King of Crows

Published by Cole Hopkins

Copyright © 2024 by Cole Hopkins

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Printed in the United States of America

First Printing, 2024

Edited by Belle Manuel

Cover illustration by The Illustrated Author Design Services

Book Design by The Illustrated Author Design Services, adapted for ebook by The Illustrated Author Design Services

Interior Format and Design by The Illustrated Author Design Services

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Copyright

Full Map

Map Close-up

Map Close-up (con't)

Prologue

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Epilogue

About the Author

PROLOGUE

APEX PREDATOR

…Sometime in the closing weeks of Autumn, 300 days earlier than the present day and the final events of The Queen’s Reaper…

Eriana gasped, the crushing dark smoke suddenly rushing in around them. Reacting purely on instinct she tried to gulp in one last breath of fresh air before being completely overwhelmed by the screen of suffocating fumes. She simply wasn’t fast enough, and instead of fresh air she sucked in toxic vapors, sending her into a fit of coughing. Beside her, Orion began heaving with equal desperation.

“Need to escape…Can’t breathe…!” the Legion Captain managed to stammer in between painful bouts of coughing. “Which way…to the…exit?!”

“I can’t tell!” Eriana sputtered back, tucking her nose under her breast plate in an attempt to find a pocket of smokeless air. The underside of her armor stank of dry sweat, but it did provide her with the relief she was seeking. A thought suddenly occurred to her, whether it was a result of the clearer air or not was anyone’s guess.

“Kneel to the ground!” she barked commandingly at Orion, though he could hardly hear her muffled voice through the metal breast plate.

“What?” he began to question, searching for a practical answer to Eriana’s strange request.

“Just do it!” she shouted, pulling her mouth free of its brief reprieve within her armor.

Orion shook his head in confusion, but obediently kneeled to the ground. Within moments he heard the slight chinking of Eriana’s unique weapon, a short sword connected to a long releasable coil of chain links. He wondered what she was up to when he heard the faint swishing of the weapon rotating above his head. After a few more rotations, the Captain of the Wolves could feel the air blasting off the sword as it whizzed about them, pivoting around Eriana as she expertly maneuvered the chain over her head.

“Clever,” is what he tried to say, but he simply wheezed as more smoke was sucked into his lungs.

For a moment, Eriana thought all hope was lost and they would die amongst their fallen comrades within the ancient Halladellian ruin, no one to warn the rest of the kingdom about the mysterious band of monsters from the coast responsible for slaughtering an innocent family before lying in ambush for her legion here.

Then, slowly at first but faster with every rotation of her blade, the pitch-black smoke began to dissipate, wafted away by her curious weapon. She breathed a quiet sigh of relief and she felt Orion’s body against her leg relaxing in turn.

After another fit of coughing, he managed to painfully mutter his thoughts, “Well done, Commander—as resourceful as you are ferocious. I pity the poor beast that summoned this smog…”

Eriana smiled despite the strenuous labor her entire body was being put through to maintain the continuous swing. Beads of sweat had begun crystallizing on her face and she was about to shake them away when the smoke began to move even more forcefully away from the duo, gathering at one specific point in the darkness.

“Easy, Commander,” Orion hissed through clenched teeth, holding his injured side. “I think you can afford to slow down a bit now.”

“This isn’t me…” she responded quietly, her eyes narrowing on the twisting, congealing smoke. More of the room became visible with each passing second, revealing the macabre scene of massacred legionnaires and piles of hissing black flesh, left behind by the brutes who had attacked them.

Realizing the gravity of Eriana’s words, Orion quickly pulled himself up to a crouch careful to avoid sticking his head into her swinging chain and drew his rapier.

“You should get out of here and warn the rest of the legion…” Eriana whispered.

Orion scoffed. “And leave you here to fight more of these creatures alone? I think not.” He added after a pause, never taking his eyes off the congealing smoke, “Besides, I still can’t see the exit.”

“You’re no good to me here!” Eriana snapped, attempting to reason with her stubbornly loyal captain. “You can barely defend yourself with that wound, you’ll only slow me down.”

Orion was not given the chance for a rebuttal as Eriana’s chain, which she was still carefully rotating, passed through the gathering smoke, and stopped dead, the short sword clattering to the ground as if it had careened into a stone wall.

Without warning the remaining black smoke in the room was pulled together powerfully and simply evaporated, revealing the most intimidating warrior Eriana had ever laid eyes on. It was concealed in flexible, scalelike, black armor from its head to its toes. The only sign of flesh, and the only thing indicating this fiend wasn’t some sort of automaton was a bare forearm on its left arm, though its skin was pale and scarred. Upon its head it wore a birdlike helm that’s beaked visage was so shocking, she instinctively took a step away from the towering monster.

“What in the name of Thondel—!” Orion began to murmur, but his words were cut short as the fiend howled maniacally and, perhaps, even painfully. It burst forward, reaching behind its back as it did and producing two thick, machete-like blades, each with a single horizontal handle. The monster held them in a reverse grip, placing the spines of the blades against its forearms.

Eriana yanked against her chain mightily, jerking her short sword back and catching it in her hands just in time to fend off the first frenzied flurry of blows released by the monster. Its attacks were powerful, jarring her whole body, but more importantly they were fast. Faster than anything she had ever battled—faster than she thought was humanly possible.

Miraculously, she deflected most of those speeding attacks and Orion, standing behind her right shoulder and backpedaling in sync with her own retreating feet, deflected the rest as best he could with his rapier. The fiend was hardly deterred by their legendary defense, instead it pressed them harder, renewing the vigor in its attacks. Slashing left and right, over and under, spinning into a feint and then suddenly slashing upwards instead.

Eriana was amazed at the beast’s swordplay, or whatever those strange blades were called. But even more so, she was terrified. She had never felt so outmatched in her life. Even with her captain beside her, who was arguably as brilliant of a swordsman as she was, they didn’t stand a chance.

Panting from her exertion and too focused to even attempt to form words to voice her concerns to Orion, she risked glancing behind her towards the hallway they had used to enter the chamber. The exit was open, visible through the smoke now and nothing stood in their way. Realizing it was their only chance, she jerked her chain to the side, allowing Orion to deflect the brunt of the armored fiend’s assault, and lashed out with it catching one of the four legs of the brazier that had been used to light the room before the massive fireball. She heaved it back towards them with as much force as she could muster. Her ploy was unexpected enough that when the cauldron-like object rolled in front of the ferociously advancing warrior, it slowed down for a moment to assess this new development. That was all the time the Wolves needed.

“RUN!” Eriana screamed, turning, and practically dragging the wounded Orion to the exit.

They burst through the archway, crashing into the opposing door before ricocheting off and sprinting down the ancient fort’s ruined hall. The fiend was on them in seconds, closing the distance as its great strides carried it across the old stone floor.

Eriana turned to meet it again, trying a different strategy this time. She lashed out with her sword, lunging underhand. At the peak of her jab, she released the blade letting it fly towards the pursuing beast and released the slack in her chain, so the blade was unobstructed in its flight.

The fiend hardly slowed and deflected the short sword with ease, but before the weapon could clatter to the ground, Eriana yanked the sword back, catching it in her hand and launching it at the armored warrior again. She repeated this tactic many times, holding their pursuer at bay as they made their way down the fortress’ twisting halls. Each time the creature became more agitated, trying to snatch the blade out of midair, but she would pull it back just in time.

“I can’t keep this up forever!” Eriana grunted over her shoulder, trying to encourage her captain to move even faster, though she knew he was surely giving it everything he had left.

Still, there was truth to her words. She could see it in the fiend’s body language. The way it watched her own movements. This one was different from the other pale brutes. More sentient…More human.

Suddenly, it deflected her launched short sword back at her rather than downwards or out to the side. The change in tactics almost caught her completely off guard and would have been the end of her if she wasn’t so quick on her feet. The fierce young commander spun, still retreating backwards as she did and twirled the chain around her, carrying her own speeding blade harmlessly wide, before spinning back and slashing it across with all her strength.

Again, the beast deflected it back at her and again she spun, using the force of its own attack to whip the sword around and back at it. After two more rotations like this, the armored fiend was forced to parry the attacks wide as they were flying in with such speed and force. The cramped stone halls should have been enough to defeat the beast’s assault at that point, except its blades were simply carving through the old Halladellian architecture.

Steel churned through stone and mortar like butter, rending huge gaps in the walls that let the early dawn light spill in, illuminating the path of carnage the fiend left in its wake.

Having lost a lot of blood and quickly growing too tired to continue running, Orion slowed to a walk and turned, drawing his nifty condensable crossbow as he did. The small weapon unfolded, snapping into place as he released the mechanism holding it together deftly placing a bolt from his belt in.

Within a split second, he had the weapon loaded, aimed and ready to fire. Pulling the trigger, the bolt released, igniting as it did. His aim was true, and the flaming projectile hissed down the hallway an orb of light following it as it did. The bolt flew over Eriana’s shoulder and nailed the beast in the chest.

She expected to see some kind of flinch, a screech of pain indicating the bolt had hurt the ungodly warrior. It issued no such response. In fact, it continued to rage forward, hardly even noticing the puny bolt as it bounced off its nearly impenetrable armor.

“Shit!” Orion growled, preparing to load another bolt. But Eriana allowed him no such luxuries as the muscular woman suddenly charged back, the fiend right on her heels, and shouldered him against the wall—At least, he thought it was the wall. Evidently Eriana had seen her chance to get her captain clear of the danger, as he fell through a crumbled gap in the fortress’ exterior and began rolling down a steep incline which he knew would end amongst trees and at the edge of a forest. He caught one last glimpse of the stoic Wolf Commander squaring off with the huge, armored fiend, as he bounced painfully down the earthen slope, eventually sliding to a stop as all hopes of consciousness flew from his body and his vision faded away.

Eriana hoped Orion would survive the fall as she matched blades with the warrior, seemingly dripping in darkness, once again. The beast defeated her attack and brought her sword up high before delivering a ruthless kick to her chest. The blow launched her back many feet and knocked the air out of her lungs, leaving her gasping for breath.

The resilient commander quickly rose to her feet and decided Orion’s odds were much better tumbling down the hill this ruin sat upon and into the forest, than in here battling this thing. Ridiculously bruised and battered and hopelessly outmatched, it was all she could do but turn and run. The fiend gave chase, howling in frustration. She ran as fast as she could, her arms pumping forcefully at her sides.

She knew they were approaching a very dilapidated part of the ruin and if she could stay ahead of this thing’s ripping blades a little longer, she might be able to escape to rally her legion. The end of the hallway came into sight, and she sprinted even harder, readying her chainsword again as she did. The decrepit hall emptied into an even more decayed chamber filled with collapsed pillars and shattered glass.

Rays of morning sunlight shone through the caved ceiling and into the dusty room ahead. The fiend was directly behind her, she could feel the tremors of its racing feet. Only a little more, she thought.

Just before she passed into the chamber, Eriana launched her sword, chain attached, and the blade bit into the ceiling at the top of the arch leading out of the hallway. She continued running and held the chain tightly, flexing her muscles and bracing herself, her whole body going rigid as she ran out of slack, jumping into the air and pulling herself up and backwards.

At first, she didn’t think she would make it, but a final desperate kick connected with the head of the charging fiend and propelled her the rest of the way through her swing and up and over the hallway she had just been running through where she landed on the slumped roof of the ancient ruin.

Eriana took huge, shaky breaths, attempting to settle herself, listening for the sounds of the fiend below. She heard nothing and quickly wrenched her sword free, collecting the weapon and moving up the roof, as far away from the raging beast as she could get. The higher she climbed, the brighter the sun grew, casting long shadows from the forest across the Halladellian ruin and leaving blotches of blood-red sunlight along the span of the fortress.

The roof soon leveled out into a platform atop the center of the ruin. The Halladellians would have used this as a watchtower a thousand years ago. Now, most of the roof had fallen away, but the platform remained. A lone statue of an owl was perched in the clearing on top of the platform, guarding over the ghostly halls of the forgotten fortress. Moss and clumps of grass grew all along the platform—nature slowly taking back the Halladellian’s ancient kingdom. Drops of dew glistened like embers from the blades of grass protruding from the roof, the morning sun piercing them brilliantly and almost forcing Eriana to look away to shield her eyes. She took it all in thankfully, gracious that she was still alive and tried to make sense of what to do next. As she pondered, the air just behind her began to shimmer and distort slowly taking shape.

Eriana couldn’t have heard the towering warrior’s approach, as it had not made a sound after materializing out of thin air, yet the hairs on the back of her neck rose, nonetheless. Unsettled she glanced over her shoulder—and not a moment too soon. The armored fiend who had chased her throughout the fortress had somehow appeared directly behind her and was bringing both of its odd weapons down on her even as she registered its presence.

Eriana rolled forward, barely dodging out of the way before being forced to roll again, the savage beast’s blades continuing to rain down all around her. She couldn’t even buy enough time to pull herself to her feet as another inhuman wail escaped her adversary’s masked jaws. The agile woman kept scrambling, diving over low sweeping blades, and ducking to avoid being decapitated by higher swings. Her lungs ached from the nonstop exertion but slowing down meant dying and she wasn’t ready to greet Thondel just yet.

With tremendous effort and a bellow that echoed around the shadowed ruins, Eriana rolled atop one of the beast’s lunging weapons and caught its opposite sword arm between her legs wrapping her ankles over one another to hold the arm down. Her brash attack seemed to surprise the wraithlike warrior and it paused as if stupefied by her actions. Eriana refused to squander the opportunity and yanked the chain still connected to her short sword, catching the weapon in one hand as it flew towards Eriana and her entangled foe. She raised the sword, cocking her arm back for a powerful strike, one that would bite deep into her pursuer’s skull and surely end the nightmare.

It was not to be.

The armored warrior whipped into a vicious pivot, swinging Eriana on the end of its arm like she was little more than a doll. She tried to swing her weapon, to attack the fiend in some way, but the force of its own swing was too powerful, and her arm shot out limp dragged in a trail behind her flinging body. Suddenly, she hit the stone floor, and the air was blasted from her lungs, bones cracking as she bounced off the ground and then hit a second time. The fiend towered above and leered down at her menacingly. There was nothing she could do. She could barely move, much less defend herself.

Lowering itself down until its face was only a few inches from hers, the fiend stared for many moments before howling. The sound was filled with cold rage and its breath smelled of saltwater and death. Assuming this would be the last thing she ever saw, Eriana steeled herself. Presenting the inhuman beast with a fearless grimace, spitting on its blackened visor. Her spittle slowly dripped off as the fiend, unphased by her insolence, raised its weapons for a strike.

Suddenly, there was a hissing metallic sound and the shadowy warrior staggered forward, stepping over top of Eriana as it did. The beast clutched its side, stumbling, bringing a hand up to its face to inspect the damage. There was a splash of dark red blood on its pale palm—so this thing was mortal after all.

Even as Eriana took everything in, another figure stepped around her coming to stand directly between her and the fiend. His garb was simple black cloth, the only sign of color being a purple sash running from his left shoulder down to his right hip. His black hair hung down to his waist in an intricate braid. On his belt were loops for two blades—specifically katanas. The shorter of the two still hung at his hip while the longer blade, stained by the fiend’s blood, he held loosely in one hand. Eriana had never seen one in person, but she knew without a doubt what this man was.

Shadomurian.

The fiend standing across from the Shadomurian warrior took in his appearance as well, seemingly coming to the same conclusion as Eriana. The beast slowly relaxed and its demeanor changed, as if the southern swordsman’s appearance had calmed it somehow. To her surprise it abruptly spoke up in a civilized tone—cold and strange but civilized.

“Shadomuria,” the beast hissed. “I’ve killed your kind before.”

The warrior shrugged, casually drawing his second katana. “I am Shado Saefong, and I was little more than a boy when your army of assassins massacred my clan, metal monster. There was nothing I could have done…Now I stand as Shadow Dragon amongst the Shadomuria—greatest of our warriors. This time will be different.”

The armored fiend visibly shook and a whispering sound that almost resembled a cackle escaped its iron helm. “I thought we killed you all. Apparently, we weren’t thorough enough…” it rolled its shoulders as it spoke, itching to fight.

“A remark often made about your kind,” Saefong stated blankly. As if to accentuate his point he raised his katanas to either side and more cloaked warriors flanked him, stepping into view until Eriana counted at least seven of them.

The metal fiend seemed to stand down. Then sniggered again and congratulated Saefong. “Very good, Shadow Dragon.”

The air began to shimmer around the beast, and it turned as if to depart through the same ghostly means it had appeared.

Suddenly, it stopped and glanced back to address Saefong one final time. “You should all PRAY that I find success in my endeavor, or one small village will be far from the only thing that perishes. All that remains of this world will be rend asunder.” Its gaze shifted to Eriana as it finished its warning. “Then you’ll be just like me…”

With that the fiend, exuding shadow like vapors, was gone, fading away into the swirling air and leaving the roof of the old ruin in peace once more.

Eriana glanced about in shock, her mouth agape as she tried to fathom what had just occurred or what the creature’s parting words could have meant. At last, her eyes came to rest on the warrior called Saefong. He returned her gaze, but his eyes were clouded hiding any sign of the feelings that the whole encounter might have drawn from him.

“Are you hurt?” Saefong asked, his tone indifferent.

“No—Not badly,” Eriana said, matching the legendary warrior’s spirit.

“Then get up,” he stated, sheathing his blades, and turning to inspect the gouges left in the stone by the mysterious beast’s weapons.

Eriana slowly brought herself upright, still catching her breath after being painfully slammed against the old roof. She glanced about taking in the hardened faces of all seven Shadomurian warriors. Their expressions all appeared as blank and uninterested as Saefong’s. They wore the same plain clothes with the exception of the purple sash—obviously marking Saefong as the leader of this group. She had been told many tales as a child, depicting the Shadomuria Clan’s legendary prowess with the blade. The lone Wolf Commander felt slightly intimidated just being in the company of so many of the master warriors. Her gaze shifted back to Saefong. He had referred to himself as Shadow Dragon—the greatest of the Shadomurian warriors. That put him in the highest echelon of swordsmen alive. Perhaps, even more dangerous than the world renown Champion Hader himself.

Saefong noticed her watching him and he quickly glanced away, evidently embarrassed to be the source of her scrutiny. “Are you the only survivor?”

Eriana began to nod her head yes, but quickly stopped herself and leapt to her feet, her eyes going wide. “Orion! My captain is still alive—or at least I believe he is.” She pushed past the Shadomurian warriors and moved towards the forest in the direction she had shoved Orion.

“Wait,” Saefong demanded, rising from his crouch where he was inspecting the fiend’s handiwork and turning to face Eriana fully.

“There’s no time to waste,” Eriana countered, her tone growing agitated. “He’s wounded. He needs a medicus.”

“There’s someone who wishes to meet you,” Saefong continued, not even acknowledging her plea.

“Whoever they are can wai—!” Eriana began to say through frustrated, gritted teeth, but her words were cut short. A familiar cracking sound thundered across the ruin and the air amongst the Shadomuria Clan exploded into a swirling mass of blades.

Eriana watched in horror as the armored fiend appeared again amid the seven warriors and cut them down like dandelions in a warm spring breeze. The Shadomurians reacted faster than any man could have, drawing their own blades to counter the raging beast, but it mattered not.

The fiend spun wildly, its powerful blows sending torn bodies flying through the air, their guts spiraling around them. Its chaotic assault should have left an opening—some vulnerability, but there was none. It countered every slashing katana and quickly punished the perpetrators wielding the blades. Within moments all but the Shadow Dragon himself had fallen, lying broken in pools of their own blood.

Eriana hadn’t even had time to join the fray, when just as suddenly as he had appeared, the fiend delivered a savage kick to Saefong’s crossed swords knocking the warrior away and stepped back into the swirling, murky air that swallowed him up, transporting the creature away. Despite its disappearance the fiend’s voice lingered a moment longer, the raspy sound of its laughter reverberating off the haunted walls of the old fort.

“Not so different from last time…Shadow Dragon.”

The wraithlike voice faded away, but even before it had, Saefong howled in anguish and twisted around, his eyes searching the ruin for any sign of the fiend. When he found none, he howled again and threw his wakizashi to the ground, brandishing the longer katana in both hands and turning it on himself. The warrior fell to his knees and placed the tip of the blade under his sternum, preparing to drive the cold steel home.

Eriana gasped in shock at the apparently insane warrior and without thinking, rushed forward knocking him to the ground before he could stab himself.

Saefong growled through clamped teeth and turned his murderous gaze on Eriana. “How dare you rob me of what little honor I have left!”

“Rob you?!” Eriana replied incredulously. “I just saved you from committing the most foolish act of cowardice I would have ever witnessed!”

“Cur!” Saefong growled, raising his katana violently and stepping towards her, carefully avoiding the bodies of his slain comrades. “Before I fall upon my blade, atoning for my failure, I will send one last blasphemer to the afterlife with it.”

Eriana wrenched her own blade towards her and readied it to defend herself. She almost giggled at the irony of her situation—saved by the most renowned sword fighter of all time only to be killed by him.

No—Not killed she decided, baring her own teeth. She would fight and she would win. Because for a wolf there was no other choice…

1

THE LORD AND THE LADY

…Present day…

Grim leaned against the railing that ran the length of the ominous black galleon, The Shroud, and watched with growing frustration as their distant adversary—a massive Harthian galleon fittingly named Fortitude—grew no closer. His right hand clenched and unclenched repeatedly and the iron gauntlet on his left thrummed against the wooden ship impatiently.

The assassin glanced around the galleon’s deck with annoyance. The mood was decidedly somber—not what he would expect from a crew of pirates hot on the wake of a huge royal vessel. They strutted about the ship without seemingly a care in the world, many of them nodding off in the afternoon sun. Grim’s own traveling companions added to the depression that seemed to grip the pirate craft.

Octavia sat on a pile of ropes near the capstan, gazing into the distance, lost in thought. Ansel—who was never far from her side, lay against the same pile of ropes cradling a rat in one hand and gently stroking the fur on its back with the other. Grim frowned at the strange, gangly boy, but didn’t waste his energy wondering why he might be petting a filthy bilge rat. Instead, he turned and searched for the final member of their motley gang. The assassin quickly located him.

Olaf was leaning against the railing of the stern deck, behind the wheel where Captain Gregory McCrank steered The Shroud. The boy appeared to be watching the horizon, but Grim could tell he was no more looking at the distant water than he was watching Thondel say a prayer himself. No, Olaf was likely still processing the loss of his short-lived friend, Poe Ogle.

Poe had died heroically, defending Princess Octavia against a horde of angry island barbarians as well as a slew of Harthian warriors. So far, Olaf had taken his death in stride, but now that the fighting was done, and he had nothing but unoccupied time to reflect on things, it was weighing on him.

Grim felt the boy’s death keenly as well, but for a different reason. If he had followed Octavia and the others down to the beach, he likely could have protected the young legion warrior. Instead, he had pursued the witch Malia and the Legion Commander Andreas Buth back to their galleon in a desperate attempt to save the woman who had once been his lover and partner in crime.

The assassin shook the thoughts from his head with a grimace. He was no more to blame for Poe’s death than Poe was himself. They were all tangled up in this fucked up web of intrigue and the vacuum of power left by Octavia’s dead father. If he blamed himself for the loss of every dead young man in his wake, then he wouldn’t have the strength to rise each morning.

Grim’s gaze returned to the distant Fortitude and his hand instinctively grasped the wolf headed hilt of his sword. No—he wouldn’t bear the weight of the innocent dead the way better men might do. But he would honor them in his own way. He was so close to reaching Joanne. If he could save her then maybe Poe’s death wasn’t in vain. Maybe there could be redemption for the assassin’s own worthless hide…but he had to reach her first, and that wasn’t going to happen if these miserable pirates didn’t quicken the pace of this wretched ship!

The assassin’s eyes glinted with barely contained rage and he exhaled sharply, turning to make his way up to the stern deck, hand still gripping his razor-sharp longsword. As he turned, he nearly tripped over the large black warhound that had practically become his shadow since rescuing the beast from the shores of Sawn.

“Out of the way you damned mutt!” Grim growled, shoving the animal away with his boot.

The hound hardly seemed phased and stood up, stretching its back, and offering a long yawn, before padding after the assassin and leaping up the stairs to the stern deck in his wake.

Gregory McCrank noted the assassin’s approach and rolled his eyes, hardly able to contain his own frustration with the relentless man any longer. He glanced over his shoulder to be certain that Yolanda and several other members of his crew were close by in case the inevitable conversation he was about to have with this very dangerous man went sour.

“What’s taking so long, pirate?” Grim said, his tone short—shorter than normal—and bordering on hostile. “We’ve been trailing that behemoth for a day and a half—I thought you said this ship was fast?”

McCrank exhaled slowly and closed his golden eyes for a moment in an effort to retain his calm demeanor. When he opened them again, they were sparkling with charm and were matched by an equally inviting smile.

“Calm yourself assassin,” the pirate captain implored, shifting his focus back to the waters ahead. “We’ll catch her, all right. But we’ll catch her when I decide to and on my terms. No sooner.”

Grim’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Why wait? Her crew is crippled, and they’ve stripped the ship of half its guns—you said as much yourself. Now’s as good a time to attack as any. We’re wasting time—time we don’t have!”

McCrank blew through clenched teeth and released the ship’s wheel, turning to face Grim fully. “Would you just shut up and let me handle the pirating? I don’t try to tell you how to kill people, do I?”

Grim’s face was a mask of cold malice, and he was very nearly about to draw his blade and slash the bejeweled pirate in half when Olaf interjected in his typically sarcastic fashion. “Well, actually, that’s not entirely true, Captain. I for one, do happen to recall at least one instance where you tried to educate my very angry friend here on the art of killing…Tried.”

Captain McCrank rolled his eyes and silently cursed himself for ever getting involved with this particular group of misfit nobles and runaway assassins. “And look how poorly that ended for me…”

Olaf nodded enthusiastically, either missing the point entirely or simply being an ass for the sake of it. “That did end pretty poorly for you, yes.”

“Are you so eager to face the Fortitude’s cannons again, young Amir?” McCrank snarled, well beyond the point of playing nice with these fools. “Our power lies in stealth. The Shroud is sleek and fast, but even with half her guns the Fortitude has more firepower—that’s not even considering the fact we’re nearly out of powder!”

Gregory McCrank paused for a moment scowling at Grim and Olaf, before exhaling and finishing his tirade. “Nah. If we’re to take the Fortitude then it will have to be at night when we can strike before she turns her broadside on us…otherwise we’ll all end up at the bottom of the Ein.”

Slightly crestfallen, Olaf’s head hung as he replied sheepishly, “I’m just tired of waiting is all…Nothing to do but sit and think.”

Captain McCrank nodded understandingly and even began to reach out to the lad with the intention of giving him a comforting pat on the shoulder when Grim’s cruel words stopped him short.

“I think you’re just a coward,” the assassin growled. “I think you’re afraid of that thing and you would rather sail away from it than toward it. Just like you ran on the island of Sawn.”

McCrank squinted, searching Grim’s face as if for some kind of weakness. Apparently, he found one, chirping, “And what about you, assassin? Where did you run when her highness needed you most? Certainly not with her—Maybe if you had, that young lad from the Wolf Legion would still have his head.”

McCrank fully expected an outburst from the assassin and was already gripping his quarterstaff, neatly threaded through the helm of the ship. He was almost disappointed when the outburst never came. Instead, Grim merely shook his head and muttered venomously, “I guess Poe was a better man than both of us.”

McCrank was stunned by the assassin’s empathetic response, so stunned he almost didn’t see Olaf’s incoming right hook until it was too late. The pirate captain threw up his hands defensively, but he needn’t have. Grim intercepted Olaf’s swing first, catching the young noble’s balled fist in his own gauntleted hand before it could connect with McCrank.

“What are you doing?” Olaf shouted viciously. “You’re just going to let him slander Poe that way?”

“Poe’s dead!” Grim stated, twisting the boy to look Olaf in the eyes. “Killing this fucking coward won’t bring him back.” The assassin paused, swiveling to regard Captain McCrank and his uneasy crew of pirates—most of them with a weapon in hand or in the midst of drawing one. “It’s not worth it, Little Amir. Just simmer down.”

Olaf slowly lowered his fist and Grim patted his back, offering no more words, only a curt nod. The large black dog that shadowed the assassin watched the pirates closely, its hair bristling and the edges of a snarl forming on its lips.

Captain McCrank quietly gestured for his crew to sheath their weapons and they did so, much more hastily than in the past—after all, they didn’t have any particular reason to want to cross blades with the deadly assassin. Not after what they witnessed on Sawn.

Grim and Olaf turned to leave the stern deck, the black hound right on their heels, but as they pivoted away from the pirates they were greeted with a much more sobering sight. A dangerously quiet Octavia Benidary, her face distorted in an angry frown.

“Shit,” Olaf muttered under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. “How long you been standing there?”

“Long enough!” Octavia snapped, drawing a flinch out of everyone on the stern deck save Grim and an amused looking Yolanda.

“Octavia…” Grim began to reason with the girl, but she cut him off sharply, the fierceness in her words triggering his eyebrows to raise in shock.

“You’re all behaving like children,” she scolded. “You fight amongst each other when the true enemy is within eyeshot. It’s embarrassing!”

She turned to face Captain McCrank directly. “Grim is right. We’re running out of time. You promised me we would catch them before they entered Harthian waters. Do you still hold to that claim, Captain?”

“Of course, my lady,” McCrank answered without hesitation, sweeping his hat off his head respectfully.

“Good,” Octavia replied curtly. “Then you two—” She turned her scalding gaze on Grim and Olaf. “Make yourselves scarce. I don’t want to see you back up here until we’re bearing down on that ship. Clear?”

“Crystal,” Olaf responded with a salute.

Grim didn’t offer a response, simply brushing past the girl, his face a mask of stone. The black warhound followed, slipping past meekly, and offering Octavia a sideways glance.

The princess watched them go then turned back to face Olaf expectantly. “Olaf?”

“Right away, Your Highness!” he said loudly, offering another sarcastic salute and following Grim and his furry shadow down the steps to the main deck.

A moment of silence passed, and Octavia turned her ire back on Gregory McCrank. “Captain—you have your orders.”

Still holding his hat against his chest, McCrank swept another low bow. “Yes, Princess. I’ll notify you the moment we’re ready to close on that brute.”

Octavia nodded and turned, escorting herself down the stairs away from the stern deck. Her every step was accompanied by the sound of Yolanda’s approving applause. The princess was forced to hide a grin as she descended. At the bottom of the stairs Ansel waited, mimicking the pirate woman’s slow claps, and smiling widely.

True to his word and less than two full hours after their heated conversation on the stern deck, Captain McCrank called for The Shroud to be made ready to chase. The black ship’s crew sprung to life, many of them chanting a shanty as they adjusted the rigging and angled the sails.

A whole new energy crept into the ship, infecting the galleon with something akin to bloodthirst. Grim glanced about, thinking to himself that he probably owed McCrank an apology as the crew rushed around, now eager to close the gap with their adversary.

The assassin’s hair was swept back over his shoulders as the low-slung craft knifed through the water, the massive iron ram on the front of the vessel piercing the waves with ease. Grim smiled into the wind. It wasn’t a grin of excitement spawned by the sensation he felt at the bow of the ship, no—it was a smile of anticipation as he daydreamt of the moment, they caught up to the Harthian galleon and he could finally board and kill everyone within the hull of the lumbering boat. Everyone who had dared keep Joanne from him. He returned to rapping his fingers impatiently, content to wait. If only for a little while longer…

Aboard Fortitude Andreas watched from the stern of the ship as their pursuers seemed to lag behind. They had managed to outrun the pirate vessel thus far, but the seasoned commander suspected that was by design. If they sailed through the night, they would make it into waters patrolled by the Harthian navy by morning. He didn’t think they had that long.

“How are your men holding up?” Lord Andreas asked Levee John, the burly man at the helm and captain of this ship.

“They’re tired, Commander,” Captain John admitted. “But they’ll make it through the night…At least as long as they’re left alone.”

Andreas eyed Captain John carefully before speaking cautiously. “Then you suspect the same as I do?”

Levee John nodded. “Aye. Damn pirates are holding back.”

“You’re certain?” Andreas asked.

The captain nodded again. “I recognize that ship’s black sails. They say it’s been all over the world, the same man always at its helm.” He paused, gazing into the distance and out of focus. “The Shroud. That’s what they call it. Don’t know where and when it was built, but that shipwright did a hell of a job. I don’t reckon there’s many vessels out there that could outrun her…”

Lord Andreas pondered the man’s words, pursing his lips thoughtfully. “And if we have to fight her?”

Captain John eyed the Legion Commander seriously for a moment before at last responding, “I like our odds—so long as that damn crazy assassin doesn’t get aboard our deck…”

Andreas nodded in agreement. He was beginning to think Levee John was a lot smarter than he let on. “We’ll handle the assassin, just keep this thing afloat a while longer.”

The two men nodded to one another having gained a fair amount of respect through their conversations, before Andreas turned and trotted down the stairs to the main deck, skipping every other step. He moved below deck, passing two of his six remaining Titans. They stood at attention, but he gestured for them to stand down, quickly moving through the bowels of the ship toward his objective.

Joanne sat in the corner of the dark cabin, her arms and legs bound. She stared into the dark as her mind raced. The skinny woman could remember everything from the past several years. It was as if she had been a prisoner in her own body, trapped by the curse Commander Bendigo’s blade had left on her…A blade that Marcus now carried, and as far as she knew, had done so for years.

She thought of all the times he had lifted that blade toward her, tears streaking down his pained face. He had been so close to killing her—making the merciful call, but never strong enough. It had hurt her more than she could ever express watching him descend into this animal—almost subhuman. She had heard him referred to many times since being taken into the Amir’s custody as Reaper.

Of course, she was spared from witnessing his transformation firsthand—in fact, she had barely seen him over the last few years. Grim’s own pain had apparently grown too much to bear, and his frequent visits had dwindled into almost nothing. Eventually, Joanne had stopped receiving visits from the solemn man all together—at least as far she was aware. Part of her wanted to believe he had never strayed too far and that perhaps he spent many quiet nights in the deep shadows of the caretaker’s home, watching over her protectively from afar.

Somehow after what she had witnessed on Sawn, she doubted that. The dangerous warrior no longer seemed capable of such empathy. And could she blame him, after everything he’s been through?

Joanne’s look of disgust faded as she recalled the young man, acting as a sellsword. How she had taken him under her wing. Teaching him everything she knew about swordplay, everything she had been taught by the knights who had raised her. Marcus already knew a great deal about fighting from his time with the monks, but training with Joanne he had blossomed!

The young assassin became so ferociously skilled that he ran out of worthy sparring partners, herself included. That was when Joanne knew there was something special about him. At the time, watching him in battle was quite marvelous…But what she had seen on the island of Sawn had left her horrified.

He no longer fought with the smooth finesse she had grown accustomed to. He was faster and stronger now without question, his body capable of performing stunning acts of agility in the midst of combat—but it had all come at a cost. He appeared reckless, out of control, and a danger to everyone around him—friend or foe.

Marcus had once enjoyed the thrill of battle—the energy and the skill behind every motion. But there was no thrill in his eyes on Sawn…Just agony, and cold determination. The Curse that had plagued Joanne for the past seven years had suppressed her emotions, but now the floodgates were open. She cried and she shuddered, unsure of what to make of herself. Years of idle reactions and caged feelings were catching up to her. When at last her sobs ended, she simply rocked on the floor, holding her knees like a child.

Many long quiet moments went by and still she sat, staring into the nothingness, lost in her thoughts. So distracted was she that she didn’t hear Andreas’ approaching feet until he swung the door to the cabin open, flooding the room with lantern light. Joanne covered her eyes with her tethered hands, attempting to block out the blinding lights.

Andreas regarded her carefully for a moment, searching her face for any signs of recognition. “Can you still speak, girl?”

Joanne briefly considered playing dumb, after all, why not? This Legion brute would be none the wiser and maybe he would leave her alone. To her genuine surprise she realized being left alone was the last thing she wanted at that moment. Her lonely thoughts scared her—besides, she hadn’t really been treated like an actual person for the past several years, conversation would be nice…Even if it was with this institutional thug.

“Yes,” Joanne whispered at length, her voice cracking a little as she did.

Andreas nodded. “Good.” He then stepped back outside the cabin and grabbed a nearby lantern, bringing it inside the room and closing the door behind him.

The man grabbed a fallen stool and placed it upright, before taking a seat and facing Joanne directly. “I need some answers. If you cooperate then maybe, we can do something about those restraints.”

Joanne smirked at the soldier, drawing a look of surprise from him. “I’ve been restrained inside my own body for the better half of a decade, Commander…You’re going to have to find something more enticing than that if you want my cooperation.”

Andreas narrowed his eyes, watching the woman intensely for a moment before breaking into a chuckle. “Good point.”

He casually drew a long knife from his belt and leaned forward toward Joanne. She recoiled reflexively, eyeing the serrated weapon with caution.

“Relax,” the Titan implored. He then carefully cut the ropes binding her and sat back, sheathing the knife on his belt. “I think it’s in your best interest to work with me.” He paused, glancing behind him at the sealed door. “The other figure of…authority on this boat might not be as gentle as I am.”

“Malia,” Joanne stated, her words full of distaste.

“Then you remember her as well,” Andreas said with a nod.

“I remember everything,” Joanne replied, jaws clenched. “That witch was my caretaker for the last several years. She played the part well enough, making her betrayal all the more painful…” Andreas sat quietly, studying Joanne’s face, and pondering her words.

The noble commander at last broke his silence, “What’s your name girl?”

“Joanne,” she responded, glancing up at the man with curiosity.

“Joanne?” Andreas asked, eyebrow arching in surprise. “That’s a noble name, reserved for members of the royal family.”

Joanne snickered. “I know. Pisses off the noble bastards when they hear it too—well, used to anyway…”

Andreas chuckled at that. “Doesn’t bother me.”

“No? Well, I wouldn’t think so m’lord,” Joanne replied sarcastically. “Everyone knows how you famously renounced your nobility to join the order of the Legions.” She rolled her eyes to emphasize the fact she couldn’t care less.

Andreas shrugged. “I suppose I was never one for politics. I always preferred clever military strategy to the games the nobility play at court.”

“Oh,” Joanne started, unimpressed. “I’ve heard all about Andreas Buth’s legendary military tactics.”

“Is that so?” the older man replied, not missing a beat. “Then you’re a fan?”

“Hardly,” the woman responded, seeming to lose focus as she turned and gazed off into the corner of the cabin.

Andreas cleared his throat after a slight pause before speaking again. “You know the assassin Grim.” His words were phrased like a question, but he said them with certainty.

“Yes,” Joanne answered, her eyes still unfocused.

“How?”

She slowly shook herself from her trance and made eye contact with Lord Andreas, answering his question with a question of her own. “Do you even know who he is?”

The man tilted his head, visibly confused. “Of course. I’ve heard countless stories of the Reaper of Everharth—though, I admit, until yesterday I had assumed they were all tall tales. The ravings of drunk soldiers and scared nobles.” He paused, searching about as if trying to pull memories from thin air. “How could one man, having served no time within a legion or military body, strike so much fear into men’s hearts? How could the Wolves, a legion at the height of their strength, nearly be ruined because of a single assassin?”

“I thought it absurd,” Andreas pressed on. “A story to temper the nobles’ egos. A tale to stun unruly soldiers into obedience—I see now I was wrong. The nightmare is real. I’ve never seen a man fight like that…He’s the opposite of everything I uphold—chaotic and undisciplined, without honor or pride.” Now it was Lord Andreas who stared off into the dark, replaying the massacre he had witnessed on the rocky shores of Sawn.

Joanne wanted to object, to defend Marcus from this man’s accusations, but she couldn’t summon the words—because deep down she agreed with his assessment. What she had witnessed had scared her as well. The Titan Commander’s voice jolted her back to the present.

“But you knew him before all that…Didn’t you?”

Joanne slowly nodded. “Yes. Before they called him Grim…He had another name.”

Andreas looked behind him at the door once more and listened quietly for several seconds. Eventually, he leaned in close to the woman.

“Joanne,” he began, his eyes burning with intensity. “I need you to tell me everything that you know about Marcus…”

2

THE WRATH OF THE EIN

Night had fallen and darkness had seized the vast watery expanse of the Ein. Still, Captain Gregory McCrank steered The Shroud fast and true. He couldn’t see their adversary, but he knew they were gaining on her, narrowing the gap between galleons with ease.

Beneath the ship the choppy waves of the Ein swelled into larger currents that thundered against the sturdy wooden hull of the galleon. Up above, where stars had recently dotted the sky, only ominous dark clouds remained threatening to blot out the horizon completely.

“There’s a storm brewing!” McCrank cried out over the mighty crashing sounds of the ocean. “It’ll be on us soon! Might be time to reconsider past obligations!”

Grim swirled around where he stood at the base of the bowsprit, his nostrils flared dangerously. “Don’t you dare!” the assassin snarled.

Closer to the captain’s quarters, hiding from the impending rain, Octavia nodded in agreement with Grim, looking up at McCrank as she shouted, “Stay the course, Captain!”

Gregory McCrank hesitated for a moment, but eventually nodded and gripped the helm, tugging hard against the tide of the Ein fighting his rudder.

Some time passed and then, with a clap of thunder and intersecting bolts of lightning, rain began to fall from the sky. The pirate crew rushed about the deck, securing loose ropes, and adjusting the ship’s rigging accordingly. McCrank shook his head and glanced at his First Mate, Yolanda.

She shook her head as well. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this one, Captain. Storm came up too quick—even for the Ein.”

“Indeed,” Captain McCrank said, nodding his agreement. “Winds smell foul too…I’m pulling us out.” He turned back to his crew scrambling about the deck and began shouting orders to call off the chase.

Grim shook his head in disgust and started toward the ship’s stern mutinously.

Olaf shouted for the assassin to calm himself but was too busy helping the pirates secure the fluttering black sails to really get through to the dangerous man.

Octavia’s voice, however, carried over the storm winds and the pounding rain, “You will not retreat, Captain McCrank! Not while our enemy is so close at hand!”

“Continuing the pursuit would be foolish!” McCrank cried back, lightning illuminating the chaotic sea around them as if emphasizing his point. “The storm will pulverize their ship, if not outright capsize them. There’s no point! We need to put as much distance between us and this gale as possible—and fast!”

“What are you saying, Captain?!” Octavia called back, her tone now laced with unease and scrutiny.

“It’s no natural storm!” McCrank shouted through the wind.

Before the captain could finish his claim, another bolt of lightning lit up the sky and Olaf shouted from the gunwale where he heaved against the stubborn rigging. “I see her! Fortitude, she’s just ahead!”

The young Amir’s words rang true, as a second bolt of lightning struck the sea and illuminated the massive ship before them. The Harthian galleon was no more than a cannon shot away and still The Shroud closed the gap, slicing through the raging waves defiantly.

“I’m turning us around!” McCrank yelled, rainwater flying from his lips even as he began to crank the ship’s wheel back the other way.

Grim stormed across the deck, his clothes drenched from the rain, long hair hanging wildly about his shoulders. “It’ll be the death of you, pirate,” the assassin snarled.

“We’re all dead men if we stay the course!” Gregory McCrank shouted back. “I’ll take my chances with you, Reaper!”

Octavia began to shout something, stepping in to intervene as she had done previously, but her words were drowned out by a long, low, and haunting wail echoing across the waves and reverberating through the ship. The whole crew froze, even Grim’s relentless stride ground to a halt.

Up on the stern deck, hanging onto the helm, Captain McCrank waited for the deafening sound to fade out. He stood upright, his eyes darting about the roiling waters of the Ein, searching. When his eyes met Yolanda’s own, he spoke aloud to no one in particular yet loud enough for all to hear. “It’s too late.”

The lightning and thunder intensified, and Ansel shrieked in fear, rushing into the captain’s quarters to find sanctuary. Octavia, realizing she may have made the wrong choice in a life and death situation elected not to follow her gangly friend to shelter and instead sprinted up to the stern deck where she latched onto Captain McCrank by his finely tailored shirt.

“Captain!” She shouted, shaking the man to grab his attention. “Get us out of here!”

“Aye!” McCrank growled, coming to his senses, and kicking the wheel, abruptly shifting The Shroud’s direction from the collision course it had been on with Fortitude.

Octavia stumbled, nearly toppling over from the sudden shift in momentum, but Yolanda caught her, easily balancing on her seasoned sea-legs.

“You should get below deck, Your Highness,” the beautiful pirate shouted. “It’s about to get very rough!”

Octavia nodded in agreement, needing no further encouragement as she descended back down to the main deck, gripping the guardrail as she did.

Captain McCrank continued shouting orders and Yolanda moved down to the main deck as well to better direct the scrambling pirates.

Olaf was pushed out of the way, his limited knowledge of sailing becoming irrelevant in the face of such urgency. Instead, he moved to Grim’s side, and the two men stood in awe, witnessing for the first time, the wrath of the Ein in full.

