

He was an odd little goblin, quite cute, considering his kin were often regarded as ugly things. I myself was guilty of that, but then that was primarily due to us always seeing the worst in them—usually when anger twisted their faces, their axes high and ready to strike, and their skin splattered with our blood. Those types of impressions tended to focus on the negative aspects of a race's appearance, with quite good reason. Remove that aggression, and other things become apparent. Muckspur, while a little dim, was well-intended. He had big, wide eyes that smiled when he talked, drooped when he was confused, and narrowed as he strained to think. His round face lent itself to tranquility, though that could be construed as a blank expression too. His leathery skin held wrinkles well, which made him look a little older than his years.

“And we marchy marchy straight to Treygorvo for why?” he continued.

I’d explained that already, but I took a breath and did so again. Tanaka could have done it in half the time. However, I had to form some bond with them if my army was to become one. “Because we want to steal your core—the Annuck core—so that the hobs can’t hurt you anymore.”

This was the sticking point. Goblins had a vague sense of tribe. The Annuck was more a loose gathering of goblins that happened to live in the Stormbane rather than one that chose to live together as a community. They could be drawn together by need or coercion, but in the absence of that, they tended to simply exist side by side. It was why hobs often dominated them. So, trying to get Muckspur to think of this mission as a noble cause was a waste of my time.

“Don’t hurt me. Me with you,” he said, as my glare fell on him, then softened.

“To free you,” I said.

“Oh,” he said. “Free is good. Who feeds us?”

The others joined in, nattering and grumbling in that sharp and chopped way of theirs.

“Marchy to Treygorvo or slappy-slappy for Muckspur and the rest of you. Marchy-marchy to golden pots and meaty cauldrons, to goblin girls, up and back,” said Pip, who shrugged when I looked at him.

“Marchy-marchy!” said all the goblins, so loud that I thought the whole Under might hear.

“Meaty cauldrons,” I said, sighed and stood. Meaty cauldrons were all I needed to offer them.

We marched down the wormhole, waiting at its mucus membrane until all was clear, then spilled into the tunnel. There the goblins gathered around us, shielding us from view, Lysander and Vallera in the center. The plan was simple; should we encounter hobs, then Vallera and Lysander would cast their invisibility spell over us, and we would march past. Perhaps, in hindsight, it was a little too simple.

The tunnel led to a large fissure, a grand opening in the rock, rising to a needle point at the top and bellied at its base. Its path meandered through sharp outcrops, around dark pits, but always down, into the belly of the Under, and before long, the temperature cooled, and I lifted my cloak’s hood, shading my pale skin from view.

Here and there, balconies dotted the fissure’s sides, formed from the rock, filled in, rough-hewn, like dried wax dripped from the candle. Everything was shades of grey, dull, monochrome, yet a thing of grand beauty. Soon, we were ants, the fissure so vast, and the path became a road, with stone parapets on either side, bridges over splits in its floor, and towering arches over tunnels leading to other dark places. And then there were others about, small knots of goblin workers, heads bowed, pulling carts, carrying huge bundles, or marching to work, hammers resting on bent shoulders, their postures betraying their suffering.

We passed through a black and dusty seam. Grime streaked us, filling our lungs, drying our throats. I marveled at it, for it was a thing called coal, and it was more precious than all the diamonds in the land, as it could warm us in winter. We could cook with it, and it could power our forges. I bent, running its dust through my fingers, smelling it even though I knew what it was.

“Black diamonds?” Lysander asked, and I nodded.

“More than we could ever use.”

The echoes of toil were all about us, hammering, calling, barking, scraping. Fires burnt in open pits, black smoke crawling the walls, gathering above, finding escape or settling. Then the first hobgoblins appeared, and Vallera began chanting, a familiar crackle passing over me as I left the tangible and became invisible. Tanaka took my hand, and I took Scamp’s. We moved on as one, a rabble of goblin soldiers returning from duty, ready for rest.

Hobs differed from goblins in stature and the degree of anger their faces held. They were brutes, powerful beasts with no love for anything other than themselves. Unlike goblins, they had cohesion, and a common purpose glued their ranks—that goal defined by their priests. The first group sat by the roadside. They watched us approach, occasionally glancing up. I followed that line, and my gaze rested on a hooded figure on a balcony halfway to the ceiling. His hood covered much of his face, and fire rose from his outstretched hand. He stood as we approached the hobs and signaled with a wave of his fire.

“Stop!” said one hob, pushing himself up as though his legs had no strength to lift him. “Stop, by order of Cratos.”

Tanaka shrunk a little, trying to blend in with the others. She was a flower among weeds, standing out when we needed to be nondescript.

“Her,” said the hob, inevitably pointing. “Who is she?”

“Dead,” said Muckspur with a shrug. “Or goody-good as. Thanarck wishes to have her, so we take her to him, because him to her isn’t the way.”

“Thanarck is in prayer,” said the one on the balcony. “How can he call for anything when he is like that?”

Muckspur shrugged. “Muckspur do what Muckspur’s told. Goody-good goblin is he.”

The hob regarded him, then passed his eye over our group. “Bring her to me,” and he retreated into the shadow.

“What do we do?” Lysander hissed.

“We split up,” I said. “Vallera, come with us. Keep me shielded. Lysander, you go with the others—aim to get to Treygorvo. Find somewhere to hole up. We’ll find you.”

“How?”

“Best I’ve got,” I said as our plan unraveled.

A hob plowed through us, knocking the goblins out of the way, grabbing Tanaka and dragging her toward the rock. My anger rose immediately, breaths coming in gasps, a knife appearing in my hand. Then she vanished into the rock, and I jumped in and looked about, and my heart plunged. If there had been an unseen doorway, it had shut, with Tanaka and I on one side, and Vallera on its other. I watched in horror as I resolved, standing in a carved and smoothed chamber, the door I’d come through gone, while steps ahead, the hob and Tanaka paused.

The hob turned and backhanded Tanaka, who fell. He then lunged at me without even so much as a good afternoon. I was in my stance instantly, feet apart, knife ready. The hob lunged, confident its gloved fists would knock ten bells from me. I ducked, easily avoiding the strike, then stabbed, my blade turned by his heavy leather armor. He swung again, an uppercut, but its positioning was all wrong, and it clattered against the rock. I was on him then, aiming for its neck. He recovered fast, whipping his arm up, clashing with my forearm, jamming my hand against sharp rock and sending the knife clattering away.

My handaxe appeared instantly, and with that favored weapon, I made no mistake, burying into his cheeks and severing his jaw. He managed half a cry, which, given he had half a jaw, was to be expected, before my second axe took his breath.

There was silence as he slipped down the wall, and I stowed my axes and retrieved my knife.

“What next?” Tanaka asked. The steps were the only option, so I indicated those. She nodded and took the first few, pausing halfway up, and light suddenly enveloped her.

“Come, girl,” said a gravelly voice. “It isn’t wise to keep me waiting.”

We exchanged glances but had no options. I bid her on, following close but not too close. She continued, and I hugged the wall as I climbed.

“Come here. Stand before me and tell me where you were going. One lie” –the flame bloomed, lighting the steps—“and I will know.”

“I don’t know,” said Tanaka, out of my view, her voice shaky.

“Don’t know?”

“I was working—”

“Where?”

“Near the Above.”

“Doing what?”

“I—”

“You lie!” The fire flared again, and it was too much for me.

I took the steps, one, two, three at a time, springing onto the balcony, Tanaka cowering on the floor, the hob priest over her. Then my axes were in my hands as I pounced. Magic erupted from him, smashing into me like a lead ball, stopping me, pushing me back, slamming me into a wall. Tanaka attacked, a spear appearing, snagged by the priest’s cloak. He grabbed its shaft, which burned and crackled, spontaneously flamed and charcoaled in moments. He punched her, fist crackling with magical energy. She slammed back, her head cracking against the rock.

Then he turned to me, his smile eager, his eyes alive with raw power. He held up the flame, its source a multi-faceted crystal orb, and he cocked his head as he regarded me.

“What brings you so deep, human? I thought your kind were frightened of their own shadows.”

“Not I,” I said, casting my cloak away and bringing my armor to the fore, a pike in my hand, its tip instantly close to his gut. “But then, I’m no ordinary human.”

A glint, a hint of doubt, crossed his sinewed face, his ridged cheeks twitching, red eyes blinking as my armor glinted and gleamed in his magic-light.

“You’ve done well to last so long, Cratos,” I continued, my courage growing as myst flowed within me, rising like a moon-led tide, swelling my muscles and filling my lungs with power. “But then, you’ve hidden in the Under, where your shadow is feared by those less powerful than you. Not so for me. I am a man used to dispatching foul creatures, magicked or not.”

And during that snap of time, I knew that I spoke truth, which was welcome knowledge given my boast. I also knew my myst was some form of match for magic—a counter, but one I needed to learn fast. He clamped his hand on my pike, his foul grin turning to laughter.

Fortunately, my weapon’s shaft was steel, which is damnably hard to set on fire. I braced and pushed myself off the wall, lunging forward and driving my pike into him. He backed away, holding it, stumbling, then he was over, Tanaka on top of him, knife raised, plunging, fire curling around her.

“No!” I cried, releasing the pike and sending it back to my storage, bounding forward and dragging her away. His hideous fire stuck to her, lapping at her side. She screamed. I rolled her, and the hob crawled away. I called for my cloak, wrapping her in it. The hob’s laughter told me he’d recouped just fine. I spun, facing him, a ball of bright fire hurtling towards me. My shield came, and I held it up, taking the hit as I channeled my myst into my arm.

Channeled, yes, channeled. It was how the myst worked—the tide, the moontide—it was the rise and fall of my myst—the power within. The magical ball exploded, coating my shield with fire, strafing the walls like flaming tar.

I sprang forward, shield-bashing him, a surprised grunt my reward, spurring me forward, powering him into a wall, then coming face-to-face, his foul breath rasping. “Not good enough, Cratos. Not even close.” My knife appeared in my hand, and I stabbed him, hoping goblin kidneys were roughly where mine were.

He vanished, and I fell against the wall, dropping on instinct, spinning to one side as a blast of forked magic splintered the wall, rocks exploding. Reappearing, he stabbed his hand out, lighting streaking forth again. I dove, rolling, coming to my feet, myst-driven sword in hand, silver streaking across the narrow space between us, separating him from his arm, foul blood gushing like a waterspout.

I reversed, angling my upper body, bracing my lower, and brought the blade back, powering it into his side, through his heavy cloak, to bite his flesh. I drew it along that rent, carving deeper until the edge was free. Using its momentum, I pulled it around, on one knee, spinning, arcing that magnificent silver thing around for me coupe-de-gras. I finally struck that corded neck that I’d sought earlier, and Cratos was no more, ruptured flesh writhing, screaming, crackling as his magic sought to escape, and he smoked and crusted. His face creased and crinkled until it was black and smoking, and I knelt by him, my pulse quickening as some transference filled me, replenishing my spent myst.

Then I looked up, and Tanaka was there, a scar etched upon her beautiful face, traversing her cheek and ending at her chin. She reached, her hand shaking, and she cupped my chin. “What are you that you can move so fast?”

“A Myst Lord,” I said, knowing it was one of my titles, perhaps the best or the worst—that was in the balance.

CHAPTER 12

I searched the hob’s corpse, retrieving the crystal orb and stowing it, producing a healing potion simultaneously and handing it to Tanaka. “It’s quite fetching, but I prefer you without a scar,” I said.

She took it, but something had changed. She was nervous of me, and I could hardly blame her. I’d killed in front of her—she’d seen me change, that alteration powered by my myst. I shrugged it off. If she didn’t accept it, there was little I could do about it. I certainly wasn’t altering the way I fought.

“What way out?” I asked. “Do hob doors usually vanish?”

“Magic,” she said. “Cratos has gone—the magic is gone.”

I did a quick circuit of the balcony but found no escape apart from climbing down a rockface while a dozen hobs watched, which was a recipe for disaster. “The steps then,” I said and took her hand.

She didn’t pull away, which was good, but clung to me like she would never let me go. I’d read it wrong. She was in awe of my power, not frightened of it. It felt good, I’ll not lie. We raced down the steps, searching the small chamber, quickly discovering another set of steps under the first, almost entirely webbed over, narrow—nearly too narrow for me, and clearly never used.

“You got any of that lichen light handy?” I asked. “I think a flame will set light to the webs.”

A small plate appeared in her hand, a pile of lichen on it. I equipped one of my old spears, cleared the webs and started down, squeezing in. It was slow, the steps steep and treacherous, ending in a rotted door. I kicked it down and folded myself into a tunnel. Our green glow only lit a small portion.

The tunnel was small, rough-hewn, and so cramped I doubted I could swing a punch, let alone anything else. She handed me the tray by passing it between my legs.

“You go. I’ll hold on to you.”

“What is this place?”

“Goblin tunnel. Hobs don’t come down. Too small.”

“I can see that. Where does it lead?”

“Somewhere—always somewhere.”

There was fear in her voice. She wasn’t telling me everything.

“I don’t suppose they’re abandoned, are they?” I asked but received no reply.

It struck me that there was a lack of webs compared to the steps, which told me that something used the tunnel for some purpose. A conclusion that made me a little uncomfortable as there was no room to scratch an itch, let alone fight some beast.

“Not entirely,” she said. “Spear is probably best.”

“What for?” I asked.

“The things.”

I hated things.

A slight breeze, so faint I’d missed it at first, brushed my face, and it was enough to send me forward, hoping for some chamber, some space—somewhere my shoulders didn’t scrape both walls.

Visions came to me in that bleak, dark place. Presses of men thrown together in battle—that shield wall, all of them. Men’s sweat mingling with mine. Their bowels loose, my feet slipping, the surge from behind propelling me forward—death assured if my arms became clamped by my sides. My breaths became shallow. Sweat popped on my brow.

I heard chittering, distant. Then scrapes. I walked on. There was the burbling of water, then the groan of rock grinding. More chittering. The damnable press—walls closing in—ceiling cracking. I gasped, my wits nearly at an end. A Myst Lord undone by a tunnel. Then the chittering became clearer; it was behind and not in front, and Tanaka was pushing me. I ran as fast as my cramped gait would let me. The tunnel bellied—a rest spot. I stopped, shoving Tanaka behind me, and was on my back instantly, bowled along the tunnel’s floor by some powerful creature. My plate of lichen went flying, coating the thing, all mandibles, pincers, and snapping maw.

Our momentum slowed. I let my myst come, clearing my mind and holding my panic back. My knife came into my hand. I stabbed upward. It bucked, then a spear of chitin flashed towards me, piercing my shoulder, ice cold running through me. I waved my knife across it, rupturing the thing, milky ichor spurting out, brushed green by the lichen. My shoulder froze, numbness grabbing hold, crawling, spreading, certain death unless I finished the creature quickly. I swapped out my knife, a hand axe replacing it.

The crawling numbness halted, my myst fighting back. I chopped at a limb, the space restricting my power. The beast’s limbs raked my body, and it tried to climb over me, but it, too, was limited by the tunnel. I managed to get the axe to bite and ripped it down, a wash of guts my reward. There was no air, no space, nothing. Then the beast was on top of me, limp and devoid of life. It happened so fast that I felt robbed of a battle—unsated—eager for more. Yet also relieved and thankful. It was confliction again—a common thing with me. Perhaps it was the myst urging me on.

Its corpse slid down me, and I wondered what god awful beast must be attacking it—what monster must be eating it and would soon be chomping on me. My myst rose again, heart pounding, and I readied, shouting out, my battle cry resounding around.

Tanaka was there, her face splattered with gore and lit by a tray of lichen. “Did I kill it, or did you?” she asked, and I laughed, and regretted it, bug guts entering my mouth.

We crawled to the rest area, sitting on the floor and stretching our legs. “We’ll wait for the numbness to go,” I said, passing her a bottle of wine. “Lysander’s special store,” I explained. “We’ll wait. It nearly had me, yet it was nothing.”

“Why not have some of the healing potion?”

“Not sure I want to. There is something inside me. I call it myst. It appears to grow stronger the more adversity I face—a little like my numbers in that respect. Best to let it fight that poison, and it will make me stronger next time.”

“Is that why you move so fast—this myst?”

“Yes, yes, it is. I didn’t know until recently. I lost my head, fought, woke, and that was that. But I remember every detail of my fight with Cratos. Not sure if that’s a good thing or bad.”

She rested her head on my shoulder, hugging me. “A good thing, I think. It is best you witness those deaths you cause. That way, you might limit them.”

“But if they’re my enemies, they deserve no mercy.”

“No. But once, I was your enemy.”

“There is that,” I said and let it go.

* * *

All tunnels end, this one in what resembled a worker’s restroom—a circular chamber at the base of a shaft, an old table and chair and the remnants of a bed its only furnishing. A flimsy ladder led upward toward a speck of dim light, and that marked our exit, the ladder our method. I crouched and thought, not liking either option.

“It’s one or the other of us first. That ladder won’t hold both.”

“Then it’s you.”

“But I won’t blend in at the top, so it has to be you. Then again, if someone grabs you, I won’t be able to scramble up, so it has to be me. But if I go up and something attacks you down here, then—” I left the words unsaid.

“I’ll go,” she said. “I can take care of myself up there. I look more like a goblin from Under now.”

I appraised her—she did—she very much did. She was filthy, her hair a mess, and her clothes torn. She grabbed the ladder, but I caught her before she could climb, spinning her around and holding her. “Just in case I don’t get to do this,” I said, and I bent my head, turned her chin, and kissed her.

It was a light, lingering kiss, the touch unfamiliar for both of us, nerves coursing through me. Her lips were softer than I’d imagined, her mouth smaller, teeth sharper. We stayed like that momentarily, our lips searching for some pattern that suited each of us—some fit—and when we found it, she pressed in, her tongue teasing mine forward, tender, probing. I ran mine over hers, delighting in its strange ridges, imagining them, wondering at the pleasure they might give. My breaths and heartbeats quickened, and I pulled her closer, but she slipped away.

Then she was gone, racing up the ladder, leaving me a memory and gracing me with a delightful view.

My foot lingered on the bottom rung, my grip primed. I readied, and the instant she vanished, I climbed, slowly at first, then up, hand over hand, breath labored. I made the top, not caring for stealth, bursting out of the shaft and scrambling to my feet, axes in hand as I scoured about.

It was a cave, dusty and disused. Several barrows lay about, some wood bunkers partly filled with excavated rock, a few discarded tools, and a stunning, if dirty and ragged, goblin. I rushed to her, bringing her into my arms. “You left me hanging down there. That kiss is still lingering on my lips.”

“Take the core, free the tribe, and get the girl,” she said, pecking my cheek, then kissing me hard, grabbing my cheeks and holding me there, pressing her body against mine, her breasts soft and groin grinding. Then she was gone, creeping up on a set of double barn-like doors, pulling one open and peering through the tiny crack.

“What is this place?” I asked.

“A mine head—you don’t have them?” She let a small laugh slip, and I realized how daft the question was.

“Even the smallest goblin isn’t bringing much up that shaft.”

“That one is a breather hole or an escape shaft—perhaps both. There are things in the Under that shouldn’t be.”

“We met one,” I said, coming beside her, pressing into her back and looking through the gap.

I wanted her there and then. My passion was high, breath shallow, and my myst, that newly-discovered, intangible thing, demanded her. Then I recalled my night with Anna and Leyathel and how I’d kept going, insatiable, unending. And recently, with Leyathel on her own, under the star Abbadin, and how she’d had to drag me to bed, force me to sleep. Power was within me, and it wasn’t solely aimed at battle. Was myst something more? Did it make a man more than a man?

There was an underground road, the doors set back from it, a semicircle of clear space in front of us. “Another passing place,” I wondered, then pulled the doors open more and slipped through, Tanaka on my tail. We came to the road and looked this way and that. “Which way to Treygorvo?”

She regarded it and then pointed. “Down, always down.”

So that was how we went, and we traveled silently, hugging the rugged walls. For a short while, it was all we did, no other sound alerting us to danger, no alteration to the tunnel itself. It gave me some time to study the rough-hewn walls, the arched top. There was space, that constant breeze too, and that settled me some after the cramped shaft and the creature that attacked us. “What was that thing?”

She smacked her lips together. “Like a worm but not. Like an ant, but not. Things Under are different—get stranger as we go deeper. Not strange for me, but for you, yes. That was a Misslenock, with ten tiny but powerful legs, and a body like a worm but hard. Big mouth—powerful poison. Always best to attack a Misslenock from behind. It’s vulnerable there, easy to kill. The mouth is dangerous—it can kill quickly.”

Which explained a few things. The first was how I’d nearly died, and the second was how she’d easily killed it. Local knowledge, it appeared, was a great benefit. “Misslenock—good to know. Any other creature I should be looking out for?”

“Many,” was all she said, and we continued, her leading, me following and wondering what delight would attack us next.

There were carvings in the rock—names, and what resembled dates, but I couldn’t work out the numbering, and there were warnings. These were carved deeper, more intricate, and often close to a fissure or a shaft leading from the main tunnel. Other roads branched or joined, and from their direction, I sensed that all inevitably led to Treygorvo. We came to a larger road. Tanaka held her hand up, so I held back and heard what she must have. The squeal of a dry axle in need of some fat. The clank of chains and the thwack of a lightly-struck whip.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Goblin. No hobs. Stay there,” and she stepped into the road.

I tried to pull her back, but she slipped from my grasp, waving at the goblin driver and jumping up and down. He drew to a stop, and I chanced a look. Four beasts pulled it, not donkeys or horses, but some strange creatures, with four short legs, bodies coated with spines, stubby heads and funnel-like ears. Their eyes were almost entirely skinned over, black under, the heavy lids rising like a weighty portcullis, then they appraised Tanaka.

The driver sat upon a bench, and behind him was a small wagon from which various handles and tools poked. After, lashed by the chains I’d heard, were six carts laden with coal, loosely covered by tarps. Tanaka pulled the goblin close to her, grabbing him by the collar, then barking fast, chopped words. He recoiled at first but then relented, nodding and gesturing behind. He jumped from the cart, hastily drawing back a tarp. Tanaka called me on, rearranging the tools in the smaller cart and then climbing in. I followed, and we crouched then sat, her between my legs, my arms wrapped about her.

A shadow passed over us, and before the tarp fell and snuffed out all, I caught a glimpse of our driver. He was old, his normal goblin wrinkles much deeper, ingrained with black to make his skin resemble bocote. They radiated from yellow-stained eyes crazed with black but filled with wisdom. He snatched his head away as our eyes met like I was some demon, and then all darkened.

“Is he safe?”

“Elno? Unknown,” said Tanaka. “He says he’ll help, but one aggressive hobgoblin and he might sway. Loyalty is a fragile thing.”

It was unbelievable, too. An unfamiliar goblin jumps out of a layby and proclaims herself queen, then asks for a lift for her and a human. On balance, it was tenuous. “But he believed you were queen?”

She chuckled, stifling it immediately so it migrated to a wheeze. “No, I told him it was me, Tanaka, risen from the cauldron by you, a vengeful god who would free him from the tyranny of the hobgoblins.”

“What did Elno say to that?”

“Wondered who was going to pay him for shifting coal.”

“Hmmph!” I said, pulling her closer, the cart bumping along, axle whining, gravel crunching. “So they don’t want to be free?”

She rested her head on my chest. “They want to eat first. Freedom is a luxury.”

I guessed it was.

* * *

There was a jolt, and raised voices followed. Elno jumped down, walking past our cart, thudding footsteps following, tarps ripped from the wagons behind. Tanaka tensed and moved away. I crouched, arming myself with my axes. They came closer. Hobgoblins—I was in no doubt about that. How many? I counted four voices but couldn’t distinguish the words. The dialect was too thick. More orders. The driver protested. Then our tarp moved a little. Then they ripped away.

I wasted no time, leaping up, standing on the cart’s edge, assessing all instantly. There were five hobs—big brutes, snarling faces turning to shocked expressions. They jumped back, pulling at their weapons, leveling their spears, but I didn’t give them a chance. Jumping in among them, swinging my axes, a myst rush was upon me instantly, feeding my strength and honing my dexterity. The first went down, clutching his stump—all that was left of his arm. Another fell back, his face a mess of black blood, flesh rent. I spun for another, ready to strike but pulling it before I sliced Tanaka. She was on my intended victim, arm wrapped around his neck, knife rising and falling, his chest blooming black.

It put me off my stride, made me hesitate, and left me open. A sharp pain ripped my side. I spun, chopping at the spear’s shaft, shattering it, head dangling from my side, half buried, half not. I kicked out, my boot landing in the hob’s gut, doubling him over and exposing the back of his neck. I chopped down, knowing the outcome and not needing to witness his fall.

The next was over our Elno, axe raised, ready to strike. I shouted, “No!” and ran, leaped, straightening my leg, my momentum driving the kick home.

The hob fell sideways, his axehead buried in one of the tethered creatures, who bucked, upending the carts. It brought its head around, stubbly maw biting the hob’s face and crushing it, skull imploding, brain matter exploding—the job done. I moved on to the next, put the one-armed one out of its misery, then stopped, touching my open side. I drank some of my health potion, letting its power run through me and flow with my myst, and my side scabbed over.

A stone bridge spanned a mighty chasm, a guard house to one side. I darted to it, kicking its door down. A single room, cluttered, with a cot in one corner, a desk and chair in another, a weapon rack by the door, and bottles and plates strewn about. I ran my fingers down the weapons: primarily spears, one halberd, a large lever, and a spanner as tall as me—presumably for dealing with broken wheels. I took the lot, throwing them into the chaos that was my storage. Satisfied, I exited, running back to the wagon, skidding and stopping.

Ten or so goblins stared at me, all filthy, black with coal dust. Another wagon had pulled up behind, the driver dismounting. “Tanaka!” I called. “Get these dead hobs off the road.”

I grabbed the first, dragging him towards the chasm, rolling him, then kicking him over. The goblins understood. They joined in, helping me pull the next while two or three took care of the others.

“I come to help you!” I shouted to the goblins as the last went over. “To do that, I have to get to Treygorvo.”

They muttered, disgruntlement clear, their minds fixated on hobgoblin retribution. Then Tanaka spoke, and she told them about the Above—how twenty goblins had lived among humans and how a small army marched on Treygorvo. That appeared to sway them, and they lined up, detaching the creatures from their burden, sending the wounded one to its death, then righting the wagons. They shoveled the spilled rock back in, scattering dust over the blood, and then our driver climbed onto his bench, Tanaka and I jumped in with the tools, and with a creak and a moan and a helping shove, we were soon on our way to Treygorvo again. This time, though, we had a goblin escort.

“Will they stay loyal?” I asked her as I pulled the cover over.

“Who knows? Their courage is fragile. It is only a question of who they fear the most—you or the hobs. I fancy it’s you. They’ve seen you fight—I’ve seen you fight. You scare me, so they must think you’re some kind of god.”

It made sense, and it would have to do. I’d taken five hobs out—six with the one the beast ate. I doubted I could take many more. No matter how powerful, there were limits to what one man could achieve. But then, I didn’t know the depths of my power—the might of my myst.

And that was an issue for me because I wasn’t powerful at all—not as far as I could work out. I checked my numbers—my dexterity had increased by two, my constitution by three, and my strength by one—all, no doubt, as a consequence of my two recent fights. It had seen me lacking and increased me as it saw fit—it was powering all.

Level: Three

Attributes:

Strength – 12

Intelligence – 10

Wisdom – 10

Constitution – 16

Dexterity – 14

Charisma – 13

I noticed I’d gained a level—perhaps it was my recognition of the myst within me, or maybe my ability to use it. Whichever, it was a good thing, although I was unsure what advantage levels had apart from unlocking certain things like storage.

How could I kill five or six hobs with such terrible numbers—I assumed they were awful, as I was a newborn—barely a few weeks old. So, it begged the question: was the myst enhancing them? Had it always been an advantage?

I was a Myst Lord—that much I understood. Yet this myst was unfamiliar—not ingrained in me like the cauldron or Kanazar. It was new. I had the sense I’d not been a Myst Lord before.

“I wonder if that was what Nunez was up to,” I muttered.

“What?” said Tanaka.

“I’m a Myst Lord—it’s what drives me, makes me excel even though my numbers are poor. I’m sure of it—certain. It feels right. But, and this is the problem, I’ve not always been one.”

“Then it is new. So you must have either been given it, or earned it somewhere between when you didn’t have it and now.”

There it was again, that simplistic logic that Anna and Leyathel had shown. They clarified things I was overthinking, and Tanaka had the skill too.

“That is how it must have been,” I said, settling back.

We trundled along for an indeterminate time, the only variation to our journey being the grind of wagon wheels, its pitch changing each time we crossed a bridge—twelve in all—before voices once more brought us to a halt. I tensed, readying my weapons—not even considering any from my ever-growing arsenal but those trusty hand axes I’d come to lean on. But, we must have been waved through because, with a heave and strain, the creatures drawing us clearly missing their companion, we moved again. After that, the voices didn’t relent; we were surrounded by the hubbub of a town, and I guessed we’d entered Treygorvo.

Before long, we turned, and the light sneaking under the tarpaulin faded before the cart stopped. Elno pulled the tarp back, barking fast words at Tanaka, their speed making it hard for me to understand them. She answered, then stood, telling me to stay put before climbing out.

But I’d never been one for obedience, so I rose, looking out of the cart and assessing our situation. We were in a yard—I’d have usually said warehouse, but it only had one wall, the rest being rock, some chiseled, most natural. The green lichen light glowed, plastered on the walls. Piles of rock, mounds of sparkling coal, a stack of lumber, some uniform bricks, and a heap of clay lay dotted about—a dozen wagons parked, some creatures corralled, their noses in buckets. It all made for a builder’s yard—undoubtedly goblin-owned and servicing their hobgoblin overlords. Ten, twenty goblin workers milled about, taking little notice, skulking, glancing, whispering.

There was a dilapidated building—mostly stone, some timber, but mostly drystone—that stood central, and it was there that Elno and Tanaka ran, the rest of the goblins following. She cut a fine figure—a leader in the making—her shoulders and back straight, her head up. She marched like she meant business—like a queen.

She climbed up, stood on the roof, and shouted, “Goblins of Annuck, now is your time! Time to overthrow the hob oppressors, time to claim back our core! I, Tanaka, born of Nonn, fit to rule, fit to tell, demand you see the god that holds our cauldron—the one that can consign you to eternal suffering or gift you with renewed life! Beware his power, for he is a destroyer of hobgoblins and all those that stand in his way. I, Tanaka of Nonn, bear witness to this, for he ended me, and I was reborn through the cauldron! Tremble before him and hope for his mercy!”

I sprang up, racing to the hut, leaping and grabbing its roof’s edge to vault up beside her. “Do any of you doubt her claim?” I growled, my words like thunder, my hammer appearing in my hands for good measure. I raised it one-handed and called for my shield on the other. “I, Daniel of House Gray, call you forward to receive my orders. Do any dare disobey me?”

They came forward, gathering in a terrified throng. There was silence, shuffling, but they were only with us through fear. I needed more than that. I needed them to fight for their freedom.

“No?” I cried. “Then let me tell you this. Join us—fight with us—” I cleared my throat—“and it will be a marchy-marchy to golden pots and meaty cauldrons, to goblin girls, up and back!”

Tanaka shot me a look, but the mob cheered, screamed, “Meaty cauldrons!” and punched the air.

“Grab your weapons! Grab shovels, axes, and hammers! Now is the time!”

They cheered again. “Meaty cauldrons!” rang around.

“Meaty cauldrons? Muckspur’s rubbing off on you. What’s the plan?” she said.

“We have no plan. We have to find Lysander.” I stowed my hammer and shield, jumped from the roof, catching Tanaka as she followed, and marched to the head of the mob. They followed, grabbing anything that could be a weapon. We burst from the yard onto the street, my battle cry ringing, my axes flashing as I cut down the first hob I saw, then moved on to the next.

Mobs are strange animals—sentient in their own way. They either fade to nothing or shine brightly, gathering momentum, swelling and growing, becoming a beast called revolution. I was ready for either, scanning the road, working the angles, planning an escape route while marching forward. More goblins joined us. More hobs fell to my axes. Then an explosion, a blast of red fire lit up the vast cavern, another cheer rang out, and a smile finally twitched my lips. “Lysander,” I said. “We make our way to him!”

We ran, spades aloft, hammers high, and our numbers grew. Across the city, more flashes lit the cavern’s walls, cracking the air like lightning. There were cheers, but there was only one cry: “Meaty cauldrons!”

The sentient mob grew. It gathered pace, resistance coming before we arrived, fires burning, carts upturned, hobgoblins decapitated.

“The whole city’s erupted,” I cried.

Then Scamp was by my side, Pip with him, and they pulled me into an alley. “It’s in their arena,” he cried. “Center of the city. Lysander’s headed there—Vallera too. Their army’s gathering a few squares over.”

“How many?”

“Thirty, fifty—not many. Most are up top, facing Sanders’ army. The plan worked!” Scamp’s face was covered in grime. A bloodied eyebrow told me his path hadn’t been uneventful. But he was beaming—exhilarated by the thrill of it all.

“Then we end this now.” I raced back out and jumped atop an upturned cart. “With me!” I cried and followed Scamp and Pip as they tore down a side road.

We were in total riot. Goblins—that race with little tribal cohesion—were instantly one, a single mob, deep-rooted resentment rising, gaining more than a foothold, spurring them to incredible acts of bravery, looting, burning, pulling the hobs down and swarming them. They were vicious, faces twisted with anger. They were the goblins I remembered, the snarling beasts that attacked farmsteads, killed children, and laid waste to all about them.

Then we were in the square, and there were the hobs, formed into ranks, ready. We streamed from the side alley. They readied. Another mob ran out from across the square, flaming torches in hand, and then a third. They never stopped; their momentum was too strong. They hit the hobs, the first goblins dying—blunting the spears for the rest.

The hob soldiers vanished, a swarm of goblins over them in moments, a violent throng stabbing, pounding, slicing, then looting and burning.

Scamp tugged at my bracers. “They’re done. Time for the next bit.” We left the square with its maddened throng, racing the shadows. It was just the four of us—Pip, Scamp, Tanaka, and me. We ducked one way, ran up some steps, ducked under an awning. Turning, we bounded past a spring and into a paved square with tables set, then across a road and then down it. Red fire flashed, Lysander battling something or someone, and then the arena came into view, and it was not as I thought.

The city was around me one moment, and then it was distant, a deep pit replacing it, stepped seating, flat at the bottom, with balconies dotted around. There a battle raged, hobgoblin priests surrounding Lysander and Vallera, closing in, their black fire engulfing them. Before I could cry out and think of helping, Lysander and Vallera vanished, reappearing some distance away. Still, they were hopelessly outnumbered, and the hob magickers turned as one, and the battle commenced again.

I raced down, a bunch of goblins joining us, flowing around us like a hate-filled swell. Tanaka stayed by my side, her expression telling me everything I needed to know.

“Them,” she growled. “They are the worst!”

Another blast of red fire erupted from Lysander. It radiated out in a wave, a boom following, several hobs falling. It was no petty magic, no feeble fireball, but magnified beyond his power, and I wondered if the Jewel of Everything had played its part again.

I took the steps six or more at a time, falling on the shamans from behind. Tearing through their ranks with my sword, my shield deflected their hideous magic. They fell under my anger, toppled by my rage. They died by my blade, and with each death, a new rush came, an influx of power that propelled me to higher heights, a quickening that fuelled my rage and brought me new understanding.

Myst and death were linked; the former was an absence of lifeforce, the latter being that force, and I, a myst lord, could feed on it. It was a filling, a quickening. It was the manifestation of a power that magnified every aspect of me.

I screamed a mighty roar that filled the stone bowl with my power, and I took the last priest’s head, a magnificent strike that ended with my knee bent, my sword above my head and my shield arm straight. Then came calm, as more power filled me, and then finally tranquility as my myst brimmed so full it's storm calmed, and silence came. I opened my eyes.

Across the arena was a hobgoblin dressed all in black, hooded, his face in shadow. He held a staff in one hand—no bejeweled thing, but a plain piece of blackened wood. He stood quite still, unaffected by all that had transpired. He regarded me, then Lysander and Vallera. He held his hand open, and upon it appeared a black flame, slick with silver, rising and dancing, hypnotic and oily. A resonance began, stone shaking under me, and a goblin beside me cried out in anguish, his ears bleeding, eyes crying dark tears, and he fell to his knees. Another goblin folded, bent double, vomiting black chunks. Pip cried out, and Scamp.

Lysander sent him red fire, gushing forth in magical wonder, its power enveloping the hob, surrounding him in a tornado of bright flame. Then my hero was spent, his power dying—Vallera as pale as Leyathel. Then he was on his knees, Vallera with him. Tanaka dropped, holding her head, clamping her hands to her ears, folding them over as she tried to shut out the shaman’s song.

I stirred, breaking the trance, brushing my blood-damped lip with the back of my hand, cuffing my eyes, but letting my neck dampen, bloody rivulets running from my ears. I sprang forward, numb with hatred, cold with anger, and I shed my weapons, racing, jumping, closing the distance between us. He increased his song, the arena trembling, and I called for my spear, launching it in one smooth motion. It sped towards him, a perfect point receding as it streaked to its target, hitting the shaman, who vanished in a cloud of black, cloak dropping to the floor.

Before I could scream in anguish, the hob appeared again, across, on another quarter, and his song resumed. My people, my friends, my army cried out again. I turned, and my spear turned. I readied, waiting for it to come into my grip, but it darted for the hob, impaling him again, his cloak a puff of air, and the game continued as the hob reappeared and the spear darted towards him.

Too slow the fifth time—my spear passed through him, and the hob lay dead. My spear returned to my grip, and I rushed over, draining him of his power, then picking up his charcoaled staff. I stood there, smoke billowing in the city about me, fires raging, hobs dying, and goblins rioting. Lysander was by my side, and I gave him the staff, suggesting he might like to plant the Jewel of Everything on it. Soon Tanaka was with me, Pip and Scamp, and Vallera too.

“Let’s go and get that core,” I said.

CHAPTER 13

Scamp led us to a building at one end of the arena, deserted and untouched by the rioting mob. We climbed to its balcony and passed through its ornate pillars—quite at odds with plain hobgoblin architecture—then under a stone shelf held high by intricate corbels. Within was an ornate ceiling, and from it hung the Annuck core, trapped within an iron cage suspended by a chain. Its light was dim, lifeless, a shadow when compared to Kanazar. As I wondered what to do next, a voice spoke inside my head.

“You have conquered Calavork, head of the Rezalas, their shaman and leader. Their core is yours, as is dominion over their city of the same name, Treygorvo. Do you claim lordship over the hobgoblin race Razalas?”

It was an interesting conundrum. If I did, the hobs would fight on my side, but then I’d be at war with Sanders. Then again, I could pull the hob army back, order them to retreat, and draw Vale into the Under.

“What is it?” Tanaka asked. “Why hesitate? The core is ours.”

“It is yours to take,” I told her.

“No,” she said, grabbing my arm and looking up. “It is yours. You command them. They should follow the most powerful leader, the greatest warrior.”

“But—”

“I will focus on my craft, pulling stone, minerals, all you need from this place.”

“What of the hobs? Do we take this place or let it crumble to dust?”

Lysander draped his hand over my shoulder. “Annexing the house of thine intended is a sure way to make your bed cold.”

“Annexing the house of a powerful race is a way of making us strong. What if the hobgoblin guards protected the goblins while they mined—what if they killed the monsters and ferried the goods? What then?”

“What say you, Tanaka? It is your people that burn this city.” Mischief packed Lysander’s eyes.

She planted her feet apart, shoulders back and breasts forward, determination setting her expression to stone as, no doubt, a debate raged within her. Tight-lipped, she nodded.

“You take their core and make them your servants—not as equals like the Annuck, but your servants, to forever do your bidding, take your orders and serve. That is my wish.”

So I focused my mind, and I replied to the voice within.

“I, Lord Daniel Cutterson, take this core for myself and Castle Kanazar.”

A giant stone flag lowered, then slid back, a bowl of bright light blooming, revealing a set of downward steps—plain, no balustrades or railings. I took a step, my gut tight, then told myself I’d battled a hundred hobgoblins to get this far. There was nothing to fear. I picked my step up, striding down like the conquering hero I was, my lady by my side, my wizard behind, then Vallera, Scamp and Pip.

It was there, within a crypt, surrounded by tombs arranged in ranks, not a speck of dust coating them. The core hung above them all, a bright orb in a less-than-impressive chamber—no star-filled night surrounding it, no lightning crackling out. It was calm, brooding, yet had power, a smoldering presence that told me it was parading the tombs of masters past before me.

“All these?” I asked it.

“All have failed me, plus one more that leaks upon the stone of my arena.”

I didn’t reply at first, choosing to amble forward, my sword appearing in hand, and I ran its point over the sarcophagi, approaching the shining orb, regarding it closely.

“Let us get one thing straight before we dispense with pleasantries. It is my stone and arena now, as you are my core. And these?” I waved the sword about. “Are a testament to how badly you function as a core.”

“A core can only aid in the building of a place. Its maintenance is for its masters.”

“A core can and does defend its Lord. It can muddle ways and open pits. It can guide its master, offer advice, and show him the best way forward. It should not collect corpses that display its weakness. You should have fed the Annuck core your power, coaxed it to spark and shine and brought the Annuck in as allies, not slaves. Then they wouldn’t burn your city but defend it—they wouldn’t side with a human.”

“It is not the way of the hobgoblin to coax and encourage.”

“Thus the tombs,” I said, then pondered. “But, you aren’t a hobgoblin core anymore. You are mine, a suzerain to Kanazar. So, we change how we do things. But first, I must separate you from the Annuck core. I order it so!”

“Treygorvo has released the Annuck Core, Mesinto. Do you claim this core for your own?”

“I do.”

“The core Mesinto and the gathering that is its place is now under your rule and that of the core Kanazar.”

I clapped my hands. “Right, that’s done. Perhaps we should stop our people from destroying our new city?”

“I think I can help with that. I’ll send them the signal. Let’s hope Muckspur and the others remember it.” Lysander raced up the steps, vanishing, a massive explosion and a flash of red following.

* * *

We found a tavern not far from the arena, still in one piece, run by a pair of elderly goblins who were both relieved and scared witless when we walked in. Lysander closed and bolted the door, and we settled in. I had two new tabs, one for Treygorvo and another for Mesinto. As Lysander and Tanaka organized ale and food, I barracked the hobgoblin troops, effectively withdrawing them from all confrontations until I’d worked out their command structure. Then I set about sorting the Annuck.

Both the hobs and goblins had low morale, the former having been recently defeated, while the latter still thought themselves slaves. From my dealings with the Annuck goblins, the main thing on their minds was continued employment. As their employers, the hobs had been removed from power, mostly by their own hand and through revolution. One way was to rebuild the city they’d just destroyed. But another thing I had noticed—every goblin was emaciated. Therefore, a little repurposing was in order. If the goblins worked for me, supplying stone and coal to Castle Kanazar, I could repay them with food and ale. As they required nothing else to exist, the trade would work fine.

I looked up their population. It was a lowly one-hundred and twenty-five, with two-hundred plus in their cauldron. If I had Greg upgrade the farms as soon as the stronghold was level six, then we could cover it. The hobs were a different matter. What the hell did they eat? What could the Under produce? Did they have farms?

Lysander returned with the ale, and I mulled my problem.

“Tanaka, what the hell do goblins and hobs eat when they’re not raiding the above? Are there farms down here?”

“Farms, no, not like the farmsteads, but crops, yes.”

“So…” I said, elongating the word as I attempted to think around her answer. “So, what in particular? Explain.”

“We don’t have farmers. Gatherers will collect rockroot tubers.”

“Rockroot tubers?”

“Good for you. They grow in rocks, drinking them and feeding off the shadowshroom light. They change rock to dust, taking all the good stuff.” She rubbed her stomach. “Rockroot and shadowshroom are always together.”

“Okay, so we can cultivate them. What else?”

“Cultivate?”

“Grow them.”

She shrugged. “We can if you want, but the town grows only as big as there is food. If it's too big, we go hungry, and then we raid.”

“What else?” I asked.

“Vorgrel vines grow along the rivers, drinking the water and stealing light from the lichen—vines are tasty, and, if you want to spice it up, add a little mana.”

Lysander shoved his nose in. “Mana?” he said.

“Mana—mana nodes—crystal ropes that rise from the Deep. Some say they grow from the Source of All. They pulse light in shimmering veins, their ends like stars. The priests pay lots for them—or, they did. They’re all dead now.”

“Can you take me to them?”

“I’m not a gatherer,” she said. “Someone else will know.”

“Anything else?” I asked.

She shrugged. “Monsters.”

“Monsters,” I repeated. “The hobs can hunt them. Clear this place—make it safe. Let all monsters know that to come here is to die.”

I had a basis—a framework that could repurpose both their societies to become self-sufficient. But that wasn’t enough for me. What point in having dominion over races if they didn’t swell the army too? But first, I had to up their morale, and the best way of doing that was with food and ale.

“Scamp, Pip, I have a mission for you.” They leaned in, and I explained.

“If they’re going back above, then I have a mind to join them,” said Lysander.

“I thought you’d never ask,” Vallera added. “If I never see a cave again, it will be too soon.”

“You live in one,” Lysander pointed out.

“Well, apart from that one,”

Then they were gone, the food came, and the ale flowed, and Tanaka and I were alone for the first time in a long while.

“That was vorgrel vine?” I asked, sinking another ale.

“Yes,” she said, then leaned forward, resting her chin on her hands, her violet eyes wide, eyelids fluttering, and her mouth slightly open. “We have the core back,” she said, her voice low. “My tribe is free, and that was my price.”

I lifted my eyebrow, intrigued by her choice of words. “Your price for what? There was no need to put a price on anything I’ve done.” I shifted forward, my face close to hers. “Let’s get this straight: everything I do, I do for me, Leyathel, and Anna. I do it for my family. Getting the Annuck core back might make you happy, and if you’re happy, I’m happy. But, it also gets me stone, plus access to Bright and to the lands of Lords and Ladies. So please—don’t think I did it all just so you’d be with me. That is your choice, and yours alone.”

She cocked her head. “What if I wanted to be in your family?”

“Then,” I said, “I would be the happiest lord in the land.”

“I do,” she said. “I want to be in your family.”

“Then we need to celebrate.”

She grinned. “First, we need to get this muck off us.” She slipped away, chatting with the barkeep, who gestured and escorted her behind the counter, leaving me time to reflect.

She was right, of course. We were covered in grime, blood, bug guts, and brain matter, and that was without the stench of our sweat. It had been a hell of a day, but part one of the adventure was done. I took a long draught of ale, put my feet on the table and exhaled. I had the Stormbane Mountains—one of them at least. I now had as much stone as I needed, coal in abundance, a bunch of hob soldiers, and a colony of goblins. I’d won my third lady—yes, ‘won’ sounded good. I was halfway to my next task; just the moonstone to capture and take to Morgan, and possibly Castle Brightwater to add to my collection.

Great for a level three lord! I looked it up. Make that level four!

Not bad at all.

The barkeep cleared his throat. “Miss Tanaka is waiting for you in the Underground Suite,” he said, a saucy glint in his eye. “And might I say the change of core ownership is both intriguing and refreshing. The hobs were dour paymasters.”

Yet again, a goblin astounded me. There was so much more to them than we thought—a whole societal structure, admittedly loosely-bound, but as strong a bond as any when they saw fit. “If I need any advice, I’ll know who to ask,” I said, rising and stretching.

“Please do. The center of even the smallest village is always the tavern. We barkeepers know more than we let on.” He frowned, leaning close. “If I might say, it isn’t wise to keep a goblin girl waiting when she’s eager.”

“In that case, I shan’t keep her waiting.”

He led me to a set of downward steps, not for the first time recently, but I felt the prize at the end would be better than anything I’d encountered that day.

* * *

I trod the first steps, headed to soft light, my stomach alight with nerves. The steps were wide stone, illuminated by lichen bowls that spread light enough for other plants to grow—moss bulbs peppered cracks, ferns trailed, and waxen vines entwined stone banisters. The steps swept a curve, and a mirror confronted me. I was filthy-looking, like I’d finished a long day in an abattoir. I yawned, rubbing my drawn eyes, black bags underneath, pushing my limp and lifeless hair from my face. My clothes, though, were unaffected by battle and instead worn from travel, frayed by scraping rock. They had been in my storage for the most gruesome parts, my armor taking the brunt of those episodes.

Oil lamps burned, wicks floating on tiny islands of amber liquid, the flames burning with bright colors, like fireflies hovering above miniature lilies, wafting perfume. Then I was at the final few steps, and a large room opened before me.The celing was partially plastered, raw rock making the rest of it, the contrast powerful. Under were walls of a similar style, dressed with lamps and more ferns, vines and moss, lending the place charm. A large bed sat to one side, its cover and pillows grass green. There was a mirror behind, and small tables on either side, with oil lamps glowing. To my side was a large dresser with another grand mirror above, and a four-legged stool tucked under like it had scuttled there after being found out.

The floor was stone, creased, cracked, natural, with moss filling its small fissures. This led to an irregular pool, dotted with candles, some flames hidden behind wax walls, others tall and proud. The background was a blue-and-pink geode, sparkling in the candlelight. Tanaka stood in the middle of that pool, making her all that more magical—if she needed that at all.

Her hair was back, pulled into a high tail, and she was naked, her lower half cruelly concealed by the water—that damnable water. She looked nervous, as if the scene she presented wasn’t perfect in every way and she fretted over it. But it was perfect, and my nerves grew, knowing what a wreck I looked, how tired and broken I was.

I pulled at my cloak, but she shook her head no, climbing from the pool, water dripping from her, and I gasped. She was perfect—the curve of her waist, the sway of her hips, her hair so fine and delicate that it might not have been there at all, a mere shadow about her. The promise between her magnificent thighs was prominent, a dark line splitting its pastel beauty.

She approached me, lifting my chin, standing on the tips of her toes to kiss me. Then she unlaced my shirt, ripping the last third away, and pushed it from my shoulders. She lightly brushed my upper arms, my chest, the flat of my stomach and down, unlacing my pants and unleashing my cock. This she ignored, as she lifted my legs in turn, removed my boots and casting away my pants to leave me naked before her.

She was on her knees then and regarded my erection with some curiosity. I wondered if I was her first—certainly her first human. She tilted her head, cupping my balls and running her finger along my length.

“It is larger than I imagined—are all humans so?”

What man didn’t want to hear those words? I twitched, power flowing in, or maybe pride. I tried replying, but my voice was an octave or two higher than usual. I tried again. “I can’t speak for everyone,” I said, “but I think my endowment was generous.” It was hard to put thought into words when a pretty goblin girl had hold of me and was inspecting me like I was a marvel of creation. It did puff my chest some and clear the fog of tiredness. I might have grown an inch or two—in height.

“Then that is good. A powerful man should be powerful in everything he does.”

She ran her finger around my ridge. I twitched, my knees nearly folding, and then she stood, just as I thought her mouth might close around me, as I imagined her sharp teeth teasing me, her tongue licking me. She led me down the steps and into the pool, where she bid me sit upon a shallow shelf.

“First though, that man must be washed and cleansed. There is a time for brute force and urgency, and a time for savoring every moment.”

I agreed. There was time for both, though I very much wanted the latter at that moment.

She reached for a pot, sloughed a dab of green lotion upon her finger, and moved behind me, massaging my shoulders, neck, and arms. She worked my fingers, her thumb kneading my palm, my knuckles, and the joints of each digit. Then she was done and was in my lap, knees on either side of me, with a knife in her hand. More lotion, this time on my cheeks and chin, and she set about shaving me, and my erection wilted, as it is wont to do when someone other than me holds a knife close to my throat. With that done, she planted a lingering kiss upon me, soft moans coming from her as she ground herself against me, and I hardened again, which was no surprise.

And then she slipped away and laid back in the pool, giving me the most delightful view I’d seen of late when she floated there, legs slightly parted, breasts like tiny, green isles. “Relax,” she said. “Humans are so eager for everything; when it is over, they are on to the next. Let this night linger—let it wallow. Let’s revel in each other.”

I took a deep breath. I’d always thought passion was a beast that only the strong could properly tame, but I’d never pursued the aim. I did then, under the orders of my floating beauty. I inhaled, exhaled, and tried to calm, to bring my heartbeat under control. My myst was there. I could feel it lurking like a predator, hiding deep in the shadows within me, waiting to pounce. It was there, but then it morphed into something else—not the aggressor, the enhancer, but a thing that increased my tranquility, flooded me with peace, and, I think, restored my flagging energy. It was like it had seen a need for repair rather than satisfaction or aggression and had taken that route. I was calm, and I was rejuvenating.

“I feel relaxed,” I said regarding her, soaking in every aspect of her beauty.

But I couldn’t sit there, couldn’t hold her, so I rose and waded to her, grabbed her ankles and pulled her to me, her legs rubbing my thighs. We touched, and for a moment, I thought it would be more, but she slid from my grasp, corkscrewing away to surface over the other side of the pool. “Naughty, naughty,” she said. “You are not washed yet. There is much to do.” She waded back over, breasts glistening, sparkling in the geode light. “Come.” She held her hand out and dragged me down, pushing my head under, her legs gripping my waist as we sank, touching the pool’s bottom and rising. All the while, she rubbed my back, stomach and chest, sloughing my skin with a pumice stone.

She vanished, resurfacing by the steps, climbing them, sashaying, her perfect bottom a little out of reach. I thought about lunging, of course, but that would have broken the serene moment, shattered the air so thick with anticipation. Instead, I followed like a panting dog pursuing a meal. She collected a towel, barring my way, then tossed me one too.

“Do you not dry me as well?” I asked, wondering about the standard of goblin seducers in that place.

“I could,” she said, “or I could towel myself off and go and lie on that bed, readying myself.”

“Readying yourself?” I asked, one eyebrow arched.

“Just that.” She indicated my cock. “It is no normal task for me.”

I gasped again, perhaps a fool to take her compliments so literally, but moved my hips slightly forward, making myself stand out more. “Then ready yourself,” I said, drying myself before casting the towel away. I came to stand before the bed as she crawled onto it, then flipped around, her legs apart, fingers working her lips, chin back, breathing heavy.

Climbing onto the bed, I nestled between her legs, replacing her busy fingers with my own and teasing two inside her. She bucked her bottom, forcing herself further onto me, and I felt how tight she was. I looked at myself and wondered if this thing between us would work.

I moved over her, unwilling to wait. Above her, ready, I hesitated.

“What?” she asked, biting her lip, doubt filling her wide eyes.

“I—” I said but found any words stuck in my throat.

Then I dropped a little, and my tip pressed against her entrance. Just the feel of that left me gasping, my arms almost unable to hold me in place, nearly folding and collapsing onto her. I pressed. Resistance—not that of unwillingness, no, a much simpler thing. I pressured some more, tension coming. Was I demanding the impossible? Was I attempting the improbable? She shifted, her legs parting more, offering herself to me, submitting and willing me to enter her. I pushed again, my breaths ragged, my arms quivering.

Inside—a little, enough to feel her heat—to wonder what more would feel like, what it would be to slide deeper, for her to surround me. More then, just a little more, my tip buried in her warmth. She whimpered, and I wondered why. If that was the extent of her, then— More! I slid in a little more, compression all around, a wonderful, wet and silken feeling pressing so hard against me. Success! It was something. I pushed more but got no further. I tried again, needing, wanting more, but no! I bent. I failed. She bit her lip.

“No?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said. I would not concede.

I withdrew, and our eyes met, and she questioned me why, but I didn’t answer. Instead, I repositioned, adjusted my angle without losing touch, and pressed again; this time, there was no resistance. This time I slid in, not all the way but more. Progress! Hope! Withdrawal, not all the way, then a thrust, and I was there.

She gasped, cried out, her hands gripping my back, sharp nails clawing.

“No!” she cried. “I can’t! I just can’t!”

But she could. I was there. Our bones touched. We were one, cliched as it was, and there was a warmth there, blooming all about me. I held, letting her body adjust and accommodate me. She whimpered some more, then inhaled, clearing her throat, juddering, shuddering, clawing, exhaling, grabbing my cheeks and pushing my face up, pulling down, our lips together. A kiss, a long and lingering kiss, and I knew then that she’d won—she was the victor, my victor, my heroine—she’d won her battle—and so I began moving, gently, so very gently.

Our tongues entwined, her passion ignited through pain, acceptance, and victory, and she held me so hard, so very, very hard, like I was all that was keeping her from falling into an abyss of pleasure. She cried out then, our lips still locked, hips moving in time, and we synched. We learned—learned the functioning of each other’s bodies, the timing, the pressures needed—demanded, and her urgency built—mine built, breasts heaving below me, back arching, nails racking.

“My Lord,” she cried, “fill me. Break me!” Her words tapered to a strained moan like she could take no more. I quickened, abandoning care, wanting to reach that point, that cusp of pain and ecstasy that would see her shudder beneath me. She cried out, thrashing her head from side to side, her hands no longer on me. She raised her arms over her head, grabbing at the stone above, clawing at it, trying to get a handhold where there was none.

She writhed under me as I picked up the pace. My myst rose. My erection strengthened. She cried my name over and over, tears gathering at the edges of her eyes, sweat upon her chest—on mine. I became lost, a servant to my pleasure, a slave to hers, a passenger to my myst.

I fell into my rhythm, a metronomic state where pleasure becomes a long escarpment, a journey to new heights, to unseen places. She was below me, my beautiful Tanaka, crying out, biting her lip, raking her hair as she tossed her head from one side to another. She squeezed me, wetted me, coaxed me to drive her to new peaks, begged me to stop, to thrust deeper, whimpered and screamed.

And then she was still a moment, before her breath came in gasps. Her thighs bucked. Then she shivered from head to toe and impaled herself upon me repeatedly, screaming, clawing. I slammed into her as her passion thrust me to mine, and I crested my hill and arched my back so deep inside her that her wetness ran around me. I welled and exploded within her, my cry a thousand times louder than hers, and I emptied and relaxed. My arms did finally buckle, and our lips came together in a kiss.

“You filled me up,” she said in victory, for she had conquered herself, fully taking me into her deepest core. She had brought me to new heights. She had me, and she always would.

CHAPTER 14

Throkka Shadowfist stood before me. He was a beast of a hob, towering above me as I sat at a slightly oversized desk in the hob barracks in the center of Treygorvo. To describe him as a more ferocious, larger version of a standard goblin was a disservice to all things goblin and hob. They were two different things linked by a strange commonality in their names.

Both were green, admittedly, and both lived underground. Both had pointed ears, but then so did elves. Hobgoblins were a closed book to me. I knew them only as slavers, warriors, and magicians—bastard things that needed exterminating. But, as was the way in this strange and new land, I had to adapt. I needed to adjust my thinking to accommodate a new philosophy: that every race had a purpose, and whether we saw that as good or bad was a matter of point of view.

I, for instance, despised spiders—both the common house spider and the monstrous creations that stood ten feet tall and were a staple of dungeons and tales of horror. But, the former helped eat lice, and all manner of other undesirables. The latter was good for scaring children, which was always entertaining. So, spiders had a function, and all I had to do was find out what hobgoblins did that could serve me.

Throkka Shadowfist shifted uncomfortably as he stood, and I regarded him. I could see the conflict in him. He hated humans—despised them to the point they were a no-questions-asked kill—and yet he found himself, through no fault of his own, subservient to one.

“Do you blame your magickers?” I asked.

“For what?” he growled.

“For the destruction of your city, the defeat of your tribe, and the uncomfortable position you find yourself in.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t. Blame yourself.”

He was a brute, mostly because brutes, regardless of race, all had similar features. They had heads that are slightly too rectangular and foreheads like breakwaters or buttresses—flat and substantial. Their jaws completed the box look and were fixed in a growling mode so that they could either bark from the front or grumble from the side, and their eyes were constantly in the shade. Expressions were not formed through muscle movement but through a complex adjustment to their wrinkles, which could be construed as a language in its own right.

A rippling of their foreheads, for instance, was roughly translated as, “You what?” and a deepening of the same pattern meant the conversation has intensified to something akin to, “You fucking what?” If creases appeared around their eyes, a fight was almost inevitable. That fight exploded once all creases met, and their jowls joined in.

Throkka Shadowfist was at stage two quite quickly, but for the might of the core Treygorvo—same name as the city—he might have launched at me. But fortunately, the first food had arrived from up top, and all his soldiers were currently munching away on prime beef, which, apparently, increased their morale astronomically because it wasn’t ‘that green crap.’ The increased morale, quite fortunately, tied them to the core and their new ruler, which was me. What I had to do, mostly because I didn’t want to spend significant time in Treygorvo, was establish some form of understanding, create a command structure, formalize trade, and arrange the gradual rebuilding of the city. For that, I needed a commander, and Throkka Shadowfist, though he didn’t know it, was it.

“We were—”

I raised my hand and silenced him. “It was your fault because you left no soldiers here. You were in charge of the army. You rushed out—the whole lot of you—to war without a second thought. You didn’t need all those soldiers to hold what is a narrow tunnel. As commander of this place, had you established some defenses at the cave’s entrance, you could have held them back with six good soldiers. So you see, it was your fault.”

“I—”

I held my hand up again. “Fortunately for you, I’m not one to sacrifice failed leaders with potential. At least you did rush out to defend your lands, and showed bravery in the face of the enemy. Fortunately for you, I will show you how to easily defeat the army that now invades these tunnels.”

“But they are human,” he said.

“Let me explain another thing to you. Currently, there is no hobgoblin versus human, no goblin versus human, nor any hobgoblin versus goblin. There is only this—there is only Kanazar, and we are against all until they become us. Treygorvo is now Kanazar. Mesinto is now Kanazar. Above, the Elven Forest, known as the Wolding Wood, is Kanazar. Those, my brother, are your friends. The rest are enemies and deserve to be crushed like bugs until they become Kanazar. This includes all other hobgoblin tribes, all goblin tribes, and all humans.” I slammed the table. “All others! Do I make myself clear?”

A grin hatched on his grizzled face, and his yellow teeth shone through, and I knew I had him. “What part can I play?”

“You will be my commander. You will appoint a steward to work with mine and rebuild this place. You will marshall all soldiers to the arena for me to address later this day. You will round up all surviving magickers and have them hand over all artifacts. They will be held in dungeons until my wizard returns and decides which he wishes to keep. You will report to me in all things, but you will not bother me with the mundane. You will dispatch ten soldiers to the surface, where they will train with our army and become proficient fighters and better tacticians. These ten will become your commanders, so choose them wisely.”

His wrinkles developed wrinkles and rippled as he thought, and his broad shoulders straightened more. Had I been more observant, I might have spotted a smile.

“It will be done.” He swiveled and marched out, a spring in his step.

I called him back.

“One more thing. The goblins of Mesinto. They are precious to me. You will live in harmony with them, protect them at all times, and should you see any hob touch a hair on any Mesinto goblin’s head, you will execute them without a second thought. Do I make myself clear?”

“It will be done.”

“Good. The arena then—gather all and round up the magickers.”

I sat back, putting my feet on the table and wondered how such a race existed. It was a fundamental pillar of existence that all things had to contribute. My hated spider, for instance, did offer something. A warrior race could offer the world something, too. They could roam around thinning weaklings, making other tribes stronger. But, I liked to think that any race built something. Yet, I sat there and wondered what the hob had ever built. Then it came to me—they had built this place, Treygorvo, and it was no small wonder. It was quite the undertaking—a feat of sculpture honed from living, breathing rock. Yet, I’d never seen a mason, a sculptor, or anyone.

I was missing something, and I had to find out what.

Tanaka had returned to the surface, our betrothal formalized, to see to her Lording home and visit Kanazar. I had wanted to accompany her, but the business with Sanders and Vale was imminent. So, with no one to discuss my issue with, I revisited the core and saw if it was in a more-giving mood. I strolled to the arena, seeing Treygorvo in all its glory—marveling at its thrusting pillars, the stepped buildings that hugged the cavern’s walls climbing upon each other, and its balconies, so high I hadn’t even thought of visiting them. The place was, in the absence of riot and revolution, a wonder.

Treygorvo hovered in his crypt; there was no sign of a single coffin, but a bland and ordinary flagged floor spreading under it.

“Had a little clean-out?” I asked.

“The dead depress me,” it replied. “Failures, the lot of them.”

“Do you recall when this place was grand?” I asked, getting straight to the point as I preferred.

“I remember when it was built. Those were grand times.”

“What happened? Why did it stall?”

“War,” it said, plain and simple. “There was war, and the war ended all grandeur.”

“Why?”

“Food,” it said. “With war, our boundaries shrank. We could not feed surplus citizens, so they were put to the sword and sent to the cauldron; that way, the tribe endured. Only soldiers and magickers were allowed to live. If we rebirthed any other type, they were dispatched back to the cauldron forthwith.”

It made perfect sense. Food was sparse in the Under. They could only live off the meager pickings in the depths and darkness if they could not forage above ground because the Lords prohibited it. Their cauldron allowed them to select who would survive by a ruthless culling of any that couldn’t contribute to the war, which was, by circumstance, perpetual war.

“Where is the cauldron?”

“Exactly where you’d imagine,” it said, and a set of double doors appeared. I’d seen their like before.

They were the same style doors I’d walked through all that time ago in the goblin settlement I knew to be called Mesinto. I approached them, and asked, “Am I in for any surprises?”

“No. I think you killed all of them, and Throkka Shadowfist is rounding up the rest. There is only our custodian, the keeper of the cauldron, Platos, and he is a little past his prime.”

Before I could reach the doors, they creaked open so slowly that I might have tapped my feet while waiting. There was a dim and dusty room, webbed, but not overly so—like it had the odd brushing now and again. Patches of lichen spread their low, green light, and an altar stood central, as Sanak’s had, but there the resemblance ended. Books and scrolls lined the room, some on shelves, others in parades of cases. Tables lay scattered about, open books and unrolled scrolls upon them, and candles illuminated several of the tomes, most snuffed out. A bed rested against the only bare wall, and next to it was a small firepit, glowing coals heating the room so much it was stifling. I shed my cloak, rolling up my sleeves and opening its neck some. I was a man of temperate needs regarding hot and cold.

“Old bones demand heat.” The voice, like the door had, creaked. I searched for its source, and there, between two stacks of books, was a hobgoblin, so aged he might have crumbled to dust with just one blow.

I approached him, no caution needed. He posed no threat to me, either physical or magical. That much was obvious. His eyes were yellow with age, skin a faded green, ears with the look of an autumnal leaf, veiny and cracked.

“So, I’ve heard,” I said.

He cocked his head, smacking his dry lips and scratching his ear, then plunging one yellow-nailed finger in it and rooting around for wax. He drew out a blob and inspected it while he talked. “I’ll wager you are older than I by quite some stretch. The old have little time, so I suggest you end mine and continue yours. I presume that is why you are here.”

“Not sure,” I replied, sitting and relaxing, resting my boots upon the table’s corner and yawning. It had been a long night with Tanaka. My goblin princess had proved insatiable once she’d learned to accommodate me. It was a thing that kept my good humor up, despite the mundane day that lay before me—one that was now proving more interesting than first thought. Possibilities always passed the time, and if it dragged, I simply thought back to her climbing atop me, easing herself down with a slightly pained look upon her. Such a sight would stay with me forever.

“Not sure?” he asked.

I shook my vision from me. “Sorry, drifted away. I’m not sure. I rarely kill that which might be useful to me.”

“Am I that? Do you enjoy clearing an old man’s buckets of a day’s slop? If so, I might be able to provide it right now.”

“No, that is not what I enjoy, though I fancy a particularly odd human might somewhere. We cater for all sorts in our race.”

“Then what?”

“There is knowledge—you have that, and it is as important as a good crop. That alone would make me tolerate you.”

“Tolerate?”

I waved my comment away. “Excuse my words. I am just coming around to the idea that hobs might be useful for more than wetting my blade. Tell me about the cauldron.”

He huffed. “It is a cauldron. What do you want to know? It begins with a finite number of souls, and those souls form the basis of a tribe. To increase the number, the tribe must procreate, and as long as both parties are of the cauldron, their issue might be saved from death and return here.”

“Not that! I know all that. Tell me about this one. Tell me of the culling.”

He grunted. “That is a burden,” he said. “But dark times necessitate such things. Calavork enjoyed the cull—I’m sure of that.”

“Explain the cull.”

He opened his palms. “What is there to explain? A priest was reborn, and they survived. A warrior was reborn, and they survived. Anything else, and Calavork slit their throat. It ensured our death, and it ensured we survived. With the Above mostly closed to us, there wasn’t enough food.”

But something else he’d said lingered, pushing at my fog. It was a thing I’d forgotten—or rather, not recollected. “Why did it ensure your death?”

He regarded me, craggy eyelids blinking. “Because the cauldron never returns all. It always takes a few to power its magic. If you go to the cauldron, it doesn’t follow that you live through the experience. The longer you linger there…”

His words stole my breath. Until then, I’d been sure I would see Alex again—I’d never doubted the fact. Her resurrection drove me—spurred me to press on with my stronghold, to secure wood and stone. Could it be that she’d already paid the price?”

“What number doesn’t return?”

“One out of every ten is lost—but you know this. You are the keeper of two cauldrons.”

“Three with yours.”

“You seek to take mine?”

“I do. I’ll have no more culling. I want warriors. I want magickers. But I also need artisans, builders, farmers, and more. The Above is open to you again.”

He straightened, several years falling from him—not that it made much difference. He carried a lot of them. “I have a price,” he said.

“I was not aware you had something to bargain with.”

Then there was a glow to his parchment skin. “A human comes here and seeks to rebuild that which humans revile. He takes a goblin mate—so the whispers say—and fights on the side of elves. Such a man must be reviled by his own; otherwise, his way would counter that. That human knows little of the world of those so-called monsters.” He tapped the side of his head. “I have more than enough to bargain with in here.”

He did. It was a fair observation, and I hardly had time to read all the tomes he possessed. “What is it you want?”

“To walk the Above and feel the sun’s warmth. To read without the need for squinting low, and to walk where walls aren’t pressing in on me. Oh, and depending on what you wish to know, I’ll have some requirements when it comes to a dwelling.”

“Like?”

“No stairs,” he said. “Can’t abide them—they’re everywhere.”

I sighed. A sword in the throat would be easier. It would slide right through that scrawny thing. But, as I pictured it, I found myself saying something completely different. “Would you like a companion? I have another called Fennel who finds himself at loose ends. Perhaps you could discuss things together?”

He nodded. “Perhaps we could. That would be nice—very nice indeed. I haven’t had decent company in ages.”

“Then… Consider it done,” I said, wanting that part of the discussion over.

“But I have one more question.”

I close my eyes, imagining my sword swinging, taking his head and sending it rolling like a dislodged boulder.

“Go on,” I said, just about keeping my voice even.

He fixed his gaze upon me. “Why are you different?”

The question took me by surprise. I hadn’t thought I was, but I guessed it was odd that a human might accommodate a hob. “Perhaps it is because I was alone for a long time.”

And I had been—when I slept for a thousand years. Was that enough? Or was it that there were other things beyond the slaughter we as races seemed to enjoy?

Platos has relinquished his charge of the Treygorvo cauldron and surrendered it to you.

I looked up my tabs, and there it was, and I double-took and looked again.

Cauldron of Treygarvo – 4,398

I had a city and an army—a vast army, and I realized then the extent of the power that had once controlled the Stormbane and the lands thereabouts—the power of the hobs.

Had I just scratched the power surrounding me—that of monsters and fey?

* * *

I sat opposite Greg, his grand, white mustache twitching, eyebrows up and down like a stormy sea, and his fist flexing and relaxing. He was, quite rightly, perplexed. Meg served us some tea, sending me a look that told me I might have overstepped this time.

Their cabin was homely and, I noted, home to at least one goblin.

“Have you any idea what they did to that girl’s family—to her?” she finally said.

“Mudpaw?” I asked. “The goblin you have taken in? The one who works day and night extracting stone for us, not because we force her to but because she wants to contribute? The same goblins that used to attack this place?”

“Those brutes drove them.”

Greg sighed. “He has you, love, and you know it. But I’ll admit, feeding hobgoblins isn’t sitting well with me.”

“I understand, but the tales of their cauldron should help.”

“Then tell me.”

So, I did, and I made a long and rambling tale because farmsteaders liked stories that take time, and tales change thoughts not in jumps but in long and sweeping curves. And when I finished, I performed my coup de gras and left them, helping Platos down from my wagon and bringing him close to their hearth where he hunched, trembling and shivering from the night’s cold.

“What kind of man are you that you would leave him outside?” Meg admonished, and Greg sent me a look that signaled wry appreciation for my manipulation.

“Tell me what you need,” he said with a long, drawn-out sigh.

“I need food, as much as you can grow. You can dismantle all your defenses. Our new lines are beyond the goblin settlement of Mesinto, a few hundred yards down from the entrance. A hob named Throkka Shadowfist holds those tunnels with twenty hob warriors, backed by a troop of goblins under the command of Muckspur. They ease forward daily, but not so much as to cause suspicion. Sanders is playing his part well.”

He was too, and in a reasonably untenable position, as was I in respect of him. It was my next issue, but the status quo suited me while I worked other outcomes out. With all my plans in motion, it wouldn’t be long before I had the numbers to take Brightwater with or without him—as long as I could maintain the illusion that I would do no such thing. The way the goblin rock-crafters extracted stone, I could be in the valley behind the keep in ten days. Armies don’t fight well when caught from behind.

“Say we could—say we could turn this area into farms and have them all at the top level. Who is going to till the land?” Greg asked.

Platos leaned back from the fire. “Once,” he said, “there were hobgoblins versed in the lore of farming. No race, not even one that revolves around fighting, can exist without eating.”

I grinned. “There,” I said to Greg. “All your problems solved. For a little food, you get a secure border and labor. And to think, I went down there solely intending to retrieve the Annuck Core.”

Greg ran his finger around the top of his mug. “I guess some folks are luckier than others.”

“I guess they are,” I said, recalling my stolen moment with Tanaka.

* * *

“Barnaby, I need a favor,” I said, walking into my banner room. “I need a dwelling constructed between the Lording House and the tavern. I have a list of the following requirements, which I will read out in the potential resident’s words to give you a feel for the place I need.” I cleared my throat. “It must be built adjacent to a stream, preferably with a pool or small lake nearby. It should be a single level as I don’t like stairs, with a nice-sized scullery, but close to Anna, as I’ve heard her cakes are the best. Also near Jess’s, as I know I will like her ale. I wish to see trees and pasture, and not be near a sewer. Upstream of other dwellings is essential.”

“Who is this for?” Barnaby asked.

“One is a hobgoblin, and the other is a friend of mine. They have been together less than a day, and already they have Leyathel, Anna, Tanaka, and Fiona running after them. Not my idea of a Lording House, I can tell you. I stayed in Tanaka’s new place last night.”

“I’m sure it had its benefits,” he said.

“It did, but that’s beside the point. Have we anyone that can build this thing?”

Barnaby sighed. “As you know, it is a race to upgrade the stronghold again. As the longest build is the wall, I have a team on that, while another team upgrading the range has switched to the farmsteads for now—upon your orders, I might add. So, in effect, we are upgrading the wall, the farms, and the military buildings, although the latter is on hiatus. It would be hard to find spare capacity to build another dwelling.”

“But they’re making me crazy,” I said. “They’re old—old people. I like them, but want them to be old people in someone else’s house.”

Barnaby tapped the table. “Jensome? What are your thoughts?”

“Sense our lord is desperate, don’t I? When a lord is desperate, he needs to calm down. Now, I hear tell that there will be hobs farming and the like, so no doubt they’ll be hobs spare to do some building. Now, hobs are bigguns—not much finesse there, I’ll wager, so I think this. Hobs are no good with wood. Stone’s their thing, like the goblins. Us—” he looked about—“we like a bit of both, but we love wood for all the trimmings.”

“Get to it, man,” I said.

“Well, it’s like this. We need a road built from here to Treygovro, and it should pass through Mesinto and branch to the valley of Brightwater. It should start at the iron mines in the mixed area and beyond, and butt up to the elven forest. The road is best made from stone, so get the hobs and goblins to build it, and that will free up a team to build this villa that you require.”

Villa—yes, that was precisely what I needed. “Jensome, you’re a marvel.”

“No, I just hate building roads.”

“It will be so. Now, what did the level six upgrade bring?” I asked.

“A mint and a treasury,” said Barnaby. “We’ve set them out and built them to level one, but we’ve gone no further, as barter is working fine at the moment.”

“It is,” I said. “But with three cities plus the elves, it won’t be long before currency becomes essential. Now, we should talk about coal. We’ll need a new warehouse for the stuff, and we should fill it before the bleakness comes. It will be a boon beyond compare.”

“A new warehouse?” Barnaby said. “I’ll just pick another team of workers out of my ass and work on it.”

I let his comment slide. I needed Fennel and Platos out of my Lording House—Scamp too. The three of them compromised their value to me—especially as Tanaka had joined us. That triple delight was a thing in the waiting. “Grand,” I said. “Why don’t you do just that?” And I stood. “Besides, one thing you aren’t mentioning is the ever-increasing population. You have more builders than ever.”

I made to walk out, but Jensome, as builders are wont to do, squeezed in the last word.

“Yep, but the builds are getting that much bigger too.”

It was valid—unwelcome but valid.

* * *

I gave Willow her head, blowing the cobwebs from me, the confusion of everything, that need to do so many things at once that there was a danger none got done. When it came to empire-building, there was careful expansion, and there was recklessness, and I was veering toward the latter.

It was no fault of my own, barring that my thoughts regarding old adversaries had changed. Had I been the same before, would this sudden expansion have happened? Had I refused to eradicate an enemy and instead courted them for an unlikely marriage, then what? And these new allies—elves, goblins, and hobs—what of them? The unclean races—the feared ones—monsters and demons—the things that went bump in the night before slashing children’s throats. When had they become…human? Was that it? Was it because I knew them?

Wind whipped around me. Willow’s gallop was something to behold. It plastered a grin upon my face as I raced through our mixed resource area, past Claus’s old quarry, onto and beyond his new one and towards the southern edge of the Wolding Wood. I raced along its edge, turning and pulling up when I came to the edge of its blight, and there I gasped and cried out in rage.

It was a picture of carnage, like the front of a wind-driven fire, the stench of destruction everywhere. I gulped down my anger, steeling my gut and demanding I remove emotion from my thoughts. I was doing all I could, but I needed to understand the scale of the destruction to spur me forward for the next part of meeting Morgan’s demands. That couldn’t be done from the tightness of the forest. I needed a better view that showed me the magnitude of the destruction—one that might ignite my rage, swell my myst, and clear my thinking of its confusion.

I raced along its edge. It was close to but not impeding on the mixed resource area—solely designed to torment the elves. Then I was upon the plains, once scorched with evil, but recovered, knee-high in pasture and fragrant with life. It was ready, if I ever needed it, for farmland.

I’d not taken note of the valley before, but it was broad, flat-bottomed, and came from the south without apparent start, hemmed by mountains, but not tightly—not tightly at all. A river meandered through it, and I headed for it, having never spied it before, perhaps because I had always been so preoccupied with a certain sorceress with steel-colored hair and a sharp smile.

I was at its banks in no time, and Willow took a drink, shaded under a stand of saplings, their roots partly marked by the passing of that dread caravan. The river was broad, fast-flowing enough not to choke with sediment, and its bed was of stone and rock, with the odd boulder rolled into its depths, creating islands. It was too wide to cross easily, but I guessed there would be a ford along its length. Fishing? For some hidden reason, that pulled at my heart.

There was another tumbled rock nearby, although where any had slipped from was a mystery, so stranded they were. I sat upon it, chewing on a piece of grass. Was this indeed monster land? Was that what it was? What made it so different from any other place? I could see that valley filled with clusters of farms, endless crops, cattle by the hundred and sheep by the thousand. All to feed a mighty castle that rose to the sky just over a magical elven wood.

But was that why I had been thrown ten thousand years into the future? I doubted something so inherently simple as that dream was the reason why. So, where did the evil I was reborn to fight come from? Was it over those distant mountains to the east or from the lands of the Lords and Ladies to the west? Perhaps the south—the direction Nunez Excalivar had mysteriously ventured. Or to the north—towards Iron Mountain, where I would inevitably battle dwarves for that precious metal?

But the valley surrounding me—was that the key—the reason why Kanazar had settled where he had? Was it a valley that could support the largest army ever built—one of the elves, hobs, goblins and humans? Then I wondered—was that it? Had I been reborn to build the largest army ever conceived to fight the foe of everything?

It was a consideration.

I looked up, conscious of eyes upon me, and saw it circling. It was a giant bird, its wingspan a tall man’s height, its color grey. I watched it as it circled, a pricking upon my neck as sweat beaded and my myst ebbed and flowed, readied for battle should it come. Yet, I sensed tranquility there, like it carried no threat.

It flew away, over the elven desolation, along its blackness, and then, distantly, it turned and headed back. It was while tracking that bird that I witnessed the entirety of the devastation that the blight had caused. I understood Leyathel’s anger—the change slowly coming upon her. Gone were the innocent depths of spiritual oneness with her inner self that elves so annoying manifested, but was quite attractive in one if you loved them. Gone was her pacifism, replaced by an edge that had always been there but only appeared when threatened. In its place had grown a stronger person—one who now carried her sword upon her hip as if a battle was around every corner—who actively sought out the twisted creatures that rose from the sundered soil and dispatched them without mercy. Gone was much of Leyathel—the bough that would bend with the breeze. There was steel in her backbone, and I mourned the change and welcomed the new her in equal amounts.

My mind had drifted, and I’d lost sight of the great bird. I scanned the horizon, searching it out—looked above, dreading seeing the beast hurtling towards me, wings drawn in. But it was nowhere, and then it was next to me, but no longer a bird.

“You!” I said, and she smiled.

“You were looking for me, and I came. There’s no need to snap,” she scolded.

“I should kill you for what you have done!”

Upon my boulder sat Morgan—the Grey Sorceress, the architect of the elven blight. Her long, grey hair lifted in the breeze, freeing me to gaze upon her porcelain skin, steel eyes, and sharp cheeks. There was no softness there, but there was beauty, and it was there in abundance.

“You should hurry,” she said. “It crackles and burns. Clever of you, though.”

“What was?”

“To steal all her wood while giving her yours in return.” She smiled, her thin lips becoming a line, her teeth as white as snow.

“I did not steal it,” I said. “I saved it from your curse.”

“My curse?” she said.

“You uttered it.”

“Mayhap,” she replied. “The first moon passed while you were Under. Did you tame the goblins?”

“I did.”

“The hobs?”

“Are mine. You might be Queen of the Trolls, but you’ll find my army swollen when you return with yours.”

She laughed then. “Queen of the Trolls? I think not. That is not my role in this.”

“What is your role?”

“What of Finnigan?”

“Do you always ignore a question and ask another?”

“I ignore the pointless and ask the important. Time presses.”

“I have met the stick.”

“I would not call him that to his face. Did you feel anything?”

“I was concentrating on running from Vale’s magic.”

“You survived that?”

“Clearly.”

She turned then, and I bore the brunt of her hawkish beauty, wanting to know her more, but reviled by her evil. “Have you wondered why?” she asked.

She stood, her light dress rippling, legs bare, feet the same. She looked vulnerable—hardly a witch, barely a sorceress, certainly no Queen of the Trolls. A young woman in a simple dress. A desirable woman.

“Why?” I asked, sensing our time was short.

“There is a point to this,” she said. “There is a need. Do you wonder why Leyathel grows? Why she only truly changes when her trees are ripped from her? Have you ever seen a mother bird toss a young one from its nest so that it might learn to fly? Change is needed. Know this, Daniel, we have shortened your time. In four days, the blight will be at Selleviene, the mother tree. If it gnaws at those mighty roots, the elves will be lost. Bring me that moonstone before the night is done on the fourth, and she will be saved. Bring the stick too. I have a mind to talk to him regarding a few things.”

She reached, her hands touching, arms straight, and she dove from the rock, but upward. She morphed, changed into that great bird, that hawkish thing that had circled, and she was gone, headed south—headed the way I’d gone once as Nunez Excalivar.

CHAPTER 15

The Lording House was a welcome sight, despite its elderly guests. In the afternoon’s light, I could see it had grown now that I had three ladies. Pilasters held up a substantial porch, its roof tiles and ridges ending in tiny gargoyles that were dangerously close in resemblance to Mudspur. I wouldn’t have put it past the little imp to have coerced a mason into doing just that.

The upper windows had railed balconies, which told me the iron mines had begun producing ore. A wisteria grew up on one side, lilac cones of drooping flowers adding beauty. There was a winding path leading up to my new porch, split by a small, ornate pond with a figure standing in it, and I pondered that thing’s significance but could grasp none. It was of a young-looking youth, naked, with a bow nocked and aimed at the water. I gathered it was some god—they always liked their depictions young—and moved on. Gods had never interested me much.

I entered through a polished oak door, the new garden obstacles circumvented or passed through. I was pleased to see my hallway was still magnificent, and there, in the distance before the glazed wall that opened to the gardens, was Anna, who rushed to me.

“Where have you been? They said you left on Willow.”

“I wanted to look upon the blight, to see it and gauge how much time we have.”

“A while yet. The first full moon has only just passed.”

“Not so,” I said, telling her the story.

She led me to the dining table, and we sat. “This Morgan, do you believe her?”

“I’m tending to. She is part of something grander—an emissary of sorts. I must be on my guard.”

“Why?”

“I began to think she might not be an evil sorceress.”

“Then what?”

“A part played. Did I mention she could turn into a bird?”

“What type?”

“A giant hawk, I think. I’m not great with those things. It was quite—”

“Quite what?”

“Beautiful.”

“And she.”

“The same,” I said.

“Don’t let that sway you,” she said. “I know a pretty face turns you.”

I reached for her, the feel of her skin sending ripples of desire through me. “There is beauty both inside and out. I need both to find desire.”

There was some truth in my words, but not the entire amount. Passion could be found in danger and goodness—the forces of attraction being varied.

“How has Leyathel been? Is it me, or is she hardening?”

“There is a sadness about her that is manifesting as rumbling anger. Her temper is much quicker than it used to be.”

“It’s what they want,” I said, my thoughts drifting like my voice.

“They?”

“Whoever Morgan is allied with.”

She nodded toward the garden. “Perhaps they might be able to shed some light on things.”

There in the garden sat Fennel and Platos. The hob’s face raised, drinking in the sun, and there was contentment on his wizened skin. Fennel watched me, averting his gaze as our eyes met.

“Go to them,” she said. “I shall bring out cakes and tea.”

“Have you no sage advice for me?”

She rose and pecked me on the cheek. “I know less than you. That is not a position advice should be given from.”

I got up and joined Fennel and Platos in the garden. At first, we sat silently, but then a cruel memory reminded me my time was on a counter. I had four days to solve all this before the blight consumed Selleviene and, with it, Leyathel.

“What do you know of a stick called Finnigan?” I asked.

“Finnigan? Has he found you?”

“So, you know of him?”

“Of course. He was yours. Perhaps your greatest companion. How has he traveled this far?” Fennel quietened. “You slept in this place, didn’t you?”

“I did.”

“Then he would have begged, borrowed, killed, done anything to get close to you. I’ll bet it took him an age to travel half the land. Is he here?”

It was quite the revelation, and I ruminated on it. “I have a history with this thing?”

“You do.”

“Is it a magical item?”

Fennel pursed his lips. “More a manipulative thing. It is a shape-changer, a spy, a tool used by you to eavesdrop, gain access, trick, and deceive. It has no magic, but it can control those with magic.”

“Are they common?”

“I have never come across another. Finnegan is unique, as far as I recall.”

“I thought your memory was intact.”

“You might have lived for as long as me. You might suffer the fog of sleep’s confusion, but I was awake for the same length of time. Imagine what that does to a person’s mind.”

“So, this stick, this shape-changer—this thing called Finnigan, what is it trying to do?”

“Why, to reunite with you.”

“Then why didn’t it dash for me when it saw me?”

He shrugged. “I only know what it is. I witnessed your interaction with it on some occasions. Half the time, I had no clue where it was.” He drummed his chin. “Perhaps she has it locked in some kind of entrapment spell?”

“Not her,” I said, sure that a thing that had crossed half a continent would not be undone by a sorceress who dominated only some backward arena. “The moonstone.”

It added a layer of complexity but expanded some of Morgan’s words. “Have you ever heard of a Sorceress called Morgan—sometimes Grey?”

“No.”

“You?” I asked Platos. “Is she in any of your books?”

“Not that I recall.”

“How about some great cabal to the south of here?”

“South?” said Platos.

I leaned closer to him. “Yes, south, beyond the Wolding Woods, along a great valley.”

“Rumors,” he said. “I’ve seen messages—batons handed from one hob to another.”

“What did they say?”

“They told of power, that is all. Great power and gods, and they told of blackness and shadows and war coming. I thought it was all fantasy. Who wouldn’t? All hobs know that if you venture far enough south, the land ends in the Great Abyss.”

“Well, it’s nice of you to keep that morsel to yourselves. What else do all hobs know that others don’t?”

“That if an end were to come—and I talk of the end of everything—then it will come from that place.”

The Jewel of Everything was a trinket Lysander held. The foe of everything were my words. Were they subconscious slip-ups or something I knew previously? “The end of everything?” I asked.

“Just that. The End of Everything is how it all happens—how the world is unstitched and time ceases to be,”

“Then that is what we must be fighting,” I said, and Fennel grinned but did not expand.

We chatted then about less important things. My mind needed to acclimate to a foe I had little inkling of, save it was a vast one. But, it settled me to understand a fragment of my purpose, and I decided on the assumption that all up to this point had been a test—a trial to see if I was worthy of this challenge. Another question lurked. Was this my third and final attempt?

“My previous lives,” I said, focusing on Fennel. “That of Nunez Excalivar and Phillipe of Byoux, what do you know of them?”

He paled a little, a thousand expressions rippling across his face, then he covered his mouth with his hands and looked away. “You kept that from me. I know nothing of these men.”

“You lie,” I said casually. “And it is obvious. You must hone your skills if you are to continue.”

“I do not lie,” he said. “I know nothing of them because they both existed in the blink of an eye. One ventured south—presumably to those battling gods. The other did much the same, but he traveled north. But I know you, and you must have wanted their purpose concealed from me.”

“Why?”

“That I do not know.”

“Then I am none the wiser.”

“Nonsense. You would have left yourself a clue, at least. Remember, you were devious.”

“There is a place,” Platos suddenly said, raising his hand like he needed permission to speak, extending a finger, then plunging it into his ear and rooting around.

“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” I snapped, disgusted.

“It’s my ear.” He inspected his unearthed treasure. “There was a place called Byoux at the edge of the northern lands.”

I sat up. “You are sure about this?”

“Hobgoblins are a fierce, territorial race, but we do communicate, and some of our cities rival yours, and we talk, trade, and note the rise and fall of all things Above. Byoux was a city, and it was the last refuge of the giants. I’ve read the scrolls and communique.”

“Giants,” I said. “There was a city full of giants?”

He shrugged. “Was. It is no more. It was razed to the ground thousands of years ago.”

It was a clue—two clues, at least. Two lives, two directions, two clues, none helped me now. I winked at Fennel. “Finnigan—good to know.”

The door clattered open, and Pip burst into the garden. “You must come quickly. Vale is attacking.”

* * *

Red magic seared the walls, shooting over me as I scampered towards our lines. Throkka Shadowfist pulled me in, bundling me past a group of entrenched hobs. “Heads down!” he barked as one looked up.

A blast of ice-blue magic streaked across the cavern, smashing into a rocky outcrop, exploding, reducing it to rubble. Throkka Shadowfist jumped into a trench, wood boarding lining its bottom, three hobgoblin priests crouching in the corner with Lysander towering over them.

“Get up,” my wizard growled. “It is but a tickle—it’s nothing but that. What use is any of you? I might as well have left you in the dungeons.”

He appeared a little angry…

They trembled. He cursed and smacked the trench’s sides. “These priests are useless,” he cried, turned and said. “Daniel, nice to see you. Did we kill all the good ones?”

“It appears so.” I eased my head over the trench. “She’s behind that nub there. Sanders’ men are advancing every time she uses her magic.”

“She can’t maintain it forever,” Lysander said. “Everyone has a reserve.” His eyes darkened. “Though some of us have tricks to make it last.” He set his jaw in a determined line, thunder hiding inside him, waiting to explode.

“Which she knows, so what’s her game?”

“She wants the Jewel of Everything—why not give it to her?” Lysander said. “We need the moonstone—let’s trade.”

“No!” I said. “There’s more to that thing than meets the eye.”

He laughed. “I don’t intend to give it to her,” he howled, then laughed, and I saw the runes were back, the dark shadows under his eyes and the madness was there behind them like it had never left.

“Vallera?” I asked, thinking they might have argued.

“Not here. Gone, she’s gone to defend her tree—the blight reaches it faster than before.”

“But—”

“She’ll not let Chivers cut it down. Says she’d rather die. She’s vanished under it.”

“Then go to her!” I shouted.

He glared at me, maddened, then sagged some. “I have said all I could. I have implored, cajoled, and cried for her, but there is no turning her head. Ultimately, the only thing I could do was let her have her way.”

“Her way?”

“To be with it when it succumbs.”

He threw his hand back, tossing it forward, a great ball of red magic issuing from it, racing through the cavern to explode by Vale. “And this is how I console myself. We go forward. Sanders is attacking—damn him. No appeasement!”

I made him right. On the face of it, Sanders was advancing. Scamp darted across the cavern’s floor, racing towards us, jumping into our trench and pulling me down.

“Message from Sanders. He’s trying for the wormhole—has twenty good men ready to come over.”

I stared into the gloom and chaos, momentarily rearing my head over the wall. A dozen arrows skidded off it, followed by a bolt of blue magic. I ducked, scree strafing me. “Is that why they’re sneaking forward?”

“It’s a ruse. Vale thinks he’s attacking.”

“Then we must offer him a diversion,” Lysander said and pulled himself over the wall, out of the trench and stood, marching straight for Vale, sending one firebolt after the next.

“He’s got a death wish, that one,” said Scamp.

“Go back, see Sanders into the tunnel, and get Pip to race ahead and have Broadchurch guard its end.”

“You don’t trust him?” Scamp asked.

“I don’t trust anyone,” I replied. “Throkka! Forward!”

I rippled, my armor replacing my cloak, my spear in hand, and I climbed out of the trench and ran after Lysander, shield high, spear ready, zigzagging. “Get down, you fool!” I said, but he laughed and raised his staff, the Jewel of Everything shining brightly. “This thing is more than that trinket!” he said. “I’ll stop playing now, shall I?”

He raised his staff high, and I noted it was black, the same staff I’d taken from Calavork. “Let’s see if she likes this.” He punched his free hand upward, and white light shot from the jewel, jagged like lightning. It smashed into the ceiling above Vale with a thunderous clap, rock falling, boulders crashing to the ground, shattering, soldiers running, priests lifting their cloaks and showing their heels to us. He punched the air again, and another bolt shot upward. “See how she likes this!” He focused the staff and jewel on Vale’s hideout and barked an unintelligible word.

“No!” I screamed. “You might destroy the moonstone.”

But it was too late. His terrible magic burst from the jewel, obliterating the bluff, reducing it to rubble, and of Vale and the moonstone, there was no sign,

“No!” I screamed again, racing forward, hurdling the rubble, great rents in the cavern’s floor, rounding what was left of the bluff and pulling over the dead and dying, desperate to find her, to get hold of that precious stone. “You fool!” I cried when I saw nothing—no trace of Vale, Finnigan or the moonstone. I looked around, ready to tear into him, but he was on his knees, arms by his sides and head raised in anguish, and I knew it wasn’t the time. I knew then that Vallera was lost, that he’d felt their connection severed, and that my hero was darkened once more.

“She escaped,” Sanders said, coming by me, his hand resting on my shoulder. “Vale’s gone.”

“I hope so,” I said.

“No, she did. I saw her, tracked her until she cut off all messages.” He crouched beside me. “I’d just tricked her into letting me feint an attack when your wizard jumped out of the trench. Damn glad his anger was focused on her.”

I turned a dead priest over, the dust still settling, his face blackened and burned. “What will she do now?”

“Best guess, go to the castle and hole up in her tower. She’ll call everyone in from the fields, have the guard pull up the bridge, and then isolate the keep. It’ll take months to get to her, then the bleakness will come, which’ll make any attacking army withdraw. She’s as good as safe there.”

“I need to get to her quicker than that.”

“How quick?”

“Days, not months.”

His jaw sagged open.

I stood, spearing a groaning priest and putting him out of his misery, then marching forward, not stopping until I was at the cave’s mouth, then calling Throkka on.

“This line, Throkka Shadowfist, this line is the farthest back you will ever retreat—you hear me? Today—this is today’s line.” I marched forward. “See that farm over there—that’s tomorrow’s line, then all the way to the keep, but stay out of range. Bring all goblins, all hobs. I will raise more later. Remember, from this day on, all the farmland up the valley is ours. All humans are to be treated well—no looting, no burning. You have food now—more than you can eat.”

He regarded me, his head slightly cocked. “Have you ever seen a hobgoblin eat?” he said and went about his business, barking at his kin and bringing their defenses forward.

“Do you really trust them?” Sanders asked.

“Take your men,” I snapped. “Go to the wormhole and travel up to my castle. Stop by Greg’s farmstead and ask him and his wife about them—about all the creatures, the hobs, the goblins and elves, and if when you’re done and if you’re not convinced, then there’s a valley to the east. Live your days there in peace and with my blessing.”

He stared at his boots as if ashamed, then nodded several times. “If you say it is so, then I believe it.”

“I do. I say they are good in their way, as many of ours are. But, seek them out, if for nothing else than a good night of ale and food. I’ll be more settled knowing the conclusions are your own. Then, rouse Broadchurch and tell him to bring all but a skeleton force. He’s to march on Brightwater with you, and all of them, goblins, humans and hobs, will sit and siege but not engage. Make machines—prepare rams. But never engage unless they leave the walls. On the morning of the third day, move forward, ready to attack. The morning of the third day and no later.”

“What are you up to?”

“Relying on you to have them turn their backs to me,” I said.

“That—” he began but thought better of it.

He retreated into the tunnel, and I followed him until I came to Lysander, offering him my hand. “You have wine?” I asked.

He stared towards me like I wasn’t there, then rose, planting his staff, the Jewel of Everything burning brightly. “We need to talk.”

“We do.”

“I have wine.”

“That is good.”

“Bring Scamp and Pip, both are good hunters, and I crave meat. I’ve had my fill of—”

“That green shit,” I said for him, and he nearly cracked a smile.

He strode off toward the light.

* * *

There was a fire crackling and a river burbling. We sat upon its bank, and Pip turned the spit, a suckling pig upon it, dripping fat into the flames and making them spit and snap. Night had drawn in, and Lysander had been silent for much of the while, choosing to drink and stare at the stars. Then, before Pip carved, he broke his silence.

“The Jewel was meant for me. Did you know that?”

I did not and told him so.

He grunted. “Did you wonder why I could use it so easily when I have no tower, so should have no ability? Did you wonder why Kanazar ignited my powers early?”

“The power you wielded in the cavern was—”

“Damn wicked,” said Scamp.

“Surely was and surely be,” said Pip in his convoluted way.

“That,” I said.

He pulled the jewel from the staff. “This is the Jewel of Everything, and this is Quickwood.”

“Quickwood?” I asked, but vague bells rang in my misted fog.

“Just that. Quickwood is the finest conductor and magnifier of magic known to man. It is said that it can increase the power of a spell a hundredfold. I’m unsure of the exact amount, but I can tell you this. This is my staff, and I called it Rallpinto, and this is my jewel, and I gave it no other name apart from it because it is the most powerful jewel that ever was.”

“But,” I said, wanting to reveal my truths but needing to understand his first. “But the elves named it—they said it was theirs, and the hobgoblin Kanak wielded it.”

“I wondered at that too, but then imagine this: ten thousand years is long enough to be called history. But the truth is this—I remember it now because when I unwittingly reunited the jewel and staff, final memories came back to me, and they were of my death.”

“You remembered how you died?” Scamp asked.

“I’m not sure if that’s terrible or just sad,” I said, taking a large slug of wine and waiting for the revelation.

“I killed them all for you, Daniel,” he said. “I remember it now.”

“Who?” I said. “Who did you kill?”

“The giants,” he said. “I eradicated them when they told me you were dead by their hand.”

I closed my eyes. “Byoux?”

“That place, yes.” He paused. “You know it?”

There was silence then. Pip unspitted the pig and carved it, and we all ate. We opened another bottle of wine, then a third, before I spoke.

“It is my understanding that I made some deal with Gods and was thrown forward ten thousand years from then—give or take. It has also come to me that Castle Kanazar is my former castle and that it kept me safe while I slept. Here’s one part that’s beginning to make sense. I woke up twice during my sleep. Each time I built the stronghold up enough to perform a task. Having listened to you, I believe my first iteration, Philippe of Byoux, traveled to the scene of your devastation, and I retrieved both Rallpinto and the Jewel. I surmise that I gave them to some predecessor of Leyathel to keep safe and that they, through complacency and weakness, lost the staff to the hobgoblins. They must have quarreled over it and broken it up, one piece—the jewel—going to Sanak, while Calavork took the other. There it stayed, and you know the rest.”

Lysander took the wine. “That all fits—conveniently so, but that might be because it is how it happened. That you sought a bargain with gods, which were actually giants. It’s a simple mix-up—giants and gods are an easy swap.”

“Unless they were gods,” I said. “In a giant’s city.”

“Which I destroyed.”

“Why?” I asked, even though he answered it.

“I still don’t remember the depths of our relationship, but I do remember the depths of my despair. You were dead, murdered, as far as I was concerned. I, and I know this from that glimpse, would have killed them a thousand times over for you. For that, I can have no remorse.”

I reached, but he flinched away, so I said, “And I would have no finer hero.”

He glanced at me, that strange smile of his laced with embarrassment. “You had news,” he said. “Tell me about that.”

“Fennel is here—you might recall him if you were my hero. He tells me that Finnigan is mine—a mimic that was with me through thick and thin. It seems the little blighter might want to reunite with me.”

“Your armor, your hero, and now your mimic. You have a pull that spans time itself.”

I laughed at that. “It is so. I wonder if I was an arrogant prick or not. Arrogance and power often go together.”

“If you weren’t then, then you are—”

I punched his shoulder. “Enough of that. You’ll not show me disrespect in front of these two.”

“Why are we here?” said Pip. “Talk of gods and giants and magic and slaughter is not for sharing with us.”

“Shush,” said Scamp.

“Why shouldn’t I share with you?” I asked Pip. “When you were running through that cavern, Vale throwing her magic about, arrows flying, did you think you might die?”

He nodded. I passed him a bottle. “Then you’ve every right to hear our conversation, but only if you can keep it to yourself—understand?”

“Everything,” he said.

“So,” said Lysander. “What’s the plan?”

“Before I get to that, tell me of Vallera.” I held my hand up when an anguished look spread upon his face. I pressed on. “I’m not asking by choice. I met Morgan this morning, and she gave a little away—”

“I’m going to kill that bitch!”

“As may be,” I said, “but I don’t think the curse has much to do with her, barring its casting, perhaps, but certainly not its planning or intention.”

“A featherlight difference.”

“Agreed, but please, tell me of Vallera.”

“She called me, and I went to her. Her pool was east of Selleviene, as was her tree, and so it stood in the blight’s path. Chivers was there, axe in hand, and he said he would cut it gently for her, though how that would be achieved is another thing. She refused him and said she would die with her tree rather than see him chop its bark. He asked me for guidance, and she demanded I order him on. So I did, and that was that.”

“Except not—what happened next?”

“She said goodbye and went into her cave. That was the last I saw of her. Why?”

“I don’t know. But something is happening there. As I said, I skirted the blight this morning and saw no elves. Leyathel has been leaving early, by all accounts. She wears her sword on her hip—quite delightfully, I might add—and she slaughters hideous creations on the blight’s margins.”

“So?” he said.

“So she’s treading on the corruption—embracing it and dispensing with her purity. Did Vallera appear anything but distraught?”

He cocked his head, then looked into the flames. “Thinking about it, ‘distraught’ isn’t the word—’determined’ fits better.”

“But not distraught for her tree?”

“No; if anything, she appeared to want it to burn rather than have Chivers remove it.” He shifted around, facing me. “What are you thinking? Don’t give me hope if there’s none there!”

“It is not what I’m thinking. I’m trying to make sense of Morgan’s words.”

“What were they?”

I tried to recall them, and I did, word for word. “She said: ‘Do you wonder why Leyathel grows? Why she only truly changes when her trees are ripped from her? Have you ever seen a mother bird toss a young one from its nest so that it might learn to fly? Change is needed.’ Make of that what you will.”

Lysander drank his wine. “Izzy vanished—Sarah was at her wits end searching for him, but he was gone.”

“Do you think Vallera is dead?”

He stared at me. “That’s the thing. I know she is gone, but she isn’t dead.”

“Sounds like the elves are vanishing,” said Scamp.

CHAPTER 16

I’d gathered the gang—well, Pip and Scamp had—and we rested by the foothills. Before us was a broad escarpment of scree and heather, tumbled rock puncturing it. Withering trees climbed to daunting cliffs upon which the ridge cut the broody sky, thunderheads gathering.

It was good to reunite with Tanaka. It felt like it had been an age, even though it was only a day—so much had happened. Her part in the plan was crucial. We’d lost Spelunk to that dreaded worm and needed at least two at the tunnel’s head. Drillshank was there, as was the ever-hardworking Mudspur. The elves Windwood and Oakensong joined us, though, of Sylvanheart, there was no trace. I questioned both on the absence of their brothers and sisters, not just Sylvanheart, but they would say nothing save when beauty is gone, there is only rage left.

This group was our band—three goblins, two elves, and four humans. An unlikely bunch for a task that might be doomed from the outset, and although I had little fear that Lysander was more powerful than Vale, a sorceress in her tower should never be underestimated.

I stood and told them it was time. We didn’t have enough of that precious thing to linger. It was the second day of four, and we had a tunnel to build, all the while trying to conceal our actions from any birds Vale might send to spy on us, creatures she might dispatch to kill us, and any magical traps she might put in our way.

“We must climb to the cliffs,” said Tanaka. “We’ll have to clear all this gravel and scree before tunneling here.”

“To the cliffs then,” I said. “You three can start. Oakensong can grow us cover while Pip and Scamp take turns on the ridge.”

“What will you do?” she asked me.

“Lysander and I will traverse the slope, get the measure of Throkka Shadowfist’s siege and make sure that Broadchurch is playing his part.”

“You don’t trust him?”

“He is a weak spot. He is not comfortable with any but a human.”

“There are goblins that think the same but otherwise.”

I nodded but accepted it. Unity was a goal. Mutual victory would bring it about surer than any words.

There are devils and demons in any task, and climbing loose stones and gravel is second only to wet mud in those terms. They set off, and Lysander and I watched them go, knowing they’d be defenseless against any aerial attack. It was a risk worth taking—no, it was a risk we had to endure.

We traversed the slope quickly, then stole along a drystone wall and across a pasture to another. Climbing one of the ridge’s ribs, we squatted and looked upon the scene.

Brightwater lay nestled in its valley’s mouth, its sturdy wall a buttress that arced out into our valley, that breakwater defending it against evil, a dam holding back Brightwater’s power. Broadchurch was there, a small patch of milling men, grey banners unfurled, so insignificant he might be a stain upon a grand cloth. As I suspected, he was keeping away from the hobs, who, in turn, were separate from Sander’s small force, the goblins alone on the edge.

“What do you want to do?” Lysander asked.

“Not sure. This part of the plan is uncertain—Morgan has hurried everything with the curse’s advancement.” I thought hard. “They are exposed—that much is clear from this. If Vale sees how weak we are, she might recover her mettle and attack. They would stand no chance.”

“We need more troops,” Lysander said and stated the obvious fact that I was trying not to see.

“We have a day,” I said. “How about this? You go to them, sit with them a while, and counter with the quickwood staff and the Jewel of Everything if Vale attacks. But take care—leave that castle intact. I feel we will need it before that adventure is done.”

He looked from the castle to the men to me. “You mean to rouse more hobs?”

“I do.”

“Then I will send Throkka to you. Their commander should be there to lead them here.”

“What of those down there?”

“I have priests.”

“The ones frightened of their own shadow?”

“Cowards find courage in the shade of a true hero,” he said, winked, then clapped me on the back and was gone.

I regarded him for a while, wondering at his mood swings—from dark to light with the snap of his fingers. The question was how much the lightness masked the dark. I headed back to the cave, spots of rainfall causing me to glance to the escarpment and see the small group struggling up—to see how vulnerable they were. My heart went out to them, but I could do nothing. There simply wasn’t time.

* * *

Treygorvo hung before me; its crypt changed once more—a small dome above, lightning striking weakly, stars snuffed out. Although rushed, I asked the core a question.

“Why the new room?”

“I feel more powerful. Does my dwelling reflect this?”

“It does. Reminds me of another’s chamber.”

“The city grows again—you have lifted its morale, and with it mine. Food is abundant. You should rouse some more hobs.”

“I will, but I need something from you first.”

“Then ask.”

“Give me fighters in preference.”

“But we need builders.”

“I need fighters right now. Builders, farmers, those of commerce can come later.”

“Builders will bring more morale. With that, you can rouse as many fighters as you wish.”

“Make a choice. Help me in this, and I will help you in the other.”

It was a decent bargain. Any good core should see it.

“Take your chances,” it said, and the doors swung open. Platos’ dingy library presented itself, the hob cauldron upon its altar.

The slap of weary footsteps announced Throkka’s arrival, and I nodded to him as he doubled over, panting. I raised my palms in apology. “Plans change.”

“It is a grand castle—that wall is like looking up at a great glacier. I will feel better with more men.”

“Then let’s get you them.”

I touched the cauldron, grasped it, then searched my mind for its tab.

Cauldron of Rebirth, Hobgoblin, Treygorvo

It spoke in my mind.

“Do you wish to raise the dead?” That same sonorous voice asked.

“I do,” I said.

“How many do you wish to rebirth?”

“One hundred and fifty.”

“Need more!” Throkka Shadowfist barked.

“There is precious little morale here. I am using Kanazar’s. Let’s see what your core gives me.”

I recoiled as the first head appeared. His expression was fear, then anger, then relief.

“Throkka Shadowfist!” he shouted, then, “Human!” he growled, low and insidious. He jumped from the cauldron, reaching for a weapon he, fortunately, didn’t have.

“Haslan! Back. This is Lord Daniel, our master.”

“Master? Human master? We lost?”

“We did,” said Throkka Shadowfist.

“What’s changed? We were strong once? What changed?”

“Everything has changed.” Throkka approached him, chest to chest, growl to growl. “Obey him!”

Haslan held for a moment. I turned from the cauldron, shedding my cloak and replacing it with my armor, sword in hand, tip on Haslan’s throat. “Back to the cauldron for you? I’m sure plenty of hobs are willing to follow me to glory.”

“Glory?” he said.

“We are sieging the Castle Brightwater!” Throkka Shadowfist growled. “I need good hobs, strong hobs, hobs willing to die for this man.”

“For a human?”

“For a human,” I said. “One who happens to be your best chance at victory.” I pulled my sword away, changing it for my hammer. “Or you can choose the method of your death.”

“Sieging,” he said. “I can siege.”

He finally stepped back.

I sighed. “This is going to be a long day I can ill afford,” I said as another hob emerged.

* * *

We ended up with one hundred and twenty-six hobgoblin warriors, one promising priest who looked fiercer than the other cowards, ten builders, four farmers, and nine artisans. Of those suited to the city, Throkka dispatched the builders with instructions to open the builder’s yard and commence the restoration of Tregorva, starting with the food warehouses and feasting halls, then the taverns and so on. The farmers he placed with the soldiers, anxious to get to farming the valley north of Brightwater—to stake his claim while the human residents hid in the keep.

We marched back to Brightwater, the one-hundred and thirty in tow, Throkka a different hobgoblin than before—talking of his plans, our plans, and how he would restore all. He appointed Haslan his second, and together they began whipping the hobs into shape.

I left them at the cave’s entrance, heading straight for the slopes, for Tanaka, and reached the great escarpment just as the rain began falling, thunder clapping overhead, and lightning forked and scorched the land. Small streams appeared from nowhere, eroding gravel from under my feet. I kept on, dogged, but the rain intensified, the lightning came closer, thunder nigh on instantaneous. Then it was overhead, and I shuddered at its noise, cowered under its perilous forks, great bolts smashing into the slope, throwing up rocks, striking me, strafing me.

If ever I’d felt mortal, insignificant, like an average person, even, it was then. My mortality rushed up on me, and I was mortal—I was sure of it. True, I could heal faster than most. True, I could still battle harder than any I knew. I had my myst—there was that. But, I’d used up all my names and had no spare slots, which told me that when Daniel Cutterson was done, so was I. One lightning bolt—that was all—all that stood between me and death.

I was close—close to the cliffs—they towered over me, offering me shelter—they would hide me from the storm. There was a tree, drab green, wet, soaked, big and out of place—too large to be natural, yet how could a tree be anything else? I clung to it, knowing it to be my destination.

Then a shadow came at me, impossibly fast, smashing into me, knocking me from my feet, claws digging in as I fell, the scree giving way under me. Wings flapped, spined feathers whipping me. A peck and it ripped a great fleshy divot from me. I rolled, the beast, the creature—the bird fluttered above me, enormous wings battering me, driving the rain to frenzy, kicking up stones, tearing at the slope.

I called for my armor, for my spear, needing to regain control—to stop my speedy descent away from that magnificent oak. Then my boots bit in, kicking at the gravel, and I slowed—the bird on me again, pinning my arms, my spear useless. My legs gave way. I cartwheeled over and over, ever away from sanctuary. I righted, skidding again. The shadow came. I braced, digging in, my footing precarious. It struck. I pushed, my leverage poor. The spear bit, then the bird smashed it from my hand. I pulled my sword, striking, toppling once more—over, then up against a boulder. I had purchase, real purchase. But I had lost my spear. Vague memories—a loss was no loss. I stowed it, then called it again. The bird came, and I planted my spear and braced.

It bit well. The bastard thing caught. I had it, but it bent its head, beak streaking forward. I called my shield. Crash! It struck. I ditched the shield, axe coming to hand. One cruel stroke and I took its eye. A mighty slash across its face, and I severed its beak. Another stroke sloughed off those spiny feathers, its wings beating again as it tried to un-impale itself.

I stowed my axe, grabbing the spear’s shaft with both hands. With a mighty roar, I called upon my myst, a passenger until then, and it came, answering my call like a thousand-strong army readying for the mother of all battles. My strength soared, and my dexterity reached new heights. I roared again, an inhumane sound befitting a banshee, not a man. With every ounce of my new strength, I turned the beast, impaled as it was, then thrust the spear into that immortal rock, its grinding sending waves of horror down me, muscles bulging, determination coloring my cheeks.

There it was, pinned to a boulder, and there I was, bloodied, fearsome, rain driving down upon me, and I didn’t call for any gods. I didn’t need any because I was so damn close it would have made no difference. I reached, and my great hammer came, and my blows rang out, a death knell on the edge of dusk, the toll of the coming of night, the end of everything, of that great bird—Vale’s spy.

And I looked up to the thundering sky and yelled for her to face me—for I was Myst—the Myst Lord of Kanazar, and none could have my life so cheaply.

But no answer came, just the rain, just the lightning, and with it, more mundane toil, for the bird had driven me halfway back down that tiresome slope. A mighty hero I might be, but the grind was real.

* * *

“My love,” Tanaka said, reaching for me.

By then, I was using my magnificent spear as a staff. My legs were burning; calves clenched like parched walnuts, thighs radiating pain, and more stitches in my gut than a fine tapestry. My hair plastered my face and blood streaked my vision.

“Tanaka,” I breathed, staggering, the ground flatter, surer, the rain less, darkness coming in waves. “My dear Tanaka.”

Another hand, this one pale—an elf—Oakensong. They led me into a cave, welcome fire waiting, and my legs gave way, my knees striking rock as I knelt, ready to fall face-first into those welcome embers. “How goes it?” I managed.

Then Scamp was there, and he pushed me back, my head cracking upon a rock. “Sorry, My Lord.”

But it woke me, rather than dazed me, and I managed to push myself up, resting back, cold stone on my back—my ruined back, clawed and whipped. “Food,” I said, but managed no more as sleep took me, choked me to subservience, and made me still.

I dreamt then of a place upon golden sands. It was a castle, a city, a stronghold and a home. Great spires reached for an azure sky, some with turrets topped gold. There was a jumble of them, all fighting for superiority, and from one lent a woman, so fair the emerald city looked ordinary. Her long, blonde hair framed a face of rare beauty—the type that was classic yet graced with a motherly tenderness that willed love upon it. She had green eyes, and I sensed that the city was of them and not the other way around—that it had been built to match her heavenly gaze. But surely that was one folly too much?

Her name was Cassandra—that came to me with a great squeezing of my heart—a wrench so sudden that it tore my arteries asunder, ripped my veins, springing back like bands as that powerful organ collapsed to nothing under the burden of my lost love. She was my first—not the ninth. She was the mother of it all. She was my Queen of Anderlay.

Then I saw her, those towers gone, those spires withered to sand, and she was in a great forest on the edge of nowhere. A child sat upon her knee, and she read him a tale, and it was of a great lord—a Legendary Lord, the like of which the world might never see again. And then she was upon a cot, the light in her fading. By her knelt a man, and with him was a woman, and I saw that both had sharp ears and eyebrows that formed a point, and they comforted my Cassandra.

Time raced by, and scenes played out of couples and elves, of kin and age, of birth and death, and then it stopped. An elven woman was on her back, sweat beading her brow, anguish upon her face, and she screamed and cried as a male held her hand. A child came, and the elven male held her up, as proud as any father could be, and he said to his wife, “What shall we name her?” and she replied with a single word. “Leyathel.”

“Leyathel,” I said, returning to the cave, leaving that place that trailed from Anderlay. “She is Leyathel,” I said, and joy filled me, and my pain and tiredness vanished.

“You want your stew now?” Scamp asked.

I did.

* * *

It was a dream, of course, and its tale might not be the truth. But what kind of dream is not rooted in some deep part of the psyche? Was Leyathel a long descendant of my once love, Cassandra? A poet and a tale-maker would have it that way. There was perfect synchronicity there, for a long, drawn-out story told over ale beside a roaring hearth.

My gut, though, overrode all those whims, and it was that I trusted above dreams. Cassandra and Leyathel resembled each other. Was that what attracted me to Leyathel in the first place? But then what man, mortal or immortal, would not be swayed by her beauty? No, I was sure. The lineage had to be true. There was one lingering doubt: had I imprinted Leyathel upon Cassandra to make it all fit? Fortunately, one accurately-aimed question would answer all of that, and that question would be Fennel’s to answer.

“Are you feeling better?” Tanaka asked.

I sat up. She thrust another bowl of stew into my hand. “I do,” I said. “As usual, my life is more questions than answers, and each time an answer comes, it throws up another question, but I’m becoming used to that.”

“I saw you—saw the bird attack you.”

“That was no bird—it was a tiger with wings and a beak,” I said.

“There was nothing I could do.”

“There was nothing to be done. I might have dealt with it in moments if I hadn’t been so tired or my position so terrible. But it had the advantage of both, and I had none.” I finished the bowl and set it aside. “There will be more trials before we finish this, but we will prevail.”

“I know it,” she said. “Oakensong and the others are under the oak. The rain is gone, and the stars are out. We could join them, drink wine and make merry, or, if you wish, I have readied a small chamber for us and warmed the rock so sleep will be pleasant.”

“Sleep would be mighty fine. But perhaps some wine first. How goes the tunnel?”

I brought out a bottle of wine and took a draught. Lysander appeared to have an endless supply of the stuff, and I wasn’t about to question where he got it or if it was real, as it tasted damn fine and took the edge off. She took the bottle from me, shaking back her emerald hair and drinking.

“It was slow going to start. The further we dug, the more we had to shift the plugs. It’s like digging the same hole over and over. Each time we progress, we must dig the next plug to move back it until it is out.”

“How far have you got?”

She shrugged. “Halfway? Probably a bit more, but it is slower now and gets more so the farther we get.”

My gut tightened. “We haven’t got any spare time. Damn that monster for taking Spelunk!” I thought. “What about a cave—like this one? Can you sense caves, cisterns, anything? That might shove us along.”

“I can, but I thought you needed a way through—a tunnel.”

“I wanted a way to get a good few men through, but I need it done tomorrow—the morning after the latest.”

“I will look first thing in the morning—before we start.”

“How about now?”

“You should rest.”

“I rested for ten thousand years. I can do it.”

She nodded, clearly unhappy with the choice. “Come. I have lichen-light. The first part is sure-footed—Woodwind has grown his roots. The second is smooth but level. We can run the first. Then I’ll search the second, and then we’ll return and bed.”

“We will.”

She pulled me up. The tunnel was wide enough for us to walk side-by-side. I gained my footing, then began to jog, soon running, her lichen light, among other things, bouncing around.

“This is perfect,” I said, finding my stride.

It was. I could send an army through here. I just couldn’t get it up the slope. Twenty good men would have to do. But, I’d need a distraction, and only one man could muster anything significant. But I wanted him by my side during the final confrontation with Vale and at the castle wall. Even Lysander couldn’t be in two places at once.

So lost was I in thought and scheming that I missed the transition from root to stone. Tanaka cried out, her voice echoing in the tunnel. I tried to stop, slipped, fell and slid along the smooth rock.

“You are right,” I said. “It’s as flat as a mirror.”

She helped me up. “Best to take your boots off. You can feel it better, then. Your steps will be surer.”

I did that, and she was right. I could feel the rock under me. “It is warm,” I said. “Surprisingly so.”

“You can feel that? You can feel the rock’s heat?”

“I can feel all heat—the sun, a fire, you name it. If it’s hot, I can feel its warmth.” I gave her a look that might have questioned her sanity a little.

“Bend and feel it,” she said.

I lent her the same look again. “If you insist.”

“I do.”

So, I bent and touched the warm rock, except it was cool to the touch, which was quite confusing—warm on my feet, cold on my palm. “What the hell?” I said. “What reason?”

“I can feel the same, but I have rithimarelldyl. You do not. You cannot have it, yet you must have an affinity with the living rock, the earth and the soil. Daniel, you have an affinity with the land, but that cannot be.”

“Why?”

“Because your race doesn’t have that—you don’t understand its lore.”

“So, what does this affinity mean?” I tried to trace back the last time I’d stood on a rock with bare feet. Perhaps the room under the hobgoblin city? But then, every single thing was hot in that place. The same went for the rock bluff with Alex.

“It means you know what the land wants.”

I didn’t—I didn’t have a clue. “Not sure I do.” It was a concept I was immediately struggling with. Rock was just that—rock, after all.

“It likes the warmth, the feel of our feet upon it. It’s enjoying the brush of it after endless time pressed against other rock. It knows its rebirth is close, that as it is sloughed from the mother rock, so its great journey will begin, and it will travel the lands, dwell in new places, be washed to the sea where it will fall to sleep once more.”

Okay, I was as mystical as the next man, but that sounded a little too elven cliché for me, especially coming from a goblin. “You got all that from standing on a rock?”

I took a step back, and the warmth altered. Took another, and it cooled some more. “It’s freezing over here,” I said, ignoring her strange theories.

“Daniel!” she screamed as the ground under me cracked and crazed, then collapsed.

I reached for her as I fell. She grabbed me, but the ground gave way under her too, and we fell, dropping a short way before ice-cold water enveloped us, taking us, pulling us along and under. I grabbed her, holding her tight against me, and she wrapped her arms around me. All was dark, black as pitch. We raced along, bouncing off rocks, twisting, rotating. Then we dipped, the flow slowing, eerie ice blue surrounding us, white eel-like fish swimming past.

Tanaka grabbed me, pulling at me one moment and then struggling to get away the next. She kicked, a burst of bubbles exploding from her mouth, terror in her eyes, then mixed with sorrow, and the bubbles faded to a slow trail.

I wasn’t struggling. Then I remembered. I was breathing underwater, taught by Leyathel all that time ago. Tanaka was drowning! I grabbed her, not knowing whether it would work but willing to try. I kissed her, emptying my lungs of water, hopefully filling hers. I inhaled hard, breathing it back into me, then turned my head, exhaled and inhaled, then breathed into her again.

We traveled along the river, her bubbles flat against the tunnel’s ceiling, illuminated by the strange blue—a light blue, the color of the sky. She was limp in my arms, but I refused to give up. Time and again, I filled her lungs with water, but in the back of my mind, I knew that the elf-given talent was beyond me to pass on if she didn’t have the lore.

The current quickened, and we hurtled towards a wall, then up, along, down for a while, left, right, up, down, then up and up, and there at the tunnel’s end, a tumult of silver waited for us, a boiling, bubbling, ragged disc. We raced to it, bobbing, breaking free, then under again, then up, pushed along, hitting something hard, grabbing it with one hand, blue light all about.

I felt rock underfoot, and fine sand oozed between my toes. I blinked, trying to find my way—to understand where we were—she was dead weight. I stood, lifting her from the water, hefting her onto a rock shelf, then pulling myself up and out.

I coughed my lungs free of water, then pushed on Tanaka’s chest, turning her over, hugging her hard, squeezing her lungs dry, then laying her limp, lifeless body back onto the rock.

“Don’t you die on me!” But I was at a loss for what to do. I checked my chaotic storage for one of Vallera’s healing potions. An empty bottle, another, a half-full one! I unstoppered it, opening her mouth, but before I could pour it in, her eyelids twitched, blinked, then opened. She looked at me, and I looked down at her, joy filling me as she vomited water everywhere.

We washed after that, and she took a small slug of healing potion, as did I, and our cuts and scrapes vanished. We were in a cave, a tiny gap in the rock, the underground river racing by, eddying by the niche we’d washed up in.

“I can breathe underwater?” she asked.

“Badly, it appears, but you must be able to do it. What the hell happened? Why did the tunnel collapse?”

“We removed the plug. All was well—I felt no cold spots. But we must have disturbed something, which must have given way, leaving just a skin of rock between us and the fall.” She scrunched her face up. “I can breathe underwater?”

“Leyathel taught me. She kissed me as I kissed you. I guess I must pass on the talent.”

“Then—” she looked around— “if I ever get a chance to thank her for my life, I must.”

“Hey! It was me that saved you. You owe me one, and if we get out of this, I will be demanding payment in full.”

“And I shall enjoy giving it.” She slipped into the water. “I need to practice. Did she give you any tips?”

“Exhale first, then breathe in underwater. Exhale the water before you surface. I forgot both of those things, but then again, it was quite unexpected.”

She exhaled, ducking under. Then she began struggling like she was fighting an invisible enemy. I reached for her, but she batted me away. She calmed and looked up, her face distorted by the swirling flow, but I did catch her smile, and when she rose from the water, she did so like a goddess. Even in that desperate place, I realized I was a lucky man to have her, Anna, and Leyathel.

I kissed her as she rose, helping her onto the shelf, and she sat with me, shivering. “I’ll bring some heat,” she said.

She placed her hand on a rock, closed her eyes and hummed softly. Within a moment, it began to crack, and its surface powdered. She set it aside and picked up another. Before long, we had a small rock fire. Although fire was the wrong word, it felt like that. She placed her hand on a larger rock, bringing that to temperature, and then she stripped, laying her wet clothes on it, encouraging me to do the same.

“Lay with me,” she said, “and I will bring the rock under us to heat. We should rest a while, then carry on.”

Up until that point, I hadn’t thought about it. My anger rose momentarily, knowing we could come out in the wrong valley or end up in some vast underwater cistern with no way out. But she was right. We needed rest. So, I lay next to her, holding hands and closing my eyes, listening to the soft burble of the river, wondering what fate had in store for me next.

Sometime later, she reached for me, turning, whispering, calling my name as her hand slipped from mine, and she stroked my chest, pushing her fingers through my hair. My breaths deepened, and I made to turn, but she held me down, telling me to rest, to relax, saying it was my turn, whatever that meant.

She kissed me, then again, soft and gentle. Then she was on me, straddling me, grinding against me as she kissed my neck, my chest, her tongue circling my nipples. She shifted again, sliding down me and forcing my legs apart. Then her hand was on me, fingers closing around my erection. She kissed my inner thigh, her tongue tracing a line up and down, up and down, while she slowly began stroking me. My thoughts strayed a thousand ways but inevitably returned to her, to my pleasure, and they polarized on my groin as my breaths became ragged and my troubles melted away.

I tried to rise, to attend to her, but she forced me back, holding me in place. “This is your reward for saving my life.”

Her mouth closed over me, sharp teeth raking gently over my head, tucking under my ridge while her tongue danced around my tip, causing me to gasp, to groan with pleasure. I closed my eyes, the warm rock under me, her over me, my ecstasy entire. Then she was gone, my pleasure robbed, absent. Then she was back, swallowing me, her throat constricting around me, her lips at my base, nuzzling my hair. I held—gripping nothing but clenching so hard my knuckles whitened.

“By the shade!” I said and cursed immediately, unwelcome thoughts of Lysander darting across my mind.

She held me there, cupping me, then relaxed, pulling away before plunging again, her lips smacking into my groin, my cock deep inside her throat. She pulled back gently, releasing me entirely, holding me, teasing me. My building passion evened, her play calming me. Then she closed again, taking my entire length while rounding her lips, then pulling up and pushing down, slowly at first, then quicker and quicker until I could hold no longer. I cried out, cried for her to keep going, begging her to stop, reaching my end and flooding into her.

She sat up then, her expression one of triumph, and I knew that was what it had been about—that she enjoyed edging me to send me spiralling into the deepest need and release, but only then—when it came to that.

She could have my compliance whenever and wherever she wanted to sate me that way.

I was spent. I was empty. I was done.

CHAPTER 17

We dove into the river, trusting its current would lead us to safety. It was the same as before, twisting, turning, undulating, a route filled with sharp curves, small chambers and narrow tunnels. We breathed in the water, inhaling and exhaling like second nature. Light came eventually, effervescing light much larger than before, a crackling silver, the sign of our journey’s end. I kicked my legs, wanting it done—wanting it over, surfaced, gasped, and splashed about, instantly quieting and pulling Tanaka to the shade.

A pool surrounded us, or more accurately, a spring. We were in a grove, burnished light about—morning, it was the morning of day three. I eased myself out of the water, rolling onto a grass bank, helping Tanaka out and squatting. Stone pilasters rose on four points, tangled ivy growing up them, the remnants of a roof, partly rotted timbers, slates in piles. “Some kind of shrine?” I said out loud, my voice slightly hoarse.

“Could be,” Tanaka replied, then made her way around the pool to where a stream drained it. She stepped in, sneaking down it. I followed, working through nettles and weeds, down over small rapids, under overhanging bushes and out onto an old gravel path that threaded along a narrow valley. We stopped there, crouching again. “Look!”

The valley opened, and in the distance sat Castle Brightwater, its sides brushed with orange. Vale’s tower thrust upward, Bright’s keep right by. We were behind it, in the valley—exactly where we’d wanted to be, minus an army to help us achieve our aims—less a tunnel—less Mudspur, the elves, and Drillshank.

I took a breath. “We’ve two days left to get the moonstone. It’ll take us a day to get back over that ridge and find the others, another to complete the tunnel—two days, and we’re out of time before we’ve got the stone.” I wanted to cry out—to scream at the misfortune that had beset us. “We’re out of time. I can’t even get word to Lysander.”

“What happens if we fail?”

“Sellvienne is lost—the curse will march forward. That much I know, but I think there’s something bigger at stake that I don’t know. This is a test—I’m sure of it. A necessary one, but a test nonetheless. Worse, it is a test I set myself—I’m beginning to believe that now.”

“You set yourself?”

“Think about it. Nunez Excalivar—another iteration of me—traveled south. The sorceress, Morgan, came from that direction. I’m pretty confident Nunez was collaborating with her, that he—me—set the wheels in motion that I might retrieve the moonstone and Finnigan. At the same time, I needed to remake Lysander’s staff. Two things that are pivotal in driving a third forward.”

“What’s the third thing?”

“Some grand battle—the Battle for Everything, whatever that entails. I’ve been south. I know it. I think Nunez spent some time there. He certainly knew Morgan well. She had…”

“Had what?” Tanaka asked.

“Familiarity. She had that familiarity about her that comes from…”

“From what?”

I looked at the morning sky. I knew it then, as sure as time itself, and a wry grin crossed my lips, and my heart pounded, and I shook my head and laughed.

“What is it?” Tanaka asked, pulling at my arm. “What have you realized?”

“Morgan, the Grey Sorceress, and I were lovers.”

That was it! That was the strange feeling, the mixed vibes I had received from her. We’d been lovers. Nunez had gone south, having built Kanazar just enough to maintain him—to allow him storage? Perhaps. To get him to a point where he could start another settlement? Maybe. For a Lording House? That was it! He’d built the settlement just enough to build a Lording House. But to what point, unless to take a wife? Or wives? Had he forged alliances in the south that they might fend off whatever I was destined to fight?

Conjecture—wild conjecture beset me. It was fanciful—over-reaching at best. But something in my gut told me there was truth there—that I had lain with Morgan, and I saw others through the dim curtains of my mist.

I fell back, vague memories forming a wall, clouds, and endless black. All energy drained from me, fear taking over—a terrible sense of doom and despair.

There was a woman—or part woman, part bird with great feathered wings and a fan-like tail. She soared over the abyss, silver magic crackling down into it. Demons flying, Morgan locked in battle, her magic streaking the dark sky, blackened through evil. She was magnificent.

Another marched the walls, or rather, prowled along them. White fur streaked her grey skin, her tail swishing to and fro, powerful legs holding her up. Her yellow eyes saw everything as she looked into the abyss, breathing gouts of blue ice-fire into that pit, screams following. Her name was Isalar.

A third, this one sliding, slipping, curling around crenelations, weaving in and out, her powerful arms holding a double-headed axe that swept along the vast wall, cutting down enemy soldiers as their ladders rose from the gloom, as their siege pressed forward. A naga—a creature of fantasy right before my eyes, her breasts so black they were lost to the abyss, her hair so dark it shimmered silver as Isalar spewed more ice-fire. Her name was Darinka, and she was breathtaking.

Then another face, a fearsome beast, perhaps with beauty, with scales glowing golden, shimmering, sequinned breasts, a long forked tongue and fire dripping from the corner of her mouth. Her wings spread, a thousand colors bursting from them, as she too took flight over the abyss, great flame funnels reaching down, smoke billowing. Fearsome Wayleisha, her of the dragon kyn of the bitter north, and that explained another facet of my tale—why I’d traveled to Byoux in the first place.

The abyss loomed, a cauldron of enemies boiling up from the black.

“What kind of enemy is this?” I asked, my head still upturned. But that wasn’t the true question. That was both simple and complex.

What kind of army could defeat the foes they held back—the enemy behind the wall?

“What is it?” Tanaka asked me.

But I knew—I’d stared into the abyss, seen those demons clambering upward, trying to top the wall, to claw their way over. It was a battle of the gods—it was good versus evil. It was the final confrontation—to win was to bring peace to the world. To lose was the end of everything—that damnable word that had cropped up far too much of late.

“It is a gathering,” I said to her. “My task was to get everything in the right place. My purpose was to make the final pieces. But what is your point in this?”

“My point?”

“You, Leyathel, Anna—you must all have a point—all have tasks. That is why this is all happening. There are nine of you. I know eight now, with Alex, and you create something special together. Nunez began that—I see it, am sure of it—perhaps Byoux before him. I’ll know more of Morgan’s part if I meet her with the moonstone—if we get that far. I know what questions to ask now.”

“If we get the moonstone?”

I turned to her. “When,” I said. “When we get it. We have to. I have a feeling the entire land depends on us.”

She stood, walking a short distance away, framed by the rising sun as she stared at the castle. I wondered then, truly wondered, who she was. There were no coincidences here—that much was obvious. Her rising from the cauldron first, plucked from it before any other, was no random happening. She was of a goblin house—royalty, that just happened to have been in my way when I razed their village.

Leyathel? What plan was this? Destroy their forest and drive them underground for some mystical transformation? Was this part of a plot brewed by Nunez on that terrible wall? Or had I, Andros Gray, thought of it in my emerald city, in Anderlay?

“Who are you?” I asked, coming behind her and wrapping my arms around her.

“Not me—you know me. I am Tanaka. I am Annuck, born of Nonn.”

“What is Nonn?”

She turned, her lip quivering. “He is the father of all.”

“What does that mean?”

She shivered. “It means I am his daughter. I am the daughter of Nonn.”

“The father of all goblins?”

“Just so.”

“But you are Annuck—a feeble tribe, oppressed by hobs, downtrodden.”

“I am all tribes—Annuck, Kattan, Corden, all, each of them. I could rise from any cauldron.”

“But why? Why there? Why under the Stormbane?”

She shrugged. “It was where he ordered me to go. I was to wait for the new lord and join him.”

“But you—” I thought back to her reincarnation—the small matter of her volatility.

“I had a part to play in this. You killed me in their town and consigned me to their cauldron. I would always return first, but when you called me, I was confused—as is the way. It was not how it was supposed to be.”

“Why didn’t you tell me before? Why didn’t you say you were part of something more?”

“I only knew that I was of Nonn. I had no clue what it meant. Then I nearly died—before you breathed life into me. During those final moments, it all came back to me, and I was offered a choice, and that choice was a selection of cauldrons. I could pick any I wished, or I could pick the one cauldron that bound them all. I could choose the master cauldron—that of Nonn, where the dead of every goblin tribe rest, waiting to be called forth to battle. Then the mists vanished, and as I picked Nonn, you pulled me back from the precipice with your kiss. But, the memory stayed with me.”

“Why didn’t you say something earlier?”

“I needed time and didn’t want to answer any questions.” She grinned. “So, I took your mind off everything and enjoyed doing it, too.”

“Well,” I said, “if you ever fancy taking my mind off things again, I’m always eager for a clear head.” I thought about it briefly. “Or just—” but didn’t say it. She was royalty, after all.

“Head?” she asked, a sly grin on her face.

“Just that.” I cleared my throat. “So, your part in this?”

“I can raise you an army.”

She spoke her words softly, like they would cause her heart to split open—as if she didn’t care for the responsibility. Then she grew—she rose in stature and thrust her shoulders back.

“And I will lead them into battle! We will rise as a nation and stand behind you, Daniel Cutterson.”

“What of Anna?” I asked myself. “What of her? Have I positioned her too, or did someone else? Or is she a simple bystander?”

Tanaka turned away from me. “I don’t think there are any bystanders, only us and obstacles.” She pointed at Vale’s tower. “That one is an obstacle. Let’s reunite you with your stick!”

She said those words with such power that it sent me cold shivers.

“But how? There are only two of us.”

“We are not without power. You have your myst. I have my rock-craft.”

“She has magic.”

“So has Lysander.”

“But he is outside the castle!” I was at a loss—I needed time to think.

“Then, why don’t we make a way in for him?”

It was the start of a plan—a threadbare one, but a plan all the same.

* * *

We hurried down the valley, darting from stand to stand, copse to copse, edging our way along the valley’s margins, keeping low, one eye always on the tower. I had no idea if news of our disappearance had reached Lysander. It likely had, as Pip or Scamp would have spread the word between the two camps. My only hope was that he’d know I was alive. No! He would know because Kanazar still acted like that—still had its cauldron, its link from Lord to subject to dust.

“Did I change that?” I muttered as Tanaka ducked under a low bough, and I nearly clattered into it. Was that my bargain with the Gods? To rid humans of their cauldrons and give them finite lives—to stop the perpetual war that those damn cauldrons propped up? It seemed likely if all my ladies had survived me, as Fennel had inferred.

I cleared my mind, focusing on the path ahead. Tanaka pulled up, skidding to a stop, a cry coming from her as something sprung from the undergrowth.

“Shush!” Scamp urged. “You two are making more noise than a herd of cattle!”

“What the hell are you doing here?” I asked.

“Carrying out your instructions—or I was, until I spotted you up the valley. This way.”

He vanished back into the undergrowth. We followed, ducking low and entering a small tunnel, scurrying along on all fours, darkness surrounding us, wet mud undeneathcrtftr, dangling roots brushing. There was a clang, then the sound of thudding boots, followed by another. I came to an edge and dropped into a tunnel. “What is this place?” I asked.

He sighed. “You, me, Lysander—the robbery, remember? You told me your plan. I told you mine. Mine was better. Remember?”

I did—I did remember, but that plan had long been surpassed—that plan had been to steal the core and take Bright’s castle that way. Instead, we had somehow ended up with Bright himself. “You want to steal the core?”

“No,” he said. “You want to steal the core, take the castle, then banish Vale and strip her of the power of her tower.”

“I do,” I said. “I do indeed. We’ll do that. Then we’ll punch a hole in the wall and let Lysander and the army in.”

He looked at me. “You can do that?”

“No. No, I can’t. But she can.”

“Okay, new plan. Stay here… No, go that way. Turn left, then second right, then straight on. You’ll see a door that’s slanted down. Approach it, and it will swing open. It will take you to the core.”

“What will you do?”

“Pip’s keeping watch on the tower. I’ll get him to sneak back out and tell Lysander what’s happening. When should I tell him to attack?”

I thought long and hard. “The core’s this way?”

“Yes.”

“How far’s the wall?”

“Through the keep.”

“Tell him just after first light tomorrow. We don’t rush this. Tell him to start blasting the wall as soon as the sky has the faintest streak of orange to it. Tell him to hold until that moment.”

“Why wait?”

“Because Broadchurch will have to move the army into position, and we want Vale fully focused when we sneak in to strip her of the moonstone and Finnigan.”

“You think she’ll give it up?”

“The dead give everything up.”

He nodded.

“Good to see you, Scamp. I thought all was lost. Now go! First light tomorrow. Broadchurch moves tonight and gets them closer to the wall. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“I have a dread feeling that things might not be as easy as they seem,” I said.

“Why?”

“Vale’s been too quiet—and if I’m right, that stick, Finnigan, isn’t playing this straight.”

“Never blame the stick,” Scamp winked and shot off. Tanaka took my hand, and we headed for the core. Only one question played on my mind. What if the morale of the castle was such that I simply couldn’t steal it? What then?

But in the end, that wasn’t the problem.

We followed Scamp’s directions, coming to the set of angled doors that were already open.

“Something’s up,” I said, equipping my armor, choosing my spear and shield and venturing down. It was gloomy, the steps winding down in a random spiral that loosened to become a steep pathway hovering above a dark pit. Cracks of light crazed distant walls, spreading a dull light. “We should be able to see it by now.”

“Unless the castle is so low on morale, its light has gone out.”

It was a hope, our only hope because the other conclusion was devastating. I continued, the path winding, looping back on itself and threading through vast loops and knots. It was an old core, one that had plenty of time to contrive its dungeon. When we reached the end, though, when we stood before its pedestal, I muttered one word: “Vale.”

The core was gone—stolen before I could take it myself.

“She has it,” I said.

“Might not have mastered it yet,” Tanaka pointed out.

I took a breath, needing time to rally, to regroup after yet another disappointment. “We go again,” I said, sighed and turned.

We retraced our steps, nearing the end, then climbed to the doors just as they slammed shut, a bolt shot, chains rattling. “Damn then!” I cried, my frustration growing, my myst rising, quickly incandescent with rage. My spear vanished, and my hammer came, and I raced up those steps, swinging it and smashing it against the doors. They splintered, a great rent torn in them. I swung again and widened the hole, but it was nowhere near large enough, sturdy cross braces still in place. I pounded it again and again, but it held. Tanaka grabbed me. “I’ll try,” she said and pulled me away.

She placed her hand on the stone at the door’s side, singing softly, straining. The rock powdered—a sign that it was heating up. Then it started to swell, to force the doorframe in. The great timbers creaked and twisted, bowing, straining. She stopped, darting to the other side, repeating her craft, and the rocks swelled again, the frame splintering, cracking, then exploding inwards. The force sent her flying back, crashing into me and shoving me off the steps. I fell, the endless pit below me. Reaching out, I clawed at the stone steps, the pathway, as I hurtled along.

A finger hold—a tenuous grip—I swung there, doing my damndest not to let go. Then her hand grabbed my wrist, pulled me, and I got a better hold of the pathway’s edge. I swung, bringing my other hand up, pulling myself halfway onto the ledge just in time to see a priest over her, dagger in hand.

“Tanaka!” I shouted. “Behind you!”

She whipped around, letting go of me. I fell back a little, regained my hold and pushed myself all the way onto the path. The priest struck, his dagger arcing toward Tanaka. She rolled out of the way, sparks flying as the blade hit stone. She grabbed his legs and tried to topple him, but he kicked her off, shoving her with his boot, intent on knocking her from the path. My hammer lay there. I called it to me, then lunged at the priest, tackling him to the ground as the hammer came into my hand. But it was too big to swing, our tussle in close quarters. I stowed it away and called for my knife, plunging it into him as he returned the compliment with his.

Searing pain shot through me as his blade slid into my upper leg, but the wound served only to inflame my anger, and I stabbed him over and over, my mind lost to the myst. His body became limp, and I knew it was done. I pushed the priest’s hood back, a grey and sallow face staring blankly up at me, milky eyes devoid of life.

Then he spoke, his lips dry and cracked.

“You won’t win, Myst Lord. We know the truth of it now. You face the foes of your own creation. You are the architect of the downfall of everything.”

“I will win!” I cried.

“Vale has the core. You will be out of time. You have lost. Everything will end.” And then he was gone, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth.

I searched him, but found nothing of value, so I rolled him off the edge and pulled Tanaka to me.

“What does he mean; you are the architect?” she asked.

“He means what I suspect. I made a pact, and that pact caused this thing we battle. It brought the abyss into being. That is my guess.”

“The abyss?”

“A pit full of malevolence, a creation so dire that it will take everything in our power to defeat it.”

“Then that is what we must do,” she said, took my hand and led me up the steps and through the shattered doors. “We need a new plan,” she said.

“I’m on it.”

* * *

We raced through the underground tunnels, headed down, headed towards the keep. A set of steps led us to a courtyard with four exits, the keep towering above, its walls impossibly high. It gave me no clue which way to go—which way the wall might be. I wanted to howl in frustration. Nothing was going to plan. “That way?” I asked, but Tanaka shrugged. All was grey—all was the same.

Dark sky above—stars—Abbadin? Was that the northern star? The wall was east. It was our only chance—to hope that single star guided us rightly. I darted through a narrow tunnel. Tanaka screamed, “Watch out!” but I smashed into the priest, magical sparks erupting around me as I crashed into his incomplete spell. It rippled through me, its static biting. He struggled under me, gaining a little, my leg still weak from the earlier stab wound. He managed to roll me, but that was the last thing he did.

His head cracked open, brains spilling out as Tanaka drove a rock down on his skull. She pulled him off, then me up, and we ran on. Another courtyard, empty, then another, then a long alley, the top of the wall in sight at the end. The clatter of armor rang out, and my heart sank once more. Soldiers poured around the corner, Bright’s blue and yellow livery just visible in the starlight.

“Don’t!” I called, arming my twin axes. “Don’t die here. Sanders is with me! Bright is with me. I am against Vale!”

Their charge faltered, the lead man forcing himself forward. “We are Vale’s men now. This is her castle.”

His words were false, strained, and I knew he was fighting against his will.

“Don’t die for her, man!” I said. “She is evil—contrary to everything you believe!”

“I have no choice,” he replied and charged.

I met him with a sweep of my hand axes, my myst in full flow, my understanding of its powers so complete in the moment that I moved like the wind. I launched myself off the side wall, springing at him, axes to the fore, their bite final, the end for that brave soldier. I arced over him, landing on a sill, jumping down on the men below as they looked about, confused. Amongst them, I whirled around, my axes blurring, their speed incredible. I struck them, not each in turn, but as one long attack, melodic in its inception, devastating in its execution. Within moments they all lay dead, and I stood in their midst heaving, searching for breath and praying for forgiveness. They had died needlessly. We would be down ten men at the final reckoning.

Tanaka pushed me on. “We must get going. I need some time!”

I pulled her along, away from that place and towards the wall. We found a warehouse among ramshackle dwellings stacked against the grand edifice which towered above us, a hundred feet at least. Bursting in, I charged—a futile thing when no enemies presented. Tanaka raced to the wall, pressing her hands against its cold stone, shaking her head at first as she tried to pair with it.

“She has strengthened it with magic,” she said.

“But you can do it?”

“I can. Vale will know.”

“Then I shall defend you.”

She began chanting. I pulled everything against the doors—each lump of discarded timber, each stone, an old and broken cart, anything I could lay my hands on. Then Scamp was there, dropping from the roof, swinging on a rafter and landing on my pile.

“How did you find us?”

He laughed. “I already told you how noisy you were. I only had to listen. The priests are coming, bringing soldiers, too. Use the core!”

I told him then, and he didn’t look surprised. “I wondered why I didn’t get a note to say I served you and you only.”

“You serve Vale?” I asked. “Your allegiance is no longer with Bright?”

“In theory,” he said, “it is with her and against you, yes.”

My hand bunched, ready to call a weapon. “Then how can I trust you?”

“Because a core does not bind me,” he said, adding more mystery to himself than I cared for. “Nothing does right now.”

Tanaka removed her first plug—a perfect stone sausage a little under her height and as fat again. She pulled it away, then vanished into the resulting hole.

“Well?” Scamp asked. “Shall we roll it against the doors? Shame someone’s piled all that crap in the way.”

I gave him a look. He was as annoying as he was loveable.

We pushed, the great mass of stone slow to move, then finally rolling, our calves straining as we forced it to gain momentum. “Push!” I shouted. “Push!” It rolled, veering away from the door. I moved over, compensating, turning the great thing and aiming it for the doors.

Then a tremendous bang, a clatter, and hammering. “They’re here!” Scamp shouted, and we redoubled our efforts, driving the rock home, crunching timbers under it and smacking into the doors. “Hold it there,” Scamp cried, letting go, and he raced to the side, dragging a lump of timber around and chucking the great rock in place.

“Another!” Tanaka shouted, and I turned in time to see her stagger back into her tunnel.

“We go again,” said Scamp, and I wondered who put him in charge. I must have shot him a look because he shrugged. “What? This is my turf!”

I knew it. We rolled the next stone, chucking it in place, just as smoke began to curl through the ruined timber.

“They’re firing the wall!” Scamp screamed, then looked up. “And they’re on the roof.”

I saw it then, a lightening of the sky—the herald of dawn. We were running out of time. I equipped my axes, backing up to Tanaka’s hole as she pulled the third plug out. We rolled it out of the way, just enough to protect one of our flanks, as the first rope dropped from the roof.

This time, I saved my words. There was no point. Scamp drew his short sword. I chose my shield and spear, wanting the reach, but ready to ditch the spear in favor of an axe should brute force prove the way. Then the soldiers attacked, and I set about them, my myst with me.

Tanaka pulled another plug and rolled it to one side, her exhaustion plain to see. It covered both our flanks, narrowing my defensive line, but I knew they’d soon be over the top and behind us. “We need to defend the tunnel!” I cried.

“She won’t be able to get the plugs out!” Scamp called back.

“We can’t hold here!” I said as the first blast of ice-blue magic shot toward us. “Priests!” I cried.

“Defend the tunnel,” Tanaka said. “I’ll try something else.”

We backed up, me stabbing at the soldiers, trying to keep them at bay, while Scamp dealt with any that slipped past. My myst rose, bubbling under my anger, sensing my danger, and then it broke, a wash of rage taking hold of me. My spear vanished, replaced by my sword, and I closed the ground, attacking the soldiers and priests and seeing them fall back as my wrath took its toll. More came, running into the warehouse, shouting and screaming. Scamp backed away. I retreated to cover him. My rage had left him exposed. He dropped to one knee. “No!” I cried and jumped to his side, decapitating his assailant, dragging Scamp behind me and tossing him a potion. “Drink that.”

I unequipped my sword, my hammer in hand, and I hefted it in a great arc like I was cutting wheat with a scythe, and just the threat of it was enough to keep them at bay. Then, through the din, through the screams of the dying, I heard a twang, then a thwack, and my shoulder erupted in pain. An arrow fell, blunted by my chainmail. I changed again, my shield in hand, back with my spear, all thoughts of attacking gone. It was hopeless.

Then a breeze behind me, shouts, and my heart leaped as a troop of hobgoblins raced past me, flowing around me in a tide of pent-up hatred, falling on the soldiers with unparalleled savagery. But I didn’t care. Enemy or friend, there were no half-measures. I tried to pick Scamp up, but he brushed me away.

“We need to get the core!”

He was right, of course. Nothing else mattered. Then Tanaka was by my side, Lysander and Broadchurch too. “To the tower!” I said. “Remember the plan! Broadchurch, secure the bailey.”

We followed Scamp through the pile of dead and dying soldiers, into the alley, then through a doorway of a small dwelling. “This way,” he said, climbing a ladder and through a hatch in moments.

I followed—Tanaka behind me, Lysander after, then Pip bringing up the rear. After the hatchway, we raced across a small room, out of its window, along a parapet, then ran up a slate roof. We came to a belfry. Scamp vaulted in, down a dozen steps, then along a walkway and into a larger building. Down and down we went, until the sounds of battle receded, only echoes replacing it, and we slowed, a long, damp tunnel before us.

We came to a fork, and Scamp stopped. “This is where we split,” he said, breathless. “Me and Pip will go with Tanaka. I’d suggest that Lysander accompanies you.”

“No!” I barked. “He looks after Tanaka.”

“I’ll be fine,” she said, but she was far from fine. Her eyes sagged with exhaustion, their vibrant violet wilted to a drab pastel, bruises under, her shoulders rounded with fatigue. But it was not the time for compassion. If we were to prevail, we’d all have to push ourselves to our limits.

I dithered. Lysander put his hand on my shoulder. “You know you can’t afford to lose this. When she comes for you with magic, you’ll have no counter.” He produced his staff, Rallpinto, the Jewel of Everything atop it, to drive his point home.

“Very well,” I said. “Take care, Tanaka. If it is beyond you, walk away.”

“The same for you, my love.” But we both knew it was not an option.

The moment over, we separated and raced away—a short burst along the fork, up some wide steps, then out into the morning air, clear and crisp, trails of smoke rising, bringing my anger as my army destroyed my potential castle. But, there was no waging war with tied hands, so there could be no regrets. I rallied, and we crossed a small garden and stood before the tower.

“I could,” Lysander said, “simply obliterate it, her, the stick and the moonstone. I’m sure Morgan would understand it was a casualty of war.”

“I’m sure you could explain that gamble to Leyathel.”

“She’s alive, you know—Vallera’s alive.”

“I know—some alteration is happening to them. I wish I knew what.”

We stood momentarily. Whether we awaited some reaction from Vale or whether we’d reached the extent of our planning, I did not know. The sorceress did not react, so we approached the door, Lysander pushing it open with Rallpinto, and marched in.

Like all magical towers, the inside and the out did not match. Contrary to what an ordinary person might think, wizards and sorceresses did not march around and around to reach the tops of their towers. There were no steps leading to the heavens. They were a devious bunch, above average in intelligence, and each was more a lair than a residence.

Vale’s was no different. We entered, and the morning vanished in favor of something far more sinister.

CHAPTER 18

It was dark—as black as ink, barring lines of luminous red that formed familiar things—trees, trailing vines, and bright orange cracks in a twisting pathway. Distant squawks came, screeching around us. It was hot, clammy, with a sound of hollowness all about.

“What is this place?” I whispered.

“It is a part of her mind. The creator influences all illusions. It is what powers them—what keeps their fabric stitched together.”

“Remind me never to enter yours.” I remembered back to the dark daubings on his bedroom wall.

He grunted a laugh, muttered some fast words, and his jewel spread some light about, but it only illuminated a dome around us, not penetrating the darkness beyond its murk. “Mine would not be so welcoming. She must want this confrontation.”

“Want? Why would she want it?”

“What if it’s a trap?”

I pondered his words. I’d not thought that far. It was Vale. She was a backwater witch in a fading castle. Yet, she’d been one step ahead of us all the time. “Perhaps,” I said. “She’ll not win.”

Lysander grunted again. “How can you be so certain?”

“I have my hero,” I said.

We stepped forward, a path of interlocking stepping stones underfoot, mortared with bright orange, like lava. It led away, its camber upward, and so we followed. It took us toward some foothills, their reliefs highlighted red, like moonlight touching dew, except the color of blood. Then a howl sounded, and we both stopped and readied, because confrontation was inevitable.

“She seeks to drain our mana. Can you counter magic?” Lysander asked.

“With my shield. Shield and spear should suffice.”

“I admire your confidence.”

We pressed on, rising, amid the foothills when the beast crested the rise. It was a horror, a gigantic creature, four-legged, with the head of a lion and the body of a dragon, its fur aflame with crimson fire, topped with vibrant orange. Great talons shone silver, fangs the same, contrasting all about.

“What the hell is that?” I asked.

“I get the feeling only its maker could name it,” he said, “but it’s not our only worry.”

I followed his gaze. A rabble crested the hill as well, shambling along, spears aloft, gaunt and skeletal.

“What shall we do?” Lysander asked. “I say I keep the beast at bay while you deal with those poor things.”

“Poor things?”

“They are beyond their prime. Make short work of them and return to aid me in my greater task.”

“Pfft,” I said. “One tiny beast for you and a small army for me?”

“Army?” he said, nodding at the rabble. “No army. You’ve lived in this backwater for too long.”

“You might be right,” I said and trotted off.

I closed on them. They did look defeated, their backs bent, eyes to the ground, for the most part. There was something about them. They looked familiar. It was a rabble I’d looked upon before. I picked up my pace, wanting momentum. I drove into them, my shield punching several down, my spear jabbing, slicing necks and chests. I danced around them, and they shuffled on, taking little note of me, falling then tripping over their dead. But I felt they were already dead, and dread filled me. There was recognition there—I’d seen them—felt them. I knew deep down exactly who they were. I just couldn’t put my finger on it.

I was through them, a wake of dead undead behind me. I rounded, ready to go again, then a burst of red magic caught my attention. A flash lit the black as Lysander’s magic shone, racing over the beast, which pulsed then shrank a little.