Fifty-foot waves broke up the once monotonous blue waters, threatening to crush their ship to smithereens. Lightning flashed violently and rain and hail fell like rocks slung from a slingshot. Ahead of them and now to their starboard, Fortitude rocked violently, her sails torn and fluttering wildly in the wind.

“They look worse off than us!” Olaf shouted, though he was right beside Grim his words were nearly carried away in the wind.

Grim was about to reply when a second deafening wail droned out the sounds of the storm. The bass, of what could only be described as a roar, vibrated the assassin’s teeth! This one was even louder than the first and undoubtedly closer too.

“It’s the Beast of the Ein…” Olaf remarked to the assassin, his words thick with fear.

“There is no beast…” Grim’s frustrated retort was cut short, and his mouth fell open when lightning illuminated a huge wave swelling between the two galleons. Within the wall of water was the silhouette of an enormous serpent—so huge that the assassin could only spot coils of its enormous body!

The beast’s fins breached the water, cresting the top of the wave, each appendage as large or larger than The Shroud’s main sails. Its body was coated in massive armor-like scales, reflecting the colors of the water. There was no head to be seen, but neither man doubted there was one down there in the dark, ominous depths of the Ein.

“I’ll be damned…” Grim whispered in disbelief.

“Cannons!” Yolanda shouted, but before the pirate crew could open fire, Captain McCrank called them to heel.

“No!” He shouted from the helm. “You’ll only draw the beast’s ire!” The captain paused as a wave washed over the deck, threatening to take several of his sailors with it. When they regained their footing McCrank turned his head to address Yolanda specifically. “Give the beast a new target!”

“Aye!” Yolanda shouted back, apparently understanding her orders perfectly. She rushed to the main mast where she began climbing the quivering ladder.

Grim and Olaf held on to the ship with white knuckled grips. Every wave threatened to pitch them over the edge and to make matters worse, Olaf spotted serpent-like movement under the boat. Grim saw it as well, even as the noble son pointed it out—the creature’s giant body slid under The Shroud, just beneath the surface. One of the beast’s translucent fins breached the water and smashed into the hull, splintering the ship’s wooden frame.

Both men were flung to their backs. Grim threw himself into a roll and landed gracefully on his feet, while Olaf wheezed, audibly gasping for air after the wind was blasted from his lungs. Up above them and halfway up the main mast, Yolanda nearly lost her hold on the ladder, barely managing to catch herself and avoid falling sixty plus feet to the soaking deck.

“Check the hull!” Captain McCrank shouted from the helm. “See to it she’s not letting too much water in!”

A pirate rushed up from the lower deck of the ship, waving his hands in response. “No water!”

Olaf struggled to his feet, calling up to the stern deck, “Can we shoot it now?”

“No!” McCrank shouted in return. “You’ll kill us all!”

“Ugh…” Olaf groaned in frustration, catching Grim’s arm as he did, nearly falling back to the deck. “What is he waiting for?!”

Grim subconsciously peeled Olaf’s hand off his arm and looked about the ship, seeking an answer to the young Amir’s question. Just then, he spotted Octavia struggling through the howling winds attempting to make it to his side.

The assassin rushed to her instead and grabbed her shoulders, spinning her around, placing himself between the princess and the blistering rain. “What are you doing out here, Octavia?”

“It’s not like it’s any safer below deck!” She cried. “Besides, Suileabhain is losing his mind down there!”

“What?” Grim asked, confused.

“He’s screaming and writhing—he keeps repeating, it hurts…”

“Lunatic…” Olaf muttered, having rushed to Octavia’s side as well.

“And Ansel?” Grim said, glancing about the turmoil on deck.

“Safe in McCrank’s quarters!” Octavia assured. She then looked up curiously and pointed. “What is she doing?”

Grim and Olaf looked up as well, just in time to see Yolanda crawl into the ship’s crow’s nest and brace herself against the tip of the mast. The dark-skinned woman unslung her bow and quickly strung it, before producing a curious looking arrow from her quiver.

Yolanda swayed with the rocking ship, feeling every roll keenly from this height. She held the unique arrow, a creation of her very own, delicately. With a deft movement, she struck the arrow’s head against the armored plate on her hip, and it crackled to life. Fire now coated the arrow’s steel tip, but it was far brighter than any flame that size should be able to produce.

With every passing moment the flame burned brighter, and Yolanda had to look away as she nocked the arrow on her bow. She then turned to face the distant Fortitude, bow still held out and away from her line of sight. The pirate archer took several seconds to gauge the wind and the speed of the two ships.

She hesitated for a moment, uneager to do what she was about to do—it was likely a death sentence for everyone aboard the Harthian galleon, but as she looked down, she could see the dark mass of swirling muscle that was thrashing beneath The Shroud and her mind was made up.

Yolanda pulled the bowstring back and rotated her body, turning and firing the sparkling arrow all in one fluent motion. At first, it appeared as if she had missed her mark badly. The arrow flew into the sky, off course with Fortitude and traveling further off course quickly—but then, as it reached its zenith it seemed to hang motionless in the air, before catching speed in the wind and veering sharply toward the Harthian ship!

The arrow impaled the larger galleon’s main mast and quivered there, before the ferocious flame that had all but consumed the weapon’s shaft roared to life, quickly spreading to other parts of the ship. The flames were blinding and turned Fortitude into an irresistible beacon for the monster lurking beneath the storm’s waves. Yolanda felt the ship rock as the beast uncoiled from beneath them and began to serpentine toward the other galleon.

Grim watched in horror, the chemically enhanced fire engulfing Fortitude. He, too, felt the great sea monster unfurling from beneath them.

“What have you done?” the assassin demanded, turning to McCrank in disbelief.

Captain McCrank snorted and shook his head. “Saved us all.”

“Saved us all?” Grim snarled. “You just killed everyone on that ship—Joanne is on that ship!”

All Captain McCrank could do was offer the assassin an apologetic shrug. “I’m sorry, Reaper…It was her or us.” He motioned to Grim’s companions as he spoke, namely Octavia.

Grim stood in shock. He didn’t know what to do or how to react. McCrank’s words were true enough, but he couldn’t stand by as Joanne’s life was forfeit yet again! This was so unfair! What a cruel joke hearing her cry his name had been. His lips quivered with rage, but he had no one to direct his fury at—McCrank seemed like the obvious choice, but the pirate had likely saved them, after warning them against this path to begin with.

Suddenly, Grim felt a warm embrace around his waist and he slowly looked down. Octavia was hugging him.

“I’m sorry, Grim,” she whispered into his soaking tunic. “I’m sorry.”

Olaf, in turn, placed a hand on the assassin’s shoulder, but offered no words, knowing there was nothing he could say to the assassin that could possibly help him now.

The low growl of Grim’s newest companion summoned the assassin out of his stupor and he quietly turned, breaking Octavia’s hold on him, to see what the dog was growling at. Near the ship’s bow, the huge black dog leaned back on its haunches, its hair—despite being drenched—stood on end. He growled viciously at what first appeared to be nothing, but slowly began to materialize.

The air near the bowsprit shimmered and distorted, until a ghastly warrior, nearly a head taller than Grim—who stood all of six-and-a-half feet himself—slowly took form. Its body was covered in scaly plated armor, and the tattered remains of a black cape hung about it like a ghostly aura. Pale skin was visible on its forearm, but even that didn’t appear natural, with dark scars crisscrossing the exposed flesh. Its face was covered with a curious barbute helm, the dramatic relief of a bird’s head depicted on the front and a visor shaped like a beak.

The warrior stood motionless for a moment, before blowing out a sharp, metallic breath through the slit under its beaked visor. The crew of The Shroud abandoned their posts and crept closer to the huge fiend, drawing their weapons as they neared.

“What in the Underheim is that thing?” Olaf murmured, afraid to say the words too loudly.

“Assassin!” Captain McCrank screamed from his vantage point at the helm. “That thing is no friend of ours—kill it!”

Grim glanced up at McCrank and by the time he looked back, the armored warrior had exploded into action, lunging forward, arms flinging out in front and launching talon like daggers. The blades impaled several pirates, dropping them to the deck, even as the warrior advanced. It silently drew two menacing swords, brandishing them in a curious fashion.

Grim turned to Octavia and shouted for her to fall back to the captain’s quarters—he tried to force Olaf to retreat as well, but the boy foolishly bulked, drawing his sword and standing his ground beside the assassin.

“Whatever,” Grim growled, drawing his own longsword. His blood boiled with rage and a good fight was just what he needed. The assassin charged forward, ready to meet this mysterious new threat. Before him, the warhound leapt at the warrior’s arm, trying to cripple the towering foe before Grim confronted it.

The armored brute kicked the dog mid lunge, before its teeth could come anywhere near the warrior’s exposed forearm. The dog hit the deck with a whimper, but quickly scrambled back to its feet, turning on the fiend just as Grim reached it.

The assassin’s sword swung downward and diagonally with speed and precision, whizzing for the armored fiend’s lungs. Unbelievably, it defeated the attack, doing so with apparent ease, as its own two blades picked Grim’s out of the air and turned it aside with sickening force.

“What?” the assassin stammered, unaccustomed to such resilience and brilliant swordplay.

Olaf watched in horror as Grim’s beautiful slash was brutally parried away. He had never seen one of the, seemingly invincible, assassin’s attacks be so completely defeated. Olaf expected the man to recover in time to avenge his failed strike and viciously counter the wraithlike fiend. That counter never came.

The towering warrior released a chilling howl and struck out with its armored boot, filling the gap left by the assassin’s parried blade and launching the man back through the air. Grim collided with a stack of ironbound barrels, strapped to the deck and his head snapped back violently, cracking against the sturdy wood. Miraculously, his fingers remained wrapped around the hilt of his sword. Though—that hardly seemed to matter as his body suddenly lay very still.

Olaf held his breath, quietly watching and waiting for Grim to get back up—he always gets back up…

Nothing.

Not even a slight twitch. The assassin was completely motionless. Olaf couldn’t even spot a cloud of breath to indicate he was breathing. He wanted to rush to Grim’s side and make sure he was alive, but the wraithlike warrior was still advancing, apparently unphased by the fact it had just crushed one of the most dangerous men alive. Now its menacing gaze was on him, blades at the ready, confidently stalking forward.

“Olaf!” McCrank roared over the sound of the pouring rain. “Get out of there—you’re no match for that thing…”

At the mention of Olaf’s name, the fiend took pause, tilting its head curiously, examining the young Amir closely. Olaf stared back, wilting under the monster’s terrifying scrutiny. In that moment of distraction, Grim’s warhound pounced again, this time connecting with the fiend’s exposed forearm.

The armored brute howled in pain and lifted its arm, sweeping the dog off the ground. Seizing what Olaf predicted would be his only chance to slay this hellish warrior, he broke from his horrified stupor and lunged forward, shouting determinedly—the tip of his sword led the way, gliding toward the warrior’s chest.

With nearly supernatural speed and strength, the fiend flung the huge hound across the deck, spurts of the wraith’s own dark red blood spiraling through the air with the dog. Then the warrior spun and deflected Olaf’s vicious thrust with such force that the young Amir’s sword struck the deck and stopped there, quivering in the wood. Olaf looked up in shock, his eyes staring into the shadows behind the slit in the fiend’s helm.

“Shit…” Olaf murmured.

The monster released another terrifying howl, rainwater blasting off its visor and backhanded the boy, smacking Olaf to the deck and readying its cruel, curved blades to finish the noble boy.

Before the pale beast could slay him, a hail of arrows pelted the brute. The arrows couldn’t seem to pierce the fiend’s studded black armor, but they struck with such force and so rapidly that the wraith-like warrior was forced to stagger back under the pressure.

Olaf quickly began to crawl away, dragging himself backwards and putting as much distance between himself and the beast as possible. Yolanda—who had leapt the remaining distance from the ladder of the main mast to the deck, was slowly moving toward the fiend as it desperately retreated under her barrage. The skilled archer was expertly maneuvering the ironclad warrior back to the bow of the ship, where it would eventually run out of room to fall back.

Yolanda was confident she had the fiend cornered when it suddenly ceased its retreat and began spinning its blades fiercely. At first, she continued to find gaps in the warrior’s defense, but as the speed of those blades increased, she realized she was no longer getting through, and her advantage was gone—not to mention she was nearly out of arrows.

The beast’s blades twirled with masterful precision and its retreat halted entirely. Within moments, it confidently began to advance across the deck once more. Both Olaf and Yolanda watched in disbelief.

Out of arrows and out of time, Yolanda pulled Olaf to his feet and sprinted toward the stern deck, shouting over her shoulder, “Stay on your feet you noble bastard, or that thing will make mincemeat of you!”

As they approached, several more of McCrank’s crew tried to cover their retreat, but the fiend cut them down with ease, barely slowing as its long strides caught up to the fleeing duo.

Olaf began shouting a warning to Yolanda when he felt his windpipe abruptly smothered. The wraith had grabbed the back of his collar and yanked him to the ground. He hit the deck with a resounding thud and swooned, nearly losing consciousness.

Up above them at the helm, Captain McCrank tossed Yolanda a second quiver. “It has the boy!”

Yolanda caught the full quiver, expertly fastening it to her hip while simultaneously breaking free of her empty quiver. She swiftly turned to unleash another barrage on the fiend. The creature roared in outrage and spun its weapons to deflect the arrows. With a huge stride it stepped over Olaf and advanced on the pirate woman. She had nowhere to run, her back was against the door to the captain’s quarters.

“Enough, insect! You’re in my way!” The fiend snarled without warning, its voice grating like clashing steel.

If Yolanda was stunned by the beat’s unexpected intelligence, she didn’t show it, hardly pausing her assault.

It didn’t matter anyway as the warrior closed the gap and lunged forward, headbutting the woman with such force her head cracked the solid oak behind her, and she slumped to the deck beside Olaf.

“Nooo!” Captain McCrank shouted defiantly and ripped his quarterstaff from where it was fastened to the helm. He leapt over the wheel and plunged toward the monstrous warrior that had waded through his crew and First Mate like shallow water.

Sensing the powerful Curse on McCrank’s staff, the beast sidestepped the captain’s deadly strike and spun, twisting over the man’s back and grabbing him around the neck as it passed. It lifted the pirate into the air by his throat, then brought him down forcefully, smashing him against the deck and blasting the air out of his lungs.

At last, with the desperate crew of the pirate vessel out of the way, the wraithlike warrior grabbed the door to the captain’s quarters, ripping it off the frame and lunging forward, blades seeking the source of power he had come for.

Unsurprisingly, he was met with a potent, nullifying force that froze the muscles in his arms and rooted his feet to the ground. But then—he was surprised. Behind the warrior’s sculpted helm, his eyes widened with shock—before him stood the rightful Queen of Harth, her eyes glowing with Cursed might, white streaked hair crackling with static power.

3

THE PRINCESS AND THE PROFANE

After the initial shock of coming face to face with Octavia, Osiris’ daughter, and heiress to the throne of Harth, had passed, the fiend began to chuckle—a sound more akin to a wheeze than something of mirth.

“The irony of this meeting is not lost on me, Princess…” The fiend paused briefly as he focused his strength. “I am sorry.”

He growled, suddenly pushing forward with all his might.

Octavia watched with fear and confusion, as the huge warrior began to inch toward her. Despite her Curse—a hex so powerful it had brought an entire army of hardened mercenaries to their knees—the fiend was breaking through. One of his outstretched blades led the way. He lunged in slow motion through Octavia’s Curse and toward her chest.

The princess groaned with concentration. She strained to increase the potency of the Curse, throwing everything she could muster—sapping the life out of schools of fish underneath the sea and the rats within the belly of the ship, dying pirates who lay bleeding from deep wounds inflicted by the armored warrior—nothing with a pulse was safe.

But she couldn’t stop him.

Knowing the end was near and feeling exhaustion creeping into her bones, Octavia felt herself reverting to the girl who had been helpless, cowering within the vault underneath Chala, as her protectors were cut down by Grim’s ruthless blade. She fought back tears of anger and fear and disappointment as the beast’s strange blade crept within a foot of her heart. After everything…She was still powerless to defend herself.

The slightest motion from the bow of the ship caught Octavia’s attention. She could barely see past the towering warrior, but she believed it was Grim beginning to stir, slowly shaking himself back to consciousness—At least, she hoped.

If she could only hold out for a few more minutes…

Octavia clenched her jaw and bared her teeth, growling defiantly at the resilient monster before her. With one final push, she threw everything she had left at the fiend.

Grim’s head was throbbing, but much to his relief, sounds were returning—and with it, so was his vision. He rolled to his stomach and then brought himself up into a crouch. It wasn’t difficult for him to follow the path of carnage the wraithlike warrior had carved. McCrank’s pirate crew lay in heaps all along the deck, pools of their blood washing away with the storm.

The assassin’s heart sank as he turned his attention to the stern. Beneath the helm, just outside of the captain’s quarters, Octavia stood in the doorway desperately holding the hellish intruder at bay. All around the pair, bodies littered the deck. Grim recognized Olaf’s amongst them.

The assassin felt his world slipping away. Everything felt so surreal. He glanced out to sea, the inferno that was Fortitude dominated the night sky. Dark, scaly coils filled the water around the ship and one of the Leviathan’s deafening wails echoed across the waves.

A soft whimper brought Grim’s attention back to The Shroud. The warhound had obviously fared no better than he. The mutt limped across the deck and collapsed beside him. His gauntleted hand, subconsciously ran through the dog’s thick, black coat.

Grim turned his gaze back to the captain’s quarters where Octavia battled for her life. With great pain and willpower, the assassin rose from the deck, wolf headed sword clasped between his fingers. He figured he had one last fight in him.

The beast had nearly breached the princess’s barrier. He could feel her growing weaker. Success was within his grasp…

Suddenly, his instincts flared. The warrior couldn’t have heard the assassin coming, as he had made no sound, and Octavia had not betrayed the man’s presence.

Maybe, it had been a glint of steel in the reflection of the glass windows lining the captain’s quarters, or maybe it was the sixth sense that came from decades of battle, but the fiend knew within an instant that he was in danger. The warrior swirled, pivoting away from Octavia at the last second and readying a strike.

Grim was nearly upon the intruder, his blade poised to slash through the armored foe. The assassin’s trained feet had carried him quickly and quietly across the deck without making a noise, he held every advantage and still—he was struck down.

The wraith’s fist swung overhead with blinding speed and smashed into Grim’s temple, dropping the assassin like a sack of stones.

Grim swooned and nearly passed out again. He had hit the wooden planks so quickly he didn’t even remember falling. Still, with cold determination and a snarl, he pushed himself back up, blood pouring from his busted mouth.

The huge warrior watched, amused by the assassin’s stubbornness.

Grim’s fingers were still desperately wrapped around the hilt of his sword, but he couldn’t find the strength to bring it to bear. Instead, he curled the fingers on his gauntleted hand into a fist and threw a defiant punch.

The wraithlike warrior caught the uppercut then paused, tilting his head curiously to examine the iron gauntlet the assassin wore. It looked as if he may ask a question but was never given the opportunity.

Grim threw a knee into the beast’s gut, nearly dropping his sword from the effort.

The monster reeled and howled in pain. Then its roar transformed with rage as it lifted Grim into the air, flipping the thick blade it held in its other hand before plunging the shorter end of the sword into the assassin’s chest with a swift jab.

Grim screamed in agony, but quickly collected himself, the beast lifting him to eye level and leaning close. The creature’s breath was surprisingly warm for its cold appearance, but its breath stank of salt water and dried blood.

“Rot in the Underheim,” Grim growled, words slurring as blood poured through his bared teeth.

The warrior snorted derisively. “You know nothing of Underheim, initiate…”

The wraith tossed Grim overboard. The assassin made no sound as he plummeted out of view, and if there was a splash, it was lost amongst the howl of the storm.

“Grim!” Octavia screamed hysterically, eyes swelling with tears.

The injured warhound yelped pitifully and leapt over the gunwale after the assassin and into the merciless waves of the Ein.

The armored warrior scoffed at the dog’s misguided loyalty then swung back around, arm sweeping out and crushing the shocked Octavia against the door to the captain’s quarters. She tried to fight against his iron grip, but he pulled her in close and slammed her again, this time dazing her.

Before he could go any further, something unexpectedly burst out of the cabin and speared the warrior around the waist, pushing him away from Octavia and back out into the rain. The fiend glanced down and knew he had found what he was searching for—or at least, what he thought he was searching for.

The odd boy that clutched his waist wreaked with power. He tried to pull Ansel off him, but the boy stood upright, straightening his back, until he was almost as tall as the mysterious, armored warrior.

Ansel threw reckless punches at the fiend, shouting incoherently with anger. He was determined to defend Octavia from the monstrous swordsman.

The warrior sheathed his weapons calmly and grabbed Ansel around the neck, pivoting around the boy and slamming him ruthlessly against the ship’s mast where he held him several inches above the deck. Ansel struggled to break free, but he was no match for the fiend’s crushing strength.

The warrior stared up at Ansel, searching the boy’s frightened eyes. After many painful moments, he loosened his grip on the boy and let him sag down a little.

“This isn’t right…” the warrior muttered. “You’re not it.”

Ansel stoically and silently returned the warrior’s gaze.

Behind the armored beast, underneath the helm, Gregory McCrank silently opened a single eye preparing to seize this brief opportunity to attack the distracted brute—but before the captain could make a move, their foe suddenly dropped Ansel and recoiled in pain, clawing at its armored face and ribs. From the ship’s lower deck, Suileabhain stumbled out into the pelting rain, clutching his own face in agony.

“I see you beast! I remember you! Do you remember me? Do you remember butchering my men! My charges? My comrades?!” Suileabhain shouted through the storm, swallowing the swelling pain as he crept closer to the vicious warrior.

Another of the Leviathan’s ghastly wails broke through the turmoil of the storm.

The warrior, in turn, howled in pain, trying to shield itself from Suileabhain’s mere presence.

“How does it feel, you fucking cur!” Suileabhain screamed, dropping to his knees as the pain became too much to bear.

The beast snarled and rushed past Suileabhain, fleeing toward the bow of the ship where it had originally appeared.

McCrank sprang to his feet with a fierce war cry and launched his quarterstaff like a spear, flying toward the warrior’s unprotected back—by the time the weapon reached the beast, the air around it had already distorted, and the weapon flew through the shimmering figure, clattering harmlessly along the deck. A second later, the armored fiend disappeared completely, leaving the ship in silence, apart from the groans of The Shroud’s hull—battered by the brutal storm.

Captain McCrank’s head twisted back and forth, waiting for the monster to reappear.

After many moments and no sign of the devilish warrior McCrank started shouting orders and rushed back up the stairs to the stern deck, leaping two steps at a time, and grabbing the ship’s wheel.

“Listen up, you bilge rats! If any one of you still breathes, then get your worthless hides to the deck and work these sails!”

Pirates spilled forth from the belly of the ship, more afraid to disobey their captain’s direct orders than of the mysterious armored assassin reappearing. They quickly got busy manning the ship’s three masts and many yardarms.

“Get the wounded below deck and throw the dead overboard—perchance their sacrifice will spare us from the Ein’s monster!” McCrank paused his commands as he searched the chaos on deck.

“Medicus!” he shouted, spotting his healer. “Check my First Mate! She took a blow to the head…”

The medicus nodded and rushed to Yolanda’s side, feeling her pulse. He glanced up and shouted, “Out cold, Captain—but she’s alive!”

McCrank nodded, kicking the ship’s wheel, and cutting The Shroud away from the blazing Harthian galleon, her crew desperately fending off the flames. “And the boy?”

Olaf was already crawling to his knees, taking ragged breaths as he tried to make sense of what in the smoking Underheim was going on. He pushed the medicus away.

“Wha—how?” The noble boy continued to glance about, searching for the menacing, armored warrior.

“Get him below deck!” McCrank growled to a pair of his pirates and gestured toward Olaf. “He’ll be swept overboard if he stays out here—and take that Ansel lad and the mad mercenary with him!”

“Where are you going?”

The sudden question caught the pirate captain off guard. He turned to see Octavia standing behind him, still in shock as she stared forward blankly. How did she even get up here without him noticing?

After only the slightest hesitation, McCrank shifted his focus back to the sea. “I’m getting us out of here. As far away from that monster as I can.”

“We can’t leave,” Octavia murmured, her voice cracking. “What about Grim…? He fell overboard…”

McCrank sighed and closed his eyes. He couldn’t believe the sympathy he felt for the girl at that moment! But it didn’t matter. The captain had a job to do and searching for the assassin’s corpse in the middle of this storm was foolhardy at best—suicidal at worst. “Let him go, Princess…Just let him go.”

Tears fell freely from the girl’s eyes and her lips quivered, but she made no sound.

Gregory McCrank watched her helplessly. He knew it was wrong, but he wanted to give her some sort of hope to hold onto. “We’ll circle back when it’s safe, Your Highness…Maybe we’ll find what’s left of him.”

Octavia’s resolve finally cracked, and she inhaled sharply releasing a loud sob. The girl nodded her understanding and pulled a torn piece of cloth from her coat, drying the wetness around her eyes. McCrank surely recognized the leathery fabric.

It was the last remnant of Grim’s cloak.

Joanne sat in complete darkness. All she could do was listen to the sounds of carnage outside of her cabin and throughout the ship. She was certain these would be the last sounds she was ever privy to.

Lord Andreas had left her suddenly and without question when the first ominous wail vibrated the walls of the cabin. She could hear him now mounting a defense against Thondel knows what. But she could also hear the roar of what could only be described as a raging inferno.

The lithe woman could hear the screams of terrified men and the creaks and groans of the ship buckling. Claps of thunder were nearly as loud as the relentless waves smashing the ship’s hull. In the darkness Joanne could see nothing, but she was certain if she was under the open sky, streaks of lightning would pierce the blackened cloud canopy.

She tried to stand, to brace herself against one of the huge wooden ribs of the galleon, but there was no strength in her frail legs. Just then, the ship collided with something—or something collided with it. There was a massive crack and Joanne was thrown across the cabin, smacking the opposite wall and crumpling to the floor.

Water began to spray through the ship’s fractured hull, and she shielded her face from the cold liquid. She couldn’t raise herself to a crouch, so she sat helplessly on the floor, water swelling up to her waist.

Joanne’s blood froze as another deafening roar droned everything else out. The source of that guttural sound was right beneath the ship—or around it, she thought, as the boat rocked violently. Fortitude bucked again and she was thrown back, hitting harder than she did the time before.

The woman’s vision swam, and she was certain if she could see anything in the gloom then she would see double. The shouting outside her cabin grew louder until suddenly, the door to her cell was thrown open, allowing light to spill in.

She could barely tell, but the man in the doorway looked like Lord Andreas and he appeared to be flanked by his remaining Titans. He called to her, but his voice sounded distant, and she couldn’t make out his words. She slowly slid down the wall and sank into the cold saltwater.

Before darkness enveloped her once more, Joanne felt splashing. Heavy boots rushed to her side and strong hands pulled her from the seafoam. It seemed like a kind gesture, she thought—but it mattered not. The ship was going down.

They would all go down with it.

4

WOLF AT THE GATE

Light from the rising sun lit the dawn sky on fire. The forest cast long shadows over the meadows surrounding the tough dirt road Eriana traveled. She had risen hours before—as she had done every morning for the past two weeks. Her march had been a forced one, traveling more than eighteen hours a day and only pausing to rest briefly during the quietest hours of the night.

But her journey was almost at its end, her destination within reach.

Eriana wore nothing but shabby peasant clothes. Fit for a common farmer. She had left behind her once pristine, now blackened and tarnished legion armor, to be transported with the last group of Wolves out of Chala, along with all the regalia associated with her rank as a commander of one of Harth’s mightiest legions.

Around her waist was a loose belt carrying her short sword. Without the clever, quick releasing chain fastened to the pommel of the weapon, it was unremarkable. No different from a weapon that the average mercenary might carry.

Across her muscular back, she effortlessly hoisted Borris’ kite shield. The shield was nicked and dented from countless battles. A deep scrape ran from the top of the shield down to the center, where the fiend who had slain Borris had broken through the warrior’s guard, leaving the top of the kite jagged and scarred.

Many would have abandoned the shield for something more practical, something less likely to shatter—but she carried the kited iron for a different reason. It was a reminder of why she fought. A less than subtle memory of who the real enemy was. But most importantly, it was a symbol of defiance.

Borris deserved better than the death he was granted, helplessly torn to shreds by a monster. Eriana would not let the same fate befall her remaining Wolves. She didn’t care who sat on the throne, as long as they could embrace that same motive.

Eriana shielded her eyes against the rising sun. She instinctively glanced over her shoulder. Many of her Wolves would be on the road south by now. All traveling in small groups and in disguise—wearing clothes taken from the abandoned village of Chala. She hoped they were not waylaid on the moors as she had been.

The young commander turned back to the south and squared her shoulders. She couldn’t be burdened by such thoughts. She had a lot of work ahead of her if Octavia’s coup was going to be successful—Besides, Captain Orion and the former commander of the Legion of the Eagle, Etticus, were amongst those other groups traveling south. Both were exceptional leaders and gifted swordsmen. She could trust them to do their jobs.

At the speed she was traveling, Eriana would leave the sprawling farmlands and crops behind. And if she kept this pace, she could cross the Puternic and reach her destination by midday. The fiery woman doubled her speed, stretching her legs and settling into a comfortable jog.

She intended to make it there well before midday.

True to her purpose, Eriana spotted the city long before the sun had reached its zenith.

“Damn,” she exclaimed under her breath.

It was hard not to be impressed. This was Brumex—the great jewel of the south! Though the city did not sprawl for miles in the same fashion Everharth did, it was still quite massive. The castle itself sat on an island at the mouth of the Einrill. The huge river split and rushed to either side of the island, emptying into the calm expanses of the Ataarin Sea. The castle of Brumex was really more of a proper city, dominating every inch of the island, towers of differing heights rose out of the Einrill all around it.

Two arched viaducts reached out in either direction from the island, crossing the expanse of the Einrill and connecting Eastharth to Westharth. At the end of each of those bridges was a city of houses and shops.

The buildings were carved from beautiful white stone and the roofs were made of terracotta colored shingles. Thick walls surrounded each settlement and stretched into the Einrill, preventing entrance into the city even when the water levels fell in the winter.

The whole place exuded elegance and sturdy finesse—it was not unlike Eriana herself in that aspect. She paused for a moment to take it all in. The redheaded woman had seen Brumex before, but only as a child. It had been many years since the Legion of the Wolf was stationed within the sloping walls of the city.

No wonder this place was such a hot spot for the nobles she mused. Somewhere within the castle walls was the coliseum. An arena where warriors from all over the land came to prove their skills in combat. The nobles loved watching those hopeful warriors murder one another for sport, and some of them made killings of their own betting on the fights.

The fighters themselves were compensated well—many of them had battled in the coliseum their whole lives. Some of those career fighters rose to legend, statues of them erected all over the city. Others still would retire from the life of glory only to be hired by powerful, wealthy men and women to serve as part of their personal honor guard. All and all, it wasn’t a bad lifestyle—if you had the guts for it.

Traffic on the road began to increase as Eriana came within the shadow of the city, approaching the western settlement that surrounded the base of the bridge. This portion of the city was commonly referred to as ‘Brume’. It was slightly misleading however, as the settlement itself had no proper name and it was actually the title of the west bridge. Still, the city had adopted the bridge’s namesake, nonetheless.

Eriana slowed as she approached the gate, sliding into the shadow of a merchant’s cart. There was an unusually large number of soldiers posted at the gate. She immediately recognized them as part of the Legion of the Lion—a notoriously fierce legion, renowned for their bravery and determination in battle. The Wolves had famously fought alongside them a decade earlier, repelling an attempt by The Empire of the Black Tree to take the Ten Thousand Steps.

Eriana had been fifteen then, and though she never set foot on that battlefield, she had carefully watched from afar, ready to deploy with the rest of the legion had it come to that. Thanks to Commander Bendigo’s ruthless efficiency, it never did.

Eriana was very much aware of the Lions’ presence in Brumex, but she didn’t understand the extensive security measures—not until she got closer and overheard a pair of masons whispering about “the Purists”.

So, that’s what this was about.

As she approached the gatehouse, the young commander attempted to blend in with the surrounding peasants. She had no reason to think the Lions would detect her. It had been several days since she last bathed, her hair hung in tangles around her shoulders and dirt smeared her freckled face. Without her ceremonial armor, she looked like part of the common rabble.

Eriana was a little worried about her sword and shield—there were very few others who carried anything weaponlike, save a few axes. Still, owning a blade had never been an unlawful act in the past. The kingdom’s wilderness wasn’t as safe as it used to be, and there was no shortage of warriors in a city like Brumex. She bowed her head and walked alongside a wagon filled with chickens, hoping their constant clucking would draw some attention away from her.

Eriana felt eyes on her as she passed under the arched, stone gateway. Many of the covered carriages and wagons around her were being stopped. Soldiers carelessly ripped through the peasants’ belongings, searching for any sort of contraband or weapons that the Purists might be attempting to smuggle into the city.

Despite her unease, she was nearly through. Eriana felt her anxiety begin to go down as she made it through the gate and stepped onto the gravel of the city’s streets. She started to release the breath she had been holding when a soldier shouted behind her.

“Do I know you?”

Eriana’s heart began to pound, and she tried to ignore the man, shrugging off his question and continuing to move forward into the city. The soldier wouldn’t have it.

“Hey!” he shouted irritably, pushing through the crowd to grab her arm. “I’m talking to you, lass.”

She swirled around to face him, brushing his hand off.

“I’m certain I don’t know you,” Eriana said firmly.

More of the legionnaire’s buddies were gathering around now. This wasn’t going as planned.

“Where do I recognize you from?” the first soldier asked. He was an officer, based on his armor.

Eriana shrugged. She knew how the man recognized her—she was the commander of a bloody legion! She couldn’t believe she had been so naïve to think rubbing some mud on her face and letting her hair down would fool an entire city full of loyal legionnaires.

“I don’t know,” Eriana bluffed. “We’ve never met.”

The officer eyed her carefully, his gaze wandering over her impressive body. Eriana was no stranger to this perverse scrutiny—she had grown up in the legions, military bodies mostly consisting of men, some of them disgusting and depraved. She thought she had grown numb to the feeling she got when their eyes roamed her body, but as she felt her skin crawling now, Eriana realized she may have miscalculated. The fact was, she commanded such respect within her own legion that she had simply forgotten what this felt like.

“Where did you get those weapons?” The officer asked accusingly.

“Family heirlooms,” she replied quickly. “They were my father’s…Before he died fighting for the kingdom.”

The officer arched an eyebrow at that. “Your father a legion man?”

“Yes—he was,” Eriana answered.

Technically, it was a lie. He had fought for Harth in a different way—working in the shadows as one of the King’s Venatian Monks. The truth was, he had died—just not for the kingdom…Instead, he had been murdered by the assassin, Grim in cold blood.

“He was killed…Along with the rest of the Legion of the Eagle.”

“Legion of the Eagle, huh?” the officer said thoughtfully. “Well, I’m sorry to hear that…” The man paused, slowly nodding before breaking his silence. “Search her.”

The Lion legionnaires rushed forward, grabbing Eriana, and rooting through her pockets.

“Get your hands off me, whelps!” Eriana shouted with obvious authority.

The soldiers hesitated, looking to their commanding officer questioningly, one of them even lifting his hands away obediently.

Eriana immediately knew she had made a severe blunder. Caught in the moment, she had reacted out of instinct using the term ‘whelp’ with such zeal. It was a term often used on new recruits. It was beaten into them by senior officers, captains, and commanders…

“Who the fuck are you?” the officer spat, pointing an accusatory finger at her chest.

“I’m nobody…” Eriana stuttered.

“Bullshit,” he growled. “Strip her! I want to see everything…Jog my memory.”

Eriana fumed with outrage. Her eyes wide with disbelief. Around them, peasants and civilians had begun gathering curiously, the Lions being too distracted to run them off. She debated drawing her sword with deadly purpose or declaring who she was and pulling rank on these scoundrels. Both would land her in a prison cell or see her hanged by the gallows.

The woman took a deep steadying breath. She knew what she had to do—for her legion and for her kingdom. Eriana quietly resigned herself to her fate.

The soldiers grabbed her overshirt and ripped it off, leaving nothing but the single piece of fabric that tightly bound her breasts. The Lions quickly lost their gusto as her torso became exposed. Even the officer gawked at her toned body, lost for words. But it wasn’t her sleek muscular form that shocked them. It was the countless scars and burns that coated her skin. It was hard to believe anyone could have survived such trauma.

“Have you seen enough?” Eriana asked the officer evenly, her eyes meeting his with intimidating confidence.

He snarled at her forthrightness and shook his head. “Not yet. Take her to the barracks!”

Eriana’s heart skipped a beat, and her fingers touched the hilt of her sword. She would sooner die fighting, than let these scumbags rape her.

Before the situation could escalate any further, a calm voice broke through, drawing everyone’s attention, “Captain Bromley, why have you apprehended this woman?”

The crowd parted, as did the ring of soldiers surrounding Eriana, to reveal the source of the quiet voice. She felt her pulse quicken—if that was even possible. At the edge of the circle stood a small man with long dark braids. He wore all black with the exception of a purple sash crossing his chest from shoulder to opposing hip. Two katanas hung sheathed at his waist.

Eriana knew this man. His name was Saefong. The Shadow Dragon…

“I’ve seen her face, General,” Captain Bromley stammered. “I believe she is one of the Purists!”

General? The title hadn’t been used on the field in over four centuries—and it had certainly never been given to an outsider.

Saefong slowly strode forward, his feet barely stirring the dust that rested on the city street. His hands were non-threateningly crossed behind his back, but the Lions still backed away—even the crowd of nosey peasants gave the warrior a wide berth.

Saefong stopped only a few feet from Eriana. His eyes swept her body and yet she didn’t feel the same sense of revulsion she had felt when Bromley had looked her over. Eriana knew this was because The Shadow Dragon’s eyes were not filled with lust, or even curiosity. He was assessing the situation, taking everything of importance in—analyzing, and that was all.

“This woman is not a Purist,” Saefong stated. “Now release her.”

“With all due respect General,” Bromley quietly countered, “You have no way of knowing that. I’m taking her in to question her.”

Saefong took a deep breath and squared his shoulders as he addressed Captain Bromley, “Is it worth your life, Captain?”

The question was not a threat. There was no underlying message in Saefong’s words. It was a promise to Bromley that he would die if he pursued this. So, did Bromley believe this was worth dying for?

Of course not.

After several long seconds, Captain Bromley backed away and signaled for his men to release Eriana. They did and tossed her torn shirt back to her. She caught it and wrapped it over her shoulders, covering what she could of her chest.

“That’s it,” Bromley said, turning to address the rabble. “Show’s over, get the blazing Underheim on down the road.” With a final glare at Eriana, he and his men moved away as well, returning to their post at the gatehouse. Saefong watched them go, his gaze trained on their backs.

Eriana said nothing and quickly walked past the Shadomurian warrior. They didn’t even glance at one another as she passed. The redheaded woman pushed her way through the crowd, until she was deep in the city of Brume and split off down an empty alley, wedged between two tall buildings.

Eriana hadn’t made it ten feet when she felt someone watching her. The hairs on her neck stood up and she casually turned to face her pursuer. She was not surprised to see Saefong standing in the middle of the alley, blocking her view of the busy street beyond, hands still crossed behind his back.

“You are not supposed to be here, Wolf.”

There was no malice in his words, no sign of a threat. Eriana visibly relaxed. It had been nearly a year since they had last spoken—luckily, Saefong seemed to remain true to his purpose.

“There’s been a change of plans…” Eriana started slowly.

“Mmm.” Saefong offered nothing else, nodding for her to explain.

“We found something in the Venatian Forest…Someone…”

“Octavia Benidary,” Saefong reasoned.

Eriana nodded. “You were right. She’s alive.”

“Good,” Saefong said with an approving nod.

“I’m not so sure,” Eriana admitted, though she could hardly believe the words were coming out of her mouth. “She’s not how I expected…And she’s taken to an assassin…a man named Grim. I fear he’s leading her astray. Are you familiar with him?”

“I have heard of your people’s ‘Reaper of Everharth’. No good can come of his involvement with the girl. Should he get in the way, I’ll do what I must.”

The foreigner’s words sent a shiver down Eriana’s spine. They were not a boast—the Shadomuria warriors never boasted. It was a simple statement. She knew, for all Grim’s tricks and skill with a longsword…The Shadow Dragon would leave him in pieces.

“We should go,” Eriana said, eyeing the shuttered windows on either side of the alley. “We’ve already said too much—I’ll explain everything soon.”

Saefong nodded his understanding. “Your Wolves have been trickling into the city for days…I don’t need an explanation to see what’s happening.” He paused, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “The church’s presence weighs heavy in the city—careful where you and your soldiers tread during the light of day but know that you’re not the only force that occupies the shadows in Brumex.”

Eriana pondered Saefong’s words as he turned to leave the alley and return to the bustling street. With a final glance over his shoulder, he quietly made her a promise, “I’ll be in touch.”

With that, he disappeared into the crowd.

Eriana stood alone in the cramped alley; half clothed as she considered everything the southern warrior had said. Her mind was racing when suddenly, one specific thing Saefong had mentioned stood out.

Wolves were trickling into the city.

Eriana’s first group of legionnaires had made it! They weren’t ambushed on the road and were here inside Brumex somewhere. With a shake to clear her head, she turned her back to the street and began moving toward the shadows of the back alleys.

She knew what she needed to do. But first, she would have to rally her warriors and begin to form a plan—then there was the matter of the Purists…Eriana had her work cut out for her, but she had never been daunted by tall orders—on the contrary.

She preferred to meet them head on…

5

ALL THAT REMAINS

The Shroud glided across the calm blue water. It was impossible to tell, but Captain McCrank believed they were close to the area the storm had raged through two days earlier. The harsh sun beat down on the backs of the pirate crew. There were less than half as many of them as there had been when they had begun this voyage. The ones who remained scurried all over the ship, still busy patching up damage the storm had caused—not to mention the blow from the sea monster. The only people on deck not rushing about the ship were the three posted at the bow.

Octavia, Ansel, and Olaf appeared glum, their cheeks streaked with dried tears. Still, they watched the horizon with determination. McCrank didn’t have the heart to tell them they were wasting their time.

“How much longer before you call off the hunt?”

McCrank glanced at his First Mate, Yolanda. He was glad she had survived their harrowing encounter at the heart of the storm. Replacing her would have been no easy task. “Not much longer…I promised the girl we would at least circle back and search for the assassin.”

Yolanda eyed Captain McCrank curiously. “You’re starting to sound soft, old man. Since when do you care about breaking promises?”

McCrank chuckled. “Princess Octavia is a little different than the usual miscreants I make promises to. Her influence is…powerful. I did not expect that.”

Yolanda smirked. “And I’m sure it has nothing to do with the coins.”

Captain McCrank could only smile wolfishly in response.

“Shame about the assassin though…” Yolanda added at length.

McCrank shrugged. “He was too dangerous. It’s better this way.”

“Hmmm, dangerous…yes,” Yolanda murmured, gently touching her bruised scalp. “But at least he was on our side.”

“Maybe,” McCrank mused, watching the empty ocean ahead of them.

Yolanda followed his gaze out to the deep blue. “Do you not fear the Leviathan’s return? I doubt we would be lucky enough to escape a second time…I’d hate to meet the same fate as that Harthian galleon.”

McCrank turned his attention to the ominous, dark clouds far off their starboard side. “No, the beast is moving away. Something’s drawn its attention to the east…”

Yolanda nodded, satisfied with that answer. “And what about that thing that boarded The Shroud…Do you not fear a second encounter with it?”

McCrank rocked back on his heels and bit his lip thoughtfully. “I do. But I’ve never seen anything like it…It can’t be a coincidence it attacked us while the Beast of the Ein was so near.”

Before Yolanda could respond, a third, rather sophisticated voice cut her off, “I have. I’ve seen it once before…”

Captain McCrank turned away from the helm to inspect the lithe fellow leaning against the mizzenmast. “Ah, Suileabhain! I nearly forgot you were back there, you crazy bastard. Come, tell us again your wild story of Chala.”

Suileabhain scowled at the annoying pirate, but he held back the insults that came to mind, instead choosing to cooperate. “It’s like I told you—he attacked during a storm and the dark of night just like last time. Except then he wasn’t alone. There was a horde of the monsters…”

“And the Leviathan?” McCrank questioned.

“How should I know?” Suileabhain huffed. “We were on land!”

“Fair enough,” McCrank conceded. “And you think you have some sort of connection to this mysterious, blade wielding monstrosity?”

Suileabhain rolled his eyes. “I’m certain there’s a connection. During our previous encounter, that beast nearly killed me. It would have put one of those blades right through my heart if it hadn’t been for the assassin’s mask.”

“The assassin’s mask?” McCrank asked, feigning ignorance regarding his knowledge of the relic.

Suileabhain waved the question away. “Yes. An ancient artifact—something Rhoric Amir procured from an old ruin. It was supposed to make the assassin more docile and compliant, but that fool—” He pointed at the back of Olaf’s distant head. “Tipped the bloodthirsty lunatic off and he ditched the mask.”

“I happened to find it just before the wraith attacked Chala,” Suileabhain continued. “I placed it in my tunic and when the beast attempted to skewer me, it shattered the mask instead…Whatever curse was bound within the artifact jumped into the wraith as well as me…”

“So, that’s how you survived…” McCrank mused. “But if it’s from the same source…why does the curse react so viciously when you’re near one another?”

Suileabhain threw his hands up, shaking his head. “I don’t know. It just does!”

Yolanda and McCrank exchanged doubtful glances.

“Are you certain that’s how it happened?” Yolanda asked slowly. “You’re not forgetting any details?”

“Arghhh,” Suileabhain growled in frustration. “I get it. You all think I’m mad. I’m just the mad mercenary.” The slender man pivoted, facing them both intensely. “Well, let me tell you something! That Curse is inside of me—eating me! I can feel it slowly killing me…And without Sawn’s Oracles to consume it…It will eventually stop my heart.” He paused and looked away defeatedly. “So, excuse me if I seem a little out of my mind. It’s because I am.”

With that, the mercenary turned and stormed off, bounding down the steps from the stern and disappearing below deck, but not before shoving a pair of pirates out of his way. The duo looked at one another and then began to laugh heartily. They were simple folk and would forget about it within the hour.

Captain McCrank on the other hand, was not soon to forget Suileabhain’s curious words. He played with the jewels on his wispy beard as he considered the interaction. It might be worth keeping the mercenary around, if only as a weapon should the wraith materialize again…

“Thoughts?” McCrank asked at length.

Yolanda sighed and shrugged. “I think we’re in over our heads here, Captain…Good guys isn’t really what we’re best at it.”

McCrank turned to look at her, arching his brow curiously. “What are you suggesting?”

“I’m suggesting we dump the cargo…” Yolanda replied quietly, tilting her head, and tapping her nose knowingly. “I’d reckon there’s a sizable bounty on all their heads…”

“Aye.” McCrank nodded. “I’ve reckoned the same—But not six hundred platinums worth, or the rank of privateer…”

“True,” Yolanda agreed, “but that’s a much less attainable goal.” She paused, considering. “Just think about it, Captain. Without the assassin we actually have a chance to explore our options.”

McCrank slowly nodded, still stroking his beard. “You make some fine points, Yol. This is why you’re my First Mate.” He slapped her ample bottom and pushed her away. “Go and check on those bilge rats. I’ll think on your words and do what’s best for the crew.”

Yolanda smirked and dusted off the seat of her pants where McCrank’s hand had been. “You mean what’s best for you, Captain.”

McCrank quietly chuckled. “What’s best for the captain is what’s best for the crew.”

Olaf sat in silence, staring off into the endless expanse of water, cold sea foam spraying his cheeks. He knew their search was pointless. He’d heard the story retold a hundred times—Grim had been stabbed before ever being tossed into the Ein. If they found him at all, it would be his corpse.

The young noble was furious. Angry at himself for being so useless, angry at Octavia and Grim for pushing to pursue Fortitude, even into the perilous storm. He was confused. They had been attacked by a beast belonging to ancient folklore, and yet it had slunk out of the depths of the sea and nearly sank their ship, nonetheless.

Then there was the armored fiend. It had hacked a path through them with ease. An entire galleon, filled with some of the most vicious and skilled warriors he had ever seen, beaten in a span of moments. How was that possible? Who was that monster and where had it come from?

Worst of all, he believed the wraith had recognized his name. Olaf didn’t know how or why, but the fiend glanced at him with familiarity in that instant. He could still see its ugly helm tilting with curiosity as McCrank shouted his name across the ship.

Olaf shuttered. He felt lost. Grim had been a soulless, vicious, brute—initially at least. As he got to know the man, he had realized there was quite a bit more to him. He had even begun looking up to Grim. Not just because he was a remarkable swordsman, but because he also filled a role Olaf desperately needed in his life. And now that void had returned.

Olaf choked down more tears.

“Hey.”

The sudden voice startled Olaf and he swallowed hard, carefully masking his sadness. He looked up from where he sat and meant Octavia’s piercing green eyes. “Oh, hey.”

The girl hesitated, but then quickly and awkwardly took a seat beside him. They sat in silence for several seconds before she looked up, making eye contact with him again. “I-I’m sorry.” Octavia stuttered through her words, before chuckling sadly, “I thought I could come over here and say something to cheer you up, but it seems I’m not exactly full of wisdom myself.”

Olaf grinned. “I think you’re doing excellent. Really. I feel better already.”

Octavia scowled at him. “Why do you always have to be such a sarcastic ass?”

Olaf tempered his grin a bit. He was far better at hiding his feelings than the pretty girl before him. Sometimes that meant being a sarcastic ass—or in his case, most of the time.

“I’m sorry,” Octavia apologized quickly. “You probably think I’m such a hateful person.”

Olaf’s eyes widened with genuine surprise. “Why would you say that?”

She sighed. “Ever since you’ve known me, I’ve been a…bitch. I’m just under so much pressure all the time…I wish it wasn’t like this.”

Olaf frowned. “I don’t think you’re a bitch.”

Octavia looked at him, one eyebrow raised doubtfully.

“Okay,” Olaf admitted, his smirk returning in full. “I thought you were a little bit of a bitch at first, but I think after everything you’ve been through—everything you’re still going through, you have the right to be a little bitchy.”

They both grinned widely, before falling silent once more. Eventually, Octavia pulled a torn piece of cloth from her shirt and presented it to Olaf.

“Hey!” Olaf remarked loudly, recognition dawning on him. “That’s part of Grim’s cloak, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Octavia confirmed, nodding. “I’ve been using it to dry my tears, but he had joked that you should have it.”

Olaf watched, his emotions a tumbling mess, as the princess offered the cloth to him. He reached out for it, but instead of taking the torn remnants, gently closed Octavia’s fingers around the fabric.

“He gave it to you,” Olaf said with a determined nod.

Octavia nodded, fighting back more tears, moisture forming in her eyes. “I can’t believe I’m admitting this but…I actually miss him.”

After many moments, Olaf put his arm around the girl’s shoulders and pulled her in close. “Me too,” he whispered.

They sat like that for a long time before Octavia broke the silence, “What should we do now?” she asked.

“Well,” Olaf began slowly, racking his brain. What would Grim do, he wondered. At length, he continued his thought, “We still need to find you a teacher.”

“True,” Octavia agreed. “But we only have five weeks to rendezvous with Eriana and the Wolves in Brumex.”

“That’s a month-long journey on foot,” Olaf mused. “And that’s assuming we only use roads and aren’t held up anywhere.”

“We can make it there faster on The Shroud,” Octavia reasoned. “McCrank’s vessel can sail through the night after all. We would be making constant progress.”

Olaf hesitated before responding, turning to glance around and make sure no one was nearby. “I don’t fully trust the pirates…” He whispered admittedly. “Without Grim here to intimidate them, they might try something.”

Octavia nodded her understanding. “I’ve been thinking the same thing…Little Amir.”

Olaf turned to regard her; his face twisted with mock betrayal. “How could you?”

The princess bowed her head in an overexaggerated fashion. “My apologies, Lord Amir. Is that better?”

Olaf sneered. “I’ll allow it.” His face turned more serious as he leaned in and whispered again, “Let’s just be careful around McCrank and his crew for now. I don’t trust any of them…I’ll let you know if I hear anything.”

“Right. I’ll do the same,” Octavia promised, nodding her agreement. She ran her fingers through Grim’s cloak. “Maybe, he can still protect us in a way?” Her voice nearly cracked with sudden grief as she spoke the words.

“How so?” Olaf asked curiously, careful not to let the same emotion creep into his tone.

“We should continue training. Practicing everything he taught us and building on it.”

Olaf was already nodding. He had planned to do as much anyway. “We’ll help each other. Even if we can’t find a mentor to hone your Curses—we can still make sure you can defend yourself in other ways.”

They nodded in mutual agreement and turned their gaze back to the sea. More silence followed.

“Do you think he’d be proud of us?” Octavia asked after a while.

Olaf snorted. “He’d probably yell at us for being so naïve. Then he would throw me overboard for thinking I could protect us from these villains.”

The young Amir broke out into laughter, but the princess did not join him. She watched him very seriously. “He would be proud of you, Olaf.”

Olaf felt a lump rise in his throat, and he had to look away, his laughter suddenly stopping. Quickly collecting himself he turned back to her. She was still watching him intently.

“I know he would…” The girl continued. “He already was.”

Olaf had no response. They sat quietly, lost in thought for some time.

The serenity of that moment was shattered when Ansel cried out close by. They both turned to regard the odd boy curiously. He was shouting nonsense and pointing out to sea. Olaf turned to see what exactly had him so worked up.

The young Amir’s jaw nearly dropped through the deck. He could hardly believe his eyes. Several hundred yards ahead of The Shroud was a piece of Fortitude’s gunwale floating atop the water. Laying across the wood was a single, waterlogged figure that could only be Grim.

“I don’t believe it!” Olaf shouted, his heart pounding. “There’s someone in the water! I think it’s him!”

From up on the stern deck McCrank’s eyes slowly widened as he pieced together Olaf’s words lost in the wind. “No…” the pirate captain murmured, walking around the helm to get a better look at the open sea. McCrank’s eyes widened even further as he spotted the lonely figure adrift. He chortled and shook his head. “No fucking way…”

The Shroud slowed as it came up beside the remnants of Fortitude. Within minutes the pirate crew threw a line overboard and a pair of them slid down, carefully securing the castaway, and scrambling back up, before hoisting the rope back over the gunwale.

Olaf, Ansel, and Octavia waited by the ship’s rail, cautiously optimistic. Gregory McCrank and Yolanda also lurked nearby—even Suileabhain had emerged from the bowels of the ship to watch as the pirates heaved the rope and its cargo back onto the deck.

Confusion spread as the castaway lurched over the gunwale and landed on the wooden planks beneath their feet. The person before them was not the infamous assassin at all—it was a woman! She was tall and elegant, wrapped in heavy, waterlogged furs. Her hair was long and tangled from the salt water, but that did little to mask her exotic beauty. She coughed and sat up, shielding her eyes from the sun.

“What?” Olaf stammered. “Who is this? Who are you? You’re not Grim.”

The woman eyed him curiously, before shifting her gaze to each of them, slowly and methodically. “Am I not who you were expecting?” she asked coolly, her accent familiar.

“No,” Octavia answered, speaking up before anyone else could. Her tone was cold, bordering hostile.

The woman turned her gaze on Octavia, and she studied her carefully. “Well, well. You’re quite a bit stronger than I thought you would be princess…That’s good.”

Octavia shook her head vehemently. “Who are you? What do you know about me?”

The woman didn’t immediately answer. The edge of her lips curled into a smile.

“She is one of the Oracles of Sawn.” The words were abrupt, and the crowd split, shifting to see who had spoken them. Suileabhain stood at the end of that channel, now much closer than he had been before. He cleared his throat and continued, “You are Cometessa are you not? I recognize you from my days on the Oval Islands.”

“She most certainly is.” McCrank was nodding in agreement with the mercenary. “I remember her as well…”

Cometessa turned her intoxicating gaze on the captain. “Ah, yes. It has been many years Captain Gregory McCrank…Did you find what you were searching for?”

McCrank’s feet shifted, and he turned away, unable to meet the woman’s gaze. “No…Not yet, ma’am. But I think I’m close…”

Cometessa laughed knowingly. “Yes…I think so as well.” She settled and then turned her gaze back on Octavia. She reached out, offering her hands to the princess. Octavia did not take them.

“I’m sorry I’m not who you wanted me to be, Princess,” Cometessa whispered, her eyelids fluttering. “Though I am grateful to have been fished out of the Ein by your vessel…It was not by mere fortune. Our meeting was fated. My purpose for being here is great indeed—perhaps far greater than even your friend Grim’s…”

Octavia’s eyes narrowed. “Why? How could you possibly be more helpful to me than he was?”

Cometessa watched her strangely. “You say that like he was little more than a tool to you—a weapon to be wielded…”

“He was,” Octavia stated coldly. “He was indentured to me; his services were unfulfilled.”

Olaf eyed her with surprise, taken aback by Octavia’s harshness. She paid him no heed…

Cometessa nodded knowingly. “Indeed, Princess…Indeed.”

“Now tell me,” Octavia started. “How could you be of more use to me than that? Why did Thondel see fit to deliver you to me, but not my reaper?”

“Speak quickly,” Octavia continued, “or I’ll have my crew throw you back into the Ein.”

McCrank’s eyebrows raised with astonishment. He had never seen the girl so cold and commanding before. She almost looked the part of queen standing where she stood, glowering down at the sopping wet Oracle. Beside him, Yolanda simply smirked and nodded approvingly.

Cometessa was not intimidated by the princess’s bravado. She continued to smile and slowly rose to her feet, slipping out of her wet furs and standing completely naked on the deck before Octavia. Olaf turned away, his face quickly reddening. The pirates leaned in even closer, licking their lips excitedly.

The Oracle towered over the girl, displaying her attractive body shamelessly as if to insinuate she was a grown woman who would not be belittled by a small girl who had barely reached puberty—and yet, she soon dropped back to her knees so that she had to look up to meet the princess’s sharp, green eyes once more. “I am not your enemy, Princess Octavia. I know why you came to Sawn—what you seek.”

Before Cometessa could finish, Suileabhain shoved his way past Octavia and dropped to the deck in front of the Oracle. He bowed his head profusely and practically wept. “Please Oracle, you must help me. Forget about this little girl—she is of no importance. I am afflicted by a terrible Curse and only you or your sister can save me. It’s no coincidence that we found you drifting. Fate brought you to me so that you could save me! Please—”

The mercenary’s pleas were cut short as Ansel roared angrily and slapped him back. Suileabhain slid several feet before attempting to leap back to his feet and answer the egregious wrong. McCrank signaled to his crew and several pirates grabbed the mad mercenary before he could launch a counterattack.

“That’s enough out of you!” Captain McCrank shouted with finality. “You may have earned yourself the right to walk freely on my ship, but you won’t be allowed that privilege if you can’t act with decency.” McCrank waved him away, even as Suileabhain was cursing him in a dozen different languages. “Throw him in the brig—see if that clears his addled mind.”

“Psychopath,” Olaf muttered under his breath while the mercenary was dragged away. Ansel snorted approvingly.

Octavia’s eyes remained fixed on Cometessa—and Cometessa’s on her.

“You were saying?” Octavia prompted.

Cometessa’s seductive smile widened. “You are in need of a mentor, someone to help you temper your gift—I can show you how.”

Octavia’s intense expression gradually melted, and her head tilted with curiosity. “Truly?”

“Of course,” Cometessa assured. “I share your gift—but more importantly, I can help you remember who you are…”

Octavia’s curiosity shifted to confusion and then suspicion. She tried to withdraw from Cometessa, but the Oracle suddenly shot forward, grabbing the princess’ hands. Octavia’s mind seemed to explode, and she felt herself falling away into a deep memory, more akin to a dream.

Everything was dark. Then she was blinded by radiant light. It was fire! Flames roared all about her. She was here on the ship—or perhaps it was a different ship! There was chaos and the screams of dying men. She could hear the howl of the Leviathan. It had returned. The storm raged all around. She was surrounded by soldiers trying to protect her—or were they trying to capture her? Mostly their backs were to her, and she could barely see past them. She had to stoop down to peer between their legs. She spotted a single warrior standing out in front of the mass of soldiers ensnaring her. He reminded her of Grim. But he was not Grim. The warrior held back a tide of beasts clawing their way toward her—to slaughter her.

There were hundreds of them, pouring onto the ship from every angle, trying to overwhelm the lone warrior. But he held his ground, repelling the attackers again and again. He must have slain several dozen of them, their monstrous bodies piling high. The warrior turned and shouted something to the men around her and they twisted, beginning to shuffle her away. She fought against their holds, trying to see what became of her lone protector. There was an explosion and she fell to the floorboards, the soldiers surrounding her toppling as well.

As quickly as it had come, the vision faded, leaving Octavia standing speechless on the deck of The Shroud. Cometessa stood before her, upright once more and cupping her breasts protectively with both hands. She seemed stunned—equally surprised by Octavia’s vision.

“This is much more than I had thought, Princess,” the beautiful woman began hesitantly. “It will take time to free your memories. The past is not so easily revealed.”

Octavia staggered back and Olaf stepped forward to steady her. “That vision you showed me. That was my past?”

Cometessa nodded slowly. McCrank and Yolanda stepped closer, eyes darting curiously.

“Yes,” the Oracle confirmed. “A small fragment. But it is twisted and confused. I fear you will never be able to master the Curse if you do not first master yourself.”

Octavia took a steadying breath and steeled herself. She stepped away from Olaf and Ansel, standing determinedly on her own. “Then show me how.”

Cometessa’s smile glowed with satisfaction, and she nodded approvingly, her hands came away from her chest as she started a slow clap. “Very good, Octavia. Very good.”

Captain McCrank watched the whole puzzling exchange cautiously. After a few uncomfortable seconds of Cometessa’s clapping, he shuddered, shaking himself out of his stupor and stepped forward.

“That’s enough excitement for one day,” McCrank declared, sweeping off his hat for dramatic effect. “You won’t be able to help anyone master themselves if you freeze to death, my lady.” He shewed the naked woman toward his cabin. “Let’s get you inside and find something dry for you to wear. The cook survived this whole ordeal, so you’re in luck! I’ll have him send you some food as soon as you’re comfortable.”

Cometessa bowed her head graciously. “Thank you, Captain Gregory McCrank. You and your crew are too kind, and…thank you again for rescuing me.”

McCrank dipped into a low bow but said little more on the matter.

Olaf shook his head and looked from Cometessa to Octavia and back again. “What in the void Underheim just happened?” he asked, still shaking with confusion.

Ansel shrugged his shoulders and moved away, Octavia was right behind him, deep in thought. Yolanda passed by him as well, offering a flirty smile. “Don’t worry your little head about it m’lord.” She winked and trotted to catch up to McCrank.

The captain handed Cometessa off to Yolanda upon reaching his cabin. “See if you can’t find her something to wear. I’m going to return to the helm—no point in drifting out here any longer than necessary.”

Yolanda nodded. “Aye. I’d rather not join Fortitude’s crew.”

Cometessa cocked her head curiously. “And where do you suppose the Harthian crew is?”

McCrank and Yolanda both eyed the woman strangely.

“At the bottom of the Ein with their ship,” Yolanda answered, her tone suggesting the Oracle’s question to be preposterous.

Cometessa smiled and even giggled with amusement.

“What’s so funny?” McCrank asked tensely.

“Fortitude didn’t sink,” the Oracle stated with a shrug. “Nearly—but she did not. It seems fortune smiled on both vessels that night.”

Captain McCrank placed a calloused hand on his forehead and turned away, exhaling softly as he did. His hand slid down his face and tugged on his beard. When his eyes opened, he quietly muttered a single word. “Fuck.”

6

THE LAST HARTH

Cathedral bells tolled in the distance, striking three times as the sun rose in the pale morning sky. The chimes did not signify the hour as they had in the past. Instead, they indicated the beginning of the third service of the day. Rhoric Amir watched from on high within the Royal Palace, as the masses squeezed into the Cathedral of Thondel.

At a glance, the city appeared to be at peace. The air was quiet, apart from a few songbirds and the horizon was filled with lazy, golden clouds. A cool breeze swept through the lofty tower and carried the sound of the ocean with it. The Steward took a long, steadying breath. Yes, Everharth appeared serene and content—something he had played no small part in.

But it was all a lie. The calm was merely a façade—one he painfully saw through.

If he looked to the west, dark smoke clouds wafted from the Trade District. To the east, the Water District had become all but a war zone. The crowds moving into the Cathedral, as the third ceremony of the day began, were escorted by soldiers not priests. Riots and protests were breaking out all over the city and neither the Legion of Candor nor the Legion of Thondel could fully contain them.

The burly man clenched his fists and ground his teeth together. He was trying to help these people! Their lives were easier than they had ever been. He had given them an equal playing field and yet, they loathed him! He had done everything right and still, they fought. For a dead girl no less!

Rhoric Amir exhaled sharply. He would not rest until all the Benidary Purists had been rooted out and destroyed. Then he would have peace. Then the serenity over Everharth would be more than a mirage. Honnel’s voice pulled him back to the present. “Lord Steward?”

Rhoric Amir turned away from the tower window and rested his gaze on his Viscount. “A thousand apologies, Honnel…What were we discussing?”

Honnel quickly cleared his throat. “Uh, yes. We were just going over this new law; it states that anyone outside of the city garrison or a legion will be prohibited from possessing a weapon until further notice…”

Rhoric Amir sighed and returned to the window, watching the smoke as it spiraled into the sky. “What does it matter, Honnel? If they hate us so, and believe their cause is a just one, will they not just find other means to fight us?”

“Respectfully, I disagree, Lord Steward,” Honnel replied with a decisive shake of his head. “The city is simply too dangerous right now. With the Purists running rampant, legionnaire injuries are increasing daily. We can’t risk the commoners rising up and joining their cause.”

“If we take their belongings—family heirlooms passed down for generations—they’ll only hate us more, Honnel!” Rhoric Amir countered, spinning, and taking a long stride toward the Viscount, who in turn took a quick step back. “Our best move is to focus the Candor and Thondel Legions on finding the Purist hideout and stamping them out—killing their leaders and making public examples of all of them.”

“Until that happens,” Rhoric Amir continued more calmly, “there will be no peace.”

“I understand,” Honnel conceded, bowing deeply. “I will redirect the necessary resources to find them, Lord Steward.” The Viscount paused, looking about hesitantly.

“What is it?” Rhoric Amir asked impatiently.

“It’s just—we’ve been wasting so much time searching for them in the Water District…what if they’re not even there?”

Rhoric Amir smiled knowingly. “Oh, they’re there, dear Honnel. Of that, I’m sure.”

Honnel peered at him curiously. “How can you be, my lord?”

“My brothers and I spent many years there,” Rhoric Amir explained. “The Water District is a labyrinth. One Roderic is quite familiar with. He would operate where he feels safe—that’s how he’s always been.”

Honnel screwed up his eyebrows. “But we don’t even know if he’s leading the Purists. By all accounts, your brother was as surprised as you were when they appeared during the purge of the Water District?”

“You underestimate my brother!” Rhoric Amir growled. “He lured me into the Water District, just as he fooled the assassin Grim! He’s clever and deceitful. He wants us to think he lacked involvement when in truth he’s the one pulling the strings…Believe me, Honnel—I have some experience with treacherous brothers.” The Steward clenched his fists murderously, finishing his rant.

Honnel continued to appear doubtful but dared not question Rhoric Amir’s judgement a second time. Instead, he threw down the paper he currently held in his hands and reached for the next order of business. The small man began clearing his throat and was just about to speak when the heavy door to the tower chamber flew open. A single, out of breath, Candorian Legionnaire rushed in.

Honnel rolled his eyes. “You better have a good reason for storming in here!” the Viscount scolded.

The soldier walked right past the diminutive man and stopped before Rhoric Amir, saluting smartly.

The Steward made a ‘Mhm’ noise and waved his hand at the legionnaire. “At ease, soldier. What do you have for me?”

The legionnaire’s hand came down, but he did little in the way of relaxing. “My Lord Steward! Commander Tartisius sent me to inform you that the galleon Fortitude has been spotted near Legion Bay. She prepares to harbor there. He thought you would want to know…”

Rhoric Amir swirled and rushed back to the window, his eyes wide with anticipation. He was so eager he didn’t catch the rest of the soldier’s report.

“…she’s not in good shape, my lord—it looks bad.”

The Steward reached the window and leaned out to get a better view of Legion Bay. Sure enough, a galleon was sliding between the narrow walls that surrounded the harbor. Rhoric Amir was at a loss for words as he watched the once glorious warship limp across the remaining stretch of water, smoke still rising from its hull. It looked as if the galleon would sink before it reached the dock.

Fortitude’s sails were torn and burnt. Scorch marks blackened the wood all over the ship and chunks of the gunwale were completely gone, as if they had been bitten off by some huge beast. Cannons lay strewn across the deck and splintered wood was scattered along the hull of the ship. The galleon’s figurehead was smashed to bits and the whole vessel sat several feet lower in the water.

“Dear, Thondel…” Honnel whispered beside the Steward. “What happened?”

Rhoric Amir shook his head, still at a loss.

The Candorian legionnaire, having caught his breath, spoke up once more, “Would you like an escort down to the bay, Lord Steward?”

Rhoric Amir dismissed the man. “No…no, go and collect the survivors and bring them here, to the palace.”

The soldier quickly saluted and rushed back out the same way he had come.

Rhoric Amir and his former body slave quietly turned to one another, stunned expressions reflecting their faces. The Steward broke the silence first, finally speaking up, “Gather my Honor Guard, Honnel—and send someone to fetch my cloak.”

Rhoric Amir sat uneasily on the oversized throne in the palace’s Main Hall. He had wrapped himself in his dragon skin cloak—an article of apparel that normally made him feel much calmer. He did not feel calm now.

To his left, in a much smaller seat, sat Viscount Honnel, and to his right stood High Priest Baize O’mere. All three men were surrounded by an elite guard of eighteen soldiers, handpicked by Rhoric Amir himself. Their armor looked mundane but was forged by the best smiths in all of Everharth. Each of them carried a sword and shield to match. The only thing that stood out were their long black cloaks embroidered by an orange bird of prey—the creature appeared to be in mid-dive, long talons stretched out beneath it.

The hall sprawled out before them, support pillars running parallel to one another all the way to the huge wooden doors at the entrance to the room. Suits of beautiful armor ran the length of the hall, displayed along the stone between draped tapestries and arched windows. Underneath each window and on every marble pillar, sat a sconce for a torch. None of the braziers were lit, as enough natural light filtered in through the giant stained-glass windows along the perimeter of the room. Behind Rhoric Amir’s throne, five more tall, narrow windows stretched to the ceiling and cast rays of sunshine on the floor beneath his elevated seat. Particles of dust danced in those rays of sunlight.

The huge oak doors burst open and a chevron of Candor troops marched in. Commander Tartisius led the formation. Behind the loyal legionnaires stumbled a tight group of sailors, amongst them was their skipper, Captain Levee John. Those men looked bedraggled and tired, as if they had sailed through the night.

As the last of the sailors entered the huge audience chamber, a clutch of legion soldiers wearing intimidating masked galea entered directly behind them—Titans. There were only four in total. One of them, Rhoric Amir recognized. Lord Andreas Buth, the Commander of the Legion of the Titans.

Andreas carried a dainty woman in his arms. Rhoric Amir recognized her as well. The last time he had seen her she had appeared dull and thoughtless. Joanne did not appear that way now. The woman glanced all about the chamber until her eyes eventually came to rest on the Steward. He could see hatred smoldering in those dark, brown orbs.

Rhoric Amir chuckled gleefully—not because he found any kind of satisfaction in the woman’s loathing, but because he knew the ritual must have worked! Malia would have his answer. He would finally learn where the last Harth survived in hiding.

Rhoric Amir’s mirth was quick to fade when a single woman, slender and scantily dressed, followed the Titans into the hall. The rear of the formation was brought up by ten more of Tartisius’ soldiers. They swiftly sealed the oaken doors behind them, and shuffled forward, stopping only a dozen paces from the base of Rhoric Amir’s throne.

Rhoric Amir’s eyes swept the group a second and a third time before he slowly and ominously spoke, “Commander Tartisius. I was very vocal with your messenger—I told him to bring all the survivors aboard Fortitude…”

Tartisius took a step forward and dropped to one knee, bowing deeply before the Lord Steward. “Your message was received clearly, Lord Amir—this is everyone who was aboard the galleon.”

Rhoric Amir quietly inhaled through his nostrils and then slowly blew a breath out his lips, ruffling his dark moustache hairs. “Really,” he asked coolly. “And where is the girl’s caretaker, Malia? What of the Oracles—and the rest of your soldiers…Where are they Lord Andreas?” The Steward’s gaze shifted to the Titan Commander as he spoke.

Andreas took a steadying breath of his own and handed Joanne off to one of his Titans. The man accepted her without a word. Then Lord Andreas took several steps forward, pushing past Tartisius who still kneeled and placing a foot on the first step leading up to the throne.

All eighteen of Rhoric Amir’s Honor Guards drew their swords in unison and leveled them in the Titan’s direction. Lord Andreas appeared undaunted by the dramatic show of power, but he was wise enough to come no closer.

“You have questions,” Andreas stated evenly. “That’s understandable. I have some of my own.”

Rhoric Amir’s eye began to twitch, and his lip curled. He was fighting hard to maintain his composure, but he was very near to drawing his own sword in outrage.

“You are in no position to ask questions…” the Steward growled quietly.

“I disagree,” Andreas countered boldly. “I did as you asked…”

“You did as I asked?!” Rhoric Amir shouted, leaping to his feet, and pounding his fist against the arm of the throne. “I gave you the most powerful ship in our navy and you returned with it in pieces! I provided you with the most elite warriors in the city and not a single one survived the voyage with you! I asked for two Oracles, and you bring me one! So, please, prestigious Lord Andreas Buth—Leader of the Silver Titans, Commander of Legions, and Guardian of the Estuary Ford, explain to me how you did as I asked!”

“You misstep, Steward,” Andreas replied coldly.

Rhoric Amir’s eyes narrowed in disbelief and his nostrils flared dangerously.

“It seems you fail to recall what you asked of me,” Andreas continued confidently. “Let me remind you…” He turned and his hand reached out pointing to the fragile looking woman in his soldier’s arms.

“You asked me to bring this woman back alive. I did. You asked me to find the Oracles and learn from them the name of the last Harth…I did. So, do not tell me what I have and have not done for you. It was you, who chose to keep me in the dark regarding your other motives on the Oval Islands!”

Rhoric Amir’s bravado faded, and he slumped a bit. He was not accustomed to being spoken to as an equal—at least not for many years. Besides, the Titan had a point. He had seemingly delivered everything asked of him.

Viscount Honnel stepped forward suddenly and began to berate the Titan Commander. “How dare you speak out of terms, you mongrel! This is your Lord Steward! I ought to have you flayed alive for your impudence!”

“Enough!” Rhoric Amir shouted, raising his voice before Honnel could anger the powerful Lord Buth any further. “I was unfair in my accusations,” the Steward admitted patting his hands in the air apologetically. “If what you say is true, Lord Buth…Then you have done as I asked.”

“I would say above and beyond,” Andreas replied smartly.

Rhoric Amir’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t push me, Titan.”

Andreas lowered his head ever so slightly—perhaps a sign of respect, or maybe he was simply hiding a wolfish grin. It was difficult to be certain with this one.

“Tell me,” Rhoric Amir said. “I want to know everything.”

“I imagine you wish me to start with your sister…?”

Rhoric Amir’s eyes shot up, meeting the Titan Commander’s own gleaming orbs. “What do you know?” the Steward hissed dangerously.

“Enough,” Andreas replied cryptically.

“I won’t play these games with you Titan!” Rhoric Amir declared angrily, spittle flying from his mouth. “Tell me what has become of her. Tell me what became of my soldiers—my ship! And give me the name of the last Harth…Answer me damn you!”

The Steward’s angry words seemed to somber Lord Andreas, his features becoming serious. The well-muscled man took a step away from the throne and began to pace as he spoke. “We were attacked on the Isle of Sawn…”

“An ambush?” Rhoric Amir asked suspiciously.

“No,” Andreas replied, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “I don’t believe so. They seemed just as surprised to see us.”

“Who?” the Steward asked impatiently, his tone promising vengeance.

Lord Andreas stopped tapping his chin and turned back to the dais curiously, in order to determine Rhoric Amir’s reaction. “Princess Octavia.”

Rhoric Amir’s jaw went slack, and his eyes widened in disbelief. Behind him Viscount Honnel and High Priest O’mere rocked back in shock. The burly Steward slowly closed his mouth and collected himself, brushing a strand of black hair behind his ear. “Who else?”

“Hmmm,” Andreas hummed, appearing deep in thought. “A group of pirates led by a dramatic fellow covered in gaudy jewels.” The Titan paused and motioned to Fortitude’s captain. “Captain Levee John here, says the man’s called Gregory McCrank. He’s the skipper of an infamous pirate galleon—The Shroud.”

Rhoric Amir shrugged and glanced to his right and left. Honnel and Baize O’mere shrugged in turn. “Never heard of him,” the Steward remarked dismissively.

“Indeed,” Andreas replied, confirming the same. “There was also a soldier there. He belonged to a legion. Young lad, all his gear was standard issue, but his armor was too damaged to tell the origin…” his words trailed off.

“What?” Rhoric Amir asked sharply, stooping to look directly into Andreas’ eyes.

Andreas shook his head. “Almost resembled Wolf Legion…But it couldn’t be…”

Rhoric Amir’s head tilted with concern as he listened to the Titan’s words.

Andreas shrugged. “It hardly matters now. I saw the boy slain amidst the fighting. He’s gone.”

“More interestingly,” the man continued. “Was a tall, sleek fellow. Mercenary type. His armor was dull gold. What was his name…Suileabhain? Yes, that was it. Suileabhain.” Andreas met Rhoric Amir’s eyes again and it was all too obvious he was enjoying this. “He was one of yours, wasn’t he?”

Rhoric Amir fumed. The man could barely contain himself as he stalked around the dais, pondering Andreas’ words. “Suileabhain that treacherous fucking goat! That would explain why Octavia is still living.”

Andreas was hardly phased by the Steward’s regicidal words. He had already deduced much of this himself, but it was reassuring to hear it from Rhoric Amir’s own mouth. The man was in a frothing tizzy as he continued to stampede in front of the throne.

“So, Suileabhain betrayed me for a princess, a legionless coward and a bunch of stinking pirates.” The Steward swirled back to Andreas. “Tell me you killed him. Tell me the traitor is dead! Malia would have destroyed him on the spot. Is that what happened?”

“No,” Andreas answered evenly.

“Then…” Rhoric Amir hesitated, lost in thought, his mind working rapidly. “Then Suileabhain killed my sister?”

Andreas shook his head. “No—you’re grasping at threads when you still don’t have the full story.”

“So, tell me…” Rhoric Amir growled impatiently.

“There was another there,” the Titan explained cautiously.

Rhoric Amir was about to scold the soldier for his riddling words once more when a thought suddenly crossed his mind. “No…” the Steward muttered, subconsciously pulling his dragon skin cape tighter.

“An assassin,” Andreas noted, holding the Steward’s unblinking gaze. “I believe you know him as the Reaper of Everharth…”

Silence fell over the great hall. The air felt heavy. Everyone in attendance seemed to be collectively holding their breath. A few of the Steward’s elite guards glanced over their shoulders cautiously and the High Priest fell back into his chair, all but cowering in fear.

Rhoric Amir’s gaze was unfocused. His eyes wandered the far corners of the hall while his mind raced. After seemingly an eternity, he took a deep, shaky breath and looked up to meet Lord Andreas’ eyes once more. He expected to see cocky satisfaction in the commander’s face. To his surprise that was not the case. Andreas’ face reflected some of the terror that was evident on his own.

“What happened?” Rhoric Amir asked quietly.

“Our meeting with the princess and her motley gang of followers was purely coincidental. Everything had gone as you planned, Steward. The Oracles had revealed the name of the last Harth, and both were in our custody being escorted back to the ship.

We ran into them deep inside the village. They must have seized the opportunity and rallied the locals against us. They attacked us on sight,” Andreas paused, dipping his head respectfully. “The assassin…He leapt from the shadows of a rooftop and fell on your sister like a rabid beast…She was too weak from her battle with the Oracles. He overwhelmed her in seconds. There was nothing anyone could do…I’m sorry.”

Rhoric Amir was nodding solemnly. He seemed to have regained much of his composure during Lord Andreas’ story. Honnel on the other hand appeared more frantic with every word out of the Titan’s mouth.

“I don’t pretend to understand Thondel’s methods,” Rhoric Amir mused comfortingly. “He must believe my sister could serve better at his side rather than my own…We are but humble servants to his will.”

Lord Andreas eyed the Steward suspiciously, put off by the man’s sudden shift in demeanor. Perhaps, he had underestimated Rhoric Amir’s keenness and the man saw through his story. Andreas quickly shook the doubts away—the Steward would believe whatever he told him, because what choice did he have?

“Indeed,” Andreas softly agreed. “We barely escaped the island with our lives and Octavia’s pirates gave chase. With most of the crew depleted and the majority of Fortitude’s guns stashed below deck we were in danger of being scuttled by the speedy, pirate galleon—but it seems Thondel had his own plans for that as well.”

Rhoric Amir glanced up curiously, uncertain of Andreas’ peculiar sentence. “Explain your meaning, Titan,” the Steward requested firmly.

“A great sea monster attacked their vessel just as they came within range of us.”

Rhoric Amir’s eyes narrowed at the commander’s bold claim.

“It’s true!” Captain Levee John shouted. “I see the doubt in your eyes, but the creature was real all right. It was like something out of a story book! In all my years I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Rhoric Amir ran the dragon skin cloak through his fingers, eventually signaling for Lord Andreas to continue.

Andreas dipped his head and began once more. “It threatened to drag The Shroud to the bottom of The Ein with it, when suddenly, a fiery arrow flew through the storm and set our ship ablaze…The inferno must have drawn the monster’s ire because it came for us, leaving the pirates to their fate.”

“And how could you have escaped such a monster without my sister’s aid?” Rhoric Amir asked calmly.

“The Oracles,” Lord Andreas answered. “They used the last vestiges of their remaining power to return the creature to the abyss…But Gysella,” he waved to the single Oracle present, “Her sister, Cometessa, was consumed by the effort…She’s dead.”

Rhoric Amir nodded slowly, taking it all in. He shifted his focus to Gysella. “And what does she have to say about the loss of her sisters?”

Andreas shrugged. “She hasn’t spoken since that nigh—” His words were suddenly cut short by the soothing, yet venomous words of Gysella.

“I know you, Rhoric. I have seen your fate many times!” The Oracle took a step forward and pointed toward the Steward. Her voice was no longer laced with the intoxicating, throaty tone she had used on Sawn. Instead, it was simple. Full of rage and disgust.

“You struggle and you fight to make something of yourself, using whatever lies people will believe, desperate to become something more. But—you’ll always be the dirty street urchin you were born into. The deserter you chose to be. Without honor. Without love.” She paused, nostrils fuming. “And in all my visions you die like that as well…Do you want to know how?”

Honnel leapt from his chair once more. “Guards! Silence this woman!”

“No!” Rhoric Amir countered with an authoritative growl. “How, Oracle?”

Honnel shook his head and tried to press forward, but Rhoric’s strong arm pushed him back into his seat. “Tell me how!” the Steward roared.

Gysella smirked coldly. “At the end of an assassin’s blade.”

Rhoric Amir sneered at the woman, nodding. “Perhaps you are right, but not before Thondel is finished with me!”

“You fear him, don’t you?”

The quiet words were somewhat out of place in the chamber, which echoed with such angry tones. It took Rhoric Amir a moment to realize where they had come from. At last, his eyes settled on Joanne. She returned his gaze equally.

“You fear him, don’t you?” she reiterated.

“Thondel?” the Steward asked incredulously.

Joanne was already shaking her head.

“The Reaper…?” Rhoric Amir asked again after a thoughtful pause.

“Yes.”

The Steward chuckled. “Show me a man in this city who doesn’t!”

Joanne began shaking her head once more. “No, you fear him. Long have you feared his survival. Thoughts of him torment the hours you should be sleeping. Even now, you look for him in every shadow…What could you have possibly done to be so deserving of his vengeance?”

Rhoric Amir found himself momentarily lost for words as he returned the woman’s glare. His lips twitched, trying to form a rebuttal, but he had nothing to disperse Joanne’s words. At last, he swirled about and began barking orders to his men. “Take this woman to the Viscount’s fortress and lock her away!” He spun back around and pointed to Gysella. “Take this one as well—but separate them. I don’t want them exchanging heretical words with one another, for fear they hatch yet another blasphemous scheme!”

The Steward’s soldiers began rushing about. Tartisius rose to his full height and directed his own legionnaires to help escort the women. One Candor attempted to rip Joanne out of the arms of the Titan holding her and he was quickly met with a vicious headbutt from the masked warrior.

He reeled back and began drawing his sword in angered disbelief. Before the steel had fully left its sheath. All three Titans drew their own weapons, even the one carrying Joanne balanced the woman on one arm and leveled his gladius in the other. They formed a tight triangle. Their blades were angled at the offending Candorian legionnaire’s chest.

“Easy,” Andreas cautioned. “That woman is very important to the Steward,” he explained, looking up to meet Rhoric Amir’s own angry eyes and gently reminding him of his priorities.

The Steward nodded slowly. “If any harm befalls her—it will be your heads…Take her gently.”

The ruffian in Candor Legion armor carefully sheathed his sword, holding his hands up in surrender. The Titans quickly sheathed their own blades in unison and took a step back. The one in the middle gently offered Joanne to the ruffian with the bloody nose. He appeared confused.

“I can’t walk, you dolt,” Joanne explained. She motioned to her fragile looking legs.

The soldier nodded in realization and took the woman from the Titan. As he and the other soldiers were carrying her away, along with Gysella, Joanne quietly looked back toward Lord Andreas. The man stood watching their departure with his back to the Steward. He offered her a discreet wink but said nothing more.

Joanne had no idea why, but for some reason she trusted the clever, militant man. Perhaps, it was because she had no choice. The great oak doors closed behind the departing soldiers and that was the last she heard of the conversation between the Steward and the Titan Commander.

With the majority of Tartisius’ soldiers gone, as well as all the sailors and the two women, the only ones left in the room were Lord Andreas and his three Titans, Rhoric Amir—his Viscount and High Priest, one radical legion commander and eighteen elite honor guard.

Andreas didn’t spend much time thinking on it, but he suspected the four of them could make a very good attempt on the Steward’s life at that moment—quite possibly succeeding. But killing Rhoric Amir was not his goal. Not yet.

He had lied to the man multiple times already and withheld much information regarding the Steward’s son Olaf and other members of the princess’ company. But he had done that because he needed to control Rhoric Amir, not kill him. It’s true, he had allied himself with the manipulative noble because he desired what the man had promised him.

Things had changed. Andreas believed he held more cards than anyone else playing this game of political and actual warfare. He was the only one who knew who the remaining members of the Harth bloodline were. The commander hid a grin as he reflected on the opportunities and risks, he had taken to secure his position in this game. Yes—he just needed the Steward’s cooperation a little longer and then he could be rid of the poisonous man for good.

“I believe I still owe you one final piece of information,” Andreas remarked calmly, addressing the burly Steward.

“Who is the last Harth?” Rhoric Amir asked intently.

“The woman you’re looking for is…Princess Octavia…”

7

THE CURSED REAPER

The constant sound of waves was the first thing he remembered hearing. The ebb and flow of the tide dominated all other noises, with the exception of a group of gulls gently coasting in the wind overhead. Their squawks periodically broke the mesmerizing sound of the ocean. The distant ruffling of pine needles was barely audible as wind rushed through the forest of evergreens lining the sandy beach.

Grim could hardly open his eyes and when he did, he quickly shut them again, the intense brightness of the sun overhead proving too much for him to handle. He lay on his back, facing the sky. The assassin felt his skin baking in the sun, his face was already mercilessly burnt from the direct exposure. The sting of salt was everywhere—his eyes, his nose, even his lips were cracked and burned.

Sand and water had seeped into what was left of his armor. His strange gauntlet felt heavy from the extra liquid trapped within. His body ached. He felt as if he had been beaten to the brink of death and an excruciating pain rippled across his upper body originating from a singular point near his shoulder and beneath his collarbone.

Grim lay there for what seemed like an eternity. He had never felt so defeated. So, crushed. He didn’t know if he could stand, much less walk—even if he could, he wasn’t sure he had the willpower left to try. There was something serene about lying there in the wet sand where the tide had deposited him. It felt like giving up, but the assassin didn’t see it that way.

He had earned this. He deserved a rest.

Grim quietly reassured himself of these things as he felt his consciousness slipping away once more. He needed a break from all the battles. He needed it…

The faint sound of crunching sand pulled him back from the brink. An instinctual part of the assassin flared—ever so slightly. This was the part he couldn’t shut off. The part that had pulled him through in the past. It had been honed at a young age and forced to stay with him ever since, impossible to shake. Except he realized, even that feeling felt suppressed—Grim didn’t care who or what was approaching him in this vulnerable state.

So be it.

Surprise racked the assassin’s body as a large wet tongue began washing his grimy face. Grim coughed and twisted his neck trying to escape the tongue’s relentless pursuit, but he quickly realized he wasn’t getting away.