I ran through the undead again, killing more, their number halved, and then I turned again, wondering at the purpose of it all, for meaning there must be. Then I noted most of mine had risen, and that they marched directly for me, and that they had bright yellow eyes where they hadn’t before, and I wondered at that, but they’d picked up their pace, and I had no time to figure it out. Then they were on me, still easy fodder, but not as easy as before. I killed each and every one of them as Lysander’s magic flashed again, and the beast shrank.

My enemies rose once more, but again, not all of them. Their number shrank, but their fury increased by an equal amount. I made short shrift of them. Lysander’s magic flashed. The beast shrank. My mob rose once more.

“One in ten is dying,” I muttered. “Same as the cauldron.”

It was my suspicion. It made sense. Everything was linked—each and every thing, from Lysander and me to Tanaka and Morgan, to Nunez and Phillipe. Then it struck me. I was fighting the dead—the unrisen. I was fighting a cauldron.

Dread filled me as I plowed through them once more. If this was Vale’s work, then she was more than she seemed. If this was her, was she linked to the abyss? I struck them all down. Nine rose, one remaining dead. Lysander struck again. The beast was no giant anymore. I fought nine to eight, then seven, six, and five. I was tiring. They were wearing me down, each fight a bit harder, but each round swifter as their numbers dwindled. Then there was one left, and the battle lengthened as the warrior fought well, but he was no match for me and my myst, so I cut him down, and my battle was done.

Lysander stamped on his foe, so small the beast was at its end, and we met upon that slope, both puzzled.

“I fought a cauldron,” I said.

“And I believe I fuelled it. But what does it mean?”

I told him of the abyss, its legions, the monsters within their ranks, and the great wall separating them from the land. I told him of Morgan; Isalar, the wolf woman; Darinka, the naga; and the dragon kyn Wayleisha.

“A mighty fine secret to keep,” he said.

“We’ve been apart, and it was just a dream, perhaps a memory. I can’t vouch for its truth.”

“This,”—he waved Rallpinto about— “lends credence to it.”

“She is delaying us. That is the point of this. A handful of useless soldiers turn into one half-decent one. A beast that cannot die and transfers its power to the soldiers. We cannot afford to fight many more. We have to get that stone to Morgan by tonight.”

“Why?” Lysander asked. “Why do we have to? Let the trees burn. It makes no odds now. We suspect this isn’t even the battle.”

“Because I’m sure I set all these tasks in motion. The moonstone must be with Morgan, else all falls apart. I just wish I knew why.”

We set off along the path. “Perhaps if we could find that out, we might understand what this is all about,” Lysander said.

“What is the moonstone?” I asked. “Morgan had its pendant on.” Then I remembered our second encounter and noted she hadn’t been wearing it. “I wonder where the pendant went,” I mused.

“Morgan’s pendant is a jewel, and it has a pair,” Lysander mused, ignoring my speculation. “What could that mean?”

“I think the part we’re missing is why Vale has it.” Then I sighed. “One of the parts.”

We pressed on, uncertain whether the road led to where we wanted to go. We fought two more sets of the beasts and undead, but nothing became clearer. Then the horizon lightened, and there in the distance was a pattern imprinted into the ground. It was bright red, the color of arterial blood, and in its center stood Vale, the moonstone planted atop her staff, but it was not Finnigan. Of that stick, there was no sign.

“Have you lost Finnigan?” I asked.

“I do not need that duplicitous thing,” she said. “Come forth, Lord of Nothing, walk this thing on your own, without the prop of your mad wizard. Come to me at its center, and I will deem you worthy of this thing.” She pointed up, and the core revealed itself, glowing dimly against the dark sky.

“And the moonstone?”

“I will travel with you to the grand valley. There, I will hand it to Morgan, for that is where it should be.”

“Don’t trust her, Daniel,” Lysander whispered. “There are tricks up her sleeves.”

“What choice?” I asked. “Stay here. Attack only if she attacks me directly.”

“I don’t like it,” he said.

“Me either. Remember, stay put unless something happens. Fennel mentioned something about patterns,” I said.

“I’ll come to the edge. She does anything, then I’m coming.”

I walked to the pattern’s edge, then took a step, then another. Its path was warm. I paused, removing my boots and tossing them back.

“You mean to go naked?” Lysander asked.

“Just barefoot,” I replied and continued along the first part. It was warm—there was depth to the rock. I could sense nothing untoward apart from its radiance. It curled around, forming a grand circle, a spiral—parts blurred like a great finger had smudged it.

“What is this?” I asked her.

“Your doing,” she replied. “It is the futility of their lives, their endless lives reborn, then dead, then left in Limbo.”

“I didn’t create this.”

“You perpetuated it.” She changed then, morphing into a thing of shade, black cloak, ice-blue eyes staring from it. She grew, became thinner. “You ended it to save your family, and consigned all humans trapped in their cauldrons to endless torment.”

“I don’t remember,” I said.

“No, but you’re beginning to. Walk the spiral, and you’ll remember all.”

So I walked on, each step a struggle as memories raced back to me. The way underfoot warm—solid—rock with depth despite its illusion. Memories tumbled over each other like storm-born waves.

I had done it. I had bargained with the gods, sick of the endless slaughter caused by the cauldrons. When man doesn’t respect death, it cheapens it—I knew that. With cauldrons, man could wage endless war, resurrect his dead and go again. Lords fought Lords. Ladies fought Ladies—we’d ground ourselves to stalemate. It went round and around. I wanted more for my wives—wanted more for my sons and daughters.

So I, the most powerful Lord that ever lived, begged the gods to end it, but there was a price: my death and resurrection. Ten thousand years’ grace was their price, and then I had to wake because by then, the evil trapped within those cauldrons—the festering anger of a man cut down in battle, the rage of a life cut short—would bubble and boil and eventually spill from the place the gods cast those souls. They would rise, be reborn, and come for their vengeance.

I looked up, close to her, just a few circuits away. She regarded me with her ice-blue eyes, if indeed it was still Vale in there.

“Well, what have you learned?”

“That I killed hundreds of thousands by not thinking my request through.”

“A more honest answer than I expected.”

I completed another circuit. “I can admit my faults. I did what I did with the best intentions. How is the land of Lords and Ladies?”

“There is peace. There is war. The lack of a cauldron apparently did little to sate their thirst for death.”

“I feared that the most,” I said. “I feared we’d have a lust for death beyond the need for resurrection.”

“So, what will you do with the undead? They still play by the rules of the cauldron.”

It was then my plans, that of Kanazar, of Phillipe de Byoux and Nunez Excalivar, came to me, and I understood and knew exactly what I had to do.

I completed the final circuit, facing the cloaked thing. “Why should I tell you my plans?” I equipped my sword.

“Because if you don’t, then moonstone and pattern will meet, and the end of everything will begin!”

“Liar!” I said. “If that was the case, you’d have done it without me.”

“What if I couldn’t?” she said and laughed, and then I raised my blade.

“No!” said Lysander, shouting from the pattern’s edge. “It is what she wants!”

Then the ground heaved and cracked, became cold, and I sensed uncertainty in her, so I brought my blade down, knowing something terrible was about to happen. She countered, bringing her staff across her body. My blade bit into its wood, tearing a divot from it. I shuddered as her magic tore through me, the moonstone glowing, gates opening in my mind, a light drawing me forward. But my myst came, welling inside me, forcing those gates closed, saving me in its wash. The pattern shook as if our battle was tearing it apart. I lost my footing, sliding, regained it and struck again, her staff meeting my blade once more. Her power took hold of me again, those gates morphing into a set of steps, the light above them beckoning me forward, demanding I attend. Again, my myst washed over them, snuffing out her power, washing away the steps, reducing them to rubble.

I struck again, and the ground trembled and groaned like the world itself was falling apart. This time my blade broke through, shattering her staff, severing her connection to the stone and tearing through her cloak, cleaving her in two before crashing into the pattern and sinking into its ruddy radiance.

The moonstone fell. Lysander screamed: “No!” I let go of my sword, diving for the stone, grabbing it, then rolling to the floor, the pattern hot under me.

I held it high, not trusting her words to be lies. She vanished, the cloak falling around me. Brightwater’s core descended, asking me to claim it, which I did on instinct, as the ground under me split in two, and a great rent appeared in the illusion, cracking from one side to the other.

Lysander was over me, pulling me up. “Quick, we have to get out of here!”

“What’s happening?”

“Tanaka! She is playing her part. She is tearing the tower down. We must have been too long!”

I was confused, not understanding, then my world tilted, and I slid. Lysander pulled me up. “Stow the moonstone and the core. We need to flee!”

“What about my sword?”

“It is lost. All is lost if we don’t break free of this illusion.”

I stowed the stone and core, leaving my sword, and we ran, raced for the foothills, along the craggy path as it heaved and bucked like a cracked whip. The black exploded, a thousand volcanoes erupting, lava flowing.

Then I saw him, Scamp, and he was racing along the path, waving frantically, telling us to come, to veer off it and take a shortcut. We followed, racing through lava flows and jumping great chasms until we came to an arched slab of light and dove out into the day.

“How can you be here?” I asked Scamp.

He laughed and then jumped into my arms, turning into the stick called Finnigan, telling me never to call him a stick again. Before I could question or rebuke him, I was through the light.

We rolled, tumbling into bushes as over us, Vale’s great tower collapsed, crashing to the ground like a felled tree. Dust plumed all about, a great cloud enveloping Brightwater, snuffing out the fires, then settling. Then silence came, like it was the end of everything, and Tanaka was by my side, kissing me, her cheeks damp from tears. “Have we won?” she asked.

“That I do not know,” I said. “But we have got through this part—the second part.”

“What’s next?” she asked.

“The End of Everything.”

CHAPTER 19

I rode Willow like my life depended on it, and I supposed it did in a way. Things were becoming more apparent to me. I understood most of what had happened and nearly everything I had to do. The positioning of Castle Kanazar was a masterstroke. It was possibly the only place in the land where everything could come together, and only the so-called monsters could erase the damage I had done—the mass of evil, the plague of undead that would be unleashed on us if I failed.

There was one thing I didn’t understand, and that thing I carried in my storage. It was the moonstone, and its part was still a mystery to me. It made no sense. Lysander had the Jewel of Everything, the most potent artifact there ever was, and it was sitting atop a hugely-capable staff in Rallpinto.

I carried my stick—Finnigan—revealed to have been with me early on in my adventure—much earlier than I had realized, for Scamp and Finnigan were one and the same, and that charade still baffled me.

The moon was high. My time was short. I raced through the farmsteads, which covered the whole escarpment, then through the wall, a small band of trees, oaks from the Wolding Wood, then past that precious lake—precious for the memories it held, and on. I raced through the town, burst out of its gates, and veered along the road to the quarries. There, I headed along the margins of the Wolding Wood, all too brief and onto the edge of the blight. I thought I saw an elven warrior there, but she was wrong—grey when an elf might be white, short and spiked hair where an elf’s was long, and no speck of green on her clothing, just black.

I came to the flat valley. The moon was full, casting its light about. More strange grey figures appeared, some riding horses, others not. But I only had eyes for Morgan—to rid the elven forest of her blight, to rescue Sellevienne. I put my head down, kicking Willow, forcing her to fly those plains, plowing through the long grass, desperate not to be headed off by the apparitions—for that was what those grey creatures had to be.

Then I was there. Morgan stood upon the boulder, her hawkish face painted with the moonlight.

“I have it! Stop the curse!” I jumped up beside her, pulling the moonstone from my storage.

She regarded me. “Did the spiral not reveal all to you?” she asked. “Did it not show you the reasons?”

“It showed me enough!” I cried. “Enough to know that I love you like I love the others—that you defend against the corruption brewing for ten thousand years!” I paused, took a breath, my love for her threatening to overwhelm me. “I love you, Morgan!”

She reached for me then, her palm on my cheek. “Oh, my husband, you don’t know how long I have waited to hear those words. How could you? This cruel plan of yours separated us for thousands of years! How I long to hold you in my arms again, to fold you in my wings.”

“We can be together now! You can join me. You can all join me.”

“Not now,” she said. “You must come to us.”

“The curse?” I said, offering her the moonstone.

“That is not for me, my husband. It is for another of your wives.” She nodded, and I turned.

I’d have recognized her anywhere, for her beauty shone through her change. Gone was her radiant white skin, her aura so pure and bright, but that didn’t matter. Gone were those emerald eyes I’d become so lost in that had she asked, I’d have never broken free of—I didn’t care. I mourned for the loss of her long, white hair that cascaded around her breasts like waterfalls.

“Leyathel,” I said.

“The moonstone is mine,” she replied, holding her hand out.

Her deep grey skin was tinted with lilac, nails were black like obsidian. Her hair was still white but cropped and spiked, a plume rather than a vibrant fall, and her eyes were the deepest amethyst. She wore black armor and a sword on her hip. She was no longer a tree elf but had transitioned to the darker kind, some called drow, and she was beautiful, a marvel, and I fell in love with her all over again.

“What happened?” I asked but knew—I understood all in that moment.

More of them came, streaming from the forest.

“The time for one is done. The need for another has come. What was light is now dark, so our guise changes and we become what we need to be.”

She wore the moonstone pendant, which shone silver and grey. I gave her the stone, wondering at the irony of it all—the circularity—and as she took it, it shone like it was back where it belonged, as she set it upon her blackwood staff. Its light rippled back through the ever-growing troop, lighting them all with incandescence. They were the last, the final bastion of hope. They were the protectors of purity.

“We shall hold them until you are ready, my husband,” said Leyathel, and she turned her horse and headed south—toward that place I’d seen in my dreams—that dread wall.

Morgan pulled me tight, pressing her body against mine. “What say you, husband? Do you want to fight?”

I did, but first, I needed to kiss her, to see if it felt like it should, that bond between husband and wife. She met my kiss with the passion of love lost for a thousand years, pressing her body against mine. “Here?” I asked.

“Not here, no. You have work to do. We must wait, else the others will be jealous. You know how Wayleisha is when it comes to you.”

“Not really,” I said.

“Your memory will come. Go now. You must complete your harem, then you must march. Leyathel will help us until you are ready. Do you know what you must do?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Then begin it tomorrow, for time is tight, and we barely hold them back. It is paramount that you complete all your plans.”

“I will.”

“Is Finnigan here?”

“He is.”

“Do not leave him in your chaos. He’ll not be best pleased.”

I pulled him from that place, expecting a stick but getting a small, indigo imp.

“Never put me back in there again!” he said, then turned to Morgan. “How are you, princess? Long time.”

“A very long time. When was it?”

“Before all this hatched,” he said. “Not Anderlay, though. The Shard Mountains?”

“That was my place.”

“There then. Got a kiss for your old mate?”

“A peck, or my husband will be jealous.”

“Husband, eh? Things move fast around here.”

She bent, kissed him, then me. She then morphed and flew away, leaving me wondering at possibilities missed, right there, on the border between normality and the chaos of the wall.

“Is Fennel here?” Finnigan asked.

“He is.”

“Take me to him. I need to catch up on everything that’s been going on.”

“You and me both, buddy,” I said and marched for Kanazar.

* * *

Barnaby stammered as we walked from the stronghold towards the town. “I didn’t know what to do. You were gone, with no word when you might be coming back. So, I just left her there.”

“You left her there.”

“Yes. She seemed okay with it.”

“Did she, now?”

“And just what was I supposed to do?”

“You could have offered her a room in the tavern—perhaps a cottage? Maybe have asked Anna if she could have stayed in the Lording House?”

“Yes, well, I didn’t think. They can be quite volatile, you know.”

“They?” I asked as we arrived at our embassy.

“They—dwarves,” he whispered.

“Barnaby, by the shade! It’s level one!”

“Well,” he said. “We only built it because you wanted the layout done.” He scratched his head. “You told us not to build it further—you said not above one!”

“Yes, well,” I said, remembering. “You can upgrade it now. The time for hiding is over.”

“We were going to start upgrading the stronghold tomorrow. I assume you’d still rather that than have a fancy embassy.”

“I would, but we now have a shack called an embassy with what might be a rather important guest inside.”

“How so?” he asked.

I closed my eyes, quite beside myself with his stupidity. “What do the dwarves control?”

“Iron Mountain.”

“And what are we going to need if we are to equip the greatest army there ever has been?”

“I didn’t know we were going to do that,” he said.

“Ah,” I paused, clapping him on the shoulder. “I might have forgotten to tell you that bit.” I leaned in. “So, what’s she like? Short, muscular, face like a stamped-on grapefruit?”

“Not quite,” he said and pushed the door open.

“Good morning,” I said, strolling in. “My name is Daniel Cutterson, Lord of this place—” I stopped, my words failing me.

There, standing before me, naked as the day she was born, was the most beautiful dwarf I’d ever seen.

To be continued

RETURN OF THE LEGENDARY LORD 3

A LITRPG FANTASY

CHAPTER 1

"Cover your eyes, human!" shouted the naked female dwarf.

I complied, naturally. What Lord with manners wouldn't? But I kept my fingers a suitably discreet distance apart to allow me to gaze upon her voluptuous body. She was beautiful. Five feet high, and I'd like to say the same in width as that was my perception of dwarves, but she wasn't. She was stocky, for sure, and looked like she could win a hammer-throwing contest by some distance, but that only accentuated her. She was stacked and racked, and I was drooling.

Her skin was bronze, shining like she'd rubbed oil all over her, tight as it stretched over her muscular frame. Her breasts crowned her chest, defying gravity, challenging and threatening me. I imagined her nipples flipping open and shooting me full of darts. But then, I was tired. It had been a hell of a few days.

She glared at me, her lips curling to a snarl. Even so, my heart raced, and cock fattened.

"Turn around! You're looking!"

I reluctantly did as she wished. "Of course, I was staring at you."

"Why?"

"You need a reason?"

"Yes!"

"Well, you're standing in my embassy as naked as the day you were born? Is that reason enough?"

She let slip a squeak as she answered. "Ye…yes, I suppose. But you should get a bigger embassy. I was tired. No one fed me, and I got sleepy. So I slept, and I never sleep in my clothes."

"No one fed you?" I asked, ignoring the rest and proving how much I needed rest.

"No!"

I turned back around. She was still naked, hands on hips. I blinked and turned away again.

"You did it again!" she said.

"I'm sorry. I thought you'd have put some clothes on by then."

"I will."

I smiled—tried not to laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation. "There was another reason I was peeking."

"What?" she asked.

"You are quite beautiful, and I didn't expect a dwarven woman to be as delightful as you. So I thought I might check my first impressions were right."

"Humph!" she said. "Grondor said you'd try and sway me with compliments. He said humans always lie to get what they want."

"Grondor?"

"Chief."

"Well, it wasn't a lie, and if you get dressed, then perhaps you might let me take you to our feasting hall and rectify the bad manners we've shown you."

"But if I leave the embassy, you'll kill me!"

"Why would I do that?"

"You want to steal our iron!"

"I’d rather trade for it, but if I’ve nothing you want, then yes, I’ll have to steal it because not having it isn’t an option.”

She grabbed me, spinning me around. “You admit it?” she spat. She was upset, but obviously not too concerned about me seeing her naked. She still hadn’t put anything on, and I couldn’t help but notice how hard her nipples were.

She was inches from me, her smell heady, earthy and a little ferrous, which was odd but not unexpected. I stared into her golden eyes, wanting to kiss her quivering lips. “I do,” I said. “So, now you know the worst of me, why not persuade me to trade rather than steal?”

“I will!” she spat, as she leaned back, striking an angry pose with her hands on her hips.

“And are you coming for some food?”

“Yes!” she shouted but with less conviction. Her pose softened as she blushed, and her angry face relaxed to have a bit of a smile. She could tell how much I was enjoying our conversation in her current attire.

“Then, I suggest you put some clothes on.”

“I’ll do that right now,” she said, backing away, but confident in herself to not mind me watching her. She met my eyes and licked her lips before she slowly turned to bend over for her clothes.

When she turned, I got my first look at her butt, and what an ass it was too. I’d never seen such a ripped female, never imagined what one would look like without clothes on, but she was a goddess, and it was as much as I could do to stop myself from grabbing her and taking her there and then—if she’d let me, of course. I wouldn’t have fancied those thigh muscles crushing me.

“You’re staring again,” she said as she turned her head back to give me a smirk.

“Yes, I am,” I replied. “Yes, I damn well am.”

* * *

I’d not been to my feasting hall before but had rushed past it several times. It was opposite the tavern at the top of Artisan Street, and while it was a level behind our level six tavern, it was a pretty nice-looking place. Massive logs made up its sides, and a thick layer of thatch squatted atop it. A central stone chimney belched grey smoke, heavy with the smell of roasting meat.

“I’ve not tried this place before—” I stopped. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“I didn’t tell you it, but it’s Babushka.”

She had dressed, which was a shame, but as the street was busy and seeing as we were about to eat, it was probably for the best. It did little to hide her glistening assets. Her leather top didn’t cover her arms, her cleavage preceded her, and her skirt barely concealed her ass. I wasn’t complaining, but it was quite distracting.

“As I said, I’ve never tried this place, Babushka, but I hear it does a mean steak. Greg, our farmer, has a knack for raising cattle that provide meat that melts in your mouth.”

“We trade for that,” she said and marched straight in.

I followed, my eyes adjusting to the torchlight. It was homely inside, with trestle tables radiating from a central hearth. A handful of goblins occupied one, with ten or twelve quarrymen sitting at another. The chitter-chatter died as we entered, but I wasn’t sure whether it was me or her that caused it. I suspected the former as Babushka cut quite the figure, and I was just the Legendary Lord of that place.

And legendary I was, too. Word had spread in the stronghold of our victory against Vale, the evil sorceress who had attempted to usurp Lord Bright and take his castle, Brightwater. I was still undecided as to her motivations. My judgment was coming down to futile greed because Finnigan had manipulated her from the outset, maneuvering her into a position where I could take everything from her and get him back while recapturing the moonstone and completing my mission. Those events had handed me Castle Brightwater, which, on its own, was enough to enhance my reputation immensely.

But that was not all. I had also captured the hobgoblin city of Treygorvo and was in charge of the goblin city of Mesinto while looking after the elf’s Wolding Wood. Which all probably meant I deserved a few accolades, including being a bit of a legend. Although plenty of folks had helped me, not least my renegade wizard, hero, and friend, Lysander.

I sat opposite Babushka, and a serving lady I didn’t know quickly set a jug of ale down, followed by steaks, potatoes, a bowl of steaming vedge and another with bread rounds in. The meal was a far cry from the early days. My stronghold was getting larger by the day. Barnaby, my capable steward, had upgraded a few cottages while I’d fought for our existence, so more folks had been rebirthed by our cauldron—that of Castle Kanazar, and I hadn’t met all of them.

“So,” I said. “Tell me the truth.” I stared at her, my gaze unwavering until it strayed to her ample cleavage.

She might have been the most stunning dwarf I’d seen of late—and the only one—but business was business, and I already had my fair share of wives.

More than I thought…

I had three ladies in the stronghold: Anna, who looked after everything concerning me; Leyathel, who was My Lady of the Wood, and Tanaka, who was My Lady of Stone. On top of that, an old alias of mine, Nunez Excalivar, had several more; therefore, as we were the same person, I did too. My affection and recollection for Morgan, the Grey Sorceress, had been rekindled upon a boulder while we concluded our business with the moonstone. By rekindling, she flew away, leaving me horny as hell, but the time wasn’t right, and apparently, my other ladies would be jealous if we had a reunion without them.

My other ladies were: Isalar, a wolfwoman who spat ice fire; Darinka, a naga and Wayleisha, who was dragonkin and, according to Morgan, had a jealous streak when it came to me. Having a harem stretching over a thousand years or so presented some issues, but I was confident that Anna would sort it all out for me. Besides, Leyathel had already ridden off to join them in battle, so I imagined she would get the ball rolling.

It was a problem for another day.

“The truth?” Babushka asked.

“Why are you here? Why now? It’s not to trade iron. If you’d wanted to do that, you’d have brought some with you. Why did Grondor send you?”

She picked up a round of bread, split it, tucked a whole steak inside it, then bit a huge chunk off. I might have fallen in love with her then. I might not. But I certainly leaned toward intimate friendship when the steak juice trickled down her chin and dripped onto her breasts.

“Because you have an eye for women of different races, and Gondor thought I might tempt you.”

“He thought rightly,” I said, making myself a steak sandwich because if you can’t beat them, join them. “But, that’s as maybe. I have Treygorvo and Mesinto. I know that there is coal as well as stone in that area, so who’s to say there isn’t iron too?

“There isn’t. We have mined under the Stormbane since before humans chased the elves and goblins from the fairer lands. We understand them. The hobs and goblins squat there. They do not have the lore required to extract ore.”

Lore bound everything. A quarryman’s lore, for instance, enabled him to quarry stone more efficiently than any other worker. Likewise, a gatherer would have their lore, and no one else would be as proficient at that task. It made sense that a race who had dedicated their lives to extracting metals from the Under would have the lore to do it and a considerable advantage over any that didn’t.

“Yet we mine iron,” I said. It was a weak counter—we had two small iron mines. That was it. I held my hands up. “I know—nothing compared to what I need.” I inhaled and thought. “It’s the timing, though, that worries me. Why did he send you now?”

She finished her sandwich and took a slug of ale. “Because we go deeper than the goblin, deeper even than the hobgoblin. We venture into the bowels of the underworld where things, dire creations your greatest nightmares couldn’t conceive, stretch and yawn. They wake. They groan and grind.”

“I’m partial to that myself,” I said, and my smile withered at her blank expression. “Continue.”

“Several days ago, a whole gang vanished. They were working in an ancient ruin—an old mineshaft—and they disappeared.”

“Perhaps the floor gave way?” I said. “Happened to me—”

“We know our way around!” she snapped. “We know the signs. What do you know of Malgorth, the Harbinger of Oblivion?”

Malgorth? Vague memories filled me. Prophecies passed down by storytellers and priests. “Doesn’t its awakening herald the End of—” I struggled to say it, to utter that damnable word again. But I forced myself to. “The End of Everything.”

She leaned over the table, her golden eyes wide with fear, and she whispered, “Malgorth has slumbered in the darkest depth of the Under since time began. Some say he stitched the land together. Others say when he wakes, it will be to unstitch it all. Know this, human, we think he has awoken. We feel him stir.”

“But you haven’t seen him?” I ventured.

Had it not been for my up-and-coming battle with an infinite horde of undead and the reoccurrence of the phrase, end of everything, I would have put her warning down hearsay, but the timing was a little too close to the mark for that.

She continued, completely ignoring my question.

“His skin is as black as obsidian and swallows all light, cloaking him in shadow. His eyes burn like seething embers, radiating malevolence and malice. He can contort his immense body and slide through crevasses and fissures to attack without warning. He is the end of days, the beginning of night. He is doom.”

“But have you seen him?”

She shook her head. “If any have set eyes on Malgorth, none have ever lived to tell the tale.”

“Even though we have a pretty good idea what he looks like,” I said, but then said no more as a damn fine negotiating position opened up to me.

She genuinely believed a doomsday beast had risen. If she believed it, every dwarf, including this Grondor, believed it, so…

“I take it you wish me to kill it?”

“You cannot kill Malgorth.”

“But let’s say I did. What would I get in return?”

“Me,” she said.

It wasn’t the worst deal, but I wanted a little more.

“I want you, your tribe’s core, and every bit of metal in your mountain.”

It was a fair price for stopping an ancient prophecy from coming to fruition.

CHAPTER 2

My level six stronghold was a grand affair compared to how it had been, but having seen Bright’s towering walls, mine looked pathetic. However, Brightwater was mine, so there was that. My extended banner room boasted a roaring fire within a grand hearth with a substantial mantelpiece over the top. Great oak beams lined its high ceiling, and the walls were smooth-plastered with tapestries hanging on them. My banner hung behind my chair at the head of the table.

New additions sat there. Sanders, whom I had nominated to run Brightwater for the immediate future, sat to my right, with Lysander to my left. Throkka Shadowfist, the hobgoblin in charge of Treygorvo, sat beside my wizard, with Sarah opposite.

With most elves marching south with Leyathel and having evolved into drows, Sarah had been elected spokeswoman for the rest, even though she was not an elf herself. Tanaka sat next to her. She had turned down stewardship of the goblin settlement of Mesinto, but we had yet to elect a leader. There was little need for one, however, as it was barely more than a goblin warren, and once fed, the goblins demanded little more from life. Broadchurch, who sat opposite Tanaka, cared for all goblin troops on the surface while Throkka marshaled those under. The rest helped on the farms or quarries, depending on their talents, retiring to Mesinto once the day was over. Greg had come upon my request, one of his rare excursions from the farmsteads.

Jensome, my trusty builder and site foreman and Barnaby, my steward, sat at the end of the table, leaving three more spaces. Dolman, the smith and Saxon, the blacksmith, took up two of the three. Babushka occupied the third.

Then there was Finnigan. Previously a stick and a boy called Scamp, he was a shapechanger and apparently my most trusted companion in my previous life. Today, he manifested as a small footstool and was scampering around the room, offering himself up to any that might want to rest their feet.

I’d yet to make head or tail of him.

“Before we begin,” I said, “I want to introduce Babushka, Dwarf of Iron Mountain, and welcome Dolman and Saxon to our table. For those who don’t know, Saxon is versed in the smithing of steel using a blast furnace, while Dolman is an ironworker. As we now have a level six stronghold, we will soon have a blast furnace and can begin working steel. I intend to build several smiths and invite some of Babushka’s people to come and work here.”

“Why do we need so many smithies?” Barnaby asked.

“Because we need to prepare. Ladies, gentlemen, I have something to tell you, and it regards the purpose of Castle Kanazar—the reason we were all reborn. We came back for one final battle.”

Silence descended upon the banner room. All eyes fell on me. I took a breath. “Ten thousand years ago, I bargained with the gods and eradicated human cauldrons. I untied humans from the binding that cheapened their lives through rebirth. I did this to ensure my wives and family at that time could live beyond me and enjoy a happy and long life. However, part of that bargain involved me preparing for one great battle. That battle is upon us and is a consequence of my doing.”

“How?” Saxon asked.

“Because, when the gods wiped out all human cauldrons, they took with them the souls of every human awaiting rebirth—tens of thousands. But nothing can kill souls easily, and they gathered, and a great pit formed. Their essence manifested until, over time, it solidified, forming hideous creatures that resembled their former selves. The undead have risen, and they want their justice.”

“Their justice?” Lysander said.

“In the form of my head, I imagine. After all, I assigned them to a life of eternal suffering.”

“Then why don’t we throw you into the pit and have done with it,” he said, a wry grin following.

“I have thought about that, but I think the destruction of the entire land is more in line with their aims.”

“So, one scrawny Lord won’t sate them?”

“Let’s say not.”

“Good!” he said, “I quite fancy saving the land. It’s the type of thing heroes do.”

“Indeed. Can I continue?”

He conjured a bottle of wine. “I think we were at the part where the dead are rising.”

“Ah yes, that. So, Lysander and I encountered a small group of these undead while fighting Vale in her tower. He took on a monster, reducing it bit by bit. I had the pleasure of killing some undead, but nine out of ten rose again once I’d killed them. That is the foe we face, which is the reason for Kanazar. I believe our only chance of victory is gathering our friends, the goblins, hobgoblins and dwarves—all those still bound to cauldrons, battling alongside them, rousing them when they fall, and going again.”

“You mean to gather the Lords and Ladies too?” Sanders asked.

“I mean to try,” I said. “But if they die, they are dead, but there will be no nobler cause.”

He nodded. “Many will rise for that banner behind you. It might have been lost for ten thousand years, but it has never been forgotten.”

“What do you need us to do?” Barnaby asked.

“I need you to build this place and quickly. I must have it to eight like we’ve been aiming for.”

“Don’t fret about me,” Lysander said. “I’ve already begun restoring Vale’s tower. I shall draw my lore from that place.”

“It’s not your tower I need. It’s Alex. I must rouse her to complete my harem.”

Lysander furrowed his brow. “There is Anna, Tanaka, Leyathel and Morgan. That is four.” He held four fingers up. “Then a wolfwoman makes five, a naga six and a dragonkin seven.” He raked his hair. “Alex makes eight which leaves one spare. I wonder who you could be thinking about.” His gaze fell upon Babushka. “I wonder.”

I hid my grin. “Nothing is set in stone.”

“No,” he said. “But I think something might be set in iron soon.”

I shot him a look, cleared my throat, and addressed Sarah. “How are the Wolding Woods?”

The Gray Sorceress, Morgan, had cursed the elven woods to pressure me into rescuing the moonstone, which she eventually gave Leyathel, Queen of the Elves. It had changed them, the majority transforming into drow. During the curse, half the wood had been decimated. But, with the help of my able forester, Chivers, we had taken all the wood and used it on the stronghold builds. Our warehouses bulged with lumber.

“The trees do not recover,” Sarah said, to a stunned silence. The ground has lost its burned look. Grass grows again but no trees. I have a theory.”

“Go on.”

“Apart from Leyathel, I believe all the elves who lost their trees turned into drow while those still with them remained. Therefore, those trees lost do not return as they have no one to grow with them.”

“So, we’ve lost our source of timber?”

“Chivers has switched his attention to the southern mixed resource area. He thinks he can produce about half the amount we were getting with a little expansion. He has built six more mills. So we will see.”

“Should be all right,” said Jensome. “Our stores are pretty full, and the next builds need mostly stone. Bit of iron might cause us issues. That’s about it, though.”

“Then this is what we do. We add defenses around the Wolding Wood—treat the place like it’s part of the stronghold. One day, we might build the wall around it, but that day depends on many things.”

Jensome grunted. “Do as you please. You’re the Lord, but extending that wall’s gonna cost you. Better to surround it with something that triggers the watchtower.” He sat back, running his fingers through his beard. “What about putting farms where the trees once were? Or better still, get Chivers to plant normal forests. Then they’d produce some wood at least.”

“Which brings me nicely to my next point. A great army, any army, needs food to survive. If we’re going to rouse the greatest army there ever was, it will need a lot of food, and food, as we all know, comes from farms. The farmsteads call to the cauldron. They create their own population. Greg, I want you to build as many of them as possible in the valley beyond the Wolding Woods. We will construct a road straight down its middle, and I want fields on either side.”

He inclined his head. “Be a lot of work.” Then he twizzled his mustache. “I’ve got the easy task, mind. Building farms is what I do—what all my folks do. If you wake a few more hobs up, they can look after the existing farms and me and my guys and gals can start afresh in the valley. Meg won’t like it as she’s got a soft spot for the little green ones, but I’ll explain. It’s war, good against evil and all that stuff, and we should be thankful we’re growing squash, not fighting the devil.”

I had to admit. I couldn’t have put it better myself. “Throkka, your people can do this?”

“We can. But, if other lords are going to come, they’ll see us before they reach the mountains—they’ll be in our dominion when they pass through the tunnels, then through those farms. How will they react when they’re among hobgoblins?”

I took his point and mulled it. “It will be up to you, Sanders, and Bright, if he’s up to it, to explain. We will have to sell this struggle to them to prise them from the comfort of their lands and castles. That is our task.” I stood. “You are all willing to live and die by this banner.” I pointed behind me, to my banner—to House Gray. “This will line Brightwater’s battlements. Not his Sky Blue and Yellow—this banner. It is what they see when they approach that great castle. It will be on the livery of all your men, Sanders. It will be on yours, too, Throkka. For this is the light when we fight the dark. This is the task that has befallen the greatest house to have ever been. If they don’t swear allegiance to House Gray, then I swear, once we have defeated the monsters, undead and demon, I will march on them and show them no mercy!” I thumped the table, and silence greeted the end of my words.

“Perhaps that is the speech you should use when you try to get them on your side,” Lysander said.

Greg nodded. “Yup, I think that might work.”

I sat back down, eyeing each in turn. “It is a cause, and we will win. We must also think of the peace after, for these divisions in the land must never be allowed to endure. Goblins should be free to roam all lands, as should elves, hobs and dwarves. Hell! Perhaps even trolls!”

“Man will never allow that,” said Babushka.

“Man might,” I said. “If he sees profit in it.”

Lysander slow-clapped. “A warlord and a philosopher. By the shade, Daniel, is there no end to your talents?”

I ignored him. “We must get on. Throkka, how goes Treygarvo?”

“Morale is good—it will suffer more rebirths. My commanders have returned from Broadchurch. The training was adequate.”

“Adequate?” Broadchurch spat. “It was more than adequate.”

The hob creased his already wrinkled brow. “My warriors found your methods a little tame.” Then, he raised his palms. “But then, we are regarded as savages when it comes to war.”

“Your commanders want to attack and attack. They have no regard for caution.”

“Indeed. It is our way. Allowances must be made. Don’t forget; we have a cauldron. We do not fear death.”

“As do we,” said Broadchurch. “But, there’s no point in sending soldiers to the grave for the hell of it.”

“Agreed,” said Throkka. “Nor is there any point in cowering behind defenses!”

Broadchurch stood, red in the face. “You, sir!”

“What?” said Throkka, standing.

“Enough!” I said, banging the table. “All races will have their benefits. Throkka, if you wish to be first in the press, then I’m sure Broadchurch and his men will only be too happy to follow you into battle. Broadchurch, think about that! You don’t put archers in a shield wall, do you?”

“I—”

I raised my hand. “Which brings me to this point. Cavalry—we are hopelessly short of them. Is there anything we can do about that?”

Sanders drummed the table. “There are races on the plains beyond Brightwater. We regard them as monsters. They spawn—still abide by the cauldron of rebirth and plenty. Their numbers proliferate. We cull them, and then they grow again somewhere else. They are always mounted. We call them barbarian.”

“Barbarians, eh? That might be precisely what we need. So, we rid the land of the magical races, and it addressed the balance with barbarians.”

“That is poetic, in its own way,” Lysander said.

“We must draw them into this somehow. Can we make contact, Sanders?”

He shook his head. “There has never been contact with them. There has only been war.”

Finnigan, who up until that point had been playing a footstool, suddenly grew, first becoming a very tall footstall, then solidifying into a statue. He formed arms and legs, then his hair lengthened, and he became muscular, fearsome, dressed in leather: a skirt, waistcoat, with bangles and beads hanging from his wrists and arms. A beard grew. His eyes gathered thunder, and he held an axe. “I think they will parlay with Olaf, the greatest barbarian ever to live,” he said. “Especially if Olaf is sat upon a dragonkin when he descends from the heavens to meet them. Do we know any dragonkin?”

Despite my awe, I snapped my reply. “You know full well we do, and you know how much she hates being ridden.”

I surprised myself with those words, but then dozens of memories came flooding back to me—those of Wayleisha, my dragonkin lady, and she did hate being ridden and was fierce in that regard. But I knew her then. Some of Nunez’s memories were suddenly mine, and I yearned to see her. My love renewed like it had never gone away. I remembered when we had first met—every single detail. I recalled the fire in her eyes and the love in her heart.

“She hates being ridden?” Lysander said with a smirk, and he ruined my dream.

“Don’t,” I said. “Don’t. I think my heart just crossed time.” I sat there for a moment, unable to move.

It was like we’d never been apart—exactly like my love for Anna, Tanaka and Leyathel. It was fresh, not stale and long forgotten.

Something changed—and it changed within me when Wayleisha had snapped back into place in a way that Morgan hadn’t yet done. My harem, which time had divided, became closer as Wayleisha stood on the very edge of joining it, and I understood that my renewed feelings for her had flown south and that she had received them and sent them back. “She’s coming,” I said, my breath little more than a whisper. I closed my eyes and then opened them, looking directly at Lysander. “By the gods, man, she comes.”

Finnigan chuckled. Gone was the barbarian, and back was the imp, standing by my side. “Of course, she’s coming. They all must. Kanazar must accept them all for them to join properly. If they don’t, the whole thing falls apart.”

I needed time. Such was her effect on me. So I asked Sanders for a report and let him drone on while I composed.

“Brightwater is secured,” he said. “All farmers and crofters have moved back and now work their farms in tandem with the hob farmers, or they have agreed on a land division. We are rebuilding all burned buildings, although most of the damage was superficial and occurred in older wooden buildings that needed an upgrade. Lysander oversees the tower renewal. That was always mostly illusion, and Lord Bright—”

I coughed. “Just Bright.”

He lent me a look, then continued. “Bright never built her tower too high, and when she had him under her control, the upgrades were too costly for the feeble amount of resources we had spare. You were all probably fortunate in that respect.”

“Fortunate that I was secretly running the show,” said Finnigan.

Sanders ignored him, and I felt it wasn’t the first time.

“The army recovers. Morale is getting higher by the day, and some who’d left the castle have returned, hearing that things are changing. We have”—he cleared his throat—“been petitioned by Lord Sythwick to respond to the change of Lordship. I can delay replying for several days, but it will only be so long before he sends a formal emissary.”

“Lord Sythwick?”

“Bright was his banner. You dispensed with that allegiance when you announced the castle part of House Gray. I imagine he was quite annoyed to lose a bannerman without granting it, so will see it as an act of war.”

“Will he now,” I said. “Will he?” My heartbeat quickened, some primal anticipation growing.

“What would you like me to do?” Sanders asked.

I sat back, looking at my newly beamed ceiling. “I’d like you to scout him. I want a detailed report regarding his forces, the likely method of attack, timing and forces involved.”

“You mean to fight him rather than use diplomacy?” Sanders said.

“He thinks himself superior to us?”

“Undoubtedly. He saw Bright as weak.”

“Then he will see me as weak, so why would he demand anything other than complete subservience? Do you think I’ll give him that?”

Sanders dipped his head. “I’ve only known you a while, but I think not. He will see Bright as suzerain of a weak castle and seek to exploit the matter.”

“Then we will crush his army and send a message to all other lords.”

A smile rippled Sanders’ lips, gone before it took root. “I shall make preparations.”

“Do so. Broadchurch, are there any threats up here we must worry about?”

“A few knockers is all.”

“Then begin gathering the army. You and Throkka might have a chance to iron out your differences before too long. Play some war games—fight monsters together, but do it underground and out of sight. Let’s assume this Sythwick is no fool and that he’ll scout. Lysander, make sure the tower looks like it’s fallen. We don’t wish him to know we have magic.”

I rubbed my hands together, way too happy about the prospect of war with another lord. But I needed a way to announce myself, and what better way than two castles instead of one?

Broadchurch visibly puffed. “I’ll need your numbers, Sanders. We’ll need to plan this meticulously.”

“There will be no hiding behind walls,” I said. “Our army is not suited to that. You must assess Sythwick’s likely route and ensure that’s the path he has to take. Turn him towards the castle. Then we attack from the rear. If Vale had positioned one part of Bright’s army in the northwest forest, she could have taken our army as they lined up against the switchbacks. There is a killing field there. Plan on making the most of it.”

“We will prepare,” Broadchurch said.

“No, you will plan, and then you will present those plans to me, and we will make them better together. Sanders, do you have good joiners?”

“We do.”

“Then have them build some catapults and ballista in the forest opposite the switchbacks. Make them high, out of range of the castle in case Sythwick takes them. Build them, and make ready to destroy them. They could make for a swift battle. An exposed army tends to surrender when it comes under heavy attack from a surprising direction.” I felt alive again, wanting to get on with everything. “Is there anything else?”

“What about me?” Babushka asked. “What shall I tell Grondor?”

I pursed my lips, thinking about it—thinking about the timing of it all. “How long to Iron Mountain?”

“Two days.”

“Sanders, how long would it take Sythwick to be at your gates—delays aside?”

“More than ten days if he brings foot soldiers.”

“Which he’ll have to.” I rubbed my hands together for the second time. “You fancy killing a monster or two, Lysander?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

“Good. To answer your question, Babushka, we will leave the day after tomorrow. First, I must visit Treygorvo and perform the mundane task of rousing more hobs. I fear they wake up more brainless than any other race—no offense, Throkka.”

“Can wake goblins, too,” Tanaka said.

“We might as well do that too.”

My mind was alive—my heart pumping, and it was for two reasons. Wayleisha was coming—I could feel it in my gut which was a mix of nerves and anticipation. Morgan had said they would wait until we were all together, but that memory of mine had snapped that accord, rent it asunder, and it had drawn the dragonkin to me. It was destiny, and I knew each would come before the final reckoning. Each would establish their home and complete their part of my harem.

The desire to crush Sythwick drove the other reason. I was destined to fight other Lords and Ladies—it ran through me, was my blood and bone. Excitement coursed my veins, not because I desired victory. I hadn’t even thought of it up until that point. But because I instinctively knew that Sythwick would underestimate me and walk into a trap he didn’t know existed or had the potential to exist. It was the type of mistake I had lived for tens of thousands of years ago. I’d relished it then, and the feeling hadn’t changed.

It was the need to enhance my reputation, and I couldn’t resist it.

I would kill this monster—this Harbinger of Oblivion—and then eradicate Lord Sythwick, even with my paltry numbers.

* * *

Numbers:

Name: Andros Gray

Known Alias: Phillipe of Byouz, Nunez Excalivar, Daniel Cutterson (in play)

Title: Lord of Kanazar

House: Gray

Banner of: None

Banner to: None

Deity: None

Hero: Lysander

Level: Four

Attributes:

Strength – 12

Intelligence – 11

Wisdom – 11

Constitution – 15

Dexterity – 14

Charisma – 16

Harem

3/9 – Anna, Leyathel, Tanaka

Stronghold – Kanazar

Lord – Daniel Cutterson

Stronghold – Level 6

Wall – Level 5

Lording House – Level Three

Population – 209 Cap – 492

Food Consumption – 280

Storage – 98% full

Buildings

Artisan

Workshop – Level 5

Masons – Level 5

Smithy – Level 5

Pottery – Level 5

Seamstress – Level 5

Mint – Level 5

Embassy – Level 1

Military

Barracks – Level 6

Range – Level 5

Stables – Level 5

Watchtower – Level 5

Trap Factory – Level 5

Defenses

Archer Towers - 36

Other

Tavern – Level 6

Warehouse x 3– Level 5

Relay Station – 1 – Level 4

Feasting Hall – Level 5

Arena – Level 5

Resource

Cottages – 12 – Level 5 (12)

Farmsteads – 18 – Level 5 (12) Level 3 (6) – Production 456

Lumber Mills – 20 – Level 5 (14)Level 3 (6) – Production 520 (elven influence not factored in)

Quarries – 4 – Level 5 (4) – Production 224 (goblin influence not factored in)

Iron mine – 2 – Level 5 (2) – Production 32

CHAPTER 3

I took a swim in my lake and then sat on the rock ledge, surrounded by reeds and edged by lilies. I welcomed the rest. It had been a crazy few days, and while I couldn’t bear the thought of Leyathel fighting those abominations, I trusted Morgan and the others to look after her.

There was a plan, and I’d conceived it—I, Andros Gray, Phillipe De Byoux, Nunez Excalivar but not Daniel Cutterson. It was a simple plan. There was nothing devious about its end goal: to eradicate all those lost souls trapped in cauldrons when I had asked the gods to free humans of them.

That was it. The execution of that plan, however, was complicated. My flashback to my time with Wayleisha had shown me many things, and more tumbled back to me as I sat in peace on that cool rock. Perhaps it was walking the pattern—the spiral in Vale’s illusion. I couldn’t be sure. But it was irrelevant where they’d come from. I had them, and I had to make sense of them.

The gods had warned me that they would come. They had even told me the length of time, and I had agreed quickly, knowing it secured my ladys’ futures. My love for them knew no bounds. It stretched from my heart to the willingness to destroy everything if only for them to live long and happy lives.

The lost souls would wander, confused, uncertain why their cauldron had vanished and freed them of its constriction. A vast world would have opened up for them. At first, they would have meandered aimlessly through it, but as time passed, that confusion would have turned to anger and fury, and they would have become tangible through that anger.

After that, they would have begun banding together. Then, Diagon would step in.

Diagon was the God of the Black, the Lord of Empty, the King of Chaos, if such a place could have a king. He thrived in unraveling the land’s fabric—enjoyed destroying anything his brothers and sisters made. My Gods told me, and I accepted the challenge, that he would gather and throw all those lost souls at the land.

But, my Gods, those of the right and just, created a great abyss and caused all those souls to gather there, stopping them from wandering the land. Some still did, of course, and people called them ghosts, but most descended the pit and waited, whipping their fury to rage, for the time Diagon would come and lead them to one last victory.

The timespan for that dictated my sleep, and I woke twice—once as Phillipe and once as Nunez. I knew nothing of Phillipe’s reincarnation, but I did recall Nunez’s.

I, as Nunez, had woken, chosen a name and sat with Barnaby for a while. We agreed to my goals and grew the stronghold to level four. I needed a base to perpetuate my life while I rode south.

I took the valley, hugging the river to the mountains. There, I continued, through sharp passes, over bleak ridges, and toward the ends of the land itself, until there, like a black sea upon the horizon, was the abyss.

It was a pit of despair—a foul stain upon the land, deep, reaching into the land itself. I could hear them—the maddened soldiers, frightened farmers and enraged artisans—and they could see me. The mere sight of me stirred them to fervor, and why not? I had consigned them to their suffering.

I saw Wayleisha that day. She flew from the mountains, shimmering gold and spraying sunrays about. She dove into the abyss, fire erupting from her, gliding out as the undead’s screams intensified, calmed, and then returned to their terrible mumble. She dove several times, each time with the same outcome, and then she must have noticed me, and she circled me for a while before landing a short distance away.

I stared at her, partly in awe and partly with desire, for she was formidable and beautiful. Standing tall and above me by about a foot, her slim, athletic body sparkled in the sunlight. I thought her covered in some magnificent, sequinned, golden armor, but later learned that it was her scales and she was standing before me naked, as she always was.

She was part dragon, part human and spread her wings, and I nearly fell to my knees and begged for mercy. But she didn’t attack. She asked me a question.

“Do you know why they suffer?”

I did, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to tell her the truth. Something inside me urged me to ensure there were no lies between us.

“It was my doing, and I am reborn to rectify the matter.”

“Then you must have a story to tell, and I must hear it,” she said, and she lunged and grabbed me, flying upward, away from the pit and to her mountain lair. There, as any human would and not as I imagined a dragon doing, she set a fire and put a pot upon it. “You may talk while I cook. It will pass the time. I find it tedious, but unless I am enraged, tearing meat from living bone doesn’t appeal to me.”

I told her precisely what had happened, leaving nothing out.

She mulled the information as she stirred her pot. “A noble gesture invariably has ignoble consequences.” She began humming, and I fell into her melody.

She was an odd amalgam of human and dragon facets. I always thought the dragon came second to the human side of her because her body, apart from her wings, was like a woman’s. But her body was not the only part of her. She had a pondersome way, considering everything in fine detail before judging, yet her temper, once ignited, was incandescent in moments. She liked to hoard trinkets, weapons and any loot she happened across. Her body might have been primarily human, but her dragon heavily influenced her mind.

After a while, she judged that any reasonable human might have done as I did, given the knowledge of the consequences I had when I made the choice. Had I seen a bottomless abyss boiling with suffering? No, I hadn’t.

I didn’t tell her my choices would be the same even if I had known the outcome. We slept after the meal, her on one side of her cave upon her cot, me on the floor by the fire. The next day we went to the pit. She fired a few of the undead and then hunted. The days passed like that until we eventually became lovers and became conspirators.

I knew that the pit would fill further—that its occupants would become more tangible—that Diagon would come, and he would organize them.

“We need to build a wall,” I said.

“No,” she said. “You need to conjure a wall, and for that, you need a magicker.”

“Where is there one?”

“I know of a sorceress. She lives in the Fogen Forest, west of here.”

“Will she help us?” I asked, and she looked me up and down.

“She will help you,” Wayleisha said, and I made love to her that night.

Her passion amazed me. Her urgency astounded me. Later, when I knew her, I understood. It was her way of capturing my heart to ensure I’d return. But she needn’t have worried. Something about her compelled me back, and that pull could span a thousand years, and she was getting closer. I could feel her approaching—imagine her racing along the valley.

Distant shouts roused me from my thoughts. It was panic, wonder and fear. I sat up, straining to listen, ready to spring into action. Hesitation gripped me when I knew I should be running, but my eyes locked onto a magnificent sight.

There she was, those golden wings stretched wide as she glided in great arcs, her silhouette framed by the spring sun. My heart raced, drumming against my ribs as my mouth dried and I began shaking like a child. My love for her washed over me, dormant for countless years, pushing me to the edge of consciousness. I wanted to scream at her, to jump up and down, waving like a madman. But I trusted her—trusted my Wayleisha to find me like Lysander and Finnigan had.

Finnigan—my thoughts strayed to that little fellow. He was never far away. At that moment, he was curiously quiet. “Do I get to be on my own?” I asked but received no reply.

I was still fathoming out my relationship with him. The part where he’d been Scamp had confused me. Why he hadn’t let me in on his devious plans was beyond me. Naturally, I thought of myself as in charge, the superior of the two of us, but lately, I wondered if it wasn’t a partnership. A quick look confirmed I was alone, and Finnigan was up to no good elsewhere.

Where and what he was doing would have to wait as I was drawn back to the mesmerizing sight of my dragonkin wife flying over the lake, round it, then across it and straight toward me. She lowered her feet, running on the water’s surface as her large wings fanned to slow her down. Her face, mostly human apart from two stripes of golden sequins on her high cheekbones, bore an expression of unfettered joy.

With a hop and a skip, she was on the rock, and with another, her wings folded around me and her naked body pressed against me. She just held me like she’d never let me go again. Her shallow breaths, hot, that exotic taint of her breath stirred my loins each time it wafted over me—the heat of her, so warm where the day was cool.

“It is torture—nothing else.”

“What is, my love,” she said, her voice throaty, a slight rasp following each word.

“How could I ever forget you?”

“You forgot me?”

“I forgot all of you. Only after I met Morgan did I have some familiarity. It was a cruel plan.”

“We knew it. Humans aren’t long-lived enough to survive the span we needed.”

“It was still a cruel plan.”

“Do not blame yourself.”

“But it was my plan, so mine is the blame.”

She pushed me away. We came face to face. “Not all of it was your plan. We hatched it between us. A man is but the sum of his wives and him, after all.”

“It was all our plan?”

“Everything we did was all of our choices, my husband. You are never alone—you must remember that.”

I reached, cupping her cheek, stroking the tiny scales, her skin, my hand resting upon her neck where I could feel her blood rushing. I closed my eyes, understanding—another thing slotting into place. “The myst, I got it from you, didn’t I?”

She smiled, but it faded quickly. “You still have it?”

“I feel a quickening when I fight. It makes me nearly indestructible. At first, I didn’t remember anything, but then it began to come back to me.”

“The rise and fall of the moon, the tides of the land within. You were so desperate to get my myst, Nunez. So, so desperate, but then it came when you were gone, reborn as Daniel. You did not remember it because it overwhelmed you to begin with. Once you can control it, then you can soar with the eagles.”

“Do all dragonkin have it?”

“Only dragonkin have my fire. You are special, Daniel. Our love has transgressed all boundaries.”

“Will I be able to control it?”

“In time, you can control anything. It powers you—your numbers become mere multipliers with little worth on their own, but when combined with myst, you outstrip all.”

It confirmed what I thought—told me how I had breezed through fights against stronger opponents. “It has a side effect other than the fighting,” I grinned.

“Oh, I know,” she said, returning to me, her wings folding around me again.

She pressed her body into mine, each of her curves interlocking with me—a perfect fit—as our lips came together. I was home—that’s what it felt like—coming home after a long time away. Everything was how it should be and felt like it should feel. I closed my eyes as her cinnamon breath transported me from that rock to a place where my dreams came true.

Her tongue probed me, gently touching, sliding along mine, then withdrawing. I countered, thrust, parried, struck, all of those things as we danced together under the sun, somewhere a star-filled sky. My mind transported me to another place—a mountainous ledge, a nest behind, filled with her favorite things.

“It’s been too long,” she said, her fingers tearing at my shirt, pulling its laces apart, tugging it over my head. “Too damn long,” she said again.

I pulled my boots off, barely managing to stand, hopping around and removing my pants, finally standing naked before her. With the awkwardness of that moment done, she came at me again, toppling me onto my back, cushioning my fall with an outstretched wing. She was on top of me, predator to prey, and her lips met mine again. This time she took no prisoners as her tongue surged around my mouth, her lips pressing hard on mine.

She paused, gasping for breath, reaching down, grabbing my hardened cock and positioning herself over me. She was urgent, needing consummation after decades of abstinence. My tip touched the inferno of flesh between her thighs, and then she ground down on me, and I slipped in, my entire length swallowed by her passion as she raised her head and howled with pleasure.

She was fire, and I was inside her molten core. I gasped as pleasure ripped through me, tearing at my reality, pushing the boundaries of my very existence. It was too much—she was too much. She pounded me, her urgency incredible—my ecstasy beyond the realms of possibility. Waves of intense, rippling heat passed through me as I quickly built to orgasm. But I didn’t want it to end—couldn’t have it ending. I had to prolong it and calm my likely ejaculation.

I grabbed her, pushed her up, maneuvered her around, then on her back, and then I hovered over her, my tip against her boiling cauldron. I called upon my myst, and it answered me. My erection strengthened, quivering as it waited, but I didn’t linger for long, this time savoring every inch as I entered her slowly, enjoying every ridge and sinew.

“Fuck me hard,” she said.

“Just hold there,” I whispered, waiting until I was hilt deep. “It’s my turn now.”

She let out a long, frustrated moan. “Hard!” she begged.

I found my rhythm, ignoring her pleas, entering, then rentering her, each stroke smooth, each timed to prolong my pleasure. My myst rolled within me, feeding my patience, increasing my pleasure, and I became lost in her, within Wayleisha, my dragonkin. She embraced me, fingers clawing my back, her legs widening as she pulled me into her. But I resisted, wanting to go at my own pace, and then the flow of my myst quickened. It numbed me, causing me to speed up as I frantically sought my lost pleasure. It welled inside me, a flow building deep within me, gaining pressure, then traveling, gathering momentum. I became frantic, desperately searching for those heights of ecstasy. I pounded into her, all thoughts of control lost to my myst. I was a helpless passenger as it took my body and savaged her with its passion.

She threw her head to one side and then the other, her face reddening as she held her breath. She tensed, her entire body ready to explode, then it did, and she cried out. Her release came with a violent shudder, a howl of immortal power, of success, of the height of impossible satisfaction, and her warmth flooded around me as she trembled from head to foot, clawing for breaths, gasping in delight, pulling me to her.

I thrust into her without thought for her climax, wanting, needing, my release. My balls tightened against me as they unleashed my cum. My back arched, muscles compressing, a cry coming from me, the shock of my pleasure too much to take in. My cock convulsed as I emptied myself into her, a flow so strong, so eternal. My myst flooded from me, and hers came from her, and they mixed, and we established equilibrium as we both sagged and experienced a new orgasm, one born of myst, that was myst, that was us and our sacred bond.

I held there, my arms planted on either side of her, my chest raised from hers, our groins joined, and I savored the sight below me. Her wings sparkled gold, her body laying upon its majesty. She, naked under me, a picture so raw and feral, so refined and beautiful, so damn unique, and I knew that no mortal or immortal man had ever sampled her delights other than me—that she was mine then, before, and forever. Only then did I relax. I fell into her, and only then did she wrap her wings around me as I closed my eyes and wallowed in her, in Wayleisha, my wife from all that time ago, whose love had never waned.

“My love,” she said, then began laughing.

“What’s so funny?”

“I made Morgan wait. Told her she couldn’t have you until I had.”

I rolled off her, resting in the crook of her shoulder, laying on a bed of her wing. “The second time when I gave her the stone?”

“And the first. She played that part well. Every inch of her wanted to take you in that caravan of hers. She wanted to tell you the truth—to make you remember, but she resisted. You had to take on Vale.”

“That is a part I don’t understand. Who was Vale?”

Wayleisha grunted. “She was nothing: a nobody witch but one with an evil streak we could manipulate. Finnigan stole the moonstone a long, long time ago. He stole it from Diagon right out from under his nose. But the stealing was the easy part. Concealing it from him for all those years was the tricky bit. He fractured it, setting one piece in a pendant and keeping the rest for himself. That fracturing broke the stone’s resonance, concealing it from God.”

“When I see him, I’m going to want to hear that story,” I said.

“Perhaps he’ll tell you, but the rest, you must know. He gave the pendant to Morgan and eventually gave the moonstone to Vale. There, in Castle Brightwater, he rested, giving Vale pseudo-immortality so that he could bide his time, waiting until the witch became powerful enough to use the broken moonstone to etch a copy of the pattern inside the illusion of her tower. The pattern should have completed your memory, but it only fulfilled part of the task.”

“How come?”

“Because the stone wasn’t complete, nor was its etching. Part of it still hung around Morgan’s neck, so not all your memories returned, but they are all close now. One small snap, and they will flood back. That is how you came to remember me. That is how we suddenly reestablished our connection. It is why I had to come to you immediately. Once you remembered our most intimate times, I had to mate and cement our bond—our binding might have been disguised by time, but that which was always there cannot hide forever.”

“I will remember the others? I will remember everything about Morgan, Isalar and Darinka?”

“You must, husband, for we will only win through our combined power. Leyathel has the moonstone. You chose well there—there is mettle in that one. She will bring the moonstone to the pit and bring Diagon from the halls of his chaos, and he will know who stole his favorite trinket, and he will come looking.”

“You’ll wait for me, though?”

“As long as you’re speedy. Time is our hostage for now, but it will soon become our master, and when that happens, we must move quickly.”

“How will we know?”

“Lysander is the key. His mind is as beautiful as it is fragile. He contains the Jewel of Everything, but it will seek to dominate him. His thoughts will darken. When that happens, time is shortening, and the forces of chaos are rising.”

“His thoughts are already pretty dark.”

“Then it begins. You—you must be his greatest friend. You must keep him sane and position him rightly. He is the paradox we rely upon.”

I couldn’t profess I understood all her words, but I caught enough to comprehend the slant of our plan. “Is there no other way?”

She scoffed. “Only a fool thinks light can counter dark. The only way to beat evil is with its own game. We must tear Diagon asunder. You know that. The ice is thin. You must smash it so that all your thoughts return.”

I sat up, thumping the rock beside me. “Why? Why don’t you tell me all of it now?”

She sat up. Bringing her wings in as if she was suddenly cold. “Because only you know the complete plan. That’s why Finnigan had Vale make the pattern. It’s why you must remember.”

I looked at her. “But that’s the problem. I don’t.”

* * *

We strolled to my Lording House, and next to Leyathel’s and Tanaka’s was Wayleisha’s home. It was a unique design of stone and fire, as you would expect for a dragonkin. Eight great pillars rose, and between each was an archway of black rock—volcanic melt by look and texture. Inside was a mix of the same stone and a circular stream of hot orange coals, an eternal fire warming her nest for her. There were no rooms, just one chamber where she might bring her hoarded treasures or gather a cot. A circular stairwell rose in the middle and opened to a roof terrace, plain and flat with no ornate pond or furnishings.

It was the simplest of the four dwellings. The Lording House was, of course, the grandest, then Leyathel’s and Tanaka’s. Wayleisha’s was little more than a nest—somewhere for her to stay, and she said she loved it, and she pecked my cheek, then wandered off to see Kanazar, and I watched her go. She wouldn’t return. Her business was over the southern horizon, and her absence weakened the others. She had done what she came to do.

Perhaps, I thought, she might return when it was all over. I hoped she would, and I vowed to work as hard and fast as I could so that I might join her at the southern wall.

Anna came beside me. “You need a bath. You smell of fire and brimstone.”

“Don’t you want to know who she was?”

“I know full well who she was, husband. I know all eight of your ladies, and I approve of each and every one of them.” She threaded her arm through mine. “You could only ever have strong women. After all, you are the Legendary Lord. Did you expect them all to be waiting at home for you darning socks?”

“No, no, I didn’t, but that doesn’t mean I want them to be away.”

“Sometimes we can have everything we want, but not often. It is better to have it for a fleeting moment than not to have it at all, don’t you think?”

“Not now,” I said. “It doesn’t feel that way now, but it might tomorrow.”

We stood before the Lording House, and she turned my head and kissed me. “Perhaps I wasn’t talking about you.” She smiled. “Come on, let’s get you bathed, fed and then in bed. I will have my husband this evening, for tomorrow, he goes monster hunting once more.”

“You know about that?”

“I know everything. I am your first and your ninth.”

CHAPTER 4

We met at the relay station. No longer the small wood cabin surrounded by a palisade, it had a workable tavern with sleeping quarters over, a small smithy for shoeing Greg’s horses and repairing his farming tools and several cottages where Broadchurch’s men hunkered down between patrols of the lower lands.

We still needed to integrate better with Brightwater. Most residents had an inbuilt fear of goblins and hobgoblins, which wasn’t surprising. A steady diet of nightmarish tales about them would ingrain terror that couldn’t be removed overnight. It would take a while, and we’d decided to mix with the farmworkers at the top of the valley first. Once they were on our side, we could progress behind Brightwater’s impressive walls.

News of Smythick’s intentions helped. Contrary to popular thought, no one liked war. The innocent suffered. Bystanders became caught up in its violence, and starvation wasn’t a pastime anyone enjoyed. There was, however, one exception. I was excited by it. I wanted him to come.

Conflict ran through my veins, and the thrill of the win was something I lived for. I’d already gone over every scenario: what heavy weapons the Lord might bring, where he’d have to camp to give him the timber to build trebs and ballys. I’d considered his supply lines, the food he’d have to bring and what farms he’d have to take to ensure his men could eat.

All of which led to a hastily arranged meeting with Broadchurch and Throkka. The relay station was the perfect spot as it was en route to the Iron Mountain. Its tavern, as mentioned, was modest. It had a simple L-shaped counter in one corner, scattered tables and chairs, and a small inglenook hearth in the center of its longest wall. We had no glass, apart from in the Lording House and the stronghold, so its shuttered windows were partly closed to calm the fresh mountain wind. Despite being early morning, it lent it a nighttime, cozy feel.

“I feel a morning ale might clear the cobwebs,” Lysander said.

I was partial to one myself. Both of us had an inbuilt distrust of water, which heralded back ten thousand years to living in a big city where fresh water was a rarity, and most water carried disease and waste. Fermented drinks such as ale and wine were not only far safer to drink, but they also smoothed edges.

“I think I might, too,” I said and ordered. “Now Broadchurch, Throkka, we must get on the front foot regarding Sythwick. Knowledge is key. By now, Sanders should have scouted him. No matter how versed in agility and the art of concealment, scouts always give themselves away. So, Sythwick knows that we know he will likely attack.”

“How does that help us?” Broadchurch asked.

“It will be a good gauge of his arrogance. If he scouts back, we know he is a cautious man. They are harder to outwit. If he doesn’t, the battle is almost over before it starts. So, the first thing we must do is position an anti-scout around the castle.”

“A what?” Throkka asked.

“Dot a number of your people a few hundred yards from the castle—archers and hunters, preferably. They must keep looking out for Sythwick’s scouts. If they come, then they must kill them and keep him blind. If they don’t, we have that information instead. Either way, we don’t lose by doing it.”

“I’d suggest archer details led by Sarah,” Broadchurch said.

“I concur.”

“The goblin tunnelers could dig some concealed positions on the valley floor,” Throkka said.

“They could,” I replied, “but I’d prefer them to start on our defenses. Let’s assume Sythwick is marching. His main force might split up and use different routes, but his supply lines must use the only road leading to Brightwater. We need to do two things. The first is to delay his advance unsuccessfully.”

Broadchurch scratched his head. “Why unsuccessfully?”

“Because the second thing we must do is successfully stop his retreat.”

“Assuming we win,” Lysander said.

I stood then, rounding the table and standing behind Babushka, who’d barely said a word all morning. “We will win because we have the best fighting force in all the land. One that will become even greater when we add our friends, the dwarves. Why? Because humans are one race with one specific set of, albeit varied, skills. We benefit from the hobs’ ferociousness, the elves’ grace, and the goblins’ doggedness. No other army has that.”

“No other army has me,” said Lysander.

“Indeed. So, we need to make some mess—some half-finished pits, a few abandoned trenches, and some stakes, perhaps lying around like we ran out of time. Then we need to sabotage the road.”

“Sabotage?” Throkka asked.

“Make ready to destroy it once the army sieges the castle.”

“You mean to slaughter them all?” Lysander dipped his head, looking at me, a grin spreading upon his lips as he pushed his long hair out of the way.

“Not all, no. A few must spread the news of his defeat.”

He nodded. “And magic? Do we announce that?”

“Not if we can get away without it. We’ll hold you in reserve.”

“To sum up,” Broadchurch said. “You wish us to prepare the land. What about the castle?”

“Caltrops on the switchbacks, some rolling logs, ballistae in the woods opposite, perhaps a treb or two. They’ll not assault that wall unless they bring a significant number of magickers. If that is the case, then we bring our archers into play. Remember, though, we have an advantage that no other army in the land has.”

“Which is?”

“Tunnelers. Wherever they camp, no one is safe from the goblins. If a wizard lays on his cot at night, there is no guarantee he’ll wake up there. We snatch them, blindfold and gag them, then spirit them away to Treygorvo until we can use them. That goes for their generals, captains, and best soldiers—Sythwick himself. If Throkka and Muckspur create an insertion squad capable of infiltrating the enemy camp, then none of them will be able to sleep easily at night.”

Lysander sat back, bringing his wine to his mouth, then taking a long draught. “I remember how you came to be the greatest Lord ever.”

“And how was that?”

“You never lost a battle you had time to plan for.”

“No, but once your enemies know that, they tend to surprise you.”

* * *

It was pleasant following Babushka through the Stormbane as she sashayed ahead. Her curves mesmerized me, and I wondered what it would be like to nuzzle between her magnificent breasts, hold her, and feel her powerful legs wrapped around me.

She’d given us two choices for the journey, above or below ground, and given our recent forays, both Lysander and I chose above. We three went alone because of the likelihood of Sythwick’s attack, or at least his preparatory incursions. Sarah needed to prepare her archers. Mudpaw had command of the tunnelers, and Throkka and Broadchurch had their hands full with everyone else.

“It is a shame,” Lysander said, “that I finally have a tower, one I can refurbish and then study in, and I find myself trekking through this rugged, inhospitable land.”

“What else would you be doing?” I asked, sensing a rant coming.

“I could increase my power—help Sanders lay magical traps to slice Sythwick’s legs off.”

“Just Sythwick?” I asked. “Why not take them all out?”

“I fancy a decent pair of boots, and he’ll have the best.” He kicked at the gravelly soil. “These have seen better days.”

“What if he has tiny feet?”

“Then I’ll enlarge them”—he pointed to himself—“wizard, remember?”

“Had you stayed in Brightwater, you could have found a cobbler. Save poor Sythwick’s legs.”

He stopped. “I could, couldn’t I? So, had I stayed in Brightwater, I’d have a nice new pair of boots, a comfortable tower, and perhaps improved my magic. I think I’d still take Sythwick’s legs. Studying puts me in such a bad mood. I’d need something to take the edge off, and watching a Lord wander around looking for his feet would amuse me no end.”

“Brightwater has several brothels and ten or twelve taverns. You might find they take the edge off just fine.”

He strolled ahead, turning, hands on hips. “That many taverns? Really? So, tell me, why are we walking away from it?” He pointed at Babushka. “Why have you done this to me?”

She stopped, looking at me for help. I shrugged. “We are saving the dwarves from a fearful beast. We are fighting monsters for the pure hell of it.”

“And iron,” Babushka pointed out.

“And iron,” I agreed.

“Oh,” he said. “Well, that’s all right then.” He turned and marched ahead.

“We have taverns,” Babushka said, and Lysander stopped.

“How many?” he called back.

“At least twenty.”

“The other? The brothels. Do you have them?”

“You will find every pleasure available in Ferric Tarn.”

“I know little of dwarven women. I might have to investigate.”

She laughed. “Dwarven women are known to enjoy experimenting. They might enjoy investigating you. They might like a skinny runt on top of them,” she said.

“Skinny runt?” He grunted, then shrugged. “I can’t argue with that—not when compared to a dwarf. Stumpies—we used to call them stumpies.” He marched on. “Mind you, I have no objection to being experimented on. Do you have many friends, Babushka?”

“Female? Perhaps a hundred.”

He stopped, waiting for her to catch up. “Do they like heroes? I’m a hero.”

She leaned close. “They love heroes.”

“Good, then we’d best hurry.” He strode off.

“Is he always like this?” Babushka asked me.

“He is in a good mood.” I paused. “Which worries me.”

We walked for the rest of the day and well into dusk before Babushka finally found a place to rest. An overhanging bluff sheltered us from the light rain, and undergrowth lent us some seclusion and respite from the wind that constantly blew along the valley. It was getting colder the higher we traveled, colder and bleaker. Babushka warmed some rock using a similar talent to Tanaka, its unintelligible name—a whole load of consonants rolled together with far too many Ys, was beyond me despite trying to master it several times. Fortunately, Lysander produced a couple of bottles of wine, so I retrieved a food basket Fiona had given me and divided up the contents.

“How many wives do you have?” Babushka asked, taking a bite from a pork sandwich. “I know Anna and Tanaka, but they talk like there are more.”

“He currently has three,” said Lysander.

I coughed. “It’s four, plus I have three from a previous life that will join me shortly.”

“Four?” said Lysander.

“Wayleisha the dragonkin came to me by the lake. Her home is unique. You should visit when we’re back.”

“So that was her circling earlier?” Babushka asked. She furrowed her ample brow. “Previous life?

“It was, and yes, previous life. Look, it’s a long story—”

“We have all night,” Lysander pointed out.

So I told them both. Lysander knew most of it, but I filled in a few gaps. “Do dwarven men take many wives?” I asked as I finished up.

“They don’t. They think one is enough—sometimes more than enough. There are two sorts of dwarven men. Some meet a woman, fall hopelessly in love with them, raise a fine family, and dedicate their lives to that. Others find it all a bind, preferring the tavern and fighting.”

“So,” I said, “much like humans, except we have a third option, a harem.”

“I know what harem is. I don’t understand what they get from it.”

“Well, it’s like this. Each of my wives has a specialty, if you like, though that is a sterile word. Take Anna, for instance. She is the glue that holds everything, including me, together. Then there is Leyathel. She was my Lady of Wood, and now she is a Defender of the Land and Keeper of the Moonstone. Tanaka is my Lady of Stone and gifted in rock crafting, while Wayleisha is my goddess of fire, a warrior and lover. So you see, each is unique and adds something to my family.”

“What about you? What do you add?”

Lysander spat his wine out. “He is the Legendary Lord. He protects and nurtures, cajoles and encourages. That’s what you do, isn’t it, Daniel?”

“Something like that,” I said, shooting him daggers. “I like to think I protect them, but these are dark times, and the risks are significant. I do my best. That is what I do.”

She stared at me, then shoved the rest of her sandwich in her mouth, her cheeks bulging. I waited until she finished, as a polite man does. “I think you are more than that,” she said. “You must be because it’s clear your wives adore you.”

We talked for a while longer, and then we slept. I dozed off quickly, the wine, the trek, and the last few days taking their toll on me. Midway through the night, I woke and found Babushka nuzzled against me, her arm across my chest. I lay there awhile, listening to her breath and wondering about her question.

“What do you add?”

What did I give any of them that any man didn’t? From what I knew, I gave Morgan, Wayleisha, Isalar and Darinka little apart from war. Anna, I supposed, gained some comfort in our Lording House. Leyathel had lost her forest, transformed into a drow and gone to war while I took her trees. Tanaka—she’d benefitted the most. At least I’d released her from slavery in a rather unique way. They got my love, but was that enough?

I slid out from under her and walked to the edge of our camp, looking up at the stars and wondering what kind of man has as many wives as me and is alone at night.

* * *

The late morning saw us climb a steep slope, and at its end, we came to a great cliff face. We stood and stared at it, and then Babushka waved her hands, said some words and pressed her palms against it.

The rock transformed, becoming a pair of ornate, rune-etched doors. I blinked, taking a step back. “Now, that is a neat trick.”

While they were no towering doors I’d always imagined the entrance to a fabled underground passage might have, they were substantial. Lysander looked from Babushka to the doors and back. “Why so big when you’re quite short.”

It was direct and to the point and very much the question I wanted to ask.

“So we can allow other races through. These doors, for instance, are fashioned to allow a troll passage. If giants were prevalent in this land, they would be higher. We make most of our money through facilitating journeys. There’s only so much iron needed in peacetime.”

The doors opened outward, and a line of torches immediately sparked to life. They lit a craggy tunnel, rough-hewn and not the masterpiece of sculpture I’d expected.

“A bit rural,” Lysander sniffed. He conjured his staff, popped a red light atop it, and walked in. “And if we are going into the earth’s bowels, why did we walk up a bloody great slope to enter. Surely it would have been better to put it down at the bottom of the mountain?”

“Ahh,” said Babushka. “You would think that wouldn’t you? But if you put it there and it rains, everything floods.” She marched past him, a torch appearing in her hands. “We’ve been doing this a while.”

Lysander sniffed the air and followed. We walked a smoothed path of steps and switchbacks, down and down, deeper into the mountain. At first, there was only hollowness, like traveling inside a shell, but then the groans came, deep, ominous. Sharp cracks rang out. Rock splintered and tumbled. We passed a waterspout gushing from the rock, falling into a chasm, but we never heard its end. Its sound reassured me, though, drowning out the echoes and groans, the heaving of the place.

The switchbacks continued, then we crossed a bridge in single file, its crumbling walls draining my confidence. Another tunnel sat at its end, we passed through it, and everything changed. We came upon a road wide enough to drive two wagons side-by-side, tall enough for a giant to stroll along.

“This road leads to Faringwrought. It is where we work the iron ore into ingots. Take heed. It is a rough and ready sort of place. Be on your guard. Humans are not best regarded here.”

“I imagine I’ve had worse welcomes,” I said as we walked a long curve and Faringwrought came into view.

The road widened on both sides, its smoke-stained towering walls creating a vast flue above. I could feel the heat, even from a distance. Huge baths full of molten ore lined our way, and great furnaces belched more smoke. Piles of coal filled the air with their acrid stench. Hammers rang out, but not those of a smith. Of that trade, there was no sign. Dwarves, stripped to their waists, raked the ore, drained the molten tanks into molds or shoveled the coal.

Closer, the heat became unbearable. I raised my hand over my eyes to shield them from the ore's glow. Lysander pulled his hood down. Then, as we were halfway through the town. The pointing began, followed by shouting, followed by jeering. A colossal dwarf, as broad as he was tall, stepped out into the road.

“What yer bringing these vermin down here fer?” he said.

Lysander pulled up, tossing his hood back, Rallpinto in his hand instantly, the Jewel of Everything kindling to life. “You called me what?”

“Vermin, lad, and if you’ll fight fair, then it’ll be a match I’m interested in, but if you’ve a mind to use that fancy stick of yours, then you’ll not be getting out of here with your guts in yer stomach or yer head on your shoulders. Wizards boil in molten metal as quickly as any, and you’ll not get all of us afore you get tossed in.”

At roughly the same time as Lysander, I noticed that the dwarves had surrounded us. He turned. “Do we really have to teach them all a lesson?”

“I am taking these humans to see Grondor. These seek to kill the beast Malgorth,” Babushka said. “You will let us pass.”

“I will not, lass. This is tradition, and even Grondor wouldn’t mess with tradition, eh?”

“What tradition?” she spat

“See a human, beat a human. That one,” said the dwarf, bringing cheers from all around.