Unable to die in peace, Grim sighed—a shallow, painful breath, and slowly opened his eyes, squinting against the harsh daylight and his adversary’s rasping tongue. He was face to face with the Ovalander Warhound he had saved on Sawn. The dog stopped licking, realizing he was awake and began to pant happily. The beast’s breath smelled of fish and carrion.

Still coughing, Grim painfully lifted his arms and pushed the brute away from him. “That’s enough,” he managed to hiss, though each word was excruciating.

The warhound tilted its head in confusion before closing the distance once more and plopping down on the wet beach right beside him, stubby tail twitching excitedly.

Grim sighed again and, using the hound’s massive body as leverage, gently raised himself into a sitting position. He immediately felt some relief from the pain in his chest. The assassin sat there for many moments stifling the urge to collapse once more.

Taking in his immediate surroundings, Grim was surprised to see the razor sharp, wolf’s headed longsword still clenched between his white knuckles. The traces of an ironic smirk etched the edges of his mouth. It seemed even when he was unconscious drifting in the turmoil left by a hurricane, he couldn’t put the damn thing down. The assassin chose to release the hilt now. He quietly cursed in pain as his fingers slowly unfurled, dropping the weapon to the ground. His hand felt stiff, and he gently massaged it while fighting back groans of pain.

The warhound sniffed his hand and gave it a few tender licks. Grim looked up and met the beast’s calm eyes. They exuded more concern than he had witnessed in the eyes of countless human beings. The assassin chuckled helplessly and as feeling returned to his hand he reached up and scratched the dog’s broad head.

“And how did you get here, mutt? Followed me off the ship, did you? Crazy beast…”

The hound jumped up and barked playfully, running in a quick circle. The movement revealed scrapes and bruises all across the dog’s strong body, residual dried blood clotted in its thick fur. Grim scowled. “You’re almost as banged up as I am…”

The dog paused mid circle and sat back down, tilting its head attentively.

“Probably smarter than most people I’ve met as well…” Grim mused, thinking out loud.

It hardly seemed fit to continue calling the hound “mutt”. From everything the assassin could deduce, the hound had fought bravely against an opponent who even he had stood no chance against, then followed him into the raging waters of the Ein—a journey from which there was certainly very little chance of returning.

Grim’s mood darkened as he recalled the armored monster that had attacked The Shroud. He had never seen anything like it. The warrior fought with mechanical speed and efficiency…and ruthlessness. He struggled to remember everything that had happened. His memory was foggy. He remembered the battle and being defeated by the fiend. He could recall McCrank’s body on the deck…and Olaf’s!

Grim’s pulse quickened as everything came rushing back to him.

Octavia fighting for her life. Fortitude burning atop crashing waves. The howls of the titanic serpent that haunted the dark waters…Everyone was gone. He should be gone too, but for some reason he was still here, washed up on this beach as some sort of cruel joke.

Grim began hyperventilating as he thought of them all. Octavia, Ansel, Olaf…Joanne. They were all dead. He fell forward and caught himself on one hand. He tried to move, to drag himself away—somewhere, anywhere!

He couldn’t move.

The man swooned and passed out face first in the sand. The hound began to bark frantically, but it sounded distant and quickly faded.

Grim regained consciousness sometime later. He was no longer on the wet beach, but just inside the tree line, sheltering in the shade of the pine needle canopy. He could see the marks in the sand left by his short journey. Still, he couldn’t be certain if he had dragged himself over, or if the huge Ovalander hound had pulled him into the forest. The dog sat nearby, whining nervously as it watched him.

Grim took deep steadying breaths and quickly controlled his breathing. He shook his head, feeling rather fullish for his manic outburst. Emotional breakdowns were uncommon for anyone raised by Venatian Monks, but especially rare for someone as cold and calculated as the assassin.

He shook himself again. Obviously, his time with the children had softened his scarred heart. The seasoned killer quietly steeled himself and dismissed all thoughts of his lost traveling companions. He was badly injured and deep in the wilderness—probably close to the Sunny Tips judging by the foliage. If he let sorrow and anxiety creep in now, then he was already dead.

Grim quickly scanned his surroundings. The place seemed safe enough, but it was difficult to be certain. He’d feel better with his sword nearby. The thought drew his attention back to the beach where the longsword lay in the sand. Shrugging, the assassin slowly began to rise, wincing in pain as he did.

Seemingly understanding the situation, the hound jumped up and ran through the sand. As it approached his sword, it stooped and bit down on the handle dragging the weapon back to Grim where he dropped it at the man’s feet.

Grim watched the dog, perplexed. “Good boy,” he murmured at length. The hound sat down and wagged its stump of a tail happily. The man slowly fell back against a nearby pine tree and slid to the ground. He then looked back up at the dog. A thought occurred to him.

“Revenant,” Grim said quietly.

The dog perked up and tilted its head intently.

The assassin nodded. “That suits you.”

Revenant yawned and laid down near Grim’s feet.

“I suppose we’re both little more than ghosts now…”

The assassin carefully removed his shirt and the remains of the hardened leather cuirass placing them on the bed of pine needles that littered the forest floor. Then he went about loosening the intricate bindings that fastened the iron gauntlet to his forearm. There was a quiet click and the armored glove fell free, revealing his ghastly looking hand and wrist underneath.

The skin had all but hardened into stone. He could barely flex the joints in his hand. Pieces of his wrist had chipped away, and he couldn’t even feel the pain of losing those bits. The spread was far worse than he had imagined it would be.

Grim took a shaky breath and ran his fingers along the rough stone skin of his left hand. The last time he had removed the gauntlet had been at the Venatian Monastery, privately, right before Eriana’s Wolves had stumbled in that day. The spread had only barely covered his hand then, now it nearly reached halfway up his forearm.

His gaze shifted to the wicked blade on the ground at his feet. In the past, when the stone had first appeared on the tips of his fingers, he had reasoned that it might have some connection to the sword, but over the past several weeks, after everything he had learned regarding Curses and cursed items, now he knew with certainty that the cruel, elegant weapon was responsible for his affliction.

Grim shook his head. He had been wielding the blade relentlessly as of late—and it was exacting its toll. Olaf’s words echoed in his head. “The thing about Curses is, there’s always a price to pay. Usually, the price is steep. A life for a life, that sort of thing.”

The assassin emptied the water from the gauntlet and carefully dried it with his shirt. His eyes never shifted from the wolf headed sword. Why couldn’t he just stop? If he was smart, he would cast the weapon into the Ein and be done with it.

And yet, here it remained.

Grim chortled painfully, drawing a curious look from Revenant. His eyes finally broke contact with the sword and began inspecting the puncture near his collarbone instead. He knew why he wouldn’t discard of the sword—because he could feel it getting stronger. He couldn’t explain it to a bystander, but it was like the sword was feeding on something. Whether it was him or his enemies, he couldn’t be sure.

The blade felt light in his hands and impossibly sturdy. It’s razor-sharp edge bit deep into armor with ease. He recalled when he first crossed weapons with the pirate captain, Gregory McCrank, resulting in an epic clash. There had been some kind of incredible force that had exploded forth from the weapons when they had connected. At the time, Grim could make no sense of it, but now, after watching McCrank deflect a cannonball with the same quarterstaff, he believed he understood.

The pirate captain’s staff was cursed as well, and Grim reckoned a normal weapon shouldn’t have held up so easily against it. He smirked as he recalled the surprised look on the man’s face when the wolf headed longsword repelled the quarterstaff.

The assassin wondered briefly what price McCrank paid to wield a weapon of similar qualities to his own? It didn’t matter he supposed—It hadn’t been able to save him in the end. The damned Curses hadn’t managed to save any of them. Even Octavia, with her well of Cursed might, had failed against the wraithlike fiend.

Grim fastened the gauntlet back with an audible growl, concealing the cursed skin underneath.

The other part of this puzzle surrounding the mysterious blade didn’t matter. Because Grim knew no matter how vicious the price, he was always destined to die fighting long before any Curse could kill him.

Maybe he had forgotten that small detail, which was almost certainly fact. Caught up in the emotion of losing Joanne again and inheriting this new family, he had seemed to forget his life was already forfeit—and he had begun to fight like a man with something to lose again. That had made him weak. Complacent.

That complacency had dulled his skills.

The assassin’s nostrils flared angrily as he promised to double down on his training. Should he live long enough to ever cross paths with that beast again…He would not be defeated by it a second time.

The notion suddenly raised an important question in his mind. Where would he even go next?

The burning pain in his chest brought him to the obvious conclusion—he needed to find a medicus, or someone who could treat this wound before it grew infected and festered in his blood. After that he didn’t know…

The idea of traveling south to Brumex crossed his mind. He could rendezvous with Eriana and the Wolves and attempt to carry out the coup anyway. The idea was fleeting however, realizing quickly he actually cared very little about who sat on the throne. His whole reason for involving himself to begin with was to get to Rhoric Amir.

The thought brought another painful chuckle that ended prematurely. The whole time Grim thought he was playing Octavia, but it was actually the princess who had been playing him. She had almost made him believe in a better kingdom under her caring, but stern rule. His desire for vengeance felt like a distant memory when he was with her.

Then there was Joanne, who had returned to herself, mind seemingly as vibrant as ever. Protecting her had trumped every other desire he had felt…and as quickly as hope had returned to him, it had been equally crushed. He did not mourn Joanne. He could not. The cold warrior still hadn’t let the painful truth sink in. He supposed a wiser man would call that denial.

Grim shook the traces of grief away. Not yet. Not now.

Desperate for something else to latch onto, his mind returned to thoughts of Rhoric Amir and his deceitful siblings. Malia was likely little more than bones in a sea monster’s belly now, but Roderic and Rhoric were both still very much alive.

His lips curled into a silent snarl.

Yes—the desire for vengeance didn’t feel so distant anymore. The thought of sneaking into Everharth and dragging a screaming Rhoric Amir from his bed, only to mercilessly slaughter him, was gaining traction in his head.

Grim daydreamed of butchering the men who had dishonored Joanne—who had deceived him. Those fantasies soon became fevered dreams as he slipped away into unconsciousness. Revenant sat dutifully at the assassin’s side. The hound remained vigilant even as the minutes turned into hours and the sun sank in the western sky…

Grim awoke in a cold sweat. The forest around him was dim and the sun had all but vanished from sight. Beside Grim, Revenant let out another low growl—the same sound that had eased the assassin from his sickly slumber. He listened quietly and soon he too heard the sound that had alerted the hound.

Marching feet.

Fuck…

Grim quickly hid his tattered armor within some nearby bushes and painfully pulled his stiff body upright. The wound on his chest felt like it was on fire and the smell radiating from it was nauseating. Still, the assassin was anything but squeamish.

Ignoring the stench and the intense pain, he grabbed his longsword, sheathing it on his hip and took off into the woods as quickly as his sore legs would carry him. Revenant padded along behind him, regularly glancing in the direction of the heavy footsteps.

Grim reasoned there had to be at least a hundred men in the group. The sounds of armor rubbing and creasing were dulled by what might have been leather or oil. A force that large and that well equipped could only be one of two things: A legion or an Ovalander raiding party. Either way, Grim would not survive an encounter with them.

The assassin doubled his pace even as his body screamed at him to stop. His vision blurred and he felt lightheaded. Clenching his teeth, he pushed on, deeper into the shadows of the pines. A couple quick glances over his shoulder revealed whoever the soldiers were, they weren’t using any torches or lanterns.

Even worse, he reasoned. If they didn’t want to be discovered, then they definitely wouldn’t risk Grim escaping alive. Raised voices caught the assassin’s attention and he silently cursed—they must have his scent. A macabre part of him internally snickered, given the potency of his infected wound they might literally have his scent.

The assassin stumbled, falling to the ground before pulling himself back up. His body was failing. The most dangerous weapon in his arsenal and it was giving up. Grim cursed again, spittle spewed from his mouth and caught on his unkempt beard. Long, matted strands of his hair hung in his eyes. He swept the hair away, but it quickly fell back into his vision.

The assassin tripped again. The voices intensified; they were full blown shouts now. He could hear the pursuit quicken. Revenant barked intimidatingly at his side.

“Quiet!” Grim scolded the beast, before grabbing its scruff and pulling himself back up.

The dog growled deeply but seemed to understand the command, otherwise keeping quiet.

Grim was sweating profusely and when he looked down at Revenant, he saw two of the hounds dancing in his vision. “Damn…”

With that, Grim stumbled again. Unable to stay upright, he crashed down into the nearby shrubs causing quite a bit of ruckus as he did. He tried to stand, but his body was simply too weak, his balance completely compromised. Glancing up at his pale hand, while it squirmed for a hold on the bushes, Grim briefly pondered how much blood he had actually lost?

Revenant swirled around, facing the opposite wall of shrubbery as it began to shake. The hound growled viciously, and lines of saliva poured from either side of his jaws.

“Run, you stupid beast,” Grim wheezed. “No point in both of us dying.”

The assassin wasn’t even sure if the words came out. He could barely hear his own breathing at this point and the loyal warhound probably wouldn’t have listened even if it could have heard him. The last thing Grim saw as his vision turned to black, was several armored men burst from the brush, weapons in hand. Then—nothing.

8

LEGION OF EXILES

Grim was on the ground, but the ground didn’t feel solid. Everything was bright and yet…dim, all at once. Snow! He was laying in snow. It was dark, but the pale light of the moon illuminated his surroundings. The assassin was in a forest—somewhere in the mountains, but not the same mountains he had collapsed in. He was dreaming! He knew this for certain, but everything felt so…real.

Grim looked up and saw he was encircled by soldiers. He could only make out their silhouettes. The crest they bore was hidden from his eyes. They were leveling bows at him…They meant to fire!

There was a wolf as well. The beast was suddenly on him—ripping and tearing! It had a hold of his throat. It was dragging him away, into the cold, dark night. He felt his life’s blood seeping out…

Grim felt himself awaken from the dream, resisting the urge to jolt. One minute there was nothing, and the next his senses were assaulted by sounds and smells. Masterfully, he kept his eyes closed and maintained the same deep breaths imitating sleep, but internally his body was checking in. The slightest twitch of his fingers, the wiggle of a toe—the flex of a muscle. The assassin was surprised to find he was still alive, and not just alive, but in better shape than he had been when he passed out.

Despite the fevered dream, his actual fever seemed to have broken, and he could smell a fresh poultice on the wound the wraith had inflicted on him. His side was warmed by a nearby campfire that crackled invitingly. The buzz of many quiet voices conversing separately droned in the background. Try as he might, Grim couldn’t make out what they were saying, only individual words, bits, and pieces.

Deciding to risk it, the assassin slowly opened his eyes. Through the slits, he could see a dozen campfires cleverly clustered to minimize the light they were producing. Around each fire gathered several men and women. Most of them had shed their armor for more relaxed leathers and furs, but a handful of soldiers remained fully equipped, patrolling the perimeter of the camp.

They were still in the forest, but the evergreens had given way to more seasonal trees—many of which’s branches were completely bare. It was hard to tell over the smell of campfire smoke and roasting meat, but the salty breeze that accompanied the ocean seemed to be gone as well. Grim reckoned they had moved inland—probably south.

His eyes locked on a familiar snout as Revenant wandered over. The dog seemed at ease and was even licking his chops as if savoring the last remnants of a tasty meal. Noticing the assassin, the hound trotted right up to him and dropped his head on the simple cot he was lying on. The dog issued a long, low grumble as if to say “hello”.

Unable to spot his sword from where he lay, and reasoning that these people didn’t desire his immediate death, Grim decided to at last sit up and glance around, while scratching behind the eager hound’s ears.

Still no sign of his sword, but he did spot some of his other belongings piled up nearby, including the short dagger he normally kept close at hand and the cuirass he had discarded before fleeing. The assassin didn’t move to reclaim them just yet, continuing his scan instead.

Grim was the only one at the campfire that burned nearby. Signs of others moving about the immediate vicinity were evident, but they had decided to clear out before he had come to. What’s more, the soldiers surrounding the other adjacent fires had begun to notice he was awake and were whispering amongst each other and discreetly motioning in his direction.

The assassin was admittedly confused. These men and women looked like legionnaires, but bared no crest, and they were acting with obvious caution. Their camp formation was tight, but Grim could spot soldiers forming a much wider perimeter. This behavior certainly wasn’t typical for a legion operating in legion controlled territory—No, these soldiers were acting like foreign invaders. Which only stumped the assassin more, as from what he could make out of their features, they were all Harthians.

Grim sighed as he noticed a giant of a man making his way through the compact tent formation. The brute’s path would undoubtedly lead to him. He quietly considered his options. He could run. His body felt much stronger but would likely tire quickly.

He could fight. The assassin’s eyes were drawn once more to his dagger. But without his longsword, he wouldn’t last more than a couple of minutes against this many soldiers.

He could lie—Or perhaps, even tell the truth. Grim chuckled morbidly as he considered how unlikely anyone was to believe him if he retold the events of the last few days. The assassin snorted, just as the huge man stepped into the light of his campfire. Lying it is then.

“To whom do I owe the pleasure?” Grim asked rather flippantly, drawing an incredulous look from the giant, pale man.

His features quickly softened, and a casual smirk broke out across his strong face. “When we found you, I wouldn’t have guessed you to be so full of humor.”

Grim shrugged. “It’s no jest—I’d have your name, assuming you’re the man who leads this troupe?”

The giant chuckled and ran his palm through the mass of thick, black hair covering his crown, slicking it back stylishly. “There are no leaders amongst our band. We operate as a unit, making decisions by majority and respecting those decisions.”

“Bullshit.” Grim scoffed, triggering the pale man to raise both eyebrows with amusement. “I know how your kind works,” the assassin continued. “There’s always a hierarchy—even if it’s unspoken.”

The large man tilted his head curiously. “And just who do you think we are?”

Good question, Grim thought to himself. He figured he could risk making a gamble here—one way or another he was going to find out who they were.

“You’re legionnaires, obviously,” the assassin stated confidently, crossing his arms.

The giant snorted and grinned, but neither confirmed nor denied Grim’s claim, instead offering his hand to the assassin. “My name is Ramsey. What’s yours?”

Realization struck Grim like a hammer striking a hot anvil. “Ramsey Havverfell the Black. The Obsidian Giant…” He chortled, choosing to ignore Ramsey’s question entirely as well as the man’s extended hand.

Ramsey smirked, retracting his offered handshake. He began pacing the campfire, nodding his confirmation. “Aye. I see my reputation proceeds me.”

“Eclipses you in fact,” Grim mocked with a sneer. “Your legend has you dying in a brutal mutiny many fortnights ago.”

“Mhmm,” Ramsey hummed, still nodding. “Well, you know what they say about legends.”

“Indeed,” Grim replied with another shrug. “You’re not the first legend I’ve seen return from the grave in the past months.”

That drew a quick and curious look from the Obsidian Giant, but he held his tongue, as Grim once again began to speak.

“So, these soldiers are legion…but not Obsidian Legion?”

“Some,” Ramsey answered cryptically, his shoulders bouncing back and forth as if weighing the consequences of telling the assassin anymore.

“Some?” Grim asked, annoyed.

“Some,” Ramsey confirmed, doubling down on his previous statement. “Others from the Legion of Scorpions—and even more from the Bears.” He paused, tilting his head to a nearby campfire where several soldiers sat laughing and exchanging quiet songs on a harmonica. “Those men and women once belonged to the Legion of the Lion.” He paused again and gestured to a much more somber group near the outskirts of the camp. “There are even some Eagles amongst our ranks…”

Grim’s gaze followed Ramsey’s motions, but his features remained screwed up with confusion. He was beginning to think he had never woken up from his fevered dreams and that his body was lying somewhere on the forest floor while he slowly succumbed to death. It wasn’t until he glanced back at Ramsey and noticed that the Obsidian crest on his armor had been scratched out and covered up by a drunken X that he realized who these men and women were. “This is the Legion of the Banished…The eleventh legion of Harth—I thought it was a myth?”

“So, did I,” Ramsey admitted, nodding his confirmation. “It wasn’t until they found me amongst the ranks of my fallen brothers on the battlefield and nursed me back to health that I believed in their existence. But they’ve always been here—out in the wilds, hiding from the watchful sentries of the established legions and serving as vigilante enforcers where the legions’ reach grows thin.”

Grim leaned back scratching the scruff on his chin with undisguised curiosity. “Really?”

The assassin wanted to ask where they had been when Rhoric Amir’s mercenaries were massacring an unprotected fishing village, or when the Wolves and the Eagles were wiped out by a sudden and mysterious inferno. What were they doing when Everharth was being infiltrated by slimy, religious zealots? Or when Harth was starting a war with the Oval Islands?

Grim wisely held his tongue on those matters. He couldn’t afford to reveal himself to be more important than they might already think. Besides—where had he himself been when those atrocities had happened? The answer to many of those questions was the same. Right there letting it happen—sometimes even helping to make it happen.

Instead, the assassin took a different approach. “Any Wolves in your ranks?”

Ramsey’s eyes flickered suspiciously, and Grim feared he had overplayed his hand. But the giant’s gaze quickly calmed, and he shook his head. “I’m afraid not. None survived the cataclysm on the banks of the Einrill.”

Ramsey hung his head respectfully for a brief moment, before glancing back up at the assassin and continuing, “Our numbers include many exiles from the ten legions, with the exception of the Wolves, Titans, Candorians and Thondelites.”

“Damn zealots would fall on their own blades before going into exile,” Ramsey continued with a scoff, referring to the legions of Candor and Thondel. “And the Titans follow no man’s orders, besides those of Lord Andreas Buth’s.”

Grim nodded, carefully digesting that information when a thought occurred to him. “You didn’t mention the Crows…?”

Ramsey was nodding before the assassin finished his thought. “You’re perceptive—and well versed in your legions.” The big man waved a hand toward the trunk of a distant oak. “There’s a single Crow amongst us.”

Grim’s eyes followed Ramsey’s hand, but for many seconds he saw no one. At last, just as he was about to give up and scold the Obsidian Giant for mocking him, a slight movement—the shift of a leg perhaps—clued the assassin in that there was in fact a person resting in the shadow of the ancient tree.

Grim suddenly felt very uneasy. It was not every day that someone managed to evade his experienced gaze…

“What’s their name?” the assassin asked quietly.

Ramsey shook his head. “Nobody knows. Everyone just calls him ‘Crow’.”

Grim rolled his eyes rather obviously.

Ramsey chuckled in response. “I know—not very original. But that’s what he responds to. Crow rarely speaks and he’s been a part of the Banished Legion longer than anyone can remember…Some say he’s responsible for forming it in the first place, but no one knows for certain.”

Grim shook away the unease and laid back, abruptly changing the topic. “I’ll be gone before dawn—so don’t worry yourself wondering what to do with me.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Ramsey replied hastily. “I’ve answered your questions honestly. Now it’s time you answered some of mine.”

Grim issued no response.

“What’s your name?” Ramsey asked slowly.

Still, Grim remained silent, closing his eyes with finality.

Ramsey shook his head and chuckled—something the assassin realized the man did often. Annoyingly often. “You say very little for a man who knows so much…Luckily your appearance and personal effects speak loudly.”

Grim’s eyes opened in sudden response to the large man’s cryptic words. Ramsey no longer stood empty handed but held the assassin’s wolf headed long sword level in both hands, inspecting the details along the weapon’s hilt.

“You’re very curious for a half-dead vagabond, wandering the wilds of The Sunny Tips,” Ramsey began carefully. His eyes glanced up from the blade’s sturdy craftsmanship and locked with Grim’s.

“That gauntlet you wear is quite the contraption too,” the Obsidian Giant continued. “We couldn’t even figure out how to get it off you. It certainly makes Crow uncomfortable. Fine metal too…Never seen anything like it.”

“And the scars…Your body’s riddled with them. You only get that from a lifetime of battles—trust me, I have a few myself.” Ramsey raised his shirt, revealing a handful of old wounds. Many had healed crookedly, ugly scar tissue webbing over them.

“What’s more—you travel with this noble beast.” Ramsey paused, patting Revenant’s head. The dog grumbled with satisfaction and lazily thumped his stubby tail. “A warhound from the Oval Islands if I’m not mistaken. Then there’s this.” Ramsey brandished the wolf headed longsword, his fingers running the length of the cold steel. “A legion sword—and not just any legion sword, but a commanding officer’s weapon no less.”

Grim did his best to look skeptical, appearing to doubt the giant man’s perceptive words.

Ramsey scoffed. “You doubt my knowledge? I was already a Captain in the Obsidian Legion when Bendigo commanded the Wolf Legion. I surely recognize his blade.” He paused, eyeing Grim carefully. “The sword was reported stolen six years ago after an assassin snuck into the Wolves’ camp, just outside of Adant’s Watch, in the dark of night and murdered Commander Bendigo and nearly all of the officer’s and senior warriors under his command.”

Another uncomfortable silence followed before Ramsey finished. “The reports say he killed them all in their sleep…Like a coward.”

“That sounds well thought out,” Grim chirped. “The man may be a coward, but at least he’s an intelligent coward. And alive. That’s more than Commander Bendigo can say.”

Ramsey arched a single brow. “What makes you so confident he’s alive?”

Damn—well played, Grim thought. The man was more than just a brute. Fortunately, so was he.

“Well, it only makes sense, doesn’t it?” the assassin stated in a matter-of-fact tone. “If the man who killed Bendigo had been in turn murdered, then I never would have been able to purchase this exceedingly rare weapon.”

“You bought this?” Ramsey asked doubtfully.

“Yes,” Grim responded with a nod. “I’m a collector of unique trophies and oddities like this—hence the gauntlet and Revenant.”

“Who?”

“Oh.” The assassin shook his head and placed his hand on his temple. “Apologies. The hound—that’s his name.”

“Right,” Ramsey replied slowly, eyeing the rather docile looking beast as he lay panting by the campfire. “I’m afraid I don’t follow your logic. I would think you more likely to come by the blade in a merchant’s shop if the assassin had in fact been killed, wouldn’t you?”

Grim was already shaking his head. He had expected the question and was ready to deflect the logic behind it. “The type of man it would take to slay a warrior who was infamous for nearly breaking an entire legion—he would not part with such a fine blade so easily. Now, a cowardly assassin who slits the throats of sleeping men…now that sounds like the type to sell such a distinguishable weapon and cover his tracks…”

“Hmm.” Ramsey paused, mulling Grim’s response over. “What about the scars? You must have a dozen more than even I do—and they weren’t farming accidents. Those are marks from swords, daggers, maybe even battleaxes!”

“Yes,” Grim replied somberly. “Unfortunate business with the Ovalanders some years back—the same trip I acquired Revenant actually. You see…the natives of Sawn can be brutal with foreigners. A group of them captured me and tortured me for weeks before their Shamans decided I was innocent…All over a loaf of stolen bread…”

There was another long pause as Ramsey digested that information. The giant at last broke the silence. “Did you steal the bread?”

Grim glanced up incredulously at first, but his expression softened into a casual smirk. “Of course, I did. Best damn bread I’ve ever eaten too.”

Ramsey laughed heartily and the assassin quickly joined in. After many exhausting moments of laughter, Grim thought his ribs were going to burst, but the large man at last, mercifully, settled down and clapped him on the shoulder.

“You know, I actually thought you might be the Reaper for a minute there,” Ramsey stated boisterously, “but you don’t look like much. I dare say, I would have been disappointed!”

Grim faked an indignant scowl. “What? I don’t look the type to slaughter a few dozen nobles a week and duel Legion Commanders for sport?”

Ramsey’s laughter started up anew and after a decent show of being similarly amused Grim patted his hands in the air, begging for quiet. Both men collected themselves and Ramsey looked as if he may say something more on the matter when a soldier ran up to his side and whispered urgently into his ear. The man was dressed in light armor—most likely a scout of some kind. He rushed off after delivering his message, apparently eager to spread the word.

Ramsey seemed concerned, left scratching his chin thoughtfully.

“Problem?” Grim asked casually.

“Scouts spotted a legion to the west. They’re moving east with haste—they should make the foothills of the Tips by dawn…”

“Wonder what’s their rush?” Grim asked with genuine curiosity this time.

Ramsey glanced at the assassin, but only partly saw him. It was obvious the man was lost in thought. “Who can say? The whole damn world has gone mad as of late. Legions disappearing completely overnight. Half the Venatian Forest burned to the ground. Purist riots in every city across the kingdom. Now they tell me a Harthian Warship has just returned home after reigniting the war with the Oval Islands.” The man threw his hands up at a loss.

Grim’s heart fluttered rapidly as the giant’s last words registered with him. The news had come as a sudden and welcome shock to the assassin. He had been consciously avoiding thinking about the fate of Fortitude and everyone on board, but deep down he had already written them off as dead—The Shroud too. But if what Ramsey said was true…It would change everything.

Ramsey’s voice stirred him from his thoughts. “We’ll break camp within the hour. Sorry you couldn’t get a bit more rest—Thondel knows you could use it. What in the Underheim happened to you anyway?”

Grim waved the thought away. “Brigands along the coast. I only escaped with my life because of Revenant. Never mind that though—Where will you go?”

“Us?” Ramsey said, while already packing up some tools around the fire. “Our path leads us south—to Brumex.”

“Brumex?” Grim asked with sincere surprise. “What leads you there?”

“There’re rumors floating about—not much to go on mind you, but whispers. Say there’s a big rebellion brewing there. Purist forces have been gathering in the city for weeks. Travelers say the Lions have nearly lost control of the whole place.”

“Whose name are they rebelling in?” The assassin asked halfheartedly.

“The Benidary’s? Viscount Ovidius’? What does it matter? The kingdom’s gone to shit under the Steward’s rule. I’ll be happy to be rid of him.”

“Hmmm,” Grim mused. “The kingdom was shit long before Rhoric Amir…But it’s good there’s so many still willing to fight.”

“Yeah,” Ramsey agreed, still only half paying attention. Others around the camp were beginning to bustle about as well, packing up and erasing any signs they’d been there.

“Here,” Ramsey said, handing the wolf headed longsword back to Grim. “Take it. You earned it after all.”

Grim’s eyes darted up sharply to meet Ramsey’s. “Bought. I bought it.”

“Right,” Ramsey remarked with a nod. “That’s what I meant.”

Grim took the blade and carefully sheathed it on his waist then went about collecting his own clothes as well as the dagger. True to the former Obsidian Commander’s claim the camp was packed up efficiently and stealthily within the hour. The assassin was quietly impressed by the tight nit discipline of the Banished Legion—it was obvious how they had remained hidden for so long.

Most of the troupe had already moved out when Ramsey approached him again. He offered Grim his hand once more and this time the assassin took it. A firm shake passed between the two men.

“You’re welcome to join us,” Ramsey stated, releasing Grim’s hand.

The assassin shook his head. “My path leads elsewhere,” he paused and eyed Ramsey carefully. “I’m surprised your Legion of Exiles is choosing a side…Why now?”

Ramsey shrugged. “The world’s changing, brother. If we’re not careful it might not be here much longer. Maybe these crestfallen soldiers just needed a good reason to fight again, aye?”

Grim chuckled. “Even if it’s not real?”

The Obsidian Giant’s face grew serious. “It doesn’t matter if it’s real…What matters is if people believe it’s real.” He paused briefly. His eyes were glossy with memory. “Not so long ago a young legion commander tried to show me that…And I didn’t listen to her. Not at first—not until it was too late.”

Grim nodded slowly. He knew Ramsey was referring to his encounter with Eriana, but what specifically he meant was anyone’s guess. The large man seemed to come back to the present then and he addressed the assassin once more, “Where does your path lead?”

Grim contemplated lying to the man but decided there was no point. “West. To Everharth. There’s someone I’m hoping to find there.”

Ramsey nodded, clapping the assassin on the shoulder as he did. “Best of luck on your search then.” With that he pivoted away, beginning to trek after the rest of his legion when he suddenly slowed and turned back to face Grim. “You never told me your name, vagabond. If our paths are to cross again, what should I call you?”

An almost sad smile traced the edges of the assassin’s lips. He rocked on his heels with amusement, both hands tucked in his tunic. “They won’t.”

Ramsey smirked in return and shook his head knowingly. With a final salute he turned and pushed off into the forest, swatting dead branches out of his way with ease.

Grim stayed put for a time, watching as the last of the Banished Legion faded into the night. At last, the forest around him was silent and only Revenant remained, sitting dutifully by his side, ears poised alertly, body rigid as he listened to the quiet sounds of the night.

Grim scratched behind the dog’s ears, whispering with disgust, “Damned fools. The whole lot of them. Throwing their lives away on a whim…” He paused inspecting the bandage on his chest.

The hound looked up at him expectantly. Revenant’s Intelligent eyes blinked calmly.

“I suppose they were good for something,” the assassin chuckled and produced a small pouch of coins he had plucked from the giant, Ramsey, during their handshake. “Should be enough to get us within the walls of Everharth.” His eyes darkened as he stowed the pouch. “Then…we’ll have the truth. One way or another…”

Using the stars he could see through the overhead canopy of dead leaves, Grim pivoted to the west and quietly began making his way through the forest, Revenant trailing close behind…

9

SCUMBAG HERO FOR HIRE

His feet ached. Blisters had begun to form along his heel and soles from the constant travel and the damage the ocean water had done to his leather boots. The assassin’s pace had been relentless since leaving Ramsey and his exiles in the forest along the slopes of The Sunny Tips.

Grim’s stomach growled endlessly. He had managed to scavenge some late blooming berries without sacrificing much time, but his body was beginning to weaken without any meaningful nutrition. To make matters worse, his wound had begun to bleed through the poultice that covered it—a change of bandages was in order.

The assassin sighed and took a brief rest, leaning against the trunk of a maple tree as he assessed just how badly he was screwed. Revenant stopped as well, tilting his head curiously in the man’s direction.

“What?” Grim asked the hound accusingly.

Revenant let out a quiet whine and plopped down beside the assassin with an air of boredom.

“I’m tired and hungry you, furry bastard,” Grim muttered defensively. “Cut me some slack or I might just be having mutt for dinner…”

The hound stopped panting abruptly and quickly glanced up at the man.

“Kidding…” The assassin chuckled. He then began scanning the surrounding woods.

The forest wasn’t as dense here as it had been higher on the slopes. He figured he was approaching the edge of the great northern woods where the trees gave way to sprawling plains. So far, he had done well avoiding any common paths are roads—even staying off animal trails in the rare event he ran across a local hunter. If want Ramsey’s scouts had reported was true and Fortitude had indeed returned home, then Rhoric Amir had very good reason to believe Grim was alive and likely coming for him. Best to avoid any chance of that rumor being confirmed for now.

Still, he was exhausted and hungry and in dire need of a good night’s sleep. He began to formulate a plan. If his memory served him, he wasn’t far from a small settlement—smaller even than Chala. It was so far off the main road that traveling merchants and other peddlers rarely visited, and it was often reliant on its own farming and resources to stay afloat. The village of Desola.

It was perfect. He could be in and out without anyone the wiser.

The cold, tactical side of Grim wanted to object, but he really didn’t have much of a choice. He carried very little tools for hunting and could hardly waste the time setting snares. With all his dried meat lost with The Shroud, he would have to restock eventually. Best to do so when he was still deep in the wilderness.

Sighing resolutely, the assassin pushed himself up from the maple’s trunk and altered his path in the direction he believed Desola to be. Revenant leapt to his paws and chased after the man, happy to be on the move again.

Proving to be further off course then Grim realized, it was still a few hours before the quaint, little town came into view. When at last he found it, the sun was already high above—or it would be if he could see it behind the thick gray clouds that floated overhead.

The village itself was nestled in the shelter of a particularly jagged cliff-face, reaching high into the sky. Cedars grew in tight bunches all the way up to Desola’s low, crumbling palisades. From this vantage point Grim counted sixteen buildings in total—one of which was much larger than the surrounding cabins. The Moss-wall Tavern.

The assassin instinctively reached for the pouch of coins on his hip and then descended into the valley, weaving between evergreens until he reached the front gate. Immediately, Grim knew something was wrong.

The sturdy wooden gates were open, one of them hung awkwardly ajar, while the other one was splintered down the center. The assassin glanced up as he passed through the gateway. No guards. Carts sat abandoned along the narrow walkway into town and a wheelbarrow was completely overturned in the center of the dirt road.

Grim contemplated leaving then and there, but it was many miles to the next settlement and the thought of unguarded pantries was too enticing. Besides, he could hear animals further inside the village—chickens and mules—and where there were animals, there were humans to care for them.

More signs Desola was still inhabited quickly became apparent. Smoke drifted from a few stone chimneys and wet clothes hung out to dry in the fleeting rays of sunlight. And yet—something still wasn’t right. A couple of homes seemed completely abandoned and there were no voices echoing around the valley dwelling.

Grim walked cautiously through the town. His eyes and ears were carefully trained to detect signs of an ambush. There were none, and yet—he still felt on edge. The assassin’s hand rested gently on the wolf-head pommel at the base of his sword, his fingers absently stroking the intricate hilt. Beside him, Revenant growled anxiously.

He could see faces watching him through small glass windows as he passed between the cluster of homes on his way to Moss-Wall. The assassin didn’t detect malice in those distorted faces peering from inside their dimly lit hovels, but he certainly knew the scent of fear. It was the second most dealt with currency in his line of work.

Something had terrified the people of Desola, that much was obvious. Still, things seemed to be looking up as he turned a corner, and the tavern came into view. Many lanterns could be seen within, and the establishment appeared to be bustling with patrons. Releasing the grip he had on the hilt of his longsword, Grim casually approached the tavern’s large front porch and reached for the heavy oak door.

Revenant growled again, this time far more aggressively. Grim stopped mid-motion and glanced down at the dog.

“It’ll be fine, you grouch. A quick bite to eat and somewhere dry to sleep for a few hours—then we’ll be away from this strange little town.”

Revenant responded with another growl, lips twitching to reveal his intimidating fangs.

“Fine,” Grim answered, grabbing the doorknob and twisting, “Wait out here you pansy.”

The assassin pulled the door open and stepped through, scanning the room as he did. Just as it had appeared from the outside, the place was packed—but they weren’t drinking. At least thirty men and women cluttered the inside of the small tavern, apparently discussing something of great importance, before he had walked in. Now the room was silent, and all eyes rested on him.

Grim’s gaze bounced from one villager to the next, the shock on their faces all telling the same story—they weren’t expecting visitors. At last, his eyes latched onto the wench behind the bar preparing a dish of some kind. So, they did still serve food here. Good.

The assassin casually lifted his hands and began to slowly stride forward. “Gentlemen. Ladies. Folks of Desola. It’s obvious you’re discussing something of unparalleled importance to your great town and don’t have time for these distractions.” Grim paused, lowering his hands and untying the pouch of coins on his waist, presenting it as a gesture of good faith. “So, please—allow me a quick drink and something to eat and I’ll be on my way. You won’t even notice. I have coin. I can pay.”

So, stricken with surprise and fear were the people of Desola that the assassin made it all the way to the bar, where he casually leaned down propping his elbows on the maple wood, without a single uttered response. Grim glanced around again, once more scanning those scared faces. What in the Underheim happened to these people?

“Sorry for the antics,” the assassin muttered, turning his attention back to the bar. “This isn’t normally my style, but until very recently I was traveling in the company of some very flamboyant people, and I fear they may have rubbed off on me in a most negative manner.”

“Excuse me, miss,” Grim continued, addressing the barmaid. “Do you have anything to eat? I have gold—I can pay…Does Desola not serve travelers anymore?”

The assassin had to admit, he was enjoying the little façade he was putting on. Back in Everharth he would frequently have to pretend he was someone he was not, gaining a potential benefactor’s respect, or a target’s trust. However, since leaving those soaring, layered walls behind he hadn’t had the opportunity to put his beguiling charisma to the test and become anyone other than himself—an admittedly glum character indeed, and one whom he loathed greatly.

Still, these peasants were staring at him like he had grown a second head, or worse—they knew who he was. Which was impossible. He would be surprised if word had reached them of Viscount Ovidius’ death yet.

One man finally found the balls to speak up, “Who are you?”

Grim sighed and looked up, making eye contact with the barmaid instead of the questioner in the crowd. She remained motionless; hands frozen on the same dish they had been when he walked in.

“I’m nobody,” the assassin stated with obvious irritation. “Just a traveler—I presume you’ve seen a few in your time?” He tsk’d with disgust and shook his head.

“Aye,” the questioner replied, “but what’s your name?”

Many other voices joined in echoing similar sentiments.

“My name’s Poe,” Grim responded without hesitation. “Poe Ansel.”

The crowd broke out into whispers and Grim rolled his eyes. He was quickly losing his patience with this backwater town.

At last, an older man stepped forward, coming to stand beside Grim at the bar. His clothes were worn, but not unclean and his long grayish, brown hair was swept back in a somewhat failed attempt at a civilized look. His face was at least clean-shaven, which was more than Grim could say for himself at the moment. The man sported a rather bulbous nose.

“My name is Radoph, Poe Ansel and I am the Baron of Desola. I’m sorry you weren’t greeted more warmly…Normally Desola is very hospitable to travelers, but I fear it’s been many weeks since any have made it to our small village.”

Grim’s eyes narrowed intelligently as he digested Radoph’s strange peasant brogue, as well as the message it carried. When the assassin responded it was curt and unpolite, but not overly aggressive—something he felt rather proud of given his increasing level of irritation. “I’m hungry, Baron.”

“Of course,” Radoph replied, nodding his understanding, and gesturing to the barmaid. “Please Anna, prepare something for our guest, and pour him some of our finest mead.”

“Water’s fine, thank you,” Grim interjected quickly.

Anna nodded, eyes still wide with fear, and rapidly retreated into the kitchen. The gathered crowd slowly began to talk quietly amongst themselves, though the majority of them stayed close enough to the bar to overhear Radoph and Grim’s conversation as well.

“Why so few travelers?” the assassin asked, mostly out of boredom and certainly because of no real desire to hear the answer.

“Not few—none,” Radoph corrected him. “No one’s been able to enter or leave Desola for nearly two moon cycles…”

Grim quietly turned, twisting his neck to look up at Radoph from where he leaned against the bar. The assassin arched a doubtful eyebrow.

“It’s true,” Radoph stated, and many nearby quickly backed up his claim with bobbing heads. “I’m afraid our town has been afflicted by a terrible curse…A monster stalks the surrounding forest and by the dark of night it rampages through the streets, taking anyone who it can find.”

Grim’s entire demeanor seamlessly shifted as Radoph recounted his mad tale, and if the assassin was uninterested in what the Baron had to say moments before, it no longer showed. “Taken?”

“Aye, taken,” Radoph confirmed with a defeated nod. “The beast drags its victims into the woods where it devours them…We’ve tried to send for help, but no one’s returned. I’m afraid it’ll just keep returning every night until there’s no one left alive.”

“What kind of beast are we talking about here?” Grim asked, his face screwed up with genuine confusion.

“I dunno,” Radoph admitted, throwing his hands up at a loss. “I’ve never seen anything like it. A huge, hulking monster, but not entirely inhuman in its appearance. We’ve tried killing it, but we’re not warriors! The creature overwhelmed and slayed the few amongst us with any real knowledge of a blade…”

At that moment, Anna returned with a plate of potatoes and beef along with an ample tankard of water. She set down both before the assassin and bowed timidly before quickly gliding down to the other end of the bar and sweeping up some abandoned bowls.

Grim had begun to form a response to Radoph’s claim, but he quickly forgot the words, smelling the savory scents of the meal and scooped up his fork, devouring the food within minutes and draining the mug. He had just closed his eyes, letting the satisfying feeling of fullness swell, when the Baron spoke again. “You wouldn’t happen to know how to use that, would you?”

Grim calmly opened his eyes and followed Radoph’s pointing finger. He was gesturing to the assassin’s longsword strapped to his waist.

“No,” Grim stated impatiently.

“But you must—”

“I’m not killing your monster,” the assassin clarified, cutting the older man off.

“But we could pay you well for it! Please—we have no other options.”

“I’m no monster hunter!” Grim exclaimed angrily, rising to his full height and turning to tower over the gathered villagers.

There was an uncomfortable silence, before Radoph placed his hands together pleadingly and reiterated his last pitiful statement. “We’re out of options…You’re our only chance.”

Before Grim could issue another venomous rebuttal, a second man stepped forward, breaking away from the crowd. He was taller and younger than Radoph with fiery red hair. “There is one other option, Baron. But you refuse to see reason—”

“Enough, Aaron!” The Baron shouted, turning to face the young man. “I will not entertain this debate any longer!”

“Nearly twelve of us have died already! How many more will you let the beast take?”

“Don’t recite the dead to me!” Radoph growled, jabbing a finger into Aaron’s chest. “The first was my son! My boy!” He hesitated, calming a bit as he was left shaky in the aftermath of his rage. “I felt every loss keenly, but I can’t do what you ask me to do…I can’t lose my daughter too.”

Silence followed the Baron’s words and even Aaron seemed to back off a bit, his zeal softened by Radoph’s emotional words. Grim’s expression, however, was as hard as ever. “What’s this about your daughter?” the assassin asked.

Radoph sighed and ran his palms over his eyes before quietly responding, “On the day of the first attack—the day I lost my son…My daughter, Julia, entered a strange trancelike state. I don’t know why or how it works, and she’s not always like that, but there are some,” his eyes briefly passed over Aaron and a few others, mostly young men, as he spoke, “Who believe her actions somehow summoned the beast that terrorizes Desola. And that there will be no end to the creature’s attacks until Julia is executed…” The Baron paused choking back tears. “But I can’t do that to my little girl—I won’t!”

Grim felt sick listening to Radoph. Until just recently he would have written the whole town off as troubled and superstitious, but after his brutal introduction to the very secretive art of Curses and everything he had learned of them since, the assassin knew without a doubt that the Baron’s daughter was indeed tied to this “monster” that haunted the forest. Still, that didn’t mean the girl deserved to die because of it. What if it was Octavia in her place?

Grim’s scowl deepened, but he felt his resolution strengthen just from thinking of the charismatic, young woman. Luckily, there was more than one way to break a Curse. “Take me to see your daughter, Baron,” the assassin absently requested, his eyes still very distant as his thoughts pondered Octavia and her whereabouts.

Baron Radoph’s own eyes shot up. A look of horror crossed his face. “No! You can’t. Please, I beg you!”

“Be silent!” Grim hissed, drawing several fearful gasps from the crowd and even causing a few bystanders to flinch away. “Your daughter is in no danger from me, Baron.” His eyes flitted to Aaron as he spoke, fingers carefully caressing the wolf headed pommel of his sword. “And no harm will befall her as long as I’m here.”

“I have some level of experience in dealing with these…problems,” Grim continued. “But you must let me speak with Julia or I won’t be able to help her, Radoph.”

The Baron stared at Grim for several moments, mouth barely hanging open as his mind raced with possibilities. At last, he began nodding and gestured to the door while doing so. “Very well, Poe Ansel. I’ll take you to her—but please…She’s all I have.”

Grim nodded his understanding and stepped aside, allowing Radoph to lead the way out of The Moss-Wall. As the assassin followed, he felt Aaron’s furious eyes burning holes through the back of his tattered leather armor.

For those brief few seconds Grim felt right at home. Just like old times.

Revenant had joined them, much to Radoph’s alarm, upon leaving the tavern behind, but a few reassuring words from Grim and a gentle scratch under the huge hound’s chin had put the Baron’s worries to rest. The two men spoke very little during their short journey across town, and within minutes they stood before the Baron’s house.

It was unremarkable in almost every way, and certainly no larger or grander than the rest of the surrounding shacks these people called homes. Grim did notice a small pen sprawling out from the side of the building. Within the muddy enclosure a single horse lay with its back to the house. The beast’s head hung low to the ground, and it appeared to be experiencing some level of pain.

“What’s wrong with him?” Grim asked the Baron, indicating the horse with a subtle jerk of his chin.

“My daughter’s horse,” Radoph explained. “She used to love riding him along the mountain trails, but around the same time the monster appeared, the beast grew very sick. Probably colic. Haven’t had the time to investigate putting him down with everything going on.”

“Hm,” Grim responded thoughtfully, continuing to eye the horse. Every Curse needed a source—some kind of life force to latch onto. Often it was something or someone, close to the channeler…

The Baron fumbled with a large key ring, cluttered with many simple keys, before eventually finding the one he was looking for. “Here we go,” he beamed triumphantly.

“She’ll be excited to see us,” Radoph continued as he began to work the lock. “I had already left her for the night—she won’t be expecting company.”

“Left her?” Grim asked, tilting his head curiously. “You don’t stay with her throughout the night?”

Radoph shook his head sheepishly. “No, I’m afraid I do not. Most of us stay in the tavern at night. It’s the most fortified place in the village. Of course, there’s a few who barricade themselves in their own homes, but very little of them left…”

The Baron glanced Grim’s direction and quickly detected the disgust oozing from the assassin like a spring. “For good reason though!” Radoph explained frantically, holding his hands up innocently. “I couldn’t bring Julia into the tavern. It isn’t safe for her there with Aaron and his like-minded friends! Besides, the beast has never expressed much interest in this part of town anyway. I dare say, it avoids it all together…”

Grim remained unconvinced but pressed the issue no further. After several seconds longer fumbling with the key, Radoph at last freed the lock and pulled the door open. With a sweeping gesture he motioned the assassin inside.

Grim stepped through, but held out his arm, barring Radoph before he could follow. The Baron glanced up at the assassin with confusion.

“I need to speak with Julia alone, Radoph. She may not be as…truthful if you’re present.”

Radoph’s face twisted up with anger and fear. “How can you expect me to let a stranger into my home and interrogate my daughter alone?”

“I’m asking politely,” Grim reminded dangerously. “I don’t have to.”

The Baron continued to bulk and even looked as if he may throw a punch at the assassin.

“You said it yourself,” Grim whispered coolly. “It’s the only way. Now do you want to save your daughter, or not?”

At last, Radoph’s anger faded, and his head dropped in defeat. “Please, Poe Ansel—just save her.”

Grim nodded and slipped inside, Revenant following close behind. The Baron carefully closed the door in their wake. It was dark in the house, and it took a few seconds for the assassin’s eyes to adjust. He quickly realized why. All the windows had been boarded up, blotting out the pale daylight.

Grim carefully made his way deeper into the house until he stepped out into what must have been a dining room. A few candles burned in the center of a small table, casting what little light there was in the room. Across the table from Grim, sat a young girl. She couldn’t have been older than nine or ten.

“Who are you?” she asked cautiously.

The assassin looked her up and down. She was frail—small even for her age. Long thick hair fell down over her shoulders, and she wore a rather heavy looking nightgown. It wasn’t pretty, but it was surely effective at driving off the sheer cold of the Sunny Tips at night. She was lacking her father’s bulbous nose, but Grim could see similarities in her eyes.

Looking at her, it was hard to believe she possessed the power to summon monsters out of thin air. Even Octavia would look threatening when placed beside this girl. Still, Grim had learned to underestimate no one. “My name is Poe,” the assassin answered in a friendly tone. “Your father wants me to help you, Julia.”

“Can you help me?” she asked, tilting her head curiously.

“I hope so,” Grim replied evenly.

Julia watched the assassin carefully for many moments before speaking again. “Can I pet your dog?”

Grim’s eyes widened in genuine surprise and for a moment his guard fell. A short laugh slipped from his lips. Quickly collecting himself, he answered the girl’s request, “Yes, by all means, pet him!”

Julia smiled and slipped out of her seat, quickly approaching the hound. Revenant gave her distrusting eyes and Grim hastily snapped his fingers at the dog. “Easy boy—she’s a friend.”

Revenant visibly relaxed and Julia closed the remaining distance, running her hands through the Ovalander warhound’s thick fur. Grim began to pace the room absently glancing about the Baron’s humble home.

“What’s his name?” Julia asked happily.

“Uh, Revenant,” the assassin answered honestly.

“What does that mean?” Julia asked curiously, her face screwing up with puzzlement.

“It means I can’t get rid of him,” Grim replied with another chuckle.

“That’s nice,” Julia answered innocently. “My horse’s name is Winnifred. I would never get rid of him either.”

The assassin paused, turning to glance at the girl. “Do you love, Winnifred, Julia?”

“Yes, of course,” she replied instantly. “But he’s been really sad lately…”

“Indeed…”

“I think it’s my fault,” Julia continued nervously.

Grim’s eyes narrowed, and he moved closer to the girl, listening carefully. “How so?”

“My daddy says I have powers…and I think my powers are hurting, Winnifred.”

The assassin slowly nodded. “You’re a very smart girl, Julia. I also think your powers have been hurting Winnifred…Do you think you could stop them—make the powers go away?”

Julia quietly shook her head.

“Hmmm,” Grim sighed, beginning to pace once more. “I didn’t think so…”

“I’ve tried,” Julia insisted quietly. “I’ve tried to make it stop, but every time I do I get so scared and angry. I can’t control it at all.”

“What makes you scared and angry?” Grim enquired patiently.

“Because every time I try, I remember…” Julia paused and looked away suddenly.

“Julia?”

“Nothing,” the girl responded timidly.

“What do you remember?” Grim demanded sternly.

“My brother, Rueven…”

“What about him?” the assassin questioned suspiciously.

The girl issued no response. Her eyes continued to avoid contact with Grim and she had stopped petting Revenant many moments before.

“Julia,” the assassin pressed.

At last, Julia turned back to face Grim. “He’s the monster. I turned him into it…I didn’t mean to, but I couldn’t control it…”

Grim sighed and shook his head. The whole thing had been one big, tragic mistake. He knew what he must do. The assassin quietly turned and began to make his way back out of the house, fingers grasping the hilt of his sword.

If Julia had accidentally transformed her brother into some kind of horrible monster, then Grim would have to break the Curse manually. Since she didn’t know how to use her powers then there was only one way to do that—eliminating the source. Winnifred was already in pain. The poor beast’s death would be merciful.

“He touched me.”

Julia’s unexpected words froze the assassin in place, and he stood quietly listening, waiting for the girl to finish.

“Rueven. He kept touching me in places I didn’t want him to…I told him to stop…I wanted him to stop.”

Grim’s nostrils flared dangerously and his grip on the longsword tightened.

“He told me that if I told daddy, he would hurt me…I kept telling him to stop…Why wouldn’t he just stop!” Julia’s eyes watered with tears and her lip quivered helplessly.

“He’s so much bigger than me, there was nothing I could do…” the girl continued between sobs. “I didn’t mean to use my powers…I really didn’t mean to!”

“He was always a monster in my eyes,” Julia remarked, recovering some of her resolve after a long pause. “Now everyone else can see it too…”

Grim stood motionless, his back to the girl for many long, quiet moments before he at last snapped his fingers. “Come on, Revenant.”

The hound jumped up and followed the assassin toward the exit.

“I thought you were going to help me?” Julia called after Grim, drying her eyes with her gown and standing upright.

“Stay inside,” the assassin growled over his shoulder.

Radoph jumped with surprise as a much different man then the one who had entered came bursting out the front door of his home, sword in hand and a wild look in his eyes. Even his giant black dog looked angrier—more vicious, fangs bared menacingly.

“P-poe,” the Baron stuttered, taking several steps back out of instinct. “What happened? Is everything all right?”

The assassin glanced at the sickly horse in its pasture, but ultimately turned away, choosing to face Radoph instead. “I’ll slay your monster, Baron…”

10

MIDNIGHT MONSTERS

A quiet knock on the bedroom door triggered Grim’s eyes open. He of course had already woken up several seconds before at the sound of the approaching footsteps. Another quiet knock quickly followed the first and the assassin carefully sat upright. “I’m up—thanks.”

There was a muffled response from the other side of the door and then more footsteps as the messenger, likely Anna the Barmaid, moved away from the room and back downstairs. Grim stretched and swung his legs out of bed, planting them on the wooden floor beside Revenant who had also risen from a short slumber and was arching his back ever so slowly in a satisfying stretch.

Grim inspected his new bandages—they seemed to have held up fine—then he quickly jumped the remaining way out of bed and mechanically went about collecting his equipment and putting it on. The assassin had requested three things from the small village as compensation for eradicating the monster that plagued them, as they had little in the way of coins.

One: fresh bandages and herbs to ward off infection. Two: his provisions and dried meat fully restocked. And three: a bed to sleep in until the sun disappeared beyond the horizon.

Grim was more than satisfied, as all three requests had already been fulfilled—especially given the fact, he was going to enjoy slaughtering their monster even more than the relief they would feel. Though, the quick-witted assassin had given them no reason to believe the same.

After fastening the last clasp on his leather cuirass, Grim quietly lamented the fact that his cloak had been all but destroyed in the brutal battles that had entirely dominated the last several months of his existence. To some, a cloak was an article of clothing meant to protect you from the elements; others still used them as a sign of status or wealth, even nobility.

For the assassin, a cloak was simply a weapon. One more tool in his arsenal of death. An ironic chuckle escaped his lips—the Venatian monks had trained him well before he had ultimately turned their own gifts of combat against them. That being said, the weaponization of his traveling cape was an inspiration of his own, born from sheer desperation, and his unyielding will to survive…

The thought of the monks further dampened the cold assassin’s already bitter mood, and he left the room in a hurry, eager to meet this monster and riddle it with terrible wounds. Seemingly feeding off Grim’s dangerous aura, Revenant followed closely behind radiating a threatening energy akin to the seasoned killer’s own.

Grim was surprised to find the tavern and its bustling crowd of locals to be in high spirits. They were dancing and drinking—something the assassin had started to believe didn’t actually happen in the Moss-Wall—and a few of them even played upbeat melodies on a pair of violins and a lute.

Baron Radoph quickly approached the assassin and clapped him on the back, smiling widely.

“Don’t touch me,” Grim warned the Baron without ever taking his eyes off the bustling crowd.

“Uh, a thousand apologies Poe Ansel,” Radoph swiftly requested, “I didn’t mean to offend. It’s just, the mood of the room took me in the moment!”

“Yes.” Grim scowled. “The mood of the room. What exactly are they doing?”

“Celebrating!” Radoph exclaimed excitedly. “They’re celebrating you, Poe. The man who will deliver us from this nightmare.”

The assassin scoffed. “Maybe wait to celebrate me after I’ve slain your monster.”

The Baron chuckled. “Indeed. Still, it’s good to have hope after so many long nights without it…”

Grim snorted with amusement. “Be wary of hope, Baron. For she is a cruel bitch, and so readily disappoints…”

Baron Radoph merely shook his head and shrugged. “You’re something of a mystery to me, Poe Ansel.”

The assassin pushed past the Baron and began making his way to the door. “There’s nothing mysterious about me, Baron. I’m as simple as they come.”

“Where are you going?” Radoph exclaimed, quickly catching up to the tall warrior.

Grim looked back at the Baron with a puzzled expression. “The sun has fallen, has it not? I’m going to kill your beast…”

“Ah,” the Baron started. “Well, there’s still some time before midnight—come, let us feed you once more and see you off with a few songs!”

Grim shook his head. “Tavern shanties aren’t really for me. But I’ll accept another meal…If it’s on the house.”

The Baron smiled warmly. “Of course.”

With that, Radoph shooed a few patrons away from the bar and pulled up a stool for the assassin to perch. Grim obliged and after a signal from the Baron, Anna quickly brought a warm plate out for him, as well as a bowl for Revenant. Both downed their meals immediately and waited quietly at the bar.

Radoph attempted small talk with Grim many times, but the assassin was always quick to end the conversation. The warrior slowly entered a meditative state—something he had studied during his time at the Venation Monastery, though it was apparently a Shadomurian technique, stolen from the honorable Shamaran warriors in one of Harth’s many southern raids. He remained like this until it was nearly midnight, when a subtle shift in the tone of the music the bards were playing brought him back to the present.

The upbeat, high-spirted songs from before were gone. Now, a much more somber tune dominated the tavern. So heavy was the mood that the entire place had fallen silent, other than the three musicians on the raised platform near the back of the Moss-Wall.

After many moments of the sad, heartfelt sounds of the instruments, the lutist began to sing. The emotion in the man’s voice was so raw and serene that even the cold-hearted assassin felt a tingle building in his chest.

“Woe the Wolves of Yarro’s Folly, who gave their last to the last man crawling,

Mighty was the rebellious legion, and mightier still their rebel reasons,

Against all hope did they fight, until hope gave way like evening light,

Six centuries the Harths stood sentry, guarding the land from imperial command,

Alas it was not southern invaders who came to rape and raid us,

No…

It was the Wolf among them, who’s fangs did wrong them,

And teeth could be felt in their backs, as eight legions were ordered attack,

Eight legions did come, and eight legions fell back,

Denied were the Harths, as the city was sacked,

So…

At the heart of rebellion, and atop a mound uh’ carrion,

Does stand the Wolflike ferrymen,

Eight legions did come, but it was the Wolves who won,

Now our shepherds, bury us away from the sun…

So…

Woe the Wolves of Yarro’s Folly, who’s shields clattered with endless volley,

But woe not the might of the Wolf, for indeed the Wolf is mighty,

Woe instead their prey, who has rightly roamed astray,

This night, their eyes will fade to gray…”

Silence fell over the room like a thick fog, as the violins stroked their final notes and the lutist, with tears in his eyes, lowered his instrument. The words seemed to resonate deeply with the crowd and after many moments a respectful, but quiet applause rippled through the tavern.

Grim was speechless. His gaze darted around the room but continued to return to the bards with awe. Noticing the assassin’s admiration, Radoph quickly spoke up, wiping tears from his own glazed orbs. “The Ballad of Wolves. You’ve heard it before, I’m sure?”

Grim nodded, his expression still distant. “Yes. Many times. But never like that…”

The Baron was already nodding expectantly. “Indeed. Well, it’s something else entirely to hear it played here, so close to Yarro’s Folly.”

Grim broke from his trance and glanced sidelong at the Baron, his eyes were clouded with doubt. “There is no Yarro’s folly. It was reduced to pebbles and then dust when the other eight legions crushed the Legion of the Wolf within it…That was four hundred years ago. The site of the battle has never been confirmed.”

“Confirmed,” Radoph emphasized swiftly. “But our small town has been passing the story down for seven generations. They say Yarro’s Folly sat just atop the cliff that overlooks this place, and that is where the Legion of the Wolf rebelled in the name of the Benidary’s, overthrowing the Harth’s six-hundred-year reign.”

Many believe we’re descendant from the original Legion of the Wolf,” Baron Radoph continued somberly. “The bards play the ballad every night…Some in the town theorize the Harths are still punishing us—a curse that’s spanned generations, has summoned this fiend to finish us all off for good, now that the Wolf Legion is no more…”

Grim did not respond to the Baron’s bold claim for many moments, but when he at last rose from his distant reverie, his face and body language were once again disguised by the same blanket of rage that had enveloped him before.

“The Harths are gone, Baron,” the assassin answered coldly, drawing his longsword as he slowly approached the door to the tavern. “Soon the Wolves will be gone too…This monster was born from another’s sin. But he’ll die all the same.”

Revenant leapt up and quickly pushed outside the tavern ahead of Grim. The Baron looked puzzled by the assassin’s strange words, scratching his head curiously. “He?”

Grim didn’t bother to answer the man’s question. Instead, he pushed through after Revenant, but stopped at the last second, turning to address the entire gathering within the cramped tavern, “Stay inside. No one follows me, and don’t come out—no matter what you hear…”

Many heads nodded their understanding, while many others remained frozen in place, too scared to speak up. The assassin knew it hardly mattered if they heard him or not. The truth was they were cowards. He had learned many years ago you could always count on a coward to act cowardly.

They weren’t coming out even if he screamed for their help. Even if he begged for their mercy. They would hide here until morning…And they called themselves Wolves. The ragged warrior snickered and then slowly closed the heavy wooden door behind him, casually marching into the dark, a crooked smile on his tanned face.

A long time passed and Grim saw nor heard anything. Only the cold dark of night enveloped the village of Desola. Even the sounds of the forest were quiet this night. The usual calls and movements of nature dimmed by the apparent dread that clung to this place.

There was no fear in the assassin as he stalked the streets—though, there rightly should have been. Only eager anticipation danced through his lean frame. Even that nervous energy faded and was replaced, but a calm certainty. The sword in his hand felt hungry. Dormant, but hungry.

The first of many raindrops fell through a gap in the roofs overhead and ricocheted off Grim’s cheek. He absently wiped the moisture away. The air was cold, but apparently not cold enough just yet for snow. The assassin could hear Revenant close by his paws quietly padding on the packed dirt road. He trusted the hound would be ready when the fighting started.

Grim found a particularly wide intersection in the town and casually leaned against an adjacent house, hiding in the shadows of the night as he waited for the beast to make its appearance. He stayed like that for a long time, the sound of falling rain dulling his senses as he waited.

After some time, he was beginning to think the creature wasn’t showing up, when suddenly, there was a noise from the nearby street. A noise that wasn’t Revenant. Almost like a bucket being tossed aside. A brief clatter that would have gone unnoticed had the night itself not already been so eerily quiet.

The assassin stepped out into the rain and slowly rounded the corner of the house, eyes squinting to peer into the gloom beyond. There it was. The beast was hulking indeed. It was bipedal like a man, but giant, lanky arms hung low to the ground and a great hunch over the creature’s shoulders made it look otherworldly. Where a man’s head should have been, a twisted boar-like face rooted around the base of a door leading into one of the houses bordering this street.

The beast seemed to notice Grim for the first time and quickly stood upright, its back straightening with gruesome cracks. At its full height the monster towered over the assassin. It must have been nearly eight feet tall and more than triple his mass.

Grim sneered and halfheartedly twirled his sword, smacking raindrops away with practiced ease and precision. “Evening, Rueven. Nice night for a stroll.”

The piggish monster squealed loudly. The sound carried overly aggressive tones, but also ones of excitement, like a hunting dog that had just caught the fresh scent of its quarry. Then, with little more warning, the monster charged Grim, loping on all fours as it rapidly closed the gap between them.

The assassin held his ground, still casually twirling his blade, eyes fixed on the approaching beast. Just before it collided with Grim, Revenant burst from the connecting street and barreled into the monster, knocking it off balance and rolling it several feet where it thudded into another bordering building. The warhound latched onto one of the creature’s long arms and rattled it violently.

Reuven howled with outrage and grabbed Revenant with his free hand, quickly turning and rolling over top of the much smaller dog. The boar’s head leaned in close, tusks aiming to rend the pinned hound, but before the beast could do any damage, Grim’s longsword bit deep into its back.

The creature howled again, still angry but now filled with pain as well. With surprising speed and agility, it leapt up and turned on the assassin, attempting to overwhelm the man with its ferocity. Undaunted, Grim waded in close with the monster, scoring hit after hit on its exposed belly and flank. Like a dance the assassin dodged between its sweeping blows, sidestepping long claws that would almost certainly disembowel a man in a single reckless hit.

Frustrated that it couldn’t catch up to Grim and realizing, perhaps for the first time in its existence, that it was in danger, the boar-like fiend squealed desperately and spun away from the assassin churning through the mud as it dropped to all fours, beginning to sprint away.

Revenant, who was eagerly waiting to pursue the monster, easily caught up to the fleeing brute once more, grabbing one of its long, trailing arms and yanking it to the ground. The beast howled and swatted Revenant away. The dog skidded through the mud, trying to retain his footing.

Before the boar-like monster could pounce on the hound, Grim was once more in its face, razor-sharp sword cleaving deep wounds all across its body. It tried to fend the assassin off, but he was the swifter by far. He skillfully danced around the monster, suddenly sweeping its legs out and leaping over top, feet straddling either side of it. The assassin could have finished it then with a final, precise strike…but he had no interest in killing this beast quickly.

Grim ripped the longsword back and forth, its cruel edge sweeping across the monster’s chest countless times, leaving wounds just deep enough not to tear through any vital organs. Revenant stood nearby; head tilted with confusion as his master didn’t go for the kill.

“No more—Please!” The creature’s pleas were almost completely unintelligible, but Grim knew what it was saying. Whether they sounded human or not, the tone associated with begging for mercy was always the same.

“So, you can speak,” the assassin hissed. “Good.”

His onslaught didn’t let up, perhaps even intensifying as the assassin’s arms and sword became an intangible blur. Beside him, Revenant danced anxiously and soon began to bark with concern. The creature’s squeals drowned every other sound out.

“Stop—Stop!”

“Did you stop?” Grim snarled, sweat pouring down his forehead and mixing with the rain. “Did you stop when she begged you—Did you?!”

Reuven snarled and flailed with total desperation, every muscle in the creature’s cursed body flexing instinctively. Both hands abruptly ceased futilely attempting to protect his core and reached out to the sides instead, scooping two huge handfuls of mud. With speed and fury, the monster launched both clods of mud at the assassin.

Grim saw it coming, but there was really very little he could do to stop the unorthodox attack. He leaned away almost completely avoiding one clump, but the second—enough to fill a bucket full—smacked the assassin in the chest and he staggered back several feet, nearly tripping over Reuven’s prone body. It was a brief gap in Grim’s defense, but it was enough for the enraged monster to backhand him into the air and through a crumbling wall across the street.

Grim crashed to the ground, entangled in ancient stones and mortar. The creature leapt up and charged, howling victoriously. Revenant snarled and jumped between the assassin and the huge boar-like monster, to no avail. The monster dropped its head and rammed the dog, scooping it up and tossing it over its shoulders. Grim managed to get to his feet and block with his gauntlet and sword just in time to catch a similar attack thrown by the rampaging beast. However, instead of over its shoulder, the monster threw the assassin up and forward again, launching him across yet another street.

Grim smashed through a low balcony and clattered to the ground, landing with a thud on his stomach and chest. His whole body felt soaked, but he couldn’t tell if it was the mud or if his wound had reopened. Glancing up, he saw the fiend was charging in with its head lowered once more.

“That’s enough of that,” Grim growled furiously. He pulled himself up to his knees and readied his sword to slash. The monster was nearly upon him when his blade lunged out underhand and into an upward cut. The weapon tore across the beast’s unsuspecting face and the assassin gracefully spun to his feet, sidestepping the charging brute.

Howling in agony, the monster stamped and paced for a moment until, blindfolded by its rage, it turned back on the assassin and charged again—this time head up, in order to watch for slashing blades. Pinned in a corner between two buildings, and with little choice, Grim reversed his grip on the wolf headed longsword and leapt toward the lunging beast, catching one of its tusks with his gauntleted hand and planting a foot on its hip.

The monster kept charging, squealing in pain and outrage. Grim held on for dear life, his back breaking the impact with several dilapidated walls and barricades, while simultaneously sawing at the creature’s shoulder using the base of his longsword’s serrated blade.

The duo must have gone another few hundred feet like this, before Grim finally pushed the wicked blade through the last of the beast’s corded muscles and its huge arm fell free. Its squeals of pain were sickening and from the assassin’s close proximity, deafening too. Releasing the monster’s tusk, Grim fell away safely as it skidded to a stop.

Reuven turned to face the assassin, who in that moment looked like more of the predator between the two of them. Grim stalked a slow semicircle around the brute, sword resting casually on one shoulder. A wild, dangerous glint in his eyes. Blood poured from the stump at the base of the monster’s torn shoulder.

Tears streaked Reuven’s own massive orbs, but mostly fear and hate emanated forth. In a last, defiant act the boar-like horror scooped up its own severed arm into its remaining hand and leveled it like a club at the ruthless warrior hounding him.

Grim felt like a dry chuckle was in order, but no such merriment came forth. He was all business and ready to finish this putrid monster once in for all. A low growl rumbled from nearby, indicating Revenant was back in the fight as well, but the assassin held up his iron sealed palm to restrain the warhound. No reason to endanger him further after all. Revenant whined impatiently, but otherwise held his assault.

Watching the threatening dog curiously, the beast at last snorted and moved in toward Grim, eager to crush this dangerous human. The assassin simply watched, letting Reuven draw closer. His whole body lay in ambush—a grandmaster in chess waiting for a less experienced opponent to blunder and open themselves to a ruthless counterattack.

That blunder came in the form of an attack, a sweeping blow that carried enough speed and power to eliminate a foe with ease. Grim was unimpressed with the dramatic show of force and danced to the side, slicing the weaponized limb in half, and deftly avoiding the rest of the severed appendage.

More screams of outrage echoed through Desola’s empty streets.

Again, the beast swung its makeshift club, this time overhead, and again the assassin split the limb in two. Now Grim followed through with a second strike, pivoting and bashing the monster’s chin with the angular pommel of his longsword.

Dazed from the straightforward attack, Reuven squealed in protest. Just as the boar-like beast opened its jowls, the assassin plunged his gauntleted fist into its mouth, shattering teeth and tearing wet, tender flesh. The monster’s terrifying grunts and howls diminished to a gagged, whimper.

Face twisting with disgust, Grim ripped his gauntlet free and grasped the wolf headed longsword in both hands, before slashing through the beast’s chest with a tremendous strike. The cruel blade sunk deep into Reuven’s chest before biting into the monster’s huge sternum bone and halting there.

The force of Grim’s bone shattering blow transferred through the honed blade and into the hulking boar monster. Rueven staggered back, stunned by the attack, and fell, crashing through the thin wooden wall of a nearby hovel. The assassin strode forward, pursuing the beast inside.

Grim quickly realized this house was not one of the abandoned homes. Reuven had drug himself down a narrow hallway and into a living area that was dimly lit by a pair of lonely lanterns. The assassin’s cold heart seemed to skip a beat when he realized where they were.

This was Baron Radoph’s home—the home of Julia…and by extension, Reuven’s former home as well. Somewhere deep in his chaotic thoughts, Grim wondered if the cursed beast’s rampage had subconsciously led him back here—led him home—when he knew he was dying.

The assassin shrugged, realizing he hardly cared to contemplate this wretched things craven desires. He raised his sword, stepping over Reuven like an executioner might. It only just then registered to him that Julia’s small form was huddled in the corner. Without meaning to, Grim silently made eye contact with the girl.

Julia was unharmed, but her eyes were wide and fearful. Tears streaked her smudged cheeks and she clung to a toy sword—something she had presumably grabbed out of instinct, or perhaps she always held tightly to the prop as she sat alone in this dirty house throughout the cold nights.

Reuven grumbled unintelligibly and suddenly struck out for Julia—or was he reaching pleadingly? Grim couldn’t have known, and his abnormally fast reflexes would never have given him the chance to find out. The wolf headed longsword whizzed through the dank air, cleaving Reuven’s hand in half, leaving a bloody stub which he recoiled painfully, howling in agony.

In the same motion, never losing the momentum behind his previous slash, Grim spun the blade in a semicircle and plunged it downward into the monster’s mutilated body. Many things happened after that.

The assassin felt the wicked blade suddenly begin…feeding on the boar monster’s Cursed mass. The sword hummed with power as it vampirically drained its victim. Grim could only explain the feeling of being a part of that as sheer ecstasy and muted horror. He felt the Cursed energy wash through him and then ricochet back into the weapon.

On the other end of the blade, Reuven’s squeals of pain, slowly and gruesomely shifted to much more human screams. His hulking, cursed shell was shed, the threads that created it being sucked up into the hungry longsword, and all that was left…was a boy.

Grim stared down in horror, his face a mask of shock. There was no longer a fiend of unquestionable evils pinned to the ground by his longsword, but a young man—no more than thirteen years of age. The Baron’s son Reuven, who looked amazingly similar to his much older father, screamed for mercy, newly restored limbs clawing desperately at the formidable blade in his stomach.

Julia began to cry out, tears flowing anew as she watched the nightmare unfold. “Please mister! Enough—that’s enough!”

Grim’s stunned gaze fell on her and then slowly shifted back to the boy skewered at the end of his longsword. Faced with the ghastly scene, Julia’s misguided, vengeful desires for her brother’s death, dissolved—and who could blame her? She was an innocent nine-year-old with powers she should never have been burdened with. Even the assassin’s ruthless drive for violence had dulled as the nightmarish reality sunk in.

Still, his gaze swept back down to the agonized Reuven. He knew what a stomach wound like that would do to him. The boy was already dead. Besides, an undeniable part of him still wanted the molester to pay…

Mercy, or perhaps unquenched rage drove the assassin’s hands. He planted his foot on the young man’s torso and wrenched the longsword free in one smooth motion before plunging it back down instantly. Grim’s seasoned aim was true and the now, nearly mundane looking blade, penetrated Reuven’s heart, killing him before the steel-like tip bit into the wooden floor beneath the boy’s body.

The assassin stood like that for many moments, towering over Reuven’s, now, much smaller body. In the corner of the room, Julia crumpled down, sobbing uncontrollably. Her tortured cries fell on deaf ears as Grim stared blankly, eyes locked with the young man’s own clouded orbs.

At last, the assassin fell to his knees and his hand slowly moved over Reuven’s pale, bloodstained face, forcing shut his dead eyes. His other hand remained on the hilt of the longsword, blade still protruding from the dead boy’s chest. The weapon no longer fed, as there was no Cursed energy left within the husk. Only an empty corpse.

Eventually, Grim pulled his blade free and absently wiped the blood off on the rough fabric of Reuven’s tattered clothes. The ragged warrior carefully scooped up the boy’s torn body and turned to face Julia. The girl continued to sob, covering her face, and shielding herself from the assassin. Grim silently nodded and reached out, grabbing one of the lanterns and turning to leave the blood-soaked room.

“W-what will you do with him?” Julia sniffled, wiping her eyes, and calling after the assassin.

Grim paused, glancing over his shoulder. “I’m going to burn him. Your father shouldn’t see the body. Can you keep this secret, for me?”

Julia quietly nodded, still trying to dry her seemingly endless tears.

The assassin nodded in return and began to walk again, but the girl’s delicate voice quickly halted him once more. “I didn’t want him to die you know,” her whispers were almost indistinguishable as her voice cracked. “Not like that. I didn’t want to kill him—I just couldn’t…Stop myself.”

“You didn’t kill him,” Grim stated evenly. “I killed him.”

Unable to hold back her gasping sobs any longer, Julia broke down once more.

The assassin, dry of almost all emotion and in no state to comfort the girl, quietly padded out of the room, still cradling Reuven in his arms. He stooped to exit through the jagged entrance the cursed creature’s body had left and silently stepped out into the damp night. A dim glow to the east told him dawn would soon come.

Methodically, Grim laid Reuven’s body down in the street and smashed the lantern, pouring oil over the boy’s clothes before dropping it and letting the flames ignite. The assassin watched as the young man’s body was swiftly engulfed in flames.

The lights from the fire danced across Grim’s face, revealing his stonelike features as he stood solemnly, watching while Reuven’s own agonized features burned away. Revenant padded up to the distant man and quietly sat down beside him. The hound pressed his wide head into the back of the assassin’s palm.

Grim glanced down, noting the dark coated warhound. He ruffled the dog’s hair and scratched behind his ears. He wanted to speak. He wanted to say something, anything. Explode to the stoic hound and clear his conscious somehow.

None of those thoughts formed into words.

Instead, he simply continued to stroke the dog’s ears murmuring, “Good boy.” Over and over.

11

DOWN IN LEGEND

Nearly two hours had passed since Grim lit young Reuven’s body a blaze and by the time the assassin had shepherded the remaining bones away and buried them deep in the forest, the sun had begun to rise. The bruised man walked solemnly through Desola’s empty streets, the loyal hound ever by his side. Morning light was filtering into the small valley, as well as through the Moss-Wall’s barricaded windows. The assassin quietly approached the tavern’s entrance.

Covered in mud and dried blood, Grim pushed through the heavy wooden door and stumbled into the small bar. He was greeted by a plethora of frightened, uncertain faces—Radoph’s chief among them as he stepped forward, a question thinly veiled behind his gaunt features. The Baron watched Grim expectantly.

“Your beast is dead—it will trouble you no further.”

The tavern lit up with astonishing excitement, cheers of joy and celebration drowned out anything else the assassin might have said. One amongst them had the good sense to rush forward and catch the injured man before he could collapse—but it was not Baron Radoph.

The barmaid Anna carefully wrapped Grim’s arm over her shoulders and did her best to support the much larger man. Typically, he would have pushed her away, refusing any kind of physical contact or offers of aid, but he was in too much pain as it was. His vicious chest wound had indeed reopened during the reckless battle, and he had only made it worse by trekking through the wilderness and digging a grave for the dead boy.

“You’re hurt!” she exclaimed, worry saturating her voice.

“I’m fine,” Grim insisted, trying weakly to push the girl away. “It’s an old wound—the blood you see is not my own.”

“Bullocks!” The barmaid scolded, suddenly becoming very brave. “You can barely stand! You need medicine and fresh bandages.”

Baron Radoph had just made it over, pushing his way through the fast-expanding crowd. He had apparently caught the tail end of their conversation, slowly looking the assassin up and down.

“Lass is right, Poe. You’re in bad shape. I won’t have you dying on my watch—so soon to you saving us all at that!” He paused, clasping the assassin’s other shoulder. “Let the girl treat you, friend.”

Grim shrugged the man’s hand away and nodded toward the tavern’s entrance. “You should go to your daughter, Baron. She needs her father…”

Radoph looked taken aback at first, but gradually began nodding. “You’re right, of course. I’ll go to her at once—but I beseech you, Poe, let Anna treat your wounds. She’s no medicus, but she’s skilled enough to stop the bleeding and stave off infection. You’ve done our small village a great service, and likely saved my daughter’s life. Please…let me return the favor.”

After a brief moment of consideration, Grim nodded and let Anna escort him toward the kitchen. As the pair slid behind the bar, the assassin overheard Radoph speaking excitedly to a few other men. “Celebration is in order! Ride out to the other villages—tell them what happened here. Tell them we survived! It’s been too long—”

“No!” Grim interjected, turning swiftly—much to his immediate pain—and slamming a palm down on the bar. “You’ll do no such thing.”

The Baron looked at Grim as if the man had gone completely mad. “Why would this be a problem? The other villages deserve to know we’re safe. It’s been weeks…”

The assassin faltered, quickly searching his thoughts for a reasonable excuse. He feared in his haste, he may have revealed too much to these backwater paupers. “You should be careful, Baron. The world has changed quickly these last months of autumn—the countryside isn’t as safe as it once was. The neighboring towns may suffer similar peril…I would not risk it.”

The Baron quietly nodded, digesting that information. “I understand…You are a wise man, Poe. I’ll think on what you’ve said.”

Grim nodded. That was the best he was likely to get from this one.

Anna once more began to half-drag, half-carry the assassin into the kitchen, but he baulked, turning once more, and calling out, “Baron…! The Ovalander hound waits just outside. He fought the same creature as me. Revenant would benefit greatly from a warm meal…”

The Baron smiled and nodded. “I’ll have one of the lads prepare something for him—on the house.”

Grim dipped his head appreciatively and pivoted, finally letting the patient girl escort him away.

The kitchen was small—almost humorously so. Leaned back as he was against the island table with his chest exposed, there was barely enough room for both Anna and Grim in the confined space. She was forced to repeatedly step over his long legs as she danced about, opening drawers, and collecting different herbs for a poultice.

“Here,” she said, tossing the assassin a wet towel. “Clean some of that muck off of you so I can treat the wound.”

He narrowed his eyes at her demanding tone, but dutifully went about rubbing the mud away and exposing the throbbing scar underneath. Anna winced when she saw how badly the flesh had torn, fresh blood trickled through darker, clotted areas. Despite the assassin’s best efforts, there was still plenty of dirt contaminating the open edges of the stab wound.

“Nothing for it then…” Anna muttered, examining the wound briefly, hands on hips, before grabbing a bottle of nearby whiskey and sloshing it onto the exposed flesh.

Grim snarled and cursed under his breath, but quickly recovered. He tossed the barmaid a hateful look, one that would have made the most seasoned of warriors wilt—and yet, she did not. There was more to this dainty maid than she was letting on, the assassin quietly mused.

“Thanks for the warning,” Grim growled sarcastically.

Anna shrugged. “Most prefer not knowing.”

The assassin snorted dismissively but said little more as she went about preparing a new bandage.

“You’re a hero you know,” Anna said at length, her eyes distant as she ground some herbs with a mortar and pestle. “Desola will celebrate, whether you want them to or not. They need it. They need it just as much as they needed that monster slain.”

Grim scoffed and shook his head. “I’m no hero.”

“Are you not?” Anna asked with surprise. “These people see you as one. Is that not enough?”

There was a long pause, before the assassin spoke up again, reiterating what he had already stated, “I’m not a hero.”

More silence. Anna continued to work on her poultice and Grim carefully watched her. At last, she finished and moved to the assassin’s side, where she meticulously began to apply the bandage.

“Where did you learn to make these?” Grim asked casually.

Her eyes flicked toward his. Their heads were close and for a brief moment they held a mutual gaze. After a matter of seconds, Anna’s eyes returned to her task. “My mother taught me, before her untimely death. It’s customary for the women of Desola to know how to mend a wound.”

“I see,” Grim replied with a nod. “I’m sorry…”

“Don’t be,” Anna said, her tone bordering cavalier. “We’ve all lost people, eh?”

“Right…” the assassin responded quietly.

The girl finished fastening the bandage and stood back to admire her handiwork. “Not bad,” she remarked thoughtfully. “Let me grab something to cut off the extra gauze.”

Grim raised a hand and quickly shook his head. “Don’t worry about it. This will work.”

Anna waved him away and turned, rummaging through a cupboard. “I’m afraid I insist. It’s the least I can do.”

Grim rolled his eyes in the direction of her back, but reluctantly lay back again. He supposed there was no harm in appeasing this small, curious woman. The assassin immediately regretted that sentiment as Anna pulled a short sword from the cluttered cabinet and, with alarming speed and precision, pivoted, reaching out with her arm, and placing the cold steel against his stubbly throat.

Grim carefully swallowed, the prominent cartilage in his neck brushing the blade as he did. The two made eye contact across the spine of the sword. Many seconds passed without either making a move.

“So,” Grim started calmly, his voice quiet but void of any trembling, “not your hero, it would seem…”

“Shut up,” Anna said, her tone both serious and threatening, but also raw and filled with emotion. “I recognize that blade.” She dipped her head, indicating the wolf headed longsword strapped to Grim’s hip. “That’s a legion sword!”

“So is that,” the assassin noted evenly, his eyes breaking away long enough to skim across the short sword in Anna’s hand.

“You recognize it?” she asked, anger crackling in her tone. “You’ve probably seen plenty, haven’t you? How many more weapons did you nab off the corpses of good soldiers?”

Grim slowly exhaled. “I’m not sure who you think I am, Anna. I bought this sword from a traveling merchant. I’m nothing more than a lone mercenary. I swear.”

“Fucking liar,” the girl snarled.

“Anna…” Grim began, desperate to reason with the girl before this escalated further.

She cut him off, nicking his chin with the blade as she exploded angrily. “Don’t call me that! That’s not my name and I’m tired of hearing it through your viper lips!”

“Well, good!” Grim snapped back, leaning forward, and pressing his neck painfully against the steel tip of her blade. “Because Poe’s not my name either and I’m tired of hearing you stupid bastards bleat it in your annoying fucking peasant brogue!”

Anna smirked and adjusted her wrist, lifting the assassin’s jaw upward so he had to look down sharply just to hold her gaze. “Oh, I know who you are, Reaper.”

Grim’s blood went cold as the girl uttered his most infamous moniker.

“You don’t remember me, do you?” she chortled mirthlessly.

“We’ve never met.”

“Think harder,” Anna hissed, twisting the blade, and forcing his head back even further. “You were responsible for a lot of people’s deaths that night…”

Grim chuckled. “I’m afraid you’re gonna have to be more specific…”

“I wonder how you escaped?” the girl mused, unphased by his taunt. “You were chained and bound, and yet…here you are.”

The assassin’s smirk suddenly melted away, realization dawning on him. His eyes flitted back to the blade at his neck—it was simple in design, but its metal was forged with a darker tint, the iron had been mined in the east. He noticed traces of burn marks protruding from her long sleeves. Originally, Grim had assumed they were caused by carelessness in the kitchen, but now he knew better.

“You’re fucking Wolf Legion…”

The corner of Anna’s mouth curled in silent confirmation. There was no satisfaction or joy in that smile—only quiet resolution. “Aye. I was there that night, when Commander Eriana stormed the Capital city and pleaded for aid from the man YOU put on the throne. I saw you tethered like a dog.”

“Then you know I have no love for Rhoric Amir either!” Grim reasoned, quickly losing his patience.

“So, he betrayed you.” Anna smirked. “Big surprise there. You’re still to blame for so many of my brother’s and sister’s deaths. They burned because of you!”

Grim shook his head, shoulders shrugging dismissively. “I don’t have time for this nonsense…”

“No,” the woman interrupted. “No, you really don’t.”

The assassin scoffed. “Are you going to kill me, Anna?”

“That’s not my name…” The barmaid warned.

“Thousands have tried,” Grim continued coldly. “Many of them Wolves—like you. And yet…here I am.”

“I’m warning you…” Anna said softly.

“Maybe you’ll succeed,” the assassin hissed. “But then again…Maybe you won’t.”

Unable to stomach his voice any longer, Anna grimaced and plunged her short sword toward Grim’s point blank neck. He was helpless. He should have died in that instant, choking on his own life’s blood. And yet, that was not the case.

With a blur, the assassin’s gauntleted hand shot up, catching the blade before it could move an inch. Anna’s eyes were wide with bewilderment. She had never witnessed such reactive speed before. Still, she was armed, and he was not. The barmaid planted her foot on Grim’s stomach and tried to wrench the blade free from his grasp.

The sword didn’t budge. It may as well have been clenched in the jaws of a smith’s vise.

Grim rose then. Lifting himself from his chair and standing at his full height. With his free hand he grabbed the barmaid’s tunic and hoisted her into the air so he could look her in the eyes. She hung, legs dangling, feet kicking desperately.