There was laughter. It stung, I’ll admit, and it also kindled my anger, my myst rising instantly. I walked forward and squared up to the dwarf, slightly concerned by his breadth, hugely put off by his breath, and more than a little disconcerted that he came up to my nose. But, a challenge unanswered only festers, and I had walked all day. If nothing, it would be light relief.

“You are?” I asked.

“Filo,” he said.

“Pretty short name for a dwarf.”

“Only name I need. So, you want to pass; you go through me.”

“What I want and don’t want appear irrelevant. But let’s say you’re interested. I’d ideally like you to join me in a battle against the great forces of evil and darkness.”

“I could do that,” said Filo, and for a moment, I thought everything was good between us. Then he added, “If you fight me.”

The cheers rose again.

“So!” I said, lifting a finger. “If I want to pass, I have to fight you. If I want you to fight with me, I have to fight you. Is that the sum of it?”

“Get on with it!” another dwarf shouted.

“Yes! Get on with it!” Lysander shouted.

I turned.

“A dozen taverns and whore houses, remember?” he said.

I exhaled long and hard. “Okay, then.”

As I turned back to Filo, my jaw exploded. A flash across my vision told me his fist had whipped past my nose, having connected. My head spun around, twisting my body and buckling my knees. Fortunately, my myst immediately countered. I recovered, cuffing the blood from my lip, shaking my head clear, then glaring at him. “That, Filo, was a mistake.”

I leaped at him, kicking once, twice, both landing on his chin, pushing his jaw up into his skull. He staggered backward. I landed, spinning, lifting my trailing leg and kicking him in the temple, following through. Stepping back, my stance perfection.

Filo fell back into the crowd, who buckled under his weight, then swelled and forced him back up, sending him staggering toward me. I stepped aside, aimed two punches at his kidneys and watched him veer off into another group of dwarves.

“Can I continue my journey yet?” I asked.

They spun Filo around, pushing him back into the irregular ring. I lowered my guard, not needing to do much more than blow on him to see him over. He staggered close, his eyes cleared, and then he grinned, and he hit me in the stomach with the most brutal punch I’d ever taken. Myst or no myst, I doubled over, and my descending face met his rising fist as his uppercut landed, lifted me from my feet and sent me crashing into the dwarven ring.

I hung there momentarily, blood filling my mouth. “Lysander,” I said. “It appears I have a worthy adversary.” Then I grinned, flipped my hair back, and stared him right in the eye.

I saw it then, plain as day in the orange gloom. He doubted. He understood. He lost the fight at that moment, for he knew he’d never win—that I would never lay down. I launched at him. A kick, a punch, another kick, then a flurry of punches. He caught me once, twice, three times, but I pounded him more. My myst fuelled me. It masked my pain, oiled my joints and powered my punches.

Then it was done, and I stood over him, and a dwarf handed me a water bottle. I took a slug, and my head exploded. I coughed, wheezed and spat half out. “What the hell’s that?”

“Moonbane,” said one, and they all laughed.

I took another swig, smaller, and let its heat sear my throat. Then I knelt by Filo, opened his swollen mouth and poured a good measure in. He swallowed, opened one eye, then the other, and grinned. “You’re not bad fer a human, and yer pack a mighty punch.”

I grabbed his hand and pulled him up. “You’re pretty tough for a dwarf. I heard they were all mouth and no pants.”

He grabbed the moonbane. “Where you headed?”

“Wherever she takes me,” I said.

He looked Babushka up and down. “That ain’t a bad place to go.”

I appraised her. “I make you right, Filo. I make you right. The offer still stands. If you ever want to get out of here, I’d have you by my side instantly.”

“Might take you up on that.” He took another long draught of moonbane. “Back to work, lads, if yer wants to make the tavern tonight.”

Babushka came up to me, a cloth in her hand. She began dabbing my lip and eye. I held her wrist. “Will we get a welcome like that everywhere we go?”

“No,” she said. “Word will go around that you beat Filo easily. They will leave you be now.”

“Hardly easily,” I said. “It was strangely enjoyable.”

“Might I remind you,” Lysander said. “That I’m supposed to be the mad one.”

CHAPTER 5

The wagon trundled along the road. Magnificence surrounded me, and it came from all about. The vastness of the Under was breathtaking. It wasn’t only the breadth and height of the caverns we passed through, the precariousness of the ridges we drove along, or the black falls on either side. Scale played some part. What amazed me was the depth of the place; by that, I do not mean a measure of distance but more an appreciation of the passing of time.

I was long-lived, but dormancy rarely counts toward progress, and I’d slept for an age. The dwarves had lived around and under the Stormbane for as long as I could remember. Yet, Lysander and I were one of only a handful ever to see this place, or so Babushka alluded.

Their history was everywhere. For the most part, it wasn’t pretty. Brutish statues rose, holding up arches, guarding ways. They were not the sculptures of Anderlay, those exquisite carvings formed by artisans beyond compare but somewhat resembled stone fashioned by axes and flittish attention. Their blunted features gave only a vague impression of what they were, but it was enough.

On the other hand, their runes were works of art rivaling anything I’d ever seen. According to Babushka, these were formed not through hammer and bolster but through their lore. The crafters would mold the stone, moving it around within its skin to tease out the most intricate detail. The runes were everywhere, most mere patterns in the rock, only vibrant through their detailed design, but some glowed, their luminance casting light over us as we passed.

There were three types of luminous runes—three that she explained to us, suspect visitors and humans as we were. The first cast a soft, white light, a daylight rune if you like. As their name suggested, they lit the tunnels. Green runes spread light similar to the lichen light, and they signified functional things like entrances to rest areas, drinking water sources, hidden passageways, food stops and ale houses. The final was a red rune, which was danger. It might be a precarious roof liable to fall at any moment or a route stalked by some monster or the other. In each case, the design of the rune displayed its message—to those in the know.

If all of that didn’t enrich the place enough, the crafters surpassed all with lengthy rock tapestries—their history formed in the living, breathing rock. The contrast between the brutish sculpture and the finesse of the craftings perfectly displayed the opposing sides of dwarven nature.

One extreme was the ale-swilling, war-mongering, classic-dwarven stereotype. The other was the doting family man who had discarded such excesses. Of course, I was in no doubt that a little of both existed in every dwarf, Babushka included. Still, overall, I concluded dwarves were a broad bunch and not the strangely loveable narrow-minded brutes we thought them.

Having traveled those caverns, the ridges and awe-inspiring bridges spanning lava streams and darkened fissures, we finally came to Ferric Tarn, the ancestral city and the home of the dwarves of Iron Mountain. There was no warning. One moment we traveled a fairly mundane tunnel; the next, its walls vanished, we turned sharply, and there it was.

Our driver, a stocky lad, black from head to toe with coal dust and hauling the same, pulled up. “There you go. Ferric in all her glory.”

The tarn, meaning a lake nestled in a mountain, which, on reflection, it was, sat in the middle of a vast cavern. I could see no river feeding nor draining it, yet there was some measure of turbulence. It was no mirror-polished tranquil affair, nor was it blue but rather bronze, similar to Babuska's skin.

I later found that her skin color resulted from too much iron in their diet and surroundings—the food they farmed and the water they drank and bathed in. The city surrounded the lake, hugging its shore and climbing the walls in fancy terraces, and the cavern's ceiling glowed as if painted in the magic of the light runes.

"What do you think?" Babushka asked me.

"Breathtaking,” I said. "How many live here?"

"We are not entirely sure. It isn't something that concerns us. Enough live here to perpetuate it."

"Your cauldron would tell you."

She laughed. "That old thing. We don't use it. We could, but no dwarf wants to live forever."

"Pah!" spat our driver. "Why would you want to go through all this again? Eh? Nothin' but toil and warm ale. Dead's dead—that's what we say, and no amount of your fancy magic will persuade us otherwise."

"You don't want to live forever?" I asked.

"No one wants to live forever," Babushka said. "That is a myth. You might not want to lose what you've got, but that is only precious because time limits it. We dwarves are long-lived. We feel it is enough."

If any human could understand that, it was me. After all, I was the one that had made all humans mortal.

"What about," I asked, "if you were cut down in battle? Would you want to be reborn to get your revenge?"

"Pah!" spat our driver again. "Revenge is different."

Lysander glanced at me, then shook his head knowingly.

The driver drove his wagon on, and we began our long descent, soon among the terraced dwellings. There were plants, and each home had its own garden. Babushka explained that the rune light followed the rough passage of a day, except a little extended, removing drawn-out dusk and dawn in favor of a sharper change. It enabled the dwarves to farm crops much like we did on our farms.

Once at lake level, the driver pulled over, letting us get off and wished us a good day with a cheery wave. Babushka walked to the lake, crouching and drawing a palmful of water to her lips. "Some dwarves claim that we are long-lived solely because of the mountain water. They say it is full of minerals and goodness."

"It could be the ale," said Lysander. "You said there was ale, taverns, ale and brothels. You said that, Remember?"

"There are, but it is early morning, and we have traveled through the night. I am tired, as you must be."

As she said it, tiredness did take me, and I yawned. I bent, tasting the water and finding it a little ferrous as I looked across and about. It was a fine city, tucked away, but was it safe? If Diagon came with his undead throng, how would it fair then?

What had I done when I hatched my bargain? Had I doomed all of them?

Babushka led us into a dwelling, taking us through an empty bar and to a desk where she rang a bell, soon answered by a tired-looking dwarven woman. Within moments, I was in bed. A few more saw me sleeping.

* * *

A sharp rap on my door had me awake. I sat up as Babushka entered.

"Lunch is served downstairs, but first, I wanted to speak with you."

I rose and went to a dresser, filling a dish with water and splashing my face.

"What is it you wish to know?"

"What possessed you when you fought Filo?"

"Possessed me?"

"There is a gradient. Some folks are naturally angry, so it takes little for them to get rage upon them. It also takes them an age to find joy in anything. Others are happy, and the reverse is true. But you! You turned in an instant and became something else. You enjoyed the beating, taking it and turning into some kind of unbeatable beast. You dispatched Filo like he was nothing."

I shrugged, keeping my back turned to her. "I am the same as any man. If I have to, I fight. If I'm liable to lose, I fight harder."

"I'm not a fool," Babushka said. "Don't treat me like one. You want to meet Grondor? I can arrange that. I can also make sure you never meet him."

"You would do that?" I turned, then. "You would turn me around without even seeing him?"

"Why not? Should I put a killer in front of him? I could strip you, but you'd still have your weapons- not that you need them. You could beat Grondor's life from him without the need for a blade."

I ran my fingers over my stubble and then conjured my knife, wetting my chin and began shaving. She waited in silence, and I considered my options. In the back of my mind was the thought that she might be my eighth wife—my Lady of Iron, and she sat conveniently on my bed.

But I was questioning whether that was enough. Tanaka was my Lady of Stone, but she provided me with so much more, from Muckspur to Mudpaw, from their rock crafting to tunneling. Leyathel was the same. She wasn't a mere source of wood.

The truth, I decided, cleaning my blade, would be a good test to see if she had any depth.

"I am a Myst Lord," I said. "Mana, magic, whatever you call the driver that powers your runes, is one thing, and it is powerful. Imagine something that can power aggression, and rinse more from your muscles while sharpening your mind and speeding your reflexes. Think of a multiplier that increases your attribute score—double, triple, as much as your body can stand, and you have myst."

"Myst?" she said. "Is that all it was?"

"It is enough. It magnifies me."

"In everything you do?" she asked, and I noticed a certain glint in her eye as she looked me up and down.

She aroused me, and why wouldn't she? She was beautiful, sitting on my bed, and vulnerable.

"In everything I do," I said, and I approached her. "Every single thing. Because of that, I have to be extremely careful not to get enraged or take advantage. I am a Lord, first and foremost. While many use their position to gain favors, I do not. Whatever I have is given willingly or taken honestly. You become my enemy; expect my wrath. Be my ally, and expect my loyalty."

"What will we be?" she asked. "Will iron get us your loyalty?"

"No," I said. "At this moment, we trade. I kill your monster, and you give me iron in return. That is the measure of our relationship. It is nothing more and nothing less." I reached for her. "Why? Would you want more?"

She took my hand, pulling herself up, her body touching mine. "I think I would."

"Then we must see if we can forge an accord."

She looked up at me, lips partly open, quivering in anticipation. "Perhaps a taste of what might come?"

"Perhaps," I said and bent, took her in my arms and kissed her.

Her lips were hot, full, and she pressed hard against me. Her breasts, her groin, fitted me as she pulled me to her. Then her tongue burst into my mouth as if unleashed from a cage, and it fought mine for dominance as her breath shortened.

My passion rose, and with it, my myst heightened as I pressed my growing erection into her. But then she broke away, sliding from me and slipping to the door.

"You'll miss lunch if you don't hurry," she said, and I had the feeling that I'd been played—that she got exactly what she wanted from me, and that was me upon her hook.

I grinned, adjusting my pants and following her. It wasn't the first time a beautiful female had captured me as I'd blundered blindly, nor was it a worry.

Deep down, I'd already made my mind up.

I would have her.

* * *

Grondor's palace reminded me of a temple. It was no gold-leafed extravaganza, but it did have grandeur. A flight of steps led from the lake to its entrance, and the only way to reach it was by boat. Its wooden doors had arched tops and were exquisitely detailed with beasts and monsters, the like of which I’d never seen. The building protruded from the surrounding stone by a few feet. Babushka informed me it was a matter of status. The more the dwelling had been carved from the mountain, the greater the stature of its resident.

It was temperate inside, with bowls of lichen lighting it. Two parades of pillars led to the back of an enormous hall where a raised dais sat, a throne central. It was grand but not overly so.

"A little large for a reception room," I said.

"It is our war hall. We've never used it in my lifetime. Perhaps we might have gathered to fight Malgorth, but as you two appear confident you might beat it, we don't have to, do we?"

I creased my brow. "You would send an entire army after one beast?"

"To win, but we wouldn't have expected many to return."

Lysander tapped me on my shoulder.

"A moment?" He pulled me away. "This beast we fight would kill an army of them?"

I thought hard. It was, after all, my final life I played with. "Might, I think she said might. It gives us hope."

"She didn't say might," he spat. "She said they didn't expect many to return. Thus, by interpretation, they expected most to die."

"But not all," I countered.

"There are two of us!"

"You have the Jewel of Everything. You could use that."

"If I use that down here I will bring the whole mountain down on us!"

"Really?"

He rolled his eyes. "What do you think?"

"I think I should have considered that fact before I agreed to the two of us." I shrugged. "Oh well, we're here now. Might as well have a look-see."

"A look-see?" he said, the strings of his throat threatening to snap.

I clapped him on his shoulder. "It's an adventure. I thought you enjoyed them—the riskier, the better, you said." I strolled back to Babushka.

He tugged on my cloak. "When did I say that?"

"I don't recall the exact hour," I said. "But I'm sure you said it.

"Ready to meet Grondor?" Babushka asked.

"We are," I said.

"He is," Lysander added.

She looked at me, then him and turned. "This way."

We marched toward the empty throne, our steps echoing through the vaulted halls. A few dwarves wandered along its margins, vanishing or emerging from side rooms, noticing and ignoring us. Babushka turned as we came to the dais and led us through a door, up several sets of steps, and then out onto a balcony overlooking the tarn. At a table sat a chubby dwarf munching on a biscuit. He looked about, appraising Lysander and me, then returning to his nibbling.

Babushka pulled two chairs out, sitting in a third. "Father," she said, and my jaw dropped.

It appeared I was destined to bed royalty.

"Biscuit?" Grondor asked.

He was an old dwarf. History etched his face, darkened bronze skin blackened with wrinkles, and what hair he had was long, streaked grey and red. A crown topped his partially bald head, tarnished and dented, so thin it might be a torque. I surmised he'd once been a giant amongst the dwarves—a true beast and warrior. Muscles might fade, ravaged by time, but presence is constant, unwavering.

"What do I call you? King?" I asked.

He grunted. "If you want. King, I was and am, but there's little reigning done these days. Tell me something turns in the world that might ease this terminal boredom."

"You could lead an army to kill this beast, Malgorth," Lysander suggested.

"I could, but my warriors are as old as I, and we can barely last a night without a dozen pisses, so I think battle might be beyond us."

My heart sank. I'd hoped the dwarves might join us at the final reckoning, but it didn't bode well if they could barely get out of their chairs.

"Where are the young ones—the warriors waiting to prove themselves?"

He glanced at me, then picked up his goblet and drank, red wine spilling down his beard.

"They are here digging iron or lounging in our cauldron. Those with mettle have tried the beast but cannot get past its minions, let alone take on Malgorth. They drink. They mull. They attempt Malgorth, and they die." He clicked his fingers. "I thought you might like to taste dwarven food." He laughed but with little enthusiasm. "The farms you see down there bring in crops and meat like you enjoy above, but when we hid under these mountains—when humans hunted us like dogs—we had to create new meals—forage deep where the mana strings glow, and lichen light fosters other things."

"Sounds,"—I pondered my response— "interesting."

The food came. I looked at Lysander, and he at me. We raised our eyebrows and then studied our plates.

There was a mound of food. I recognized the mushrooms, guessed the luminous strings were the fabled mana strings, pondered the meat-like slabs, and worried about the black sauce. "What is it?" I asked.

"Felaishigor," said Babushka as she tucked in.

It tasted differently from anything I’d ever eaten before—tart then bland, hot then mild. I decided it was a mix of anything they could find to become their version of our broth. That same cook's philosophy of throw everything in.

"I like it," said Lysander. Then his face clouded. "I really like it."

"What?"

"My mana has increased." He grinned. "Where can I get more of this?"

"Mana strings? They are all around. Beat Malgorth, and we can harvest as many as you wish," Babushka said.

"How about you find me a guide, then I'll harvest as much as I can before we take on Malgorth. Increased mana might be the difference."

She sucked her cheeks in. "I will ask Drugglene. She is our best gatherer."

"You do that," he said.

"We will not do this alone," I announced, and the table fell silent.

"But you said!" Babushka spat.

"Indeed. That was before I knew you shunned your cauldron, let your warriors wither, and sent your most promising to their deaths. That changed my mind. If you want Malgorth defeated, then these are my demands."

Grondor turned. "You are in no position to make demands. You are deep under. If you try and leave, you will become hopelessly lost."

"I’ll find a way. Every dwarf is already afraid of me. If you are too scared to fight a monster, raise your dead—live life! —you cannot stop me from leaving, coming back and taking your iron. I get what I want, and you get what you want—nothing."

"I have heard of this thing you did with Filo." He squeezed his goblet's stem. "You think that scares me?"

"I think nothing scares you. I merely believe you've forgotten how to live."

"Humph. You might be right. You've got a nerve telling me that." He drained his cup. "We don't have to fight you to beat you. Like I said, you'll never find your way back to the surface." He scowled at me. "Is that what you want, eh? You know nothing of us."

It struck me then that they were stagnant—that they'd lost the will to live life how it should be lived. I cleaned my plate and drank my wine. "You are right. I've been here a few moments and judge you based on a couple of words. It merely confused me why you needed help with a beast. Dwarves—those of the old tales—would risk all to secure their safety. They would never let a stranger solve their problems. I assumed pride would get in the way of that."

He slammed his fist on the table. "Pride is a luxury. Humans cut us off—refused to trade with us, calling us monsters, ending our income. We sell our iron to elves, to hobs and goblins, but they do not wage war on each other—they don't strive for progression like others. So, they need less. If it wasn't for the barbarians, we'd have no trade to speak of."

"He’s right. We do stagnate," Babushka said. She puffed her chest out. "I will come. I will help you beat Malgorth."

"No, daughter!"

"You cannot stop me."

"I am king!"

"You do not leave this place! Rule? You sent me, your only daughter, to fetch this man because none of your council dared go—they hug the walls of the great hall, not worthy to tread its stone. I was the only one that stood and volunteered to go. Daniel's right. You are frightened of your own shadow, and down here, there are shadows all around." She stood. "I shall fetch Drugglene, Lysander, and send her to you. She will find you mana strings. Then I shall go to the armory and retrieve my hammer and armor. You'll not stop me, father. I've seen how the others live now."

And she stormed off. And Lysander laughed.

"Well, that was a little family incident that should have occurred behind closed doors."

"What did you show her while she was above!" Grondor growled.

"Nothing," I said. "Just my stronghold where humans live with hobs, goblins and elves. We have our share of trouble at the moment, but that's what makes life interesting."

"Tell me of those troubles."

So, I did, and we drank wine, and Lysander left with Drugglene. I spotted where that relationship was going within moments.

"The End of Everything?" Grondor said, eventually.

"Yes," I said. "One last battle."

"How will you win it?"

"I'm not sure. I'm confident we will have to reduce Diagon's power slowly. As we do, it will infuse the undead horde with more, and their dead will rise again, more powerful but in line with the cauldron's restraints—nine out of ten."

"Then you can’t win. You have no chance."

“I will prevail, or you, in your comfy cave, will die too. They will find you, even here.”

“You intend to win. I get that.” He mulled. “How?”

"With so-called monsters and humans combined."

The wine flowed as I told him about my bargain with the gods, how I rid humans of cauldrons, and how I had the only one left.

"You mean to throw hobs, goblins, elves and humans together in one great army?"

“I mean to use all those. I wanted the dwarves with us, but it appears it is beyond reach. Then there are these barbarians I hear about, but I have no knowledge of them."

"Barbarians? They are the same as humans of old. Tribal—fiercely tribal, they rarely interact with their own. If they did, they could easily take the lands of the Lords and Ladies, for they proliferate so quickly. The Lords wipe them out, but within months they are back to full strength. If you wish to fight with a cauldron in mind, you need to understand the barbarians. Somehow, they don't need morale to rebirth their dead—they have transcended those conditions." He sighed. "If only this had happened a hundred years ago. I was in my prime then."

"There are plenty of others in their prime now."

He froze, his grip tightening on his goblet, then he ignored my words. "You are going to approach the barbarians?"

"I am."

"Seek out Horg of the Masterike. Tell him I sent you. But I'm warning you, he'll only be interested in killing humans—you included."

I fixed my expression while stowing all his information. "I'll take Babushka, Filo too if he wants to come, and I’ll kill your beast for you. But know this, if I fail to kill Diagon and stem his terrible tide, you will die anyway. So, I’ll say this with no guilt. I need your cauldron for the final battle, Grondor. I'm not going to pretend I don't. I will come back and take it from you, even if it means taking your head."

His face reddened, though whether through shame or anger, perhaps even wine, I couldn't tell. He was silent for a while, staring out over the lake. "I sometimes wish I was there with my brothers."

"Your brothers are here, sitting in chairs like yours in darkened hovels wishing they were with their brothers. The cauldron is a dark and lonely place. I know this. I have revived enough and heard their tales. They don't party day and night. Better you meet at the tavern while your legs will still carry your fat ass there."

"You would say it is a dark place. You want them woken."

"Wake one. No, wake up three or four. Ask them. You might find that life in the cauldron is a curse."

"What if it is? What then? We rouse them. They fight a monster, and they die and return."

"If you empty it—if they all come, I will find a way to keep them fighting until they have a true death until they are no more, and if they live, and if they make it back to Ferric Tarn, I will destroy your cauldron, and you can all live normal lives and enjoy a normal death."

"You make promises you have no idea how to keep."

I drank my wine. "But I always find a way."

CHAPTER 6

The square was empty. Sand covered its smoothed rock, making it easy to slip and slide my feet as I dodged Babushka's swings. Her hammer was a decent size—no great mallet like I thought dwarves wielded but with a head about as big as an ale mug, one end flat, the other coming to a point. White wood formed its shaft, and I suspected it was rockroot, though I hadn't asked. It had a loop fastened to its end, and now and then, she'd swing it, and it would flash over my head, damn near taking it off.

She was a delight to fight, mostly because she'd chosen short pants and a half top that left her stomach and shoulders bare. My imagination had been spot on when I'd pictured her rippling abdominal muscles. They were as hard as stones, defined as smoothed river-rock.

"Too eager," I said. "Breath and calm. It has to be second nature. You know I won't kill you, so you're braver than you would be if you weren't so sure. You must be confident, but don't abandon caution."

"I'm a little rusty," she said, swinging her hammer by its strap, passing it from hand to hand until she'd sped it to a blur.

"If that's rusty, then I truly am a fool," I said, watching her every move, waiting for a sign. She had tells. Her eyes squinted a little before an attack like she didn't trust her vision and needed it more defined. Her knees would start twitching as her brain told them they were about to spring into action.

I jumped back and to one side an instant before she launched forward, bringing the hammer over her head and down on the exact spot I'd stood.

"Close," I said. "Tell me," I crouched. "What's the best way to land a big fish? You have it on the line, but the line is too small and will snap if you tug it. How do you land the fish?"

She shrugged. "Never fished, so I don't know."

"You wear it out," another voice called—deep, masculine, but not overly so. I looked about, and there, standing on the edge of the arena, was a dwarven male. He was average height for a dwarf, pretty average build too, with mousy hair and a drooping mustache like Greg wore. "You let it have some line, then draw it back in and repeat until it tires. Each time you pull it in further, and each time you let less out."

"And eventually?"

"Eventually, you bring it all the way in and kill it. By then, it is too tired to resist."

"Your name?"

"She knows. Babushka, why are you sparring with this human?"

She wiped her brow, sweat glistening on her cleavage, gathering, then running through her top and down her abs to form a patch on her pants. "This human is Lord Daniel Cutterson, and it is he that stands between us and oblivion. I intend to join him."

"Why?"

"Because I don't want to die of boredom."

It was a great answer—better than any I'd given Grondor. If there was ever a good reason for doing something, it was that doing nothing was so damn dull.

"Do I get a name?" I asked.

"Tink."

"Just Tink? I thought dwarves had long names—thought it something to do with their stature."

He pursed his lips. "Like the land thinks we're constantly drunk and fighting? Surely shorter names would be best if we're drunk all the time. It's hard enough asking for a beer when your head's frazzled."

He had a point, no doubt about that.

"You want to spar with a Lord, Tink?" Babushka asked, offering her hammer.

He took it, testing its weight. "I prefer an axe."

So, I gave him an axe—not my best one, but one I'd looted along the way. He stripped his top like me. Then we squared up. He fought well, if a little loosely. A true warrior—one used to battle, fought in a certain way. They could smoothly increase or decrease their sphere of action depending on the room available.

They were frugal, too—in both action and reaction. Fights were won or lost based on two outcomes. Either a mortal strike ended them, or stamina, like our friend the fish, ran out. Being careful only to expend the energy needed was the sign of a great fighter.

Tink wasn't one.

"Remember that fish?" I asked him. "You were he. Do you see it?"

He looked up, doubled over as he was. "Yeah, I see it."

"Try me," another said, but this voice was familiar.

"Filo," I said. "We meet again."

I was genuinely pleased to see him and didn't feel guilty that he had two black eyes and a crooked nose.

"What brings you here?"

He strolled into the arena. "Well, it's like this. I heard you were putting together a team to take down Malgorth. I said to myself Filo, I said, do you want to spend your days shoveling coal, or do you fancy fighting monsters? When I looked at it like that, it answered itself."

"So you’re shoveling coal?" I held my expression neutral, only breaking when his shoulders slumped. "It would be an honor to have you along. Have you brought weapons?"

"I have none, but were I to pick, then a hammer—a good stone one. One-handed, mind, because I prefer a shield on my other arm. Not for defense, mind. Can't beat a good shield bash."

I riffled my storage but found no shield and only my special hammer and that I wasn't about to loan out.

"The armory is open," another voice said, and Filo ambled off, quickly returning with a shield, a hammer and four other dwarves, three men and a woman who looked like she ate rocks for pleasure. The dwarf who'd opened the armory followed a few moments behind, putting his helmet on as he joined us. "Name's Vunct. I'm the custodian of this arena. Not seen it used in an age, mind."

"We're getting ready to go kill the Malgorth," said Tink.

“Then we'd all best get practicing," Vunct said.

We had nine, so I paired them up and watched them fight, giving them pointers, stepping in when I had to, and standing back when I didn't. The noise drew other dwarves to the place, and before long, sparring pairs packed it to the brim.

I nominated Filo and Tink as captains and asked them to keep an eye on things. "Weed out the ten best ones. Tell them to join us for dinner. Babushka will name the place. Then have four in reserve if any don't like my plans and drop out. Second thoughts, they can come to dinner as well. That way, if someone's unsure, they can leave with a clear conscious."

"Will do, boss," said Filo, and they left us to rejoin the crowd as I sat down with Babushka on a terrace overlooking the place..

"You lead easily," Babushka said.

"If leading is easy, then you're doing it right. The truth is, it's not something I think about. I've done it all my life, so it would be harder not to do it than do it."

"Then why is my father so bad at it?"

I took her hand. "It's not that he's terrible. To lead, you must be going somewhere. If you aren't, everyone gathers around you, and you're in charge of nothing. I am blessed, or cursed, with a clear path. In the short term, I must kill Malgorth, longer, I must vanquish Diagon. Any who hear that and wants to come has no option but to follow me. Your father has no destination other than death and despair. Tell me, who'd want to follow him there?"

"No one," a deep and throaty voice barked. "No one would want to follow me there, so I've decided not to go."

I turned, and Grondor stood there.

"Father, what are you doing?" Babushka asked.

He hefted his hammer over his shoulder. "You think I couldn't see the arena from my terrace? You think I'd duck one last fight? Daniel was right—about everything. Living is only as good as the life led. I'm not too old to start living it again, you know."

"I'm only taking ten," I told him.

"Then Filo better damn well pick me, or I'll have his fat head."

* * *

"I have mana strings," Lysander said, holding up the things. Their green light sprayed over him, heightening the greedy look on his face. They were, exactly as their name suggested, strings of luminous green crystal but flexible, like lace. He had a pile on the table and kept running his fingers through it.

"Where's Drugglene?" asked Babushka.

"She's upstairs waiting for me. Wants me to ravage her, dah, dah, dah. Can I boil its essence from it and make a potion? It looks barely digestible. How did you cook it?"

"First things first," said Babushka. "If you wish to extract the mana, take it to an alchemist. We have a lovely young dwarf named Mablene who would do it for you, but only in the morning. Secondly, Drugglene is waiting, and if you know what's good for you, you will attend her because if she feels scorned, you will feel her wrath."

"An alchemist, you say," he said. "When will she be open?"

"A short while after bright lights—you'll know what I mean in the morning."

"Wrath, you say? Only I could wait the night outside—be there first thing."

"Wrath, indeed. She'll kick you to the earth's bowels and back again."

He nodded. "Then I'll get up early."

"No," I said. "You'll go up there and attend the young lady. You'll then join us for dinner, and I'll introduce you to our ten companions accompanying us on our quest to kill Malgorth."

"I'll do that then." The mana strings vanished. "What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to find a bath. I've been sparring and feel a little ripe."

"Fine, good, back here..."

"At short dusk, you'll—"

"Know," he said and hurried off.

"Do they have a bath here?" I asked.

"I can do better than that," she said.

* * *

Babushka took my hand, leading me along a tight fissure and down steep, winding steps.

"Is it getting hotter?" I asked.

"A little," she said. "Not much—not yet."

We came to a small chamber, a tiny pool at one end. "Can you swim underwater?" she asked.

"I've been known to," I said, then told her about Leyathel's gift.

"Well, you won't need that, but it's handy to know if we ever get trapped underground during the rains. Follow me."

She stripped off her top and pants and dove in. I caught a glimpse of her naked body, enough to get me hurrying after her, pulling my boots, shirt, and pants off, then nearly falling into the pool. She waited at the bottom, seeing me, then signaling me into a small tunnel. I followed, kicking after her and tearing at the water to catch her up.

She vanished as the tunnel ended, rising to the surface and treading water. I held for a moment, enjoying the view of her firm butt and bronzed legs. It was a true delight worth savoring for eternity. When I swam to her, I made sure to slide up her body and surface face to face.

"Now, this is a bath," I said, my gaze ripped from her to the smoothed rock grotto, blackened like the darkest granite sparkling with tiny crystals. The only light came from the water, and steam plumed, hissing and spitting as the water spilled over the pool's edge.

"This is warm," she said, breaking from my grasp and swimming to the pool's edge, where she pulled herself out, sitting, then standing, revealing her beauty to me.

"You are gorgeous," I said, internally acknowledging that it probably wasn't my best line, but hell, I was a little out of my depth with the suddenness of everything.

She laughed and offered me a hand. I took it, pulling her back in, then grabbing and kissing her. "You're not getting away this time," I said.

"I don't want to," she said. "But we came here to get clean and relax, and that's what we're going to do."

"I'm clean enough already."

She slipped from my grip, getting out of the pool again. "You've never lived in the Under before. The dust gets into your pores, clogging them. It sits in your ears, the wrinkles on your face. Coal dust is the worse."

I pulled myself up and sat with her on the edge. "So, what gets it out?"

She stood, retrieving a bucket. "Lay on that ledge. I'll take this one."

"You could lay on my ledge too. There's plenty of room."

"Patience," she said, so I complied.

I lay on the warm stone, propping myself up on my elbow, watching her as she bent and filled the bucket, then threw its contents over the edge where the pool spilled. Steam billowed up, filling the chamber and bringing a searing heat. It filled my lungs as well, burning them as I inhaled.

"A bit of a warning would have been nice," I said, the dry heat making my voice rasp.

"Hot coals—larva under, deep down. The sweat will clean you. When the heat becomes unbearable, slip into the pool to cool off."

She threw another bucket on the coals, more steam billowing up, then a third.

It quickly became unbearably hot, so I lay down, nothing visible through the steam's fog, and prepared to be cooked. Then, as I lay there sweating, a peculiar calm came over me, and one by one, all my muscles relaxed, my mind emptied, and I focused on my breathing.

A while later, she poured another bucket on, then a fifth, but I didn't want to move. I'd never been so relaxed in any of my lives. I was sure of it. She slipped into the pool, a gentle splashing sound pulling me from my conscious slumber. I wanted that too, so I crawled off my ledge and slid in with her.

"Good?" she asked.

"So good," I said. "I could stay here forever."

She came to me then, throwing her arms around me. "You can come back whenever you want," she said, and she kissed me tenderly, her lips barely touching mine, her tongue tracing a delicate line.

I held her up, my hands cupping her firm bottom as she wrapped her legs around me and pressed her chest into me. We began sinking, locked in that kiss, unwilling to break away. My feet touched the bottom, but she continued. She tensed, her lips tightening on mine, then kicked away, rising and slipping from my grasp again. I followed, surfacing and finding her gone. More steam billowed, so I crawled back to my ledge, even more frustrated.

"Are you going to tease me for—" I never finished my sentence, her lips locking on me again, her tongue probing me, some urgency there. She lay next to me, searching my body, sliding her fingers over me, my sweat rising, my passion already risen.

I slid my hands over her wet body, its contours, its curves, so different from the others. I wished I could see her with all my heart, but the steam was thick, blinding me. For a moment, my frustration welled, but then each of my other senses heightened. My touch became so much more informative—a mass of clustered nerves gathering at the ends of my fingers, tracing her breasts, feeling each ridge of her nipples, the cut of her abdomen, the curls between her legs, then her slit, so perfect, so hot, so damn wet. I groaned with pleasure at its silken touch.

As I touched her, I smelled the aroma of her arousal. It made me giddy, alive with excitement as my myst throbbed through me, as her hand closed around me, stroking me by alternating her fingers clasped, then sliding the flat of her palm along my length, over and over until I gathered. But, myst or no myst, I couldn't let it end there, so, reluctantly, I moved her hand, turning her onto her back, and nudging her legs apart, sliding into her easily, groaning at the intensity of my pleasure, trusting to my myst to control my ejaculation.

She pulled my lips to hers. I resisted at first, desperate to have her nipples inside my mouth. But she held me there, our breaths in tandem as I found my rhythm.

She said something but lost her words to stutters and gasps. "Oh, Daniel," she finally managed. "Oh, Daniel!" she cried more urgently.

The myst was with me then, and I was its glorious passenger, able to ride my love, to revel in the feel of her, to find joy in her pleasure as she tightened around me and called my name again and again, her body shivering from her core to every extremity. She thrashed under me, bucking her powerful hips, raking at my back, grabbing my head and kissing me fiercely. I came once, but my myst wanted more. I came twice, but it still had plans for me.

She cried out, begged for me to keep going. I powered into her, needing one final release. She writhed under me, her skin slippery with sweat, her lips hungry with desire. Then I built. There came a pressure within like I'd never felt before. I cried out, my back arching as I thrust deeper and deeper into her, burying myself in her burning flesh, feeling her tighten around me again and again as she tried to draw everything from me.

Then my quickening came, and I welled, and the end shattered me in a blistering torrent of unrivaled pleasure that forced tears from my eyes and feral cries from deep within me as I finally emptied myself into her.

I wilted, falling into her arms as my myst fled, leaving me empty but sated.

"The myst?" she asked.

"Not just the myst," I said. "It's never just the myst. It welcomes you."

"Welcomes me?"

"I welcome you."

"To what?"

"To my family, if you'll have us."

"I will."

CHAPTER 7

Babushka chose an outside table on an elevated terrace. It was night, the rune light gone, replaced by bright dots resembling stars that twinkled. It lent the whole place a magical feel, brushing the lake with erratic sparkles that reminded me of rainfall. I was relaxed, my way clear, and for once, I was focused on one thing—the Malgorth.

The tavern's terrace was a pretty lavish affair, decorated with differing colored lichen light suspended from strings, candles on each table and small, brightly colored birds scavenging what crumbs they could find. Babushka explained that they had long escaped their cages and established small colonies in the cavern's rock. Ferric Tarn could have easily been a city on the surface, a cool breeze blowing across me, the night peaceful.

Grondor sat opposite me, both of us technically at the head of the long table. He was, after all, King, but I was in charge. No one doubted that. He'd puffed and blown his way through the day's training, and despite grumbling and grouching, he had a spark about him that told me he'd enjoyed his day's exertions.

Lysander sat on my right, Babushka to my left. Then five dwarves sat on either side. Filo and Tink, who sat next to Lysander and Babushka, respectively, had selected eight dwarves plus, inevitably, Grondor. A further five sat in the wings at a separate table. I'd asked for ten and four, but if counting wasn't Filo's forte, we'd be fine as long as fighting was.

I stood, tapping my mug with my spoon to quiet them all. After introducing myself, I explained the mission. Fortunately, Babushka had expanded a little on what we should expect, so I knew more than we're going to fight Malgorth.

"Friends and soon-to-be friends, I would like to invite you on a quest. This noble challenge will see you grow and shed the chains of mundane life. Should you find the thrill of it all irresistible, all those who survive are welcome to join me Above and enjoy the thrill of living life rather than traipsing through it."

I paused, allowing a slight murmur to ripple about the table and terrace. Every table listened to me. We were the talk of the city. I cleared my throat to quieten them.

"We venture deep underground to kill a beast called Malgorth. Little is known about this creature as most who attempt to kill it fail to return. However, that is not to say we know nothing about it. Babushka will relay what we know, and if you have anything to add, please do so."

I sat, and Babushka stood. She looked stunning in a turquoise tunic that barely covered her breasts but perfectly complimented her bronze skin and hair. I was, once more, one lucky Lord.

"We know the following," she began, only for another dwarf to interrupt from the shadows.

"You know nothing of the creature. None of you do. No one does. You want to know why? There are never any survivors. Any that have returned had shit their pants before they got close, turned tail and ran. The facts you think you know are hearsay, made-up tales to save face from cowardness."

Babushka whipped around, ready to shout the dwarf down, but I held her arm. "Let him speak as long as he furnishes us with his name and the source of his information."

I regarded him. He was dwarven in stature but lean, whereas, for instance, Grondor would be considered large. He wore chainmail, rusty, pierced with numerous holes and tears, tucked into a worn leather belt from which a sword hung, its grip worn.

If his armor told a story, then his expression held legends. He had hard eyes, the type used to horrific sights. Sweat dampened his hair, and grime was ingrained in his scarred skin. He looked every bit the warrior I thought I would find in Ferric Tarn.

He looked me up and down as I stood, then bid him closer.

"Ale, perhaps?" I asked.

He grunted, marching forward, picking a jug from the table and draining it. "Name's Thrain Fireforge," he said, throwing the empty jug on the floor and then scouring the table. "And if you're going after Malgorth with this lot, you'll need my help."

Finally! I thought. Finally, a dwarven name worthy of my attention.

But before I could tell him that I had something to attend to. I walked up to him, looking him straight in the eye. He held my gaze, not wavering or blinking. There was no fear there, only emptiness, that void often hatched when true despair was no longer a stranger. I liked him immediately.

"One thing before we go any further," I said. "Interrupt me or any of mine again, and warrior or no warrior, I'll put you down. Show Babushka any disrespect again, and I'll cut your head off. Do I make myself clear?"

He eyeballed me back, then stepped back. "Aye. You make a solid point. Two, actually." He glanced over to Babushka. "She's one of the good ones. My words'll wait."

I returned to my seat while Thrain pulled a stool over. "Come on then, Babs, let's hear what you've heard, then I'll set you right."

"Babs?" I queried.

"Hate it," she said.

"Good to know. Want me to cut his head off?"

"It's not that bad."

"Good, because I quite like him."

"If he's here, he brings more to the table than my rumors can. Let him speak." She sat, so did I.

"You have the table, Thrain Fireforge. Tell us what we're up against."

He pulled his stool forward, Filo shuffling along to make room. "More ale!" he barked, then his gaze fell on Grondor.

"It's well known that me and Grondor were great friends—well known that we parted ways. I've heard many reasons said by folks who don't know, but I'll set it right now. My loyalty to him is unwavering. That is why I left this place. Better to vanish than cause trouble. We're fine if he's here to lead. No grudges at all. It was all I ever wanted. Do you welcome me back, my King?"

Grondor dipped his head. "I do." He rose, approaching Thrain. "I do, my long-lost friend. If no other good comes of this venture, then this is enough."

Thrain rose, accepting Grondor's hug. "May we fight and die together," he said.

"I was planning on surviving," Grondor said. "Continue."

"My heart leaped when Filo sent word. I was at the edge of despair, having barely survived the creature."

"You fought it on your own?" Filo asked.

"I tried it several times. Its influence grows. It will cross the Bearing Bridge soon and be at our door before we know it. So, when Filo sent me word a Lord had come with the sole intent of killing the creature, I would always come."

"How many times have you tried the beast?" Grondor asked.

"Too many to count," Thrain said.

Grondor shook his head. "Alone?" he said. "For that, I am sorry."

"There's no need for sorrow. You finally want to kill Malgorth. That is enough for me." The ale came, and he took a jug. "I've seen parties of three and four fail. I've seen groups of twenty dwarves cut down before they get through the first of his rings. I've dragged their sorry bodies away, sending them to the bottom of the Bearings."

His tone lowered as he said the following words.

"I tell you this. Malgorth sits in the heart of Mellthusia, and from its center, his influence radiates. His defenses are solid—beasts patrol, traps are set, and there is magic too. You can try and battle your way through, and you might get past the first ring, even the second, but your numbers will be decimated. That much, I guarantee."

There was silence for a moment, then Lysander began slow-clapping. "Very good," he said. "Very good indeed. But tell me, what have you told us we didn't know? It will be hard to kill Malgorth. Well, we knew that. So drink your free ale and go." He leaned forward. "Unless you have something with substance to say."

Thrain looked over the wizard, taking a deep breath and exhaling. "Very well," he said. "But bear in mind I've only seen Malgorth once, and then I was running for my life, scared out of my wits."

He took another slug of ale.

"Imagine a shadow racing across a ceiling, barely with form, scarcely tangible, moving so fast you could blink and miss him. Then see that same shadow tear a dwarf to shreds, barely breaking step. See his red eyes glaring at you. Then, when you think you've seen all you have to fear, it spreads its bony wings and launches at you. That is Malgorth—no slovenly beast sitting in a nest waiting for victims. He is a hunter. He is a killer."

I'll be honest. The creature sounded horrific.

"Does it have magic?" Lysander asked.

Thrain smacked his lips together, wiping the ale from his beard with his sleeve. "Must have," he said. "When it chased me, it split into three. Three beasts hunting me—two shadows and him. They tried to head me off, tried to stop me, but I slipped through their grasp."

Lysander sat back. "How?" he asked.

"I jumped—plain and simple. Jumped into a fissure and put my life in the hands of the Gods."

"Don't tell me," he said with a yawn. "You fell into a subterranean stream, and it washed you to a magical lake with a small island and a single tunnel leading from it."

"Nope," said Thrain. "I bounced from side to side as I screamed my lungs empty, then crashed onto a rock, thumped onto another, then crashed to the floor, my leg broken, shoulder popped, and I lay there waiting to die."

Lysander sat up, poured himself wine and took a drink. "Then why didn't you?"

"I'm not that easy to kill. I smacked my shoulder repeatedly, eventually getting it to pop back in. Then I snapped my spear in half and lashed it to my broken leg, and after, I slept. Somewhere, somehow, the Gods were with me. I woke, and there, dangling by me was a mana string. I grabbed it, stuffing it in my mouth, hoping it might do something."

"A mana string? What for?" Lysander asked. "Mana has no healing properties."

"What else was I supposed to do? I couldn't move."

"Granted," said the wizard.

"I slept for a while. Ate more strings. Slept and ate more strings. To cut a long story short, after some time, I could crawl. After more, I could walk. So I stuffed a whole load of the strings into my pocket and walked. If you walk the Under long enough, you come across a dwarven road sooner or later, and so I did."

I drummed the table. "Let me get this right. You encountered Malgorth."

"I did."

"So, you got through all of his defensive rings?"

"Yup."

"Then you know what they are."

"That I do."

I waved my hand. "Well?"

"A dwarf's got to eat, especially one that's traveled all day to get here."

So we ate, and I'd never witnessed such hunger in all my long days. Thrain scarfed everything that crossed his plate. When he'd finished, he continued.

"Malgorth has four defenses. The first is the Ring of Shadows, a place so dark you can't see your hand in front of your face, so black, no torch can penetrate it. Shadow beasts prowl it, formed from living darkness, consuming all light, rendering all intruders sightless and disoriented."

I raised my brows. "Sounds a challenge," I said. "Workaround, Lysander?"

"Let me think about it."

"Continue, Thrain."

"Get through the darkness, and you enter the Ring of Ensnaring Vines—a dense, overgrown forest packed with vines that move with malevolent sentience. They crush all that enter their territory, snatching any that lag behind, never seen again."

"Well?" I asked my wizard.

"Doable," he said.

"Get through that, and you enter the Ring of Frenzied Winds. Perpetual cyclone-force winds howling through caves, caverns, gusting up from bottomless fissures, their razor-sharp edge capable of flailing flesh from bone."

"And the last," I said.

"The ring of lost souls." He laughed then, but not through merriment, more through despair. "This is where I would have ended up had it got me. Here, Malgorth parades all his victims. All who fall to his snares and traps are resurrected to fight for the beast that killed them—to drag any intruders down to the pits of their despair, to wring the life from them and have them join their ranks."

"Is that it?" I asked. "Get through that lot, and we are there?"

"You are," said Thrain. "You are through the last ring and in Mellthusia, an empty city riddled with magical wards and spells that protect against intrusions or scrying attempts."

I sat back then. We all did, and we were silent, the magnitude of our task apparent. Eventually, I said the words I had to.

"So you know. This is not a game. Any who want to leave us should go now. There is no shame in wanting to live, for this task is almost certain death."

The first one rose, saying nothing, leaving the tavern with his head hung low. Ten in all left, and I didn't blame them one little bit. We started the meal with twenty, and Thrain's tale halved our number. When they had left, I asked Thrain the question lurking on the tip of my tongue.

"Is there a way?"

"There's always a way," he said. "I got close, but one warrior can't beat Malgorth. "Ten might," he said, and my heart lifted. "But I doubt it," he added, and my heart sank.

We ate, and Thrain agreed to meet at the training square the following day. He strode off, and Grondor spoke.

"I wronged the man, I'll admit that. One day, I might be able to make it up to him. I'll tell you this, any that think he's making up these stories better think again. Thrain's tongue isn't capable of lying, so you can trust his word." He leveled his gaze on me. "Turn around and return to where you came from, Lord of the Above. I'll trade you iron. You've shown bravery enough."

I stared him in the eye. "I think not," I said. "What about you, Lysander?"

"It's doable," he said, then stood. "I must go and meet Drugglene. As Babs said, it's not worth keeping her waiting."

He left.

She turned to me. "He's going to call me that forever, isn't he?"

"Only if he knows it annoys you."

* * *

Babushka shared my bed that night, and glorious it was too. We had become a couple with remarkable ease, sliding into an intimate relationship like it was meant to be. We announced to Grondor shortly after the meal that we were, in effect, betrothed. It didn't particularly please him, but I didn't expect it to. He'd probably seen some dwarven marriage, perpetuity of his line, and a safe transition of power allowing him to fade and die.

I was many things, but a safe transition of power wasn't one of them. That said, as he thought we would all die soon, he didn't kick up too much of a fuss. We agreed that iron shipments to Kanazar should begin immediately, as by taking on Malgorth, we'd held up part of our bargain.

I had a father-in-law and was about to lead him to his death. Happy families weren't my specialty.

We woke and breakfasted, then walked to the arena, surprised to see Drugglene and another dwarven woman deep in conversation with Lysander. Babushka told me it was Mablene, the alchemist, and that piqued my interest. We strolled over to see them.

Lysander waved and then spread his arm. "Ah, Daniel, good. Meet Mablene and Drugglene, the two newest members of our party."

"Oh no!" I said, taking him to one side. "No, you don't. You're not adding members to our quest just so you can bed them at the same time."

Mablene was his type—no classic beauty, a scattering of imperfections, but something enticing about her—something a little off-kilter.

"Vines," he said in reply. "Vines and shadow beasts. You always gather warriors about you, but sometimes warriors aren't the easiest way. Mablene, can you kill a plant?"

"I can poison any plant. Get me a look at it, and I should be able to come up with something."

"Drugglene, can you gather any item Mablene might need?"

"Quicker than a warrior," she said.

She was lanky for a dwarf, which matched her gathering job. Her hair was drawn back, its sharpness contrasting her more rounded facial features. Again, no classic beauty and Lysander's type.

He cupped my cheek with his hand. "Best way to kill a shadow beast."

"Light," Mablene said.

"Most reliable light under a magical attack?"

"Watermetal," she said.

He grinned. "Do you think your warriors could do better?"

I then noticed Thrain and Filo. Both had been observing the exchange—Thrain nodding. I considered it, but could come up with no reasonable objection.

"How long to gather everything?"

Drugglene cocked her head. "A day."

"It gives us an angle on two of the four rings. The souls will be a straight fight—we are preparing for that. It is a fight I can relate to. The wind, Thrain, how did you beat that?"

"Timing and luck," he said. "There's a lull between gusts. How long it lasts, when it comes, you have no idea. Patience is the only way."

"We can practice for that. Anyone good at whistling?"

Babushka put two fingers in her mouth and blew, nearly deafening me.

"Babushka it is, then."

We pulled a few carts onto the square, arranging them randomly. Then I made them all line up at one end, explaining the concept. A long whistle signaled a lull in the wind. A short one meant the wind had started again. Get caught in no man's land when the wind blew, and you were out. The object was to shelter from the wind under the wagons, then scamper forward when able.

It took three goes before the first made it across. It took ten before all had made it and the rest of the morning to instil the discipline to do it three or four times without losing anyone.

We broke for lunch. Thrain and Grondor sat with me and Babushka.

"I think you might have a chance," said Thrain. "A chance of meeting the beast, at least."

"We're taking too many risks," I said. "Ideally, I'd have liked to conquer the first ring, retreat, regroup and go again. Take the second ring, then retreat again. That way, once we've got the fourth handled, we'll be in good shape to take on Malgorth."

"Then why don't we do that?" Grondor asked.

"Because I haven't the time. I expect an attack on one of my castles in about seven days. I need to be back for that."

"You won't get back there if you're dead," Thrain pointed out.

I shrugged. "A good point. We can always change plans. I'm not so pigheaded that I demand we stay on a course if it isn't working."

"Then consider it," Thrain said. "You think I made it through the first time of trying?"

"I don't, but one thing we haven't even thought about is this. If we get through, how do we kill the beast?"

"I've been thinking about that, and I believe I have a way," said Thrain.

* * *

We set off the following day. We had a party of twenty of us, two wagons and plenty of supplies. I'd heeded Thrain's advice and prepared for our retreat. I had a few days to beat this thing, and I was ready to use all of them.

Lysander had asked why we were bothering with it at all, although I could tell he enjoyed the attention of the two female dwarves. I had Babushka, and the first loads of iron were already on their way. But he knew—he understood, and I didn't need to answer it. My word had cost me dearly in the past, but that wouldn't sway me. What point was there in a man who didn't keep promises, especially to his newest wife?

Our support team consisted of eight dwarves. Filo had employed two of the most experienced wagonmasters capable of navigating the precarious paths that would take us to the Malgorth. Drugglene had enlisted another two gatherers to ensure we had everything we needed. Babushka had found a couple of rock crafters and sculptors, and finally, Mablene had brought two healers with her.

We would establish a camp close to Malgorth's lair and prepare.

Grondor sat with one wagonmaster, which was preferable, as he would have slowed us had he walked. Thrain led the way, and we soon climbed the switchbacks, Ferric Tarn receding behind us.

"Have you made progress?" I asked Lysander.

"Some," he said. "I'm focusing on controlling my power rather than magnifying it. Each time I've used the jewel, I've had no control over it. It's too close to wild magic for my liking. If I'm not careful, I could start a chain reaction ending the land."

"You think it that powerful?"

“I'm unsure how powerful it is, but magnifying magic is the most unpredictable of things to do. Random factors are in play, such as how much will it increases the magic? If it's a hundred times, we could be in trouble."

"And you have no clue?"

He shrugged. "Nope, but it should be fun finding out."

He had a slightly different view of fun to me.

It was late morning when Finnigan put in an appearance. He'd been quiet of late, but I never truly knew when he was around or not and could only see him if he manifested and announced himself. One moment Thrain walked alone. The next, he had a knee-high imp by his side.

"You could do with a bath," Finnigan said, and Thrain jumped out of his skin, ran a few yards ahead, pulled his hammer up and raced for the little fellow. Finnigan stepped aside at the last moment, then jumped on the hammer's head as it smashed into the road. "Is that any way to treat an associate of Lord Daniel Cutterson?" He turned and faced me, hands on his hips. "Hey! This fool just tried to flatten me." Then he hopped off the hammer and marched toward me, slowly morphing into Scamp. "So, what are we up to?" He fell into step beside me.

Babushka screamed. Several dwarves drew their weapons, Lysander laughed, and Grondor shouted something about demons and the devil himself.

"It's okay. He's my... demon."

I explained to my strange companion about Malgorth, hoping he could offer some insight.

"Malgorth, eh?" Scamp said. "Sounds very much like a malevolent wraith."

"Know how to kill one?" I asked.

"Several ways. Trouble with wraiths is simple. You've got to catch them to kill them."

"Where have you been?" I asked.

"Been keeping an eye on Brightwater. Sythwick has sent his demands, which Sanders rejected. He didn't feel like betraying you and couldn't exactly present your head to the fool on a platter, what with you being away and all. I might have sent him a message likely to get his back up."

"Which was?"

"I told him he was a spineless wimp with a cock half your size and that he was a chinless wonder."

"That should annoy him."

"Well, he is. I stopped over at his castle for a while. Place is full of yes men and brown nosers."

It struck me that Babushka hadn't met Scamp, Finnigan, or whoever my companion happened to be at the time. So, I introduced them and received a raised eyebrow for my trouble. She edged away from him like he revolted her.

"Will Sythwick march?" I asked, ignoring her discomfort.

"I imagine he is already preparing, if not on the way."

"Then we must be done with this quickly. Think of ways to kill wraiths."

He shrugged. "I'll do my best. Might go ahead and have a nose." He slipped away, climbing onto the lead wagon and sitting with Grondor, who visibly paled.

"What exactly is a shapechanger?" Babushka asked, and, apart from the obvious, I couldn't tell her. Finnigan was as much a mystery to me as her.

"There is something more to him than meets the eye, and that's enough," I said, sharing my growing feeling that Finnigan hadn't revealed his true purpose yet.

We traveled deeper, the road's camber downward, its breadth narrowing. Then our route opened up, a long bridge before us, crossing a vast cavern. Red runes glowed on either side of the road, heralding danger. Thrain raised his hand.

"Here there be monsters," he said, his voice deep and filled with theatrical drama. But when he turned, he had a maniacal grin spread on his face. "Now the fun starts."

I brought out my spear and shield, donning my armor, and marched up to Thrain. "We lead together, then."

He grunted, touching my armor. "Filo said you had a few tricks up your sleeve."

As if summoned, the giant dwarf appeared beside me. "Three is better than two," he said.

We marched forward, the red glow ominous.

CHAPTER 8

Four of us moved forward while the rest made camp. According to Thrain, the Ring of Shadows lay shortly after the Bearing Bridge. That great structure was test enough of our mettle.

Lysander held Rallpinto, the Jewel of Everything casting its magical light along the great fissure we crossed. The bridge's stonework had seen better days, cracked and warped by the heat thrown up from the larva flow far below, no more than a hair's breadth from where we stood, but no doubt a mighty river if you plunged toward it. Sweat dripped from me as I gasped for air, the heat unbearable.

"The runes signified danger," Lysander said. "I hope that danger has the courtesy to wait until we are across this hovering heap of rubble before it presents itself."

"Does look like it's about to crumble to dust at any moment," Filo said.

"Nonsense," said Thrain, and he stamped his feet and then jumped up and down. "Sturdy as anything—been across hundreds of times."

There was a crack, followed by a groan, then a crumble, bang and the grate of gravel pouring from some joint or the other."

"Don't do that," Lysander snapped. "Or I swear to god I'll take Rallpinto and shove him so far up your ass the Jewel of Everything will light up your mouth."

Thrain looked over. "Just a few rocks. If you wait long enough and strain your ears, you'll hear them splash into the larva and burn up."

I inhaled, searing my lungs. "I'm good. So, back to Lysander's original question. Are we likely to be attacked on this bridge?"

Thrain strode ahead. "The answer to that is a distinct maybe."

We continued, crossing the vast bridge as if walking on thin ice.

"What type of monsters have you encountered down here?" I asked as we made the two-thirds point.

"Seen 'em all in my time down Under," he replied and stopped. "Except maybe that one."

I looked along his outstretched arm, hand, and finger, following to the bridge's end where a giant elephant stood, tusks gleaming, trunk rising, then blasting a sound that trumpeted around the vast cavern.

"I'd imagine," Lysander said, "that if that beast starts running, one of two fates awaits us."

"Which are?" asked Filo.

"Either the bridge collapses, and we end up falling into the fissure to then be burned alive by the larva river, or the beast tramples us down, tossing us from the bridge where we fall only to be burned alive by the larva river."

"Sound much the same," I said.

"Different execution," he pointed out, the Jewel of Everything's light intensifying.

I armed my spear, ditching one of the hand axes.

The beast scrapped its hoof on the rock, snorting, then shaking its head from side to side.

"We're gonna find out soon," said Filo.

The beast charged. The bridge shook. It thundered forward, closing the distance between us in moments. I cocked my arm back, readying to throw my spear. The beast shrank. I held my throw, trying to understand what was happening. Then Scamp ran towards us. He stopped, laughing and pointing as he doubled over. "You should have seen your faces!"

"Why, you little bastard!" Filo cried, lurching for him, missing as Scamp morphed again, turning into the imp, jumping into my arms and changing into the stick called Finnigan.

"Your friends haven't got much of a sense of humor," he said. "Want to know what I found out?"

"When we get off the bridge," I said and hurried forward.

"I'm going to snap that twig in half!" Lysander said, running past us.

"Not if I get to it first," cried Filo, each of his thumping footsteps threatening to bring the bridge down.

"Am I the only one that found that funny?" Thrain said as we came to the bridge's end, racing through a narrow pass and coming out onto a flat plain of rock and facing around twenty beasts that resembled giant ants ridden by some form of spiders but fused into one body.

"What the hell are they?" Lysander said.

"What I was about to tell Daniel about," said Finnigan. "They nearly ended me until I turned into the elephant—they're scared of that. They weren't scared of Scamp at all. In fact, I'd go so far as to say they find humans quite tasty—dwarves too, I imagine."

"You're only telling us about this now?" Lysander said.

"Daniel didn't want to hear it back there."

"I'll deal with it," he said, throwing a fireball at them.

"One more thing. They're impervious to magic. It seems to enrage them, though."

Lysander uttered a strangled cry, the Jewel of Everything vanishing and Rallpinto growing into a formidable fighting staff. I threw my spear. It sped straight for the closest beast as they charged for us, Lysander's magic dripping from them like water.

The spear tore through the lead beast, taking its rider and ripping out its innards, the beast collapsing into a ball and rolling towards us. I raced forward, holding my hand up. My spear returned, and I threw it again, arming my hand axe as I jumped for another beast, raking the axe along its flank.

A foul jelly-like substance spewed from the wound, but the gash healed instantly. My spear returned, and I threw it again, taking another of the riders.

Filo charged one beast, bashing it with his shield and flattening it with his hammer, an almighty splash of ichor bursting upward. Thrain faced two, keeping them at bay with his sword and shield. Three surrounded Lysander, who circled, jabbing them with Rallpinto. A bright red aura suddenly surrounded him, and he vanished, reappearing behind another, stabbing it with his staff, then injecting a fireball into it. It froze, thrashed about, then boiled and bubbled until it exploded.

"Got it!" he cried, "only impervious on the outside!"

I ditched my spear, opting for my hammer, having seen the damage Filo dealt. Three of the creatures stalked me, herding me away from the bridge. I noticed they'd turned all of us and were pressing us back.

"They're forcing us into the Black!" Finnigan said, and I glanced around but could see nothing.

"That's a ring?" I cried.

"It's the ring!" he screamed back at me. "It's the fourth ring!"

I sized up the beasts, then launched my hammer away from them, judging its flight path, hoping it would return to me like the spear. It spun away from me, quickly turning in a wide arc. It hit the first, tearing through its body, turning it to mush, then continued through the second and third before returning to my hand.

Lysander blew up another two while Filo splattered a couple more. Thrain let out a mighty roar, spinning and dancing through three of them, taking their legs and avoiding their strikes.

Then it was over, and we all looked at each other like we'd been cheated—the battle done before it had truly got going. As I wondered what the hell it had been all about, black smoke surrounded me, thick, soot laden. Lysander screamed my name, but I couldn't see him anymore. Thrain did the same, but his voice sounded so distant. Darkness swallowed me, and during that moment, I had little doubt about what had happened. I'd taken one step too many—gone too close to the Ring of Shadows, and it had claimed me.

"Well?" I asked Finnigan.

"Simple," he said. "We need to walk back out again. Only problem is which way."

"I somehow doubt that's our only problem," I said.

I crouched, trying to think things through. Shadow beasts—someone had mentioned those. They said they were some form of creature that fed off light. We would counter it with watermetal—a soft metal that burst into flame when removed from water. The idea was to overwhelm it—shatter its fragile lattices.

I closed my eyes, unable to see anyway, and focused on my surroundings. A slight breeze brushed my cheek. Did it signify anything? I couldn't tell. The air was colder than the cavern—freezing cold in comparison. The dark did that—an absence of light, of heat. Was there a way there?

My myst rose, heightening my perception. I tensed.

"What is it?" Finnigan asked, but his voice was inside my mind like he was too frightened to say the words and had thought them.

"I sense something coming. Stay still. Don't say a word."

A force disturbed the dark—like a shark swimming. It hunted us, trying to feel any disturbance—the black its ocean—smoky currents carrying our scent. I held my breath, not daring to move a muscle. It passed over us, disturbing the smoke, creating a stronger breeze, and I understood how the shadows worked. They instilled fear and created panic so the beasts could find, hunt, and consume you.

"Well?" said Finnigan. "You got anything?"

"Hold on. I'm thinking, and you in my head isn't helping."

I let my myst surge, but I pushed it all into my senses, my smell, my hearing, my sense of me and my surroundings instead of the violence it usually helped me with.

I felt an aura form around me and understood it wasn't tangible but something more than that, an extension of that sense that fuels a gut feeling, makes you flinch before something hits you or saves you from a near miss. It was my perception of my surroundings, and slowly, it extended.

At first, it found only black, a heavy fog of sucking darkness that snuffed all light out. Another creature came, swimming slowly past, sniffing the air for any sign of me. Then my senses left the dark and entered a place of vibrance, filled with life, trees, undergrowth and vines, and I knew that to be the third ring—The Ring of Ensnaring Vines.

I had my direction, and it was counter to the vines. I channeled it all that way, holding my breath, hoping it would come out in the cavern and that I hadn't moved along the ring.

I found warm light, and I shared the feeling with Finnigan. “That’s it—that’s them,” I said, barely able to contain my excitement.

"What are we waiting for?" he said.

"We won't make it," I said. "The beasts will swarm me and take me."

"Then what do we do?"

"You can turn into anything, right?"

"Within reason. I have to understand it."

"A snake?"

"Easy."

"A very long snake?"

"Harder."

"I want you to tie yourself around my waist slowly, then slither towards the light, Keep low. Don't disturb the smoke. Don't let off any sound. Find Lysander and the others and get them to pull me out. Pull and keep pulling no matter what you hear. You got that?"

"Yeah, I got it. No other way?"

"Best I can come up with."

"Mind if I modify it if I come up with something?"

"Run it by me first."

"What happened to the trust we used to have?" He snickered. "Only joking. You never trusted me."

"Good to know,"

Finnigan grew, the stick morphing into a snake, slithering around me and then dropping to the ground. I sensed the black moving, rippling. They were coming.

"Stop!" I said subliminally.

He froze.

The things swam toward me, circling above and around. I knew they were desperate to sense me. I held my breath, doing my best not to tremble. But fear was eating my courage—the black draining me. After a while, they moved on, and I nearly cried out in relief.

"Okay, go, but slowly."

He moved on. At first, I could sense his progress, but then I could feel nothing. I waited, hoping he could reach it and praying that Lysander and the others were still there.

"I'm out," Finnigan said.

"Crap! Filo's coming at me with a hammer! Hey! It's me, Finnigan. I'm attached to Daniel. Pull me! Pull me with all your might, and don't stop no matter what you hear. His words, not mine!"

I channeled all my myst into my legs, sprang up and ran. "Contract as fast as you can!" I screamed in my mind.

The beasts caught me instantly, grabbing me with their frigid cold, biting at my flesh, tearing into it and trying to drag me back to the center of their darkness. I screamed with pain as cold filled my veins—numbing ice that froze my myst and paralyzed my legs. I fell, the creatures frenzied, bucking and pulling me. But Finnigan held, and the others pulled and pulled, dragging me away from the beasts.

"Hold in there, Daniel," Finnigan said. "Think of Babushka and that steamy sauna place."

Another bite—another beast ripping into me. I tried to scream, but nothing came out.

"How do you know about the sauna place?"

I became limp, so cold I couldn't resist.

"Ah, well, you know."

"No, I don't—"

Babushka, Tanaka, Leyathel, Anna, Wayleisha and the others. I didn’t want to die! Don’t let me die!

The pain vanished from my head, shoulders, chest, groin, and legs. Light erupted around me, and Scamp stood over me.

"Think we ought to forget the sauna thing. Just wanted to distract you from dying," he said.

I wanted to tear his head off, but I was cold, so damn cold, I couldn't breathe.

* * *

Babushka lay a warm cloth on my brow. The cold, the emptiness, had hold of me, and it wasn't letting go. The bites, if that was what they were, hadn't pierced my skin. I had no tears, no huge gashes, nothing—no visible injury. But the pain was real.

Mablene pulled my eyelids up, leaning in, looking deeply into my eyes. "There's something in there."

"It's the creature's influence. It's tasted him now. It knows him," Thrain said. "It'll not take kindly to him escaping its clutches. My bet is they'll come looking for him."

"There must be something we can do." Lysander moved closer, his hair falling over his face. "He can't die. That truly would be the end of everything.

"We could take him back to Ferric Tarn." Babushka lifted the cloth, soaking it in the warm water again. "At least he'd have a roof over his head and a cot to lie in."

"No," I said, forcing the word through my frozen jaw.

"Do something!" I demanded of Finnigan within my mind.

"A shadow beast has bitten you. What do you expect?" my companion replied. "Thrain's right. Kill the beast, Malgorth, and with it, you kill his malignance."

"Can you do anything for me? I can't move!"

"Then fight."

"I am fighting."

"No, you're capitulating. Use your myst wisely. You know it magnifies your attribute points. Channel it into the right one!"

"The right one?" I asked, then pulled my numbers up.

I had six, of which I immediately discounted charisma, dexterity and wisdom. Strength might help me kill the beast, but what use was it if I couldn't get there? Intelligence might give me a plan, but the same applied. Then it was in front of me. It was obvious. I was ill. A crawling sickness was spreading through me, even if it was intangible. I needed constitution—my vitality, as high as possible. It was the basis of my health. It was a chance.

But it wasn't that easy. I focused on my muscles when I needed strength, and my myst flowed there. When I needed to enhance my senses, I'd concentrate on my mind, hearing, and sense of smell, and it flowed there.

Constitution was different. It was more a state of being. How could I channel my myst when I didn't know where it was?

"My constitution," I said to Finnigan. "Where the hell is it?"

"It's when you feel good, dumbass. Focus on feeling good!"

So I did. I tried to remember back to the last time I'd felt good. I was with Babushka by a pool, steam all around me. I'd felt great, better than great. I'd been hot, so hot. She was naked, on top of me, under me.

"That's it," said Finnigan.

My myst surged, but it didn't focus on any part of me, instead all of me. The cold receded a little. The cloth on my head was warm, too warm. My breaths became deeper. But I was tired, so exhausted. I moved my hand, bringing it up to Babushka's cheek. "I'm back," I said and closed my eyes momentarily as war raged inside me.

"You'll not be able to keep this up for long. You need to get moving," Finnigan said.

"I'm in no fit state to fight yet."

"Then you'll have to rely on the others. They'll have to do the heavy lifting."

"But—"

"Trust them. Trust Lysander."

I sat up. "We have to move forward,” I told them. “We must kill the beast before I lose the fight against whatever is inside me."

They stared at me like I was mad.

"Now!" I said. "We must do this now! Thrain, you are in charge. I am just a passenger."

"Then you stay here."

"No," I said. "I have to be there. To survive, I must kill the beast and cast out its venom."

He nodded. "I will get us through the rings." He called everyone close. "Right," he said, his eyes alive as if he'd been waiting for this moment his whole life. "This is what we do."

* * *

I stood, barely. One of the dwarves had fashioned me a walking cane—more a prop to keep me upright. More surrounded me. Thrain had split us into three groups. The two smaller ones had the watermetal. They would throw it into the smoke, then run for the leading group. We would slip through the darkness while the metal burned brightly, keeping the shadow beast occupied.

"All of you, listen to me," Thrain said. "You keep quiet. You don't scream—no sudden movements. You panic, and you die. You keep your head; then you'll get through. The same goes for when we get to the other side. Stay in a tight group. Got it?"

We lined up, Lysander in the lead, ready to use the Jewel of Everything if it all went sideways.

"Move in as soon as you get the signal," Thrain said.

I waited, my internal battle rising like my malignancy could sense it was returning home—like it knew its kin were close.

"Now!" Thrain barked, and Lysander stepped into the shadows.

I tried to push my perception out as the evil shadow welcomed me back. But I couldn't extend my boundary. My myst was too focused on the battle inside me.

Yet, I could sense the beasts. I had some connection with them. They were sacred. They were enraged. They had to snuff out the water metal’s light, but it burned too brightly, overwhelming their senses.

It might work! The plan might work.

I shuffled forward, one in a line, not a leader for once, my speed restricted by others. I wanted to urge them on—to get them to race through, but I didn't want the beasts to sense us either.

The blackness surrounded me. Its gloom choked me. The cold gripped me once more as the evil inside me drew power from all around. My myst struggled to contain it. I stumbled, my grunt ringing out.

"I've got you," Babushka whispered, threading her hand through my arm.

I battled on, my legs heavy, like walking into a blustery wind. Silence surrounded us, but they were there. I knew it. The poison inside me called to them.

Someone pushed me, our rear hurrying. Then a shout sounded out, hollow in the black. My heart stopped, stomach catapulted into my throat. Panic—it was the last thing we needed.

Then one of the dwarves ran by me screaming. Those screams cut off instantaneously. More screams came from behind me.

"Do something!" Thrain shouted.

A blast of red light erupted before me, vanishing into the dark. Another followed. Babushka dragged me along, the panic real, conscious, running through us like a virulent sickness.

They came. The beasts came.

"Run!" Lysander's cried.

I ran, my legs leaden but my fear greater. Then I was swept from my feet and knew I was dead. But nothing bit me. No new cold filled me. Light blinded me—a diffuse light tainted with green. Dry heat hit me, and Filo beamed down at me. "You're not so heavy," he said, setting me down.

* * *

We were in a forest, pools dotted about, trees rising to the cavern's ceiling, which shone with lichen light. Dense undergrowth afforded us some cover, and I sat within a small clearing.

Grondor lay by me huffing, puffing, and berating himself for coming—not because he was scared, but blaming himself for losing three dwarves. He said they'd been flanking him when the shadow beasts attacked, taken in his stead.

Thrain posted a tight circle of lookouts, then had Filo and Babushka make a small fire. I welcomed its heat, the cold of the shadows still inside me, calling to the beasts within its walls towering behind me.

Babushka fussed over me, asking me if I was okay. Lysander sat beside me, a grim look on his face.

"You look paler than an elf," he said.

"My myst is fortifying my constitution at the moment. How long it'll last is another matter. We rest, then we press on."

"Not sure I should have come," Grondor lamented again. "I got those three killed."

"They got themselves killed," Thrain said, patting him on the shoulder. "Anyone with an ounce of sense would have known those creatures didn't have big enough mouths to take a bite out of you."

"Humph," Grondor grunted. "Your sense of humor hasn't improved with age."

"Oh, I don't know. I'm here, aren't I?"

"There's no point in anyone feeling sorry for themselves now," I said. "We're here, and unless you want to crawl back through the black, you're all staying here. Thrain, you've been through this ring. What's our plan?"

"Plan's simple—stay alive. The vines will come at you singly at first, then in pairs, always fast, escalating quickly. If we have a tactic, they'll learn it. They've got brains—sentient vines—it’s in the name. They'll ambush us, try sneak attacks—they'll try and confuse."

“How did you get through?” I asked.

“Same as the shadows, slowly, very slowly, days for each ring, perhaps longer. Watch the plants. If they sniff you, don’t react.”

Lysander scratched his head. "But they're plants, aren't they?"

"You're a wizard. What you do makes no sense to me. Why should this ring be different? Just know this. You're not fighting a plant. You're fighting a foe who'll fight back. Attack it and kill it."

Grondor grunted. "Plants that fight. I've heard it all now."

We rested for a short while. I was reluctant to wait longer, the battle inside me still raging.

Thrain led. Filo walked by Grondor. Then came Lysander, Babushka and I—the rest of the dwarves in line. We switched out all blunt weapons for bladed and readied for an attack.

"One coming!" shouted Greggle, a backmarker—a quiet dwarf who excelled with a spear. He swept it around, chopping at a vine. Thrain immediately peeled off, raising his blade and bringing it down. The vine thrashed about, whipping around. Then I saw its maw—ruby red, a great long and pointed tongue that curled around Thrain's blade, immediately blunting it.

He yelled in frustration. "Someone chop it up! Don't hang around! Do it!"

Greggle sprang back into action, chopping frantically.

"Greggle!" Filo screamed. "Behind you!"

A vast open maw raced toward the dwarf, the vine's body sliding from a tree. Lysander muttered some words, pointing Rallpinto at the beast. A burst of red magic shot from the staff, entering the maw, exploding and sending sparks in every direction.

Grondor yelled something, another vine dropping from the canopy. He swept his sword around, trying to slice it as it twisted and turned. Another flew from the undergrowth, wrapping around his arm, then a third trapped his leg.

My myst rose, transferring to my muscles, readying me for action, but my cold returned, chilling me to the bone. I equipped my axes, stumbling over to Grondor. Babushka screamed my name. I raised one axe, bringing it down on the vine trapping his foot, severing it, freeing him. But another one burst from the ground, curling around my wrist and pulling it down.

Babushka jumped on it, slicing it through with her knife. I rolled, the cold rigid within me.

"Do something, Lysander!" I screamed as two dwarves went down, wrapped in vines, screaming as they constricted.

Lysander looked about, aiming Rallpinto, but everywhere he pointed, dwarves were in the way. Thrain screamed, two vines snapping around his wrists, one around his neck. Then Babushka was on her knees, two of the things curling around her like great pythons.

"Lysander!" I cried, unable to move.

Finnigan appeared as the indigo imp, and he leaped at Lysander, slapping his cheeks. "The Jewel of Everything!" he screamed at the wizard, then jumped back to me. "You!" he said. "Use the crystal you looted from the hob priest!"

"Crystal? What crystal?"

"The spell slicer! You looted a spell slicer. Grab it and throw it!"

I searched my chaotic storage, vague recollections of the multi-faceted crystal ball coming to me. It was in the arena. I faced Calavork, the hobgoblin priest—their leader. He had a crystal ball. I’d looted it. Spell slicer? What the hell was one of those?

"Got it!" I said.

"Throw it—throw it high. Lysander, make ready!"

The Jewel of Everything sat atop Rallpinto, its light shining brightly. Babushka screamed, a dozen vines laced around her. Thrain knelt, his head bowed, the vine around his neck stretching upward. Grondor lay still, Filo struggling to move, to get to his king.

"Now!" screamed Finnigan.

I threw the crystal orb, and light shot from the Jewel of Everything smashing into the crystal, which lit up, bursts of light darting out, spears shooting in every direction, passing through Babushka, through me, the dwarves, Thrain and all.

Suddenly spotted with smoking holes, the vines thrashed and burned, curling up, breaking away. The crystal landed back in my hand. I tossed it up again and breathed a sigh of relief as the Jewel shone again, sending a burst of magic into the spell slicer. Power erupted from it once more, severing vines, cutting the dwarves free and releasing me as Lysander's deep and throaty laugh rang around.

"That thing," he said. "Whatever the hell it is, it's mine."

I fell back down. The tiny amount of myst I'd diverted to my muscles had given the poison a toehold again. I forced it back to my well-being—to my constitution, letting the spell slicer drop from my hand and roll towards Lysander, but Finnigan picked it up. "You sure you want to give this away? It's a hell of a gift to give."

"What do I need it for? I've got no magic."

"Nope," he said. "But Morgan has, and she'd be more grateful than him. If you know what I mean." He winked at me.

I looked at him, remembering. "Sauna," I said. "How do you know about the sauna?"

Finnigan vanished.

"Everyone accounted for," said Thrain. He looked about. "I'd suggest we get a move on. They'll come again. We might have a way to beat them, but we should still keep our guard. The wizard goes in the middle, and we all spread around him. The first sign of trouble, he tosses that ball up and kills every vine around him."

* * *

The ring ended at a line of bare rock cutting the forest's green, no contrast, no blending, just green, then a bland rust-colored rock. It reminded me of somewhere, and I was pretty damn sure it was near Anderlay.

Blunted hills rose, no soil covering them, no vegetation, nothing. They were layered, like stacked slate, worn by a wind I couldn't even feel, creating odd shapes, like living rock. Boulders littered the floor, along with heaps of smashed rock where hills had crashed to the ground. Dust twisters rose and fell, dancing, gyrating through the canyons, then falling, only to rise again and continue on their endless way.

We’d made the third ring—the Ring of Frenzied Winds, and I watched Thrain, who looked upon the scene with fear in his eyes.

"We've all practiced for this one—all of us. So you know you can do it, but I should have told you this. We don’t face a square with one end as a start and the end in front of you. There are numerous caverns, and as we proceed down them, they twist and turn. You will lose your sense of direction, get turned around and end up back where you started. The wind can't get you if you follow our directions. But it will get you if you despair. If you run for your freedom, expect to die."

He paused.

"This is the easiest ring to get through. It's also the easiest one to die in. Good luck. Now, each of you grab some leaves, soil, anything. Watch me. I'll throw it in and keep throwing it until it drops in front of my feet. Only then, no other time, will I run. We head for that cluster of boulders first, then to that one over there, then the next." He pointed them out. "We go in three groups. You'll need no magic, so no staffs or weapons. Tie a cloth around your head while you're waiting, pull it up when you stop and save you getting dust in your eyes. The first group is me, Daniel, Babushka and Filo. If Daniel gets in trouble, me and Filo will carry him. Got it?"

"I'll be fine," I said.

"You'll do as I say," Filo said. "You told me to lead, so you follow,"

"What about Grondor?" Filo asked.

Grondor laughed. "I'm suited to this one. Besides, if I get caught out in the open, I've plenty of flesh that could do with flailing."

Quiet descended on the group as we split into three. Thrain tossed some soil in. It flew along the invisible border separating the two rings, drawing an appreciative gasp from Lysander.

"This is some potent magic. I'm curious what's powering it. Must be some form of core—the rings give that away."

Thrain threw three more handfuls of soil in before the fourth fell to his feet. He bolted without hesitation, running straight to the boulder cluster and crouching.

"You next, Daniel," Filo said.

I hated being a passenger.

"I'll go with him," Babushka suggested, then bent and picked up a handful of soil and threw part in. The wind collected it, and it streaked past me, gone instantly. After six throws, it fell at her feet, and she dragged me into the ring. I ran. I stumbled. I tripped and nearly went over, but I made it, and we crouched by the rock, soon covered by Filo, who'd followed us without waiting.

"Just in case you fell," he said and grinned.

"We go as soon as the wind—" Thrain said, but the rest of his words were lost as the wind ripped through the closest canyon, tearing past us and smashing into the ring's border, howling as it split. I pulled my cloth over my eyes. The noise deafened me. The power belittled me. Then, as quickly as it had risen, it fell, and Thrain jumped up, racing for the next cluster. "Go, go, go!" he cried.

I didn't wait, knowing I was the slowest. Filo helped me along from behind, guiding me when I staggered. Babushka kept by me, keeping apace, gently steering me.

We made the next cluster in time to see Lysander's group hunkered down at the first, leaving Grondor's to come. We waited. The wind howled. We ran the instant it died down.

So it went on, and we gradually made our way along the canyon until it doglegged, turning back on itself, and we knew we had two options. We could follow it and likely end up back where we started, or we could take a chance and climb and go over the top. The hills weren't high, and they offered shelter under bluffs, folds, and creases.

"Best to go around. It could dogleg back in the right direction," Thrain said.

"When you did it, did you climb?" I asked.

His expression gave it away before he confirmed my suspicions. "I climbed alright, but we can only do it solo. Two can't fit in the creases on the way up; only once we’re over."

I looked up, knowing it was the only option—that the core—whatever powered the place, would just lead us around and around.

"We go over the top," I said. "Signal the others."

Babushka grabbed me. "We go—"

"No. It doesn't work like that. This is a test. We must take it, or we aren't worthy of the final confrontation. Climb Thrain. I will go second."

He nodded, waited for the wind to die, then climbed, ducking under a bluff around fifteen feet up. I traced his every foothold, then readied. When the wind died, I focused my myst into my strength and climbed. The poison woke halfway up, freezing my blood and shortening my breath. I clamped my jaw, making some strangled, primal noise, and hefted myself into the crevice, swapping my myst back to my constitution. I gasped, the cold fleeing and leaving me with chills in my fingerbones.

The wind howled, tearing at the rock around me, desperate to get to me. Then I realized I hadn't seen where Thrain had hidden, that I'd have to find my own way. I tried to look out, but the wind cut through me, and I pulled back quickly.

I readied, feeling weaker than before. Babushka would come after me. That much I was sure of. If I didn't move, she'd have nowhere to hide. The wind died, I transferred my myst's focus, and I climbed again, pain erupting from each of my fingers. Ten, twelve, fifteen feet, nearly falling, carrying on, running out of time. A fissure—a fold in the rock. I wedged myself in, slumping but not able. Refocusing my myst, Surviving.

The wind whistled. It was how I judged it. It whistled. I hid. It fell silent. I climbed. There were no choices. It was how it was.

Then Thrain had me. He pulled me down, pushing me back into a tiny cave and growling, "Wait there." I didn't argue. I didn't shout out. I curled up into a ball, redirected my myst and waited.

"Daniel, drink this." Babushka tipped something into my mouth. It warmed me, pushing my cold away and allowing my myst to gain a hold.

"What is it?"

"Mana," she said. "Mablene distilled it for Lysander. She caught up with me at the bottom while you climbed the first bit. She thinks mana and myst might be linked in some way. Thought it couldn't do any harm."

I let it drift through me.

"It's doing something," I said, and she poured more into me.

Thrain returned. "We gotta get going. Just waiting for one from the next party. I'll show them this place then we're gone. There's a gulley that'll house all of us down a few feet from here. We head there and then begin our descent. How you holding up, Daniel?"

"Been better," I said, taking another swig and handing back the bottle.

"Keep it. But she said not to overdo it as you haven't got a mana store."

"Okay," I said. "At least I can feel my fingers now."

Mablene darted in. "Did it work? Lysander's desperate to know."

"I'm not dead yet," I said, trying and failing to smile before Thrain dragged me out and led me down a shallow crease into the gulley. "Going down's worse, but at least you'll end up down the bottom whatever happens. Follow this crease. Tuck yourself in when the wind comes. Descend as fast as you can when it's quiet, Don't look out. Don't look down. I'll be at the bottom to pull you to safety. Got it?"

I nodded. He dropped into a fold in the rock. I followed, slipping and sliding until I got a handhold. Babushka was a little above me. I dropped a few more steps, and the wind came, tearing at the crack, trying to prise me out. I held, my grip renewed by the mana potion. I closed my eyes, the cold poison sitting below my skin, waiting to attack me. The wind died, and I clambered down as fast as I could, knowing I couldn't last much longer and had to rest.

We climbed down, and we waited. Then, my hands began shaking, quickly followed by my arms, my legs. Sickness crawled through me, settling in my stomach, a tight ball of bile desperate to come up. The wind died. I tried to move, slipped, tried to get a handhold and slid again.

Babushka shouted, "Daniel!" but I couldn't respond. I fell, bouncing from the crease, tumbling down, thumping onto a rock and rolling from it.

Then Babushka was with me, calling for me to wake, desperation filling her cry. Darkness fell over me. Something pushed me into a gap that was way too small for me. Then the wind howled, sloughing over me like a thousand blades. My cloak ripped away from me, exposing my skin. Pain, unlike anything I'd ever experienced, hit me.

"Equip your armor now!" Finigan screamed inside my mind.

I did it without thinking. Too far gone to argue. In too much pain.

The armor appeared, the chainmail fitting me like a glove, the pain instantly gone as the wind failed to penetrate it.

Hands grabbed me again, yanking me from that place and dragging me to shelter.

"That's the worst of that one over," said Thrain. "We can rest up here for a while."

They were the best words I'd ever heard.

CHAPTER 9

My myst and the venom had reached equilibrium. Neither was winning or losing as they fought. I knew what side I was on, but how in hell could I help something so strange as myst if I didn't even understand it?

The Ring of Frenzied Winds raged behind me or didn't. It was impossible to tell as we'd transitioned out of it. The Ring of Forgotten Souls lay before us, a barren wasteland of charred mountains spewing smoke, and dried river beds meandering through larval plains. It was bleak, perhaps as close to Limbo as I could imagine.

My mind strayed to Alex, and I wondered if she was in a place like this. It might not be long before I could wake her—her and the farmers I'd lost early on, though whose names I'd forgotten. Was one Rose? I thought it might be, but I couldn't be sure. It seemed so long ago.

It was no sure thing that Alex would still love me. I had changed. Perhaps she had too. Absence had a way of eroding love, or so I'd thought until I'd rekindled my love of Wayleisha and Morgan.

But they had to be different. Time might have passed, but not for me. Once the memories had flooded back, I found the love there and intact, perhaps more potent than before. That thought astounded me more, as the reverse was true for them. They'd fought for countless years and hadn't wavered in their commitment to me. It was true devotion and a thing that needed repaying in full.

Babushka nuzzled into me, her eyes closed. What kind of life had I forced her into? Fortunately, before I could think too far along those lines, Lysander crouched by me.

"How goes it?" he asked casually but with concern upon his brow.

"I have some form of darkness in me, but my myst keeps it at bay."

"This next ring will demand fighting."

"I've been thinking about it. They're supposed to be malevolent souls—that's what Thrain said. The undead, I think he called them. Do you think we might have met their like in Vale's tower?"

"The soldiers?"

"Them, yes. I'm hoping there is something more substantial than that. Perhaps I can get a boost from killing them—drawing their spent life force from them. If I kill a few, I might recover some power."

"Your sword might keep them at bay."

"I lost that trinket in the tower, buried in stone," I grunted. "Wasn't my favorite." I conjured a hand axe. "Now, this beauty. This is the perfect weapon."

He eyed the bleak horizon. "Ring of Forgotten Souls " could be a metaphor for those lost in Limbo. Who is this that persecutes you so? Everywhere we turn, they fight us with those afflicted by a single choice you made ten thousand years ago."

"It was no ordinary choice. I scrubbed a whole way of life."

"You made it precious."

"Only for those who lived. For those who'd fought for their Lord—died for them—and trust they'd be reborn, it was betrayal and nothing else."

"You aren't a God. You couldn't have known that."

"Couldn't I? I knew the mechanics of it all. I could have called a great parlay. Could have agreed on the way forward with all Lords and Ladies. We could have emptied our cauldrons and then done it."

"Then why didn't the Gods suggest that?"

I thought about his words, and then their explanation came to me.

"Why does a God do anything?"

"A mystery to me," Lysander admitted.

"Because they want to," Babushka said, waking.

"Just that. Whatever God I did this bargain with wanted this outcome. He wanted me pitted against Diagon," I said. Then its truth hit me. "I am sure of this—absolutely positive."

Lysander raked his rowdy hair, then cocked his head one way and the other. "I agree. He played you."

"He?"

"An assumption. But, irrespective of that, it absolves you from all guilt."

"How?"

He grinned. "You were a mere puppet—a fool on strings played by a God. What chance did you have?"

"He's no fool!" Babushka spat, coming to my defense like we'd been married for ages.

"I disagree," said Lysander, a grin on his face. "He desired something—the continued life of his wives and daughters. Now, think about this. He was the Legendary Lord. Thus, I guess he was also the power in the land. He had the greatest wizard—me, and what is proving to be a powerful artifact in Finnigan. So, answer me this. Why did he think he was going to die? What made him think about the futures of his wives after he'd died?"

Besides Lysander talking about me like I wasn't there, he had a good point. But, he'd aimed his words at Babushka, so she answered.

"How is a great King always toppled?" she said. "By lesser men and friends. Perhaps his trusty wizard betrayed him."

"Hold on," I said. "I traveled to Byoux. We know this."

"And you were betrayed there—by giants, maybe, but it was your downfall," Lysander said. "It must have been that, and, might I point out,"—he sniffed the air— "I betrayed no one. I avenged his death."

"Through guilt?" Babushka said.

Lysander glared at her, but she had a smirk on her face. He pointed. "I see what you're doing! You're baiting me!"

"See, Daniel, he's not as stupid as you said he was."

Lysander ground his teeth. "I think we should get back to the problem at hand."

"The lost souls," I said. "I must kill one early on."

"Or I could use the spell slicer. It is a handy addition to my arsenal, no doubt."

"No," I said. "I need to be stronger. The venom has weakened me. I cannot face Malgorth in this state."

I looked around the party. Drugglene, Mablene, Grondor, Filo and Thrain had survived, but four out of the eight other dwarves had died, and Tink had fallen to his death, collected by the frenzied winds, mere bones before he landed.

"There are still twelve of us."

"Nine—an overweight King, an alchemist and a gatherer don't count. Those two were supposed to stay with the wagon."

"You needed a healer," said Mablene as she walked over. "How are you feeling?"

"Better now that the mana sickness is gone."

"I think I have a way around that. I believe it was too potent for you—that it helped at first, but then your body thought it poison and rejected it." She produced a vial. "Try this. It has a flux that should rinse the goodness while soothing the digestion."

"I'll try anything that will prepare me," I admitted, taking the vial and draining its contents.

"I was about to say, just take a sip when you need it."

My stomach convulsed. I closed my throat, holding the bile down.

"Good to know."

The sickness passed, and I settled. Thrain called us into a huddle and explained more about the ring.

"This is no ring. At the center of it is the Malgorth's lair. The beast will send his minions out first, but they won't be some rabble. There will be some organization, although they will revert to a mob if we disrupt their orders. A head kill is essential. They are undead. They don't die like you and me. Chop it off—perfect. Crush it—they're dead. Arrow to the eye—they keep on coming. Get it?"

"Think so," said Filo.

"Good, because they'll come, and violence is the only way."

"Magic?" Lysander asked.

He shrugged. "Not got it, so never used it. Although I have to say, that magic of yours was pretty impressive. Passed right through me without leaving any holes."

"Yes," said Lysander. "I was relieved about that. Could have gone badly quite quickly."

Thrain gave him an odd look but said nothing.

"So they are undead?" I asked.

"Queer-looking lot. I've heard tales of zombies and the like."

"So zombies?"

Thrain grimaced. "More outraged dead people, I'd say."

"Dead people, so ghosts."

"More to 'em than that. Difference between a watery broth and a good stew."

"Like folk waiting to be reborn?" I ventured.

He snapped his fingers. "Like that—just like that."

Lysander stared at me. "Then we know the way," he said. "Because we've fought these one-trick ponies before."

We both fell silent until Thrain asked, "Well? You gonna share your secret?"

Lysander told them about the beasts and mobs we'd battled in Vale's tower.

"So we gotta whittle 'em down?" Thrain said.

"Kill them again and again until they don't get up."

"Explains why the last one I cut down got back up, then he chased me all the way back to the Frenzied Winds ring. Gotta chop their heads off—that's what you gotta do. They don’t get up then. I stabbed that one in the gut that chased me."

"Yup." I thought back. "Although I wish I'd known about the head trick in the tower."

Babushka brought her hammer out. "I'm ready."

A colossal stone hammer appeared in Thrain's hands. "That ain't a hammer. This is a hammer."

"While we're comparing hammers," I said, bringing mine out. "I think you'll find this is a truly great hammer."

Lysander rolled his eyes. "You boys and your hammers."

"Hey," said Babushka. "I'm no boy."

"That," I said, "is plain to see."

* * *

We moved out. Grondor insisted on taking the lead, Thrain and Filo by his side. Lysander and I followed a little behind, with Babushka and Mablene after, then the remaining dwarves following. Drugglene, being a gatherer, was fleet of foot and chose to scout ahead. Lysander griped about it a little, having a soft spot for her, but she insisted.

It was tepid, the air still and silent. According to Thrain, there was only one way to go, and that was to the center, although he did admit that he'd not gotten far before the undead attacked him.

Neither did we.

We followed a dry riverbed as it snaked between solidified larval flows. Ahead, the mountains belched black smoke that crowded the cavern's ceiling, so distant it might as well have been a grey sky. I'd stashed my hammer, not wanting to use my valuable stamina carrying it. My myst was holding the venom at bay, but that was all. The slightest diversion and the poison would gain the upper hand.

As we fell into a rhythm, Drugglene came running down the riverbed, waving and shouting, pointing behind her—hardly the stealthy scout I'd hoped she'd be.

"They're coming!" she said, and before I could even squint to look behind her, they were there, spanning the narrow valley, right on her heels.

The Jewel of Everything glowed atop Rallpinto as Lysander muttered fast words. He threw the spell slicer up and unleashed a magical blast. Red power streamed from the jewel, hitting the slicer and racing forward in hundreds of tiny rays. Drugglene ducked, rolled and came up as the magic passed over her, slamming into the undead's lines.

They fell, pressed forward by those behind, soon trodden underfoot as the relentless tide forged ahead. Lysander cast his spell again. More fell. Then again, and he toppled another line.

"They're getting up! It's not working!" Thrain shouted. "You need to aim for their heads!"

"I don't have a spell for that!" Lysander barked back.

"Of course you do," said Scamp, appearing by his side. "Simply get the spell slicer to slice it a little finer. Imagine dicing a potato—"

"Don't exactly have the time for that," I screamed.

"No. No. I think I've got it." Lysander tossed the spell slicer up, twisting it as it left his fingers, then blasting his magic into it. It spewed the magic out, not in a thousand rays, but in one vivid, red plane—a sheet of light that raced towards the undead, severing their heads and leaving their corpses to continue. Black blood spurting from their necks, they fell into a jerking, kicking heap of death.

"Now that's mighty fine, Scamp," said Lysander. "How did you know?"

"I used my head," he said. "It was obvious. That Spell Slicer is a powerful weapon. You think it capable of doing only one thing?"

Lysander regarded it. "But how do I unlock its secrets?"

Scamp scratched his head. "Don't you ever look up your numbers? It's yours. Daniel gave it to you. Everything will be in there."

Lysander backed away, his vacant eyes telling me he was following Scamp's advice.

"Just who the hell are you?" I asked.

"I'm Finnigan, your lifelong pal. Fennel told you all about me."

But I eyed him from top to bottom. Something was off. There was something I wasn't remembering—well, there were many things I wasn't remembering, but the most important one was familiarity. I knew Lysander and knew we had been close, even though I hadn't recognized anything specific when we’d first met. I'd instantly known Wayleisha and Morgan—had known Morgan and I had history. So it was odd, extremely odd, that I felt nothing for Finnigan, nor had I any familiarity with Scamp.

I only had Fennel's word for it and Wayleisha's acknowledgment that they'd also met, but I hadn't been there. In short, there was something strange about Finigan or Scamp. But all the while he kept saving us, I wasn't going to worry too much about it.

We picked our way through the corpses. I received no power from them—no quickening. Which hardly surprised me as I'd not killed them. Drugglene climbed the larva flow beside us, scampering over it and out of sight, and we continued toward the center.

Babushka spied the beast before any of us. It flew high, tight to the smoky ceiling. It resembled a shadow and was shaped like a dragon, with bony wings and a long tail. It glided around in sweeping arcs, silent, unthreatening, but constant, observing us, watching our every move.

Drugglene appeared now and again, signaling the all-clear, and so we carried on, aware of the monster above us but unable to do anything about it. Then a dwarf screamed, and we all turned.

Twenty or thirty more undead hurtled toward us from behind—a great monster scampered along the larva flow, another on the other side. Lysander looked at me, clearly caught in two minds. I signaled him to deal with the monsters, equipped my hammer and turned. “Hold the line. Shields high!" I screamed, and Grondor barged through, Filo by his side and Thrain with him. All three looked fearsome—all three looked destined to be heroes.

We formed up—a thin line strung across the narrow valley. Lysander sent one spell at them, but there were too many of them, and he only felled the first few ranks. But as they clambered over their dead, he'd broken their momentum, so our line held when they crashed into us. My hammer swung into action, the malicious venom coursing through me as I diverted my myst to strength.

The first head exploded under it, then the second, third and fourth. My joy surged as power, essence, whatever it was, filled me. The quickening spurred me on, and like a sick man suddenly cured, I welcomed its renewed energy with ecstatic enthusiasm. I pounded them, suddenly released from the confines of the venom. Heads splattered. Undead fell. I powered forward, a ring of undead forming around me, and I took them all, growing stronger as each fell, never to rise again.

Grondor was there, brief glimpses during battle. He'd changed, no longer the broken dwarf of Ferric Tarn, suddenly a giant, striding among his foes, hammer smashing down. Thrain had risen. He could have been ten feet tall, with a grin on his face, black gore splattering his grizzled skin.

Babushka climbed a mound of undead, her hammer swinging around her head, its point driving through temples, shattering skulls, and Filo was a mountain, pummeling all but keeping one eye on his king.

Other heroes fought in that battle, but two never fought again. We lost Mablene, ill-suited to the task and one who should never have come, and we lost a dwarf called Zamma, who lost his footing, never seen again.

Then, as they thinned, I spied Lysander and instantly understood that my wizard was struggling.

I raced for him, my myst dominant within me, my legs powering me up the larva flow. Both beasts stalked him, and I couldn't determine why he'd not blasted them to pieces or reduced them to nothing. He had the Jewel of Everything. He had the spell slicer.

Then I saw her—Drugglene was by his side and badly injured by the look of it. He'd reduced one beast, but they'd narrowed his range, darting around him, taking to flight, then swooping down. I called him, but he focused on finding his range, on honing in on a target. He unleashed a spell, and the second beast dived. They worked in tandem—I saw it then.

Babushka came aside me. She raced past, shouting for Drugglene. I veered off, losing my hammer and equipping my spear, throwing at the diving bird in one silken stroke and then arming my battle axe, the huge one—one fit for a God to wield.

The spear struck, passing straight through the creature. It shrank—not by much, but it visibly reduced in size, spurring me forward. It wasn't only magic that could kill them.

Then we collided—man and monster—a clash of semi-ethereal and the tangible. I carved a furrow through it, cleaving its shadowy body in two. It shrank again, but its cold gripped me, waking the venom inside me. But I wasn't going to stop. I'd felt the quickening again. It was fresh in my mind. If I bested the beast and fed from its source, I would crush the venom inside me. If I retreated, it would have me.

My spear passed through it again, ever trusty, ever diligent until it had finished its task, and the beast shrank again. It tried to rise, to flee, but Babushka hit it with an almighty whack, and I sliced clean through it.

"Leave it!" Lysander called. "I have it now."

But I ignored him, too far gone to pull back. My spear slid between Babushka and me, slipping into the creature as my axe fell again, and then, with that final, deadly stroke, it shattered, breaking into a thousand drops of shade all hurtling toward me, into me, raising me from my feet as they reinforced my myst with pure power.

I yelled—cried out in ecstasy, and the myst hunted down the venom inside me, purging it from me. I stood upon the larva flow, my legs apart, my axe raised with one hand, my spear gliding into the other, and I yelled. "Come and get me, Malgorth! Do your worst, for I have felt some of your wrath and bested it! I am the Legendary Lord! I challenge you, Beast!"

There was silence, and then there was a voice that sounded like the wind, and it tore through me, its challenge mighty.

"Come to me, Legendary Lord, for legends mean nothing to me. Come face me. I am waiting."

"Did you have to antagonize it?" Lysander asked me.

I pursed my lips, looking down at the battlefield. "I believe I did," I said.

* * *

We walked the riverbed until we came to a shallow basin that once must have held a large lake. A stronghold sat in the basin's center. Stone walls, as black as night, lay in ruins, the buildings barely rising above them. If this was Malgorth's lair, then it was nothing to be proud of.

Two shadow beasts rose from it, circling the ruins, and an army of undead spilled from it, spreading like an oily slick on the basin floor. Lysander wasted no time deploying his magic, sending it forth as he marched straight for the ruined stronghold. Great red discs flew toward them, and I puffed with pride at how strong my hero had become—no tower needed for him.

We began to jog as if we couldn't wait for death to arrive. Then I noticed the grin on Grondor's face, the maniacal look in Filo's eyes, and the grim determination of Thrain. I'd done that—me—the Legendary Lord reborn from a time ten thousand years ago. I'd stoked a fire long gone out. The dwarves had risen, and I knew that if we survived this day, every one of them would be at the final reckoning.

Then we ran, screaming our battle cries. "For Ferric Tarn!" shouted Grondor. "For House Gray!" I cried. "For a damn fine ale!" screamed Thrain.

Lysander's magic flashed about, hitting the beasts overhead. His casting speed was phenomenal. His mana seemingly endless. Then he looked at me, winked, and brought a vial to his lips, and I understood how—mana strings. I launched my spear, letting it go to work against the beasts. Then I equipped my hammer.

We clashed, but our momentum took us through their lines and in among them. They could not match our ferocity. They could not best our desire. They had no chance of coming close to our rage. We tore through them, one devastating strike after another. Dwarves became heroes, and a hero became a legend.

Then we were through the gates, into the ruins of the stronghold, racing along its streets, expecting more but finding no resistance.

Malgorth stood there, his cloak shimmering like black gold, wrapped around his demonic frame. He stood as tall as two men, his horned head bowed and smoke issuing from his nostrils. He glared at us, eyes incandescent, like red hot coals.

"So it will be," he said, his words whipping around me.

"So it will," I answered, tossed my spear at him, and charged.

We converged on him. Lysander's magic exploded in his face, sending him reeling backward. My spear shot straight through his heart, my hammer taking his legs. Grondor smashed his weapon into Malgorth’s side, and Babushka set about his knees with her spiteful weapon. We had him. He fell, and we set about him with the fervor of starving carrion on a freshly fallen corpse.

As I thought we had him—as I thought our battle neared its end, he shimmered and rose again, twice the size of before. The dwarves checked, their resolve slipping away. I screamed my battle cry. "For House Gray!" and attacked again. My spear passed through him a second time. Lysander's magic hit, but Malgorth renewed, and he batted away our attacks.

Grondor flew backward. His head twisted around too far to be natural. Thrain fell to one knee, a gash in his head. Babushka screamed, "Father," then frenzied upon the monster, her hammer blurring with the ferocity of her attack.

"For Grondor!" I cried, fearing the worst.

We attacked, and we didn't stop. Red magic fizzed over the beast, Lysander relentless. Filo, a grim look on his face, kept hammering until he could lift his weapon no more. Scamp joined in, a dagger in hand, blue light rippling its blade, freezing the beast's limbs. Babushka attacked, shattering the frozen flesh.

Then, with one last cry so loud it crazed and cracked the cavern's roof, Malgorth fell with a tremendous thump, and his body lay there momentarily, then turned to dust, leaving a single weapon lying on the ground.

"What is that?" Babushka asked.

But I couldn't answer. I was struck dumb.

I reached and picked up the weapon, not understanding, not comprehending in the slightest.

"An old friend," I said.

CHAPTER 10

I reached for it. It wasn't like the other times. There was no fog, no curtain shutting off my memory. I knew it and understood its implications. I had put it there. I had seeded my entire path, sending me each way for a purpose. What had been the reason for Malgorth? Simple, the rings had been there to make me stronger. They had forced me to understand the myst.

But there was another reason. I glanced at Lysander. Reborn with no power, was it a coincidence that this man was an irresistible force already? And yes, irresistible was the right word. His power captivated. He radiated it, drawing others to him so they could shelter by him. Even then, with no enemy to fight, he stood there, Rallpinto in hand, the Jewel of Everything shining atop it, and he looked indestructible.

I bent and picked up the weapon. Its familiarity was immediate. I brought it up to my shoulder and looked along its sights.

“What is that?” Filo asked.

“A crossbow,” I said, “but no ordinary thing. It has only one bolt, and it has never been shot.”

I lowered it, showing him. The weapon was already cocked, the bolt sitting and waiting to shoot into action. It had always been that way, and I’d never dared use it, mainly because no foe I’d fought against deserved the honor.

“It’s shining,” he said.

And it was, with the richest, golden aura imaginable. The bolt was eight inches long, with feathers made from the finest golden strands, its shaft the same metal—tip likewise. I doubted it was gold because that metal would be too soft, but whatever it was served its purpose, making it look grand. It was beautiful—deadly in its inception but stunning in design. Its shaft was knurled, the knurls curling around it. I imagined it flying through the air, spinning, its accuracy second to none.

A rich walnut wood formed the bow’s stock and foregrip, while more of the robust gold fashioned its ornate limbs, cocking stirrup and risers. A polished silver-colored metal made its flight grooves, barrel, latches and trigger. Intricate scrolling decorated all, making the whole thing simply exquisite. It was lighter than it appeared, and it had one purpose.

“What type of weapon is that?” Thrain asked.

“It is a celestial weapon, once owned by a God,” I said. “Its name is Aurora Aetherstrike.” I looked at him. “I have owned it for a while—ten thousand years, to be precise. But I have never fired it, although I think the time is coming when I will have to.”

“Why?” he asked.

“Because it can kill a God,” I said.

"If it can kill a God, it can kill anything."

“Why waste in on mere mortals,” I replied.

“We think it only has one shot,” Lysander said, walking up to it and running his finger along its flight groove.

“You remember it?” I asked.

“Like it was yesterday.”

“What do you think?”

“Think?”

“Did we put it here? No. Don’t answer that. I'm sure I put it here and think I know why.” I told him my suspicions.

“It makes sense,” he said. “What makes more sense is getting out of here. There are taverns in Ferric Tarn, and there is an ale with my name on it. I would be more inclined to discuss it all there.”

Then I saw her—my Babushka—and she knelt by Grondor. The weapon’s appearance had distracted me, leaving her alone to grieve her father. I went to her, crouching by. “He fought well,” I said. “I saw him—watched him. He was alive at the end—had a fire in his eyes. A true hero and warrior.”

She sniffed. “I know. It makes it even harder.”

“To lose him now?”

“To lose the man I grew up to respect. He was back—had one last fight. It was him, Daniel. It was him in the end. Remember him as that, not as the other.”

“The other wasn’t him. That was decay. We have to strive for something. If we don’t, then what is there to do but sit and mourn the loss of the old times?”

She held my hand, and we stood, and Thrain, a colossus, a true soldier, hefted his king over his shoulder, and then we walked away from that place, Malgorth’s magic gone.

* * *

Despite my pressing matters with a certain Lord and my new castle, I stayed a day in Ferric Tarn and saw Grondor laid to rest. They placed him in a boat, setting him adrift on the Tarn. The usual protocol for a dwarven burial was firing the pyre under him with flaming arrows. It seemed only fitting that Lysander should do the honors. So he did, unleashing the Jewel of Everything upon the boat and setting fire to it instantly.

Then there was the small matter of the leadership. Babushka should have taken it by rights, but she announced our wedlock and transferred the title to me. Thus Ferric Tarn and the Iron Mountain and all the Under between there and Treygorvo became mine. I also took possession of their cauldron but roused no dwarves there. I had other plans for them. I promoted Filo and Thrain. Filo, I made steward, and it was his task to supply me with iron—as much of the damn stuff that they could produce. In return, we would send back the wagons laden with food.

It was a promise made that I had no idea if I could fulfil as my numbers didn’t tell me how much we were already supplying the hobs and goblins. But I did know that I had three sources of food. Greg had begun building farms in the valley, calling the cluster Elfvale—a fitting tribute. I also had the old farmsteads, although their production fell under the goblin and hob tabs. Finally, I had the upper valley above Brightwater, which appeared under that city.

I made the promise. Somehow, I would keep it.

“Let’s go home,” I said once we’d completed our duties.

Lysander didn’t argue, and nor did Babushka.

“I can’t wait,” she said. “Will I get a house like the other?”

“You will,” I said. “Anna will take care of you, show you around, and you can carve out our new life. You have much in common with Tanaka. Perhaps your skills with rocks and metals might help us. We have mines, and we have other mountains. Who knows what you’ll find?”

“I might bring some dwarves with me once I’m settled. Goblins are only suited to crushing rock. Extracting ore is a much more delicate thing.”

“I’ll take as much metal as you can give me. You are my Lady of Iron, after all.”

* * *

Kanazar had done outstanding work on Babushka's house. I'd assumed it would be designed like Tanaka's home, as dwarves and goblins both lived underground, but it was completely different. It was a cozy, one-level, stone cottage topped with a thatched roof, walls punctured by quartered windows, a barn-type door offering a way in and a place to chat and a pretty front and back garden bursting with colorful flowers.

It had a pond with small figurines dotted about, dangling their fishing lines in. I looked closer and saw they were all tiny humans made from clay and painted in garish colors. She ran to it, opening the small garden gate, running along the stone path and racing through its front door.

"I love it, Daniel. I absolutely love it,” she said when I caught up.

I frowned. "I thought you'd like something with more of an underground feel."

"Underground? We dwarves don't mind the underground, but we prefer living above. It was the humans that pushed us under the Stormbane."

"Oh," I said, having a look around.

"Dad used to tell me tales—how we'd live in valleys, farming food and mining the caves. Must have been nice, peaceful."

The dwelling was pleasant in a rustic way and would have suited Grondor's tale. It was a bare-bones home with a small scullery, a table nearby, a bed in the corner and a bathtub by the back door. Perhaps that suited her. It wouldn't me. I liked my Lordly excesses. She told me she would visit Kanazar and thank him, so I strolled off to catch up with Tanaka and Anna in the Lording House.

With the addition of Wayleisha and Babushka, the house had grown again. The building was similar to before but could hardly get more lavish than it had previously been. The main improvement was its surroundings with curving pavements, ornate topiaries, and box hedges hemming in fantastic gardens, gravel paths, raised ponds and stone balustrades. It looked every part a country mansion.

"I'm back!" I shouted, and they rushed into my arms, demanding I tell them everything that had happened. They made me lunch, then drew me a bath, and fussed over me until I was clean. Then they humped me to within an inch of my life, and after, I told them everything and caught up with all the local gossip.

I then summoned everyone for a meeting at the stronghold. I timed it for dusk to let me sit with Anna for a while, hardly talking, just enjoying each other's company at first.

"So what's she like, Babushka," Anna eventually asked.

"I think you'll like her. She's strong, like you. She gets on with things without grumbling and holds nothing back when she has to fight."

Anna grunted. "You'll have to be careful. Too many strong women, and you'll have your own private army."

"You can never have enough armies."

She laughed at that.

"What do you know of Finnigan?" I asked, changing the subject to a thing plaguing my mind.

"Scamp? He comes by now and again. Doesn't stay here any longer than he has to. I sometimes think he only stops by for my cakes. He said he preferred to come and go as he pleased.” She shrugged. “He's a queer sort, though."

"How so?"

"Too confident, perhaps." She shrugged. "I don't know. It's like—" She paused. "It's like he's not used to people telling him no. If I refuse him a cake, he'll take it anyway when I'm not watching."

"He steals it?"

She shook her head. "No, it's not that. He doesn't steal it. He takes it, but because he thinks it's his already. There's nothing he doesn't own—as far as he's concerned. What was he like when you first met him?"

"A child—confident though. Not scared of anything."

"Fits," she said.

"Fits?"

"Well, we know he's not what he says he is. There's no guarantee he's Finnigan the stick or Scamp. He could be something entirely different."

“He has magic," I said. "Ice blue cold magic."

"So, a caster?"

I shrugged. "Maybe."

"Well, you better know. You should stop by Fennel and Platos on the way to the stronghold. Maybe they've got answers."

"I might just do that."

"First, though, you should go to the room with the pool."

"That odd one? Does it do anything?"

"There is a strange noise coming from it. I haven’t opened the door. I believe it’s a Lording thing inside."

It was the room I suspected communicated with other Lords and Ladies. I had no doubt they would want a word with me, and I decided it was the right time. They would almost certainly ask me one question, though, and I needed the answer.

"How is Bright?" I asked her.

She smiled. "He's back from the elves. You didn't get rid of all your lodgers. He lives here at the moment."

"Here?"

"He's no trouble. Spends his time in the new summerhouse reading books he borrows from Platos. He's old, Daniel, and ages every day. He'll not live much longer."

"Then we let him see his days out in peace. He deserves that. His last few years must have been torture—trapped in a body with no way out."

"I am pleased you said that."

I stood. "So, let's go see who summons us."

I marched up the stairs and along, not hesitating but entering the room with the strange pool.

It had changed. I'd not returned to it since it first appeared, so I wasn't surprised it had. The pool was gone. In fact, nothing was left of the room's previous iteration. Tall oval mirrors lined the walls, each my height and a couple of feet wide. The walls were black, as was the ceiling. Only the floor had any decoration, and it was a pattern similar to the one I’d walked in Vale’s tower, but this one was inert, mere decoration.

While none of that was astounding in itself, the lack of reflection in any of the mirrors did unsettle me. I stood in the center of the room, and each mirror was blank.

At first.

One flickered into like. There stood a man, his stance halfway between facing me and side on, but he was looking directly at me. He was modestly handsome, had long, blonde and curly hair, pale skin, and his favorite color was obviously a regal blue. His long coat and pants were that shade, as was his cravat that nestled in a fluffed and lacy shirt. He was frozen—unmoving—so I approached and addressed him.

"Can I help you?" I asked.

The instant I said it, he blinked. I took a quick step back, a little unnerved.

"Who are you?" he asked, a curling sneer upon his lip.

"It's right and proper that you introduce yourself first. After all, it is you that lingers in my mirror."

"Name's Sythwick. What have you done with Bright?"

"He is—"

"I don't care how he is. How dare you retract your banner! Are you that stupid that you would risk my wrath?"

"He is—"

"Reinstate the banner immediately. Present yourself in my court and beg my lenience."

I remained silent.

"Well?" he snapped.

"There is little point in me coming to you. After all, you are already coming to me."

He drew back. "So you did scout me! You will pay for that! There will be war, Sir!"

"A little rash," I said, with a smile on my face.

"Rash?" he snapped.

"You don't know the first thing about me. Are you sure you should be waging war on a stranger without doing a little research first? I have a level-six stronghold, after all. I'm no pup."

He howled with laughter. "Six? Six? I shall crush you like a bug! I might only send one archer—that should do the trick. Six? Six? Brightwater will be mine in days! Goodbye, whoever you are!"

"He's fine, by the way. Going to live his days out in my Lording House."

"Who?"

"Lord Bright."

"Bright? I don't give a shit about Bright. You!" He pointed. "I'm going to flail you alive, then hang you from your own battlements."

The mirror darkened, and he was gone.

There was laughter then, and I thought it was Anna at first, so I turned. She was stone-faced in the doorway, but close to her, another mirror had brightened and in it stood a lady. She was moderately attractive—standing so close to Anna, any would be considered moderate. The woman was on the cusp of losing her middle age. She had long, burnished red hair and mischief written across her expression.

"It is unwise to upset a lord that marches on you," she said, then raised a finger to her lip. "But then you know that, don't you? You were baiting him—making him mad on purpose. Oh, how delightful."

"Delightful?"

"Life is so dull. There is little strife. All we do is farming and more farming—a new Lord to upset the mix. Alas," she sighed, "you won't last long. Are you really a six?"

"Size doesn't always matter," I said, contrary to all I held true.

"But it does," she said, confirming my suspicions. "There are certain aspects of this land you will not circumvent."

I didn't want to appear too confident. After all, I had no clue who she was or whether she was allied with Sythwick. "I'll take my chances. It appears I have no option but to fight him."

"There are always options. I don't believe you gave him your name. Would you furnish me with it?

"It is no secret. My name is Daniel—Daniel Cutterson. You are?"

"Lady Kathryn Mortimer." She pursed her lips. "There is one way to avoid your untimely death."

"And what is that?"

"You could join me."

"Join you?"

"The House of Black," she said. "I can extend you an invite."

"And why would you do that?"

"Because I would ask you to join just as he launches his first shot at you."

I nodded.

"You want war with him?"

She grinned. "Does a cat enjoy playing with a mouse?"

You have been invited to join House Black. Do you accept?

* * *

Fennel regarded me, steepling his hands and tapping them on the end of his nose. "What would I know that you don't?"

"I want to know why you tell me he's my greatest friend, yet I feel nothing for him. I remember some things—have some brief visions. I know Lysander, and he's always been at my side. I know I've loved Morgan and that I probably still do."

"But you feel nothing for the stick?"

"I feel nothing for any of his iterations." I held my hand up. "That's not entirely true. I like Scamp—am even grateful that he saved me several times. I don't mind Finnigan too. He's been great to me. That's not what I'm saying. I have no history with him. There's nothing that spans the time."

"But he is your greatest companion. Those were my words, and I stand by them."

“Well," I said. "It would be great if you explained them as well because they're making no sense to me."

"Perhaps they would if you thought about it a little more." He held his hand up. "I can say no more. If I do, my bridge across time might collapse."

"Perhaps I might have a stab at it," said Platos.

"Go on," I said, frustrated as ever with Fennel.

"Imagine you have a very good friend. Then think of him as ten feet tall. He would be your tallest friend."

"Have you been drinking?" I asked.

"Yes, but that's not the point. Scamp is your greatest friend, but greatest can mean a few things. Perhaps you're thinking of the wrong one."

I tapped the table, uncertain whether having these two old people live together was wise for either. I got up. They’d clearly lost their minds.

"Well, thanks and all that. I guess it'll clear itself up in time," I said, then left, seeking sanctuary in the tavern, where I made light conversation with Jess until it was time for the meeting. She told me a few snippets of gossip, but everything was running according to plan, and the minor points she brought up were to be expected. Everything was rosy in Kanazar.

I made my way to the stronghold, expecting and not disappointed when I found it scaffolded from top to bottom. My heart leaped at the sight, even though I'd been keeping an eye on my numbers—even though I'd seen the explosion in progress.

Its outside walls had taken on a distinctly regal quality. They had a sheen to them, which, even though I blinked to make sure, had a faint green tinge, like onyx had stained the mortar.

Could it be true? Could it be the beginning of Anderlay revealing itself? My heart surged at the thought. It was too much to bear. Hobs were walking the scaffold lugging stone and goblin crafters were molding fantastic cornices. At the same time, human joiners hung fancy shutters over newly glazed windows.

It was a sight to behold—all races working together, all in harmony, and my pride swelled knowing I, the Legendary Lord, had brought them together and that we would soon have another race joining us.

Inside, it was a hive of industry. Stonemasons laid a new floor, carpenters fitted rich wooden paneling, and plasterers smoothed walls ready for decorating. I hurried through to my banner room, where I sat at the head of the table, my banner behind me and Barnaby opposite. He had a superior look about him, as if he was about to share with me some monumental news that would both surprise and shock me. He'd clearly forgotten that I had my numbers, and I also had a table in the Lording house that told me everything. But he'd done well, so I elected to let him have his moment.

Jensome sat by him, with Sarah next, then a weary-looking Lysander, his hand draped around a wine goblet. Broadchurch looked his usual uptight self, and Throkka sat beside him, which was a good sign. Across the table, Sanders fidgeted, Tanaka sat with Babushka, and Saxon sat tapping the table like he was itching to get away.

I looked up my numbers. It had been a while, and even though I was positive I'd progressed nicely, my personal attributes meant little to me anymore. My myst magnified them beyond what I needed, which I suspected was my doing through Phillipe De Byoux or Nunez Excalivar. Both must have realized I'd need good numbers quickly, and that myst was the way to do it.

After came my harem, completed with five of the nine acknowledged, three more certain, and Alex in the wings—one more upgrade away. So close, so damn close.

One concern was that my food consumption outstripped production and drained my warehouses. This, however, was to be expected. The dwarves, upon my instruction, had cut off the supply of all iron to the barbarians and so had lost their trade for food. We had to replace that. It would redress in time, and once Brightwater's farms swung back into action, there would quickly be a surplus.

"Barnaby," I said. "Pray enlighten me on our speedy progress."

He grinned, flushed. "Well, well, I don't know where to start."

"They work hard," Jensome butted in, stealing Barnaby's thunder. "Work hard, drink ale and eat, then they're up at first light and at it again." He raised his hands. "What can I say? I was wrong. Goblins? They love it—thankful to be out from under the tyranny of the hobs. No offense, Throkka. The hobs? They're the best laborers I've ever known. Work all day and are happy at it too. Start there, Barnaby. Start with he was right, and we were wrong."

"Well, I could, but that would disrespect the humans who have also stepped up and are working equally hard. But yes, My Lord, the other races are exceptional—a blessing to the place. We are lucky to have them." He visibly perked. "As you can see, we have begun the upgrade to seven and expect it finished in two days—just two days. Goblins are already stacking stone around our perimeter, ready to commence the wall the moment the stronghold completes. The first consignment of dwarven ore and ingots arrived this morning. Saxon will start to work on all the needed wall ties, braces and baskets immediately."

He stopped, taking a sip of wine.

"We have a glassworks, a dye works, one warehouse full of coal. Per your instructions, we have several smithies ready to mass-produce weapons when you say so. There is a wood turner prepared to assist in making handles, shafts and arrows. To keep morale to the maximum, we have upgraded all gardens, the arena, the feasting hall and the tavern and have dotted quite a few sculptures around. However, the goblin ones are quite gruesome, in my opinion. They love them, funny little fellows."

I clapped. He had done well. Very, very well.

Numbers:

Title: Lord of Kanazar

House: Gray

Banner of: None

Banner to: None

Deity: None

Hero: Lysander

Level: Five

Attributes:

Strength – 14

Intelligence – 13

Wisdom – 13

Constitution – 17

Dexterity – 14

Charisma – 16

Harem

5/9 – Anna, Leyathel, Tanaka, Wayleisha, Babushka

Stronghold – Kanazar

Lord – Daniel Cutterson

Stronghold – Level 6/7

Wall – Level 6

Lording House – Level Five

Population – 402 Cap – 1104

Food Consumption – 1321 (All races factored in)

Storage – 89% full

Buildings

Artisan

Workshop – Level 6

Masons – Level 6

Smithy - 6 – Level 6 (4), Level 4 (2)

Pottery – Level 6

Seamstress – Level 6

Dye Works - Level 6

Glass Works - Level 6

Wood Turner - Level 6

Military

Barracks – Level 6

Range – Level 6

Stables – Level 5

Watchtower – Level 6

Trap Factory – Level 6

Defenses

Archer Towers - 32

Other

Tavern – Level 6

Warehouse – 5 - Level 6 (5)

Relay Station – 1 – Level 5

Feasting Hall – Level 6

Embassy - Level - 1

Arena – Level 6

Gardens - Level 6

Ornaments - 20 - no level

Resource

Cottages – 18 – Level 6 (18)

Farmsteads – 40 – Level 4 (20), Level 5 (8), Level 6 (12) – Production 1152

Lumber Mills – 24 – Level 6 (24) – Production 1152 (elven influence not factored in)

Quarries – 6 – Level 6 (14) – Production 672 (goblin influence not factored in)

Iron mine – 2 – Level 6 (2) – Production 64

CHAPTER 11

The undergrowth whipped at my shins, my calves screaming protests as I raced along the ridge in a half-crouch, barely breathing, trying not to make a sound. Sarah led the way, her movements silken, silent, each footfall placed with grace and perfection.

Moonlight flitted through the forest's canopy, barely lighting our way. Then she stopped, falling into a crouch and signaling me down. She raised three fingers, pointing ahead and a little to the left, pointing at me and indicating one way, then her and the other. I acknowledged her, and she vanished.

Equipping my hand axes, I snuck through the vegetation, arcing around, listening, trying to hear what she must have. I caught it. The faint mumble of muted conversation rippled through the leaves. I couldn't smell smoke, but there was something. Body odor? Certainly that, but something else. Seasoning, it was heavy seasoning—the type designed to preserve.

I slowed my step, coming to a small clearing, and there, through a gap in the trees, was Brightwater.

Sythwick's scouts had picked a good spot. If they had sharp vision, they could see all our preparations. Fortunately, until that day, most had been staged, designed to feed Sythwick an image of a castle in disarray. But it was time to get on with our actual preparations, so his eyes and ears had to die. I counted four scouts—no doubt some form of rota. Judging by how two were wolfing down their food, the fresh scouts had brought provisions. There were four in all, two each. Unless I was greedy and took three...

A bird called. Sarah's signal, and she burst into the clearing at the same time I made my move. The closest scout to me only managed to turn and scream before my first strike sliced through his shoulder, the second taking a chunk out of his neck.

Sarah’s target howled as her knife slid home. He twisted around, grabbing her wrist and using her momentum to launch her away from him. She skidded to a stop, her blade back, thrown, and released in one fell swoop.

I kicked my victim away and faced the third scout. He was up, his stance perfect, with a knife in one hand and a half-eaten sandwich still in the other. I could understand that. It smelt mighty fine.

“What’s the sandwich like?” I asked.

My question confused him, which gave me the opening I needed. I lunged, feinting with my right-hand axe, moving my foot forward and drawing his defense. I quickly swapped, throwing my weight to my left-hand side and crouching, swinging low and trying to take his legs. Wise to that move, he skipped sideways. But I’d expected him to see through my ruse and let my swing carry me into a roll, flipping over my foot, one hand planted on the ground and raising my leg, snapping it straight and kicking him in the face.

His head snapped back, and he stumbled away. I righted, getting my balance in check, then springing forward. He lunged in complete desperation. I countered, a quick jab with my axe deflecting his blow and putting an ugly stripe on his forearm. He howled, drawing back his knife hand, but that simple defensive action was all I needed. It allowed me to narrow the space between us and deliver two decisive blows. He fell to the ground, his head barely attached to his body.

I spun around, ready to help Sarah, but she stood dead still, her bow nocked and hands steady. She shot, the arrow snapping through leaves. A dull thud and a louder thump, and the last was down. She ran off, coming back holding a folded paper and a knife. “How the other half live,” she said and flipped me the weapon.

“Steel,” I said. “Saxon can start making it, but not in the quantity we need.”

I wondered if Lady Kathryn Mortimer might have some spare steel. It was a thought worth mulling. There would be a cost—but there was in any trade.

I picked the other one up and gave her both back. “Here, have them both.”

She passed me the note.

“So, what have we here?” I opened it and raised my eyebrows. “So, they are to report to a place called Mithselwick where a Captain called Bridges has set up a muster point and relay station.” I grinned. “I think we might visit this place. There’s only one thing better than fighting an ill-prepared army: fighting a hungry one.”

Sarah grinned back at me. “Want me to get a party together?”

“Indeed. I think Tanaka, two or three tunnelers—three preferably and Mudpaw too. That’s four to protect, so ten? Add six light troops, so only trackers, archers or hunters.”

“When do we move out?”

“As soon as we have a guide, though I fancy one will spring up at any moment. Scamp? Finnigan? Do you know where Mithelswick is?”

There was no way my trusty companion wasn’t close. Although, at that moment, I wasn’t even sure if he had to be or could simply appear on cue. The more I thought about him, the more suspicious I became.

“It is over the hill, along the valley at a ford between the Silver River and Grumbler’s Brook,” said Scamp, who was conveniently sitting in a tree swinging his leg as he rested back against its trunk. “You made a meal of that last one. He nearly had you.”

“How do you always appear when and where you’re needed?” I asked.

“Foresight,” he said. “You should try it.”

Which reminded me of the sandwich. I picked it up, sniffing it. “Garlic,” I said. “Damn fine stuff. I wonder if Greg ever grew his?” I took a bite.

Sarah screwed her face up in disgust.

* * *

Sanders prowled the battlements. He took a long breath. “You think you got them all?”

“Hard to tell. There’s a lot of forest out there, and I have no idea about his resources.” I leaned on the crenelations. “But that’s my job to find out. Yours is to stay here and act like you think you know what you’re doing but get it all wrong.”

“Which is harder to do than you’d think,” he said.

“I can imagine. Tell me, and this is between you and me at the moment. What do you know of a Lady Kathryn Mortimer and House Black?”

His face paled, and he glanced at me and then away as if he suspected me of some heinous crime. Then he relaxed. “Things are changing too fast for me.” He drummed the crenelations. “So, House Black, eh? They are the Devils. Sythwick’s sworn enemy, and so ours by default, until you pulled the banner away. They fell out over a land grab. He says she took it. She says it was hers all along. The stretch of land just happened to have the region's richest iron mine. Since the latest treaty banned trade with the monster races, the only way to get iron is to mine it or buy it on the sly through the barbarians. If neither option is available, it’s the open market, which can quickly get costly.”

“So they fell out over resources. Did Sythwick attack?”

Sanders scoffed. “He wouldn’t take on House Black. He collects weak banners that won't try and topple him and haven’t got the guts or desire, which is great as long as you don’t want to enter a real war. He petitioned King Uther, but it fell on deaf ears. Sythwick isn’t thought well of.”

“I’m gathering.”

“How do you know her? I thought you were new to this time?” He shook his head. “And I still can’t get used to that idea.”

“She contacted me through the mirrors.”

“Mirrors?”

“The mirror room. Bright must have had one in his Lording House.”

“His Lording House crumbled to dust when his last wife died. It cut him off from the world. Vale wasn’t stupid.”

“No, she certainly wasn’t that.”

“What did Mortimer want?” he asked.

I’d revealed as much as I wanted to. I trusted Sanders but didn’t know him, so I would always be on guard. Still, the question hung there, and it needed answering. “She was making overtures. That was all. Probably to find out more about me.”

“She’s clever. I hear ruthless too.”

* * *

We headed out that evening, taking a round-and-about way through the hills behind the castle. Once over the ridge, we descended into the forest and away from Brightwater, hopefully behind any scouts we’d missed.

It was like having the old gang back together. Lysander had come, of course, even though I wanted to keep our magicking to a minimum and hold it in reserve for future clashes. But he was right to insist, saying he’d stay in the background and only jump into action if needed.

The trick to my plan was simple. A lower-level castle had no chance against a higher one. The only advantage it had was its defenses. Therefore, the height of stupidity would be to attack outside of those. Thus, I could be pretty confident that Sythwick and Bridges would not expect an attack—especially not the one I had in mind. However, that would all be undone if his scouts or lookouts spotted us.

We traveled through the night, heading upstream of Mithelswick and making camp. Sarah and I moved straight out, skulking along the river, keeping low. She found a small hollow in the riverbank crowded by tangled undergrowth. We squeezed in, waiting for dusk before we continued, taking turns to sleep.

The ongoing conundrum of Finigan plagued me. I hated anything I didn't understand, and he stumped me. Ever since I'd known him, he had a habit of vanishing and reappearing randomly. He had magic. That was another odd thing. I needed to find out his motives because they would give him away. Pip! I thought. Pip probably knew him best of all the people that had spent time with him. I resolved to ask him as soon as I returned.

We left the hollow before first light, hugging the river until Mithelswick came into view. It was a small hamlet surrounding a wooden crossing, and that small fact made me smile.

My smile broadened when I spied Sythwick's army on Brightwater's side. Had he been on the other side, he could have turned tail and run when I set fire to the crossing. On this side, he would be stranded—offered no chance of turning around. Then again, why would he even think that? I was a paltry level-six, after all.

We closed, stopping on the margins of the trees, pasture separating us from the army. I estimated a hundred-plus infantry, a smattering of cavalry, and a few archers milling around.

"That can't be all of them," I said.

"Probably Sythwick's contingent. His banners are dragging their heels or holding out for a bigger consideration. War's an expensive thing. They'll not send soldiers easily."

"This is the size of a Lord's army?" I asked, and memories of Anderlay dribbled back to me—of parades, a thousand infantry marching, horse trials, hundreds of cataphracts in a line. Then I recalled a rank of archers appearing over a long low dune. They loosed a hundred arrows, another line replacing them, shooting a hundred more, then again and again, a hailstorm of arrows possessing the beauty of overwhelming power.

"Is it small?" she asked.

"Hardly an itch compared to what I'm used to. How do they hope to beat Sanders?"

"From what I've heard, Sanders' men only number thirty of forty. Vale's priests outnumbered him."

"They got used to peace," I said, and a warm glow filled me. I may have made the right choice. Was war without the cauldron too expensive, just as I'd thought? “Tell me peace reigns here. You’ve talked to Sanders’ men more than me.”

"A fragile one, but war is only declared for one reason—the declaring Lord has no chance of defeat. That's what Sanders told me, anyhow."

"So, they all think I'm going to lose?"

"In Brightwater? To a man."

"Good," I said. "It's nice to be the underdog. Haven't ever been one before." I sniffed the air. "I think I like it." I pulled my hood up, strolled from the forest, crossed the pasture, and headed for the bridge. It was risky, but the army wouldn’t know the residents of Miselthwick and vice versa.

The morning was fresh. Grumbling, cursing, banging and crashing met me at the road as the camp and its soldiers woke. They didn't look like they were marching that day. There was no urgency, no marshaling of forces.

"It appears they are here for another night." I stopped on the bridge, leaning on its wooden rail. "You think that's Bridges' tent?" I pointed to one in the middle of the camp but butting up to the riverbank.

"Reckon so," said Sarah. "Looks mighty important compared to the rest."

"So," I said. "Say you were a goblin; what's the easiest way to tunnel there?"

The army's camp formed a loose D shape against the river, and the pasture formed a narrow corridor along its path, the hamlet running along the river's other side then either side of the brook.

"There," said Sarah, pointing to a belly in the forest, slightly offset to the furthest extent of the D.

"There," I agreed, and we crossed the bridge, walked through the hamlet, circled around, and headed back to the forest. We had everything we needed. Sythwick would feel our power that night—or rather—our impudence.

We were in position by nightfall. Sarah and the other archers and hunters set up a perimeter while Tanaka, Mudpaw and the tunnelers went to work. Three of them pulled the mud from the hole, then Mudpaw and Tanaka broke the plugs up and scattered the debris around. Their progress amazed me, but then, they'd been quarrying every day since we'd liberated Mesinto, and that was through hard stone.

"How long?" I asked Tanaka.

Mud caked my favorite goblin. She grinned, though, her sharp little teeth glowing in the moonlight. "Almost there. It's mud, not rock. Takes hardly any digging. Best make sure they're all asleep, so we’ll get it done quick."

"Just leave enough in place so we can make an entrance."

She ducked back into the tunnel.

I ran to the treeline, squinting, unable to see anything at first. Then a cloud cleared, and the moon shone down. The camp was peaceful, with barely a lookout in sight.

"They're all sleeping," said Sarah. "The arrogance of it is quite astounding."

"You know what you've got to do?"

"Yes. We've located all the warehouses. Dunc and Goodfellow are in position awaiting my signal. The rest of us will cover the stores."

"Good. Tanaka and I will take care of Bridges. Mudpaw and the others are to hide in the forest with Lysander. He can use his magic to defend them if worst comes to worst.

I returned to the tunnel. Tanaka dragged another plug out. "That's it," she said as the tunnelers emerged.

I signaled Sarah, holding up five fingers, then crawled in. It was pitch black, but there was only one way: forward. A faint green glow came from behind—lichen light. Tanaka had thought of everything. I quickly came to the tunnel's end. They'd dished it out into a sphere shape, a small shaft above.

"Let me," she said, crawling up, scraping away the mud plug, then crawling from the hole. I followed.

Bridges' tent was sizeable. He lay on a single bed, snoring away. Across from it was his desk with messages piled high and maps unraveled. I picked the lot up and placed them into my chaotic storage. Tanaka glanced at me, a mischievous grin on her lips. I knew what she wanted to do, so I nodded. I moved closer, ready to strike.

Doubt suddenly filled me. I’d forgotten something. In my haste to get to Miselthwick, I’d overlooked something. Quite what, though, evaded me. My preparations had been shoddy, haphazard. I’d called up a party, and we’d left. I hadn’t envisioned the multitude of scenarios that might or might not happen. In my haste. I’d become Sythwick.

“Tanaka, no!” I said, but the words stuck in my throat as cries rose from the camp, and panic quickly followed. Then it became clear what I’d forgotten as a white blast flashed, briefly lighting up the tent’s canvas. Tanaka chose that moment to tap Bridges on the shoulder and say, "Excuse me, sir, there's trouble in the camp."

Bridges shot up, saw Tanaka, screamed and scrambled against the bed's head, a sword in his hand instantly. Tanaka jumped back, as surprised as I that he'd armed himself so quickly. Then I realized my arrogance had overlooked another thing. He would be dozens of levels above her—above me. In theory, we'd have no chance.

Well, she'd have no chance.

I had my myst and equipped my spear, moving forward. The tent flap opened, and a man burst in. “Captain—” he shouted, froze, pointed at Tanaka and screamed, “Goblins!”

If ever there was a universal rallying cry, a call to war that galvanized all humans to a common cause, it was that word. White magic flashed again, its scorching heat leaving an acrid stench in the air. Bridges froze. I Froze. The soldier stared open-mouthed, and Tanaka didn’t move.

I ran forward, the first to break the stalemate. Bridges easily deflected my strike, the sword in his hand as he jumped from the bed, rolled and came up beside me. I moved back, dropping my spear and equipping my hand axes. Tanaka drew her knife, turning a wide circle around the soldier.

“So, are you him or some puppet sent by him?” Bridges spat.

“By him—” I attacked—a quick one-two with my axes to test his reflexes. He was fast, very fast. “If you mean Lord Daniel Cutterson, then yes, I am him.”

“Always good to have a name for my report,” he said, jumping forward, a feint, a slash, and then a thrust.

“I have others,” I said. “If you want to submit some more detail.”

Tanaka thrust her blade forward, then retreated, the ground before her dipping, forming a hole the size of a bucket. The soldier lurched forward, countering her weak thrust with a more committed blow, but his leading foot failed to find ground where it should be, and he tripped, falling flat on his face. She was on him instantly.

Bridges thrust again, a high stab aiming for my shoulder. I evaded it with a simple jink, but he’d anticipated that, and a flick of his wrist gave me a cut on my cheek.

“You can’t beat me, Cutterson,” he said. “You are too low, and your savage won’t fool me with her vermin magic.”

I’d had plans for him, and they were simple. The first part was to let him know how vulnerable he was, raze all his food, and burn the bridge he moved his troops and supplies over. The second part was giving him a sealed scroll with specific instructions to hand it to Sythwick. The scroll was an offer of surrender. If Sythwick surrendered to me, it promised him a position at my table as a banner to House Gray. I didn't want him at my table, but he'd never accept anyway. The scroll, the burning of his stores, the bridge and the general humiliation of his captain would incense him and get him to bring even more men. It was perfect.

Unfortunately, Bridges had called my wife a goblin savage and vermin, and I couldn't let that stand. I wiped the blood from my cut. “Savage?” I said, and attacked with the full force of my myst, not caring if he got a thrust in, not worrying about defense at all. More light flashed outside, white mixed with red, and I knew Lysander had entered the affray.

He attempted to parry, but levels or no levels, the combination of my fury and my myst was without equal. I struck him once, twice, a flurry of blows. He fell back, his lifeless body sitting upright like he’d only recently woken and was trying to shake off sleep’s fog. Except his head, neck and shoulders were a bloody mess. I stood over him. “No one calls my wife a savage.”

"I thought we were taking him with us," Tanaka said, her eyes wide, knife ready, as more soldiers burst into the tent.

"He called you vermin,” I said, then turned my attention to the soldiers edging into the tents. “Your captain is dead, as will you be if you advance further,” I said, switching my axes for my spear and shield. “Your choice,” I said with a grin. “But know this, Sythwick’s time is over. House Black comes for him, and with that comes your certain death. Abandon your colors now, and the Lady Mortimer might spare you, welcoming you into her army—a better-paid army, I might add.”

The mention of House Black appeared enough. They backed away, then turned and ran shouting, “House Black! It’s House Black!”

“What lady?” Tanaka asked.

“A potential ally, no more than that,” I said. “But a potential ally is also a probable enemy in the Land of Lords and Ladies.” Another flash of red lit up the canvass. “We’d best get out of here. Lysander hasn’t done the best job of concealing his magic.” I shrugged. “It’ll probably reinforce the notion this was House Black attacking and not us.”

I took out the scroll and picked up Bridges’ sword. It was a fine weapon, but I didn't want it, so I pushed it through my note right up to the hilt, then buried the blade’s tip into his chest.

"Sythwick will get my message and think we’re unofficially aligned," I said.

"He will," she replied and jumped back in the hole. “But don’t you want him to attack?”

“That’s the best bit. He’ll have no choice but to. He’ll call all his banners now. If he turns back to his castle with his tail between his legs, he’ll forever be seen as the Lord that lost to a level six stronghold and an even lower level Lord.” I jumped in after her. Despite my poor planning, we’d achieved my aims, albeit leaning on another House’s reputation.

I admired our handiwork from the tree line. I couldn't resist getting Sarah and her companions to send a few more flaming arrows into the camp for good effect. Lysander tossed the spell slicer in the air, sending power from the Jewel of Everything into it, and completed the rout of Bridges’ small army.

We retreated, fading back into the forest like we’d never existed. The goblin tunnelers had proved they were worth their weight in gold, both in war and peace. We returned to Brightwater via a more direct route, where we had an ale and some lunch. Lysander decided to stay there and rummage around the remnants of Vale's tower. Tanaka and I carried on up the valley and through the tunnel.

The Lording House looked mighty fine, but we rested at hers, bathing, recoupling, and having a little fun. I slept with a smile frozen in place, looking forward to entering the room of mirrors in the morning and hearing Sythwick rant.

CHAPTER 12

"How did it go?" Anna asked at breakfast the following day.

"It was interesting," I replied. "It might be true other lords are much higher level than us, but that isn't to say we cannot defend ourselves. When magnified by the Jewel of Everything, Lysander's magic was as powerful, if not more, than their wizards."

"Daniel's fury snuffed Bridges out in an instant," Tanaka said, stuffing a slab of meat in her mouth.

"More tea," Fiona asked. "Fighting while angry is never a great thing," she said.

"I call my myst," I said. "There is a symbiosis between the two. Until I learn to control it, I need my anger.”

“Anger only serves to muddy already murky water,” she said, pouring.

“Even so, there is a time. I will remain calm for my next task.”

“Which is?” Anna asked.

“I will go and face the mirrors." I slapped the table and grinned. "I have a feeling it might be a lively encounter that will require a lot of tongue-biting on my part."

"Well, best get it over with," Fiona said. "Doesn't do good to keep a fight waiting."

She was right in most things she said. It didn't do to mull on confrontation. Get it over with, find out how things fell, and decide on a course of action. I finished my tea and stood. "You're right. I shall get it done."

So I climbed the stairs, brushed myself down, pushed the door open and stepped in, marching to the center of the spiral where I stood, legs apart and arms behind my back. All rather melodramatic when I noted that the mirrors were blank, and I couldn't recall how they worked. Nor did I wish to ask or summon. Fortunately, before I had to choose, Sythwick's mirror blinked, and there he was.

"Ah, Cutterson, I wanted a word with you."

He was calm. I didn't expect that.

"Then have your words."

"What interest does House Black have in you?"

I raised my eyebrows. "House Black? I had a brief conversation with Lady Mortimer but no more. What is House Black?"

"What is House Black?" Sythwick laughed. His mirth instantly scrubbed away when he asked his next question. "Did you attack my man Bridges?"

I relaxed. "I'd have every right to if he marched on me."

"But did you? That's the question I asked." His face reddened as his temper arrived. He fidgeted, trying to contain it.

"Where was it?" I asked.

"You know damn well where it was!" he shouted. "Miselthwick."

"Misel...? Where is that? Is it a castle?"

"No, it's not a bloody castle! You know full well it's not a castle! Your wizard destroyed most of my..." He paused. "My advance force!"

"Wizard?" I said, turning the word into a question.

"Yes! Red magic, according to the survivors—a blood mage."

"A blood mage?" I asked, barely keeping myself together.

"Yes, a damn blood mage. Are you stupid? Are you an imbecile?"

"Hopefully, neither," I said. "But tell me, how can I have a powerful wizard when I don't even have a tower? My stronghold is barely level seven—still six, I think. Looks terrible with all the scaffolding on it. Seven is close, though. I’ll be even more powerful then."

The blood drained from his already pale face. "Bright's tower," he said, snapping his fingers. "You used Bright's tower!"

"Even if I did, how is my wizard so powerful so quickly." I scratched at my stubble. "But surely your scouts have told you Brightwater doesn't have a tower."

"Ha!" he said. "What about Vale? Did you coerce her into joining you?"

"Vale? The sorceress? I believe she died when her tower collapsed. Odd business, that. It was hobgoblins. I believe they sacked the castle using some form of shadow magic, destroyed her tower and killed her. How else do you think I conquered such a high-level stronghold—it was already beaten."

He stepped back from the mirror and conferred with someone I couldn't see. When he returned, he looked far happier about the situation. "I believe I have a solution to our problem." He held up my scroll. "This, I take it is a forgery. There is deception at work here, and I know the roots of it. House Black attempts to split our longstanding alliance by pitting us against each other. Is that why you withdrew from my banner? Sooner or later, she will set her beady eye on you, come, and obliterate you."

"What does the scroll say?" I asked, trying my damndest to remove the humor from my tone.

"It asks me to join you!"

"You want to join me?"

His head looked like it would burst. "No, I don't want to join you!"

"Why? What's wrong with me?" I had to turn away. I held up my hand to cover my mouth, noticing Kathryn lurking on the edge of her mirror, trying not to be seen. I winked at her and faced Sythwick, who was eyeing me up and down.

"I dislike your tone. If that was humor, it was in poor taste. Let me spell it out for you. You will retake my banner, come to my castle, and beg my forgiveness. I shall, of course, increase your tithe to two in ten of all produce. There will also be the matter of financial remuneration in the form of gold. Let's say a thousand gold coins."

"But I don't have a mint." I put up my finger. "No, wait a minute. I do, but it's only level six." I counted my fingers over and over. "I can only mint so many coins a day—twenty in all. So a thousand will take me fifty days. Would that be okay?"

"No, it damn well won't be!"

"Oh. One more thing, and I'm not sure it particularly matters now you've rejected my initial proposal, but I haven't any gold. Would iron coins be okay?"

He calmed, exhaling long and hard. "I know what you're doing, don't think I don't. Very well. I retract my offer of a banner and declare war."

"Again?" I asked. "Is that possible? Can we be at war twice? Doesn’t one cancel the other out?"

His calm didn't last long, nor did his head explode, but it came mighty close. Needless to say, he questioned my heritage, threatened to burn my stronghold to the ground, and insulted my mother.

I shook my head as his mirror blanked.

Lady Kathryn clapped and moved into the middle of her mirror.

"We have a problem," she said.

"We do?"

"Yes. You used my name—you attacked him and claimed to be from my House. I don't tolerate that."

I screwed my face up. "Technically not correct. I might have mentioned House Black, and I might have told Bridges—Sythwick's man, that House Black was coming for him, but I never said I was House Black. I didn't say that at all."

"Semantics."

"The truth."

She lowered her head, closing her eyes. "What am I to do with you?"

"You need do nothing with me."

"True, yet I find myself unwilling to stand by and see Sythwick crush you, as he inevitably will."

"Why?" I asked.

"Don't think I haven't asked myself that question. Perhaps I find you entertaining."

I smiled, cocking my head to one side. "Then let me reassure you of something. I neither need nor want your help with Sythwick. It doesn't matter how many banners he brings. He will die. They will die. And I will be victorious."

"You are as big-headed as you are overconfident."

"It is no idle boast. I have already defeated his army, slaughtered his men and killed his most trusted captain. Now, and I say this without petty flattery, any that follow Sythwick will be weaker than him. The troops they send him will be their worst. It's not like I'm fighting your banners. I suspect they might be quite capable."

"You might be right," she said. "I will forgive you for involving me in this."

"I never—"

"Please don't interrupt me. I will forgive you for involving me if you bring me Sythwick's head—discretely, of course. Deliver it to Castle Black within two days of your victory."

Lady Kathryn Mortimer has rescinded your invitation to join House Black.

Easy come, easy go, I thought, holding her gaze until her mirror blanked.

"Now that is impressive," said another male voice. It came from my side, and there, lurking a little way back from his mirror, was another Lord, this one dressed all in green with fiery red hair.

"What is? Upsetting a Lord and a Lady on the same day?"

He chuckled. "Please, do you really think you upset her? Why, I even think she likes you." He screwed his face up. "No, she must like you, or she'd be marching against you already. You're fair game—unattached, so you have no protection."

"Well, aren't I the unlucky one? My name is Daniel. What is yours?"

"Clarke. Lord Clarke Montague. House Green, in case you wondered. Before you ask, no, you can't join my House because you are trouble, and I don't want it."

"Very honest of you. Tell me, other Lords or Ladies can attack me because I have no House—what if I did have a house—what then?"

"Then you'd be safe. As long as the House is one signed up to the grand accord, no one but your own House can attack you. If they do, all other Houses are bound by an oath to attack the aggressor jointly."

"An accord that, on the surface, looks safe enough but can easily be manipulated," I pointed out.

"Very astute of you, Daniel. It's the best we can do. Sure, there's the odd flair-up, but peace has held for decades. There's been no House war for as long as anyone can remember." He chuckled again. "Until you came along. You might change all that."

"Why?" I asked, but I had a good idea.

"Because," he said with a flourish, "you can stir the pot. They will use you to settle old scores. You offer them immunity from responsibility. And if the council decides to snuff you out, they will walk away more powerful than before they met you. That is why."

"So, I am little more than an opportunity."

"You, sir, are nothing more than that. Are you going to do it?"

"Do what?" I asked.

"Deliver his head."

I pursed my lips. "If he comes for me, then yes. If he stays in his castle and leaves me alone, then no. I'd be foolish to attack a higher-level Lord in his castle, wouldn't I?"

"So we're all safe as long as we stay in our castles," said another male voice.

I turned. He stood in the mirror adjacent to Sythwick's. Dressed all in black, with black hair and skin as pale as Sythwick, he was a rat of a man, and I instantly loathed him. He was slim, and I doubted he could raise a sword above his head. A manipulator, I settled on that—a man used to having others fight his battles.

"I don't believe I was talking about any Lord," I said. "I was merely stating a fact I'm sure you all know."

He dipped his head, his hands together, fingers entwined. "A threat can be general, Lord Cutterson. It does not need to be specific. However, I am unsettled by all this and don't like to be unsettled. Some of my banners have castles closest to Sythwick. Should anything occur to the Lord, I could easily be drawn into this, and I like to know who I'm fighting." He looked directly at me. "What House swell your ranks with mercenaries?"

"I do not answer questions from Lords with no names."

"Is it House Black? Was your earlier dialogue a charade?"

"It would please me if you addressed me directly, Drask," Kathryn's voice snapped from behind me. "Or there will be a price to pay."

"Did you not invite him to House Black?" Drask asked.

"He was unattached. I'm perfectly in my rights to invite him into my family."

"When he's conveniently settling a score you need settling."

"Oh, this is getting good," said Clarke, rubbing his hands together.

"It's hardly surprising that the bitch, Mortimer, is stirring the pot," said another female voice.

"I find him quite attractive," purred another.

"Silence!" thundered a truly powerful one, his voice deep, rolling over me like thunder, and there before me, seated on a grand throne, was a man dressed all in white with a crown upon his head. "Do not let this one man divide what years of peace have repaired."

A slight titter behind me came from a small woman in a crushed velvet dress. "Peace," she said. "I call it boredom."

"Yet it is peace, Alissa. It is the best one we've had. You!" he pointed right at me. "Settle your score with Sythwick. Fulfil any promise you have made, then report to me, and I will judge you."

I did not doubt that he was the King—head of whatever council governed and held the peace. I could also sympathize with how difficult that might be, seeing how quickly this spat had erupted. But I would not report to anyone. I was no one's servant.

"Any you are?"

"Uther of House White, but you must know that."

"I do not," I said. "I am recently awoken and am navigating this new world as best I can. Much has changed since my death." I bowed. "But I would like to thank you all for enlightening me on a few things. Firstly, only some things have changed. We are all still insufferable, and that is regretful. Secondly, I once made a great decision."

"Reborn?" said Alissa.

I turned and walked out but caught a few comments before I exited.

"I wonder who he was," said a female voice, I think Kathryn's.

"Well, that explains a few things," said Clarke.

"I'll not wager another coin on Sythwick," said the slimy Drask as Uther's voice thundered, quietening them all.

“Find out, and report back to me. Ten thousand gold for his original name.”

I closed the door behind me to meet Anna as she waited in the hallway.

"How did it go?"

"Sythwick declared war on me again. I upset a couple of other Lords, intrigued a few Ladies, and I'd like to think I became the talk of every court." I bent and kissed her. "It went well, my love, very well. Now I must beat a Lord at least twenty levels higher than me and all his banners."

"And how will you do that?"

"Barbarians," I said.

* * *

"Ah, Pip, I thought I might find you here," I said.

"Here I be, and here I am most days unless I'm not, then I'm somewhere else, and that is otherwise." He continued grooming the piebald, one of around twenty stabled horses. "Don't get out much, do I? More horses than before."

"Indeed," I said. "If you need help, then I can arrange that. If you'd prefer to be a runner again, then we could do that."

"Have help. Scamp helps, sometimes Finnigan, otherwise this or that, but always hands with brushes. Helps lots. He grooms three to me one."

"And it's him that I want to talk about. Is he here?"

"Nope, not is. Said something about fetching a dragon."

Which both pleased and amazed me. I needed Wayleisha for the next part of my plan but had yet to share that with anyone. However, Finigan had said I'd need to descend on a dragonkin to impress Horg, the barbarian, so that would be my angle. Anna was the only one I'd told about the barbarians, but she hadn't seen Scamp or Finnigan for a while.

"How the hell did he know about that?"

Pip scratched his head, furrowing his brow and curling his lip. "He knows everything you do. Says you are linked."

"Linked like bonded?" I said, but that didn't fit. If he and I had some form of sacred bond, I was sure I'd know about it.

Pip shook his head. "Not like that. It's more like he's—" But he kept shaking his head.

"He's trouble, but you must know that by now. An extension of your plan," said a female voice I recognized but couldn't quite place. It was throaty. No, it was husky, alluring and familiar—it was undoubtedly familiar.

I froze, sweat damping my neck, but I didn't turn, trying desperately to place it. "An extension?"

"Like a ward, we think. Have you never heard of wards?"

"Isalar?" I asked as recognition came to me. "Is that you, Isalar?"

A body pressed into my back, and she put her arms around me. I brushed her fine hair, so silver it might have been blue.

"I was expecting Wayleisha."

"I wasn't going to let her be greedy." Pip's horses began neighing and bucking, scraping their hooves and snorting. "We should probably get out of here before they really start acting up. Wolves and horses don't exactly get on."

I turned then, staring into her silver eyes. She looked back at me, and I reached up, my palm against her cheek. My breath fled. My heart pumped. "How is it possible?" I asked. "How can I hardly remember you, then it all comes racing back?"

She grinned, her teeth perfect, incisors daunting, and her whiskers twitching. "Our love spans time as easily as water flows. It is the way with our kind of love. It is harem."

"Let's get out of here," I said, barely able to breathe.

We walked from the stables, through the courtyard and then along Artisan Street to the tavern. Isalar drew plenty of glances, but then she was nearly naked, just a slip of cloth covering her midriff, that fine silver down covering the rest. She was taller than I remembered, her figure lithe, her movements so fluid. Her beauty was something else.

Jess sat us in a quiet corner and served us drinks and some food.

"A ward?" I asked.

"A ward—a powerful spell that becomes so tangible that its effect exists. Scamp, Finnigan, however, it's presenting is your doing. It's not a living, breathing thing. It's a spell that has such complexity it's almost a living and breathing thing. At least, that’s what we’ve concluded."

"What's its purpose?" I asked. I knew and needed confirmation.

She shrugged. "I'm guessing the you that created it because you didn't want the you that lives now to mess up your plans."