When at last she stopped fighting, she looked up into his gaze and for the first time in many months knew true fear. The Reaper’s face promised death. She felt helpless now—how had it come to this in a matter of seconds?

“Is this the Wolves’ finest?” Grim sneered, his face leaning in very close to hers. “This is one of Eriana’s elite…? Pathetic.”

“Commander Eriana would butcher you, assassin!” Anna replied vehemently.

Grim’s shoulders rolled with an amused chuckle. “I defeated your commander—and her captain, and a slew of other Wolves. I found them to be…unimpressive.”

The girl’s face contorted with confusion and concern. “That’s impossible. Eriana and Orion died on the field of battle. They were burnt to ash with the rest of our legion!”

Grim rolled his eyes and dropped Anna to the ground. She landed nimbly on her feet and rolled away from the assassin. She took her sword with her, and he did little to stop her, casually releasing his grip on the blade.

“Explain yourself!” Anna demanded; her words filled with growing panic. “The Wolves are all dead.”

“You survived,” Grim reasoned, raising his arms in a leading gesture.

“Luck,” the girl stated. “I was near the Einrill and leapt in when the inferno first engulfed the legions. Others tried to do the same, but the river ripped them away. They drowned. I only survived because I am a mighty swimmer…”

Again, Grim snorted. “Come on soldier, you’re smarter than that.”

Anna’s eyes grew very distant, and the tip of her blade dipped, searching her memory. “Some of the Wolf Legion tried to retreat into the forest…but they didn’t make it—they couldn’t have! I searched the forest myself. I searched for days!”

“They made it,” Grim assured. His words left no room for doubt.

The assassin watched as Anna’s thoughts raced. She seemed to be digesting this information while simultaneously drawing a conclusion of her own. That conclusion led back to him. The young woman’s eyes shot up venomously. The tip of her sword came back up as well, level with his chest.

“Then you killed Commander Eriana, and the captain—that’s where you got that damned wound, isn’t it?!”

Grim was already shaking his head. “No. I doubt you would believe me if I told you how I earned this…” He faintly gestured to the nasty gash.

“Then Eriana and Orion?”

“Alive and well,” the assassin confirmed, then added as an afterthought, “Though, I may yet kill that little fencer…”

Anna’s sword lowered completely, and her body sagged back against the counter. “They’re alive,” she breathed, a smile spreading across her pretty face. “I don’t believe it—this changes everything!” She looked back up at the assassin, he was barely a sword’s reach away in the cramped kitchen, but she seemed to have let her guard down all together. “Where are they? I must know!”

Grim exhaled quietly. “It’s best if you don’t know. Leave that life behind. Don’t stay here if that is not your wish but stay away from the legions. You were fortunate to escape.”

“I don’t want to escape!” Anna replied, disgust twisting her face. “I want to fight. I’m a bloody Wolf, not a damn barmaid!”

Grim shook his head with finality. “I won’t tell you. Forget about them.”

The legionnaire practically trembled with rage, though she managed to collect herself. Placing the short sword back on the counter she ran her fingers through her long, wild, blonde hair and pulled it back into a knot. “Where will you go?”

“Everharth,” the assassin answered without hesitation. “I have a debt to settle.”

“Then I’ll come with you,” Anna replied just as quickly, straightening her back determinedly.

“Absolutely not,” Grim declared. “I’ve taken in enough strays. I’m not taking in anymore—it’s bad enough I have a dog, I won’t have a Wolf as well.”

“I’ll just follow you,” Anna demanded.

“Then I’ll know,” Grim replied in a similar tone. “And when we’re alone in the wilderness, I’ll kill you and string your guts from a tree…”

“Doubt it.”

The assassin looked at the woman incredulously. She stood, hands on hips and a confident smile from cheek to cheek.

“No…?” he asked ominously.

“Nah,” she said, doubling down. “You might be a murderous, coldblooded, snake of an assassin, but you have a heart too—you saved these people after all. You didn’t have to do that.”

Grim closed his eyes and raised clenched fists in the air. His body quivered with frustration. “If one more person accuses me of having a heart, then I’ll prove them wrong, by ripping theirs out and crushing it in the palm of my hand.”

Anna rolled her eyes. “Whatever. Softie.”

The assassin stared her down for many moments before turning away and weaving his way out of the kitchen. “We’re done here. I’m leaving before the next sunrise. You won’t follow me.”

“You’re welcome for the bandages!” the girl shouted after him sarcastically. “Dick.”

After his shocking interaction with Anna, Grim had retreated to his room upstairs, where he had intended to rest and sort through his thoughts. He had much to think about after all. His meeting with the Wolf officer could prove beneficial if he was careful. There were still a lot of things he didn’t know, and Eriana remained mostly a mystery to him.

There was rampant speculation about what the truth actually was, regarding the Legion of the Wolf’s claims of monsters and their time in the east. What were Eriana’s true intentions? How many Wolves remained in Eastharth? Why did they come to Everharth ready for a siege with trebuchets? What actually, happened that day on the banks of the Einrill when the Wolves and the Eagles were both seemingly destroyed?

These were all questions he suspected Anna would be able to answer, but given the opportunity would she even tell him? And at what cost? Telling her the location of the Wolves could endanger Eriana’s entire operation in Brumex—not that it even mattered now, he quietly mused. Their coup wasn’t likely to get off the ground without a proper claim to the throne, and with Princess Octavia almost certainly dead or in enemy hands, they had none.

The assassin wasn’t even sure why he cared…? His purpose was singular, his goal unwavering. Or so he told himself. He was traveling west, to Everharth. Once there he would find Joanne alive, or he would not. Either way, Rhoric Amir would die at the end of his blade. Then he would hunt down the rest of the man’s serpent siblings and execute them as well.

Grim almost laughed out loud as he considered all this. Not so long ago he was preaching to Octavia about the fruitlessness of revenge. His smirk shifted into a scowl of anger and disgust. And look where his newfound humanity had got him—where it had got her.

His body quivered violently. His mind was taking him dark places—to memories of the untold horrors of his past.

Maybe vengeance cannot satisfy or fill the void left by what we’ve lost, but when all other avenues of hope are snuffed out…I figure I can die with one less regret knowing I took the Amir family with me.

The assassin’s hateful meditation came to an end as there was a knock at his door. For a moment he considered drawing his sword and cutting whoever was on the other side of the wooden barrier to ribbons. The thought quickly passed when his cold, calculated side took over—years ago, this would have been when he was at his most dangerous, but now that level headedness was the only thing keeping him from descending into the reckless monster he knew lurked just beneath the surface of his sanity.

“Who is it?” Grim called out impatiently.

Baron Radoph’s muffled voice responded, “It’s Radoph, Poe. Mind if I come in? I…brought you something.”

The assassin exhaled quietly and ran his tired hands through his thick, dark hair. Fighting his irritation with these people, he calmly invited the Baron in. “It’s unlocked.”

The knob twisted and Baron Radoph pushed his way through flanked by a couple other Desola locals. They carried between them a heavy wooden chest.

“What’s that for?” Grim addressed the Baron suspiciously, pointing at the trunk.

“It’s for you,” Radoph explained. “Go on, open it up.”

The assassin didn’t budge. “What’s this about, Baron? You already paid me…”

“Underpaid,” Radoph corrected. “I spoke with Julia—I saw the house. You saved my little girl’s life, probably in more ways than one. I can never repay that, but I hope this helps.”

Grim still eyed the Baron skeptically, but eventually moved to open the chest. Flipping both latches with swift fingers the assassin threw the trunk open revealing the contents within. He struggled to hide his shock from what he saw there.

A full set of legion armor rested in a neat stack, helm on top, cloak at the bottom. The armor was much older than standard legion armor of the present, but to the suits benefit. It was forged with care, before mass production had taken the legion’s armorers by storm. The metal was a finer quality—lighter and stronger, a result yielded from ancient smithing techniques that had become obsolete in recent centuries due to their time-consuming process.

There were no weapons accompanying the armor, nor an insignia to represent what legion this armor had been forged for. The metal glistened; the silver coloring so pearly that it almost appeared white. The black cloak looked sturdy, yet agile, but still hefty in weight—exactly what the assassin looked for in a traveling cloak.

Grim was at a loss for words. He wasn’t sure how he could accept such an impressive gift. The armor likely was more valuable than the entire village of Desola—merely selling it would yield enough gold to buy them all new shoes and clothes.

“I don’t know what to say,” the assassin admitted. “This armor’s worth doubles that of my service. It would be a foul thing indeed for me to accept this…”

“Nonsense!” Radoph assured, shaking his head. “The armor has sat in storage beneath this very tavern for decades. We are not warriors, Poe. We have no use for such things, but perhaps, you could find a way to give it meaning once more?”

Grim stuttered, taken aback by the surprising hospitality and graciousness of these people. “But—but where did you even get it?”

The Baron chuckled, picking up the helmet and inspecting its pristine exterior. “Truth be told? It sat at the bottom of the Muhi, a stream just south of here, for Thondel knows how long. Long enough the water erased any sign of the legion emblems once embossed on it anyway.”

“And the cloak? The leather interior? It would have all rotted away. There should be nothing left?”

“Incredible, isn’t it?” The Baron placed the helm back down and ran the fabric of the thick cloak between his finger and thumb. “It’s proved resilient to the test of time, and earth. Somehow the water had no effect on it. Of course, there were small imperfections and some damage left behind, from the battle that lay its previous owner low, but nothing our smiths could not patch.

“It belongs to you now, Poe,” Radoph continued. “Wear it proudly. You deserve it.”

Grim pulled the breastplate out of the chest, along with a pauldron and carefully inspected them. There was no denying their quality and craftsmanship. The metal felt similar to his gauntlet. Tough, unyielding.

“It’s not really my style…” the assassin mused absently. “…with a few minor modifications though…” Grim looked up from the breastplate and into Radoph’s beaming eyes. “Thank you, Baron. This is a generous gift.”

The Baron’s smile widened. “Of course! Do what you must to it—our facilities are open to you. There would have been no one left to operate them anyway if you had not stumbled upon our humble home.”

Grim nodded appreciatively and scooped the remaining items out of the chest. Radoph dipped a respectful bow and gestured for the two men escorting him to be on their way. They bowed in turn and scurried out of the room. The Baron followed closely behind but called over his shoulder before disappearing behind the doorframe.

“There will be feasting and celebration this evening, Poe. It’s in your honor! It would be a shame if you didn’t stay long enough to join us.”

Grim snorted derisively. “We’ll see…”

Not squandering his opportunity to use a proper, albeit primitive, smithy to modify the armor, Grim wasted no time sneaking down the stairs in the Moss-Wall and gliding across town to the smithy he had noticed last night before encountering Reuven’s beast.

After removing a few pieces that he thought may restrict his movement, and of course freeing the tassels on the cloak that would have pinned it down and kept it from flowing freely, he realized there wasn’t much more he could do to improve the suit.

The armor was admittedly very much to his liking. Not too heavy or restrictive, but sturdy enough in all the right places. He could take some hits if he had to. The only thing left was the color. He’d be caught dead before he was seen wearing Legion Silver…

Grim was applying the last coat of black paint to the once silvery armor, when Revenant released a long, low growl. A sound the assassin had quickly deduced meant someone was approaching.

“Good boy…” Grim whispered to the hound without ever looking up from his work.

Several seconds later, the assassin could hear the approaching footsteps as well. He recognized the steps and looked up expectantly. Revenant sat up as well. Moments after, Anna came around the corner, stepping into the spacious smithy and under the sturdy wooden roof responsible for shielding the anvil and forge from rain.

“Oh,” the woman’s eyes widened with surprise. “You painted it black. How…unique.”

“Did you know about this?” Grim pointed at the handsome armor.

“I knew of it,” Anna replied. “Don’t know where it came from—sure, I heard the same tale you did, but I’m not sure what kind of truth there is in that.”

“You don’t believe them?”

“I think some details may be…embellished,” the woman responded carefully.

Grim eyed her closely. “Surely you’ve witnessed stranger things…”

Now it was Anna’s turn to watch the assassin through guarded eyes. “Seeing is believing…”

Just then, a couple of riders and their horses trotted by. Their hooves clip-clopped on the hardened parts of the dirt road and squelched through the parts still wet from last night’s storm. A few more cantered up behind them raucously catching up.

“Who was that?” Grim asked quietly.

“Visitors from neighboring settlements.” Anna carefully approached Revenant and scratched behind his ears. The hound’s tongue lolled out of his mouth and one of his back legs thumped happily. “They’ve been arriving all day. There’s to be a big celebration. Like I said—you’re a hero.”

“Damn fool of a Baron,” Grim grumbled, while scowling at his treacherous hound pressing happily against the young woman’s leg. “He only invites more death here.”

Anna rolled her eyes and gestured to the assassin. “Death’s already here. How should he know half the kingdom wants you dead?”

Grim scoffed and carefully packed up the armor, wrapping it in the riding cloak. “You Wolves are all the same…”

Anna picked up the legion helm and studied it for a moment, before tossing it into Grim’s waiting hands. “Witty and fierce?”

“No—righteous.”

The girl’s face jolted with surprise. “Righteous? You must be thinking of the wrong legion.”

“Nope. I’ve got the right one.” He paused and shoved Revenant’s muscular rump until the dog stumbled out into the street. The hound grumbled his resentment.

“C’mon, you big, backstabbing lug,” Grim muttered before turning to address Anna once more. “Eriana was the same way—she thought me a monster because I once killed for money.”

“You are a monster…”

The assassin barged in, interrupting the young Wolf officer before she could finish, “Of course, I am. But if it’s just killing that gets you there, the legions have spilled more gallons of blood than I ever have…At least the men I killed had it coming.”

“What about little Aleigh Ogle? Did she have it coming?”

Grim froze up. He felt his heart skip a beat at the mention of the Ogle girl’s name. Deliberately and dangerously, he pivoted to face Anna once more. “How do you know about that?”

Realizing she had struck a nerve; Anna took a step back and raised her hands contritely. “It was common knowledge amongst the legion…Commander Etticus told us of you.”

“Commander Etticus wasn’t there,” Grim hissed threateningly. “You speak of things you don’t understand.”

There was a long pause before Anna worked up the courage to say anything. When at last she did, her words had lost their accusatory undertone. “Then…you didn’t kill the Ogle girl…?”

The assassin shook his head, a look of disgust tainting his otherwise attractive face. “No…I don’t kill chil—” He paused ruefully. “I didn’t kill her…” With that, the man swirled and strode out of the smithy marching back in the direction of the tavern.

Anna started to reply and stopped several times, hands grasping each other nervously as she tried to form a coherent rebuttal.

At last, she shouted after the assassin, “That armor belongs to the legions, not you…” Her words trailed off and she kicked out, tipping a bucket in frustration. “Ugh. Stupid!” she muttered to herself, hands pulling at long, thick hair. “Like he cares…”

The young woman shook her head and continued grumbling to herself, leaving the smithy behind, and following in the same direction the assassin had disappeared to.

12

THE HYENAS AND THE HOUND

Grim stood before the small dirty mirror that sat on the flimsy sink in the corner of his tavern room. He shook his head in disgust—he looked terrible! The assassin hadn’t gone this long without shaving in years. His beard was thick and dirty. His hair was long and greasy, strands of it hanging well past his shoulders.

The only benefit of this scraggly look was most would mistake him for a wandering peasant—not a legendary assassin. Still, he had no intentions of hiding behind this guise any longer—After all, the Reaper didn’t need a costume to disappear in a crowd.

With a deft tug, Grim pulled his short dagger out of the loop on his belt and brought the blade up to his jaw. The weapon was devastatingly sharp, having spent many, many hours against his whetstone. With a steady hand and cavalier confidence, the assassin began to scrape the prickly hair from his face.

Within minutes, Grim’s face was completely bare. Subconsciously, he stroked the defined line of his jaw, turning his head to see it from every angle.

Good enough.

The assassin then took the knife to his unruly hair and sheared off several inches. With that, he dropped the dagger back into its loop and dipped his head into the bucket of the rickety old sink. For many moments he let fresh water run through his thick locks of hair. Eventually, he snapped back upright and strained the remaining water out with strong hands.

The hair was shorter than he typically wore it but, still long, hanging past his newly revealed jawline. With a shrug the assassin removed a lace from one of his vambraces and pulled the hair up, tying it in a knot atop his head. It was an uncommon look—not typically worn by men in the Kingdom of Harth, but it was also very practical. It was said that amongst the Shadomuria Clan it was a popular style for all those warriors who didn’t simply braid it.

With a satisfied nod, Grim moved away from the mirror and across the room to the surprisingly large tub. There was no denying he craved the prospect of cleaning up after so many months of living in the wilderness and bathing in streams.

Unsure, the assassin moved to the window and checked the location of the sun. It hung low in the western sky and cast long shadows across Desola. He doubted he had the time to bathe before he was forced to depart—especially given the ruckus from downstairs. It seemed the Baron’s celebration was in full swing.

Grim cast another yearning look at the tub. After many moments of debate, he finally lifted a casual arm and sniffed underneath. The assassin quickly withdrew his nose, screwing up his face. Even Revenant offered a disgusted whine from where he lounged lazily by the bed.

“Right,” the assassin muttered. “It seems a quick bath is in order.” After twisting the knob and waiting several minutes, only to be rewarded by a cascade of freezing water, Grim sighed, “It seems a cold bath is in order.”

No matter. The assassin stripped his clothes, including the heavy iron gauntlet, and gently lowered himself into the freezing water. If the temperature was uncomfortable to him, he hardly showed it.

“Revenant,” Grim called quietly.

The hound sat up and looked intelligently at the assassin.

“Guard dog.”

Baron Radoph rushed around the tavern in a tizzy. The place was packed! It seemed as if couriers from every village in The Sunny Tips had made their way through the great pine wood and to the small, isolated town of Desola. The story of Poe’s heroic battle with the monster had spread like wildfire!

Still, gold was pouring into the safe behind the bar as fast as ale was pouring out of the barrels right beside it. Business was booming at last! After one of the longest droughts in the ancient town’s history, the coffers were open once more.

Continuing to scan the room, Radoph could find no sign of their mysterious monster slaying benefactor. No matter. Poe was likely exhausted from battling the beast all night. Radoph was certain he was resting upstairs. He’d come down eventually.

“Daddy, we need help over here!” Julia was behind the bar taking orders from the onslaught of fresh patrons. Beside her, another young man and woman did their best to keep up with her rapid-fire words. There was no sign of Anna.

“Where is that damn girl?” Radoph muttered to himself, while pushing his way toward the bar.

“Where’s Anna?” the Baron asked, leaning over the countertop, and speaking loudly into Julia’s ear so she could hear him clearly over the cacophony.

His daughter nodded her understanding and then pointed across the bustling tavern floor. Radoph followed her gesture to the front door where he saw the pretty barmaid pushing her way through.

“Anna!” The Baron waved her over. “We need you behind the counter, we’re getting killed back there.”

Anna nodded profusely and offered an apology for her tardiness.

“Don’t worry about it, girl!” Radoph laughed. “Hasn’t been this busy in a decade—I’m going to check on the minstrels.”

The Baron disappeared into the crowd and Julia gladly relinquished her spot behind the bar to the older, more capable Anna.

Anna smiled at the young girl. “You did well, kiddo. Go grab a bite to eat in the kitchen.”

Julia grinned and nodded obediently, rushing out of view into the safety of the kitchen. After watching her go, Anna grabbed a few fresh pitchers of ale and hoisted them onto the counter.

“Order up!”

The Baron was still fighting his way up to the small stage where the local musicians were relentlessly striking away at their instruments, when he was approached by one Aaron Flynn.

Radoph gave the younger man a suspicious look. There wasn’t much they saw eye-to-eye on and rarely had any civil conversations.

“Aaron?” The Baron raised a curious eyebrow.

“Baron—apologies for bothering you. I know you’re strapped for time.” The young man caught his breath and shoveled a thumb over his shoulder indicating something behind him. “There are some women here looking for the warrior, Poe. I believe they want to…Thank him.”

Taken by surprise, Radoph glanced behind Aaron. Five beautiful women, exotically clothed and perfumed, waited in a huddle. Their hair was long, some hanging well below their waists, and their eyes were dark—brown and inviting. Alluring makeup covered their perfectly shaped faces and dark lipstick glistened on their lips.

The Baron nearly swooned at the sight of the gorgeous women, but quickly recovered and chuckled helplessly. “It seems there’s no end to the rewards for our noble Poe.”

Aaron grinned as well. “No, it seems there is not.”

“He’s upstairs, in the master bedroom,” Radoph explained, pointing to the stairwell near the bar. “All the way down the hall and on the left.”

The women nodded graciously and turned as one, gliding across the floor, carefully sifting through the crowd, and closing in on the stairs. Radoph laughed again and jokingly cursed Poe’s legendary heroics.

Aaron chuckled as well. Shaking his head, he, less gracefully, followed the women to the stairwell.

Anna discreetly watched the women as they disappeared up the stairs. Something wasn’t right. Their gait was too confident—even for an escort’s. They were agile and their bodies were surprisingly well toned—but, most telling of all, was how they moved around the crowd. They were like dancers. They never made a misstep, they never had to backtrack. A crowd that had taken the Baron several minutes to navigate, they had passed through in a matter of seconds…

Where Anna was from, they called that battlefield awareness…

The women moved down the dark hall like phantoms. Their steps were barely audible and were certainly drowned out by the sound of the party below. They quietly expanded their formation, spreading out into a tight moving V. Within moments they arrived at the last door at the end of the hall.

Yulsa, the woman responsible for leading this group as well as the tallest and darkest of the women, made a silent gesture with her hands. Two of the scantily dressed girls took their positions on either side of the door, just out of sight of anyone on the inside. The other two flanked Yulsa as she confidently pushed her way through the unlocked wooden door and into the dim bedroom on the other side.

Yulsa carefully hid a grin of satisfaction when she saw the infamous Reaper sitting naked and unarmed in the large bathtub. His clothes, armor and weapons were nearby laying on the bed, but not nearly close enough to aid him. She couldn’t believe her luck! They had caught the most dangerous man in Harth with his trousers down.

Yulsa smiled invitingly and greeted the assassin, “You must be the hero, Poe?”

Grim offered no response. In fact, he had barely even opened his eyes in reaction to their confident intrusion into his room.

Arrogance, Yulsa assumed. The man thought he was untouchable. Never would he have predicted that news of his survival would have been relayed to Rhoric Amir’s servants so quickly, and that five of the most dangerous women he had never heard of would have tracked him down in so little time.

That arrogance would die with him.

“The Baron sent us, as an additional…reward, for your actions.” Yulsa gestured with both her hands, motioning the other two girls forward and to either side of Grim. Her girls were professionals and knew what to do without hesitation—both seductively stripping off layers of clothing as they approached.

The assassin didn’t take his eyes off Yulsa.

Good, the woman thought. She would capitalize on his lust for her. Yulsa began to unfasten her robe and let her breasts hang out. She held eye contact with Grim throughout the entire dramatic process.

“Mind if we join you?” Yulsa indicated the bath water, and the assassin invited her in with a jerk of his chin.

The dark-haired woman smiled and removed the rest of her robe, walking to the end of the tub. Her sisters moved behind Grim and delicately began to massage his shoulders. They giggled. “So, tense!”

Still, the man held Yulsa’s eyes. She carefully stepped into the bath and lowered herself down directly in front of the assassin. She shivered. “It’s a little cold!” she noted with a brisk shake, consciously overexaggerating the motion in an attempt to draw the man’s attention to her trembling tits. He held her gaze.

She was beginning to worry he may be on to her—Yulsa made a mock sad face and leaned into the man. “Are you not impressed with me?”

Finally, Grim spoke. He leaned in close to her in turn, so close his breath disturbed her thick hair. “Lock the door…”

Yulsa grinned, biting her lower lip to hide the victorious smirk. He may be the most dangerous assassin in the kingdom, but he was still just a man—a man with balls and a cock.

“Lock it,” Yulsa commanded, looking up and making eye contact with one of the girls pining over the assassin’s shoulders. The girl obediently nodded and stood upright, bouncing across the room to drop the deadbolt.

The remaining woman behind Grim carefully began to draw a dagger cleverly concealed within her skirt. In a matter of seconds, there would be no more Reaper of Everharth, and Yulsa and her Hyena Sisters would take his place amongst legend…

Anna handed out another round of ales and turned, just in time to catch the troublemaker, Aaron step into the same stairwell the suspicious women had disappeared into. Now she knew something was up. With a sudden burst of speed and agility, she vaulted over the side of the bar and chased Aaron up the first few steps.

There was a resounding gasp from the drunken crowd. She would explain her sudden acrobatics later—for now she had to catch Aaron. And catch him she did.

Grabbing the man by the back of his collar, she pulled him back down a step and forced him against the wall. He tried to struggle and break free of her grasp, but she quickly put an end to that by thrusting a knee into his groin area and stopping just short of the mark.

Aaron froze. Unwilling to risk his manhood, he became much more cooperative. “What in Thondel’s name are you doing, woman?!”

“I was going to ask you the same question,” Anna whispered threateningly. “Who are those women, and why are you sneaking about with them?”

Aaron sighed and threw his hands up. “I already told the damn Baron—They’re prostitutes! Somebody paid good money so that Poe could have his way with them.”

“Who?” Anna lifted her knee a centimeter so that it was actually resting against Aaron’s testicles.

The man gulped, his voice cracking as he answered, “How the fuck should I know! They just asked me for directions—”

Anna pressed harder and cut the man off midsentence. “I’m a little bit sharper than Radoph, Aaron. You better start telling me the damn truth if you hope to use that little pecker of yours ever again.”

Aaron squealed pitifully and stood on his tiptoes. “All right, all right—I’ll tell you! I ran into an agent of the crown. He was just outside of Tajamhel to the west. I don’t know his name and I couldn’t see his face, but he was paying good money for any information regarding unusual warrior types, people like Poe.

“I couldn’t resist,” Aaron explained helplessly. “I told him everything and he promised to make me rich if I just brought those women to meet with, Poe. I was going upstairs to see it through. I just want my damn gold, Anna!”

Anna scoffed and shook her head, letting Aaron down. “You’re a damn fool, Aaron. Those women are going to kill you, right after they’re done butchering, Poe.”

Aaron looked taken aback and gawked at her strangely.

Tired of his incompetence she shoved him back down a few stairs. “Get out of here Aaron before I kill you myself.”

He stuttered. “But—but where should I go?”

“Dunno.” She shrugged. “But you better not be in this tavern if Poe gets out of there alive.”

Aaron gulped again. Looking away absently for a moment, he began to nod his head and slowly backed down the stairs. If what the barmaid said was true, no matter who killed the other upstairs—they were both certain to kill him immediately after.

Right. Time to disappear for a while.

Grim sat in the cold water, carefully pinning a short dagger beneath his bare thigh. His eyes never broke away from the attractive woman sitting before him, and she had yet to notice the concealed weapon. His other senses were all telling him exactly what he needed to know. The woman in the tub with him was completely naked. She carried no weapon of her own on her—at least no weapon that could kill him in a single blow—so, the attack would not come from her. The girl who had locked the door was returning, but still too far away to be a threat. That left only the woman behind him.

The assassin felt the subtle shift in her posture through her fingertips. Her other hand was reaching for something. Still, he kept his eyes on the woman before him.

A slight hesitation in the woman’s fingers—she was readying the weapon in her other hand for a strike. These women were well-trained. They wouldn’t give up their intentions easily.

But some things they could not help.

Grim felt the dark woman in the tub with him tense up ever so slightly. It wasn’t enough that the naked eye could notice, but the vibrations in the water told the true story. She was anticipating the strike. He was naked and exposed, and his attacker was behind him. She would go for the throat…

Yulsa continued to smile seductively at the assassin. Saia’s dagger was raised, ready to plunge into his throat and the stupid brute had no idea! Her body shivered with nervous energy, but she played it off as nothing more than the cold water.

Saia’s dagger struck down with blinding speed, her opposite hand shot forward and grabbed a handful of the assassin’s hair pulling his head back. He was helpless and defenseless. The Reaper was as good as dead!

But the Reaper did not die.

Grim’s left hand burst out of the water, his fingers intercepting the blade before it could slit his throat. Some strange stone coated his forearm and hand, protecting his skin from the sharp edge of the dagger.

Saia gasped in surprise but quickly recovered. Keeping her wits about her, she reached behind her back and pulled out a second, smaller knife, readying it to plunge into the assassin’s wide-open eyeball. On the opposite side of the Reaper, Yulsa, now recovered from her initial shock, reached up to her crown and pulled out two long needle-like blades threaded through her thick hair.

Unphased, Grim’s second hand exploded out of the murky water, concealed hunting dagger in hand and plunged into Saia’s unguarded face, burying itself all the way to the hilt. She died instantly, but her limbs and body continued to contort and spasm chaotically for several seconds.

Yulsa screamed in outrage and thrust both needles forward vengefully, aiming to slide the menacing blades between Grim’s ribs.

With deadly calm, the assassin wrenched the dagger, originally intended to slit his own throat, from Saia’s death grip and deftly parried both of Yulsa’s narrow blades to the left. Faster than expected, she brought them back to a ready stance and poked the steel tip into Grim’s hand, just beneath where he held the dagger.

The blade didn’t penetrate far through his unusual, gray skin, but it went deep enough to cause him to recoil in pain, dropping the weapon over the side of the tub. Seizing her chance, Yulsa crossed her arms and stabbed toward the assassin once more with both needles, one going high and the other low.

Grim’s own arms crisscrossed and lunged forward like intertwined vipers. Snaking past the blades he caught Yulsa’s wrists and twisted them, opening her torso up and forcing the needles out to the sides. Unable to endure the pain of his bone-shattering hold any longer, she dropped both weapons and flexed her hands trying to relieve some of the agony.

The third woman was almost upon them, dagger in hand, but several urgent thuds from the door caused her to hesitate before reaching the tub. She glanced between Yulsa and the locked door.

Losing the contest of strength with the assassin, Yulsa tried to call out an order to her third sister—the Reaper would kill them both, dagger or not, if they didn’t open the door for their remaining two Hyenas to flood in. The words never made it out of her mouth, as Grim suddenly sat up and forced himself over the smaller woman, pushing her under the water, submerging her head entirely.

Yulsa struggled mightily. The assassin slipped in the smooth basin of the tub and the woman managed to force a kick through his knees. She felt her shin connect with his groin and his attack faltered long enough for her to burst forth from the freezing water and scream a frantic order.

“Unlock the door! Let our sisters in!”

Swallowing the pain, and a little bit of puke, Grim recovered from the powerful blow to his genitals and forced Yulsa back under the water, even more violently this time. Her head thudded painfully off the bottom of the tub and a trickle of blood began to dilute the water.

The third woman pivoted and ran for the door, hand outstretched to pry the deadbolt free. She was stopped a few feet short as a massive black hound exploded from a shadowy corner of the room and bowled her over. She tried to bury her dagger in its side, but its huge paw pinned her arm down and prevented her from landing anything but a glancing blow. Then the beast’s maw clamped down on her throat and she felt her windpipe crumple under the pressure.

In the tub, Yulsa continued to struggle, but her squirms were becoming weaker and weaker. She couldn’t tell if it was the lack of oxygen or the blood spilling forth from her scalp, but her vision was clouding quick. The last thing she saw was the Reaper’s stone-cold face staring down at her, a mirthless smirk curling the edge of his mouth. She had mistakenly underestimated him—this was her reward.

The woman finally stopped fighting, but Grim knew better than to let her float to the surface immediately. Instead, he held her under a while longer. On the ground before him, Revenant was making quick work of the third attacker. The girl had dropped her dagger, and her arms were twitching pitifully at her sides.

Suddenly, the door burst open. Wood splintered as the deadbolt holding the barrier secure, broke free. Two more women rushed forward, these ones fully clothed, daggers in hand and ready for a fight. Revenant snarled menacingly and quickly cornered one of the girls before she could make it deep into the bedroom.

The other woman leapt over the body of her fallen companion and charged the tub. Her eyes glistened angrily, promising death.

Grim welcomed her with a splash of murky water. His palm scooped a handful out and blasted it into the woman’s surprised face. She stumbled and he leapt out behind the wave, leading with a knee that smashed into the girl’s sternum and knocked her to the ground. She tried to guard her vulnerable face with the two daggers, but the Reaper wasn’t going for her face.

The assassin’s barefoot smashed down on her chest, crushing her ribcage and cracking her spine. The girl tried to scream out in pain, but no sooner had she dropped her guard than his stone coated fist smashed down on her mouth. She felt several of her teeth slide into her throat and chunks of gum fall back against her tongue. Mercifully, she died soon after when Grim disarmed her and slit the woman’s throat with her own dagger.

In the corner, the last surviving Hyena sister tried to lunge at Revenant’s neck, deadly knife blade leading the way. The hound was too quick. He lunged forward as well, belly brushing the ground as the beast dipped low and his teeth bit down into the woman’s ankle, twisting and throwing his weight the other way. The woman was ripped out of her stance, and she fell to the ground.

She screamed and kicked Revenant’s head with her free leg. Stunned, the hound released his grip and she leapt to her feet darting for the door. Grim stomped on the hilt of one of his victim’s daggers and the weapon ricocheted into the air where he deftly caught it and readied his arm to hurl the blade into the girl’s retreating back.

She had just reached the door when she suddenly stopped dead. Her body contorted strangely and seemed to go limp. Grim held his throw, watching the scene unfold cautiously.

The Hyena Sister’s body fell back, sliding off the end of a short sword and thudded to the ground with a sickening smack. In her place stood a very calm looking, Anna. The Wolf officer-turned-barmaid blew a stray hair out of her face and lowered her blade, offering a ridiculous smile to the assassin and waving awkwardly.

Revenant’s menacing growl dissipated to a curious whine, and he slowly sat back on his haunches, tilting his head at the petite woman. Grim—looking equally concerned—slowly lowered the arm he had cocked for a throw.

Anna, realizing she was staring rather openly at the assassin’s naked body, quickly looked away and chuckled with embarrassment. Her eyes scanned the absolute carnage around the bedroom, specifically the naked, butchered bodies in and around the bathtub, and decided it was actually much easier just to look at Grim.

“You uh, you cut your hair…” she stammered clumsily.

Grim remained silent. His eyes narrowed incredulously.

“And…you shaved,” the barmaid finished, nodding hopelessly. “I’m going to be honest—I have no idea what I’m doing. I’ve never been in a situation like this, and the academy definitely did not cover it. Did you kill all these women with your bare hands?”

After several more seconds of silence, Grim at last chuckled and shook his head. “And I thought I had issues…”

Anna quickly shook her head and took a step into the room glancing back down the hallway and quietly shutting the door. “No, no. That’s really not up for debate. You definitely have issues—can you please put some clothes on?”

Grim felt like he had whiplash from Anna’s rapid-fire words and ever shifting focus. Shaking his head, he moved to the bed and began pulling his clothes on, as well as pieces of his newly acquired armor. “Did you sell me out?”

Anna lurched in surprise and screwed up her face as she stared at the back of the assassin’s stupid head. “Why would I sell you out and then kill one of my own assassins?”

“It’s happened before,” Grim reasoned, tying on one of his vambraces. “You hired the hit and saw it was going badly, so you stepped into direct blame away from yourself—also to tie up any loose ends. Dead assassins don’t give up the names of their employers.”

Anna rolled her eyes. “Do you really believe it was me?”

Grim paused and looked her up and down. Finally, he answered, “No.”

Anna nodded appreciatively. Then stooped down to inspect the pretty face of the girl she had impaled. “Who were they?”

“Assassins,” Grim answered, finishing with his armor, and throwing the cloak over his shoulders. “They call themselves the Hyena Sisters. Popular hitwomen in the southern parts of the kingdom. I suppose they thought I was too pompous to have heard of them. Their mistake.”

Anna was nodding her understanding. “One of the locals mentioned who hired them—said he was an agent of the crown…?”

“Rhoric Amir,” Grim said with a snarl. He finished fastening his cloak and began to pull on the special gauntlet.

“I doubt the Steward came all the way out here for you,” Anna countered. Then the woman pointed out his arm. “Wanna tell me what in the Underheim is wrong with your forearm?”

“Nope,” Grim answered casually, tightening the gauntlet, and hiding his tainted flesh.

“It doesn’t matter who hired these women,” the assassin continued. “Rhoric Amir is the one paying them—he’s the one who gave the order. It seems I’ve lost my element of surprise. I’ll have to thank Baron Radoph for that.”

Anna chuckled. “That man sure knows how to throw a party,” she paused. “So, that was your plan? Sneak into Everharth and assassinate the Steward?”

Grim scoffed and picked up his longsword, inspecting it thoughtfully. “You say that like it would be a bad thing?”

“I just don’t know if killing another monarch and throwing the kingdom back into turmoil is the best move right now…”

“Fuck the kingdom.”

Anna sighed. “Are you always such a ray of sunshine?”

“No—usually I’m a lot less friendly. Almost getting killed in the bathtub just puts me in a really good mood.” The man began to make his way across the room, stroking Revenant’s head as he passed the warhound.

“Right,” Anna remarked sarcastically. “So, what’s next…”

The Wolf stopped mid-sentence and stared in horror as Grim began to methodically chop the heads off each woman’s corpse and loot their bodies, rifling through silky pockets.

“What are you doing?!”

“I need to send a message.”

“With heads?!”

Grim said nothing, instead pulling Yulsa’s cold body out of the tub and hacking her head free in one swift strike.

Anna blanched. “Well, I don’t think a raven is going to be able to deliver that.”

“No,” the assassin agreed. “I’ll need a horse—luckily, I have one in mind.”

The barmaid continued to stare in horror as Grim gathered all five heads up and wrapped them in the bedsheet, before tying it off with one of the women’s belts. Then, he made his way over to the lone window in the bedroom and smashed the glass out, using his gauntlet to swipe away all the remaining fragments around the frame.

Whistling, he called the hound over and helped the beast through the window and out onto the roof. Then, slinging the sack of heads over his back the assassin stepped out onto the roof after the dog and into the starry night. He turned back and looked expectantly at the woman.

“Coming?”

Anna’s mouth hung open. “Why the sudden change of heart…?”

Grim shrugged. “You’re the only witness, so, it’s that or I kill you. Besides—you said it yourself; you’ll just follow me. I’d rather keep you where I can see you.”

Anna shook her head, almost at a loss for words. “You sure know how to inspire confidence in your fellow companions.”

Grim closed his eyes and shook his head, issuing a long sigh. “You have no idea…”

She stepped forward and he offered her a hand, but she waved it away, gracefully jumping up and onto the roof herself. Nodding Grim turned and moved away toward the shortest part of the Moss-Hall. Anna lingered and glanced back at the carnage in the tavern’s master bedroom. “Shouldn’t we leave Radoph some coin for this?”

She heard the assassin’s chuckle quietly echo out of the dark and across the lonely roof. “He can put it on my Hero tab…”

13

MY KINGDOM FROM AFAR—SMOKE, MIRRORS, AND PRISON BARS

The Shroud skipped along the waves like a yearling. If she didn’t know better, Octavia would never have guessed this magnificent galleon had nearly been split in two by a fairytale monster. Captain McCrank, ever at the helm of the speedy vessel, was calling orders to his crew. The man led with confidence and a fair amount of charisma—Octavia reckoned she could learn a thing or two from the mysterious pirate captain.

Still, more important to the young woman at that moment was learning what the beautiful and dangerous Yolanda could teach her. The dark haired and dark-skinned woman was a master marksman—her archery skills were unmatched by anything Octavia had witnessed in the Kingdom of Harth. The princess watched closely as Yolanda covered the basics with Olaf, who seemed equally interested in the pirate woman—if not for perhaps the same reasons.

“I don’t get it,” Olaf groaned, gingerly rubbing his forearm. “Why does the damned string keep snapping my wrist? I’ll flay my whole arm at this rate…”

“I already told you, ye lily-livered noble.” Yolanda shook her head impatiently, her short, stiff hair not so much as budging with the motion. “You’re gripping the bow too tightly.”

The pirate woman sauntered up to the young noble and leaned into him, nearly knocking the unsuspecting boy off his feet. She then rested her head on his shoulder flirtatiously. “Loosen up, M’lord. You’re awfully stiff…”

Olaf gulped. Then he carefully stepped away from the woman and knocked another arrow, taking aim at the empty barrel they’d been using as target practice. He released the shot, and the shaft flew true, smacking the wooden barrel and quivering on the mark. Still, the bowstring thwacked his forearm and he yelped pitifully.

Yolanda sighed hopelessly and rolled her eyes. “You’re a lost cause, boy.”

“I’d like to try.” Octavia stepped forward and gestured for Olaf to hand her the bow.

Olaf balked for a moment, eyeing the princess uncertainly. “Bow’s a little big for you, isn’t it?”

Octavia’s eyes flashed dangerously at the obnoxious young man. “It is not. Yolanda is hardly any taller than I am, and she has no problem wielding it!”

This was true. Octavia was nearly as tall as Yolanda—though, that was hardly an impressive feat. The pirate wasn’t a tall woman by any means. Still, Octavia seemed to be going through some sort of growth spurt. She had matured just since Olaf had first met her in that dusty vault all those months ago. It was hard not to notice her figure becoming more ladylike.

The young noble shrugged and handed her the bow. “Have a go at it then.”

Octavia nodded her satisfaction and took the bow. Immediately she realized she may be in trouble. The elegant looking weapon was much heavier than she expected and when she went to knock an arrow, she couldn’t even get the string pulled back all the way. The girl looked to Yolanda for help.

The pirate laughed and shook her head. “Not as easy as it looks, is it?”

Octavia shook her head as well. “How can you possibly fire this thing so quickly?”

Yolanda shrugged. “Lotta, practice I suppose.” She went to take the bow back from the girl, but Octavia quickly pulled it out of reach and then turned back to the barrel.

Grunting and pulling with all her might, Octavia managed to get the string fully back. She realized it became easier to hold once it made it to that point. Focusing, she took aim and released the arrow.

A hit!

Not as close to the center of the target as Olaf’s shot, but she hadn’t snapped her arm like he did. Yolanda began to clap a wide grin covering her face. Olaf scowled nearby.

“Well done, Princess! We’ll make an archer of you yet.”

Octavia blushed and curtsied, handing the bow back off to Yolanda. “Thank you, Yolanda. That means a lot coming from you.”

“Beginner’s luck.” Olaf waved her success away and took the bow off the pirate woman. He quickly returned to target practice.

Octavia fumed, but she held her tongue. Why did he have to be such an infuriating prick all the time?

Noticing the girl’s irritated and crestfallen green eyes, Yolanda winked at her and delicately prodded the end of the recurve bow just as Olaf released his shot. The arrow flew wide and skipped off The Shroud’s planks and into the gunwale.

“Maybe leave the archery to us ladies, eh M’lord?”

Olaf scowled at the woman and rubbed his forearm simultaneously. He opened his mouth to speak, but another’s voice cut him off.

“Three gold coins, says I could shoot circles around you, pirate!” The mad mercenary himself strutted onto the deck and leaned against the ship’s mast, staring down his nose in his typically superior fashion.

“Who let you out of your cage, Suil?” Olaf teased with a grin.

“Been out for three days,” Suileabhain snapped. “Just didn’t see any point in making my presence known to you people—not because you’re beneath me or anything. I just find you all to be incredibly…dull.”

“Three days?” Olaf’s eyes widened with mock surprise. “Now that you mention it, I think I did see you early! No—my mistake, that was just a bilge rat.”

Octavia rolled her eyes at their endless bickering and moved away, seeking to rejoin Cometessa and Ansel who lounged under the stairs to the stern deck. As she came near, she realized Ansel was completely unconscious, snoring in the Oracle’s lap. She was singing him a quiet melody. Cometessa fell silent upon Octavia’s arrival.

“He really likes you,” Octavia whispered, taking a seat on the pile of ropes beside the Oracle.

Cometessa smiled warmly. “Not as much as he likes you.”

Octavia smiled but did not otherwise reply, instead turning her head to watch Yolanda, Olaf and Suileabhain squabble over who gets the next shot.

“I’m not sure why you bother,” Cometessa continued, motioning to the trio fighting over the bow.

Octavia turned and regarded the Oracle strangely. “Because I want to learn how to protect myself?”

Cometessa almost burst into laughter, but quickly contained herself. Octavia gave her a look bordering on hostile.

“I’m sorry,” the older woman began. “It’s just, with your gift a primitive weapon like a bow seems rather silly. You could level an entire army of archers before they could nock a single arrow against you.”

“My gift gets people killed. People I care about. I don’t know how to control it because you haven’t shown me anything yet…” Octavia whirled away from Cometessa and crossed her arms furiously.

“Patience, Princess,” the Oracle cooed. “Your abilities are dangerous as it stands, this is true. But only because you haven’t mastered your own demons yet. Forgive yourself and let go of the past.”

“I don’t even know what I’m forgiving myself for!” Octavia huffed.

Cometessa chuckled and reiterated herself, “Patience. Soon everything will become crystal clear. Then we will continue south to the city of Brumex.”