It was a fair assumption. Assuming the ten-thousand-year-old me had plotted everything out, I would want to ensure I played my part. But, the ward had to be flexible. So, I imagined it would have a loose set of rules I had to adhere to. But that also meant it knew my old self's end game, which was precious information.

"Good to know. How are the others?"

She smiled. It suited her sharp face—gave it more of an edge. "If you're asking after Leyathel, she's fitting in well."

"No, I—" I nodded. "Yes, how is she?"

"They settle in. We cannot hold out much longer. They plug a gap."

"Look I—"

She reached across the table. "It's okay, just ask."

"I don't remember much. There's a pit, and it's full of undead. They're overflowing, driven by a God, Diagon."

"Your memory is incorrect—or it might be a vision. There is a pit, and it is filled with undead—or rather the dead but not yet truly dead. There are battles. They try and climb the wall. They tunnel through it. As yet, few escape. Wayleisha fires the ladders. Darinka takes out the climbers. Morgan kills all who dare challenge us with dark magic. I prowl the wall and get any that breakthrough."

"And Leyathel?"

"They patrol the tunnels and caves. They have the hardest job. The pit is broken. There are cracks in its wall. She stops them. It is why they had to change."

"Why they had to become drow."

"Yes," she said.

"Why didn't we use the goblins?"

"Because they're goblins." She grinned. "We needed something with a little more finesse and ruthlessness."

I sat back. "You don't know goblins," I said.

She finished her meal. "You have the dwarves?"

"Yes, dwarves, goblins, hobs. I'm working on the Lords and Ladies, but they favor exterminating themselves."

"It's what they're good at. The barbarians will do—they'll give us the numbers. If the others come, it will be a bonus. We might win then."

"Without them?"

She peeled back her lips and revealed her displeasure. "It was always a long shot."

I drained my ale. "I don't suppose you know where to find this Horg?"

"I do. Barbarians don't change. The Lords and Ladies exterminate them using their superior weapons, but they're never thorough enough to destroy their cauldrons, so in time, they grow again."

"But you know where he is?"

She shrugged. "I'm part wolf. I'll track him down."

I drained my ale. "No time like the present."

* * *

We raced through the stronghold, farms, tunnels, and Brightwater. Isalar had discarded her slip. She strode ahead, barely breaking a sweat, her tail wagging with the thrill of it all. I'd stripped down to just my pants, discarding even my boots. We ran, and my memories returned to me like they had with Wayleisha. I looked at the moon and finally understood my myst—its origins and how I'd come to have it.

It was no magical thing—no counter to mana. It was a thing all of us had inside us, but most could only rouse it in small bursts. Think of a man quick to anger and how fast that anger goes leaving him drained and tired. Think of the same man laughing, and then see his laughter spent and him exhausted. Then imagine being able to keep that power.

That was myst. The ability to maintain that surge—to keep it going when all others faded away.

We ran, and I kept up, drawing my power from all around, filling myself with myst, with the invisible force that pulsed through all. It was a gift Isalar had given me—Darinka had blessed me with—Wayleisha had perfected in me. It was animal instinct. Their need for survival. Their need to exist. It made me fearless. It elevated me above all humans.

We raced across the lands, always keeping the Stormbane in sight. Horg needed iron if he was to fight the Lords. Iron came from the Stormbane. He'd be there somewhere. Isalar stopped, lifting her head and sniffing the air. She fell to a crouch by a brook. "You thirsty?"

"I could drink." I cupped some water and brought it to my mouth.

"He's camped within those foothills. I can smell the smoke, the horses, the sweat."

"How many?"

"A few thousand."

"That many? How do they feed themselves?"

"Cauldron of Plenty. It provides excess food. It's a strange thing. It is a gift from the gods."

"Why would the gods be interested in barbarians?"

"There aren't, but you ruined their fun. They loved watching humans killing humans—loved interfering in their politicking, causing wars where there were none."

"So now they stage them with these expendable humans?"

"Exactly. But, I don't think it sates their appetite for slaughter."

"Thus the pit?"

"Thus you. This is their final gambit before they quit this world and leave it to its own devices."

"They want one last battle?"

She nodded. "Give them that, and we might be able to live in peace."

I grunted. "Humans aren't designed to live in peace."

"How about as good as it gets? Would you settle for that?"

"I think I'd settle for anything that didn't see a few thousand barbarians slaughtered for a God's amusement—that would see all races living together." I sat. "There will always be wars. We can't stop that, but we can stop the senseless killing and rejuvenation."

"I think you might have said that once before, but a long time ago."

"I think you're right," I said, then leaned in to kiss her. I broke away. "I'll get a fire going. We'll approach them in the morning."

"I'll hunt then. Then we can eat."

"And then we can fuck," I said, my myst still high.

"Then we can fuck," she said and stood, running across the grasslands in all her naked glory.

I watched her go, brought some firewood out of my chaotic storage, lit it, and rested back, looking up at the stars. It was a complicated world made simpler by plain talking. Each of my wives made it easier for me, unraveling what my mind tangled. It came down to immortals and mortals. They became bored, and we were their playthings.

Was it true? Was this my final battle? And was it with the Gods themselves rather than a pit of half-dead humans? Were they simply the instruments?

That appeared more befitting the reincarnation of a Legendary Lord.

After all, we should never be woken for menial tasks.

CHAPTER 13

A cool breeze teased the fire's flames. They swayed with each gentle gust. It was quiet out on the plains, much more so than in Castle Kanazar, the groaning Under, or the ever-lively forest. I needed the respite to clear my head, and what better way to do that than with an old friend? No, more than a friend, a part of me. I lay back, my jacket bunched for a pillow, and I stared up at Abbadin, the North Star, my guide through stormy waters.

"What are you thinking about?" Isalar asked.

"The star. Ever since I woke, it's been there. Its familiarity comforted me when I had no clue what was happening or who I was. I knew nothing for certain, but I knew that star. It kept me going. If I recognized that, then the rest would come."

She turned over, her finger tracing a line from my chest to my stomach, its sharp claw bringing pain, but not the bad sort, more arousing, a promise that sent shivers of anticipation through me.

"Do you know who you are now?"

"I am Daniel Cutterson. I know that now. It doesn't matter who I was—Legendary Lord, Phillipe De Byoux or Nunez Excalivar. It only matters who I am now."

She sighed. "I only hope you are half the man Nunez was."

I grinned, recognizing a challenge when I heard one. "I can try and match him, perhaps outdo him, but I'd need to know what he was like before beginning. I might not have to try as hard as usual."

"You want to know what he was like?"

I mulled her question momentarily. "I do. Yes, I do."

“Then I will tell you.”

“The good and the bad. Leave nothing out. I’m in the mood for a good tale.”

"In that case, I’ll start at the beginning.”

“A fine a place as any,” I said, focusing on her claw, my arousal increasing.

“I first met you at the temple on the hill—the wise man's temple—Shokayai. I later discovered you'd gone there shortly after waking, seeking your destiny. According to Morgan, it was all you knew. You were to wake, build your stronghold high enough to get the strength to travel and the ability to fashion a small gift for Shoky."

"Shoky?"

"Our name for him. He hated it.”

“So, I arrived at the temple. What next?”

“I can't tell you much about your early days there, save you learned to meditate, fight and that you and Morgan became inseparable—as good as wed. But you were just a man and needed to be more.”

“More?”

“Looking back, it was the point of Nunez. You had to transcend and become more than any other man. It was the only way you could win.”

“An ambitious project. How did one man achieve that?”

"One man didn’t. But he laid foundations and eventually set you a trial, and that was to capture a silver wolf. Unknown to you, I knew of the test and had watched you for many days. You intrigued me, so focused on your arts—fighting, fitness, everything Shoky set for you. Then so focused on Morgan, learning her craft, her skill set, drinking her myst. When you were alone, she was your world. I watched everything you did—watched you couple, find your ecstasy, and I found my fingers wandering as you fucked. You were both so intense.”

My erection completed at the thought of Morgan and I, and Isalar ran her nail along its length, continuing her tale.

"I decided then that I had to have you—that I wanted that kind of single-minded focus on me. But Morgan was your mate, so I had to confront her, fight and beat her to prove I was dominant and that I should mate with you but not her."

"Did you win?"

"We never fought. She faced me and told me there was no need. Then she told me who you were. You were the Legendary Lord, not Nunez Excalivar. One female wasn't enough for you because you were the sum of many parts. She told me that I could join her and share you."

"And you were okay with that?"

"At first, no, but I told her I would decide, and we'd fight or share. I set off, stalking you as you hunted for me. I saw your frustrations as you came to the end of each false trail I'd left. But you were relentless. You would never give up. So I sowed a trail leading to my cave, drew you into that labyrinth and made sure you became hopelessly lost, wanting to see when you'd finally crumble and beg for help. I watched from above or hiding in crevices, behind stalagmites, in burrows under tumbled rock."

"What happened when I finally gave up?"

"You didn't. You kept going until you could barely crawl. Eventually, I relented, knowing you would die of thirst if I didn't act. So I led you to water, then hunted food for you. It was then my thoughts changed."

"Changed?"

"I understood that you were a leader—you would never follow and that I could help you, be a part of that. As I watched you drink and shovel the raw meat into your mouth, I understood why you'd come to the man on the mountain. You had to be more."

"More than what?" I asked, doing my damndest to focus on her story but getting distracted by her wandering claw as it traced my cock's outline, straining against my pants.

"More than any man. You had to be so much more." She unlaced me, fishing inside, grabbing me and holding me. I moved my hands behind my head, cradling myself, opening my whole body to her.

"I understood my role. I had to add instinct to you, but I also knew instinct alone wouldn't be enough. You'd need fire. You'd need guile. With the three more, your myst would be complete as you already had Morgan's ruthlessness—the ability to sense prey and take with it without remorse. She was right. I had to share you."

Isalar shifted around, pulling my pants down, then resting her head on my stomach, close, so tantalizingly close. "With that decided, I only had to let you catch me, which you did as soon as you'd recovered. You took me back to Shoky, who gave me a knowing look, and Morgan came to me, and I asked her permission to mate with you."

"Which she granted?"

"No. She told me everything was your choice. I didn't need her permission. She said that I could only transfer my instinct to you with your complete acceptance and my utter capitulation—that you would have to live and hunt with me, experience the highs and lows of my life, to understand what drove me."

She shifted her head lower, her breath flowing around my cock as she gently stroked me. I twitched and strained, shifting my buttocks to try and inch my cock closer to her mouth, but she held that minimal distance, so close I could feel her lips moving as she talked.

"Shoky drove us from his home, and it was no coincidence it was High Bleakness. Shelter was scarce. Prey was hard to find, and we soon became hungry, cold and miserable. They'd stripped you, emptied your storage place and taken all your weapons. At first, your fury drove you, then your acceptance maintained you, and quickly, your willpower came to bear. We made a lair on the lower slopes of the mountains, and every day we hunted until we had the smallest scraps of food, and every night we huddled together to keep warm."

"I can guess how we kept warm."

She moved closer, kissing my tip, her tongue darting out, tracing my flesh, ridge, and crown, licking my precum. "It is natural towards the end of the bleakness. It is in our instinct to mate then. You changed after our first time—stopped forcing yourself to endure. It became feral, urgent, and complete in moments. That is our way. We are vulnerable during sex, so we couple many times rather than one long one. I believe my myst replicated in you during our mating and that each time we coupled, you gained more. After six or seven times, we hunted as a pair, our instincts the same, your ruthlessness, speed of kill, much better than mine. That part was Morgan's gift. By the end of winter, you had half of the myst you needed."

With her story complete, she took me in her mouth, swallowing my head, swirling her tongue around it. I held my breath as memories flooded back to me, a great dam rupturing within my mind. A cave, so small, enough for two of us, but barely. The frustration of a lost hunt. The thrill of the kill. Frozen limbs, and snow, so much snow—the biting wind whipping around my nakedness. I remembered it all, especially the birth of my myst—the evolution of my senses and the feeling of untapped power that came with it. I remembered another cave, the fire and fury of Wayleisha, and everything became even more apparent.

But my mind scrubbed those unwelcome thoughts and focused on Isalar as she sucked me into her, taking all of me and then pulling back so slowly I wanted to grab her hair and pull her head up and down. I controlled the urge, concentrating on my breathing and accepting the pleasure, letting my myst collect around my groin, power my erection, making it firm and unyielding—a display of my absolute power. I let her worship my glory, feed from me, keeping my orgasm at bay as she quickened, her head moving up and down faster and faster as she tried her hardest to make me cum, win, and prove herself to me.

I held, receiving the pleasure, reveling in it as it fed my growing myst in an unending circle. My balls welled, ready to unleash, but I refused to cum, gathering every ounce of power I could, topping up my myst—my instinct, back to its heights in that mountain all that time ago. Then, when it was full—when I could take no more, I released, spilling myself into her, feeling every part of her mouth contracting again and again as she swallowed my essence, feeding from me, rejuvenating her myst.

She rested upon my stomach, her tongue flicking out, lapping every last drop of my cum as it continued to seep lazily from me. I focused on my awareness, my instinct, as a new world opened to me—one I had witnessed before but had faded with time and death.

The quiet plains came alive. Small animals raced through the long grass, chased by larger ones but caught by wiley snakes lying in wait. Bats flew erratically, diving, swooping for prey with unbelievable speed. I could smell the barbarian camp, its fires dying, just bones left of their mutton, the smell of their sweat, their drunken sex, their blood, their feces. They were a stain on the land, so brutally evident that anyone who dared could attack them.

It struck me that no human could hide from me—no soldiers could ambush me. No one could take me by surprise. With my myst refilled, I was already more powerful. It explained my fury with Bridges—how I'd hacked him to death showing no mercy—that was Wayleisha's influence. That was her fire and fury. I'd been shocked by it then but had put it down to him insulting Tanaka. I knew better. It would always be like that, and I felt sorry for my enemies.

The plains came alive, and so did I, recovering my erection and needing to mate. I shifted down, bringing Isalar's lips to mine, tasting myself on her as our tongues entwined. I maneuvered her around until I was on top of her, but she struggled under me.

"Not this way," she said.

"No, not this way," I agreed, and I picked her up, flipped her around and let her ready.

She was on her knees; hands pressed into the grass. I lifted her tail, its fur glinting silver in the moonlight, and I nudged her legs apart, opening her buttocks as I slid my length into her slick vagina, gasping as it folded around me, so tight I could barely make progress. Undaunted, I shoved. She grunted, squealing in pain.

"Fuck," she said. "I'd forgotten how damn big you were."

I didn't reply. Instead, I rested there, hilt deep, filling her with my rigid flesh. She gasped, held it in, and then moved away from me, drawing herself off my cock, shaft glowing silver before she rammed herself back on me, and, taking my cue from that simple action, I began pounding into her.

It was our way, the way of the wolf, me taking her from behind—her accepting it, grunting and howling as I tore into her. Fast and furious, there was no time for lovemaking, gentle play, or teasing. She wanted my cum inside her, and as her back arched and her head raised, as her howl filled my ears, I unleashed myself into her, and she spasmed, her vagina clamping onto me, holding me deep inside her as she drained every drip from me.

Then it was over, and we lay back briefly before she resumed her position. I knelt and assumed mine, looking along her back, over her head, at the vast plains, the foothills, the huge land that I would rule—had to—because no one else deserved it, for I was the Legendary Lord. I knew what I had to do.

I had to complete my myst—to renew it all. I had to couple with Morgan and Darinka.

* * *

It was morning, and we walked to the barbarian camp. We didn't bother with stealth. I didn't arm myself or even dress in anything more than my pants. I was the Lord of this land, even if no one knew it yet.

There were lookouts, naturally. Lords and Ladies hunted the barbarians—we were their sworn enemy, but my approach must have confused them, for they retreated, fetching some warriors to confront us. They tried to intimidate us, poking us with spears, sneering at us, yelling obscenities, but I pushed their spears away, one glare enough to silence them, and said, "Take me to Horg."

Isalar's body intrigued them. They feared her, backing away once they understood we could not be intimidated. Her hair stood on end, and she bared her teeth if they became too bold. Closing ranks behind us, we became separated from the rest of the land—trapped inside Horg's camp. It was a place where people lived and died at his whim, and we found him sitting upon a grand chair in front of a fire, a dozen women in varying states of undress around him.

He regarded us across the fire, making us wait before he spoke, his voice much softer than I'd imagined it would be, but carrying over the fire's crackle.

"I heard you might come but expected an army, not a naked wolfkin."

"If I'd brought an army, would I have got this far without slaughtering half your men?"

"You would not, but you might have been able to leave."

"Two is enough. I can leave when I want. Who said I would come?"

"The blood told us. The clouds said it would be," he said.

"And the dwarves said I control their iron," I added.

"Only if you live."

"True. Tell me, what must I do to gain your trust? Do I have to fight your greatest warrior? Do I gift you weapons? Pray to your God?"

"There is no trust between barbarian and Lord."

"What if there was?"

"Would you stop slaughtering us? Stop taking all our food."

"I could teach you to win."

He raised an eyebrow, glancing at another, a big brute with a bare and glistening chest. "Now, why would you do that?" he said.

"Why did you let me through?"

"Because you are not like others. You rule dwarves, goblins and hobs. You intrigue me."

"I have iron and, more importantly, a dozen smithies. I will give you weapons in return for one thing."

"Give?"

"No cost—every man and woman armed."

"What thing?"

"You fight with me—one battle, done my way—and when we win, you consider more."

He glanced at the warrior again, and so I faced him instead. "Your answer, Horg?"

He smirked, then nodded, taking the throne from the other man. "We don't trust you."

"Nor, I you."

"We cannot fight with someone we do not trust."

"Then we are at a stalemate."

"Not so," he said. "A Lord will attack us today. We fended off his scouts yesterday, but a few got away. They know we have grain and meat, and theirs was recently lost. They will come, and they will be too much for us. Their weapons are better. Their fighters are better. We will be routed, yet we cannot move. We have hidden our cauldron and a few of us to perpetuate our race. We have few weapons, so we will perish."

"What do you want from me?"

"Fight with us, and if you survive, when we are reborn, we will trust you."

"What about if you win?"

The real Horg leaned forward. "Go on."

* * *

There is a saying, and it is: you make your own luck. The barbarians had none, nor the way to make any. They needed more good weapons, more organization, and a command structure. Without these, the lords would always rout them. To turn a loss into a win in a few hours was a big ask. However, I understood why they lost. They were predictable.

The Lord would come, cavalry first. He had to attack this way because any other was too slow. If he tried to get infantry and archers in place, the barbarians would have plenty of time to move away. The plains were vast. There was no stealth. So, I knew he'd attack with horses.

It was almost certain Sythwick's men were the attackers. I'd fired their supplies, and they needed them to attack me and sustain that attack. It was a delicious situation, made all the more tasty by the thrill of being the underdog. I was beginning to relish that feeling.

Sythwick would attack from the southeast. He'd bring wagons laden with foot soldiers and archers and form up around an hour away. When the cavalry charged, the others would run for us, the carts following, ready for loading with plunder. The archers would wait for the barbarians to charge, as they always did, then form up and shoot over the cavalry decimating the barbarian ranks. They would then retreat, their job done.

The cavalry would then split in two, racing along the barbarian front to round and attack their flanks while the infantry would face the charge head-on with a shield and pike wall.

I knew all this instantly. It was the standard way to rout a rabble, and time wouldn't have altered that. The simple way to disrupt the pattern was to persuade the barbarians not to charge, which took me much longer than I thought it would.

Once done, I set about talking tactics. They might not have a vast variety of weapons, but they had enough of the wrong ones—the wrong ones for the standard attack. They had plenty of spears to throw, but they never got close enough to throw them before being cut down by the archers. If I could change that, then we had a chance. They had some horses too, but the mounted warriors attacked the Lord's cavalry head-on, falling to the archers as well, and those that got through succumbed to the long pikes of the shield wall.

I moved their horses out, hiding them to the west behind a small hillock, and told them to await my sign. There were twenty-five of them in all, hardly enough to make a big difference, but devastating if I could get them to attack from behind.

They had ropes, too, loads of them. So we strung them across Sythwick's probable route, two strong barbarians at either end. Thirty feet behind that trap, I placed assassination squads, ready to rise as soon as the trap sprung.

I then worked on defenses in the camp. As it nestled in a clump of small hills, the small valleys between would act as natural paths, funneling the enemy into the center. My first action was to persuade them to block these off with upturned wagons. For some reason, they didn't want to damage them even though they were resigned to losing, dying, and having the whole lot stolen.

The next thing was to conceal as many men as possible on the hills and in the grasslands a little away from the likely routes. With that done, I looked at the camp itself. We had archers—not many, only twenty or so hunters. I placed these on the opposite side of the camp within direct sight of the upturned wagons but elevated enough to hit the soldiers as they gathered behind.

With barely any time left, I had the rest of the barbarians hide to the northeast of the camp, ready to race in with their spears the minute the soldiers broke through the wagons. Lastly, I had them pile damp straw around the fire, knowing it would take eventually and completely muddle the battlefield should everything go wrong. This would allow them to escape, circle the camp and attack again from behind.

By the time I had everything in place, we could see them coming.

"Shall I go have a look?" Isalar asked me.

"Would be better if Morgan was here," I said.

"I won't be long."

She shimmered, changing into her pure wolf form, and raced away. I sat upon the hill, watching the dust plume close on us. Horg, being chief, would lead their cavalry charge, so we had decided that I head the camp's defense, which was fine by me. I preferred hand-to-hand fighting. It suited my fury.

I closed my eyes, letting my new myst fill me. I spread my instinct, my newly honed perception, toward the advancing column, sniffing the wind, feeling the termor of the earth, listening for anything that might feed me any more information.

I could tell they were tired from the slap of their feet on the ground. There was no rhythm, just jumbled chaos, a slow and steady shambling toward us. There was little conversation, and they all smelt rank. It told me they'd been forced to march—that our attack on their stores had devastated their supplies—that the firing of the bridge had prevented them from replenishing them. Perhaps Sythwick had promised his banners plentiful supplies and had to deliver.

They closed, and Isalar returned, confirming much of what I'd deduced but with solid numbers too. We faced fifty archers, the same number of cavalry, and one hundred infantry. There were two sets of colors—red and green, and white and black. Sythwick was red and green—the banner hung behind him when he appeared in the mirror. The other had to be a banner, which explained the fatigue. To march, arrive, be told there's no food, and march again was truly demoralizing.

They closed some more, and then they stopped, wasting no time forming up. Then they advanced, the infantry first, the cavalry flanking them, and the archers behind.

I had a small group hidden in the grass before the camp, and these were the bait. I whistled. They rose and charged. I equipped my spear, narrowing my eye and watching the cavalry. They immediately moved to the front. I watched. One raised his sword, and I threw my spear. He dropped his sword and charged, unaware he would die any moment. They raced forward, the lead rider quickly unseated, another one too as my spear tore through their line.

My little group raced forward for fifty yards, then spread and vanished into the grass, leaving the cavalry charging at ghosts. Then, as one, the cavalry toppled over, victims of my rope masters, and my assassination squads rose and fell on them before they could recover. So far, so good. I signaled a bowman who lit his arrow and fired it upward. Horg broke from the hills, rounding and coming at the archers from behind, whooping and yelling, banging on their shields.

"They're panicking already," Isalar said.

She had better eyes than me, but as soon as I fed from Morgan's myst, I would be her equal then more.

"They've seen their cavalry beaten. They are the golden boys—the flash ones. I wagered it would dent their confidence."

"Our assassins run," she pointed out.

"Better that than die. It draws the infantry closer. As long as Horg gets the archers, we should be fine."

"He's already among them," she said.

"Then the battle is won. Shall we?" I equipped my axes as my spear returned, joining the men on the hill. "Let our archers get in the first strike!" I shouted, then crouched down and waited.

Sythwick's infantry streamed into the small valleys, spurred on by the knowledge that they had one shot at victory—to find a defensive position and grind that victory out. They hit the wagon wall, turned in panic, fell under a hail of arrows, and then died as we attacked.

It was no glorious battle. There were no heroes made. It was the perfect type, one where the slaughter was one-sided, and that was our side slaughtering. They lost a few runners short of two hundred, and we lost a handful. Horg gained ten wagons and sixteen horses, forty workable bows, a dozen lances, and thirty-odd swords, five of which were steel. He gathered over three hundred arrows, twenty axes, pikes, and a few maces, not to mention all the armor and clothing.

"I've upheld my part of the bargain," I said. "Time to uphold yours."

He nodded but said nothing.

I raised my finger. "Do you know what would fight better, win faster, and take even fewer losses than one barbarian army?"

"No," he said, still visibly stunned.

"More—five or six. I can arm you all. I can teach you all. If you gather, I will take you all under my wing."

"I will call my brothers."

"Good. When you do, travel to Brightwater, go past that place, then to the upper valley. There, you can make your camps. And please, try not to ruin my farms—there's plenty of room."

I smiled.

"You are a strange man."

"No, I'm a legendary Lord," I replied.

CHAPTER 14

I understood it all. I had my myst—Nunez had harvested it for me, but it had faded over time. I needed more—I had to mate with Morgan and Darinka to complete me. It was a goal worthy of me—worthy of a Legendary Lord. I was already more powerful than any normal human. If I replenished my myst—if I became whole again, I would be invincible.

But first, I fancied a trip to my Lording House, and so Isalar and I returned, leaving Horg to gather his tribes and begin his trek to Brightwater. He certainly had enough wagons, adding Scythwick's abandoned ones to his tally.

We stopped by Kanazar on the way as Isalar wanted to meet him—have him ratify our wedlock. I had no idea why it was part of the ritual but guessed it was somehow linked to the Lording House.

We entered his lair, traveling its darkened corridors to his starry sphere. It had changed little—was perhaps larger, the stars brighter—his globe more luminous. His voice was undoubtedly grander.

"Who dares wake the mighty Kanazar?" he boomed.

"It's me, Daniel," I said with a resigned tone. "Enjoying becoming more powerful, are we?"

"My reach extends from here to the Stormbane, from the Stormbane to the Great Valley, and from there to Brightwater. I am all-powerful."

"Yes, indeed, much of my work, but that's by-the-by. Did you know about the myst? Did you know about my wives?"

"I know everything. I know all. What I choose to reveal is mine to know."

"Well, this is Isalar. She wants to thank you for your gift of a dwelling. I presume you've constructed one."

"A mere trifle. It took me no time. Stronghold seven is built. Eight is close. Rouse Alex—I miss her."

"Alex?" said Isalar.

"An intended. I thought she'd be my first wife, but she will be my last."

"The huntress?" said Isalar, and my jaw dropped.

"How do you know that?"

"We coupled—you and me. I joined your new harem. I know everything about you."

"Once Alex comes, you march. There can be no delay. Everything must be in place before then," Kanazar said.

"It will be,"

"Then go. You have much to do."

"How do you, a castle core, know when it's time to march and not? Your reach doesn't extend beyond my lands!"

His light dimmed, and I knew what that meant. I also knew I had a new puzzle to solve.

It was a brief meet—to the point, but less informative than previous visits, with more questions raised than answered. I wondered if I had all the information I needed to complete my task, but had a feeling there would yet be a twist in the tale.

"He was curt," she said.

"Almost like he was focused on something else," I said.

We walked to the Lording House. Isalar's dwelling was a simple one—a rock mound with a cave inside. It was somewhat disappointing, but she shrugged. "It's not like I'll stay in it. I'm getting off now. Darinka is coming. She'll meet you halfway. She says you know where. By the bend in the river—the little shack."

"The little shack?" I said.

"It's halfway between here and the wall. You know she's not the fastest, and she tires if she travels too much. You don't want that, do you?"

"Almost certainly not."

She pecked me on the cheek and then morphed into a wolf. "I'll see you soon, my husband."

"I'll see you soon, my wife."

I strode up the path to my Lording House. It had grown again, boasting iron gutters, ornate balcony rails, an iron knocker on the door, and a boot cleaner. Inside was a brand new inglenook fire, and the stairs had twisted iron balustrades.

Anna stood. "Husband," she said.

"Anna," said I, and I rushed into her arms. "Is anyone else here?"

"Tanaka and Babushka are helping with the fortifications at Brightwater. Fiona is in town picking up supplies. We have the place to ourselves." She kissed me then, and I thanked every God I knew the name of for my myst and incredible libido. I unwrapped her there and then, whipping my clothes off, taking her in the hallway on the cool marble floor. After, we lay for a moment, looking at the corniced ceiling.

"One day, we will all live here."

"We will," I said, telling her all my new knowledge concerning my myst.

"It is a good balance," she said. "Three of us prop up this place with wood, stone and lumber. Four increase you through your senses and strength—through your myst."

"There is you that keeps me sane," I said. "You are the glue that holds me together—that draws me back to this place."

"Am I? Because I appear to be the least important. I have nothing to give."

"You are everything. Without you, I'd have no focus. Everything begins here. It is the seed, the heart, the root of it all. You are the center. You complete me."

"What of Alex?"

"They are calling her the Huntress—which was her job. I think she has a certain destiny in this."

"That would complete our circle's purpose."

"It would," I said. "We would be whole."

She sat, mounting me, her breasts perfect and her skin flawless, then she grabbed me, lifting slightly, then sliding down on me, her lips kissing mine as she began her rhythm. "I am your ninth, the heart of it all," she said, then sped, and our sex consumed us.

* * *

"Sythwick," I said, entering the room. "Are you coming down with something?"

He stood before his red and green banner, and I could not determine which matched his pallor the best. He was a mix of incandescent and sick.

"What do you know of barbarians?"

"Barbarians?"

He leaned forward. "Don't you start those one-word answers again! Tell me now, or I'll march on you."

I creased my brow. "But you're already marching on me. We've been through this before. You can't keep threatening to do things to me and then threaten again. Where is your army, by the way? I'd expected it by now. My guards are getting quite restless."

"You know full well—" He composed. "We have plenty of time. The bleakness is still months away. Planning takes time."

"But I thought you a great Lord who could crush me like a bug?" I held my hand up. "Sorry. Discourteous of me. My humor gets the better of me sometimes."

"It will be the death of you, Cutterson."

"Perhaps. Let's start afresh. Barbarians. They are a good source of food. I have none near me."

"They are savages! They are the worst of the worst. Have you ever been to the Western Plains?"

"I need to be better-traveled. Where would I find them?"

"West, man! West! Are you an imbecile?"

"I don't think so. What's up with the barbarians?"

"They gather, Cutterson—they gather on your borders. If they mass together, they will be impossible to beat. We must all join and rid the land of them once and for all. Find their cauldrons and destroy them!"

"They've never bothered me."

"I rarely side with Sythwick," said Uther, appearing in his mirror, sitting on his throne. "But in this, I do. I hear that Edwards lost sixty men to the barbarian Horg. Survivors talk of organization in their ranks—of tactics and guile. We cannot have that."

"You want me, a puny level six Lord, to help Sythwick destroy barbarians? How would that go for me? I bet I'd be in the front row."

"You will be where I put you," Sythwich fumed.

"With respect, Uther, I cannot side with a man who can barely pull his pants up without losing men. I will not fight alongside him."

"You defy me?" Uther said, but there was a measure of amusement in his eye.

I cocked my head. "I am not from this time. I am reborn. Therefore, I am not bound by your rule. Therefore, I can refuse you."

He sighed, the spark vanishing. "Then I will need to kill you myself. At least it is good weather for marching. I'll give you one last chance. Side with Sythwick, march on the barbarians, cleanse the plains, or feel my wrath."

"Again, no disrespect, but I'll not side with a man with no army left. I have my own House, and it is that you will fight."

"There are no new houses," Uther said.

"This is no new house. It is an old one and my one."

The room dimmed, and when it lightened, my banner hung behind me. Kanazar's work, no doubt.

"My name is Andros Gray, of House Gray, once known as the Legendary Lord who presided over Anderlay. Advance on me, Uther, bring all your banners but know this. I already have a substantial army and a skillful wizard. Know this also. My reincarnation is not a light matter. There is a grave war that must be fought. If I don't win it, you will all die, every man, woman and child."

Every mirror lit up, some crowded with more than one Lord or Lady.

"How do we know this is true?" he said.

"What war?" said another.

"What's a Legendary Lord? Am I one?" said a third before a whole hubbub erupted.

"Silence!" Uther screamed, and silence it was then.

"My darling King," Lady Kathryn Mortimer said. "I can't believe this charade is taking you in. I suggest we march on him and test his mettle."

Uther glanced at Kathryn. "I think we might have finally found a common cause that unites us."

He faced me. "I'll have your surrender by the morrow or your head in ten days."

I turned and left, not furnishing him with an answer.

"How did it go?" Anna asked.

"Could have gone better."

* * *

I rode Willow through the stronghold. There were a thousand things I needed to attend to, but I had to trust my council to perform them. My myst needed completing—I had to be complete. If Uther made good his promise, a thousand soldiers might come, and no amount of tactical fuckery would change that outcome. I needed to think, to scheme, and some isolated cabin halfway up a river was ideal for both.

My memories of the place were nonexistent, but the directions were easier enough to follow—halfway to the wall, a cabin on a meander. I rode to the river, then followed a trail along it. Greg's farms had spread like a rash. They were spaced more than they were by the Stormbane. He'd stretched his arms and shoved the other farmsteads away, giving them room to grow as we leveled. But I was quickly past them, and only one thing bothered me.

I'd assumed it would only be a day's travel to the cabin. Somehow I hadn't entertained the thought it might be weeks. It made sense that it was close—Morgan had come and gone easily enough, as had Wayleisha, but then they could fly. Isalar had run to Kanazar, but her stamina was incredible. It wouldn't be weeks—couldn't be—I didn't have the time. But as dusk fell, I began to doubt myself, and when it passed, I started looking for a place to camp.

I hugged the bank, scouring any curve, any great meander, then, as I was about to give up, I saw it. There, nestled within a mudbank, half of it standing on sturdy uprights was a cabin. I could barely see it, so shrouded in overgrowth, but the moonlight caught the river's surface, reflecting on the timbers and making them resemble two stout silver legs. I dismounted, stood on the bank and wondered how to cross.

Something about its familiarity jogged my memory. I'd been there for a while—that much I was sure of. I'd swum the river, too; if I could do it then, I could still do it.

I dismissed Willow, telling her to return to Kanazar, turning her around when she refused and slapping her rump to see her off. Stripping, I stowed my clothes and dove into the freezing water. The current took me downstream, but my memories jerked again, and I ducked under the surface, fighting the currents, finding weaker ones and picking my way upriver.

It was instinctual, I worked my way to the inner side of the great meander, where the water slowed, and then I found some pace, cutting through the water and approaching the cabin quickly. I climbed an old, weed-covered ladder, and rolled onto a log deck, breathing hard, exhilarated, and completely awake.

The cabin was empty, only a single room with a fireplace in the middle and a hole in the roof to act as a flue. Someone had set a fire, kindling and all. I pulled an old knife from my storage and used a striker stone to light it, then crouched and warmed my body.

Once dried, I had a look around. The place was musty and disused. I remembered the front wall split in two and opened, creating a long terrace where Darinka had bathed in the sun, so I opened it, the warmth of the fire on my back, and I sat there and thought through my immediate problems.

What would I do with the Lords and Ladies?

The truth behind my strategy with the Lords and Ladies wasn't pretty. For a start, I'd gone in there with no plan. The reason for that was I had no idea what to do with them. Should I attempt to conquer them in the short time I had?

That plan has holes in abundance. Most would hide in their castles after I'd toppled the first of them. Those that didn't would either be fools or have plans. My surprises would run out—sure, I could field endless goblins, hobs, dwarves and barbarians, but my morale wouldn't last forever. I did suspect that barbarians operated under differing rules but had no idea what they were. The worst part was that they could grind any war into the bleakness—rain would come, and mud would hinder all my wagons. Wetrot would tear through my army, along with disease and famine. Conquering them was out of the question.

I could petition them. I could go to Uther and plead my case—tell him about my bargain, the pit, Diagon and the war to come. Tell him it was the price for ten-thousand years of peace, and he had to pay it. Explain why I'd amassed the magical races. But in my experience, humans cared little for threats until they were on their doorsteps.

I could draw them out and defeat them. This appeared my most likely option as they were already coming for me. Defeat, though, wasn't inevitable and nor was it without cost. One in ten of my troops would fail to rouse from their respective cauldrons. Any of Brightwater's soldiers wouldn't even have that option.

None of my options were favorable, so I'd gone into the mirror room to disturb the hive and see what happened. What happened was simple. I managed to get them to form a bond through a common cause which was to kill me. It could have been better.

There was, of course, a solution in there somewhere. So, as I sat on the deck, the fire at my back, I opened a bottle of Lysander's wine and looked at the positives. Firstly, every Lord or Lady worth their salt would gather as Uther's banner and march. So, all their castles would be empty as they gathered near Brightwater.

Brightwater was closer to the southern wall than any other castle, so in theory, I had moved them closer to where they needed to be. I shuffled back, propping myself against an upright and looked across the river, watching, wondering. The bones of a plan came to me. It was daring, perhaps even impossible. But it was a plan, and I contented myself with that.

For the plan to work, I would have to make Brightwater impenetrable. It would have to act as a dam, holding back the Lords and Ladies, keeping them at bay while I executed the necessary steps to make it happen.

But I had a plan, and that was all that mattered.

There was a splash, water folding on itself, then slipping. I turned, barely registering the sound as an intrusion. She had come. I felt her presence, reveled in its familiarity, and salivated at the thought of the passion that I thought would follow her arrival.

Much needs to be understood regarding the physiology of kin. When two species combine to make a third, there is always a dominant one. The kin were slightly different in that they had the added complication of magic and could also alter form.

A naga was half human—the upper half—and half naga. Therefore, a nagakin added even more human elements into the mix. As humans were always the dominant partner in splicing, Darinka was predominantly human in looks. She had arms and legs and all the usual female parts I'd come to worship, but she also had her nagan influences. Scales covered most of her body, which were the color of coal and glossy, too, reflecting light in bursts as she moved. She had no ears, which I'd found a little disconcerting at first, and a long, forked tongue, which I didn't for obvious reasons.

While gifted at giving a particular pleasure, that tongue also heightened her perception as she tasted the surrounding air. Apart from a short crop of jet-black hair, her body was otherwise hairless. The parts of her body not coated in scales boasted skin the color of ebony, deep and lush, so rich it shone.

She was always considered in every action, taking her time, never rushing, and tended to sit or lie and become lost in herself. Her body regulated its temperature differently from mine. She could survive cold or heat and be comfortable with it, but the transition and sudden changes in temperature caused her great discomfort.

Her mind intrigued me as much as the variety of her body. Her guile was second to none, and her instinct regarding people or situations was faultless. If she said a person was evil, you could bet every worldly possession you had that they were.

Instinct aside, her guile was irreplaceable, and as she came close, I could smell her scent and feel her presence, so I wondered why I'd wasted so much time thinking what to do with the Lords and Ladies when her cunning was second to none.

She rose above the deck, scaling one of the uprights, water beading on her, crystals under the moon, her bright yellow eyes glowing, their narrow pupils like archer slits. She smiled, her teeth sharp, white, two small fangs protruding, capable of injecting a poison that would turn me into a gibbering wreck. Those memories came to me then, of her head buried in my groin, my fate, my life, in her hands, or more accurately, in her mouth. It added a certain thrill. There was no doubting that.

"I believe the correct name is Daniel, Nunez," she said, her voice rasping, filled with promise.

"It is Daniel, but from what I hear, there is no shame in Nunez."

"None. He was a remarkable man. But both Isalar and Wayleisha speak highly of you. Isalar especially, though I think her memories are fresh, and your satisfaction still fills her. We shall see." She held up a bunch of fish hanging from a line. "I bring food. I take it you still prefer yours cooked."

"I do. I have wine. I take it one or two swigs still go to your head."

"It warms my heart and my loins. Both of which are a bonus to you."

"Then let's cook and drink. I have much to tell you."

"Wayleisha has told me a lot, and Isalar brought me up to speed regarding the barbarians. Nicely played, by the way, although I would have positioned the archers differently."

"Where?" I asked, genuinely intrigued.

"On top of the hills firing down. Then the infantry behind, boxing them in. It would have made for a more comprehensive slaughter."

"You might be correct. But barbarians are peculiar. They appear fearsome: like nothing would scare them, but their bravery is communal. They draw from each other, so if one wavers, it can spread like corruption, and they all run. I removed them from as much danger as I could."

"A wise move. A good commander can remove that fear."

“In time, they might have one of those, but for now, they are led through muscle and brawn and little else.”

She walked over to me, bending and kissing me. Her body fascinated me, and I wagered it always had. Her scales clothed her, to my eyes, anyway. They covered her midriff, spreading to the underside of her breasts, encroaching halfway up them to a little below her nipples. They spread as low as her upper thighs, making her look athletic, increasing and decreasing their size to accentuate her curves.

Her long tail suited her, not looking out of place. She was stunning. A marvel of creation. Simply observing her, falling under her spell once more, calmed me. Such was her economy of motion and her grace.

We ate, and I asked her to tell me our story. I wanted to familiarize myself with what had gone before.

She cooked, and she told me about our time together. It was no tale of survival, of being hunted or tested. It was a tale of a peaceful and idyllic time that we'd spent together in the cabin, hunting in the woods behind and the river before.

"There is only one way to teach instinct—to transfer it to the myst—and it is through repetition because instinct is as much learned as it is within. I could give you all you needed inside you, but you had to understand what it meant."

So, we'd spent our days hunting, and through the hunt, I'd learned. I understood when a beast was about to attack, when it would run, or when it was pretending to do one thing and about to do another.

But my education hadn't stopped there. She taught me guile, tactic, and the ability to predict and cater for multiple outcomes through trapping creatures. The ingenious trap, the stealth with which she’d applied them had all added to my craft. We'd hunted, and through the hunt, she'd complimented the myst she'd given me through our lovemaking.

"I am not like Isalar," she told me as we finished our meals and drank some wine. Her hand draped upon my leg, and I became aware of my nakedness for the first time. When she'd come onto the deck, I hadn't even thought to dress. I'd probably spent my time with her as naked as she, so it felt correct. "I have no inherent need for urgency. We make love in our burrows or homes, where danger isn't ever-present. Do you remember Nunez? Do you remember, Daniel?"

"No," I admitted. "There has been no avalanche of memories."

"That is because our time was uneventful. Memories are made during an adventure, during highs and lows. Ours was a tranquil time, and you needed the rest then as you do now. So, this time will be no different. You will leave this place relaxed and rejuvenated, ready for Morgan. You will leave this place almost complete."

She stood, her movements slightly staggered as her head adjusted to the wine, and she shifted me around, laying me down.

"Now relax."

The scent of aromatic oil filled my nostrils, immediately going to my head. It soothed me, relaxed me, and the angry faces of a dozen Lords and Ladies faded. She lifted my head and rested it on her lap, then began to massage my chest, softly humming as she smoothed my knots.

"Focus," she said. "Focus on the river. Listen to the breeze. Hear my song."

I let my head empty for the first time. Every thought drained from me, my breaths slowed, and I truly relaxed.

Her soft palms worked me, soothing me, moving lower, massaging my stomach, then my upper legs and thighs. At some point, I realized she'd shifted, that she was over me, her legs parted, her vagina hovering close to me. Her arousal flooded over me, filling my heightened senses, my taste, my smell. Her scales were smaller there, glittering sequins surrounding her glistening slit. I reached up, but she pushed my hands away, lowering herself onto my mouth instead.

My lips lingered on hers, savoring her scent, letting her wetness dampen me. I pushed my tongue into her, moving it gently around, familiarizing myself with her anatomy and settling on a place at the head of her slit where her hooded buds lay. Teasing them out, I drew them into my mouth, lightly flicking my tongue over them, slowly, in no hurry, knowing we had all night.

She took me too. One hand closed around my shaft as her tongue darted over it, whipping my head, its fork curling around, corkscrewing it, lapping it, her lips sucking. She pushed herself down on me as my breaths quickened.

"Relax," she said.

I tried my hardest, but my pleasure was too intense, her scent filling me with desire. She grabbed my buttocks, lifting me further into her, forcing me down her throat as she swallowed my entire length. I cried out as my pleasure ripped through me. My breaths crowded me as she pressed herself onto me.

I eased away, needing some room, but she pressed down, rubbing herself against me, grinding into my mouth, while hers worked me harder and harder until I welled, unable to resist, and she tightened, her cum flooding over me as mine surged into her.

She held, as did I, neither of us hurrying to end the intimate embrace. We eventually laid back and watched the stars until I turned and spread her legs, hovering over her before entering her slowly.

"Take your time with me, Daniel. We have the whole night."

I did, and she filled my myst and drained me, just as Isalar had, just as Darinka had, and like Morgan would.

CHAPTER 15

Darinka traveled with me to Kanazar, but only to ratify her place in my harem. I wasn't sure why it was essential for each of them to visit Kanazar, but each was a pillar—a foundation for me. They propped up my ever-growing power, some through my stronghold, others through me. But what part would Alex play? Was she the reason I had to complete my Lording House? Did Kanazar have something up his sleeve?

Before considering that, I met with Barnaby and Jensome in the tavern. It was lunchtime, and a few fish hadn't been enough to sustain me after a night of lovemaking and a morning of swimming. I was famished.

Jess herded me to a corner table, protecting me from numerous reaching hands and impromptu embraces. Morale was good. It always was in growing strongholds. Festering resentment only grew in damp, dark, neglected places. I had the feeling Kanazar would never be that.

"I shall have to get you a private room soon. They all want to meet you."

"The settlement grows daily," I said.

"There's a constant stream coming from the cauldron. It's mostly soldiers—seasoned, rough-looking ones too. I put them in the garden. They keep fighting. It's like they're itching for battle."

“Mostly soldiers?” I queried. “How come?”

"Broadchurch had Jensome up all the military buildings. It's delayed the wall by a day, but the moment the barracks hit seven, they started streaming through. Archers, too, once the range completed. Bloody great bows they've got, I'll tell you."

"They are longbowmen," Broadchurch said, sitting. "The archers are longbowmen, and the infantry are heavy melee. If you took a moment to peek from these walls, you would see cataphracts walking the streets." He nudged me. "We have heavy cavalry, Daniel."

"All well and good, but what about the delay to the wall?"

"Cost us a day," Jensome said, joining us. "No more than that. It'll mean we can get those buildings to eight as soon as we have the stronghold and temple done."

"I need it all," I said. "And I need it now."

"You can't have it all—it's simply not feasible," Barnaby said, pulling up a seat. "We will run out of food soon if we don't divert some builders into leveling farms. It is beyond the farmsteaders to upgrade past six. The stone and woodwork are just too intricate."

"Then get me more builders," I snapped.

"Only soldiers come," Barnaby said. "It's been that way for a day. They don't stop, Daniel. They're taking over the place."

"Well, you're about to have more guests. A few thousand barbarians are on their way. Fortunately, they can feed themselves."

He leaned in, his expression serious. "We are running out of room. More goblins come by the day. The Wolding Wood is full of them. Now dwarves are arriving by the truckload. We'll burst if many more come."

"There must be some builders among them."

"Almost certainly, but not the type of builder we need—unless we're building burrows in a cave. Trust me. I am your steward. Unless you can conjure food, we need to act now."

I sighed. "Our stocks?"

"Vanish by the day."

"Time to complete the farmsteads?"

"There are forty farms. We're looking at four or five days each, five at a time, even if we divert all our builders to the task."

"We need to get around it then. How long until the wall's done?"

"Day after tomorrow."

"Complete it, then begin the stronghold upgrade. Use all builders who—" I paused as a new thought came to me. "The stronghold upgrade—why does it have to be human builders? Why not dwarves?"

"They couldn't build it like us. Look bloody awful," Jensome said.

"I don't care what it looks like. It doesn't matter. The farms, yes, I get that. They have to work for humans, but the stronghold, no. We only use it for the banner room. Jensome, go to Babushka, get her to summon every dwarven builder she can and use them on the stronghold upgrade. Sure, it'll look a little odd. They'll probably pop an arched door on the front and a bar in the reception, but who cares? As soon as the wall's done, send every builder to Greg. Start transporting what you need right now."

"Got it," he said.

"We need builders to begin the defenses in Brightwater. Our scouts inform us there is a substantial force coming towards us."

"What if we don't defend it?" I asked.

"But why would you give them the place?"

"I don't need it. I never did. My battle is along the valley to the south of here. It is with a foe far greater than any Lord. That is why Kanazar gives you all these soldiers—no other reason. The elves have already left. We will leave soon."

"Our war is with Morgan?" Broadchurch said.

"No, she's on our side."

He was silent for a moment.

"Fifty men could hold them back for a few days depending on the level of magic they bring. If they blast the doors straight off, then it's done. So, dependant on the range of their siege weapons, the casting distance of their magickers, anything from a day to seven."

"Fifty men? But could fifty look like an army?"

"If you just want it to look like an army, you don't have to use soldiers," Broadchurch said.

He had a point.

"I need to hold them in one place for three days. That is it. I don't need to kill any of them. I only need it to be convincing."

Broadchurch huffed the way he always did when furnished with only a few facts. "I take it you will tell us everything in time?"

"You will know all I know. The Lords will either be with us or against us. If they are against us, we seal the tunnel and forget about them. They'll pay soon enough if we lose."

"I'll need all the goblins you can spare," he said.

"You have an idea?"

"We have to stop them getting to the gates. If there's no road, it might buy us more time."

I drank my ale. "Nice, Broadchurch, nice." I tapped the table. "Has anyone seen Lysander?"

"He was rooting around the ruins of Vale's tower muttering something about a sword last time I saw him," he said.

"If you're returning to Brightwater, I shall come with you."

My vision darkened, and two hands covered my eyes. "Guess who?" a female goblin voice said.

"Babushka!" I said.

"No!" she shouted, her hands withdrawing, one returning with a sharp slap. "It's me, Tanaka."

"Just the wife I was about to look for," I said.

"Good, because I was beginning to think you'd forgotten about me."

I pulled her around, sitting her on my knee. "Not a chance of that," I said.

She threw her arms around me and kissed me full on the lips. "Where have you been?"

"Collecting armies," I said. "Anyhow, I'm here now, and we're taking a trip."

"Where too?"

"First, you're going to round up the old crew and get them to complete that tunnel we started just in case we need it."

"The tunnel?"

"The one that would have joined the two valleys together. We need to be able to shift a small army through there. As soon as we've done that, we'll go and see what Lysander's up to."

She hopped off my knee. "Leave it with me. Meet you at the tunnel in an hour?"

"Sounds good. It'll give me enough time to go and see Kanazar—see if I can't resolve our food issue."

"But you still want us to build the farms?" Jensome said.

"Yes. Let's not rely on the core. He likes to keep us on our toes."

Tanaka ran off, and I returned to Kanazar's lair, soon standing before him. It took him a while to acknowledge my presence, as if twice in such a short space of time was a nuisance. When his core finally brightened, it was like a luminous yawn, and then he spoke.

"What can the mighty Kanazar do for you?"

"You can assume I know more than you've told me for a start," I snapped.

"I would hope so. My task is to guide, not do yours for you."

"Well, guide this! I destroyed all human cauldrons of rebirth, yes?"

"You did."

"In doing so, I stopped the human ability to rebirth, yes?"

"If you know it, why ask?"

"Yes will suffice."

"Yes."

"But, I have a cauldron of rebirth, so I wasn't allowed to destroy my own?"

"To destroy yours would have destroyed you, and the Gods hadn't finished with you yet. So, yes, you have that cauldron."

"Did I also destroy all the human Cauldrons of Plenty?"

"You did. Without the ability to gather armies numbering hundreds of thousands, there was no need for endless food."

"Did I destroy mine?"

"No," he said.

I paused. My heart thumped. "Did the Gods destroy mine?"

"No," he said.

"So it still exists?"

His light dimmed, then extinguished. A door creaked behind me, and my heart leaped. I rushed from the promontory and into the room. There, standing on a dais, was a golden cauldron.

Cauldron of Plenty.

When placed in a warehouse dedicated to food, this cauldron will prevent the warehouse from emptying, no matter how much is taken from it. Proviso: Stronghold must have at least two level five farms. Food can only be consumed by that castle’s army.

And just like that, most of our food problems vanished. Well, after I took the cauldron and placed it in the appropriate warehouse—most of my problems, but not all, as the cauldron would only gift us enough to support our army. It would not give us food to feed the dwarves, goblins, hobs, or even Sanders' men.

I set off to meet Tanaka, who'd rounded up Mudpaw, Drillshank, Slugfest and a peculiar-looking goblin with a screwed-up face and slits for eyes called Grimswamp. She also had a dozen more who she didn't introduce. "The usual team plus Grimswamp will bore the whole; the others will scatter the mud on the screen. Then we'll use rock craft to bind it into a road so the army can march down it rather than fall."

“Good. It’s only a proviso—a just in case.”

“It’s fine. I have supplied Broadchurch with more than enough goblins to destroy the switchbacks.”

“Fantastic,” I said. "What are we waiting for?"

We traveled through the goblin tunnels, across the pasture and up the scree slope, setting the goblins to work and then heading for Brightwater. As Broadchurch had said, Lysander was picking over the ruins of Vale's tower.

"It's here somewhere," he said, barely looking up.

"What is?" I asked.

"Your sword. It's here somewhere—has to be. You lost it in the tower, so it's here somewhere."

"Saying it over and over won't make it happen," I told him. "I lost it in her illusion."

"As well be. But when the illusion collapsed, the sword should have manifested as we did. Something happened!"

"Say it did," I said. "What does it matter? I don't particularly like using a sword. I'll live without it."

"Call it curiosity. Her tower was at a reasonably high level—not as high as it looked, but not bad. She was an average student of magic. She could, in theory, set those illusions that we fought. She might even have been able to create the pattern. But, and this is the crux of it, she couldn't have done it alone.”

“Who are you suggesting?”

“Scamp, Finnigan, whatever that thing is.”

“A ward by all accounts,” I said.

“It might have been a ward, and that's a fine explanation. Wards are known to contain information and are a means to pass it on through centuries and ensure that information remains unchanged by time itself. But, again, that is not the case here. If you needed a ward to direct you, then Fennel would have been good enough. You didn't need two. Something is off with them."

"I've thought something off with Scamp for a while."

He looked at me, his eyes drawn, tired. "You want to know what I think?"

"I do."

"I think we've become tied up in a dispute between Gods."

"A what?" asked Tanaka.

"Wilmsous,” he said. “That God in the town center—the one with the small cock aiming an arrow at his feet. Did you ever wonder what he was doing here? He's no God of Plenty, no God of Love. He's not a God that any town would typically worship."

"What is he the God of?" I asked.

"Suffering. That arrow he aims is pointing at his own foot. Wilmsous is God of suffering, and I doubt he's your biggest fan."

"Why?"

"Because you removed a whole load of suffering when you ended the cauldrons."

I screwed up my face. "So if he is the God of Suffering, is he trying to stop us?"

Lysander looked pained. "That's just it. If he's manifesting as Scamp and Finnigan, then he is helping you. Why would a God who must clearly despise you, help you?"

I sat on the grass, Tanaka beside me, and I attempted to clear my mind and work out the issue.

"What do we know?" Tanaka asked. "List what we know, and we start from there."

"Then let's start with Diagon," I said. "We know he commands the pit—that he is The God of Black, the Lord of Empty and the King of Chaos. We know the moonstone was his and that Finnigan stole it and broke it in two, giving Vale one part and Morgan the other. That is Finnigan's first involvement—his inception. We also know that Diagon would like nothing more than to tear the land asunder and have the undead do that for him."

"No, we don't," said Lysander. "We don't know what Diagon wants. We must stick to the facts. All we know is that Scamp, Finnigan, or whoever he is broke then remade the moonstone. The breaking of the moonstone occurred at the beginning of all this."

"And its remaking has occurred at the end," said Tanaka.

"Leyathel carries it," I said. "What significance there?"

Lysander thumped the ground. "She is Leyathel—the purest of souls."

My jaw dropped. "And she carries a line that spans time all the way to my harem."

"Let's call Finnigan a facilitator," Lysander said. "Let's say he was put in place to get all the actors where they need to be. Who are the actors? There's Diagon, King of Chaos and Wilmsous, God of Suffering."

"They sound like allies, not opponents," Tanaka said.

"What if they are?" I said. Something knocked on the door of my consciousness. Something I needed to remember. "How does a God gain power?"

"All Gods have power," Tanaka said.

"Not true," said Lysander. "A God has power, yes, but he can only maintain it through worship or being fueled—like logs on a fire. So tell me, Daniel, who was the biggest loser when you destroyed all the cauldrons?"

"Wilmsous," I said without hesitation.

"Exactly. Battles involving hundreds of thousands of casualties were suddenly reduced to handfuls. You destroyed his power source. Ten thousand years—we thought it the time it took for the pit to fill—to boil to anger. What is it was the time it took for Wilmsous to recover? What if you only began your reawakenings when he reached a certain level—or, more importantly, when Vale did."

"Vale?" I questioned.

"A constant—a random actor placed near you. She was given part of the moonstone. Its power drew a weakened Wilmsous to her. But she could only grow so fast. She gradually learned his nature—used the torture chamber to feed and nurture him to grow. He fed off their suffering, off Bright's suffering, tainting the moonstone with its evil." His face strained. "No, that can't be it! It's too full of holes."

"What if the moonstone was a timer?" I said. "How did Morgan corrupt the Wolding Woods? Where did that magic come from? That crawling malevolence? She drained the moonstone of Vale’s evil and reduced Vale's power in the process, allowing us to defeat her."

"So," said Lysander, "the moonstone was set in place to monitor Wilmsous's recovery. When his evil tainted it enough, it woke you, and the whole process began. Morgan then drained it to ready it for Leyathel."

"All fits," said Tanaka.

"So, where's the bloody sword?" Lysander asked.

"Does it matter?" I couldn't see the relevance.

"Of course, it matters because someone has it. So someone was watching."

"Finnigan?" I asked and muddled everything up again.

"I need ale," said Lysander. "I suggest you have some too. I'm off to the tavern."

Tanaka held my hand. "You made this deal with the Gods, yes?"

"I did."

"Then perhaps one of them is on your side, and maybe Scamp is too."

I wanted to believe that. I really did.

We lay there for a while as I attempted to untangle my mind. It was clear that Diagon and Wilmsous were the enemies of the peace I'd tried to create and that if Diagon's army burst from the pit, then the suffering it would cause would magnify Wilmsous's power to heights beyond what he'd ever achieved. If I had been a puppet in that plan, I would do my damndest to thwart it.

That the God of suffering was my sworn enemy was no surprise to me, although having achieved the heights of Legendary Lord, I might have contributed significantly to his power during my rise.

Did I create the God I had to defeat? That would be poetic in a sickening way.

We walked through the town, then up to the battlements and leaned on the crenelations. "What are we looking for?" she asked.

"I am wondering where a King might set his tent," I said.

"Why?" she asked.

"Because I intend to steal him."

* * *

"Have you thought about my proposal?" I asked Uther as he stood before his mirror.

"What proposal?" Uther asked.

He stood before the mirror, looking into another and adjusting his armor. All was white behind him—a rectangular tent, I imagined. I could see his bed in one corner, a smaller version of his throne, and a substantial desk. I subconsciously mapped the layout, noting each piece of furniture and the sun's direction on the tent's canvas.

"The one where you all join me in a grand battle between good and evil—between men and Gods."

He smirked. "Are you still clinging to that? Let me tell you what I see. I see a young Lord, awoken, yes. Why, I have no clue, but undoubtedly awoken. I have checked every register, and there is no mention of any Lord called Cutterson, yet that is your name. It now says so on your legend. So, you are a new Lord with a big mouth. That big mouth landed you in trouble with Lord Sythwick, who, lucky for you, was as incompetent as Lords get. You had a measure of success and thought you'd try with other Lords and Ladies."

"A fair summation," I said. "But it fails to account for another few successes, but please, continue."

His face clouded but cleared quickly, a smile replacing it. "There it is again—that tongue. Let me explain what will happen next. You will be crushed, Cutterson—crushed and forgotten."

I matched his smile. "I see you've put Sythwick in front of you on the field. Do I get to play with him first?"

Uther sighed. "Against my better judgment, I must allow him to redeem himself."

"Would you like me to kill him for you? You will have to face the undead if I fail to beat them. Do you want to have him in your ranks?"

"Are you going to continue with this fantasy story?"

"Why not look at the facts," I said. "If it's not true, what have I got to gain? I had Brightwater. I could have bided my time there, become a loyal banner to Sythwick, eventually toppled him, then consolidated. That's what I would have done had I the time."

"It's what you should have done. Instead, you claimed you were the Legendary Lord who eradicated the mythical cauldrons. Instead, you claim to be a fairy tale."

A fairy tale? That comment punched me in the gut. "I can see I'll have to persuade you. Would seeing it with your own eyes do it?"

"Seeing what? This mythical wall? This pit of undead souls? Ha! Have some dignity, man. Accept your fate and go down fighting." He reached forward, then had second thoughts. "But do the world a favor. Take out Sythwick." Then he was gone.

I wasted no time, racing from my Lording House, mounting Willow and riding like the wind to the Stormbane, dismounting and running through the tunnels, through the fields and into the forests on the opposite side of the valley to Brightwater. I came to a concealed excavation, calling for Tanaka. She came quickly, and I grabbed her, taking her to a rock bluff and pointing. "He's not in that marquee!" I whispered, then scanned the enemy encampment. "There!" I said. "That one there. He's in that one. The large one is a decoy."

* * *

I walked the tunnel. It was steep at first, following the hillside’s slope, then evening out and passing into rock.

"Are you sure you have the right tent?" Lysander asked.

"Positive," I said. "There was only one the right shape and the correct angle to the sun. We've got him."

"I hope you're right.”

"Just be ready when I say the word."

"Oh, I'll be ready."

Tanaka moved ahead, her lichen light illuminating a bowl at the tunnel's end. Like last time, a shaft led up, a ladder propped against it. She ran up the ladder, listening momentarily, then clawed a slab of rock out, folding it and dropping it. She lowered a mud plug, then descended.

I climbed the ladder, peering over its top. Uther sat at his desk, head bent, reading a scroll.

"You came then," he said. "I hoped you might guess the right tent. You were studying it hard enough. So that you know, there are guards posted outside. I have a signal, and they will come faster than you can react. They are level forty. Now, if you are who you say you are, you know you won't even see them coming for you. One moment, they are outside, and the next, you are dead." He turned. "I never had you as a one-trick pony."

I climbed from the hole.

"That's where I'm forced to admit your instincts were right. I'm not a one-trick pony. I'm a two-trick one. I simply haven't used my trick yet." I positioned myself a few feet in front of him and conjured a lit torch from my storage. "Any you're about to witness the second act."

A blast of red magic shot from the hole, vaporizing the tent. A shadow fell across the moon, great wings beating, a flurry of feathers, and Uther vanished.

Fortunately, as the level forty guards appeared, so I vanished and dove back into the hole, rolling into the tunnel as Tanaka quickly sealed it.

"Well," I said, rubbing the mud from my eyes. "That could have gone a lot worse."

* * *

I sat at my table, breakfasting with my ladies—well, those who could attend. Babushka, Tanaka and Anna were there, but I expected one more. The table, however, was set for five, and one place was laid opposite me at the other end of my table. Fiona waited by the door, and I watched as a dark speck flew toward us, getting larger by the moment.

"What will you do if she hasn't persuaded him?" Tanaka asked.

"The whole thing will be mighty persuasive. If he's not moved by it all, there is no hope for the human race."

"You can be confident, husband," said Anna. "Our race likes nothing more than to see itself as the good and just. We fight evil everywhere we see it. Unfortunately, our eyesight is not always as perfect as it might be, but our intent usually is."

"Let’s hope so," I said. "Fiona, please, open our doors. I believe my intended is about to land and return our king."

"I wonder if he'll be hungry," Babushka said. "After all, he's had a rough night."

"I think he will be just fine," I replied, standing and dabbing my lips with a napkin. "I think I should greet them."

She was quite majestic, was my Morgan, and precise. She set Uther down a few paces from me, then flew a large circle and landed next to him, transforming then kissing me on the cheek. "It is time we completed your myst, My Lord."

"Let's breakfast first. Uther, are you hungry? I have meats, bread, fruit and morning wine."

"Aye," he said. He looked tired, drawn, and had a slight stoop, like all of a sudden, he carried the world’s woes on his shoulders. "I am hungry enough and like to hear tales while eating. Have you got one for me?"

"I think I can rustle one up, but it could be mistaken for a fairy tale."

"That'll do fine."

CHAPTER 16

I completed my tale, or what I knew of it. There were, of course, vast gaps in my knowledge. Although the addition of Darinka, Wayleisha and Isalar to my harem had filled in a few holes, they had been more Nunez Excalivar-centric.

"There is one thing I don't understand," said Uther. “If you are so low level, how do you do the things you can?"

Morgan flinched, shooting me a look. But I had made up my mind. I had one shot at getting the Lords and Ladies on my side, and he sat at my table, and there was my opportunity.

"I hear tell that life as a Lord is quite mundane."

He raised his hands slightly, turning his palms up. "There is little war. A few skirmishes, but nothing like it used to be—nothing like the myths and legends of a certain Lord."

"I think we have agreed that is a fairy tale," I smirked, still unhappy about that comment.

"Alas, you are right. Yes, mundane is the word. A young knight comes of age and has little to test himself against. There might be the odd pocket of bandits, a border skirmish, but nothing to stoke the fires of youth."

"What if there was?" I said. "What if there were trials beyond what you see in your lands? Look at this table. You haven't commented yet, but I can see the words hanging on the end of your tongue. Tanaka is a goblin princess. She helps my army. Her numbers swell my ranks. Babushka is the heir to Iron Mountain—a dwarf. Her father, Grondor, died bravely in a fight against the wraith Malgorth. Morgan is a sorceress, kin to a hawk. I don't know who you met on the wall, but Darinka is nagakin, Isalar is part-wolf, and Wayleisha is dragonkin. There are amazing things over the Stormbane. Challenges lay undiscovered. A land rich in adventure."

He cocked his head. "You talk a lot but still don't explain your power."

"For that, you need to understand myst.”

“Myst?”

“Myst is beyond our attributes. It magnifies them. It could make us superhuman. From Wayleisha, I get my fire and fury—she magnifies my strength, increases my dexterity and fires my heart. Isalar boosts my perception beyond all possible bounds. I can smell every flower in my garden from here. I know when it will rain. I can sense death coming, and I have only scratched the surface. We have building menus, number tabs, production! It’s all meaningless compared to myst—" I stared at him, fire in my eyes— "Don’t you see? Cast away your mundane! Think, man, think! What if there were greater things out there? What if, instead of building our cities, we built ourselves?"

"Myst?" he said.

"I am a Myst Warrior—the first. I don't have to be the last."

"These challenges exist beyond the Stormbane?"

"I believe—no, I know, a whole magical realm exists that we have yet to explore."

He nodded, taking a sip of his nettle tea. "Perhaps there is something in it. There is a great battle for them yet to fight. Should we win that, then perhaps there is something there."

"So you will join us?"

"I see no other option. If it is as you say it is, we must all unite."

"You have seen it."

"Aye, and my eyes will never be the same. Their fury will forever stain my mind."

"I take responsibility for that. Understand this, if you decide not to fight, we will proceed. My troops muster. But we can fight with less fear than you, for our morale is good, and we have the last Human Cauldron of Rebirth. Should ten of mine fall, nine will rise again. The same goes for the goblins, the barbarians, the hobs and dwarves. The elves, or rather, drow, have uncertain fates. While marriage links me, I still know little of their lore."

Uther drained his mug and slammed it down. "Yet you need us, and you know you do. A barbarian is all bluster. His spine is fragile, and this battle will be hard fought. The goblin is the same." He raised his hand. "No offense," he said to Tanaka.

"None taken," said Tanaka. "We excel at other things. Fighting is something we are driven to. But if we have to fight, we do so with unrivaled ferocity."

Uther grunted. "As does the hob, but with little functioning between his ears. The dwarf? All know they are stalwarts, but a defensive line is their specialty. Offense is challenging for them."

"You do not sound like a typical human," Babushka said.

"Oh, I am, but I have studied what we know of your people. There are books. I hold them in my library. I think we lost something when the magical races fled."

"Has the land become so tedious that its king had time to read?" I said, still pressing my cause.

He looked at me, a flash of anger in his eye quickly extinguished with humor replacing it. "It was until you came along."

"I would ask you one favor." I paused, agonizing over my following words. "An indulgence, really."

"Ask."

"How did history judge me?" I asked.

He grunted. "You mean assuming I believe you the Legendary Lord reborn then thousand years hence?"

"Assuming that, yes."

"I am afraid you won't like my answer."

I inhaled. History, it appeared, was about to judge me harshly. "But I will accept it."

"Did you ever defeat the mighty dragon Sarn Ghorst?"

"Not that I recall," I said, not understanding.

"Did you throw the dark wizard Trothglen from the Tower of Shadows, sending him to his death upon the Craggs of Morpeth?"

"My memory is foggy."

"Let me clear it up for you. I have many maps. Admittedly, they are of the land we inhabit. There is no such place as Morpeth. Nor has history recorded a wizard by the name of Trothglen. No dragon has ever been seen in the Land of Men."

"Then how?" I asked, but I knew—I understood.

"You are a fairy tale, and only children judge them. There is no record of us ever having cauldrons. There are stories about armies so large they would cover an entire plain fed by food gifted by the Gods to fuel our wars, but everyone knows that wouldn't be feasible. History doesn't judge you because you are a legend, and no one believes you ever existed."

Honestly, his pronouncement was like a punch in the gut. I had no idea what to expect—what history thought of my meddling, but to find out my bargain with the Gods had never even made an impression in the land, that it had become lost to the dust of time, was a bit of a blow.

"No one believes I ever existed," I repeated slowly.

He grinned. "You appear a little unhappy about that. Ten thousand years is a long time. Generations upon generations have passed. Perhaps you'll have to make yourself a legend all over again."

"That shouldn't be too much of an issue," I said. "After all, I do have to lead the greatest army there ever was against an undead foe the like of which the world has never seen before."

"You do," he said. "Are we done? I take it I'm no longer a hostage and that I'm free to go. Only my longevity is measured in days rather than years. If it's suspected that I've come to an untimely demise, I imagine there will be all manner of blood-letting and shenanigans going on in a bid to crawl into my boots."

"Such is the way of leadership," I said. "Tanaka, can you accompany Uther through the tunnels and to the edge of the barbarian lines? Uther, I will await your choice. If it is contrary to my needs, then I hope you will turn around and leave me to my battle. I would not want to weaken either of us through a futile war. My wizard would make short work of your magickers, and I might need them too."

"Short work?"

"He has some advantages that levels cannot give."

Uther rose, dipping his head and leaving the room. I sat back, playing with my mug of morning wine. "What do you think?"

"He'll join," said Anna.

"He's scared," said Morgan. "He couldn't stop shaking when he walked the wall. It is hard for someone so powerful to realize they have no power—that another can come and eclipse them in moments."

"How's Leyathel?" I asked, changing the subject. "Has she forgiven you yet?"

"For the trees? No. She never will. They were a price we both had to pay." She took a long breath. "I stand by the method. We agreed to it, Daniel."

"You agreed to it with Nunez."

"Semantics. Whether you like it or not, you are one and the same." Her ever-changing eyes locked on me: silver, blue, and green. "At least, I hope you are."

"We need to talk."

"We do, but we must talk somewhere that will jog your old memories. It is important you understand everything."

"So where?"

"North."

"To?"

"To Byoux where it all began."

* * *

She changed as we stood in the gardens. One moment she was a woman with hawkish features. The next, she was a mighty bird who turned to me and spoke. I found it mildly disconcerting to have a giant bird talk to me.

"You can ride me," she said, dipping her head. "You are the only one I'll let."

It was magic—some form of mana manipulation—I did not doubt that. I lived in an arcane world, but it was still a thrill to climb on the back of a giant hawk and soar upward, soon over the Stormbane, headed North—headed to Byoux. Did it all begin there?

While we traveled, I had time to mull what I knew of the place. It was nearly all presumption. Lysander said someone or something had killed me there, and as a result, he'd razed the city to the ground, unleashing the might of the staff Rallpinto and obliterating all, including himself. There, Rallpinto lay until Phillipe de Byoux located it and hid it under the Stormbane.

That was about the sum of what I knew. So when dusk crawled from the horizon, threatening to swallow us in its gloom, and we began circling a large city, I became confused.

"Byoux," she said. "Or, as it's called now, the City of Chains."

"That was Byoux?" I called back.

"Once."

"But Lysander said he razed it. That there was nothing left."

"That was ten-thousand years ago. The land didn't stop and wait for you to wake. It lived on without you."

We circled lower and lower until her claws nearly scraped the roofs under us. It was a vast, sprawling city centered around the confluence of two large rivers and close to where the larger river spilled into a sea that stretched to the horizon. Checked with color, brushed with green, a thousand smoke plumes rose from it, the breeze bending them inland. Even from a distance, I could hear the chatter, the shouting, the cheering. The place was alive!

Morgan set us down atop a hill in a walled park and immediately changed into her human form, shaking herself like she needed to shift into her skin. No one paid her any heed, and my look questioned her for being so brazen.

"What?" she said, but then I noticed. There was hardly a human about. Perhaps one, maybe two, but most were dwarves, goblins, trolls, fairies, elves or knockers. An odd-looking creature flew past, riding a broom. Another ran so fast that they were a blur.

"What is this place?" I asked.

"It's the City of Chains."

"I know—I know you said that, but please, explain."

“It is Byoux remade. Did you expect such a place to remain dormant? It is the last settlement until the Northern Sands. It is the gateway to the Safferener Sea. We magical creatures made it our own. We are all welcome here."

"Why the name? Does some dictator run it? Are the people suffering his tyranny?"

She laughed. "Nothing like that. It is a spell accord. The City of Chains—the name alone holds the place in check. Each aspect of a spell forms a chain. Three links make a spell."

"How?"

"The three-person spell rule. You can only cast a spell with three components. Each forms a vital link; without them, the spell withers and dies."

"It takes three wizards to cast one spell?"

"It's a safety thing," she said. "No one wants a magic war to start up again. Come on, I'm famished. We've been flying all day. By the way," she said, threading her arm through mine, "you fidget a lot, and I mean a lot."

We walked through the park, and she was very much the Grey Sorceress I'd first met in the troll caravan. Her long gray hair flowed behind her, picked up by a light breeze. Her sharp face cut a regal line as she held her head raised, her neck so inviting I had a job resisting kissing it there and then. Her cloak was tailored and not rough-sewn—much better quality than I could produce in Kanazar. She fitted this place rather than some backwater, medieval stronghold like mine.

We passed through some gates and stood upon a cobbled road, the city sloping away from us to the estuary where sailboats waited in abundance. Several gated residences lined the park, and we ducked between two of these and into a busier road, where I stood, trying to make sense of it all but not coming close.

A wagon trundled by me, but no horses drew it, and no men pushed it. It had no means of propulsion. Another man flew along the street, a staff under his arm, and he raised his hat when he noticed Morgan. "Good evening," he said.

She nodded in reply.

Various shops lined the streets, some selling curios, others food, and another had shelves packed with books. Morgan slipped along the path, past goblins in suits and dwarves in cloaks—every race I knew I saw, and some I didn't know as well.

"Here we are," she said, ducking through a large set of double doors. As they shut behind, the hubbub of the City of Chains died to nothing.

"A hush spell," she said. "Thank the Gods." She marched up to the counter and rang a bell, which immediately jumped up on two tiny feet and said, "It'll be quicker if I get someone."

"Everything is powered by magic?"

"Almost everything," she confirmed. "Some things are banned, but nearly everything has a magical twist."

The bell came back, followed by a rather flustered elf. He smoothed his hair, licked his lips, stood before us, and grinned. "Can I help you?"

"We'll take your best room—the sea-facing one, top floor. Have a bath drawn, and the bed turned down, and a selection of food and drinks on the side. We've been apart for a long time, so expect some noise later. If you wish to place a charm around the room, that is fine, but not at our cost. Do I make myself clear?"

"You do, Ms. Morgan, and might I say, welcome back."

"You may."

"Will you be staying long?"

"Alas, no. One night—two tops. Could you make a reservation for two at Savour Fair?"

"It would be my pleasure. Any luggage?"

"None."

"Requests?"

"Soap—every conceivable type you can lay your hands on."

"I shall make sure we find one of everything."

"Thank you, Soames."

She steered me along the counter onto a platform with an open shaft above. The platform rose, speeding us up three levels and stopping. We stepped off, marching along a hall until we came to a door at the end where Morgan said, "Morgan Slade," and the door opened. We stepped into the room, and she flipped her shoes off, dropped her cloak to the floor, and marched straight for a steaming hot bath that sat by a window overlooking the sea lit by the setting sun.

"A bath," she said. "How I have longed for a bath."

I'd forgotten more than I knew, but my gut told me not to get between Morgan and her bathing bliss, despite a rising need to hop in with her. Soames had magicked some drinks, presumably when we were on the rising platform, so I poured two wines, shed my coat, kicked off my boots, and brought the drinks over to her. I handed her one, then pulled a chair up and sat, looking out the window.

"You know I have a thousand questions about this place and a thousand more about me, but I'll start with an easy one. Have we been here before?"

"This place?"

"Not this particular place—the city as a whole."

"There is no place like this. The City of Chains is unique. Like Byoux, it is the center of all trade for those beyond the lands of Lords and Ladies, and unlike Byoux, it is a place rich in free magical energy. Mana powers all. No coincidence, eh?" She slipped under the water, rising after a moment, looking at me through the steam.

I surmised her words told me that the magic Lysander had unleashed had fundamentally altered the land, saturating the ruins of Byoux with mana. "So, Lysander created this anomaly."

"He did," she said. "But, he created more by leaving the staff implanted in the ground at the very center of the city. His spell was enough to end the place, as he thought it would. But no wizard has enough magic to flatten a city—it simply isn't possible, or a wizard or sorceress might rule the land through threat alone. No, to raze a city requires more than just magic. It needs real spite and ingenuity."

"So, how did he do it?"

"A recycling spell."

I shook my head. "Nope, not familiar. What's one of them?"

"You aren't familiar because it hadn't been done before, nor has it been done since. The spell began small, and its job was simple. Take all the mana and energy from an area a thumb's length wide around the planted staff, feed it into the staff to power a spell to take all the mana and energy from an area around the staff equivalent to a tenth more than the previous area and perpetuate until the last building and person was consumed."

I ran through the spell in my mind. It was quite brilliant. Not because it would destroy a city but because it appeared, on the surface, to truly lack ambition. Why a tenth? Why not half or the same again? I could only surmise that a tenth was all the staff could take otherwise, it would shatter. A tenth was just enough to have the spell grow incrementally and not create too much alarm. Such a thing might grow overnight; when discovered, it would already be too late. The power at its center, Rallpinto, would already be beyond anything any mortal could handle.

"Incredible," I said.

"Isn't it," she said, her voice wistful and twisted with jealousy. "It displayed true mastery—the real power of mana. Every practitioner hunts for magnificent spells, great displays of power. But Lysander created the ultimate destructive spell, walked away and sat in a tavern and got blind drunk while whoring the night away until his own spell consumed him."

"Quite scary, really," I said. "But then he has darkness in him."

"A broken man carries his own shadow inside him, but broken men can be brilliant too," she said. "Needless to say, it was his brilliance that spanned ten thousand years."

"And not mine," I said, staring out to sea. "He inadvertently supplied the way to defeat Diagon, didn't he?"

She dipped her head under the water again, rising again after a short while as if she'd used the moment to consider her answer. "Unsure. Rallpinto certainly has the harvested mana of an entire city in him. Not only that, he became a beacon for all wild mana for thousands of years, saturating the land with it. A normal goblin might stray inside the staff's influence and gain magic, such was the mana concentration. It is the reason for this place. The fundamental foundation for the Rule of Three—no person can know all elements of any spell."

"It takes three people to make a spell?" I repeated my earlier question.

"Within the city limits, yes. Where mana is so plentiful—where any idiot can conjure anything, it is too dangerous not to have some form of regulator. Thus, all spells have to begin with a commencement and end with a termination. Only an initiate can supply the code for commencement, and these change daily." She shrugged. "It works. No massive magical fire has broken out for centuries. No part of the city has suddenly vanished for a thousand years." She smiled. "Fret not. Each room comes with ten free daily codes for a licensed practitioner. If I need a spell, I can conjure."

"Good to know," I said.

She rose, the water cascading from her, steam rising, shrouding her. I wanted to turn, to appreciate the fullness of her beauty, but she stepped behind me and placed her hands on my shoulders, and I could only imagine her perfection.

"So you see, you and Lysander created this place, and then you came back and stole Rallpinto." She laughed. "Now they have to work hard to perpetuate. They can't waste mana like they used to, although they have no idea why."

"I stole Rallpinto?"

"Of course. You don't think they let you have him, do you? Now, bathe, or we will be late for our dinner."

I stood. "It's not food I have on my mind."

Expecting to witness her naked body finally, I was disappointed to see her fully clothed, although the woman standing before me was stunning—there was no other word for her. Her long dress displayed the correct amount of cleavage to entice while leaving plenty to the imagination. It hugged her slim figure but didn't make her appear skinny, and when she turned, I could follow the contours of her magnificent butt—see her muscles contracting as she strolled the bed, bent and tested its firmness. "Should last the night," she said, and as I lowered myself into the bath, a vision of me parting those ass cheeks swelled my cock.

* * *

We sat on a riverside terrace lit by fairies holding small plates of lichen light. A band played, or rather, some instruments played themselves, while plates flew to and from our table as we needed. Morgan looked delightful. She was stunning, and no one could match her.

"In the dead center of this city is a monument. It is a glass chamber, and inside it is Rallpinto, or so they think. Phillipe de Byoux replaced the genuine staff with a fake some few thousand years ago. They believe its power fades, that its mana slowly runs out, and only me, you, and Lysander know different.”

“It is protected?”

"The glass dome is impenetrable. A thousand spells protect it. Dozens of soldiers guard it. But one man stole it, and that man was you."

"How?"

"Quite simple, really. Phillipe woke, and he had one mission, just like Nunez. You see, what Andros Gray understood during the days leading up to his death was that one life wouldn't be enough. He needed three to put all aspects of an operation into place. At least, that is what it looks like on the surface—there's another twist yet to come. But," she said, "one thing at a time.

"Phillipe barely built Castle Kanazar. He roused it sufficiently to have Barnaby maintain it and keep it ticking over while he worked on his attributes. Then he left, and he trained, and he trained."

"Where?" I asked.

"Where else? The man on the hill. He focused on dexterity and strength during the day—every day without fail for over a decade. In the evening, the man set him puzzle after puzzle, letting him eat or drink when he'd solved ten, so his intelligence grew. Then once every twenty days, he'd send Philippe to the closest village where he had to beg for food scraps or starve that day. He'd parade beautiful girls in front of him, and if he failed to charm all of them, he'd beat him until he couldn't stand. Or he might lock Phillipe in a cage with a lion. If Phillipe failed to charm the lion, he'd have to fight the beast barehanded. So his charisma grew. One day Phillipe had enough points. He was as strong as twenty men, as dextrous as an acrobat, and as charming as a gigolo. He traveled to Ank-ar-Gor, where thievery is a way of life, and you can walk down a street fully clothed and be naked by the end with no clue how. Philippe stayed there another decade, at first under the tutelage of Aragon Slight but soon in charge of his own Vipers—a gang of thieves responsible for most robberies north of the Stormbane. It was they who stole Rallpinto.

"I worked for over twenty years to steal one staff?"

"No, you worked for over twenty years, so no one knew you'd stolen the staff—there's a difference. If word had gotten out that Rallpinto was outside the City of Chains, all would have looked for him." She smiled. "So, now you know about Phillipe de Byoux."

“But you said there was something else.”

“There was—there are. There is one thing you truly aren’t understanding. No, not understanding. One thing you have missed entirely.”

“Which is?”

“If you were unaware of the consequences of your actions when you destroyed every human cauldron, how could you plan your reincarnations?”

CHAPTER 17

The food came then, which was fortunate. It gave me time to breathe, to stop my heart from imploding. Morgan had shaken my very foundation to its core. She dipped her head, avoiding my gaze. But I was nothing if not resilient. It took me mere moments to understand her words and accept them for what they were.

I'd woken understanding nothing, and then I'd gone along the plans I'd presumed I'd laid or at least had a hand in laying. But her words posed an important question.

Was I simply an actor in someone else's plan?

"I disagree," I said as my fork hovered over a particularly juicy slab of white meat, oozing with juice spilling into a sumptuous brown gravy. "There is every chance my death occurred with my blessing—that it was part of my plan or a plan hatched with others. Therefore, it is not beyond the realms of possibility that I plotted all of this."

Call me arrogant, but I felt the need to be the architect, to hold the rudder if I was to continue to navigate the ship.

She smiled, but it was a smile that said Gotcha. Setting her knife and fork down, she delivered her coup de gras. "I thought that too, but no one could have predicted Lysander's reaction, so, in the same breath, you couldn't have adapted, for you wouldn’t have known he’d destroy the city and himself."

This was true, of course, but there was one that could and would have had the opportunity to instruct Phillipe upon awakening. So I took her victory and crushed it. Yes, I was too competitive for my own good.

"Kanazar," I said. "My core and I are linked. It could have adapted to Lysander’s actions and sent Phillipe to receive instruction." I chewed on the meat, letting it fill me with its devastating flavor. "No, it could not. A core knows little beyond its bounds, and there is no evidence it communicates beyond them."

I wanted to hit the table.

Meanwhile, she ate her food, clearly ceding the imaginary game only I was playing. But a companion's silence is also wonderful, and a companion who knows precisely when to be silent is even more precious.

"What about Fennel?" I said. "What of him and the bridge that spans time? The one person that links everything and had access to my core!"

She nodded but continued eating, and so I continued thinking aloud.

"He might well have been at the meet right here in Byoux—might well have been the orchestrator." I snapped my fingers. "He and Platos were familiar. I'll wager they'd met before. I bet the hob had a hand in hiding the artifacts."

That was it! I had it. The pieces were falling into place.

“So, how does it go?” she asked.

"Like this. I hatched the plan with Fennel. We traveled to Byoux to meet another actor in this affair. There, we set the plan in motion. I sacrificed my life. Fennel traveled back to Anderlay. Lysander found out—did what he did, and Fennel adjusted the plan, informing Kanazar and setting all in motion."

She pushed her empty plate away, taking a sip of wine, her eyes never leaving mine.

"What other actor?" she asked, or was her question a prompt?

"The only mystery left," I said. "The changeling known as Scamp and Finnigan."

"Ah, yes," she said. "Your greatest companion."

Those words froze my heart. Someone else had used them—Fennel, perhaps Kanazar, then her. "Why do you say it like that?"

"You must have mentioned it," she said.

"I don't believe I did."

"You must have." She looked away. "Why? Does it matter?"

"It matters a great deal. Those are exact words, and I have heard them before."

She smiled, and I sensed relief wash over her. "In that case, you should consider one other actor in all this."

"Who?"

"The man on the mountain."

“His name keeps cropping up. Tell me about him.”

She bit her lip. "Perhaps after the meal. We'll walk along the riverfront, and I'll tell you about him then. Perhaps it will jog your memory. Don't forget, you know him. You spent a long time with him."

"I spent a lot of time with you, and there's not a day that goes by that I don't regret having no memory of it."

She raised her delicate eyebrows. "But think. Not many couples get the chance to make their first memory twice."

"It won't be like that for you. While I get to experience you anew, you get the same old me."

Her foot touched my shin, rubbing up and down so lightly it sent ripples of pleasure straight to my groin. "Not true. I’ve only fucked Nunez Excalivar, never Daniel Cutterson.”

I gasped at her coarse language, somehow so arousing. “I think I like that talk coming from you. It appears so base. But, the truth is, it’ll still be the same me—no new experience.”

“But I'll revel in watching you." She grinned, and I wanted her so badly.

We finished our meal, then she took my hand, and we wandered along the riverfront. The sun had set, stars dotting the sky. It was pleasant, not as busy as the center of the city. The moon was full, sitting a little above the horizon, spreading a silver path toward us, one I would have liked to walk with her. It might lead to a new place—a different land where I could take my ladies and live in peace. Anna could cook. Alex and Isalar would be our hunters. Darinka might fish while Wayleisha would keep us warm. Leyathel would grow our crops, and Tanaka would form our dwellings from solid rock. Babushka could make our tools and sell nuggets and ore at the local market.

I would follow that silvery path, had I the chance—follow it to the ends of the land.

"We called him Shoky," she said, ripping me from my muse.

"Isalar told me that. She told me about him. I remember his white hair—his mustache. I remember his aloof way and featureless expression. But I don't remember who he is."

"Because he wears a mask. That mask, as you correctly say, is one of aloofness. He detached himself from you knowing you would go each time he met you. At least, that is what I thought. He would fret about you when you were gone. But then, he was absent a lot too. I once asked him where he went, but he answered it with punishment, so I never enquired again. But that didn't stop my curiosity."

"You followed him, didn't you?"

"Only once I was sure I was good enough to without him seeing me. I teamed up with Isalar and one day, we tracked him. She would take half the day, and I would take the other half. We didn't have to venture far to find out where he went."

"To see Kanazar?" I said, knowing the stronghold was close.

"To there. He stayed a day, then vanished into the Under. Isalar tried to follow, but the goblins and hobs soon prevented her pursuit."

I stopped, resting one foot on a parapet. "Platos?"

"Unknown. But he did his business and then returned to the mountain, saying nothing of his travels. Another time he traveled to Brightwater, a third to the Trolls on Bluebird Hill."

"All actors in this damnable play."

"All," she said. "So, I became close with him. Not in that sense, you understand. After I'd promised myself to you, Nunez, there could be no other. But I spent time with him. It was then that I found out he wasn't the man I thought he was."

"What kind of a man was he?"

"The type that could enter a room and then vanish."

"Vanish?"

"Yes. After that, I checked regularly. He never slept in his bed. It was then I recalled I'd only seen him eat occasionally. It wasn't necessary for him, simply part of a ruse to maintain his guise. He was no ordinary man. Two things became apparent. First, he had let us follow him. Secondly, it was no new plane of existence his meditation had achieved. It was more than that. He was performing a task, and that was assembling me, Isalar, Darinka and Wayleisha in one place. We were there, and he trained us to become more, and then he introduced you and let the rest take its course."

“He was following a playbook.”

“He was.”

“Tell me more.”

We continued walking, our arms entwined, her head on my shoulder, the sea breeze in our faces. "He could change forms at will. He turned up where he needed to be and manipulated all those around him for his ends."

I grunted but said nothing. A picture had formed in my mind, and it wasn’t of Morgan standing naked before me, although I very much wished it was.

"He did all those things," she continued. “I tricked him into doing it, coordinating with Darinka and the others and having him appear in more than one place at a time. He managed to show up wherever he was needed.”

"Doesn't that sound familiar to you? It does me," I said.

"From what I know—and that isn't much, but it sounds very much like Finnigan the stick.”

"Which you asked me to retrieve from Vale," I pointed out.

"Upon his instruction. You, as Nunez, hatched that plot with him. But now I think about it. It was mostly him prompting you to devise this grand plan to turn the elves to darkness—to bring out their fighting spirit."

"And remake the moonstone."

"And remake that thing."

I pulled her close, putting my arm around her shoulder as we came to the river's end; as it widened and turned, a rugged coast headed west, waves crashing against dark rock, white foam hissing. I considered all the conclusions obvious. There were three mysteries, and three made one—one unknown actor playing a game with us all.

"But who? I refuse to believe it is some random changeling out to mess with us."

"What do you know of Gods?" she asked.

"I know the old ones, but as I'm finding out, the old are quickly forgotten, and new ones come along."

"True," she said, "But at the same time, they remain the same. There is always a father, the God of all, who holds a rowdy bunch in check. Another is a mother who cares for her daughter and adores her warrior son. There is an evil child, sometimes a bastard formed where the all-father's eye strayed. Then we'll have a goddess who likes animals, one who likes hunting, a mystical, a simple one."

"A variety," I said, more to say something as my mind wandered through possibilities.

"A variety that always includes a hateful schemer who pits one God against the other—who uses humans like toys on a game board. One who appears dull, is on the edge of everything—one who is anonymous and innocent. There is always one spider, and I feel we are in his web."

"You think our spider a God."

"I do," she said.

It made sense. What other being would be that interested in the affairs of man?

"Tell me about Fennel." Morgan drew close to me as if the cold or the story had chilled her.

"Kanazar said he spanned time. That he trod a bridge that crossed from where I was to where I am, he came to advise, counsel, and guide me."

"Has he been useful?"

I thought back. "Not overly so. He's dropped a few morsels, little more."

She pulled away from me, moving to the path's edge, challenging the sea to take her. "Then he is a spy, or the God too. He is something, but he is not a ten-thousand-year-old man. He is your proof."

"My proof?"

"Drop a few misplaced nuggets. Hints that you are about to abandon the desired path should do it."

"That they should, and with ease. I’ll tell him I will go east with my wives and live happily ever after." I grinned. "And I shall enjoy doing it. We need a name for this God—if we are sure it is a God."

"Look at the motives behind all this—what are they?"

"More to the point," I said. "Which Gods are involved? There is Diagon and Wilmsous that I know of."

"Neither is our schemer, so one or both are the intended target."

I brought out my crossbow. "Which explains this little thing. Apparently, it's mine, and it has one bolt that can kill a God."

She frowned. "A morsel that explains all."

"This whole thing was to kill one God? Were they my motivations?"

"No, that was his price—unknown to you. Our God wants you to kill either Diagon or Wilmsous, and the rest is simply dressing."

"I agree, but who is the God? What name?"

"I think it is a man, and his name is Lugh. It is only he that fits all."

Lugh—the name was familiar. A trickster God, a smith, a weapons master, a smarting, skulking God who loved chaos—probably after Diagon’s crown.

"Hardly an important God," I said. Although my mind was spotty—my memory inconsistent—the name broke through many veils. It was like I had known. Everything about him was familiar.

"It is always easier to meddle from the shadows than from the center of the stage. It is he. I feel it right in my gut."

I drew behind her, putting my arms around her and pressing myself against her.

"With that solved, it is time I remembered everything about you."

"That it is," she said.

We walked back hand-in-hand, my mouth dry, my heart beating. Just the thought of her brought memories. Some, I imagined, prompted by Isalar's tale of my meeting her. But there were others, just Morgan and me, in a white room, a simple bed. The memories I had were, however, anything but simple. Others came, of us sitting on a slope, looking over a valley, the river at its bottom, talking, not of world-shattering events, but everyday things. She'd laugh. I'd grin. We'd kiss.

Then we arrived at the tavern and wasted no time climbing the stairs, opening the door, closing it, my heart pounding. She walked a little way in, and her dress dropped, and I soaked in her nakedness. She was perfect. They all were. Each of my ladies offered me something different.

Morgan had elegance. She drifted into a room. She commanded respect. Naked, she deserved adulation. She held her back straight, her shoulders level, and even then, her pose was perfect—one foot slightly in front of the other, her ass cheeks partially clenched.

Shaking her hair out and pushing it back, she pirouetted and faced me. To liken her to a statue or a work of art would do her injustice because those things are static. She stood before me, dead still, admittedly, but every inch of her was alive. Her hair fell behind her shoulders, leaving her breasts uncovered. They were not large, perhaps a little on the small side, not that it mattered. What they lacked in volume, they made up for in shape, standing proud, her nipples prominent and in proportion.

I wanted to rush to her, to run my hands all over her, but she was playing a game, so I would join her. I stripped off my shirt, my boots and pants and stood naked before her, willing my erection down—not wishing to appear desperate. It was a battle I lost.

Her stomach was perfectly flat, only the slightest indent giving away her muscles, and her waist tapered just the right amount. No hair coated her pubis, but a fan of small feathers spread in the shape of a shell. Her perfect slit parted them.

"Didn't you have more feathers?" I asked, noticing a few strips missing.

"I plucked them for you. I know you found them disconcerting."

"I prefer you smooth," I said, then glanced at her. "But I'm fond of that soft down too."

"Then I judged it right," she said, advancing. "Although I might have to attend to some of your grooming. Don't any of your other ladies look after that?"

"We haven't had time to fall into a routine. It's been a wild ride so far."

"It will settle, Daniel. We will slaughter our foe, and then we will find somewhere to live." She placed her hands around my neck, holding me there but not pulling me close. "Where would you like to live? What would you like to do?"

I thought about it, but not for long. "I'd tear down Kanazar."

"Really?" she said.

"Really. Then we'd rebuild it in the mountains, deep in the magical lands. We'd welcome students and teach them myst—somehow other than through coupling, of course—I'm not sharing my ladies with anyone. "

"What else would we do?" she asked, one hand clenching my butt, the other holding my neck as she kissed it passionately.

"We'd built our stats, our myst making us infinitely more powerful with each level."

"What else?" she asked, kissing my chest, lingering on my nipples.

"We'd run. We'd farm a little—hunt a lot more. We would look out over the land—" I gasped.

"And?"

"And we'd fuck."

"Finally, you get to it." She clasped my cock, gently rubbing it. "We'd fuck until the sun goes down, through the night and welcome it back. Such is the power of myst."

"Such is its power," I said, running my fingers over her back, tracing a line along her spine and lingering above her crack.

"What power do I fill you with?"

"I would have said perception, but Isalar sharpens that."

"Two whetstones can hone one blade. Hers is more instinctive, while mine is more physical. With hers, you can sense danger, smell it and feel it. With mine, you can see it from a thousand yards. What else?"

"I'd think it's savagery, but that is Wayleisha's domicile."

"Mine looks like savagery, I'll grant you, but it is based on efficiency. Savagery is tearing your prey apart and realizing you've spread your meal across a plain. Efficiency is striking hard, killing cleanly and keeping your meal in one place. I will give you that—efficiency, speed, and perception. You will not lack in those."

"And the sex, is that efficient too?"

"No. That is different. That is for you to find out and me to give. To be one of nine is a challenge I shall relish."

"Challenge?" I asked as she moved back and then knelt. "There will be no competition there."

She inspected my rigid cock, looking along its length and under, then facing it. "Of course, there'll be competition. I shall ensure it by telling them all I had you cum fast the first time."

"And just how will you do that?"

She took my cock into her mouth, its warmth flooding over me. Her lips were light on my crown, drifting forward and then lazily back. The effect was the opposite. She was relaxed, and I became instantly frantic. I wanted, no, I needed, to shove my cock in and find that holy friction inside her throat. She had my full attention.

"Relax," she said, but she might as well have called me to the moon. There was no way I'd relax.

I rested my hands on her head, influencing her motion, attempting to speed her and sate my growing urges. She resisted, slowed, taking her time and then peppered my length with kisses.

She stood, still holding me, then led me to the bed, lying on it, her legs wide. "You need to cum, or this isn't going to work," she said.

I climbed between her. "What's not going to work?"

"The everlasting night. It can't work when you're in such a hurry. Take your pleasure. Then we have all night."

"I can hold."

She smiled. "But I don't want you to." She flicked out her hand, a burst of white light shooting from it, hitting me in the dick, its magic dancing over me like small lightning bolts. “I want to feel your cum swilling inside me.”

Her words and magic took all the strength from my knees. My stomach doubled as I gasped with pure, animal pleasure that then ran through all of me.

She laughed. "Don't waste it."

I didn't. I slid my crackling length into her, the magical flux heightening my pleasure, making every inch of my flesh tingle. She muttered some words, her head back, her lips slightly apart. A light filled her, sparks danced, and she lifted her head, her shining eyes looking deeply into mine. "Faster," she said, and I obliged.

Her fingernails raked my back as the light warmed me, teasing me, focusing all my pleasure on my cock, then abandoning it. The sensation ebbed and flowed with my strokes, making them infinitely powerful.

It was the tide, the myst swell within me, and with each surge, my pleasure nearly broke me, its ecstasy so pure, and as it ebbed, my next thrust built, knowing I would soon reach new heights.

Morgan writhed underneath me. Our pleasure had separated us. As mine consumed me, so hers did too, and she closed her eyes, moaning, gasping, bucking under me as her myst rose and fell, as her orgasm built. She gripped my buttocks, her fingernails tearing into my flesh, pulling me into her as she rammed herself on me.

"Fuck me, Daniel. Fuck me hard!" she cried, but my rhythm consumed me, the pretense of caring gone—wanting my release, not hers, needing my seed to burst into her.

"Harder," I cried, though whether to me or her wasn't clear. "Fuck!" I screamed and thrust deeper, slamming into her, all my focus, all my myst, inside my cock, willing it farther in.

She screamed my name over and over. My orgasm came, and I spasmed and jerked, and I pushed myself deep within her, wetness blooming around my cock's base, soaking my hair, the soft down of her feathers, running from her, draining her, draining me, back together again, one.

I drew a long breath, rolling from her and onto my back. "That's the quickie out of the way," I said.

"Let the fun begin," she added.

* * *

I'd learned all I had to and restored my myst. Our lovemaking lasted until the morning, and then we slept. Morgan curled up in my arms. I was on my back. She held my cock, not letting it go even in sleep, which comforted me.

I remembered all—the man on the mountain, the last days with her. The final day when Nunez rode from the mountain and returned to Kanazar. I remembered much of Phillipe de Byoux, but those memories were mere glimpses, flashes of time that flickered through my mind.

I meant no disrespect to the stalwart efforts of Philippe in forwarding my agenda, but he'd had a dour time of it when compared to Nunez. With Phillipe, it was all about getting things in place, setting a trail, and ensuring everything would be correct for my awakening. With Nunez, it was all about the myst—the myst and coupling with four delightful women.

With Morgan back within my fold, I had eight of the nine. It left me one spot, and that belonged to Alex. Her time was close, and with it, I hoped all would slot into place. We’d already made love—we’d sealed the deal. All I had to do was bring her back from the dead. But before that happened, I wanted to see the man on the mountain. I had one last puzzle to solve. So we left the City of Chains, flew south, and didn't stop when we passed over Kanazar.

With my completed myst came incredible eyesight. Even from my lofty vantage, I could see the barbarians leaving Brightwater. Their line stretched to the eastern plains where tented villages grew among Greg's farmsteads.

Another line linked Kanazer to the Iron Mountain, and my heart leaped. It was the dwarves, but more than just Babushka's tribe. Their number measured thousands, but their gathering meant more. Word had spread. My cause had ignited their hearts.

The land was rising.

Much to her annoyance, I nudged Morgan and had her fly over Uther's camp. Many lines joined his camp—lines of mounted soldiers, of supply wagons, infantry, archers, a dozen banners flying.

His banners, the Land of Lords and Ladies, had answered his call. The human race gathered for one last battle—for the final battle—the true one.

For it was good against evil.

All our talk and all our hypothesizing meant nothing. Diagon was bad. Wilmsous was bad. Who'd pitted me against them was irrelevant.

But I needed to know. I had to be certain, for if it was Lugh who'd set Gods against each other, then surely he was worse than both of the others?

We flew south, over the river and towards the wall, then glided east and into the hills, the mountains and to a house upon the mountainside, overgrown, weeds poking through the cracks in its slabs. She set me down, running to the door. A simple push had it off its hinges and flat on the floor, dust pluming around it.

She raced in. I followed.

Abandoned, it was abandoned.

"What now?" she asked.

"How long since you've been here?"

"It's been a while. Once you'd gone, we left for the wall. Our preparations were complete."

I ran my hand along a wall, the stone crumbling to dust. "It was all a lie—this confirms it. There was no man on the mountain."

"He could have died," she said.

"No, look." I punched the wall, and my fist went straight through it. "Built by magic. Its master has abandoned it. The mana dissipates. It will be nothing soon. Strongholds act the same way."

"So, we are at a dead end."

"No, we are at the beginning," I said. "We are on a path to the truth and finally have confirmation."

"Of what?" she asked.

"That we are being manipulated and have been for a long, long time."

CHAPTER 18

I sat with Fennel and Platos on a little patio overlooking the river, then over the pasture that led to our rather impressive level seven wall. Jensome had finished it two days ago, and the dwarves had already begun the stronghold upgrade. It was pretty novel in design, but Jensome simply shrugged his shoulders when I asked him if it would be okay.

According to him, if they removed part of the roof, added new chimneys, breasts and hearths, built a tower on each corner, and added a new entrance, the upgrade would pass, and we could proceed with the temple and Lysander's tower.

I doubted if my wizard needed a tower, such was his power, but we'd discussed it and decided to build it anyway. If his power was anything like my myst, it worked by magnifying existing numbers. While I needed more time to work on mine, they kept rising steadily. Therefore, I grew more powerful with each increase, and my myst magnified the gains. Should Lysander's power work similarly, there was a chance he'd become much more powerful when the tower reached level eight. It was a risk worth taking; besides, we had abundant labor.

Barbarians lived off the land in a very similar way to farmsteaders. So when they arrived with Greg, there was common ground between them, and they were fully capable of helping him build the extra farms we needed. We quickly had farms reaching far into the valley.

Dwarves, also arriving in droves, were fantastic at building roads as well as weird-looking strongholds. Barnaby had them construct a long one that headed south through the valley. He said it was because he knew we'd have to march that way one day, but I thought he wanted the dwarves out of his hair. They were incessant talkers, tugging at your cloak as you walked by, pulling you aside for a drink and a chat. I was amazed they got any work done.

The goblins supplied all the stone the dwarves needed, and the hobs transported both the stone and the lumber and acted as laborers. It was an incredible sight to see. My steward had finally excelled, and even with an exponential increase in our population, while food was scarce, we weren't starving, and our building speed had more than doubled.

It left me free to complete the remaining parts of the puzzle, which was why I was with Fennel. He was another enigma. Morgan was right. There was no way a mortal could live ten thousand years.

"Are we headed in the right direction?” I asked. “Did I give you a detailed plan? I'm sure I would have—just scribbled something down—had a mason carve something in stone."

"No, no plan. You asked me to guide you."

"But surely having something scribed would have been easier? I managed to get my armor here. A scroll shouldn't have been too much bother."

"You never mentioned one."

I screwed up my face. "You see, that doesn't sound like me."

"Ah, but if you remember, you didn't want your early self to know too much."

"Granted, but what sense does that make? Why not wake, be brought up to speed on everything, then execute it?"

"It's going well," he said, shifting awkwardly. "Why worry?"

"Going well would be a measure of a plan," I said. "Unless I'm privy to my original plan, I have no idea if it's going well or not."

"Does it matter?" he asked.

"Plans are simply guidelines," Platos butted in.

I leaned in. "Which is what I wish to talk about. We think the plan is going well, but what if we've chosen the wrong side? What if my original intention was to free the undead from the pit? What if the only way to end their suffering was to give them one last chance at freedom?"

"Don't think that for a moment! We are on the right path," Fennel snapped.

"I'm not so sure," I said. "I think it might be time for a change of tack. So that is what I want to talk about."

Fennel blinked, drawing away and sending a nervous glance to Platos.

"Then talk," he said. "No need for all the cloak and daggers."

They were uncomfortable. Platos kept looking at Fennel and vice versa. A little bit more, and I'd have them sweating.

"Just say," I said, "that, hypothetically, another solution to my problem has materialized. What then? What would you say?"

Fennel grunted. "You're too far along this one to abandon it."

"Not at all. The dwarves can all go home, as can the Lords and Ladies. The barbarians can live peacefully in the valley, and the goblins and hobs can return back to the Under." I shrugged. "Probably have Brightwater if they wanted. I'm sure I could get the humans there to relocate. What do you think, Platos? Would your fellow hobs like a shiny new town to live in?"

Platos grunted. "Absolutely not. They aren't suited to town life."

"Nonsense. You lived in a city, and they've fitted in well here."

The color drained from Fennel's old face. "But you have to carry out your plan."

I squeezed my face up. "But that's just it, isn't it? The plan isn't mine—it can't be because I was dead when Lysander destroyed Byoux. How would I have known where his staff was?"

"Perhaps Phillipe poked around a bit and found out," he said.

I was ready for that excuse. "But, it was thousands of thousands of years before he woke. Now, I know for a fact that even the most remarkable of people get forgotten about at that time. So what hope for a little staff? No—I've made up my mind. This isn't my plan, so I'm not happy with it."

"But it must be your plan. You have to have forgotten something."

"I've forgotten nothing. It is time to take a new path."

Then Fennel perked. "You forget!" he said. "You had Finnigan running around doing your bidding. He was your greatest companion. You probably shared everything with him, and he must have guided you when you woke. That's it! It all leads back to Finnigan."

"No, no, he didn't. He couldn't have. I distinctly remember you telling me that he'd spent thousands of years making his way to me. That he became trapped in Brightwater. You said yourself that he got as close as he could. No, it couldn't have been Finnigan, or he would have been helping me from the start."

"Well, it's something!" Fennel shouted, his face twisted with anger.

"Listen! Calm down. It's no disaster for you both. You can come with me."

"Come with you?" Platos asked.

I paused, wanting dramatic effect. "To the land of magical creatures. We venture east." I leaned in, lowering my voice. "I have seen Byoux. I have walked amongst its magic. We can travel there or beyond. With my myst, with Isalar, Morgan, Darinka and Wayleisha, we could set up a nice home anywhere. With Lysander's magic, we will always be safe. We have Tanaka to find and mold our stone and Babushka to do the same with precious metals. Leyathel can tend the forest about us, and Alex can hunt. You like Anna's cakes and pastries—imagine them every day."

"But the undead?"

"Yes, them. Well, there are hundreds of thousands, I'll grant you that, but spread across an entire land, that will turn into pockets of a few here and a few there. Some will turn to the lands of the Lords and Ladies. Others will go north. Wherever they travel, they will be met with swords and staffs. Their numbers will fall, and eventually, they will be no more." I grinned. "Why not just walk away from the problem?"

"But it is all your fault!" Platos screamed. "You created the problem. Why should goblins and hobs clean up your mess?"

"But did I?" I said. "Did I really? I, apparently, formed a bargain with a God, and that God then destroyed all the cauldrons. Surely he or she is to blame? They could have emptied the cauldrons. They could have erased all inside them. But they chose to put them in a pit and have their anger grow as centuries passed. It doesn't sound like a thing I'd have agreed to. Therefore, it can't be my fault."

"But it is your fault!" Fennel raged. "You! You! The Legendary Lord with his legendary harem. You! More powerful than a God! You, sitting in luxury while I walked barren lands without anyone knowing my name." His face reddened and shimmered, switching between old and young, morphing between Fennel and another entity. "They worshipped you! You! A mere mortal!"

Then Fennel vanished, and in his place was a bearded man with deep-set eyes and heavy eyebrows. He glared at me. "You'll not veer from your path, mortal! The pain you'll endure will be beyond your comprehension!"

I relaxed, smiling, bending and picking up a stone, tossing it into the river.

"And there you are!" I said. "You finally reveal yourself. Are you going to furnish me with your master plan now? Or shall I continue this dream of going east and enjoying life?"

He stood, then walked away. He turned, wagging his fingers but devoid of any words. A smile broke upon his face. "You tricked me!"

"I played you at your own game, yes."

"Fennel?" said Platos. "What happened to Fennel?"

"There was no such person. Platos, meet one of the human Gods. His name is Lugh, and he's a trickster," I said.

"But what happened to Fennel?" Platos asked and scratched his head.

"Gone," said Lugh. "And might I add that my moments with you count for some of the most tedious in my life? Trust me, that coming from an immortal is pretty damning."

Platos nodded, seemingly unperturbed by the insult. "That might be the case, but it goes both ways."

I could see how their discourse might be thought tedious. Platos wasn't the best conversationalist, preferring to bury his head in books. But still, there was no need to insult him.

"So," I said. "Now I know who's been manipulating me all this time; care to share your ultimate goal in all this?"

He sniffed the air. "A God's plans are beyond that of mortal man. You will play your part, Andros Gray. I might not hold your old wives' fates in my hands anymore, but I can mess with your new ones. What if Anna was to have a fall? Those sweeping staircases are slippery, you know. Or perhaps Leyathel might delve into one tunnel too many and be crushed as it collapses. Or Morgan—is she your new favorite? What if a poisoned arrow were to pierce her heart as she flew across the plains? I might be a God of Tricks, but I am also a Master of Chance."

"You'll have to do better than that!" I said. "I'll not be bribed through petty chance. What if Babushka was to impale herself on a spear, or Tanaka were to swallow a poisoned mushroom? These are things that mean little and could happen anytime. I am used to grieving." I grinned at him, for there was nothing about him that I liked, and it masked my hatred. "But, we have no quarrel, Lugh, for I intend to march against the pit and kill Diagon. So, you get your wish."

"But I want more now. Wilmsous has poked his fat head in and meddled in my revenge. I want him gone too."

"Alas," I said, "I have but one crossbow and one bolt capable of killing a God. So, you'll have to choose. Which do you want to die?"

He scratched at his beard. His brow furrowed, and his eyes narrowed. “Where did you get that?” He sat. "This is better—much better. You had the crossbow all along. A gift, no doubt. We will make a good team, you and I. Perhaps I made a mistake not trusting you in the first place."

"Perhaps you did," I said, but he'd already revealed what he thought of me. He despised everything about me, and I hated him. However, he wasn't the only one that could wear a mask. "So, tell me, how can I kill two Gods with one dart?"

"One dart. That’s a shame. I will have to think about that one. But know this. My price for you living in peace is both their deaths, not one."

To demonstrate his divine power, he got up, walked to the middle of the rivers, and slowly levitated until he vanished.

"Well," said Platos. "I never saw that coming."

"So," I said. "You are innocent in all this?"

He shook his head. "Innocent? No, but I am a hobgoblin if that helps."

I stood. I'd got what I came for. I'd confirmed Lugh played some part and that I'd become embroiled in the politics of Gods. That was never a good thing. I needed to extricate myself from their affairs.

So, I walked into the town and along Artisan Street and called into Saxon's smithy. He was busy making pitchforks to distribute to the barbarians. While they weren't the best weapons in the world, they had a dual purpose; war and our expanding farming.

"Saxon, my man," I said. "I need a favor, or if not you, then point me in a direction."

"What be that?" he asked, pulling a red-hot fork from the furnace and popping it straight into a bucket of water. I waited for the steam to die down.

"I require a weapon, but no ordinary one. I produced my crossbow, Aurora Aetherstrike, and handed it to him. "It is a celestial-grade weapon crafted by the Gods."

He looked along its silver flight grooves, its ornate barrel and ran his finger along its golden bolt.

"I can't do celestial grade," he said. "But you do know we have a weaponsmith now. Chap called Ben. He's set up in the back of the whittlers because he hasn't got a shop yet. Mind you, that's in the old armory because Barnaby said no new shops until we get Ms. Alex back, so that's that, isn't it? He's alright. Got a funny eye, though and drags his left leg. Talks a lot too. I don't have time myself, but some folks do. Cheerio!" He picked up the fork and put it back into the furnace. "Right leg!" he shouted. "Drags his right leg."

"Right," I said.

"Yes, right, not left."

"Got it."

I walked out, expecting some other gem to fly my way. It didn't, so I stowed the crossbow and ducked through an alley to the armory.

"Ben about?" I asked.

"Are you Lord Daniel?" a small fellow with straw-colored hair and buck teeth asked.

"Are you Ben?"

"I asked first, like."

I sighed. "Yes, I'm Daniel. Listen, can you make me this weapon?" I produced the crossbow, handing it to him.

He looked along it, admiring the craftsmanship, its golden limbs and walnut stock. "This is a beauty."

"It's celestial grade," I said.

"The detail is astounding."

"Yes, yes, I know. Look, it doesn't have to be celestial grade, but it's imperative it looks like it. Can you do it?"

He sighed. "Afraid not. I wish I could, but no."

"But you can make something that looks like it, can't you?"

"Nope."

"Why?"

"I'm not Ben. Name's Keith. Keith the Whittler."

I snatched the crossbow back, aiming it briefly at him.

He smiled at me. "I made your balustrades."

I nodded, unsure what to make of it all, and walked deeper inside, drawing back a blanket and peering into gloom. There, hunched over a table covered in felt, was an old, bespectacled man with curly grey hair and long sideburns. He wore a leather jerkin and gloves with the fingertips cut off and was working on a bow and a fine-looking piece it was too.

"Are you Ben?" I asked.

He picked up his candle, holding it up. "Was last time I checked." Then he removed his spectacles and wiped them with a cloth, popping them back on and peering through. "Lord Daniel?" he said, then spluttered, put the candle down and stood bolt upright. "You're a little early. I'll have it done tomorrow night. Ms. Anna said I had another day at least."

I had no clue what the hell he was talking about, so I asked him.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"The bow," he said, pointing to it. "The bow for Alex. The one you'll give her when she returns." He picked up a quiver of arrows with grey and white fletchings and silver shafts. "I've done the arrows, just want to finish up the bow. Got two silver caps to fashion, then engrave the grip and sign it for you. It'll be done. Never you mind that."

"A bow for Alex," I said. "Ms. Anna commissioned it?"

"She did—very insistent I get it done before the stronghold upgrades and you build the temple."

"It'll make a fine present," I told him. "But it's not what I'm here about."

"No?"

"No. Can you make me one of these?" I laid Aurora Aetherstrike on the felt.

He stepped back. "Celestial quality," he said. "Can't make Celestial."

"Oh," I said.

"But I can make Rare. It'll look the same, just lack some punch."

"But look the same."

"Exactly the same."

"And were I to get a God to bless it..."

"It would become celestial, yes," Ben said.

"Excellent. When can you have it done?"

"Ordinarily? A few days. Currently, twelve or thirteen."

"I can't wait that long. What do you need to make it two or three?"

"I'd need my arsenal built—to level seven at least, but eight would help as that gives me advanced gilding and leafing for the bolts."

"Let me see what I can do." I turned and pulled the cloth out of my way, then hesitated. "Do good work on that bow. She's worth it."

I headed to my stronghold and burst into Barnaby's office. "I need a level seven arsenal built."

He looked up. "I'm fairly sure there's a joke in there somewhere, but I'll be honest, I'm too tired to look for it. So, level eight stronghold, temple, tower and arsenal all needed yesterday."

I cocked my head. "Don't be daft, Barnaby. You can't build backward."

* * *

I lingered for a short while, the stronghold's new arched front door a marvel of runic construction. The dwarves had also made a start on the towers, and these were curious in their own way, much stouter than how Jensome might have built them. But, I reflected, it showed the diversity within my mini-empire. No, it looked daft—who was I kidding?

Time ran short. In a few days, all the ingredients would be in the mixing bowl, and it would be the hour to head south along the river and toward the wall. I needed to think everything through, and there was one person that always clarified my thought when I needed her to, and that was Anna. I yearned for some time with her, perhaps with Tanaka and Babushka.

I had eight ladies to choose from, but only three present.

Instead of Anna, I opted to be alone and walked to the lake. It was a pleasant day. There was barely a cloud in the sky, and sometimes problems were best worked out by the bearer. I sat upon the bluff for moments before stripping and taking a swim.

The cold water revitalized me. It filled me with new energy. I swam underwater for a while, breathing as Leyathel had taught me. Her face haunted me. Gone was the elven purity, replaced by the sternness of the drow. It was a crying shame, but it was also an evolution. After the war we were about to fight was over, there wouldn't be any room for a vulnerable race like the elves.

I surfaced, crawled back onto my rock, and lay, soaking up the sun.

"You did not search for me this day," said a female voice. “You always came to me during times of inner conflict.”

I did not open my eyes, for even though I hadn't heard the voice in ten thousand years, I knew who it was instantly.

"Cerridwen," I said. "The final piece of my puzzle."

Cerridwen was my God. Her charges were rebirth, inspiration and transformation. Some pieces slotted into place.

"Not just me," she said.

"I had a hand in it, too," said a second female voice.

I recognized it also. It was Morrigan—the goddess of war, the guardian of the Land, the Phantom Queen.

I opened my eyes then, rose to see them sitting with me. Cerridwen, with her fiery red hair and deep green eyes, looked upon me with inquiry, while Morrigan, with her long and full black hair and piercing blue eyes, did fawn over me as usual.

"What do two goddesses want with this mere mortal," I asked.

Morrigan laughed. "There is, nor has there has there ever been, anything mere about you." She reached forward, touching her thumb to my forehead.

I screamed, the pain real, the explosion of memories impossible to control. I saw myself before Anderlay, riding a magnificent Destrier. Anderlay, that emerald city of the shifting golden sands of Al K'rah. I saw all—the army behind me—the first, the only, to total over a hundred thousand men. And I saw their future, the slaughter, the terrible, terrible waste.

It all came back to me.

Betrayed I might have been, but my vengeance was annihilation. Every Lord or Lady that partook died before that army. It sent hundreds of thousands to their cauldrons. When they rose, I sent them there again, whittling their number down, knowing that one in ten powered the magic.

Then, one day, I stood upon a hill in a grand forest to the west, and I fell to my knees, sick of the slaughter, and I prayed to Morrigan to forgive me. I'd had enough of the endless death. I'd had enough of war.

But I'd turned every Lord and Lady against me, and I knew that one day they'd come, and one day they'd win, and my life and that of my ladies would be forfeit.

"So you asked for a way out," said Morrigan.

"And we told you there wasn't one," said Cerridwen.

"So I went to Lugh."

"No," Morrigan said. "Lugh found you. He has that knack of sniffing despair out and rinsing everything he can from it."

"You made your bargain with him, and he enlisted Wilmsous, and together, they found a way to destroy the cauldrons," Cerridwen said.

"But this wasn't at Byoux, was it? This was at—" My heart stopped. "Oh dear god, no!"

"It was in Anderlay, and that was the end of that magnificent place," said Cerridwen.

"Fortunately, you had the foresight to move your ladies and your family out. They'd been gone a while as you feared many a Lord and Ladies retribution. You'd sent Lysander away—everyone you loved that could go."

"How did I survive?" I asked.

"You barely did. Fortunately for you, Lugh had double-crossed you. He'd spied opportunity in your misery, setting up Diagon for a future confrontation. But a God cannot kill another easily. He needed you. So, while the fires of destruction consumed Anderlay, he spirited its core away, knowing your fate, your reincarnation, would be linked to it and that there he could keep an eye on you while he perfected his plan. Lugh pleaded with Kanazar to let him meddle in your rebirth, but your core is a wiley beast, and he knew to hold the God at arm's length, so he agreed to Fennel and the armor and little else."

"And me?"

"We took your body to Byoux," said Morrigan. "Byoux is the center of the Land, which is a measure in itself of what meager portion you live in. But, Byoux has a unique property: a mana spring—the fountain of all mana that is borne on the wind and flows within the water. We set your broken body upon it because, by rights, death should have hatched within you. We begged Arawn for your life, but he was not best pleased with you."

I sighed. Never, never should I have become tangled in the business of Gods.

"Arawn," I said. "The God of Death."

"Yes."

"I take it he relented."

"He did," said Morrigan. "On one condition."

"Which was?"

"That you kill Lugh."

CHAPTER 19

So, there it was.

I sat upon a rock—the same rock I'd made love to Alex all those days ago. I was naked again and in the company of two Goddesses, but sex was the last thing on my mind. That was a line you didn’t cross with the divine—besides, I had eight ladies to satisfy my every whim with a ninth and final one imminently arriving, so wasn't that enough?

Such was the weave of the plot I'd become entangled in that I could barely follow it myself. Suffice to say that I had made a bargain, and another had been made on my behalf, to kill not one but three Gods. Lugh had trapped me into killing Diagon but insisted I find a way to kill Wilmsous too. Arawn had spared my life as long as I killed Lugh. Morrigan and Cerridwen, who sat with me, had, as far as I could see, tried to help me get out of the situation.

I considered all. "So, I was in Byoux, laying upon a mana spring, reprieved by the God of Death. What happened then?"

"You know the rest," said Morrigan. "You died, but not the true death you deserved, and were spirited back to Kanazar. Lugh had already ensured your core and cauldrons were still functioning because he had his own plans for you."

Cerridwen then continued. "Lysander traveled to Byoux and planted his staff right in the middle of the mana spring—such a turn of luck there has never been before or since. He was credited with hatching the greatest spell ever known while filling his staff—no more than a rare quality item—with so much mana it surpassed any magical artifact that has ever existed. The puny jewel he had atop it—some fancy stone he found in the desert—became the Jewel of Everything, and so began its legend. Really, such luck was beyond even Lugh's capability."

"What about the moonstone? What is that?"

Cerridwen reached for me, cupping my cheek. "It is yours. It always was."

Morrigan laughed. "She gave it to you. The goddess that secretly fawned over you. The one that wished to lay with you."

Cerridwen slapped Morrigan. "I do not!"

"You do so, and you—"

"Quiet! Else I'll spill your secret!"

Morrigan blushed.

I intervened. There was nothing worse than two gorgeous female goddesses fighting to stir the loins, and I was naked, so there was no covering up my excitement. "There's one thing I don't understand. How did Lugh plant the staff, the moonstone, the Jewel of Everything? How could he do all that?"

They both laughed. Morrigan throwing her head back while Cerridwen doubled over, holding her stomach.

"Lugh?" Cerridwen said. "He could not plot and plan beyond the end of his nose. He is God of Chance for a reason, and that reason is his focus is more scattered than a bird's."

Morrigan slapped her. "Leave my pretties out of this!" She looked at me, a delicious grin on her face. "Did Lugh scheme, or was it the mighty Finnigan!"

There was a puff of smoke, and Cerridwen vanished, replaced by a stick, then swapping to a purple imp. She returned, standing over me, and she bowed. "Did you really think a God such as Lugh could conceive something so complex?"

"And Scamp?" I asked, but I knew.

Morrigan slowly changed into the boy called Scamp, and it filled my heart with joy that he'd been on my side and not against me.

"We did swap and change, though," Scamp said but with Morrigan's voice, which I found quite disturbing. "Sometimes I'd be Finnigan, but mostly I played Scamp."

I was silent for a while. Then I asked the question I had to.

"So, what do we do now?"

"Now you bring Alex back, for you and her were destined to be together from the start of this," Cerridwen said. "Oh, Andros! Oh, Daniel! If only you could remember her as she was in Anderlay!"

"She was in Anderlay?" I asked, stunned.

"They all were. It was your cauldron. All those who died when Anderlay crumbled—all within its city wall—are in your cauldron," Morrigan added.

"Why do you think Greg is so good? A man that can turn a desert green has little problem farming a lush valley. And Barnaby might have been weak at first, but then Anderlay was long complete, and a steward's job there was little more than paper-shuffling. They all came from Anderlay. Although they don't recall it."

"Anna does. She gets glimpses," I said, and Cerridwen blushed and turned away.

"She is special," said Morrigan. "She was destined to be your Ninth and First. She had to understand you, and thus she was granted some memories to fathom your depth."

They exchanged glances.

"Yes, that," said Cerridwen.

I let it pass, understanding that something rumbled under their veneer. I needed to get back to the point—to the revelation that surpassed all.

"Alex was from Anderlay. So to play such a part, to attract a God's eye, she had to be something special."

"She attracted more than a God's eye," said Morrigan with a sly smirk.

"Then what?" I asked, getting exasperated.

"She had your eye. You were about to take her for your wife, but she resisted, not wanting to become just another." Cerridwen looked at the sky, bringing her hands to her heart.

"Such a love story is beyond that of scribes and bards. It was opera. It was theatre. For she was that too and so much more." Morrigan's eyes filled with lust. "All of us, all the Gods, wanted to see you conquer her. Some wanted her for themselves. But you were untouchable. You had Dhagda's blessing, so none would move against you."

"Correction," I said. "None would move against me openly. But some might hatch a plan to have me fall from grace."

"We thought that too," said Cerridwen, "but Lugh is too flighty for such things."

"Not so Wilsous," I said. "He is a devious sort."

"And thinks himself handsome beyond any," Cerridwen added.

"It is a possibility." Morrigan frowned. "Perhaps he means to destroy all and spirit her away."

"Tell me about her," I said. "Tell me about her as she was in Anderlay."

"About Alex?" Cerridwen said. "Where to start?"

"Start where she first captured my eye."

"That would be the theatre," said Morrigan. "Although you might not remember much—my touch can only fill in what I actually witnessed—I know this to be true because you told enough of your confidants. You first saw her performing Yealfres's Paradox at the Birachi Theater on Walker Street. You, quite naturally, had seats in the Royal Box and were bored before the curtain raised. But then, when it did, manalight shone upon a girl draped over a cairn, crying. She rose slowly, turning to the audience, and she sang her lament without need for the band, her voice carrying the tune, bringing a tear to all, including the great and stoic Legendary Lord.

“You were smitten during that moment, and though you were happy with your family, you were desperate for her to join it—to offer you something none of the others did. She offered you your youth back. Such was her vitality."

"So I pursued her, and she resisted?" I asked. It sounded familiar, after all. It had been a pattern of our current relationship. It warmed my heart that this love had played out before.

"No, she didn't resist," said Cerridwen, and my heart sank slightly. I'd hoped Alex would be above falling for me solely because of my power.

"She succumbed?"

Morrigan laughed. "No, you couldn't find her. You see, even the troupe didn't know where she lived, who she was, or where she came from. They only knew that she had the skill and the talent. She turned up for rehearsals or performances, performed and then left. The rest was a mystery."

"So I pursued her?"

"No," Cerridwen said. "You were the Legendary Lord. You had a man do it, but he could not find her. So you had ten look, but none could locate her. A dozen staked out the theatre, but neither saw her coming or going. You had every civil servant look through every record, but there was no trace of Alexandria est Morte."

"What was she? Was she inhuman?" I asked.

Morrigan laughed again. "No, she was a hunter, but no ordinary hunter. Her stealth was beyond the norm as she'd gained a rare shadow skill early on in her path. The story goes that she had ventured to the edge of the Shifting Sands, into the Everlasting Forest, and that there she hunted. One day, bored of the hunt, she sat by a waterfall and then bathed. While bathing, she'd sung her song."

"I love this story," said Cerridwen. "Let me!"

Morrigan conjured a bottle of wine. "You take over. I'm thirsty."

"So, Cernunnos—God of the Hunt, in case you don't recall—heard her song, and he raced across the Land to sit by her and witness the beauty of both her body and her voice, and he, like all others that happened to cross her path, fell in love with her. But Cernunnos knew he couldn't have her, that he could not meddle, so he contented himself with watching and guiding her—making sure she was safe. He gifted her the Shadow Skill as well as Dead Eye, Quiet Feet, Translocate, Calming Aura, Trapsmith and Marked Shot. She became the greatest huntress in all of Anderlay."

Morrigan passed Cerridwen the wine and continued the story. "So, with that title came unwanted fame and a certain Lord's attention. You called your Master of the Hunt and asked him to bring in this rising star so that you might name and promote her. She used every skill she'd learned from her time with the theater to mask her good looks, but your eyes narrowed, and you knew something was up."

"But I couldn't track her, so how could I have her followed?"

"You didn't. You did something far easier. You asked her to accompany you on a hunt, knowing she couldn't refuse. You see, you knew there was something about her that jogged memories, but you couldn't put your finger on what."

"She refused?"

Cerridwen took a swig of wine and laughed. "No one could refuse the Legendary Lord. Even us Gods had difficulty. Your power was nearly absolute."

"So," said Morrigan, "you went hunting. During the hunt, you chased a buck through a glade, separating you and Alex from the main party. You rode and rode deeper into the forest until you were alone. Then, you angled your horse close to a tree, hit your head on a low branch and unseated yourself, feigning unconsciousness."

Cerridwen leaned in, prodding me. "She came to you, moving you and propping you up against a tree. Instead of being worried, she became annoyed that you were so careless. Her temper cooled slowly as it became apparent that you might not wake up. She poured water over you, slapped you and kicked you."

Morrigan clapped. "And you! You were awake all the time, pretending to sleep. She relented as dusk drew in, making a fire, trapping a rabbit, and eventually boiling a pot. While she cooked, she sang, and you recognized her voice. You had your lady—you had found Alexandria est Morte."

"So what did I do?"

"You said nothing. You acted like you had no idea. Waking, you grumbled about a sore head, harumphed when you realized you were stuck for the night, and then made petty conversation." Morrigan fell silent and let Cerridwen take over.

"She slowly opened up to you and began chatting. She told you about her hunting, trapping, and about being blessed by Cernunnos, but despite your subtle probes, she said nothing of the days in the theatre."

"But you'd broken the ice," Morrigan said, both Gods talking over each other in a bid to be heard.

"And she realized you weren't the big, pompous Lord you might have been, but that you were just a man searching for happiness like all others. Rather than rush anything, you were content that you had your mark, and she was in your sights. After all, you were a hunter too, and you knew that sometimes patience was the only way to win your prize."

"So I began stalking her?"

"You engineered many meets—some brief, others, like hunts, longer. Slowly, you became friends, but you wanted more. She, though, resisted. She didn't want to be a number in your harem. She didn't understand the concept—what it would be like to join a large family."

"She still doesn't," I said.

"Limbo might change that. Remember, her time in the cauldron would have been different from what everyone thinks. All think it a place where many wanderers from many castles are all in some race to be selected by a core. But it wasn't like that anymore. There was only one cauldron, and it was Anderlay's. Limbo is different again. It is a cold and miserable place. She might come out craving for company." Morrigan shivered at the thought.

"But she will come out whole," I said. "I curse that day—that damnable hob shaman."

"It is a conundrum," Cerridwen said.

"What is?"

"Why the hob chose her—how he knew. It is almost like someone was angry with her for making love to you here."

"We never laid together in Anderlay?"

She shook her head. "It all came crashing down before that happened. You were both close. Her walls had crumbled by then."

I shook my head. "No," I said, trying to replay the moment she died at the hands of the hob shaman in my mind, but it had been over so fast that I couldn't recall its parts, just the devastation of it all. But he had selected her. He'd pointed her out, and he'd made sure she'd died with not one but two bolts.

No, it was no coincidence.

"But who killed her?" I said.

"Who coveted her the most?" Morrigan asked.

"Wilmsous," I said.

* * *

The next few days were a blur. I had a constant thirst. Alex's imminent arrival took its toll on me. Knowing we'd pursued each other, or rather, I'd chased her, and she'd trapped me, was too much to bear. I wanted to grab her, whisk her away to our lake and see if I couldn't jog her memory of Anderlay.

I asked others too. Anna, I knew, had memories, but she said she couldn't expand further on the fleeting memories she had of that place. Although she tried to tell me something, she thought better of it and said it was nothing.

I had a measure of success with Jess. She remembered an emerald city and recalled a grand house with dozens of ladies plying their trade and dancing girls on a stage—a band playing. She likened it to a dream, but I knew better. It was Anderlay, and even the street was becoming clear in my mind. I'd walked it a thousand times. My favorite cobbler peddled his trade on the corner, and along that road was my tailor.

I tried to remember where I brought my cakes, sure it must be from Anna, but it wasn't her. In my thoughts, it was an older woman with a huge wart on her chin.

Broadchurch said he occasionally felt like he should be at a desk more and that when he inspected the men, it felt wrong. He thought he might be more comfortable on horseback, but it hadn't worked. He said the army was too small, then shrugged and apologized for making no sense.

Greg remembered nothing of his last job—as he put it—save the soil was much more granular, and water was scarce. When I asked him if he'd ever built a farm in a desert, he gave me a queer look and asked me to sit before telling me not to be so daft.

I surmised that Morrigan and Cerridwen were right, and they had all spawned from Anderlay. It made sense that this expansive pool of random souls I'd thought existed had been destroyed when I ended our lore.

Lysander thought me mad, but I told him about the two goddesses visiting, and then he stopped his toil. He still searched for my sword, and I still wondered why. He hated anomalies, but I hated wasting time, so we agreed to disagree.

"I have always been your wizard. That much, I know. Do I remember Anderlay? Chunks of it."

"Chunks?"

"Yes, them. I live in rooms—a dusty tower filled with books, a stool in a tavern, a bed with a whore. I live in these places, so the city doesn't bother me. I could be anywhere, but I am always where I want to be."

"Don't you remember the sparkling spires, the arched windows climbing the towers, the glittering streets and the abstract statues? Don't you remember the marvel that was Anderlay?"

"No, no, I don't. But don't take it to heart. I probably liked the place. It means nothing to me, though. That's all I'm trying to tell you."

"What about a woman with a voice so pure it could scrub your sins? Do you remember her?"

He grinned. "I remember women screaming in rapture as I rammed my mana-gorged cock into them. Does that count?" He howled with laughter, and I joined in, though I didn't find it particularly funny. I was tired—tired of it all.

She was close, so damn close.

Give me a straight fight any time—good versus evil, and I was happy. All the politicking, the back-stabbing and conniving brought me down.

Which was next on my agenda, but at least it was at home, for home was my Lording House, where my ladies would be—well, three of them.

* * *

The mirrors hadn't changed. The actors within them had. Sythwick had morphed from a threatening, sniveling bully into a rage-filled child who blamed me for all his misfortunes. I was the one who'd slain most of his army. I had, but that wasn't the point. I was the one that had taught the barbarians how to fight. Again, technically correct, but a bit nit-picky. Lastly, and his then-current favorite: I was the one who'd brought the world to the brink of destruction.

Which was also true.

He raged, and he was probably right to, but I didn't care because he didn't matter. He was a mouthy piece of shit, and if I had my way, he'd be in the front of the lines—slaughter at the first press.

"So," I said, addressing Uther. "Which moved against you when they thought you dead?"

"A couple," he replied, grinning. He enjoyed politics—liked keeping them all at each other's throats. "Lady Kathryn was good enough to form an interim council, and it consisted of her banners, which was handy for her."

"I am the third most powerful house," she said. "Second in terms of fighting capability. If I chose to fill a hole left by your passing, you need to look at your lines and wonder why they stood rooted like stuck in mud. Your nominated successor did nothing."

"Agreed, Kathryn. Which is why I have decided to give you a place at my lefthand side. You will be third in line from now on, as befits your power. If it grows more than the Red of Georgio, then you will surpass him. Power will dictate position from now on."

"Wise," said Lady Kathryn Mortimer.

Uther turned to Sythwick. "A choice that also demotes you, Lord Sythwick. I did a little headcount of your remaining army and your effective banners, and you are now last in line to the throne. You will sit at the farthest end of the table."

"Only because this savage killed my men!"

"For him to kill them shows how ill-conceived your plan was. When I add up all his barbarians, the dwarves, goblins and hobs, his army and that of Brightwater, and I think there are some elves that need adding in, he has the biggest army of all of us. We might end up following him, so I'd begin mending bridges if I were you."

"I'd rather die than serve him!" he spat.

"Which is good because I have no intention of leading anything," I told him.

"Say we win, Cutterson. What do you intend to do? Betray us at the final moment? Have the savages turn on us and kill us?”

"No, destroy my castle and head east," I said without hesitation. "This little place is too crowded for my liking, and I'd rather fight monsters than other humans."

There was silence after my pronouncement, but that silence wasn't one of regret. They'd be pleased to see the back of me. I was positive about that.

"Perhaps I might have Brightwater back," said Sythwick and summed up himself in six words.

We talked about plans after that. I told them we'd be ready to march south in three days. We would stop half a day from the wall and set up a logistics hub there. Our first task would be to throw up some warehouses and extend the road from Kanazar to it. Once we had filled the stores, we would send for Uther and all his banners, then march on the pit.

During that time, I suggested he move his force through the tunnels and up the Kanazar, where he could make camp and get ready. None of it was too taxing, and although a few questions were posed about the actual confrontation, neither of us said anything about it.

Uther had seen it in the flesh. I had witnessed it in my visions. It was probably worse than I thought because Uther's commitment was complete. He silenced any doubting voices and glared at any dissent. The race of man would be there at the final reckoning, which made me happy. They would fight alongside the others, and the Land would briefly unite.

I'd done that much, at least.

* * *

I sat on my terrace, enjoying a glass of wine. Anna was on one side of me, Babushka on the other, and Tanaka sat between my legs. We stared north. Above us hung Abbadin, the star that guided my way.

Kanazar had built Morgan's home. It resembled a nest and was quite underwhelming—hardly his best or most inventive work. It was a house with a slightly rearranged thatch roof and no more. I was pleased she hadn't hung around and waited for its unveiling.

Morgan hadn't gone to see Kanazar either. She'd said our love ratified our status and that the core had little to do with it. She was dismissive of the whole tradition, saying it might comfort others, but she did not need it. Morgan was strong-willed. She had one focus, and that was the upcoming battle. Nothing else mattered to her.

"So there you have it," I told them. "Scamp and Finnigan are two Gods. Fennel was another. Wilmsous is in love with Alex, and Diagon holds the pit. Arawn extended my life, and Dhagda is on our side. I know myself deep down, and I feel I can know what I was like regarding certain subjects. I'm positive I wasn't one to court the attention of Gods, and yet I have attracted the eyes of seven at least."

Anna scoffed. "You might not have courted their attention, but your actions probably drew it." She paused. "I don't think I'd like to be a God. I'll bet it's tedious. A lot of looking and watching. A little meddling. But really, what is there to do?"

I looked at her, but she avoided my gaze.

"Do you think they get a nice palace?" Tanaka asked. "Our Gods live deeper in the Under. We picture them over a river in a land of infinite black where stars somehow sparkle and blue incandescence lights everything. There are great houses where everyone gathers and drinks and dances. I'd probably like it for a few days. But more? No, not for me."

"We have a similar belief," Babushka said. "Less dancing, more ale, and some fine fireside stories."

"They are just like us," I said. "Take Cerridwen, for instance. Not only is she beautiful, she is bashful, demure. I think she is caring, and she certainly has a funny side. No, Gods are not too distant from us."

Anna reached and grasped my hand, our fingers entwining. "Could you love one?" she asked.

I stared at Abbadin, knowing Anna’s gaze rested on me.

"I could," I said. "But it would depend on the God."

"How so?" she asked.

I laughed. "Well, for a start, they'd have to be divine in bed."

Silence fell momentarily, then Babushka laughed, Tanaka too. I threw my head back and howled at the moon. Anna pulled me close and kissed me.

And Barnaby cleared his throat.

"Begging your pardon, My Lord, but I thought you'd like to know the stronghold is built. It's level eight. We've started constructing the temple."

Numbers

Title: Lord of Kanazar

House: Gray

Banner of: None

Banner to: None

Deity: None

Hero: Lysander

Level: Six

Attributes:

Strength – 17

Intelligence – 14

Wisdom – 15

Constitution – 20

Dexterity – 16

Charisma – 20

Harem

8/9 – Anna, Leyathel, Tanaka, Wayleisha, Babushka, Isalar, Darinka, Morgan

Stronghold – Kanazar

Lord – Daniel Cutterson

Stronghold – Level 8

Wall – Level 7

Lording House – Level Eight

Population – 956 Cap – 1224

Food Consumption – 2187(All races factored in)

Storage – 78% full

Buildings

Artisan

Workshop – Level 6

Masons – Level 6

Smithy - 7 – Level 6

Pottery – Level 6

Seamstress – Level 6

Dye Works - Level 6

Glass Works - Level 6

Wood Turner - Level 6

Weaponsmith – Level 7

Military

Barracks – Level 7

Range – Level 7

Stables – Level 7

Watchtower – Level 6

Trap Factory – Level 6

Defenses

Archer Towers - 32

Other

Tavern – Level 6

Warehouse – 5 - Level 6

Relay Station – 1 – Level 5

Feasting Hall – Level 6

Embassy - Level - 1

Arena – Level 6

Gardens - Level 6

Ornaments - 20 - no level

Resource

Cottages – 18 – Level 6 (18)

Farmsteads – 60 – Level 5 (30), Level 6 (30) – Production 2400

Lumber Mills – 24 – Level 6 (24) – Production 1152 (elven influence not factored in)

Quarries – 6 – Level 6 (14) – Production 672 (goblin influence not factored in)

Iron mine – 2 – Level 6 (2) – Production 64

CHAPTER 20

I stood before Ben, the weaponsmith, eagerly waiting for him to look up, desperate for him to finish.

"Well? Come on, man. I need it now!"

"I thought you wanted the crossbow done first. I'm sure you told me to do it before Jensome completed the temple."

"The bow, man, the bow! I need the bow done before the temple reaches level eight. Come on! These are not hard instructions to follow!"

"Bow—crossbow—an easy mistake to make. Anyway, I know you're Lord and everything, but you never commissioned it. Ms, Anna did. So, technically I can't give it to you because it's hers."

"How about I have Broadchurch and his soldiers come in here and have you arrested, tied to a pole and all your skin flayed from you?"

He looked up. "Wouldn't endear me to you. I can tell you that much. Anyhow, it's been hard."

"What has?"

"Well, I had to wait until they built my arsenal up to seven. There was disruption, I can tell you. Anywho, they reckon they'll be back here to upgrade it to eight just as soon as they've made good headway on the temple and tower. So if you want to bring it back in a day or so, I can give it a bit more oomph. That goes for the crossbow too. It'll add a good few yards and some accuracy." He looked around. "What do you think of the place? Turned out nice, I think."

"Lovely. The bow?"

"Just a minute or two. I need to tighten this." He inserted a small hook-like instrument into a knot and jerked it. "Then a little polish here," he said, rubbing the bow with a cloth. "And we're as good as done. So, well,"—he handed it to me— "there you are then. One bow, fantastic quality." He turned and popped a quiver on the table. "One quiver, all arrows, well, you know." He winked and tapped his nose. I didn't know, but I was in too much of a hurry to ask. He handed me the other weapon. "And one fake divine crossbow."

I held my breath. Even though dying to get to the temple, I could not believe my eyes. It looked exactly like Aurora Aetherstrike.

"You got it dead right," I said. "The bolt too. Fantastic work, Ben. Fantastic!"

"It was tricky. Might I ask you why you need it?"

"You might," I said. "But I won't tell you. If I did and you told anyone, I'd be forced to kill you. As you would tell someone, if I told you, I might as well kill you now, and I've got somewhere else to be, so..."

He furrowed his brow. "Then that's fine. It'll all be a mystery to me, including the two women who came here, poking around, touching this and that. They asked about it. They wondered what you were up to."

I stopped myself from leaving. "Two women, you say? What did they look like?"

He scratched his head. "One, well, one had red hair and bright green eyes, and the other was the opposite—black hair with blue eyes. Both, well, both were mighty fine. They had wonderful feet."

"Feet?"

His jaw dropped.

"Did I say feet? I meant breasts, yes, wonderful breasts. All over them. Nipples everywhere! Wonderful. Well, good day. You're in a rush, remember."

His little doorbell sang as I left.

* * *

I pondered his revelation as I headed to the temple. Had Cerridwen and Morrigan visited him and blessed the weapon? If they had, I had two divine crossbows with two bolts. That altered my plan a little. It took my gamble away.

"I can kill two Gods," I mumbled.

Wilmsous was at the top of my list, surpassing Diagon, a target only through Lugh's demands. Wilmsous had meddled beyond Lugh's plans. He had inserted himself to be close to Alex. I was sure he'd had her killed—dispatched to the cauldron—just because we'd made love on the rock by the lake.

Two shots—she'd suffered two shots; one to the head, splitting her skull, and one to the heart. I'd wondered why the shaman had singled her out. He couldn't have known we were lovers—

"He couldn't have known!" I slapped my forehead.

Hobs didn't have spies in our stronghold—had never had them. He couldn't have known. We'd told no one we were lovers, perhaps Lysander, maybe him, but no other. So it was impossible to know.

Gods, though, they could see what they wanted. If Wilmsous had been watching Alex, coveting her from afar, he would have observed us, his anger rising, as we finally became lovers.

Gods! Their business was the same as a man; jealousy, petty vengeance, lust and greed. Except they magnified their hatred a thousand times over. They laid waste to towns because they'd lapsed their faith. So, what penalty was there for taking a love and having her?

He would have plans for me. He would have his revenge. But what would that look like?

I arrived at the temple, standing by the well in its courtyard and watching them work. It was a fine building, having already surpassed its wooden phase and headed into its stone version. It rose a few feet above any other. The chimney above its sacrificial pit belched smoked, its perfume heady.

"What do you think?" asked a man dressed in a simple robe with a substantial sword hanging on his side.

"Are you my priest?" I asked, surprised I had one, but then, I'd been lax in checking the rosters of late.

"I am. My name is Dolomus. Have no fear. I will not try and convert you to my God. Every man should have his own,"

"You'd be the first priest to keep his God to himself."

"Aye, but I was yours back then, and that's how it was, and it worked magnificently."

"Back then?"

"In Anderlay," he said.

"You remember?"

"I remember everything, Andros."

I froze. "How?"

"Perhaps I am blessed? Did that cross your mind?"

"No, not at all."

I sized him up. He wasn't too old, not decrepit, but rather stout with a grand black-grey beard resting on his broad chest. He stood a few inches taller than me, his height accentuated by a mass of hair that swept back from his forehead and over his shoulders like he walked into a brisque wind. One of his rather large hands sat upon his sword's hilt. He looked like he could swing that grand thing for fun and plow a furrow through the mightiest shield wall.

"Come," he said. "Come sit with me. The temple is a while off. Let's chew the fat and drink some wine. Might calm your nerves. Tis a special thing, chasing a woman through time itself."

"Dolomus," I said as we retired to a bench by the courtyard's exit. "I have vague recollections of you."

He grunted. "Well, let me refresh them for you. You didn't like me, nor did I like you, but we tolerated each other as we both had jobs to do."

"I like a direct man. It surprises me that I didn't like you."

"Why would you?" he said, pulling out a wine carafe. "The people loved you. They hung on your every word. Why would you enjoy having a rival?"

"You were my rival?"

"The pantheon I served was. People love or loathe a leader. They fear a God. There is a difference. It was your job to stir their hearts. It was mine to make sure they followed the rules." He took a long swig of his wine. "Let's say that we had an uneasy truce."

"And Alex, you remember her?"

"Who can forget? It was the talk of the town. Whatever you think your motives for sending your other ladies away, there were other reasons. You were close to breaking one of the strictures of harem. You were close to coveting one above the others."

I took the wine from him. "She took my breath away."

"And now?"

I pictured them all. Then I pictured Alex. "It is the same now. Each of them is a Goddess in their own right. They are all perfect."

"Because they are all fresh. You must endeavor to keep it that way."

"You know a lot about love for a priest."

"Because I love a lot," he said without hesitation. "When you have many Gods to worship, you must spread that adoration evenly." He tapped his temple. "That is a trick for me and you equally."

"I couldn't have hated you that much," I declared. "We have too much in common."

"Sometimes that makes for the greatest hatred. What's passed is in the past. We are here now. We have a war to win and a life to live. There are some fresh from the cauldron, desperate not to return."

"That option might be taken away from us," I said as I felt the sudden urge to tell him something I'd kept to myself. "What do you know of Wilmsous and Lugh?"

He grunted again, his eyebrows crunching to a single bushy line. "I love all the Gods, but some are harder to love than others."

I told him my thoughts and fears.

"I think," I said in completion, "that one or the other will destroy our cauldron as soon as we've engaged."

He pursed his lips. "It would make sense. If one wants her for himself, then he must remove you. But the destruction might be more complete than that."

"You think the core?"

"What need? You took Brightwater's core. Have you even noticed it? Without cauldrons, the core is no more than a building tool—a hammer or bolster. Your bargain ensured that your citizens live on past the destruction of the cauldrons. I fancy they will live past the end of the core." He looked at me, dark, hazel eyes penetrating my soul. "For you, though, there will be no coming back. You and Kanazar are linked to the end."

"How can I stop that?" I asked, and he answered quickly. He had no idea.

The problem was that I did. I knew exactly how to stop any God from destroying my core.

"A god only has power over those that believe," I said.

"Indeed. If you don't believe, whatever befalls you becomes the luck of the draw."

I closed my eyes. "They will double-cross me."

"They will."

"Then I know what I have to do."

He patted my knee. "Then keep it to yourself. I am an open book when it comes to my Gods. I shouldn't know what you have planned."

"Will you join us at the final battle?"

"Will you allow me to say something to the troops before we engage?"

"If there’s time. War rarely adheres to our grand plans for it."

"Then I shall." He stood. "The time of true magic died when you destroyed the cauldrons. The spark went out of the land. Wilmsous withered, suddenly starved of all the suffering, but other Gods faded too. Man rarely looks up when things are going well. He only needs his Gods when he is in trouble. Once this battle is done, there will be little left for me to do. So, give me one last stage, and I will perform for you."

"I will do that."

He stood. "It is done—our bargain is made. Shall we rouse her?"

"Shouldn't we gather some people?"

"Is she that important to anyone else?"

"She was liked."

"I think you know the answer to this. Welcome her. Wrap her in a blanket and take her somewhere special. Let her find her feet before she has to face anyone." He looked up. "It is a fine day for it."

I said nothing, strolling with him to the temple, but he stopped before it as Jensome's men removed the last of the scaffolding. "This thing you plan. Do you know the outcome?"

"No."

"Will it involve all of us?"

"It has to."

"Good," he said. "Life might not be so dull after all."

We entered the temple, our cauldron shining under a single light streaming from a lofty window. It was golden and ornate, with men and women carved upon it. I tried to comprehend its magic, as I always did when I saw it, but I knew it was a symbol and nothing more. It was a gateway to other places, and Alex stood behind one of its doors, waiting for my call.

When Lugh had destroyed the cauldrons, he'd sealed those gateways, but the souls had still milled behind. Diagon, enjoying the chaos it would bring, had opened one, but not to a stronghold. It led to another place, and so the game had begun.

I stood, her bow in hand, its quiver over my shoulder, and I called up my cauldron tab. Fifty-two souls dwelled there. Four were farmers, one was Alex, and others had fallen along the way; during the battles in the Under, the fight with the trolls or raids against the knockers. There had been some unfortunate accidents, like when Claus had failed to chock a wagon properly, and two tonnes of stone had rolled over Harry Farley's head, popping it like a cherry.

Fifty-two—it meant five wouldn't be reborn, their souls used to power the place. One in ten—nerves filled me as I summoned all of them and paid the tally.

The first to emerge was a woman. She saw me, then the priest. Dithering, she ran to me, fell to her knees, sobbing at my feet. "My Lord! My Lord, thank you for saving me. I remember the knockers. Then all was—" Her emotion got the better of her, and she began sobbing. "Black. It was all so black, and those vile creatures..."

"Rosie," I said, barely masking my disappointment, wanting to scream what creatures but holding my tongue. "I'm glad it was you."

"We knew you wouldn't forget us," said Jim climbing out. "I said so with my last dying breath. I said, our Lord won't forget us."

"A close run thing!" said Gerald, my second-ever infantryman. He flopped out onto the altar, then tumbled off and sat scratching his head.

Frank and Jenny followed, and Dolomus herded them away, telling them to gather in the feasting hall and promising to attend and help them through their integration back into society.

After came some infantry, then a couple of cavalry. I counted, looking over those coming, hoping for a glimpse—a first glimpse. Sweat came. My hands trembled. The numbers rose. We'd rebirthed thirty, then thirty-five.

"Forty!" I shouted, barely able to stand, grinning and welcoming the reborn but secretly wishing them all dead.

"Alex!" I shouted as the forty-third climbed free. "Dear God, please let the next be Alex!"

Forty-four, then forty-five, then no more. I fell to my knees as the last one limped past me, dragging his leg, his arm limp by his side. "Never," he said. "Never going in there again. It's hell! Hell, I tell you!"

Dolomous put his arm around the man, guiding him out but lingering in the doorway. "Will you be alright?" he asked.

I stifled a sob. "I'll have to be," I said. "Go, man, go comfort the others. I need to be alone."

Still, he lingered! Still!

"You might not like priests," he said. "But I'm a man who sees pain. I can listen. You can talk. It will go nowhere else."

I waved him away, thankful but unable to say anything.

And then I was alone and sank to my knees, a mix of rage and hopelessness washing over me, despair crushing me. It was cruel, but I shouldn't have expected anything else from a land that used me as a toy.

After a while, I rose, hellbent on going to our lake and sitting there. Perhaps I'd think of her—how she was, how she might have been. Or I might think of nothing, and that might be better.

I got up and walked toward the cauldron, touching it and saying goodbye. I'd lived a long, long time. I'd lost many friends, lovers and acquaintances before. But never Alex—never her. Not forever. Not for eternity.

I walked from that place, my hand on the doorknob, and for some reason, I hesitated.

"Do you give up so easily?" she said.

I froze. What trickery was this!

"Alex?" I asked, not trusting myself to turn.

"Can you not even look at me?" she said.

I turned, and there she was. My legs weakened. My heart stopped. She stood before the altar, her clothes rags, her shoulders sagging, eyes drawn and so pale, so very, very pale. I threw the bow down, dropped the quiver, and rushed to her, pulling her to me and holding her. "I'm never letting you go again."

She cried, sobbing into my shoulder. I cupped her head, holding her there, barely breathing in case I shattered the moment. We held each other for a long while, and then she looked up and into my eyes. Tears still glazed hers, both eyes bruised through tiredness. "It was—" she said, but I pressed my finger to her lips.

"Later," I said, and I scooped her up into my arms, stashing the bow and quiver in my storage, and I left that place, ducking through the back, along an alley and out into a field. I took a side lane, headed to the stronghold, veered off, took her to our lake, and set her down on our rock.

"I have cheese, some rolls and meat. I didn't know—" I gasped. "When you didn't come! I thought you lost forever."

"I had to wait until the last had gone. Four died, swallowed by some heinous creation. I waited. The responsibility was mine."

"No, no, it wasn't. Your task was to survive."

She drew her legs up, folding her arms around them and hugging them tightly. "Not so," she said. "I am the Lord's First Lady—" She paused. "The Lord's Lady. I was in command. It was my duty to see them out."

I brought out a plate, making her a cheese and meat sandwich, then slid it to her, still wanting to give her space.

"Thank you for that." I reached, brushing my fingers over her rags. "Did you fight them off singlehanded too?"

"Most," she said. “I was fortunate. I had a few of Broadchurch's infantry with me. It was no war, just incessant snapping—dark spirits—evil things lurking in the black, waiting for despair to consume you."

"I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault."

I wanted to tell her it was—tell her all about Wilmsous and how his jealousy separated us, but she was too fragile. She looked like she would shatter. I harrumphed. "It must be my fault. I'm the Lord of this place. Eat—eat your sandwich."

"Have you got a spare cloak?"

"I have, but it won't fit you."

She stood, stripping off her rags, revealing her skeletal body, skin so pale it was almost grey, ribs showing through, and she dove into the water.

Something had changed—Limbo wasn't supposed to be like that. It was supposed to be nothing—a void—the great emptiness where folk wandered and dreamed before their resurrection. Alex swam up and down, then came to the rock.