Octavia mulled that over for a moment. After fishing the drifting Oracle out of the Ein, she had implored them to take The Shroud west into the Sunset Sea, past the edge of the kingdom and to the Sunken Island of the First Harth. Eathah.

Cometessa believed there was something there that would clear Octavia’s clouded memories and allow her to truly look into her past for the first time in years. Only then could the young woman begin to hone her gift, the powerful art of Curses.

Afterwards, and with any luck, Captain McCrank would sail The Shroud south and through the narrow Suthian Gap. If they made it that far, the path east to Brumex would be clear and they could reunite with Eriana and her Wolves—who will hopefully have the breathtaking, gladiator capital of the kingdom, primed for a rebellion.

The plan was risky and jeopardized them being caught prematurely of hatching Octavia’s coup but traveling over land would simply take too long. Besides, after the massacre of Sawn, the roads would be crawling with Rhoric Amir’s legions. The Suthian Gap was their only chance now.

Still, Octavia wasn’t comfortable with this detour west to Eathah. There were many legends surrounding the mysterious first home of the Harths. Ships that drifted too near the Sunken Island often went missing, never to return again. There was a reason fishermen and the Harthian fleet gave the island a wide birth—it was cursed. Or haunted. Or both. A journey there seemed foolhardy at best. What could she possibly gain from walking amongst the ghosts that dwell there?

Octavia had already expressed her reservations about the island to the Oracle. As always, Cometessa had laughed her concerns away. She had to constantly remind herself that the Oracle wasn’t cocky or overconfident. Instead, she merely operated based on some kind of divine perspective.

The princess couldn’t help but chuckle inwardly at this line of thought. She imagined Grim would have something rather dry to say about divine perspective…But alas, the assassin was gone. She would have to rely on the people she had left.

“And you’re sure this Sunken Island is safe to venture to?”

“No,” Cometessa admitted. “It is not safe. But not many places are these days. The reward will be worth the risk.”

“That’s encouraging,” Octavia grumbled. “I wish Grim were still here…It was easier to sleep knowing he was nearby.”

Cometessa gently nodded. “I know princess…Believe me, for your coup to succeed, this was the only way. It had to happen this way.”

Octavia’s eyes flashed with annoyance. “I wish I knew what that meant. You keep preaching these things but offering little to no explanation. Are you sure there’s any truth to your visions?”

Cometessa’s eyes narrowed, but she remained calm, unprovoked by Octavia’s harsh words. “In truth, my visions have become muddled—difficult to read, since being separated from Gysella. Our powers of divination are more potent together…I think it’s only a temporary weakness. We were dealt the same blow when Amalia left us…”

“Rhoric Amir’s sister…Unbelievable.” Octavia shook her head in disgust.

Cometessa watched her with a fair amount of pity. “I know you hate her. I know what she did to you—you blame her for the people you killed in Chala…”

“She is to blame. They died because of her!”

“They died because you weren’t ready…” Cometessa softly corrected.

Octavia turned her searing glare on the Oracle, but those intense green eyes quickly tempered, and she cast her gaze down defeatedly.

“That’s why we must go to Eathah,” Cometessa insisted. “That’s what makes this voyage worth the risk. Do you understand, Princess?”

Octavia continued to nod and even opened her mouth as though she may respond, but the words never made it out. Captain McCrank’s booming voice called out, thundering over the sound of the wind and the waves. Ansel shot up off the Oracle’s lap and nearly smacked his head on the bottom of the stairs. The boy groaned in protest.

“Eyes up!” McCrank began. “Look there, Princess—to the southeast! The fog has finally lifted enough. Can you see the crags?”

Octavia slowly rose to her feet and moved to the portside of the ship, staring into the distance. As her eyes adjusted, she realized she could indeed see the crags! Huge, jagged, soaring cliffs that rose out of the Sunset Sea and reached toward the heavens.

“I see them!” she cried happily.

“Good!” McCrank replied with a grin. “Now block the setting sun from your right eye and follow the crags to their northernmost point!”

Octavia obediently raised her hand, blocking the glaring sun in her peripheral and tracing the cliffs to the north. Suddenly, she saw what Gregory McCrank was leading her gaze toward. The natural peaks of the crags slowly transformed into thick stone bricks, and those bricks rose out of the cliff face as if they had grown there organically. The bricks quickly became elaborate in their design.

The longer she stared, the more she saw. Within moments Octavia realized she was looking at the western side of Everharth’s Royal Palace! She could hardly believe it! Turrets and spiraling peaks jutted out of the impressive structure and shot into the clouds. Fog hiding the base of the cliffs made it look like the whole Palace District was simply floating in the sky.

Birds fluttered around the fortified palace’s arched roofs. From this distance they looked like a swarm of insects! She knew they would be making all kinds of racket, but miles away, upon the waves, Octavia could hear none of it. How could she be so close yet so far away all at once?

The distant structure slowly grew smaller as The Shroud continued its speedy voyage west. Octavia couldn’t help but feel like they were going the wrong way…

“How long’s it been?”

Olaf’s voice startled Octavia out of her thoughts. She hadn’t heard him approach! He leaned against the rail beside her. “Two years…” she sighed, restraining her hair as the wind whipped it across her face. “It feels like a lot longer.”

Olaf nodded. “It’s been less than half that for me…I can’t say I miss it yet.”

Ansel wandered up behind the pair and groaned quietly. Olaf glanced over his shoulder at the tall boy. “Does Ansel remember the capital?”

Octavia glanced back at her oldest friend and smiled. “Of course, he does. Like the back of your hand, right buddy?”

Ansel cooed happily and smacked his palms together. Olaf and Octavia both laughed.

“Perhaps, when Queen Octavia takes the city back, you can show me some good spots, eh Ansel?” Olaf clapped the gangly boy on the back and then pulled Octavia in as well. “And I can take you both to Grim’s favorite tavern!”

McCrank’s distraction worked perfectly. Even Suileabhain, who was admittedly rather sharp, was staring into the clouds. Yolanda used the opportunity to bound up the stairs to the helm and present the captain with the parchment containing the message he had asked her to write up.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” she asked the question quietly, even as she attached the tiny message to the leg of a pigeon Captain McCrank had plucked from a cage in his cabin.

“I think it prudent to cover all of our bases, don’t you?” Gregory reasoned slyly.

“Indeed,” Yolanda replied with her own wolfish grin. “In case Eathah is a bust.”

“In case of that,” McCrank confirmed with a nod. “And in case of anything else as well.”

“Aye.” The woman chuckled. Quickly, peeking down at the deck to assure the nobles were still occupied, Yolanda launched the pigeon into the air and watched as it flew east. “You sure she knows where to go?”

“Only one place to go,” Gregory McCrank reasoned confidently. “Oh, he’ll get our message. And then…then the fun begins.”

Joanne sat in silence. The dimly lit cell was quiet—it was always quiet. There were no windows, only a small crack in the stone that made up the prison’s outside wall. If she dragged herself across the tiny cell and peered through that crack, she would see nothing but clouds and occasionally a shred of the Sunset Sea far below. That alone had confirmed where she was being held—the Viscount’s Fortress.

There were other cells on either side of hers, but she couldn’t see who was in them—if anyone at all. Her neighbors kept so quiet that sometimes she wondered if the fortress guards were simply feeding the rats when they slid bowls of food under the thick iron bars. No matter. As long as they kept bringing her, her daily meal.

The former assassin, or contract killer as she had once preferred, had felt ridiculously weak when she had first come out of her Curse induced coma. For days she had feared her legs had stopped working all together. Even her arms and core had wasted away sitting in that wheelchair. She was a ghost of her former self—at least physically. Her mind felt sharp, and she was determined. Her cunning had never been so important.

Unsure of Lord Andreas’ true intentions and never being one to wait for another to rescue her, Joanne had quickly—and quietly—begun training her body once more. The cell was small and simple, but it was enough for her to slowly begin amassing muscle again. Finger holds in the stone wall allowed her to train her arms and core and much simpler techniques had proven effective in strengthening her legs. In only a couple short weeks, she could stand on her own two feet once more, albeit shakily.

Still, Joanne felt it was taking too long. At this rate, she wouldn’t be capable of fighting for another several months…She had no intention of lingering here, in her own waste, until Rhoric Amir saw fit to dispose of her. She would find a way to escape on her own, or she would die fighting.

Joanne knew why it was taking so long for her body to catch up with her mind—they were only feeding her a single meal a day! She was malnourished. She would never fully recover if she couldn’t find something else to eat. It was a shame. If they were feeding rats in the adjacent cells, none of the fat critters had deigned to pay her a visit yet. If they did, she was liable to catch one for dinner…

A subtle noise caught her attention. Joanne perked up as she quietly listened…Whatever it was, the sound had quickly faded—or she had hallucinated it in her exhausted state. Still, it was worth investigating. The skinny brunette crawled across the floor and placed her hands on the iron bars, carefully staring out into the rest of the prison.

She could see almost nothing from where she was. Her cell was in a narrow hallway and the guards kept the lanterns so dim that she could barely see the plain bricks that made up the opposite wall. A single wooden chair lay on its side just in front of her cage. It was too far for her fragile arms to reach.

On either side of her was a stone wall dividing her cell from the cells to the right and left. She wasn’t positive, but she thought the sound had come from the cell to her right. Joanne sat quietly and listened.

There it was again!

After several minutes, she heard the same noise as before. A very muffled cough. It was hard to tell for certain, but it sounded feminine. Joanne listened for several more minutes and heard nothing. At last, she called out, her voice little more than a whispering rasp—still, it sounded like a shout in the overwhelming quiet of the Viscount’s dungeon. “Hello? Is someone else over there?”

No response.

“My name’s Joanne…I’m here because I guess I’m important to the Steward or something. That or public executions are booked for the foreseeable future.”

A quiet chuckle echoed off the thick stone walls—Joanne’s neighbor was definitely a woman, and moreover, she seemed to enjoy her joke.

Joanne smiled. “Yeah funny, isn’t it? Because the Steward probably has a lot of people he wants to kill, right? Evil cunt.”

Silence followed, and Joanne feared she may have scared the woman off. But alas, she finally spoke, “I’m sorry Joanne…I’m sorry for everything.”

Joanne pinched her chin, puzzled by the woman’s mysterious words. “What’cha mean? Do I know you?”

“My name is Selene Amir. You know me as Rhoric Amir’s wife…”

Joanne blew a long, low whistle out. After many uncomfortable seconds she picked a tiny pebble up and began tossing it around playfully. “Well, I suppose a divorce is in order?”

Selene chuckled once more from her cell. It was a sad laugh, but also genuine. “I suppose so. Such things have probably already been finalized…I’ve been here for well over a month. At least, I think…It’s difficult to tell time in here…”

Joanne knew Selene couldn’t see her, but still, she nodded. “Care if I ask what exactly you did to earn the privilege of being my neighbor?”

“Opened my eyes I suppose…Spoke my mind one too many times.”

Now the ex-assassin chuckled. “Well, I can imagine the Lord Steward isn’t too fond of women speaking their minds around him…”

More silence.

Selene eventually cleared her throat. “I guess it worked then?”

“What worked?”

“The Oracles’ ritual. You’re whole again.”

“Ah, that.” Joanne flicked her pebble away. “Yes. It worked. I’m as good as new.” She slapped one of her scrawny legs to emphasize her point.

“Then Rhoric has everything he needs for his endgame…the last Harth.”

Joanne scrunched up her face and made a doubtful, “Mmmm,” sound.

“What does that mean?” Selene asked, her tone full of surprise.

“I mean, he may have it, he may not. It’s complicated.”

“Tell me,” Selene demanded frantically.

“How do I know I can trust you, lady?”

At first, there was no response, but then the sound of metal grating on stone echoed through the narrow hall and a bowl of food appeared from Selene’s cell. The noble woman pushed it around the stone divider and close enough that Joanne could grab it and haul it into her cell.

“What’s this?” Joanne asked curiously.

“My dinner,” Selene answered plainly. “I’ve heard you over there—late at night. Working your body, growing strong again. You’re planning on breaking out of here.”

Joanne shrugged. “Well, can you blame me? Present company aside, it’s not exactly the De’Lock Dow, is it?”

“I want in,” Selene stated. “If you’re going to escape then I want to escape with you.”

Joanne tilted her head with amusement. “You done much fighting, Lady Selene?”

“No…” the woman admitted.

“I didn’t think so.” The ex-assassin sighed. “With all due respect, Selene—you’ll only slow me down.”

“You won’t be able to escape this place either without my dinner portions to strengthen you…” Selene’s words certainly rang true. “I can spare my meal every other day. I don’t need the nutrition as much as you do. Then we can escape together!”

Joanne seriously contemplated her offer for many moments, but eventually shook her head. It was going to be hard enough for her to escape this place with her life. There was no way she could bring a warm body like Selene along as well. “Sorry, my lady. No deal.”

“Then we’re both trapped.”

“Maybe not,” Joanne reasoned. “Even as we speak, Lord Andreas Buth moves against your husband.”

“Andreas has declared war with Rhoric?” Selene’s voice was shaky, bordering on fearful.

“Not exactly,” Joanne reassured. “He moves in the shadows against him. Andreas is biding his time for the right opportunity to strike the Steward. When he does…Rhoric Amir will fall.”

Unbeknownst to Joanne, Selene was shaking her head the entire time. “That Titan is a fool!”

“Lord Andreas is not a fool! He’s clever and well respected…”

“He’s not clever enough!” Selene hissed. “Rhoric will destroy him!”

“Andreas has the upper hand,” Joanne reasoned.

“That’s not possible—This isn’t a battlefield. This is Rhoric Amir’s world. Andreas is in over his head here…”

Joanne had no response.

They sat in silence for many minutes. Selene was the first to speak back up, “What even is Lord Andreas’ plan?”

Joanne placed her palm on her forehead pensively. “Honestly? I have no idea…”

“Wonderful…” Selene rocked forward, nodding helplessly.

“Yeah…” Joanne leaned back against the cold stone wall.

The women sat once more in silence.

Joanne eventually sighed and pulled Selene’s plate into her cell resolutely. “All right, Lady Selene. You got yourself a deal—but don’t expect this to be easy.”

Selene smiled with satisfaction from the darkness of her cell. “Happy to hear it.”

With that she reached between the iron bars of her cage and extended her hand toward Joanne’s. The former assassin took it, and the women shook firmly.

14

REAPER WEST

Tiny snowflakes drifted down lazily, from the bleak gray sky. Small patches of pine trees broke up the sprawling plains before them, but the more distance they put between them and the slopes of The Sunny Tips, the sparser those became. Until eventually even the evergreens disappeared entirely. Grim knew the only thing they would find breaking up the intoxicating monotony of the Plains of the First Harth, from here to the towering walls of Everharth, would be ancient Halladellian ruins protruding from the tall, dry grass, like pieces of giant discarded armor.

“It’s rather dull, isn’t it?”

Grim sighed in response to Anna’s question. Over a hundred miles they had covered, down and out of the Sunny Tips—A full three days’ worth of traveling and the incessant Wolf legionnaire hadn’t shut up once. She was really beginning to remind him of someone else he knew…

“Yes,” Grim replied absently, scanning the seeable region ahead of them. “So, you mentioned…at least a dozen times.”

“Hmmm.” Anna’s gaze followed his own. “Yes, but it just seems to keep getting duller…”

“Dear Thondel,” Grim whispered hopelessly to Revenant who padded along by his side. “Save me from this woman.”

Revenant, of course, had no response. One of the many reasons the assassin preferred the dog as a traveling companion.

“You know…we could just ride the horse. I reckon that would save some time.”

Grim glanced back at the horse he had carefully led behind him, all the way down out of the mountains. He patted the beast’s neck. “And tire poor, Winnifred out before his maiden voyage to the capital? I think not.”

“Yes, that’s right,” Anna replied with a groan. “I forgot he has the very important task of transporting heads for you, so that you can, what exactly…blow your cover?”

Grim rolled his eyes and continued walking, Anna plodding along behind him.

“You know, I’m starting to think all of those stories about the infamous Reaper are embellished.”

The assassin stopped for a moment and glanced back at the woman, an unamused look in his eyes. She offered him a dirty look of her own and kept walking past until she took the lead, and he was keeping pace behind her. “Sorry my tales disappoint you.”

“It’s not the stories,” Anna said with a shrug. “It’s merely the reality.”

“Ouch,” Grim wheezed mockingly. “I didn’t know how bad words could hurt.”

“No? I suppose you’re used to hurting people with that.” She indicated the longsword at his hip.

Grim’s smile was confirmation enough.

Her accusatory posture soon relaxed. “Maybe you’re right. I guess, I’m more familiar with dealing out pain in the form of a sword as well…”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Grim countered with feigned thoughtfulness. “You’re doing pretty good without it at the moment.”

Anna snickered and they fell silent for a time. The foursome, two warriors, a horse, and a dog, plodded along in single file order, carefully avoiding main roads, but still staying near enough to easily traversable terrain. The snow wasn’t quite sticking to the ground as of yet, but it was enough to make the soil under their feet damp.

“So,” Anna began again, rather suddenly, Winnifred spooking at her exclamation. “Why an assassin?”

Grim cursed under his breath and quietly regretted not just offing the girl back in Desola, as he calmed the gelding back down. “Didn’t really have a choice. You know, you ask a lot of questions…”

Anna shrugged. “No one’s really ever told me that. But what does that mean—you didn’t have a choice…?”

Grim sighed and swatted some passing blades of grass. “I have an idea. Whenever you ask a question, I get to ask you one in return. If I answer honestly on my question, then you have to answer honestly on yours…Deal?”

Anna considered that for a moment. “Okay, but can I choose to pass if I don’t want to answer?”

Grim nodded. “Of course. But then I get the opportunity to pass as well…”

The woman was slowly nodding and then looked up with excitement. “All right, deal. Me first!”

“I expected nothing less…” the assassin grumbled.

“So—why did you really become an assassin?”

Grim glanced up at her with annoyance, but the woman didn’t turn her head back to meet his gaze. After a few moments of consideration he shrugged, there really was no point in lying to her. “I was born into it. I never knew my parents. They abandoned me on the steps of the Venatian Monastery and the monks took me in. They made of me a killer before the age of nine…”

Anna was taken aback by the assassin’s surprising answer. She never suspected the decision to be truly not his own. Or was this just a lie? After all, the Venatian Monastery was shrouded in legend, no one even knew where to find it.

“You’re a Venatian Monk?” the girl asked with a certain amount of unveiled awe. “I didn’t even know they were real…Why would you leave that life behind?”

“I don’t think you understand this game,” Grim said dryly.

“Sorry,” Anna replied with an embarrassed laugh. “Okay—you ask your question.”

“What’s your real name?”

Anna was caught off guard, but her expression quickly soured. “Pass.”

“Fine.”

“What’s your real name?”

“Pass,” the assassin responded cheekily.

“Oooh, I get it,” Anna sneered. “That’s how we’re going to play, is it?”

“You agreed to the rules,” the assassin stated plainly.

“Fine,” the woman commented at length, watching a distant wagon as it traveled the main road southeast. “Ask your question.”

Grim hesitated for a moment, watching the same wagon as Anna. At last, he must have determined it wasn’t a threat because his eyes shifted forward once more, and he began to speak. “Eriana—your commander—where did she get her weapon?”

Once again, Grim’s question startled the woman. She stroked her chin thoughtfully. “Not sure to be truthful. She’s had it as long as I can remember—before I ever joined up certainly. Some reckon it was a gift from her father. He was a mysterious man. Used to visit her every now and then, but just stopped showing up one day…”

“Hmm.” Grim arched a curious eyebrow. “And did you ever meet him?”

Anna made a tssk, tssk noise, waggling her finger. “Not your question, assassin.”

Grim blew a short breath out his nostrils. “Right—your turn.”

“Where did you get, Revenant?”

The dog perked up at the sound of his name and looked Anna’s way, tongue lolling out his mouth. The girl patted his broad head.

“On the Oval Island of Sawn,” Grim admitted. “I saved him from the natives. They were going to kill him.”

“Why?” Anna asked reflexively.

Still, Grim humored her by answering the bonus question, “His previous owner died in battle; I believe. Apparently, it’s local custom to slay the warhound if it returns from battle without its master.”

“That’s barbaric…” Anna murmured. “You were noble to rescue him.”

Grim shrugged the compliment off. “I’ve benefited from the hound’s company.”

“My question,” the assassin continued. “Why did the Wolves come to the capital ready for a siege on the night of Ovidius’ coronation?”

Anna blanched. “In what way?”

“Trebuchets,” Grim reasoned. “Eriana’s sappers were amongst the men and women she chose to return to Westharth with her rather than leaving them behind to defend the Akinmere coast…”

The woman didn’t respond for several seconds, but at last relaxed and blew out a hesitant breath. “Because the news we brought to the capital was…preposterous. She didn’t expect a bunch of nobles to believe her…and she had to succeed at all costs. Long has Eriana suspected corruption in the heart of Harth.”

“You don’t believe that” Grim was quick to rebuttal. “I can tell from your voice. Eriana never told many of her Wolves what her reasoning was. You all wondered the same…”

Anna sighed with exasperation at the assassin’s perceptiveness. “I admit, we questioned the commander’s motives, but her gut proved to be right in the end, didn’t it? That’s what makes her such an exceptional leader!”

“Curious,” was all Grim said regarding the matter.

“My turn,” Anna stated deliberately. “Where did you go after the night of the coronation? How did you end up as far east as the Sunny Tips and when and where did you come across Commander Eriana?”

“That was three—no, four?!” Grim complained loudly.

Anna stopped and pivoted, planting her feet in the cold dirt, and crossing her arms over her petite chest. The assassin was forced to stop as well, staring down at the lithe woman. “Answer the questions…Please.”

“Fine.” Grim shrugged and forced his way around the girl, pulling Winnifred behind him. “The newly appointed Lord Steward sent me on a very secretive mission to a small fishing village not far north of here…I was to take out a target there.”

“Who?” The woman asked curiously.

Grim chuckled.

Anna, not amused, arched a brow. “What?” the woman asked.

“The target was Octavia Benidary—Osiris’ only living child.” Grim savored the look of complete shock that turned Anna’s whole-body rigid. He figured there was no harm in telling her this. Octavia was likely gone—and if she wasn’t, the assassin would kill the legionnaire for trying to squeal.

After several seconds recovering and composing herself, Anna spoke up, “And did you kill her?”

“No,” Grim admitted, his tone surprisingly gentle as he thought of Octavia. “No, I saved her…We escaped into the wilderness, along with Olaf Amir—Rhoric’s son in case you couldn’t figure that one out—and we laid low for weeks.”

The assassin’s words continued to boggle Anna’s mind and she had to physically remind herself to close her mouth as the cold air dried it out. “You’re serious?”

“Wait until you hear the rest,” Grim joked, his eyes continuing to scan the surrounding region. He had to admit, it was nice to finally get some of this off his chest and talk about it out loud.

“Tell me everything!” Anna begged, practically dropping to the ground and prostrating before the man.

Grim laughed. “I will—soon. First, you answer some of my questions.”

“Fine,” Anna agreed, waving him on. “Ask them already!”

“Are the Drul real?”

Anna’s face screwed up in disbelief. “Are you serious? You murdered a giant pig-monster in Desola, and you don’t believe the Drul could be real?”

“Are they, or aren’t they?” Grim asked in a matter-of-fact tone.

“They are.”

“Are they difficult to kill?”

“You could say that,” Anna replied. “They don’t go down easy, and even when they do, their blood is toxic.”

“Have you killed any?”

“A handful,” the woman answered honestly and with a shrug. “They’re terrifying. Commander Eriana and Captain Orion have killed hundreds though…They’re the only reason I’m alive.”

“Interesting,” Grim murmured thoughtfully. “If they’re such a threat, why hasn’t anyone else seen them? Why only the Wolves? There’s over a million souls living in Eastharth—why haven’t others been attacked?”

“How in the Underheim should I know?” Anna responded with annoyance. “We fought them on the coast for weeks and received no aid. We sent ravens that never made it west. Many of us died thinking we were saving the kingdom!

“Now everyone thinks we’re mad and Eriana’s a traitor,” the woman continued glumly. “I don’t know what to think anymore. It was chaos on the Akinmere coast. It was hellish—the Underheim on earth. We left nearly four thousand of our brothers and sisters behind thinking we were doing the right thing, then never returned to rescue them…They’re likely all dead.”

Grim remained silent for several moments as he digested that information. Everything the girl said, sounded just like Eriana’s story…Even so, something about it wasn’t right. “I’m sorry about your comrades,” the assassin said plainly.

Anna nodded her appreciation. “We need to go back…You said you spoke with Eriana and the remaining Wolves—she must have a plan to return east, no?”

“There’s a plan,” Grim confirmed. “Or there was a plan…I’m not sure now.”

Anna tilted her head curiously. “Does that plan involve you killing the Steward?”

“No.”

“Then why are you traveling halfway across the continent on foot, to kill him?”

“Because plans changed…”

“Really?” Anna asked doubtfully. “Was that a unanimous decision?”

“Not exactly,” the assassin replied cryptically, still trudging forward.

“Ugh,” the woman groaned, throwing her head back. “Can’t you just tell me the plan and let me go?”

“Don’t think so,” Grim stated, his eyes narrowing as he spotted something on the ground ahead of them.

“This is such bullshit,” Anna grumbled, clasping her fingers behind her head. “The whole world’s gone mad, and I get stuck with the grouchy assassin…”

Grim swung his traveling cloak over one shoulder and out of his way, leaning down and inspecting the crumpled grass ahead of them. “You recognize these tracks?”

Anna’s gaze shifted down from the heavens where she had been quietly praying for patience and leaned over the assassin’s shoulder, inspecting the trampled earth. “I do, actually. Those are standard issue legion boots. I’d recognize them anywhere.”

Grim nodded. “I was thinking the same thing—a lot of them too.”

“A whole legion?” Anna asked curiously.

“Not that many,” the assassin replied, shaking his head. “A splinter group, possibly a single battalion. I’d say…maybe five hundred?”

Anna was nodding now as well. “Light infantry. They must be scouting ahead of the main force.”

“Which would be where?” Grim asked, eyes now watching the horizon for signs of movement.

“I’ve got no bloody clue,” Anna admitted. “There’s nothing out here. I’m not sure why a legion would even be in the area?”

The assassin considered her words for a moment before standing and rising back to his full height. “They’re looking for someone…”

Anna scoffed. “I don’t think you’re that damn important, Reaper.”

“Not me,” Grim corrected. “Her…”

“Her?” Anna demanded. “Her who? Her Eriana? Her Octavia? Why can’t you speak plainly for once…”

Grim waved the woman’s questions away and quickly secured Winnifred’s saddle and the bag of heads fastened to it. Then he deftly removed the horse’s halter and shooed him away.

“What did you do that for?” Anna asked, confused.

“We’d be too easy to notice with the horse—if there’s a legion in the area, they’ll find him. I’m confident Rhoric Amir will get the message. We need to shelter for the night before we’re spotted.”

Anna watched him quietly for a moment as he scratched behind Revenant’s ears and then sent the hound off to check for pursuers. “You’re really going to go through with this? After everything you’ve told me—all those things you did. You’re just going to throw everything back into chaos and assassinate Rhoric anyway?”

Grim paused and pandered her words for a moment before nodding confidently. “I really am.”

“Why? Vengeance? Aren’t we a little beyond that at this point?”

The assassin shook his head, even as his long strides carried him away from the woman and toward the setting western sun, obscured behind clouds of gray. “You wouldn’t understand.”

It’s true. No one understood what the grizzled assassin had been through. How deep the many betrayals at his expense had cut. But this wasn’t about getting vengeance for that. No, Anna was right about one thing—they were beyond that now.

Grim understood two things perfectly in that moment. One—the rumors of Fortitude’s survival were true, otherwise Rhoric Amir would have no indication that Octavia Benidary may still be alive and that she would almost certainly be making landfall along this coast. Which was the only reason he could think of for sending an entire legion this far northeast.

And two—Even though Octavia and her friends may very well be nearby and in need of aid, confirmation of Fortitude’s survival had sent every one of his instincts into overdrive…and they were all telling him to go west. To Everharth…to Joanne.

There had never been uncertainty in his mind; a struggle between protecting Octavia or saving Joanne. His heart may be torn, some ill placed sense of duty or honor, but the cold calculated part of the assassin, the part that made him who he was—that part had never hesitated. It had always been Joanne. It would always be Joanne.

If Rhoric Amir and his traitorous family was the last thing standing between Grim and the only person who had ever loved him honestly, then the assassin almost pitied the bunch…

The Steward would receive his message of severed heads and when he did, he would be filled with fear. Men make mistakes when they’re scared. They blunder. Perhaps, that fear will buy Octavia time to launch her coup—perhaps not. Ultimately, at least one outcome would remain the same.

Rhoric Amir couldn’t escape Grim. Not now. The Reaper was coming for him. And in the chaos and the whirl of power that followed the Steward’s death, he and Joanne would disappear, never to be used by these selfish, fucking bastards again.

Grim’s feet carried him west—but really, it was an aching heart that propelled him forward. A heart that he hadn’t realized was still in there until just now…

15

THE SUNKEN CITY

Octavia shook her head hopelessly as Olaf and Ansel started a new round of their favorite game. She didn’t understand the exact rules—and she was fairly certain Ansel didn’t either—but the general idea was to smack the others hands before they could smack yours. Olaf had just won his sixth round in a row.

Ansel wasn’t the fiercest competitor nor the most coordinated opponent, but there was no denying, Olaf’s reflexes were nothing less than…impressive. Of course, Octavia would never admit that to him. Thondel knows his head was already big enough. Still, she believed she had finally realized what Grim had managed to see so early on in the obnoxious young man. He was talented and athletic. With the proper training he had the potential to become a dangerous swordsman one day.

“Ha!” Olaf exclaimed victoriously. “Another victory, Ansel! You’re just too slow, mate!”

Ansel grumbled, unamused with Olaf’s gloat and then attempted to club him over the head with one of his huge, gangly paws. The Amir boy slipped away unscathed and waggled his finger mischievously. “Not today, big guy! Better luck next time.”

Octavia patted Ansel’s back encouragingly. “It’s okay, Ansel. Next time you play, I hope you hit him so hard he falls out of those ugly shoes…”

Olaf feigned a mortal blow and then grinned widely. “Do you hate my shoes so much? They were all the rage the day I stowed away with Suileabhain’s mercenary company. They’re quite fashionable.”

Octavia squinted and stared down her nose at the boy’s worn-out boots. “They’re hideous. And stop talking like a pirate. You’re not actually one, you know.”

“Aye?” Olaf exclaimed, taking a cautious step back so neither Octavia nor Ansel could wallop him. “We’ve been on a pirate ship for a fortnight! If that doesn’t make you a pirate then what does?”

“Pirating makes you a pirate, boy. Unless you’ve done it, then I’d shut your trap.”

Olaf cast a sidelong glance at the passing crewmate who had chided him. The man was a huge, scary looking fellow. He’d probably done his fair share of pirating. The noble son decided it was safest to hold his tongue. Octavia and Ansel both giggled. Olaf rolled his eyes and waved them away.

A subtle shift in the air caught Octavia’s attention. She tilted her head curiously. “Do you feel that?”

Olaf and Ansel paused, considering her words. “Yes…” the noble boy said at length. “It’s colder…And darker?”

“Why is it darker?” he continued. “It’s not even midday and there’s not a cloud in the sky…”

Octavia was shaking her head. Ansel ducked and began to make himself small.

“Because we’re close,” Suileabhain answered unexpectedly. The mad mercenary had crept up where they gathered under the helm. He was looking above them, toward where Gregory McCrank was undoubtedly steering The Shroud. “The Sunken City—this place feels sad…”

“Feels?” Olaf asked anxiously. “What do you mean feels?”

Suileabhain shook his head, “I don’t know…The Curse inside of me, it’s talking to something.”

Olaf’s face contorted in horror, and he carefully skirted around the mercenary completely lost in thought. “McCrank!” The young Amir shouted as he leapt up the stairs to the stern deck, uncomfortable and eager to hear from anyone saner than Suileabhain.

Octavia on the other hand hesitated and appeared to be listening for something as well. Ansel grumbled to her, but she issued no response. The girl began to make her way across the deck, quickly approaching the bow of the ship. She stopped just before the bowsprit and closed her eyes, listening.

Ansel quietly shuffled up behind her, but there was another pair of footsteps.

“Can you hear it?” Cometessa’s voice was sudden and close to Octavia’s ear, but it did not startle the girl. She felt relaxed.

“Yes,” Octavia responded. “I can hear it.”

Cometessa was nodding, but her eyes were not closed like Octavia’s. They were wide open and directed ahead. She watched as a distant structure grew closer. “Just focus on that sound. Let it draw you—let it pull you in.”

Octavia nodded and seemed to fall into a trance. Just then she lurched forward and nearly toppled over the side of the ship. Cometessa caught her at the last second. “Hold her, boy!” The woman commanded, directing the words at Ansel. The gangly boy complied with a loud wheeze and wrapped his arms around Octavia.

“Not too tightly,” Cometessa cautioned. Then she glanced back across the deck and up to the helm where she signaled to a waiting Captain McCrank.

“What was that?” Olaf asked curiously, watching the trio at the bow of the ship.

“Don’t hurt your head wondering about it boy,” McCrank replied absently, his attention focused on Octavia and the direction her head was turning.

“Yolanda!” The pirate captain called quietly.

The woman, ever close by, stepped up and faced McCrank.

“I need your eyes in the crow’s nest. I only trust island magic so far—I’m not running us aground based on the voices that girl hears in her head.”

“Aye, Captain!” Yolanda saluted smartly and dashed away, quickly scurrying up the main mast.

McCrank shouted more orders, readying the galleon crew for anything.

“What’s she doing to her?” Olaf asked nervously, indicating Cometessa and Octavia.

“Don’t fret over it,” McCrank reassured him with a grin. “Your little girlfriend will be fine—she’s connected to the Curse. It’s guiding her in.” He nodded and pointed a gold ring adorned finger forward to help explain.

Olaf simultaneously began to launch a defense against McCrank’s girlfriend accusations as well as follow his finger to where he was pointing. As soon as his eyes saw what the crafty pirate’s saw, he shut up. The noble boy was lost in a rare moment of speechlessness as he took in the hulking structure appearing out of the gloom.

It was gigantic! Dull and difficult to see against the surrounding gray fog that had so suddenly appeared, but also elegant and sturdy. It had to be bigger than the whole royal palace. The structure itself was pyramid shaped and shrunk away to nothingness at its peak. Whereas the base was massive and stretched away far into the darkness.

Olaf could see no windows or balconies across the structure. Its surface was smooth and made of a strange metallic stone he had never seen before. There was no light coming from the city and if he wasn’t looking directly at it, it seemed to fade from view.

“I thought the city sank?” Olaf whispered, confused, and filled with awe.

“It did—it is.” McCrank answered in a similar tone, eyes still focused on Octavia, his hands carefully guiding the ship and mimicking the girl’s subtle movements. “The stories say a structure a hundred times bigger lies under the surface of the water…Eathah. Must have been quite the sight before it sank.”

“It’s quite the sight now…” Olaf breathed, absently leaning against the railing surrounding the helm.

“You get used to it,” Captain McCrank replied with a spirited grin.

“You’ve seen it before?” Olaf asked, surprised.

“A few times,” McCrank answered with a nod. “Plenty have, but most go no closer than this…”

“Have you?”

“Only once,” the worldly man admitted. “But we never docked, and we never went into the city.”

“Why not?” Olaf asked uneasily.

McCrank did not answer immediately and a shout from Yolanda up above stole his attention.

“Easy Captain! Large structure in the water—starboard side, off the bow!”

Olaf saw nothing in that direction from his vantage point. Assumedly, neither did McCrank, but he steered the ship carefully around anyway. Within moments, the shadow of something just beneath the surface where Yolanda had indicated caught Olaf’s attention. The woman continued to shout warnings and between Octavia’s internal compass and his first mate’s sharp eyes, McCrank guided The Shroud safely through the labyrinth.

“What are they?” Olaf asked curiously, gesturing to the shadows in the water.

“Shipwrecks,” Gregory McCrank answered ominously.

Olaf shuddered. “All of them?”

The captain shrugged. “Most of them…”

Olaf slowly turned to meet the grizzled pirate’s gaze. “…And the rest?”

McCrank shook his head. The gesture had the air of finality to it and Olaf asked no more questions, allowing the man to focus on steering the ship instead.

After what seemed like an eternity, The Shroud finally cleared the last of the debris and was within the shadow of the breathtaking structure. McCrank let the ship drift even closer until it was only a short span of yards away from the base of the pyramid. The water was murky and nearly impossible to see through, but if Olaf peered closely, he could definitely see the structure continuing to expand where it disappeared under the water…It could have stretched for miles.

Captain McCrank gave the order to drop the anchor and stepped away from the helm, moving swiftly down to the main deck where he was gathering his crew. At Cometessa’s behest, Ansel gave Octavia a brisk shake and brought her back to the waking world. The girl glanced around, confused, but not nearly as much as she should have been.

“I led us here, didn’t I?” the princess whispered.

“Indeed, you did!” McCrank confirmed, slapping Ansel on the back heartily as he passed the duo. “You did well my lady! You took us right to the door…” He swept his hat off and pivoted to stare reverently at the entrance into the great pyramid.

Olaf narrowed his eyes, squinting to see what McCrank saw. After several awkward seconds, he at last spotted the portal as well. It was massive! Even so, it was difficult to see against the smooth exterior of the city. Only a few raised edges revealed the door’s true location.

“Can we even get that open?” Olaf asked doubtfully.

Cometessa smiled knowingly. “The door will open—Eathah is expecting us…”

Olaf raised a suspicious eyebrow and glanced McCrank’s way. The pirate captain returned the look with a shrug and placed the wide brimmed hat back on his head.

“Why does that make me less comfortable?” Olaf asked sarcastically. “The city is expecting us?”

“Eathah is a city like no other.” Suileabhain answered snobbishly, joining—or rather, forcing his way into their conversation. “Our tales in The Oval Isles describe it as nearly sentient…”

“Like a tree?” Olaf asked with a nervous chuckle.

Suileabhain scowled. “More like the sun and the moon…Eathah comes to life on command.”

“Who’s command?” Octavia asked quietly.

Suileabhain stroked his marred face thoughtfully. “The Harth’s I suppose. Legend tells of a different Eathah when it was still ruled by the original Harth tribes…The city went silent when the First Harth led his people across the Sunset Sea and abandoned the island to its fate.”

The pirate crew, and everyone else surrounding the mad mercenary sat quietly, in awe of his words for many moment.

Captain McCrank eventually broke the silence. “Those are good stories for a campfire, mercenary. But there will be no campfires today. For now, we’re all business. The Oracle has instructed me to gather a small force to escort her and the princess into the pyramid. There’s something inside that will cure Octavia’s clouded memories and give us an edge in this civil war…”

“What civil war?” Olaf started to ask.

Gregory McCrank cut the naïve man short, pulling his hat back off and swatting Olaf over the head with it. “Don’t you doubt it, boy—war’s coming! We get out of here and head south to crack Brumex open then you best believe that’s what’s to follow. Your old man will make sure of that….”

Olaf tenderly rubbed his head and raised his hands defensively. “All right, all right. I get it…Geez.”

McCrank replaced his hat once more and gave Olaf one final disapproving look before continuing. “Barring any more stupid questions, I believe we’re ready to depart.”

The captain motioned for a few of his scallywags to ready the rowboat and then gathered the men and women he intended to bring ashore with him. Besides Gregory McCrank himself, there were six other pirates, Olaf, Ansel, Octavia and Cometessa, as well as the mad mercenary himself. Yolanda stayed behind to oversee The Shroud.

“Are you sure it’s a good idea to bring him with us?” Olaf indicated Suileabhain from the opposite side of the rowboat with a jerk of his chin. The question was directed at McCrank.

The pirate captain made a dismissive gesture. “Suileabhain is madder than the markets of Everharth in midsummer, but he’s also a capable warrior. We’ll be lucky to have him if it comes to a fight in there…”

Olaf grumbled something about the mercenary talking with the city, but his words were quickly drowned out by an eager Octavia. “Do you think it will come to a fight? What would we even be fighting? The city has been abandoned for a millennia.”

The captain shifted uncomfortable and looked to The Oracle. “This is more your area of expertise, isn’t it…?”

Cometessa nodded. “The city is abandoned true…but few have walked its halls since the day of its abandonment. Fewer still, have returned to tell the tale…It’s best to be cautious.”

“Oh, now it’s best to be cautious…” Olaf mumbled under his breath, drawing an annoyed look from nearly everyone on the rowboat.

“What can we expect to find in there?” Octavia asked. Her words were quiet, barely louder than a whisper, but there were no sounds out here. Only the sound of the oars slapping the water. Even the waves were smaller and gentler here, somehow calmed by the structure submerged beneath the surface.

“Truth be told…I’m not certain,” the Oracle admitted. “The art of divination only reveals so much. I know this place is key, instrumental, in the success of your coup…We should proceed carefully.”

Ansel made a miserable noise and cowered in the boat as they bumped up against the side of the structure. McCrank’s crew hopped out and secured the rowboat with thick rope. The others followed. The pyramid’s exterior was steep, but not so steep that they couldn’t climb up to the area where the door was. The ground leveled there, enough that they could stand comfortably.

The group stood speechless for a time, staring up at the massive door and the structure it belonged to, disappearing into the clouds above. Olaf paced about, taking it all in.

“What was this building even used for?” the noble son asked curiously.

“The stories say it was Eathah’s last keep. Sitting alone atop the highest peak of the island.” Suileabhain murmured quietly, his own eyes fixed on the top of the structure.

“Their royal palace…” Octavia reasoned as she approached the center of the door.

Captain McCrank licked his lips. “I wonder if they left any trinkets…”

“Don’t touch anything!” Cometessa warned urgently. “And definitely, don’t take anything…”

McCrank frowned, but turned and eyed his crew. “You heard the lady—hands to yourselves…”

There was a collective sigh of disappointment among them, but they all nodded their understanding. They loved treasure as much as any pirate…but they feared and respected Captain Gregory McCrank more.

“Don’t fret, lads,” the pirate captain comforted. “We’ll all be rich when Princess Octavia retakes her daddy’s throne…”

Octavia paid the man no heed. She was focused on the door. There was no visible handle or hinges—it wasn’t even clear if it opened inward or outward. The princess glanced back at Cometessa expectantly.

“Use your powers,” the Oracle insisted, motioning toward the door.

Octavia immediately began shaking her head. “No—no, I don’t want to hurt anyone or anything. We’ll open it conventionally.”

“There is no conventional way to open some doors, Octavia Benidary,” Cometessa replied quickly, but calmly. “There will be no need to hurt one of the living to draw on your powers. This place has an overabundance of lingering, untapped energy. Now use it!”

Octavia sighed stubbornly, but at last closed her eyes and reached out, placing her hand on the door. After several seconds the reserved look on her face changed and she began to speak. “You’re right…I can feel it. It’s like this place is alive?”

Suileabhain quietly turned to Olaf and smirked smugly, mouthing the words, “I told you.”

Olaf rolled his eyes and mouthed something less than flattering back at Suileabhain—this only made the deranged mercenary snicker even more.

Suddenly, the door shifted with a deafening creak and slid back several inches, moving away from Octavia’s hand. It settled for a moment, then began to lift, slowly, but rapidly gaining speed, until it disappeared in a crevice above their heads and fully revealed the chamber within.

Said chamber, was actually not a chamber, but a huge hallway. Its ceilings were high and vaulted and a legion could have marched down the corridor fifteen men abreast. The walls and ceiling were made with a strange, dull green metal they had never seen before. The end of the hallway disappeared into a millennia’s old gloom…

Octavia opened her eyes and confidently stepped into the hallway before glancing back at the speechless group of men and women. “Coming?”

Cometessa smiled and followed the girl. Ansel was much less happy about the decision, but quickly loped to catch up with his friend. The others all fell in line behind them. Gregory McCrank volunteered to take the rear and protect the back of their formation.

Their group travelled mostly in silence for what seemed like ages. They carried no torches, yet a strange murky light radiated from the ceilings above, lighting the hallway up just enough to see their surroundings. They came to multiple intersecting hallways and rooms that bordered the hall. The rooms were empty just like the halls. There was no sign that anyone had ever been there, like everything had simply vanished—or turned to dust over the centuries. The sounds of the city settling, creaks and groans, emanated from deep within the structure. It was hard not to think of the countless fathoms of water likely filling the levels beneath their feet…

At one point, they ran across a huge spiraling set of stairs that disappeared into the vaulted ceiling as well as continued beneath the floor they were on. Some were curious what lay beneath, but Octavia took none of these paths. She stayed true to the original hall, never branching, or detouring in any way—never even hesitating. It was like she was being summoned by something at the end of this main hall.

“How does she know where to go?” Olaf whispered curiously to Cometessa at one point.