"I'm hungry now," she said. "I needed its dirt off me."

I pulled her out, wrapping my cloak around her and cinching its belt. "Then eat."

"Not before this," she said, pulling me close, our lips touching.

"I chased you through time. Did you know that?" I said, my breaths shallow.

"I saw all in Limbo—everything. Who I was. Who you were. I remember everything, Daniel," she said, then sat, and I sat opposite, the sandwich separating us.

"Eat," I said.

"It's been so long. I'm fucking nervous about biting into a sandwich." She grinned, sniveled, then picked it up, taking a tiny bite.

I made another and took out a bottle of wine. I was running low, so I made a note to tap up Lysander for more. He must have had some brewing spell going. My wizard never ran out.

We ate. After ten thousand years of courting, we ate a sandwich by a lake and drank wine and glorious it was too. When we were done, we lay back on the rock and soaked in the sun. She slept, her head resting on my shoulder, my arm around her.

I stared at the sky, wondering if Wilmsous was watching, plotting, ready to take her from me again. There was no way he would touch her. I hadn't known to look out before. It was a mistake I wouldn’t make twice.

"You chased me for ten-thousand years," she said.

"I did, but you always wanted your independence. You never wanted me—to share my life—to share me with others."

"I never wanted to be just another."

"That's not who I am. It never was. None of them are just another."

"I know that now."

"So, when are you going to give up? When are you going to be with me?"

"I already did, right here, all that time ago. I already gave up, and I will be your wife. Have you others?"

My heart skipped a beat. "Eight," I said.

"Eight?” She paused. “Then I am the ninth. Tell me about the others."

So I did, and my words filled the space between us. I told her of Anna, my first, born from my grief but the solid foundation of my harem. Then about Leyathel, the Queen of the Elves, the Guardian of the Wolding Wood. I told her about Tanaka, our battle with the hobs, and Babushka and our trial at the hand of Malgorth. Then came Morgan, Isalar, Darinka and Wayleisha, and each description sounded fantastical beyond measure—each of them sounded like some superhero.

"So what am I?" she asked. "What do I give? I get that Leyathel, Tanaka and Babushka prop this place with their resource, and Morgan, Wayleisha, Darinka and Isalar offer you great power. I understand Anna is the glue that keeps you together, but what about me?"

I held my hand up and brought her bow out. "You are my vengeance. You are the edge that cuts. Together, we end this."

She didn't respond for a while, but when she did, it was short and to the point.

"I matter then."

"You do,"

"That was all I ever wanted."

* * *

We stayed until dusk. Then we walked to the Lording House. A small cottage sat next to Morgan's nest. It was quaint, perhaps a hunter's lodge. It was hers, but unimportant at the time. We strolled past it and to the main house, and when I opened the door, Anna rushed to me, taking Alex away. Tanaka ran up to me, pecking me on the cheek and then racing after the other two, and Babushka waved and followed.

Fiona called me through to the dining area. She was smiling, which was strange, then nodded toward the gardens. "You have a visitor," she said.

"A visitor?"

"Yes. I'll make myself scarce. The food will be ready shortly. I'll give the girls some time to pamper Alex. Can't have her going around in your old cloak. That wouldn't do at all.” She glanced at the garden. “Go! Go! Go to her! Just don't get carried away! I know you."

I walked to the window and pressed my palm against it. It was Leyathel, not as she was, but changed. Her skin was grey, so dark it had violet radiance, and her hair was white, cropped short. She wore black armor, not metal nor leather, but some creation in between. Something about her betrayed her nervousness, so I didn't delay and went to her, sitting by her, reaching for her hand.

"Are you okay?" I asked.

She looked at me, her eyes violet, their innocence gone.

"I didn't know whether I should come. I wasn't sure you'd still want me. The change..."

I put my arm around her, pulling her close. "No change could ever alter my love for you," I said. "You wear my moonstone."

"It is on my pommel."

"It is the final mystery."

She pulled me close, then leaned away, looking into my eyes before swooping in and kissing me. Her passion surprised me—the ferocity of her kiss. She broke off and smiled, but it was filled with regret. "It is Alex's night tonight. My timing isn't the best."

"It's a little unfortunate, but you couldn't know."

"What mystery?" she asked.

"The moonstone. I know all now—I understand. I get the Jewel of Everything, the staff, Rallpinto. I know who Scamp is, Finnigan too, and I get why the hob shaman targeted Alex. What I don't quite understand is what is the moonstone?"

"It is everything," she said. "Don't you remember yet? The pattern must have been more broken than we thought. Finnigan stole the moonstone from Diagon."

"Finnigan? But Finnigan isn’t who you think.”

“I know who Finnigan is. That is unimportant. You must remember. Finnigan stole the moonstone.”

“Yes, I remember that. Then the moonstone was broken, partly left with Vale and part with Morgan—hiding it from Diagon. But what is it?"

"It is everything. It holds the world in its pocket. Diagon had it, and so chaos reigned. Finnigan broke it and hid it from him, and the world went into flux, good and evil ebbing and flowing. To kill the undead is not enough. The battle will rage, and one side or the other might win, but it will rekindle. Ask yourself this. Why did Diagon originally steal the moonstone?"

I knew why. Her question prompted an avalanche of memories to slide into place.

"Because he stole it from the pattern. He ruined all. He caused the chaos that was our eternal war."

"Then you know what you have to do."

"Return it to its rightful place," I said.

"Yes. But it won't be that easy. The original pattern calls to the stone. I can feel it." Leyathel placed her hand on her breast. “I can feel it here.”

"Where is the original pattern?"

"Where else?"

"The pit," I said, downcast.

"That place," she confirmed. "Diagon will sense it. Sense it getting closer, and he will come."

"Let him," I replied. "Because I will have a formidable team surrounding me."

"We will all fight for you, husband," she said.

“You, Morgan, Wayleisha, Darinka, Isalar and Alex."

“The dwarf and goblin will be an integral part of this.”

“Then eight of you will accompany me. We will prevail.”

"Nine," said Anna. "I'm not going to miss this."

CHAPTER 21

We ate together, the five of us. Our conversation was stilted. Leyathel’s presence was too much of a reminder to us that we had a war to fight, and she was already embroiled in it. Alex asked her about it, but she answered curtly, not wanting to talk about it. Anna tried to make small talk, but between the pit and Alex’s recent experience in Limbo, there was little joy about. Leyathel left after the meal was over, muttering something about duty and needing to return to the wall, but I could tell she regretted her timing.

Alex was on the mend. The girls had washed and bathed her, dressed her in hunting-type garb—her favorite green. Anna had ordered it from the seamstress well in advance. Her thoughtfulness elevating her above all. She was the glue that held us together; her role would become more important in time.

The clothes fit Alex, but they also showed her frailty. Her time in Limbo had weakened her body. We needed to change that. Fortunately, she had good numbers, and her constitution would see her through. Food, rest and exercise would see her healed. Anna, of course, volunteered to come up with a plan.

I took her for a walk through the gardens after our meal, holding hands under the moon, the cold air making her shiver. I had everything I wanted. With Alex, I’d completed my harem—I was complete.

There was no notification, no bells ringing inside my mind. I received no reward for filling each place except what I felt inside. There was a new power within me, but it didn't come from my core. It came from them. Each of them gave me a part of themselves, whether it be empathy, determination or a clear mind.

I stayed with Alex that night, and we made love; the details of that are ours and ours alone. Suffice it to say it was a tender affair, and then she slept. But sleep evaded me, for I knew everything. I could see the moonstone as it was, hovering above the pattern, shining its light on the spiral, spreading its goodness which then radiated across the land.

It was no agent for good that prevented evil but more the land's moral compass. It told a wolf only to kill what it needed to sustain it and its pack. It subtly persuaded an oak tree to leave enough light for the plants under to live. It was our conscious allowing us to understand good and evil. Whether we took note of it or not wasn't its point. It was our guide, our path through chaos, and that was why Diagon wanted it.

Without it, the pattern was just a pattern. It was the sum of everything that had ever happened and ever would. It was the rhythm of the world and all that made it sing.

Then Diagon stole it.

My returned memory told me of a time of endless war. Lords plunged the land to new depths of depravity daily. No longer content with slaughtering one another's armies, they had begun parading their dead, spiking heads, and crucifying soldiers, women, and, worse, children.

Burnings became a regular occurrence. Not only individual people but whole towns also, their stockades dampened, the buildings inside torched and the gates blockaded.

What was an orderly society where we fought a regimented war to a strict set of rules vanished overnight. Cauldrons existed not to reunite the dead with their families but to replenish an army to go again. Anarchy took over, and while I had the greatest army, while I was the most powerful, the whole land burned, and one army couldn't put out its fire.

Then Finnigan had come guised as an indigo imp and told me the story of Diagon and the moonstone. I'd asked him why he'd come to me with his tale when surely a God could better take another God to task. He'd told me Dhagda was weak, consumed by the loss of another land and that he'd forgotten this one and said, "Let it burn."

I asked him about the other Gods, but he told me one God couldn't openly go against a brother or sister, but a man could, and what better man than me?

My ego was large. Such a task fitted me. I could heal the land, restore its moral compass, and become even more of a Legendary Lord than I was at that time. It was the task I was fated to perform.

First, I had to wrestle the moonstone from Diagon. That would stop it from spreading his chaos, for the stone itself was a conductor, manifesting Diagon's desires across the land.

Finnigan, though, the mysterious imp, did volunteer his services to steal the gem and give it to me. He said he was an agent of the Gods, a creature created by a concerned party to put the wheels of a grand plan into action. I, my ego stoked, cared not for such petty details. I was on a God-bestowed mission, which would seal my place in history as the greatest human ever to live.

I imagine I thought it might finally sway Alex into my bed, but I can't be sure of my exact thinking. I do know that I did a deal with Finnigan. I told him my price was simple. I wanted all human cauldrons gone.

The chaos had exposed my weakness. Rebellion could erupt at any time with the cauldrons there, and no single army could quell it. I would be exposed if all Lords and Ladies chose to challenge my rule. But, without the cauldrons, my dominance was such that I could crush them one at a time and be sure it would take them years to recover.

It was, lying awake on Alex's bed, her soft breaths soothing me, that I realized I was no different from any other man. I hadn't had the cauldrons destroyed through some grand and noble gesture. I'd done it to retain my power. I hadn't started this mission to save the human race. I wanted immortality through legend.

So there it was. I was not perfect. I'd even sent my family away to pursue Alex with more fervor.

A legendary Lord I might have been, but I was, at heart, an ordinary man.

Somehow that news empowered me further.

I would do better—that much I vowed. I would do better, and no God, no Pantheon of the erratic and immoral Gods would stop me.

* * *

Willow sped me along the valley. It felt good to have the wind in my hair, on my face, clearing my mind. With my new clarity came a renewed sense of purpose. It didn't bother me that self-interest might have clouded my previous motives. If anything, it empowered me. I wasn't perfect, so I didn't have to be. If I made a wrong turn, I had to keep going until I found the correct path.

I was free of the chains of the Legendary Lord—free to make erratic choices and take chances. So, the first thing I had to do was something I should have done an age ago. I would place myself in ultimate danger—see the wall and the pit—and expose myself to Diagon.

I had seen it in my mind, but I needed to witness it in the flesh—to understand what I faced. After giving Broadchurch instructions to follow, to bring our combined armies along the valley and establish a relay station halfway, I'd set off.

Our farms stretched to the cabin where I had made love to Darinka. A candle burned in our window, but it wouldn't be her. It would be a barbarian or dwarf—no doubt someone with a skill for fishing. It annoyed me. I wanted to swim over, haul them out and tell them it was a sacred place reserved for me and one of my loves. But it was a fleeting thought. We were at war; petty sentiment had no business there.

By noon I had reached the mountains, the valley narrowing, its path straighter. The river, no longer a lazy, meandering snake, frothed with anger. Great boulders lay in its path and tumbled scree lined its steep banks. The air was fresher, the cold sharper, but I didn't care. Thrill had taken root in me. Danger was a drug that once intrigued me, then bound me to its cause and tied me through addiction. Its edginess made me come alive, my myst rising, remaining under my skin, on the cusp of boiling over.

I pulled Willow to a walk. No matter my hurry, I would not run her into the ground. She took a drink from an eddying pool, and I sat back, resting against a trunk, bringing one knee up and snacking on a cake Anna had packed. I loved all my wives, and I enjoyed my town. Was it big enough to be a town? Whatever it was, I loved it too, especially the extra dimensions having such a diverse population gave. But, sometimes, being alone was twice as refreshing.

* * *

It rose like a great cliff, spreading from one side of the valley to the other. Its mass was breathtaking, spanning that gap, dwarfing all but the lofty peaks it propped. I pulled Willow up, not understanding how something so vast could exist. She neighed and shook her head, scraping the ground, uncomfortable in its shadow.

Or was it the feeling that boiled from behind? Even though sturdy and unyielding, evil spilled over, running down its sides like foam from a boiling pot.

A mighty bird patrolled its length, perhaps Wayleisha, maybe Morgan. A lone figure stood atop it, central, facing away from the pit and looking directly at me. Even from the colossal distance, I could see it was none of my wives. Isalar's influence within my myst lent me such precise sight.

"Lysander," I said and coaxed Willow on.

A switchback path took me up the hill, and at its top, standing before a box-like building, stood Morgan. A young lad took Willow, leading her around the building and out of sight, then Morgan rushed to me, embraced and kissed me, showing me inside.

"You came."

"It was about time."

She led me along a corridor and into a messroom. Bubbling conversation muted instantly, dozens of warriors, battle-scarred and filthy, hugging ale mugs or heads down over frugally covered plates, briefly acknowledged our presence, then returned to their gruff conversations.

She sat me by a fire, a small table away from the others, and for a moment, we stared at each other, holding hands.

"Sorry," she said, looking away. "I'll get you food and ale."

"I can get it. Show me where."

She stood, returning quickly, two plates balanced and mugs in hand.

"Who are all these?" I asked.

"Thrill seekers. The disaffected. Those banished by Lords or looking for a fight. The lands of the Lords and Ladies are dull—you know this. Here, it is anything but." She laughed. "You didn't think it was just us holding the horde back?"

"I—" I had no comment. I had ignored this place for too long. "How many?"

"Here? A few hundred. They come and go. Some see enough. Some die. But the same number come. Violence attracts the youth. We barely manage to feed them, but we survive."

"Why didn't you say? I could have sent you food."

"Was raising the largest army ever known, fighting the Malgorth, and taking Brightwater not enough for you?"

"A simple command would have got you food."

"We have endured for a long time, my love."

"A bit overcooked," I said, chewing on a rather burned piece of meat. "Does Wayleisha do the hunting?"

"She gets a little over-enthusiastic," Morgan admitted.

"Is Lysander here," I asked.

"He came a little while ago but does little except stare into the pit. Perhaps he will open up to you."

"Leyathel came," I said. "You've unraveled the moonstone?"

"We think. It was a gamble, but it's paid off. Only she could attune to the stone and unlock its secrets. The elves have the serenity that it demands. It seeks to undo the damage it wrought in her mind."

"The damage?" I asked.

"When it turned her from elf to drow. When it soaked her in Vale's hatred, leached from Wilmsous, where all things lead."

"It all comes back to one God," I said, watching her every expression.

"It does, in the main. Even he cannot help what God he is."

"Don't make excuses for him. He's God of suffering because he chooses to be."

"That might be. You must eliminate him, and that is that," she said.

It appeared it was a time for straight talking. "It is my intention. So, the stone told Leyathel of the pattern, its anguish, and the method of our salvation."

"She is attuned to it, yes."

"And we are sure this is the end goal."

"We are."

I polished my plate clean. "Then we must plan. I'd like to hear what Lysander says on the subject."

She eyed me cautiously. "What's the matter?"

"Too many threads, not enough knots," I said and drained my ale.

The door burst open, and Isalar raced in, turning from wolf to human as she ran toward us.

"They stir! Something is up! Come quick!"

She spun around, morphing back into a wolf, out the door before I was out of my chair.

We raced after her, me following Morgan, through tunnels lit with tallow torches, the stench of fat stifling. Isalar rounded a corner, vanishing momentarily.

What the hell is going on? I thought. Is it always like this?

I ran on, still not understanding the logistics of it all—imagining a pit full of surging undead, a swell gathering wherever they sensed the moonstone—imagining them bursting over the wall, flooding out.

We exited the tunnel, hurtling along the walkway until we met Lysander in its middle. There, I understood how wrong my vision was.

Four mountains contained the pit, four walls spanning each gap. It was much larger than I'd thought, the opposite mountains barely visible. We were high, as high as the clouds, while the pit was much lower than the land on the other side.

There was no swirling soup of undead, but the encircled land was colorless, devoid of life. I squinted, trying to see the legions of undead, but all I could see was a speck, like ants gathered around a corpse, piling on each other in a bid to get to a great crack in the wall. A burst of black magic erupted from the milling throng, smashing into the wall, rock exploding.

"They attack there," Morgan pointed to where I looked.

I moved my myst to my perception, and my vision sharpened. There were hundreds of them—thousands—black magic blasting the wall continuously, great rams battering it—ladders leaning, reaching fissures and cracks, the undead pouring through or falling.

"Not there," Isalar shouted, and Lysander pointed to the base of the wall, our wall, the one we stood upon.

For a moment, I could not understand what I saw. The ground itself moved in one mass of writhing, heaving bodies. But then I saw it for what it was. It spun, the undead circling. In their center stood a lich dressed in a deep purple cape, collar high, surrounding its skull, two blazing orbs filling its sockets.

He held a staff in his hand, black lightning crackling from it, hitting his own soldiers, whipping them to a frenzy. They circled and circled, but not quite. Something else was happening. There were stripes within stripes, tapering to nothing, then appearing like some mad vortex, some chaotic swirl.

"It's the pattern!" I shouted, and Lydander's face drained of all color.

"Run!" he cried. "Run! They know you're here. They sense you!"

"How?" I cried.

"No time. Doesn't matter!" He shoved me, pushing me to run back to where I'd come from, but my gaze was transfixed. I'd locked eyes with the lich, and he smiled at me, his toothy grin filling me with dread, and he pointed his staff at the wall.

An incredible rumble sounded, boiling from the very earth itself. A black flash erupted from the lich, the thing exploding, his power racing toward me, toward the wall.

I ran. Lysander ran. Morgan morphed into her hawk, while Isalar changed back into a wolf. Then the magic hit and the wall exploded, throwing me from my feet and sending Morgan spinning over it. Lysander flew into the air, tumbling over and over, and the walkway under me vanished, and I dropped, rubble all around me, great boulders racing past me, smashing into me. Over and over, I crashed into one rock, bounced off another, and thumped onto a fluid ground. It was moving, hurtling along—an avalanche that sent me tumbling. It slowed, but I didn't, my momentum sending me past its end and thumping into a tree.

I crawled around, barely able to breathe. I screamed as my ribs mended, no doubt aided by my myst, which had risen without anywhere to go. I stood, barely, propping myself up on a tree not far from the retreat I'd visited earlier.

"Fuck," I said, seeing the wall, the grand dam, ruptured, a bite in it, a breech so large we had no chance of defending.

Then Morgan was by my side, a hawk one moment, her the next. "What the hell did you do?" she asked.

"Bad timing, I think. Though the lich did lock eyes on me. I'm sure of that. Lysander? Have you seen Lysander?"

"Here!" he shouted, and I looked up into the tree, and there he was. "Don't flatter yourself. That was planned. They'd been gathering there for a day and had done nothing."

"They'll be over the breach before the day is done," said Morgan."

"But where did they suddenly find the power?" he asked.

"The pattern," I said. "They understand the pattern. They were drawing power from it, through it—somehow. There'll be no stopping them now."

"No, it's something more than that," Lysander said. "Something's changed. Something altered yesterday."

"Alex returned," I told him.

He said nothing. He didn't have to.

"It begins," said Morgan.

CHAPTER 22

Isalar scampered down the rockfall. Her agility was a delight and had things not been so dour, I might have taken a breath or two and appreciated it longer. Instead, I waited until she was close and brought her into our huddle.

"Broadchurch should be setting camp up at the hut on the river. Darinka knows where it is. Darinka? Where is she?" I asked.

"With Leyathel," said Morgan.

"And Wayleisha?"

"She will come. She'd returned to her nest to sleep. I have sent her a note."

"I know where the hut is," Lysander said.

"Go—go there. Tell Broadchurch he has to hold his lines. Tell him a great army comes. Go there, my hero, and help him defend."

"My place is by your side," he said, his expression unreadable. "She is with Leyathel," he added.

"Vellara?" I asked, but I needn't have bothered. She was the only female Lysander cared for—currently.

"Yes, her. I must come with you."

"No," I said. "Morgan tells me your magic is null and void in the pit. You have the Jewel of Everything. We must use what we have where it is most effective."

He squared up to me, anger filling his eyes, then backed away. "Rescue her—look after her like she's one of yours."

I rested my hand on his shoulder. "I will."

"Isalar, you go with him."

"I have to fight,” she said.

"They’ll be plenty of fighting wherever we go. Go with Lysander. If anything goes awry, find us."

"You're going after the pattern, aren't you?" Lysander said.

"If we can restore it, then we have a chance."

"No," he said. "No. I've watched them. It might win you the war but not the battle to come. The undead want their battle. They want to die and escape their suffering. There is only one way they can get that."

"Keep fighting until they're dead," I said.

"That."

"Then it makes your mission even more important. You must give them what they most desire."

I called Willow, offering her to Lysander, and watched them go. If he was right, restoring the pattern would make little difference, but something told me I had to do it—that I was destined to.

"Where to?" I asked Morgan. “Where do we find Leyathel and the others?”

"The bowels of hell," she said, turning into a hawk.

I mounted her, and she took to the skies, flying down the valley, over Lysander and Isalar before wheeling around and heading towards the desolation. The destruction was terrible, the mass of stone sagging in the middle, crumbling, and worse, forming a way out and down into the valley.

I placed all my myst into my perception but sensed nothing, no shift in the air, no magical build-up. The lich had destroyed himself performing the ritual. I'd seen it explode before the spell hit me. Now over the top of the rockfall, the disarray on the other side was plain to see. The rock had crumbled both ways—certainly more into the valley than the pit, but the debris that had exploded into that place had fallen much farther, crushing all underneath it and forming a narrow causeway that led up to the breach, the undead already scrambling up it.

Morgan landed on the remnants of the walkway. A mere nub was all that was left. "They will be over the breech within the hour."

"But only four abreast—that is something at least."

She touched my arm, squeezing. "They don't sleep, Daniel. They will be relentless. They will march until they reach our lines. They will fight until they drop."

"Lysander will hold them," I said. "He has to."

"Come." She pointed. "They grow bolder."

Across the pit, more magic poured into the crack Leyathel defended. More ladders leaned against the rockface. Morgan ran into the tunnel, a spear appearing in her hand. I equipped my axes and changed into my armor.

The burning fat seared my lungs, the smoking torches filling the tunnels with grease-soaked soot. She darted down it, veering left at a fork, then taking a steep slope into a cavern. She raced diagonally across, passing soldiers running the other way.

"We are breached! They are coming!" one shouted, carrying another with a vicious wound to his shoulder. "They come. Hundreds of them."

"Turn and fight!" she screamed. "There is no escape. The wall is down."

But before the man could answer, a dozen undead raced from a tunnel. Yet again, they were not as I thought they might be. There were no slathering, foot-dragging zombies. They were men, just like my soldiers, except they lacked any color, just shades of black and white.

I ran for them, screaming my battle cry, leaping the last few feet, one boot extended, kicking the closest soldier in the chest, burying my axe in another's face and bundling through, hitting the ground, rolling and coming to my feet, spinning, slicing one axe across another's gut then chopping his neck and nearly severing his head.

Morgan had two on the ground, both speared through the throat, their spines severed. She sprang up, jumping ten feet in the air, then arrowing her spear down and impaling another straight through the back of his neck and out through his belly. Her spear vanished, reappearing instantly, free of the soldier's body. She landed, sweeping her weapon around, chopping at their legs, slicing, hamstringing.

I wheeled around, over my first victim, severed his head, then engaged another as he charged me, sliding under his leveled spear and raking his gut with my axe, coming up, taking a fast breath. Another undead came at me before I could adjust my stance. He caught me in the gut, but my trusty mail deflected the strike. It spun me around, sweeping my feet from under me, sending me flying, landing on my back.

He stood over me, his grey face emotionless as he lifted his sword and readied the death blow.

But I wasn't going down that easily. I waited, allowing him the time to strike—to commit—while summoning all my myst and jerking to one side. The sword whipped past me, clattering onto the stone, letting me trap his foot in my legs, whip my body around and bring him to his knees. I backward rolled, coming to my feet, springing forward and taking his head with a double strike.

I glared around, desperate for some more, but Morgan grabbed me, pulling me into another tunnel, racing down, ever down, then to a set of steps. She paused.

"They aren't undead," she said. "You don't have to chop their heads off."

"Don't you?"

"No, but it never hurts to snap their spines." She winked at me. “You love it when I talk sexy, don’t you?”

"Certainly do," I said, and we were off again, taking the steps two at a time, then running along another tunnel and out into a wide corridor. She held her hand up, listening.

"Two breaches," she said. "We defend one, but the other is lost."

"Then there's only one to go to," I said. "Does your magic work here?"

"Here, yes. The pit, no."

"Then we bring it down and seal it, then go to the other."

She didn't reply, racing toward the lost breach. I cycled through my chaotic storage, looking for another weapon, but no better options offered themselves. I loved the twin axes. Their versatility suited me. They were elegant yet brutal, and within moments, they were in action again as we fought a path through the enemy, clearing our way to the breach.

It was an endless surge, only stemmed by their piling bodies, by Morgan's grey magic. The stench of burning flesh overtook the sweating tallow. The silence, though, was worse. Yes, the noise of boots on the ground, the clang of metal on stone, metal on metal filled our ears. But as we attacked, as they died, there were no screams, no cries for help: only silence and blank eyes.

Then Morgan had a clear sight of the breach, and her spear vanished as she threw her magic at the rock above, and grey light exploded out, bringing the ceiling down, crushing all under it and closing the breach.

The blast blew us both backward, sending us sprawling along the corridor. My ears rang, their enhanced perception momentarily shattered by the explosion. Dust filled my mouth as stone splinters peppered me.

But I had no time to linger, jumping up, straddling Morgan's prone body, waiting, knowing the survivors would attack. She stirred as the first lunged from the fog. I barely evaded his spear, knocking it out of the way before I'd seen it, thanking my myst-enhanced instincts, dispatching him with my other axe, then moving on to the next.

The undead were dazed, yet still, they came. They crawled. They clawed the stone. They did everything possible to get the death they craved, and I dealt it without mercy. Morgan got up, blasting the dust-filled chamber with milder magic and ending their feeble resistance. Then she pulled me away, and we stumbled from that place toward the corridor, retracing our steps, hunting our next victims.

She led me lower, towards shouts and screams, and we were soon in the thick of it. The drow were there, battling hard, taking down the undead in their droves, but they still raced through. I fought, my myst brimming, oiling my strokes and filling them with power beyond what my strength should give me. I reached a level not previously attained and certainly not forgotten. No longer would I wake up surrounded by bodies, not knowing how I got there. I was aware of everything, and I had a craft to hone, a new fighting style to perfect—one that was faster, more powerful, and more deadly than anything I could have imagined.

The undead fell before me, behind me, on either side, and I carved a bloody wake through them, dishing out silent death in droves. The drow gathered behind me, and we forced a wedge through them as my eyes focused on one thing—a bright, grey light.

It was her. I knew that much. The moonstone drew the undead.

The sight spurred me on, and if possible, I reached a new level, my axes frantic, body parts flying, undead falling. Morgan hovered on the periphery of my vision. She'd swapped her spear for a sword and shield, bashing, stabbing, slamming, and slicing.

Then we joined, forming a front, marching through them, narrowing the gap to Leyathel. A burst of grey magic came from Morgan, exploding central to the breach, not plugging it but momentarily stemming the tide of undead. It gave us precious moments to reach Leyathel. Vellara was there too, her vines and roots crushing the enemy, trapping and tripping them.

"Retreat!" Morgan shouted.

A great upheaval tossed undead corpses all about, a long tail swishing and upending more, and Darinka appeared in its center, a giant axe in hand, arcing around, taking heads. She raged, spitting venom and curses in equal amounts.

"Retreat!" Morgan shouted again.

I pulled Leyathel and Velarra close, surrounded instantly by other drow. Morgan fought her way to Darinka, backing up and joining us.

"Retreat!" Morgan cried for a third time, and this time we fell back.

Morgan's magic flared again, exploding in the breech, blasting us all backward, my ears ringing for a second time. But I wasted no opportunity. I used my senses and myst-driven perception, and I hunted out the undead where they lay recovering, sending each to the death they so coveted.

Then a true silence descended, and I stood in the gloom, perceiving no threat.

A touch from behind saw me swivel on instinct; my axe raised, strike on its way. Morgan stopped it with her outstretched hand, and Leyathel embraced me.

"Do not rescue me with one hand, then kill me with the other, husband," she said, then kissed my dust-caked lips.

We retreated to a room, attacking the pitchers, drinking our fill of water or ale. There were nine of us left: Leyathel, Morgan, Darinka, Vellara, myself and four drow I didn't know. After a moment, I sat on the table and addressed them.

"Before I say what I'm going to say, know this, any of you can say no and return to the surface or wherever's safe. The undead have breached the main wall. They will be over it before nightfall—flooding the valley tomorrow. If you want to run, now is the time. No one will think any worse of you." I paused. "Well, perhaps a little bit." My joke fell flat. "If you stay, this is our mission."

I reached for Leyathel's sword, and she gave it to me.

"This gem is called the moonstone. Its place is not on the pommel of this sword but hanging above the land's original pattern. There it quells the darker urges of some races. There it keeps the balance of the land. Diagon stole it. He wanted it for his own—he cherished the chaos its absence would bring.

"A goddess named Morrigan stole it from Diagon, broke it in two, and then hid it for ten thousand years until we remade it. Our quest, our task, is to put it back—replace it from whence it came. Unfortunately, when Diagon realized it had gone, his next move was to prevent that return. So he made this pit and filled it with undead. The pattern, the source of everything, is under the pit—almost certainly in its very center. As I said, if you don't want to come, leave now."

I slipped off the table, finding a corner, sitting, closing my eyes momentarily.

"Have you a plan?" Morgan asked.

"No plan. I barely know the place. But I know the pattern's under there somewhere. We'll get guidance."

"How can you be so sure?" Leyathel asked.

"Because although it sometimes seems it, we aren't alone."

* * *

Darinka came over, sitting with us. "What are we waiting for?"

"A friend," I said. "I have one, you know."

"One you haven't bedded and wed?" Morgan asked.

"Well, there is Lysander," I said. "But there is another—two, actually."

"Two?" said Scamp, appearing from the room's corner. “I wouldn't count Finnigan. She's a bitch—and absent." He snickered. “I meant he, of course.”

"I thought you interchanged?" I pointed out.

"We do," said Scamp.

I looked him up and down, pretty sure I addressed Cerridwen. But her appearance confirmed one thing for me. Both Gods were watching me. They either didn't trust me, or they didn't trust my ability to get the job done.

"Shall we go?" I said. "Although I'm pretty certain we'd have found our way just fine."

I left my veiled accusation hanging there.

"It's quite simple to find. First, you go down. Then you go across."

"Just how far down?" Darinka asked.

"To the blood of the land," Scamp said.

* * *

Scamp led us down, beyond the paths lit by torches, deeper than those smoothed and timeworn. He held a bowl of lichen light in front of him, picking his route carefully, threading through tiny caverns, squeezing along sharp fissures, ducking into pools, swimming through holes and surfacing, finding new ways and taking us deeper and deeper into the bowels of the land.

Silence became a series of creaks and groans, heavy breathing, whispered voices and stifled grunts. The rock changed from dark grey to brown, then to a rich, burnished color, and the scent of iron filled the air. We eventually came to a larger cave, its floor layered, and at its end sat an arched way, not naturally formed but carved either by hand or magic.

"Here," said Scamp, "and this is as far as I go."

I knew why. He expected a God to welcome us and didn’t want to be unmasked and held accountable. I equipped my axes, not thanking him nor saying goodbye. He would appear—or rather she would, whenever there was meddling needed. I did not doubt that. But I did doubt one thing.

I hadn't brought the right team. In all my plans and scenarios that had played out in my mind, Alex was there, as was Tanaka, Babushka—all my ladies. Yet there I was, headed for the final showdown, the greatest confrontation of my life, and they were absent.

Something was wrong.

Something didn't add up.

I edged forward, pressing my back against the wall, creeping to the arch, glancing through, and then snapping my head back. The others lined up beside me.

"What did you see?" Morgan asked.

"Blood," I said. "Lots of it."

I slipped around, entering a chamber. The ground was like a sponge, red liquid welling as I stepped on it. The stench of iron overwhelmed me. Small, russet islands poked through the pooling liquid. I made my way to one, standing atop, crouching, wondering what to make of what lay before me.

The pattern was there, but blood stained its black and white swirls, oozing up from its center where a sword pierced it. But not any sword. My sword—the one I'd lost in Vale's tower.

Leyathel drew beside me. "Is that yours?"

"It is."

"Where's Diagion?"

I rubbed my chin. "I'm not sure. Something is wrong. Very wrong."

But I had no choice. I had to walk the pattern and set the moonstone above, even though it was patently obvious that was what Diagon wanted me to do. What else could I do? Walk away? What would that achieve?

“Leyathel, give me the moonstone.”

“If you want me to,” she said. “But think. Is it not my destiny to do this thing?”

“I believe it is. I believe it will restore the purity of the land. But look—look at the blood. Could it be beyond repair? This is a trap. I know it.”

“I am your wife. You are my husband. Let us walk the pattern together. You do what you must, and I will perform my task. If it is a trap, then we will face the consequences together.”

“Perhaps I should walk it too,” Darinka said.

“No, you, all of you, spread around the pattern. Defend it from whatever comes, and hope nothing does.” I took Leyathel’s hand. “It would be my pleasure to walk the pattern with you.”

She sheathed her sword, removing the stone from its pommel, holding it, taking my hand with her other. We stepped from the russet island, wading in the ever-deepening blood and coming to the pattern’s start. The others spread around, the blood flowing from the punctured center. Then, as I stepped on it, as Leyathel stood beside me, the archways vanished, and the cavern began to fill.

A chill laugh sounded, filling the cavern, and I knew it was Diagon and that we had walked into his trap. The land’s blood would drown us unless we could pull off the impossible—unless we could restore the moonstone and the pattern.

“We can do this,” Leyathel said.

We ventured forward, the pattern unraveling the instant we did. The blood washed around, dripping from the pattern’s center, suddenly above us, then below us, ever-changing, unrelenting.

“We can only walk what’s in front of us,” I said, my teeth gritted. “Step forward. Trust yourself. Fear nothing!”

I repeated those final two words over and over as the white strip we trod narrowed. We moved in, along the pattern, a black void on either side of us. A great gout of blood soaked us, making the pattern even more slippery underfoot, but I was sure no, positive, we had help—help Diagon couldn’t possibly have guessed would come to our aid.

The pattern wanted us to succeed. It sensed Leyathel’s purity and the moonstone’s presence. A scream pierced the cavern. Some blood-vengeance-beast was attacking—Diagon’s way of getting us to hurry up—to slip and fall into oblivion.

“Not going to happen,” I said. “Not today, not ever.”

“What?” Leyathel asked.

“Do you trust me?” I shouted, the screams outside of the pattern getting louder and louder.

“With my life, husband. With all my heart.”

“Then trust the white and run!”

We ran, the pattern slippery underfoot, but somehow, we remained upright. We raced upward, around loops, upsidedown, running along impossible slopes, threading twists and turns. Each step we took held, and even though the black called to us, the blood soaked us, our steps were sure, our grip unbreakable, and our progress to the center inevitable.

We came to the sword, blood spewing from the wound. I didn’t hesitate, pulling it from the pattern—the sword recognized me, accepting my grip and pull. The instant the blade came free, the pattern returned to its two-dimensional state.

Morgan barely held her head above the blood’s level. A drow body floated past me, followed by another. Darinka rose from it as the pattern hovered above. The Leyathel set the moonstone above it, and its radiance spilled out, the blood vanishing.

“It’s over,” she said, falling into my arms.

“I’m not so sure,” I said as the pattern rose and spun.

The cavern’s roof opened, and a great roar erupted.

CHAPTER 23

As we rose, the pattern began to swirl faster and faster, sliding under us, sending every stain from its glossy surface.

"I understand," Leyathel said. "I know what the moonstone is, Daniel."

But before she could explain, we reached the surface, and the pattern stopped. The pit surrounded us, its containment walls much farther away than I'd imagined they could be. The size of it was colossal, and it dawned on me that I had no clue what created it. Was it formed by a God or by some natural event?

An imposing figure stood before me dressed in a garish gold cloak with over-exaggerated shoulders and a collar that rivaled the lich. He was a sharp-looking man with tiny eyes and a long nose, and he regarded me like a cat might a mouse if it wasn't particularly hungry but fancied causing pain. I was about to demand his name when he spoke, his voice reverberating right through me.

“Legendary Lord, we meet at last. Such a shame it will be so brief an affair.”

"And who might you be?" I asked.

A fair guess told me he was Diagon, but I wanted some time to assess my situation. It didn't take long. While not a great one for cursing, sometimes those pointed words summed up a situation far better than any others could. I was fucked.

Diagon faced me, a long-bladed weapon in hand—sort of half-staff and half-sword. I imagined one sweep would see myself and Leyathel cut in two, and I saw no particular way to avoid that outcome. If that wasn't bad enough, a ring of undead warriors surrounded us, around ten feet back from the pattern. Each was armed with a formidable weapon—the best of the best of the undead.

"You know full well who I am!" Diagon raged, his calm expression vanishing instantly.

There was nothing a God hated more than not being recognized.

"Of course, I know you. You’re Wilmsous!"

They hated nothing more than being mistaken for another God, that was.

"Diagon!" he screamed. "The God of Chaos, Lord of Anarchy! You, Legendary Lord, have meddled enough. It is time for you and the elf to die!"

"But first, you want us to return the moonstone to you." A thought crossed my mind. "But, you cannot stand on the pattern; otherwise, you would have taken it already. Nice touch with the sword, by the way."

"Sword?" he said, confirming my suspicion he knew nothing about that matter.

I drew it. "This one. The one that was stabbed into its center, causing the world to bleed, draining all color from this place."

Doubt rippled his brow as he hesitated momentarily. Then he stiffened, resolve taking over.

His mind was erratic. It had to be. How else could he be the Lord of Chaos? I'd already taken up too much of his time, and more would either bore him to death or cause him to bring some random event to bear. I hoped for the latter, given that my current situation lacked a good exit.

"Attack!" he screamed and ended that little hope.

I readied, knowing the undead couldn't simply invade the pattern but had to walk its white path. Something they didn't appear to know as they rushed forward and slammed into some invisible barrier.

"Not so easy, is it?" I said. “How did you steal the moonstone?” I asked.

“I had someone else do it. How do you think? I might not be able to tread its path, but others can. It was unfortunate that it sent them insane.”

It made sense. Too much moonstone appeared to magnify any evil inside a person. What chance did a thief have? Leyathel, on the other hand, was pure of heart, so it only heightened that.

“Affected you a little bit, too, I see. Did it make you more erratic or just mad?”

“You can be the judge of that,” he said.

He laughed. The sky darkened. My gut somersaulted. Lighting cracked, streaking down, smashing into the pattern, ripping right through it. I slipped. Leyathel crashed into me, sending me skidding across the white center toward the black void at its edge. I reached for some purchase, anything, but the surface was too slippery. My legs went over the edge, followed by my waist, the void’s cold biting. Leyathel grabbed me, pulling me back from the brink.

Another bolt hit, tearing into it. An incredible rumble sounded, and the land shook.

"You'll destroy everything!" I screamed, but he laughed and brought down another bolt.

The undead had found the pattern's entrance and now walked its white path, closing in on us, their grey faces grim, spears leveled. The ground shook again. Another lightning bolt smashed into the pattern. It tilted, sending us sliding towards black once more. Two of the undead vanished, but the Leyathel scrambled to her feet, glaring at the God.

"Enough!" she screamed at him. "Enough of your petty meddling!" She held the moonstone up. "This is the true pattern! The other, all other, is a mere reflection of its magnificence."

"Then give it to me, and I will set you free," said Diagon screamed back, lifting his hand and calling another lightning bolt down.

"I'd rather die!" Leyathel said, a choice, I thought, that we ought to have debated first.

Diagon paused, dithering. Indescion filling his chaotic mind. The undead closed, spurred on by the break in the lightning. I drew my sword, my axes unsuitable for the narrow confrontation.

"If you've got something up your sleeve, now's the time," I told her.

"Give it to me!" Diagon screamed. “Give it now, or I’ll destroy it and the world!”

"Over my dead body!" Leyathel screamed and lifted the moonstone high, slamming it down into the pattern's center.

The stone shattered, thousands of shards exploding in slow motion, each emitting a ferocious, burning light. My myst immediately welled as the light burned my body, melted my eyes and set my hair on fire. I screamed, expecting tortuous pain, but none came as my myst shielded me from the burning.

Leyathel held my hand, propping me, as my myst took hold, growing in power, invading every part of me. It consumed the moonstone's energy, rebuilding my charred body, flesh rejuvenating, eyeballs swelling, and my hair regrowing. An immense warmth raced through me, not the hostile heat of moments ago, but something so much different—something uplifting. I straightened, knowing I was even more potent than before, that I'd reached some divine peak previously unattainable.

The light cleared, and for a moment, the blindness returned, or what I thought was that. A green band hemmed in the completed and repaired pattern. On its periphery stood a charred skeleton, standing where Diagon had been, and surrounding his remnants grew dozens of small shrubs, grass poking through the rock, which crumbled and darkened to the finest soil.

Leyathel stood by me, not the drow—not the warrior I'd fought with in the tunnels, by the breach, but the old Leyathel, the elf, her long blonde hair and pale skin returned to how it was.

She wore a vivid green cloak, the color of vibrant moss, cinched at the top by a silver pendant, a shining, grey stone cradled in an ornate leaf setting. She held a wooden staff, and from it grew several leaves, and atop it was another milky stone emitting the same light as her broach.

"What happened?" I asked as the green ring expanded, swallowing the pit's desolation.

"The stone reclaimed its place in the Land," she said. "When Diagon took the stone, he stole the pattern. The one we trod was a mere memory of what was, imprinted on the Land but fading daily. As it faded, the pit grew, swallowing the land, turning it all into dust."

"The sword?"

"Was another's attempt to destroy the world." She turned to me, her emerald eyes restored, a kaleidoscope of that color, hazel, blue and black. "The pattern was weak. The wound bled the land, sucking its willpower."

"But who?" I asked.

"Not who, why? It is always why, my love. Why leads to who. What God doesn't wish for the Land of Man to endure? What God would rather turn all to ash than lose his love?"

"Wilmsous," I said.

"He it is. The one who stands in Brightwater's square. The one at the heart of all this."

"The one who must die," I said.

"Be careful, husband. Do not let vengeance swallow your heart. Perhaps through the pattern's rejuvenation, we can eradicate him."

"Horseshit," I said. "A divine bolt to the head will do a better job."

She kissed me then as we stood on the pattern, and my myst rose once more as if kindled by my desire for her.

Something fundamental had changed within me, but I could not understand what. I understood the moonstone had magnified my power and elevated my myst to new heights. That much was easy to see. I was more muscular. I'd always been well-built, but I'd grown, and there was a purpose behind it. I knew that.

"I am to defend the land."

"Yes, husband," she said. "You are. You are the moonstone, the Land, and all in it. It has set you there to stop the Gods from overreaching. You are in place to prevent this ever happening again."

I didn't reply. I knew it was true.

“You have divine power,” she said.

"It has given me divine power?"

She smiled. "You always had that. Some men do. How else do you think they command so many? Now, you must use it for the Land, not you."

"Will you help me?"

"I am the protector of forests, the wood and the glade. I have returned, my love, to my original purpose but on a much grander scale."

I took her hand. "Come, let us find the others."

"They wait on the remnants of the wall. They watch this transformation."

I looked up, relief washing over me, knowing one part was done. Then I thought of the next battle I had to fight, but rather than dread filling me, eagerness did. It wasn't some rash choice I had to make but a calling. I no longer drifted, but I had a purpose.

A shadow crossed the pit. Its mighty wings spread wide, great tail trailing. It circled, getting ever lower until it vanished beyond the green belt. We ran through the lush, new land, dodging trees as they thrust upward, their canopies spreading. Under their shade, other shrubs grew, blossom coloring the green, rodents scampering.

"How is it happening so fast?" I asked.

"The same way the stone renewed you. It is the Land, the pattern of everything."

"Then what is the Jewel of Everything?"

"It is all else. It is the magic that knits all. One is the weft. The other is the weave. One is form, the other is function, and they are whole together."

"Then we are not yet done."

"No," she said. "There is more peril. We tread a dangerous line."

We came to the edge of the green, walking past it onto the barren rock. The renewal crawled on behind us, consuming the rock, cultivating it, and returning it to how it was.

Wayleisha walked towards us, her tail swishing, her expression a mix of anger and love. "I take a nap for one morning and miss everything? Couldn't you wait?"

"I got a little carried away," I said.

She ran a claw across my chest, and I realized my armor was gone. I wore a cloth across my waist and had knee-high boots on. A sword hung by my side, but not any sword. It was mine, but much larger.

"Well, someone has grown," Wayleisha purred. "I approve. I approve a lot. Perhaps you can spare me a moment before you rush off and cause more havoc? It would be nice to try out the new you."

"I could," I said, "but I have a feeling we might have a long time to become reacquainted."

"Good," she said, "because I've never bedded a God before, and I wouldn't want to rush it."

"A God?" I said.

"Divine power is running through you, so you are a God. Best get used to it."

"It is," Leyathel said.

I searched inside myself, but I hadn't changed apart from the feeling of immense power. Not that I had any idea what a God felt like, nor what separated a God from a mortal—apart from the obvious.

"So, I'm a God?"

"You are divine, yes," Leyathel said. "To become a God, someone has to worship you."

I stared at them both. "Well?" I said. "There's two of you. Surely one of you could do it."

Leyathel shook her head as Wayleisha rolled her eyes.

"We have an army to defeat," Leyathel said.

And then a thought struck me, and I grabbed her arm and turned her to me. "You know, I have one regret in all of this."

"What regret?"

"I've still never made love to a drow."

* * *

I rode Morgan while Wayleisha carried Leyathel. Darinka took Vellara via the river, and we all headed north. The army of the undead filled the whole valley, squeezed between its narrow sides, but even where it widened, all was grey. Then we flew over a green patch, which was all too brief. Broadchurch's lines looked feeble, like a twig dam waiting to hold back spring melt. But they were all there; the barbarians, the goblins, the hobs, Uther and his banners, the last of the elves, and the dwarves.

It was hopeless. They had no chance. We had no chance. Divine power or not, the numbers didn't stack. The undead would hit them, and they would be trampled underfoot within moments.

Morgan set me down by a grand, white tent. I marched in, drawing stares from Lysander, Alex, Anna, Babushka, Tanaka, Broadchurch, Uther and others. All my commanders and the rest of my wives gathered, all about to be slaughtered by the undead horde.

"They come," Lysander said. "They are like an avalanche. We'll not see out the day, even with the jewel."

"We go down fighting," said Uther. "It will be a glorious battle."

I laughed. "There is no such thing. Lysander is right. We will not see out the day. Broadchurch, can you give me time? Can you shore up our line to hold the initial charge?"

He shook his head. "If what you say is true, then there is no chance of our line holding. We have no time to prepare a decent bank to stop them."

I turned to Uther. "Could our cavalry outrun them?"

"Of course," he said.

I thought. There was one option, but using it had always been my last resort.

"Anyone?" I asked, desperate for another solution.

"We could dig a pit," Tanaka said, “but I don't think we have the time to make it large enough. It will fill with their bodies, and they will march on."

I tapped my chin, then took a deep breath.

"No," I said. "We do this. We try something else.” It was time for last resorts. “Broadchurch, move your men to the valley's side. Get them high enough to keep them out of harm's way and hide. Let the undead pass, then follow. Engage as soon as they stop.”

I addressed Uther. “Uther, gather all mounted men. Hold until you can smell their foul breath, then lead them north. Take them straight to Kanazar."

"Bring them onto our walls, then attack from behind," Broadchurch said. "It gives us hope."

I debated whether to tell him the truth but chose not to.

"Something along those lines."

CHAPTER 24

We landed in the fields beyond the Lording House. Morgan turned back into her human form. Both were stunning.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"What I have to for them all to survive—for us to survive."

"But what?"

I wanted to tell her. I really did. But I had my suspicions, and while I didn't question her motives, I wasn't sure how far I could trust her. No, that wasn’t it. I was sure I could trust her, but unsure if she was compromised. It was time to find out.

"Do you love me, Morgan?" I asked.

"I do. You know I do."

"Even though I am technically a God?"

"Especially because of that."

"Why especially?" I said, springing my trap. I smiled because a smile betrays judgment, and I wanted her to know everything would be alright.

Her lip quivered. "You know?"

"I do," I said.

"Does it change anything?"

"It changes nothing." I kissed her long and hard, my myst rising, a new power within me that needed sating. But there was no time. That would have to wait. "Do you trust me?"

"More than any other."

"Then trust what I'm about to do."

She nodded. "Do you know about—"

"Anna?" I laughed. "Of course. She was even more obvious." I kissed her again. “But there can be no dishonesty at my table. You must be who you truly are.”

“What if this is who I want to be?”

“Then be Morgan. Honestly, Morgan, Morrigan, it makes little difference to me. I love you for the person you are. No other.”

She kissed me. “Gods should not fall in love with mortals.”

“But they do, and we fall for Gods.”

“For one mortal to have two Goddesses—”

I placed my finger on her lips. “Nine Goddesses. Remember that. There are nine, and you are all equal.”

“They will all gain myst. They will all become immortal.”

“Then we have eternity to make this work.”

“What do you want me to do?”

"Get everyone back here. I have a new bargain to make with Kanazar."

“Beware that one. It seeks to be free.”

"Then I do not need to beware because I seek to free it."

"Good," she said. "I will gather them all in the Lording House."

I pecked her on the cheek. "Perfect."

I raced off, darting toward the stone circle, down under, into Kanazar's lair. The dome had grown again, sparkling stars coating all, nearly every speck of blackness gone. "Done the place up, I see," I said, leaning on an old line.

"We are level eight. We have a temple, so it's time I received some worship."

"I can go one better than that."

Its light brightened. "Go on."

"A great army of the undead comes here. I can either lead it onto your walls and crush it there or let it through the gates, and you can have your merry way with it."

"Alas," it said. "I am not that type of core."

"What if you were? What if we were to do our other deal?"

It laughed then. "You have failed, haven't you? You wish to serve me to save your puny skin."

"I wish to renegotiate the terms of the deal."

"The terms? They are straightforward. Either I serve you, or you serve me."

"But that isn't what this is all about, is it? You haven't served me since I woke. You've been drip-feeding me enough information to make sure I followed a path you wanted me to."

"You commanded me not to reveal all to you."

"Nonsense," I said. "Absolute rubbish. If you can only obey my commands, then my latest command revokes all others. Therefore, had you been serving me, you must have obeyed my latest command. You didn't. So, you haven't been serving me." It was a weak and ill-thought-out diatribe, but it got my point across.

He dulled.

"Don't," I said. "Don't even think about going silent. I am Lord of this place. If I wish, I can destroy it."

"If you destroy it, you destroy yourself."

I laughed. "That might well have been true, but then the moonstone granted me divinity. It freed me of our binding. I can walk away, Kanazar. I can leave you to rot for an eternity."

Silence followed.

"Or," I said, then paused.

"Or?"

"Let me think," I said. "You were engineering a situation where I would be forced to come to you and hand you control. So, you had to know that the undead horde would break free and overrun this place. I already know you were in league with Lugh because you presented me with Fennel, who was Lugh in disguise. Therefore, Lugh visited this place, and you let him in."

"What do you want?" Kanazar said.

I continued, ignoring him. "What I can't understand is what Lugh, a God of Luck, gets from all this. But I guess I'll have to stick with meddling. It appears to be a God thing."

"He wanted Alex too," Kanazar blurted.

"He wanted Alex?" I said, feigning surprise.

"Once you grant me my freedom, I release Alex, and he comes and takes her. That is it. That's the deal. Sacrifice Alex, and you live."

"But I don't die anymore, so it's time for a new deal between you and me, and I think you will like it."

"I'm listening."

"We part ways," I said. "You retain this spot. You guard the land to the west from the Lords and Ladies, setting traps and tests so only the most worthy adventurer can get through. You grow your power through the deaths of those who try and fail to beat your dungeon, and you reward those who do. You are your own master, and this stronghold is your lair."

"I can make that work," said Kanazar. "What's the catch?"

"Every single one of my citizens goes free. The Wolding Woods is off-limits. The Goblin caves are off-limits. My Lording house and the eight other houses are my sanctuaries. You must maintain them for me at all times. I, Fiona, and all my wives can come and go as we please. You will level in the same way as you leveled before, except you will do it through consuming enemies."

"Agreed," it said.

"Then you have approximately one day to prepare. Your first guests will be arriving then. Divert Uther and all the mounted men into the Wolding Wood, then feast on the army and level. Oh, and one more thing."

"What?"

"You worship me. You are my dungeon—dedicated to me, The Legendary God."

* * *

I left Kanazar to make his preparations, racing back to the Lording House, where all of my wives gathered. There, I told them about my plan. It was simple as it was risky. Kanazar would consume the army while Broadchurch hemmed it in, killing any that tried to escape.

"It leaves two loose ends," I said. "Lugh and Wilmsous. We will not be free to live our lives while those two live." I reached for Alex. "You must draw them to me. You must be the bait."

She had recovered from Limbo. Her cheeks were rosy, and she attacked her food with unfettered enthusiasm. Her eyes still lacked sparkle, but their haunted look was absent. She nodded. "It seems this is all my fault."

"No fault," said Anna. "You can't help a God pursuing you."

She glanced at Anna. "There are two ways to avoid an unwanted suitor—neither appeal to me, and one doesn't work if they wait for you to rebirth."

I cleared my throat. "That option isn't open to us anymore. If you want it, you have to pledge to the dungeon. That is the offer currently put to all citizens. They can go to Brightwater, establish a life in the east, or serve Kanazar."

"Seems a bit harsh," said Tanaka.

"No, not harsh. The stronghold will remain the same for any traveler that doesn't enter the dungeon. Only those traveling from west to east through the goblin cave will be directed there. Barnaby has agreed to run the place, and Jensome will help with dungeon renovations. Some folks resist change."

"It's not harsh," Morgan said. "It is that or death. But are we sure Kanazar can contain the horde?"

"He will grow stronger with each he consumes. It will be a sight to see."

"Where do you want me?" Alex asked.

"The temple," I said. "Where else."

"Will you be there?"

"I intend to be. I will end them."

"Where will we go?" Darinka asked. "Assuming we survive."

"Well, there's ten of us. If we want a pet, we have Lysander to consider, but he'll follow Vallera. So, my vote is we go east. We find a nice retreat, which we'll have to build ourselves, given our lack of a core, and we see just how damn powerful we can get. We follow the myst."

"I'm up for that," said Tanaka, and Babushka agreed too.

"Could we get myst?" she asked.

"Everyone has myst inside them," Morgan said.

"Don't you get some God-given dwelling?" Isalar asked.

"I would hope so," Wayleisha said. "After all the trouble you've gone to to sort a squabble out. Surely it's Dhagda's task to keep his Gods in line."

"And all over such a scrawny piece of meat," said Darinka.

Alex shot up. "Who are you calling scrawny?"

"You," Darinka said, with a smile on her lips.

"Ladies, please, no name-calling," said Anna.

“At least I only have one name,” said Isalar. “What is it? Anna or Cerridwen?”

Anna stuck her tongue out. “Wolf or woman?”

"A bit of name-calling is all right," Morgan said. "Otherwise, it'll be too boring.

"I'll agree to a bit." Alex sat down. "Besides, it's better to be scrawny than chubby."

Darinka shot up. "You calling me fat?"

"Did I say fat?" said Alex.

"She said chubby," said Isalar. "Have you been snacking on trout again?"

"At least my breath doesn't smell like rotting rabbit meat."

"No, but the rest of you does," Isalar countered.

"Weak," said Morgan.

"Weak," a few others chimed in.

"I'll get better," Isalar promised.

I closed my eyes and listened.

I had my family, and I had an eternity of this.

I couldn't wait.

CHAPTER 25

I stood upon the battlements, looking over the southern forest, the quarries, and somewhere hidden in the foliage, the iron mines I'd never even visited. I had no idea what to expect. Well, that's not quite the truth of it. They were a swarm, a raging mass of hatred, and they would fall on us with no mercy.

By us, I meant Kanazar. The core had begun shaping the town to its design. There was a grand, arched entrance splitting the walls. A corridor extended from it, walls about five feet thick. Things lurked within those walls. I could hear them moving. The corridor opened to a circular courtyard with a large metal grate spanned its entire floor.

Part of me was intrigued. I wanted to see what surprises waited for the undead army, but another part of me, the soldier within me, was horrified. Kanazar had clearly spent decades thinking of ways to kill humans.

"What kind of beast have I unleashed on this land?" I asked.

“Think of Kanazar as your gatekeeper. The Lords and Ladies know the land beyond the Stormbane is rich with life and resources. It is only a matter of time until they come." Morgan shifted closer to me. "I shall go and scout. See how long we have."

"I have a deal with Uther that keeps them away from this land."

"Uther might not survive the day. Man uses war to settle old scores. He may yet get a sword in the back." She shimmered and transformed into her hawk.

"The dungeon might be fun," Alex said, drawing next to me.

I scoffed. "You're a hunter. You'd find no satisfaction in caged prey."

"You might be right. Do you know what happens when they enter the courtyard?"

"No idea. I asked Kanazar to funnel the undead away from the temple. That is all."

"Are you sure Lugh will appear there?" Leyathel asked.

"I'm counting on it," I said. "We can have no peace while either of them lives."

"Do you hate them?" Alex asked. “Not sure I do, despite everything. Think they’re kind of pathetic.”

I caressed her cheek. "For becoming infatuated with you? No, I don't hate them, nor are they pathetic. I get what they see. The only thing I don't understand is how it's only two Gods I face."

"Please," said Darinka. "You might just as well start fucking here and now. Bend her over the battlements and take in the crennelations, why don't you?"

"Well?" Alex said. "I'm pretty sure that would infuriate a God or two. Shall we?"

“It would be my pleasure, but I have another plan for getting them where I want them, and I have already sent them an invite via one of their old associates.” I grinned, then pointed. "Is that Isalar?" I asked, changing the subject.

A silvery blue streak raced towards the wall, jumping, hitting it halfway up, then transforming into human form, springing, reaching for the battlements and pulling herself onto the walkway. "They have entered the forest. They smell blood."

I rubbed my hands together. "Then it starts."

"They race forward like the devil himself is on their tail. They'll bunch here and clamber over each other until they spill over this wall," she said.

"That bad?" I’d assumed we were safe on our lofty perch.

Morgan swooped down. "Fall back; there are hundreds of thousands of them. More must have come."

"Their dead have risen again," I said, remembering the ones I'd fought in Vale's tower.

Kanazar had already evacuated all those who'd chosen to stay. He’d hid them inside his chamber, promising them new quarters and places of work when we’d won the battle. The core had confidence in itself, as, curiously, had I.

I drew my sword. "Let them come. We need to funnel them into the gate. If they breach the wall, they'll overrun the place."

Wayleisha took to the air. Alex nocked her bow. Babushka raised her hammer, and Tanaka equipped her spear. Leyathel pointed her staff at the treeline, muttering in some language I couldn’t understand.

"We do this," said Anna, appearing as Cerridwen, and she conjured a ball of blood-red magic. "No one attacks my home."

Then a sound came. It began as a faint rumble, soon gathering volume, turning into a thunderous roar. Branches snapping, boots thudding, but no screaming, no yelling, that part missing and sending a chill straight into my bones.

The treeline changed, one moment static, then next a heaving mass of grey, a tsunami of undead, headed straight for us in a grim, grotesque line. A point grew from the line as the faster ones bolted for the open gates, understanding they might be closed at any moment, knowing they had an easy chance of victory.

I held my breath as Alex tugged at my arm, her eyes questioning my logic. "What point?" she asked, indicating her bow.

"Save your arrows," I said, conjuring my hand axes and giving them to her. "Just those that reach us."

Wayleisha swooped, a great gout of fire issuing from her as she sped across the line. Her flames engulfed the undead, consuming them, a whole line falling. But it was only a blip, a minor stutter, soon trampled to smoke and bones as the army inevitably hit the wall.

They smashed into it with such force the whole structure shuddered, knocking us all from our feet, a splatter of grey blood reaching us as the first in line burst, followed by the second, third and fourth.

More, though, thundered on, through the gates, corridor, into the circular courtyard, packed, crammed into a press, a thing so awful that one after the other popped. Jets of flame suddenly ripped through them, turning them to instant ash, making way for more, soon filling the courtyard again, quickly fired again. The foul stench of burning flesh filled the air, thick black smoke hanging over us.

"Kanazar's slaughtering them all," Alex said, a mix of wonder and horror on her face.

"Get ready!" Morgan shouted.

I turned away from the courtyard facing the front again. The undead bodies had formed a slope that slowly increased in height. They were getting closer to us. What had seemed impossible was becoming probable. Then the first spears came flying over us. I equipped my shield as Wayleisha swooped again, burning all those in range. A sudden jerk in their lines told me Kanazar had incinerated another load. I tried to imagine the power he amassed with each slaughter, but the numbers were mind-boggling. Dungeons, those of old, from my days in Anderlay, grew from one, two, maybe three adventurers a week. He was killing hundreds every few moments.

"They're coming over!" screamed Isalar, morphing into her wolf and attacking.

Leyathel held her staff aloft, and great pits opened at the treeline, roots rising, picking up the undead and slamming them to the ground, tossing away the bent and broken bodies. Morgan dispatched a whole line with grey fire bolts, and Cerridwen spewed her crimson magic. I hefted my mighty sword back, scything heads like a farmer chops corn, while Alex attacked stragglers with her axes. Darinka, her trident in hand, ran along the battlements puncturing any that got a foothold, but it was hopeless. There were far too many.

Then the wall blinked. Its stone groaned, and I knew it would fall, the weight of the undead too much. But rather than that, it rose from the ground, lifting us all ten feet, the walkway widening, the crenelations growing.

“The dungeon is leveling!” I screamed.

We cleared off the battlements, taking our respite, watching as Wayleisha fired another load. Then the causeway collapsed as the undead corpses vanished.

"They've rebirthed!" I screamed, knowing one in ten would be lost but finding little comfort in that.

The circular courtyard had grown, and the corridor widened as the dungeon had leveled. But Kanazar had also created another holding area, a second set of gates, and in doing so, had isolated us between the two.

"The dungeon is leveling!" I screamed again as the first undead carrying ladders raced from the treeline.

"Ladders!" Morgan cried and started firing balls of incandescent grey magic at them. Wayleisha swooped again, firing the line, but more came, more died, a few, however, made it through, and a few was all they needed.

Kanazar's firepits burned continuously. The core hardly bothered to let them fill before incinerating them. The walls blinked, shimmered, then grew again. The first ladders hit, the undead climbing us as Cerridwen and Morgan threw their fiery magic along their line.

Babushka and Tanaka worked in unison, stopping any flanking on one side, while Alex and Darinka protected the other. Isalar, Leyathel and I cleared the center, and we breathed again, and the walls heaved, the stone cracked, and jade-colored rock rose, lifting us twenty feet in that air. I glanced around, not quite believing what I was seeing. Every single building had changed. Every one was made from jade.

"He's rebuilding Anderlay!" Alex screamed.

I could barely see, tears welling, but then Morgan screamed, "Breach," and we returned to the grim task of slaughter.

How many times the wall grew, I lost count, but eventually, even the undead couldn't reach us, nor we them, and we became mere spectators as Kanazar devoured the army over and over.

A horn sounded, and another, and Uther and a hundred mounted men ripped through their ranks. Then red magic blasted from the forest. Broadchurch's army and the goblins, hobs, elves, barbarians, dwarves and armies of the Lords and Ladies appeared. The undead shimmered and shimmered again. Elves screamed as the undead impaled them. The undead dragged cavalrymen from their mounts, falling on them with unparalleled savagery. Goblins fell. Hobs went down fighting, and dwarves hefted their final hammer strikes.

All the while, Kanazar's pits burned. All the while, Anderlay grew.

Then, the vast army was no more than a few thousand. Then it numbered in its hundreds.

Broadchurch had the measure of it and herded all the survivors into the courtyards, again when they rebirthed, and again until they were no more.

"Come," I said to Alex. "It is time to go to the temple."

"Are you sure Lugh and Wilmsous will come?"

"Oh, they'll come all right."

"How can you be certain?"

"Because I intend to marry you."

I dropped to one knee. "Alex, will you be my first and last wife?"

She laughed. "I guess I am both, aren't I?"

"I am the ninth," sniffed Cerridwen, and she morphed back into Anna. "But I was also the first, and this does make a more fitting end."

"End?" I said.

"To this," she said. "Anderlay is restored. Castle Kanazar is ended on this day. A new adventure begins."

And I guessed it was, but first, I had two Gods to kill.

CHAPTER 26

Anderlay, it was that magnificent place. A century of toil had built the first—an hour of slaughter had seen it reconstructed. Jade dominated every facet, every scroll and cornice. It clad its facades and tiled its roofs. Jade spires reached for the smoke-stained blue sky, and walls rose from the blood-soaked ground.

My mouth dried as I took it all in, the streets and shops, the temples and military buildings. Cheers rang out as the metal grates, the harbingers of death, vanished, and more jade sparkled. Broadchurch's army raced in. From another direction, from the north, more cheering came as Kanazar released its towns folk, and they rushed through the place, marveling at the new tavern, the fantastic gardens, the statues and the courtyards.

I remembered Market Square, the days spent there, drinking wine on the cobbles outside that small bar, a favorite of mine. There was the old waterwheel, partway along Artisan Street, where we'd wash the road's dust from us before going to the tavern for a welcome home lunch. It was all there.

I remembered it all, the magnificence that was once all mine. No longer, though, for it belonged to another—a free core, a dungeon core, that would continue to grow and thrive by eating all whom it deemed undesirable.

Which was lovely.

I couldn't fault its methods. It had made a beautiful trap, a true flower in Anderlay, one that would pull victims from across the land. They would come, some might even best Kanazar, but I, for one, would not wager any coin on the outcome.

All that aside, I did have a residence here, so I could visit whenever I wished. My wives had dwellings too, and Jess had elected to stay and run the tavern—giving adventurers one last hearty meal before Kanazar consumed them.

Broadchurch would remain, too, training the dungeon's legions and sending out local patrols, protecting the dungeon's farms and escorting the food wagons in. Greg would repair his trampled farmsteads, sharing the valley with the barbarians, and the Wolding Wood would live again. The elves had returned, and they would nurture it with their craft.

Life would go on, but for the most part, without me, without Anna, Alex, Leyathel, Tanaka, Babushka, Morgan, Isalar, Darinka and the magnificent Wayleisha. It would, no doubt, lack a little color because of that.

But, before we could leave—before we traveled east—we had a wedding to attend. I had no particular need to wed Alex or any of my wives. A bond much deeper than any God-given authority would ever manage bound us together. Ours was a marriage of the soul. It was deeper than friendship, more profound than companionship. We were one—one great organism that could only survive if each of its parts were well.

But, we had mighty fine reasons for it—two, in total. Like Anderlay would attract adventurers, like a shiny lure in a crystal-clear lake, my wedding to Alex would entice Lugh and Wilmsous from their lairs, and there, I would kill them.

I sent notes to all, requesting their attendance. There would be goblins from Mesinto and hobgoblins from Treygorvo. The dwarves of Iron Mountain would attend, as would the barbarians. We'd invited King Uther and Lady Kathryn, and they were coming. Unfortunately, Lord Sythwick had fallen during battle, a spear in his back. Some say it had come from House Black's ranks, but none were willing to swear to it. Lord Bright would be there too, and although frail, he was enjoying a renewed life with an elderly dryad, woken by all the fuss in the Wolding Wood.

It would be a grand celebration. Lysander would parade the Jewel of Everything, a magical artifact of unrivaled power that had slain many of the undead before they had fallen on Kanazar's walls. And on his arm would be Vallera, and she was scrubbing his mind of its darkness.

Fresh from battle, we marched to the temple, its twin spires framing a grand entrance, a dozen jade steps leading up to it, doors open, but their gap filled with the immense presence of Father Dolomus, his mighty sword still stained with black blood.

I held Alex's hand, and behind us trailed my eight other wives. Bells rang. People cheered, and we made our way in, marching up the aisle to the raised dais upon which the cauldron of rebirth sat, just a pretty pot and no more.

We filed in, a rabble, clothes ripped, stained with black blood, some bandaged, others hobbling, but no one cared. Dolomus stood with his back to the altar, his figure imposing, while Alex and I stood before him. For a moment, I thought my lure might not work, but as soon as the crowd settled and quieted, Wilmsous entered.

I'd not imagined how he would do it, but he didn't disappoint. He strolled in, all grand and pompous, three giant dogs guarding him, hellhounds half a man's height, great slathering beasts that strained upon leashes of raging fire.

I regarded him. He was handsome, certainly, his classic curly hair and childish face so reminiscent of dozens of Gods. They enjoyed the portrayal of youth, but age was only skin deep; inside sat the festering corruption of immortality.

"Stop this sham!" he cried. "I'll not have it! Legendary Lord! You are nothing, and she is everything. You think you can get away with this?"

I debated equipping Aurora Aetherstrike there and then and ending him where he stood, but a part of me wanted to show all the others what this God they worshiped truly was.

"She loves me, Wilmsous. Be gone!" I raged.

"Be gone?" he yelled, closing the distance between us all the time. "I will not be gone. Love!" He sniffed the air. "Her love doesn't matter. In time she will learn to love me."

"Never!" said Alex. "I will never love you, you vile creature!"

My wives, all eight of them, formed a wall in front of us. I noted Morgan and Anna in their center, not revealing their true selves, nor much use in this fight. One God, after all, was not allowed to kill another. They needed to manipulate us for those dirty deeds.

Wilmsous laughed. "My dear, you are mistaken. This is not about what you want and don't want. This is all about what I want and nothing else." He said and released his dogs.

The hellhounds raced up the aisle. Uther stepped out from the pews, swinging his mighty sword and decapitating one. Morgan's magic flashed and took another. Lysander blasted the third with the Jewel of Everything, its light blinding all.

Wilmsous vanished, reappearing right by me, his arm around Alex's neck with a stiletto dagger pressed against her temple. "Don't move! Don't you dare move! Do not think I wouldn't send her to her grave rather than have your grubby hands all over her! I’ll not have you defiling her again! I've killed her twice before! I will do it again."

"There is no cauldron, Wilmsous,” I said. “You press that dagger home, and she is gone for good!"

"Better that than any other outcome. Now, toss Aether Aurorastrike on the floor."

Reluctantly, I took its duplicate out and threw it on the floor. He smiled, that hint of victory about him. It was the last thing he did as Father Dolomus pulled the trigger on the real Aurora Aetherstrike and sent its divine bolt straight through his head, which exploded, splattering us in divine brains.

"I hope you don't think I am going to make a habit of killing Gods," Dolomus said. "Only, it conflicts somewhat with my religion."

A slow handclap sounded and drew my gaze upward. There, sitting upon an ornate ledge, was Lugh. His foot swung lazily, and he appeared relaxed. "Two divine crossbows, quite novel. I take it one is a fake." He nodded to the one on the floor, stretched out his hand, and it floated towards him. "Novel," he said. "Would have fooled me. Certainly, fooled Wilmsous, but then, it's easy to fool a fool." He pointed the weapon at Anna. "My dear sister, it's about time you revealed yourself."

"With pleasure," Cerridwen replied and shed the guise of Anna to reveal herself in all her beauty, although which I preferred was a matter for debate. Both were equally stunning.

Lugh continued. "And you, Morgan, or is it Morrigan? It's vile two Gods sharing one human. So demeaning."

Morgan shimmered, turning into Morrigan. A fleeting thought turned my frown into a smile as I wondered what that trick would be like in the middle of sex. "I think you'll find my husband has been elevated to the divine, so no duplicate will hurt him."

He brought it the weapon to bear. "Divine he might be," Lugh said. "But is he a God? I take it this weapon has had its blessing, too—that its bolt was destined for my head in some canny double bluff?" He chuckled. "I wonder if I can kill a divine being? I mean, he’s not technically a God—not one of us, is he? Any takers? It is a matter of debate, or should I say, chance."

I stared at it, stared along the flight groove, the dart glowing gold in the diffuse light. I remembered Ben's words, how he'd told me two women had visited him, how he’d described them as Morrigan and Cerridwen. I slowly raised my hands. "I killed both Gods for you, Lugh. I kept my end of the bargain."

"But you didn't, did you?" he replied. "Oh, you might have fried Diagon with that toy you call moonstone, but a God will recover from that. It might take a year, a hundred years, but Diagon is still alive. You broke our bargain, now you get to die, and I get the girl."

He shot.

The bolt smashed into me, spinning me around, sending me crashing against Cerridwen. I yelled as the pain ripped through me, waiting for my death, for the mortal blow that a divine bolt would inflict. But that pain didn't come. Blood gushed from the wound, but after the initial shock, my myst rose and focused on the injury. Morrigan threw her body in front of mine. Alex conjured her bow, plucking an arrow from its quiver and shooting at Lugh.

The God laughed. "Your feeble weapons can't hurt me!"

Alex shot again. The first arrow struck, exploding in his gut, the second split his forehead, and for a moment, he sat there, and I half expected him to suddenly shed the arrows, heal the injuries and begin taunting me again. But he swayed, his head in two, then he fell to the jade floor with a terrible squelch.

Morrigan pulled the bolt from my shoulder. "What?" she said. "Did you think we blessed your crossbow? She's a much better shot than you."

"Besides," said Cerridwen, "she had to avenge her death to know true peace. She's headstrong, that one."

Alex came to me, kneeling by me, and as I looked up at her, they all looked down at me, all nine of my wives, and a broad smile hatched on my lips.

Nine beautiful wives?

I was going to enjoy being a Legendary Lord.

Strike that!

I would enjoy being a Legendary God!

CHAPTER 27

We would visit New Anderlay from time to time. At Slaughtertide, the annual celebration of the Great Battle of Castle Kanazar and the last recorded use of that title, all ten of us would make an effort to travel there and spend some time with our old friends.

Barnaby would bumble and mumble and tell us how hard he'd been working, how it was much better in the old days, and how the core didn't understand how things worked. Jensome would moan and groan about this and that. Mostly complaining about the goblin masons and how hard the traps were to make. Saxon was his usual self, but even he had trouble keeping up with the spikes and blades the core needed to keep up its healthy appetite for murder.

Greg liked me to ride with him, and I'd always make time for that. He loved his valley—talked about it like it was some sexy woman, and I think, to him, it was. He rarely moaned about anything. Instead, he explained how much he'd learned from the barbarians, what new farming methods brought the best yields, and how the goblins had helped dig him new irrigation channels or mushroom tunnels.

The city, for it was that size, had blossomed under the core's rule. He'd declared himself a God, so that cleared up his gender, and had placed statues of his shining orb all around—none as impressive as my busts, but those were the terms of our deal. New Anderlay was a marvel in jade, a true sight to behold, and while many from the lands of Lords and Ladies wanted to live there, to venture beyond and east, he had strict policies about that.

Working, living and spending in the city was fine. Holidaying was acceptable. Venture too far east, go beyond Kanazar's influence, and somehow, unknown to any, the offenders would vanish from the land and reappear at the start of the dungeon. Few ever emerged.

Apart from staying in our Lording House, visiting the Wolding Wood, or swimming in the lake and sunbathing on the rock, the highlight of our visit was always a grand Slaughtertide meal at Jess's place.

She would push all the tables together, cook a giant goose, and roast all the vegetables in pig fat. We'd drink hot wine, swap gifts, and catch up on all we'd done. Then would come a grand meal, and everyone would stuff their faces, drink their weight in wine, then clear the table. The men would wash up while the women would relax, and when all was spick and span, we'd rearrange the chairs and tables so we all faced the mirrorwall. Morgan would link her magic to Kanazar, and we'd watch the dungeon via manatracking.

It was a neat invention. The mirrorwall measured fifty-two inches—not across or high, but on the diagonal. Apparently, that was how all mirrorwalls were measured. It allowed us to watch the dungeon's internal viewing system—an invention Kanazar had put in but not revealed its secret. We assumed it had something to do with the upside-down toadstools that dotted every corridor and chamber, but we couldn't be sure.

One particular Slaughtertide, we feasted, drank, and set ourselves up to watch the latest adventurer destined to test Kanazar. Jess said he was a fine young lad who'd come from some obscure castle to the west of House Black’s land. He was a fresh-faced man with an amiable smile and a happy way.

"Won't last past the third chamber," said Broadchurch with a huff and a puff.

"He'll not get through the swinging knives," said Dolomus, but then he said that every year.

"I'm rooting for him," said Tanaka, who found little joy in seeing them chopped to pieces.

"Me too," said Jess, which surprised us all as she always egged on the dungeon.

"Eh?" said Leyathel, who found it all a little distasteful.

"What? He's no villain," she explained. "He's no thief, no beater, no killer or rapist. He's not on the run, nothing. Said he wanted adventure. Said he wanted to go east and train with the best of the best—the Legendary Lord and his legendary wives. Said it was all a man could hope for."

Well, that proclamation changed a few attitudes, so we began cheering for him. We all clapped when he beat the stepping stones. We punched the air when he bested the swinging knives. We held our breath when he fought the bog monster, and we jumped from our chairs when the big bad spider fell.

But then he delved deeper, and we suffered his trials and tribulations all over again. When he slipped and nearly fell into the pit of spears, Babushka squeezed my arm so hard she drew blood. And when he stumbled into the Cavern of the Great Morpeth and faced the fire demon himself, Alex jumped up and screamed at the mirrorwall, raising her fist at it and shouting obscenities that even Jess blushed at.

The kid beat every single one. But Kanazar played the long game. He'd steadily eroded the lad's power, wearing him down. Then he offered him a choice—a simple choice that had us all on our feet.

Take the right alley for freedom, the left to return to the beginning and start over. Left was certain death. Left would see the sprightly lad extinguished and his essence absorbed into the core.

"Right! Right! Right!” we all screamed, standing, yelling until we were blue in the face.

And when he chose it, it was the best Slaughtertide present anyone had ever given us. We jumped up and down, hands aloft. Drinks went over, tables upended, and we hugged, danced, kissed, and sang.

"He'll be coming to us to learn," said Wayleisha.

"And we'll teach him good," said Tanaka.

"We'll show him the way of the Myst Warrior," said Isalar.

"We'll make him the most powerful warrior the world has ever seen," said Morgan.

"But no Legendary Lord," I pointed out.

"There will never be another of them," said Cerridwen.

And she should know,

She was a God, after all.

As was I.

A Legendary God.

* * *

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