The Oracle shrugged. “She is in communion with Eathah. I am not. The island does not share its secrets with me…”

“Why her?” Olaf asked, surprised.

The Oracle grinned. “Because she is worthy.”

Olaf cocked his head in confusion, but spared Cometessa more questions. He got the feeling she wasn’t going to answer them anyway.

Their group fell back into a single file line and rounded another one of many corners. However, this corner was different, because after making it around, Octavia came to a complete stop. The first time she had hesitated since entering the city.

Olaf ran into Ansel’s back and looked up, confused. “Hey, what’s the big idea…”

The young noble’s words trailed off as he peeked around the gangly boy and saw what had halted their procession. The hallway only continued for a hundred or so feet and then it opened into a huge circular chamber. The room was lined with chairs—or rather thrones. At least, they would have been thrones if not for the particularly huge throne at the far end of the chamber, right in the center of the formation. That throne made all the others look obsolete and less important.

At the center of the chamber was a podium made of the most magnificent material Olaf had ever seen. It reflected the rest of the dull green colors in the room and seemed to brighten the surrounding area, amplifying the light tenfold. The ceiling in the throne room was different from the murky green glow of the hallway previous. Now, it was a smooth, metallic black and seemed concave like the ceiling of a dome.

“This is the place?” Octavia stated, rather than asked.

“This is the place,” Cometessa confirmed, placing a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Are you ready to remember?”

Octavia took a deep steadying breath. “Yes. I’m ready.”

“Good,” the Oracle replied. “Then your training begins now. Approach the alter at the center of the chamber.”

Octavia glanced at Cometessa curiously, but quickly steeled herself and entered the chamber, climbing up the slightly raised, circular dais that the podium rested on and stopping within an arm’s length of the object. The Oracle followed her and stood just behind her.

Gregory McCrank quickly divided his troops. “Spread out around the chamber. Create a perimeter. We don’t know what this place is capable of. Protect the princess no matter what.”

“Suileabhain, you’re on the door with me,” McCrank continued, motioning the mercenary over. “Olaf—best stick close to the girl. You’ve the most experience with her doing this kind of stuff.”

Olaf felt like arguing that point with the captain, given that he, in fact, had no idea what was about to happen. Still, Gregory McCrank didn’t give him the opportunity as he had already moved on.

“Ansel—” McCrank paused, looking the tall boy up and down. “You should stay near Octavia as well…a queen needs her champion, eh?”

Ansel lit up at the pirate’s words and forced a crooked salute. McCrank saluted him back with a tip of his hat and moved away toward the entrance to the chamber. The pirate drew the quarterstaff off his back with practiced familiarity, joining Suileabhain by the door.

“You really think you’ll be needing that?” the mercenary asked doubtfully.

“Better safe than sorry,” McCrank replied with a shrug. “You’re a mercenary Suileabhain—I’d expect you to know that.”

The mad mercenary offered no response, besides a flicker behind his eyelids. He did, however, draw his sword and turn to face the hallway they had just entered from. McCrank nodded, satisfied.

With everyone in position, Cometessa spoke swiftly to Octavia. “Be warned, dear girl, the experience will be similar to when I touched you on The Shroud and triggered your blocked memories, but the source of Curse within this vessel is far more potent than my own…That is why we had to come here. This is the only way. You will feel overwhelmed—but you will persevere. You are strong enough.”

Olaf, who had been carefully inspecting the strange stone the thrones had been carved from, and marveling at the seemingly superior architecture of the original Harths, perked up at The Oracle’s warning.

He turned to fully regard Octavia. “Maybe you shouldn’t do this Octavia. It sounds dangerous. Your safety is more important than any edge in the wars to come.” He glanced at the pirate captain as he spoke the words, but McCrank was too far away to overhear his jaded comment.

Octavia chuckled. “You almost sound worried, Olaf Amir.”

Olaf turned red, though he hoped the chamber was dim enough no one noticed. “I’m just saying, you don’t have to do this.”

“I know,” Octavia responded. Her tone was suddenly very serious. With that she turned and placed her hand on the strange, translucent podium.

At first, nothing happened. The chamber remained quiet, and the circle of pirates glanced at each other cautiously. Octavia’s eyes were shut tight, and her lips seemed to be trembling ever so slightly, as if she were whispering to herself. Cometessa carefully moved Ansel and Olaf back a few feet.

Suddenly, there was an explosion of light from the podium! The blinding radiance seemed to seep out of the strange altar and into Octavia. The girl’s body went rigid, and she threw her head back. Her eyes were still squeezed shut but beams of the white light shot forth from them, illuminating her eyelids and lighting the ceiling up above them.

The pirates drew their weapons and lowered themselves into ready stances. Captain McCrank motioned for them to be calm, even as his eyes became fixated on the ceiling. The beams coming from Octavia had lit up several strange runes on the dome above. They looked like letters, but in a language, Gregory had never seen before…Almost like Tertormers.

A quiet scream slipped out of Octavia’s gaping mouth and both Olaf and Ansel attempted to rush forward and pull her away from the altar. Cometessa stopped them in their tracks with powerful Curse induced strength. They may as well have been trying to get through the walls of a fortress.

“You can’t separate her from the source now!” the Oracle warned, shouting her words to be heard over the cyclone of power ripping around the podium. “She’s in direct communion with Eathah. Breaking it off could cut her adrift and she would be lost forever! We must have faith she will be strong enough to withstand the vacuum and not succumb to the void.”

Olaf watched in horror as Octavia’s face twisted in pain. He wanted to help her, but in truth there was nothing he could do. Cometessa’s Curse was too powerful. How could anyone force their way through this? The thought sent his mind down a tumultuous path, but ultimately that path focused his mind on one thing. The assassin he had come to call a friend.

Grim.

16

OATHSWORN

Octavia felt like she was falling. Her body seemed to lurch through the air, yet there was no wind or sensation of dropping. It was as if her eyes were closed, but instead of darkness everything was bright. She tried to shield herself from the glare, but when she lifted her hands there was nothing to be seen. She tried looking down to find where they might have gone, but she had no body at all! She was simply drifting…floating through nothingness.

Abruptly, and jarringly, Octavia was back in her body. She was seated in a wooden room. The way everything was creaking and the slight rise and fall in her chair told her she was on a ship. Beside her was none other than Osiris Benidary—her own father! He was speaking urgently with several other men, whom she recognized as well.

Avatori stood front and center, running his finger across a map of the Ein. The tip of his index kept returning to a singular point on the ocean spread that was colored a darker blue than the rest. She could barely hear the voices, but from their extremely animated actions she could tell they were arguing over something.

Osiris was listening intently to Avatori’s apparent pitch and stroking his own dark beard thoughtfully. After many seconds, he motioned to one of the bystanders and they left the room, returning shortly with a tall, pearly black staff crowned with a trio of regal serpent heads. The primordial snakes were frozen in place, sculpted out of the staff with meticulous care.

Octavia immediately recognized the staff! She had seen it many times growing up. It was often kept locked away in the Benidary family’s vault in Everharth, but on rare occasions, her father Osiris, the King of Harth would carry it. Usually these were ceremonial or formal settings, but the staff was always treated with the utmost care.

Osiris took the staff now and carefully ran his fingers across its banded shaft. He seemed deep in thought when he at last began to nod. Looking up, he spoke a few words—some kind of command based on the reactions around the room. Some men looked angry, others looked relieved, and others still, simply appeared scared.

As the crowd dispersed from the room, Octavia quietly approached the map and read the small words that had been scratched down near the dark blue part of the Ein. Altum Trench.

“As far as we know, it’s the deepest part of the Ein…” Her father’s words caught her off guard and she struggled to form a response. He stood nearby watching her.

“I—is that where we’re going?”

Osiris solemnly nodded. “It is.” He hesitated and glanced back down at the onyx staff. “So, we can be rid of this—The Catalyst of the First Harth. It’s the only way I know to prevent the Oracles’ prophecy from coming to pass…”

The Oracles! Octavia’s head spun as thoughts rushed through it and forgotten memories returned in full. She remembered conversations she’d had, people who she had forgotten about entirely! One such conversation she remembered overhearing provoked her to speak before she could even stop herself, “Some of the legionnaires said it was dangerous, and that we shouldn’t go there.”

Osiris’ eyes clouded and his lip curled with disdain. “The Crows should be more cautious with who they say such things around—still, there is some truth to what they say. The vast waters of the Ein are dangerous no matter where you sail in them, but the trench is especially so…”

“Then why go there?” Octavia begged. “Why risk it? Why bring me and Mother?”

Osiris threw his hand up, gesticulating, and began to respond, but a sound outside the cabin caught his attention. He held that position for several seconds as he listened.

At last, he lowered his hand and spoke softly, “Because Everharth is not safe for us, Octavia. We are being hunted.” He paused and glanced over his shoulder even as he leaned in close to his daughter’s ear. “I’m not sure by who, but I know they’re moving against us…I could not risk coming all the way out here with the only legion I fully trust, while leaving you and your mother behind. My enemies would take that opportunity to strike at me—by way of the two of you! But on the other hand, sitting idly and allowing the Oracles’ prophecy to at last come true would be a death sentence for our family as well.”

Osiris let his words sink in for a moment, before straightening his back and stepping away. “Our enemy has been working against us, in the shadows for years…but tomorrow, we strike the first blow.

“It is important you learn these things, Octavia,” Osiris continued. “One day the kingdom will fall into your hands, and you will have to be ready to lead it, as our family has done for four centuries. Always strike before you can be struck…”

Octavia quietly digested those words. “And how will we strike them?”

“By denying them this…world-shattering power,” Osiris claimed, brandishing the Catalyst in both hands. “We will strap it to a cannon and drop it into the trench, where no man will ever be able to recover it…This staff would serve as our enemies’ greatest weapon. Without it, they will continue to flail in the dark.”

“Then why don’t we use it?” Octavia blurted, clearly confused.

“No!” Osiris responded vehemently. “We must never. This weapon is a plague, just like the Harths’ Curses…Wielding such an abomination would only bring calamity and ruin to its wielder and our kingdom.”

“I don’t understand…” Octavia began to sputter, but her vision quickly faded, and she was thrown into another body—or rather, her body in another time and place.

This vision looked just like the one Cometessa had shown her, only now it was perfectly clear, and she felt as if she were truly here. It was nighttime, but that hardly mattered, for their fleet of royal ships burned in an inferno, casting flickering lights against the thick clouds above. The shouts of battle nearly drowned out the roar of the flames and the thundering waves of the Ein.

A long, low wail vibrated her teeth and nearly deafened her. The Beast of the Ein! They were above the trench—she knew that much for certain. The monster must have come from the depths of that most foul place. The spray of sea foam dampened her hair and cheeks and she desperately tried to get her bearings.

She stumbled as the ship rocked violently and she collapsed on to her backside. The painful thud seemed to straighten her out and she quickly began to control her breathing, using this moment to scan the deck around her. It was slowly being engulfed by fire. Soldiers battled all across the ship. The masts had been splintered and the sails torn—this galleon was completely incapacitated, and more enemies seemed to be boarding by the second.

“We’ve been betrayed!” Avatori’s familiar voice caught her attention and her head swiveled to see him and several of his elite warriors rushing out of the royal quarters to reinforce the sailors who were being cut down by their ruthless adversaries.

The grizzled old man’s words slowly registered to the stunned girl and Octavia’s eyes widened. She looked closer at the men forcing their way onto the ship, the soldiers cutting down their crew in cold blood. Their armor bore a crow shaped crest.

All this time…It had been the Crows, their most loyal legion, who had betrayed them!

“Avatori!” Octavia screeched frantically.

Avatori pivoted and upon seeing Octavia rushed to her side, his men staying in a close formation around them. “Girl! Thank Thondel, they haven’t got you! Where’s your friend, Ansel?”

Ansel!

Octavia wanted to scream; she had completely forgotten about Ansel in this chaotic and nightmarish memory. “I—I don’t know, Avatori. I can’t remember! W-where’s my parents…?”

She barely got the words out of her mouth before a second ear splitting wail broke through the sound of battle and a nearby, flaming galleon was violently twisted and shattered like a dry twig before being pulled down into the cold depths below. The crushing noise left in the wake of the destruction was enough to draw everyone’s attention for a few seconds.

Avatori used that moment to kneel down and steal her focus back. “Your mother was across the way on the Fortuna, handling a diplomatic situation that I see now was a ruse. That galleon is even more alight than this one…I’m sorry, Princess. She’s likely gone.”

Octavia was struck by grief. She could barely process the old warrior’s words as they had come out so quick, but she understood the gist and all she could do was continuously blink, trying to clear the tears from her eyes, shaking her head in denial. “No…”

“Your father told me to protect you, girl,” Avatori continued, holding her shoulders and forcing her to meet his gaze. “I don’t intend to fail him.” He swept his hand behind him, indicating the other warriors in his company. “And neither do these men.”

“You don’t need to protect me!” Octavia shouted angrily. “You need to find my mother. You need to protect her! Where is my father? Where is he, Avatori?”

Avatori held the scared girl. “He’s going to do what he came to do, Princess…Your survival is now the kingdom’s last hope…”

Octavia could conjure no response to Avatori’s absurd words and, try as she might, she could not wrestle free of his powerful hold.

“There are two rowboats still intact on the portside of the ship!” Avatori roared to his men. “We get Princess Octavia on one of those boats and away from this massacre, or we all die together!”

An enthusiastic shout went up from Avatori’s warriors and they swiftly began to form a wedge, spearheading across the deck. A second galleon rammed alongside their ship, knocking Octavia and several of her defenders off their feet. The two ships quickly became entangled, and dozens of Crows began to pour over the rail of this newest vessel and onto the portside deck of the much larger, royal galleon.

Avatori pulled Octavia back to her feet and then stepped forward to lead the wedge against the swarming Crow attackers, a battle cry on his lips. “Send these traitorous bastards to the Underheim!”

A shout went up from the Crow’s line as well and several men began to point Octavia’s direction. The legion of assassins moved to quickly block their path to the rowboats. Still, Avatori’s veterans attacked with ferocity she had never seen the likes of before. Against all odds, their small group of twenty-odd warriors pushed through the Crows before they could establish a foothold on the deck. Avatori grabbed the edge of a rowboat and quickly began to hoist it over the gunwale. They were nearly there!

A familiar cry stole Octavia’s attention away from the action and she pivoted, ducking between two of her protectors to find the source of the sound. Her heart nearly leapt out of her mouth. Back across the deck, near the snapped main mast, Ansel lay, pinned beneath a pile of burning rigging. The boy fought to break free, but it was too heavy, and the hungry flames were quickly creeping toward him.

“Octavia, get in the boat—now!” Avatori’s words barely registered to her as she broke free of her bodyguards’ formation and charged across the deck.

The Crows quickly realized that she had slipped out and they rallied, turning to chase her instead of clashing with Avatori’s fierce warriors.

“Protect the princess!” Avatori roared, dropping his hold on the rowboat, and raising his sword into the air. He cursed under his breath at the girl’s foolish selfishness. Already, more of his warriors died as they broke formation to pursue after Octavia. The Crows were nearly upon her, and she hadn’t even made it close to Ansel yet.

Octavia felt a hand wrap around her ankle as one of the Crows dove and tripped her to the deck. She smacked hard, but immediately tried to fight her way back to her feet. She kicked and screamed and dug her nails into the wet, wooden boards. Ansel reached out to her pitifully and cried in pain. She was closer now, but still just a few feet too far away to grasp his bruised hand.

More of the rigging came down and splashed into the sea, spraying saltwater high into the night sky. An ominous bellow from the monster beneath the waves deafened her momentarily. Another ship was crushed to smithereens nearby. The sounds of dying men being sucked down to a watery grave were lost in the wind.

“There now, Princess—enough of your struggling.” The Crow who held her chortled as he stood upright and jerked her with him. “We’ll make quick work of you, just like your mother—well…some of us took our time with her.” A vile grin spread across the man’s face, and he slowly drew a dirk from his hip.

Ansel roared furiously and pushed himself up in a mighty attempt to escape his fiery doom, if only to defend Octavia’s honor. His efforts made no difference. The Crow holding her glanced first at Ansel, then over his shoulder to where Avatori and his warriors were now fighting for their lives, outnumbered by an overwhelming sum of Crow assassins. “Take it easy big guy. You’ll get yours soon enough…”

The legionnaire sidestepped and pulled her around so she could see her defenders in their last desperate moments. Over half of their numbers had fallen already, their bodies lying torn and trampled under the feet of the advancing Crows.

“Watch them die, Your Highness,” the savage legionnaire hissed. “You have no power now—without us you Benidary’s are nothing!” He leaned in so his mouth was very close to her ear and whispered coldly, “We’re not your slaves anymore—we’re free men.”

Octavia calmed her rapid breaths and set her jaw determinedly. “Is this what free men do? They butcher and ambush unarmed girls?”

The Crow was caught off guard by her defiance and his own jaw went slack for a moment.

Octavia scoffed. “You should have stayed slaves then.”

His armored fist backhanded her and then grabbed hold of her scalp, pulling her head back so she was forced to look into his eyes. His lips twitched like he was about to speak, but no words came forth. Instead, he spat on her face and threw her down to the deck.

Octavia attempted to stand, but a vicious kick to her ribs sent her sprawling and sliding. Her body came to a stop inches from Ansel’s own. The boy wrapped his arm around her protectively and shouted indistinguishably at the approaching Crows.

They did not slow.

An explosion aboard the deck of an adjacent ship rocked the seas. Some of the legionnaires glanced in the direction of the spectacle. Pieces of timber and torched rigging flew high in the air and crashed down all around the unfortunate vessel. The Crows snickered.

Avatori screamed defiantly, only a few men left alongside him. Try as they might they were pushed further away from Octavia and Ansel. The two children were completely isolated now with nowhere to run. Worse still, a second vessel, a smaller brigantine, scraped across the royal galleon’s starboard side and came to an abrupt halt, mainyards tangling together chaotically. More Crow soldiers poured over the rail of that ship and flooded the deck.

Octavia grabbed a fallen sailor’s short sword and leapt to her feet, backing up protectively against Ansel, even as the flames licked her back. “Come on then you cowards! Let’s see how many free men it takes to kill an untrained girl and her helpless friend!” Tears welled in her emerald eyes, but they were tears of anger.

She leveled the weapon at the Crows. At least two dozen were pressing in on her from all sides. They laughed scornfully and one of them, the original legionnaire who had caught her, used his curved blade to swat the sword out of her hand. The steel clattered across the scorched deck and then slid away as the ship rocked to one side.

“You nobles are all talk,” the man hissed, his breath blowing rain off his lips. “But you’re soft…and weak…I bet you cut easy too.”

The soldier stepped forward and moved to place his dirk blade against Octavia’s cheek.

It never came close.

The man dropped to his knees clutching at the feathered handle of a weapon that had appeared in his throat. Seven other Crows slumped to the deck behind him, each choking on their own blood. The dozens of remaining soldiers dropped back defensively and looked up at something above Octavia and Ansel.

Octavia turned and looked up as well. The final missing fragment of memory struck her, and she nearly collapsed from the gravity of that moment. Atop the fallen mast a warrior in terrifying, black armor crouched like some kind of beast.

A heavy black cloak hung from his shoulders and fastened to lanky, silver chains connected to his elbows. The armor itself was scaled and jointed like an impenetrable lizard’s skin and a beaked barbute helm sat upon his crown. Two strange, but unsettlingly familiar, curved blades were crossed and hung loosely on the small of his back…Clouds of murky vapor blew through his visor with each breath. One forearm was exposed, revealing pale skin underneath.

Octavia’s mind raced. This was the same warrior who had attacked The Shroud—his armor glistened, and his cloak remained intact, but there was no denying who the man was. A name came to her even as one of the Crows blurted it in shock.

“Hyram?” the man sputtered and gulped. Others shifted nervously, clearly unsettled by the warrior’s sudden appearance. “You should be dead…incinerated aboard Fortuna…”

The Beast of the Ein wailed under the waves. The noise was ghostly and unnerving. The few Crows left fighting on the ship, at last lowered their weapons turning to view the scene unfolding at the center of the scorched galleon. Avatori and his two surviving men dropped to the deck exhausted, using this brief reprieve to catch their breath.

Hyram slowly rose to his full height. He towered over the surrounding Crows. Somewhere, in the smoky gloom another ship was shattered by the great sea serpent. The warrior was unphased by the shocking sounds of annihilation. He took a step and dropped to the deck beside Octavia.

The Crows at the front of the formation backed away instinctively, some almost trampling the men behind them. Still, Hyram said nothing. His eyes scoured them from behind his beautiful, intimidating helm. They felt his cold gaze rake them like a volley of arrows. Without turning away, he reached down and, with shocking strength, lifted the rigging that pinned Ansel. The strange boy scrambled out and crawled to Octavia, clutching her fearfully.

Hyram slowly stepped in front of them and squared his body with the Legion of Crows. Everything was suddenly so silent. Octavia could hear his armor creak and the squeak of oiled leather rubbing underneath. She heard him plant his armored boot. She could hear the sound of his breath, metallic and sharp as it blasted through his visor. The warrior rolled his shoulders and his body rippled, the crackle of worn joints merging with the hum of the hungry flames.

The ship sat lower in the water and the sounds of fighting seemed to die out all around them. Apparently, the Crows mutiny was complete…The last point of resistance was here, aboard Osiris’ royal galleon. Her father had been so worried about enemies in every shadow he had failed to see them infiltrating the ranks of his closest warriors…Or had they been his enemies from the start? The thought haunted Octavia and she stood silently. Taking in what she knew to be the final moments she had witnessed during this ruthless betrayal.

At last, Hyram spoke, “Was it all of you—The entire legion?”

Silence followed his question. The assassins hardly moved, almost like they were collectively holding their breath. After what seemed like an eternity, one of the Crows took a bold step forward. “Aye, Commander—the decision was unanimous. We knew you would never stand for it…So, we left you out of the vote.”

Hyram nodded. His words were quiet and somber, “Captain Casey…You took an oath.” Sharp, white clouds of breath fluttered from his helm as his voice grew in tempo to address the entire legion. “You all took oaths!”

Captain Casey shook his head, his own black armor screeching in protest. “Oaths be damned, Hyram! Look what they’ve turned us into?” He spun and spread his arms, gesturing to the men of the Crow Legion. “The things they’ve made us do! We’ve killed innocent families, razed peaceful cities to the ground and sacked helpless villages. Some of those acts we never even questioned!”

“You’re a soldier, Captain,” Hyram countered coldly. “You knew what you signed up for…We do terrible things so that others won’t have to…”

Casey’s face twisted with disgust, and he waved Hyram’s righteous words away. “They’re tyrants, Hyram! The Benidary’s, the Harth’s, they’re all the same. They don’t see people when they look at you or I—they see weapons. Tools. Folks like them will always rule the world if we continue to let them see us as such—if we continue to let them wield us as such!”

“We are weapons!” Hyram shouted angrily. “We’re the swords of the king! The shields of Harth! You honestly think there would be less violence without us? You think people would be safer without the things we do in the dark?”

Captain Casey shook his head sadly and offered a shrug. “I can’t answer that with certainty, Hyram…All we can do is try. The noble bureaucrats and ruling families must be stopped. We’ll return to Everharth and seize power from them. Then we’ll take it one day at a time…We’re not doing their dirty work any longer.”

Hyram’s beaked helm nodded with understanding and behind his visor his eyes closed resolutely. After several seconds he turned to face Octavia and Ansel. The two, little more than children then, watched him nervously.

Hyram carefully drew both curved swords out of the loops they rested in and took an intimidating step toward the cowering duo. Octavia pushed Ansel behind her and stood up, barring Hyram’s path to the oddly shaped boy. She spread her arms defensively. A warm breath blew forth from the commander’s helm and into the cold night air.

Many painful seconds passed before Hyram unexpectedly kneeled, his eyes suddenly level with Octavia’s own. He spoke softly, but loud enough for the Crows to hear, “I took an oath as well…Go to Sir Avatori, Octavia. Take your friend and leave this madness behind. Do not think too harshly of the Crows. Their actions are unforgivable, but they are the actions of broken men…Try to remember us for who we were—not what we’ve become.”

Tears streaked down Octavia’s cheeks, and she nodded. Helping Ansel to his feet they both began to limp toward Sir Avatori and the rowboat. The Crows’ ranks closed, and a tide of black armor and curved swords formed a thick wall between the two children and their would-be protector.

Hyram slowly rose to his feet and turned to face his mutinous legion of assassins. “Let them pass.”

“You’re no longer our commander, Hyram,” Casey whispered coldly. “We don’t take orders from you anymore—we agreed to execute the whole royal family…that includes her.”

Hyram took a long step forward and lowered his posture ever so slightly. “In for a copper, in for crown, eh Casey?”

Captain Casey and the other Crows similarly lowered into fighting stances and readied their weapons. “You don’t have to do this Hyram…You’re outnumbered a thousand to one. You can’t win…”

“Outnumbered?” Hyram uttered the word like it was foreign to his tongue. Then he seemed to ponder it for a moment, deciphering its exact meaning. With a nod and a quick scan of the legion, he countered, “The only thing I’m outnumbered by is dead Crows…”

Captain Casey shook his head sadly. “Men…kill this traitor.”

Hyram glanced toward Octavia and Ansel. “Run.”

Octavia didn’t fully understand what he wanted from her, but having little other choice, she took Ansel’s hand and charged the living wall of assassins. She screamed with fear and defiance and Ansel mimicked her, echoing a cry of his own. The Crows issued their own collective battle cry and rushed forth to meet them.

It felt like that was the end. Like she and Ansel would both die there, butchered by a legion of backstabbers, and yet—she also knew that couldn’t be true. That knowledge alone propelled her forward into the onslaught of curved blades.

A shadow flew over their heads, and a violent gust of wind in its aftermath. Octavia and Ansel slowed as the object in question came crashing to the deck ahead of them. That object was Hyram.

The warrior landed gracefully and destructively all at once. His blades whirled into a frenzy and the former soldiers under his command fell like daisies out of season. He towered over most of them and pushed his way deep into their ranks, cleaving and kicking and slashing. A trail of body parts fell in his wake—anything that tried to slow him or contend him was destroyed, cut to pieces by his ferocious blades.

There were few soldiers who would have stood their ground against such fury, but the Crows were among that elite number. Hyram had trained many of them himself, after all. If anyone was going to slay him—it would be them. The legion of assassins all but gave up on Octavia and rallied to end Hyram’s rampage.

Octavia grabbed Ansel’s hand and rushed forward, dodging between the scrambling Crow forces. They were nearly trampled multiple times making their mad dash across the deck to reach Avatori. The Crows had equally abandoned their quest to slay the Benidary’s remaining honor guards.

Avatori was waiting with his arms outstretched. Octavia crashed into his chest and held him tightly. He held her back, and she sobbed into his armor. Ansel quickly rushed to the gunwale and helped the last two warriors drag the rowboat over the rail and stage it to be launched.

“They’ll kill him, Avatori,” Octavia pleaded. “We have to help!”

Avatori shook his head, shouting over the storm winds and cries of death, “No, Princess! We have to go. Hyram bought us time so you could escape, not throw your life away as well!”

Octavia had no further say in the matter as the strong warrior lifted her from the deck and handed her off to one of his men waiting in the rowboat. Then the honor guard boosted Ansel up over the gunwale and into the deep belly of the smaller boat. At last, Avatori crawled up onto the railing and into the rowboat. He glanced over his shoulder one last time.

Hyram was completely surrounded by Crows. Still, he leapt and dove and spun like a dancer. His blades left arcs of blood flying through the air and sparks that lit up the deck. His bonded weapons tore through plated armor that would have deflected a spear or a crossbow bolt entirely. The great cape that had once hung nobly from his shoulders had been cut to tatters. Blood from his own wounds seeped out the joints in his scaled armor.

With a vicious uppercut he lifted, not one, but two men into the air! They tumbled back into their fellow ranks. A mighty kick followed, blasting more soldiers back and breaking the ever-closing formation of blades. He bounced from one side of the circle to the other, his swords always finding their mark.

The Crows’ bodies had begun to pile so high, new challengers were forced to climb over the corpses of their comrades, only to be greeted by the tall, armored warrior’s speeding blades. As the ship rocked, the bodies slid away, disappearing over the edge of the deck, and plummeting into the murky abyss below. No doubt they would feed the leviathan hunting the rest of the fleet.

In a brief moment of space and reprieve, Hyram turned to face Octavia and her protectors. He was ragged and torn—it was hard to tell what seemed more impossible, the countless soldiers slain at his feet, or the fact that he was somehow still fighting despite his many wounds.

The Commander of the Crows lifted one of his blades and offered a most regal salute. Avatori and his men responded in kind. Octavia’s face twisted, promising to avenge the oathbound warrior. Ansel made a pitiful noise, something that seemed to evoke true sadness.

“It’s time for us to go…” Avatori cut the rope suspending the rowboat and it plummeted into the dark waters of the Ein…

17

THE HOUSE OF HARTH

As suddenly as Octavia had lifted, imbued with the power of Eathah’s altar, she fell back down to the cold metallic floor, the blinding white light quickly fading as well. Her eyelids burst open, and she leapt to her feet, searching the chamber with a crazed look. Everyone was in the exact positions she had left them. For her, lost in memory, hours had passed—but for them, it had only been a brief span of seconds.

Olaf emphasized that point with one of his ever-sarcastic comments, “Well…that was anticlimactic.”

“No!” Octavia suddenly shouted, her voice filled with anger and frustration. “I want to go back! I’m not finished yet—I need to see more!”

Olaf backed away slowly, his hands raised in caution. Ansel tilted his head; a low grumble of concern escaping his throat. Gregory McCrank and the other pirates watched curiously from the edge of the throne room.

Suileabhain stepped forward. “More of what? You were gone for less than a minute…”

Octavia ignored his question and whirled, turning on Cometessa. The girl’s eyes were filled with a wild rage that had never been there before yet seemed oddly familiar. Her nostrils flared dangerously, and her upper lip twitched with agitation.

“Be calm girl,” Cometessa demanded evenly. “Eathah can only show you your memories…not the past.”

“You…” Octavia fumed. “Don’t tell me to be calm.”

“I only want…” the Oracle’s words were cut short as Octavia exploded angrily.

“Why not instead tell me what you told my father?!” She took a threatening step toward the exotic woman and leveled her finger accusingly. “What did you and your sister tell him? Why did he take all of us out there? What was the prophecy Oracle? Tell me what you told him!”

Cometessa lowered her head nodding. Understanding seemed to spread over her. “Ah—I see. So, Osiris told you, did he?”

“He told me of your prophecy of doom,” Octavia replied vehemently. “Only not what it entailed…”

Olaf leaned to Ansel and whispered, “Are you as lost as I am?”

Ansel, predictably, offered no response. Only a shrug.

The Oracle paid them no heed, instead focusing on Octavia. “I will tell you what I told King Osiris—but not here. We should return to the captain’s ship…”

“No!” Octavia shouted, crossing her arms stubbornly. “You will tell me now—as well as explain everything else I saw. What of the warrior pursuing us! Did you know?”

Cometessa did not immediately respond, her eyes glanced down toward the floor.

Olaf tilted his head curiously at that. “What did you see, Octavia?”

Octavia held her gaze on the Oracle but answered despite that. “I saw the armored fiend, Olaf. The one who killed Grim—his name is Hyram…He was the commander of the Crows. And he threw away his life…fighting them, to save me.”

Olaf’s eyes only widened in confusion. “He what? The Crows—they betrayed you? This Hyram didn’t seem very dead when he attacked The Shroud.” He gingerly rubbed the back of his head, still sore from his encounter with the fiend.

Gregory McCrank and Suileabhain had both crept closer to the conversation, but now they stopped. The veteran warriors were quietly listening to a sound echoing down the massive hallway they had entered from. Neither could make it out exactly, but they looked sidelong at one another while they listened.

“I don’t know how he survived!” Octavia shouted, directing her fury at Cometessa. “That’s what I wanted to see! The memory ended too soon…Was that your doing?” She directed her accusation at the Oracle.

Cometessa shook her head, genuine concern creeping into her voice. “I have no power over such things. Why would I bring you here if I knew that’s what you would see?”

“I don’t know!” Octavia burst. “You’re supposed to be guiding me. This is why I need your help, but you’re not helping at all!”

“Ladies…” McCrank tried to interrupt.

His polite words were ignored.

“Princess. Oracle,” the pirate captain hissed more insistently.

“Good luck, mate,” Olaf offered, running a hand through his mop-like hair. “They could be at this all night—trust me, I have sisters.”

McCrank rolled his eyes at the obnoxious youth and stepped onto the lifted dais alongside the two women. Octavia attempted to shoo him away, even as she cursed the Oracle’s name. The pirate glanced back over his shoulder at the hallway the sounds were echoing from.

“Oh, for the love of Thondel, fuck this!” Suileabhain leapt up onto the dais and struck his sword against the smooth floor, casting sparks into the air. “Listen you dreadful women! We’re not alone in here…”

Both women seized their shouting long enough to look the skinny mercenary up and down like he was a lump of flesh waiting to be devoured. It may have come to that too, if Octavia hadn’t at last heard the noise that had alerted the pirate captain and mad mercenary. Her eyes darted to the hallway. “What was that?”

Olaf shrugged. “I didn’t hear anything.”

There was a faint hiss and something akin to whipping winds. A slight metallic clatter followed it.

“Easy gentlemen,” McCrank said softly, “It’s only the wind…all the same, protect the princess.”

The sound repeated, only louder. This time Olaf heard it, and he straightened up, squaring his shoulders and drawing Poe’s legion sword. “All right, that didn’t sound like wind…”

Octavia felt a sensation she couldn’t describe. Like the funnel opening when she had channeled Cursed energy in the past. She felt that same feeling now as black smoke—no, more like swirling black sand, came rushing into the throne room and skittered up the shallow steps to the top of the dais.

The black cloud whirled and narrowed, rising from the floor, and sculpting into the shape of a large man. Before any features could become recognizable, armor formed over that humanoid shape and within seconds, a fully armored knight towered before them. There were no crests on his armor, nor plumes or apparel of rank. The armor itself was simple but made of a strange black material that shone brightly, even in the dark.

The knight’s helm was masked, and the mask resembled a grinning skull. Light plates covered the exterior of the armor, making it look quite flexible, but also sturdy. A simple straight sword rested in a sheath on the warrior’s hip. His left wrist was straddled by a tiny buckler.

At first, the knight was completely motionless, then with a sudden hissing noise, he let out a deep breath and seemed to animate. Octavia and the others jumped back nervously. McCrank leapt in front of the formation and lifted his quarterstaff to the ready.

The knight seemed to be scanning the room, its macabre skeletal grin rotating eerily. At last, its gaze came to rest on Octavia who stood just behind Captain McCrank but peeked out from under his arm.

“Octavia Harth, last of your line—the campaign has failed. The Divine Omni Opulents are free, scattered to the winds. They must be hunted and destroyed at all costs.”

“What?” Octavia had barely managed to speak the word when the knight continued undaunted.

“The path of least resistance to the Divine Opulents is through you, Octavia Harth. Subsequently, this is compliant with the laws of the House of Harth. I presume you understand what must be done?”

Octavia hesitated at first, before she realized the warrior was addressing her, and her alone. The others all watched, anticipating her response. “No—no, you presume too much! I have no idea what you are talking about. Divine Omni Opulents? Campaign? House of Harth?” The girl paused, shaking her head with confusion and denial. “I’m not even a Harth!”

“I see…” The knight leaned back a bit, clearly offput. “It seems the situation has deteriorated far quicker than expected.” He paused, deep in thought. “I’m afraid this only accelerates the process. Octavia Harth, your time has expired. Now—perish.”

With blinding speed, the knight exploded into motion, drawing the straight sword on his hip, and lunging for Octavia’s heart. Gregory McCrank intercepted the blow, smacking it low with his staff and pushing the princess back in one motion.

Undeterred the knight pressed forward, slashing up and over McCrank’s staff. The pirate captain readjusted and parried the blow out wide. The mysterious knight spun with the momentum of McCrank’s parry and threw an armor-plated elbow at the pirate’s temple. McCrank ducked the strike and raised his staff just in time to catch his opponent’s straight sword as it continued its pivot and followed the elbow in for another attempt at rending the pirate’s guts.

“Get the princess out of here!” McCrank roared, his words coming out with great exertion as he attempted to hold the otherworldly knight at bay.

The captain’s crew sprang into motion, rushing to Octavia’s side and grabbing her by the arms. They lifted her with ease and began to carry her from the chamber. The knight saw they were trying to escape and released a haunting, excited screech—a sound akin to the baying of a hunting dog in pursuit of its quarry. It quickly disengaged from McCrank and all but glided across the chamber in pursuit of Octavia and the crew of The Shroud.

Glancing back, Ansel was the first to see the knight closing in. The boy was obviously terrified of the ghostly warrior, but he turned and held his ground, determined to slow the pursuit.

The knight cackled intimidatingly, and bull rushed the boy. The large pauldron on the warrior’s shoulder smacked Ansel’s chest and blasted him to the ground. The knight trampled him and attempted to close the last several feet to Octavia, but he tripped prematurely of the mark and fell to one knee.

Ansel held firm the warrior’s ankle and despite blood gushing from his own broken nose he attempted to reel the foe back in before it could reach the princess. Howling with fury, the knight slid back toward Ansel and launched his sword in a downward strike for the boy’s chest.

Again, McCrank’s staff intercepted the blow—only this time the effect was much different. The pirate captain had rushed to catch up to the fiend and barely reached the entangled duo in time to swipe the downward thrust aside. Except, when their weapons connected, the knight’s exploded into a thousand tiny shards—practically dust.

The skeletal helm worn by the warrior masked his reaction, but shock was evident as he glanced up at McCrank with surprise. The pirate hardly let up, quickly striking with the other end of the quarterstaff, and pounding the curious iron plate covering the knight’s chest. The blow forced the warrior to slide back many feet on the smooth metal floor.

“Impressive,” the knight crowed, even clapping to emphasize his point. “You are no Harth, yet you wield a weapon of their making in a manner befitting one born to it…”

“This weapon is of my making,” Gregory McCrank corrected dramatically. “And if that impressed you, then you’re going to love what I do next…”

The knight chuckled. “Enough!” He threw down the hilt of his straight sword—the only part remaining of the weapon after clashing with McCrank’s quarterstaff—and then reached behind his back pulling a second weapon out of thin air. At first, it was nothing but swirling black sand. Then it quickly took shape and texture, forming into a huge two-handed sword—only, the knight effortlessly held it in one.

With a flick of his free hand a huge door, divided into three triangular shaped segments, slammed shut, blocking Octavia’s escape from the chamber. The sound of the door closing was deafening and those closest to it were even knocked from their feet.

The knight turned his attention back to McCrank. “Impress me then, impostor.” With that he leapt forward readying the oversized weapon for a massive blow.

Gregory McCrank readied his staff like a pilum and raised a hand to slow Olaf and Suileabhain’s approach. Then, with sudden ferocity, the pirate captain launched his staff toward the incoming knight. The weapon connected with the warrior’s chest and stopped his advance completely, blasting him back to the cold floor.

McCrank caught the quarterstaff as it ricocheted away from the collision and then swung it in an overhead strike, aiming to crush the knight’s head like a melon. In an instant, the prone warrior collapsed into black smoke and sand then reformed on his feet in time to catch the pirate’s vicious attack on the edge of the great sword. The knight tilted the weapon and let McCrank’s staff slide off of it harmlessly before shifting its hold on the extended hilt of the sword and countering with a tremendous, air splitting swing.

Amazingly, McCrank managed to get his quarterstaff back into guard before the blow connected, but he was still crushed under the weight of the attack. His body was tossed aside like a doll, and he slid all the way back to the central dais in the middle of the chamber. The knight didn’t even slow, carrying the momentum of that ridiculous strike into a frenzied spin and taking two large strides forward.

Olaf, who had just helped Ansel back to his feet was promptly, along with his gangly friend, shoved back to the ground by none other than the mad mercenary. The great sword whizzed over their heads and Suileabhain backpedaled to escape the devastation that would be even a glancing touch from that immense weapon.

The knight paused its rotation and attempted to flatten both Olaf and Ansel underneath the broad edge of the great sword. The sword once again fell shy of its mark as he was forced to fend off a sudden and brutal barrage of blows inflicted by Suileabhain. The mercenary was so aggressive in his assault that the seemingly invincible knight was forced back onto his heels and away from Olaf and Ansel—who were quickly crawling to a safer distance.

Octavia watched in horror from the edge of the chamber where the pirate crew futilely attempted to open the massive door before the warrior could come for her. “He’s going to kill us all…”

“He will,” Cometessa agreed from just behind her. The woman’s voice was surprisingly calm for someone who just prophesized their own demise.

Octavia looked over her shoulder at the woman, appalled. “How are you so calm?”

“Because—you’re not going to let it come to that.”

Octavia shook her head. “How can I possibly be the one to stop that?!”

“You are far more powerful,” the Oracle stated, her eyes fixed on the fight at the center of the chamber.

“I don’t believe you!” Octavia shouted, her young voice cracking with frustration and fear. “I am not more powerful. You’ve shown me nothing. I don’t know how to use my powers without hurting everyone around me!”

Cometessa shook her head calmly. “You already know how to control your powers. Fear of failure is the only thing holding you back.”

Nearby, Suileabhain had quickly lost his momentum against the knight and was being pushed back dangerously fast. Olaf tried to draw the warrior’s ire by flanking it and jabbing his sword at the fiend’s back, but could hardly get close enough with the wide, reckless swings of their opponent’s great sword. Ansel backed away slowly, trying to build up the courage to launch himself once more at the knight.

Octavia was shaking her head hopelessly. “You’re useless,” she directed her barbed words at Cometessa. “It should have been Grim and not you who we found adrift on that raft…”

The Oracle was quiet for a moment and the only sound in the chamber were the grunts of the pirates trying to breach the door and the whooshing of the knight’s huge blade as Suileabhain and Olaf tried to stay ahead of its deadly edge.

“I know…” the woman responded solemnly. “But it seems Thondel was looking out for you because he sent me instead.”

Octavia looked at her confused. “I don’t under—”

Her words were cut short as Cometessa’s hand struck her cheek and she recoiled in pain. She turned back to regard the Oracle with wide eyes, holding her wounded cheek tenderly.

“What’s the matter with you!” the princess demanded.

“What’s the matter with me?” Cometessa remarked in disbelief. “What’s wrong with you, girl? You would let your friends die defending you without even trying to use your powers? And to think you would claim sovereignty over Harth…”

“How dare you!” Octavia spit indignantly.

“No how dare you, Octavia Harth!” the Oracle shouted. “To have all that power at your fingertips and to still let others die for you!”

“I’m not a Harth!”

“No?” Cometessa replied, leaning in very close to Octavia. “And yet, only a Harth has ever opened the doors of Eathah—Only a Harth could access the powers contained in the throne room.”

“You’re lying!” Octavia screamed, tears staining her cheeks.

“The knight is a construct, created by a Harth—and only a Harth could truly uncreate it. Reach into Eathah and channel the Cursed energy required to dismantle it!”

“I cannot!” Octavia protested at a clear loss. “I don’t know how!”

“Then your prediction was indeed true. He will kill us all.”

Suileabhain ran out of room to escape the dreadful knight’s torrent of blows and was forced to raise his curved blade and block an incoming strike. The weight of the sword crumpled the mercenary, forcing him down to his knees. Somehow, he managed to regain his posture and readied his sword for another bone-shattering strike. Instead, his stomach was greeted with a powerful, thrusting knee and the mercenary toppled back to the ground vomiting blood as he did.

Ansel wrapped his arms around the knight protecting Suileabhain from a killing blow, but the brutal warrior flung him off with ease. Only Olaf remained standing. Up until now he had actively avoided trading blows with the skeletal faced knight. The noble son carefully leveled his sword and began to circle.

He tried to recall everything Grim had taught him. He imagined the assassin’s words and his frequent beatings. He even attempted to summon memories of Grim in battle—how he walked, how he moved and where his eyes focused.

The knight lunged forward, closing the distance, and attempting to skewer Olaf on his blade. The young Amir dodged to the left and dropped one knee, spinning as he went. His sword struck the back of the warrior’s knee and the brute actually staggered, seemingly caught off guard by the clever attack. The huge blade threw sparks into the air, skipping across the metallic floor.

Olaf swiftly rose back to his feet and quickstepped to stay in the knight’s blind spot, peppering him with blows. With an annoyed growl the warrior ducked and twisted, swinging the great sword in a wide arc, and stepping away from the young man’s pesky attacks.

Olaf promptly deduced that staying near, and well within the massive sword’s dangerous reach was the most viable strategy for survival. The boy swiftly followed the retreating knight and threw several quick jabs at the least armored parts of his torso.

The knight struggled to defend every blow and was forced to bring his great sword in close to pick off Olaf’s thrusts. Grim’s words continued to run through his mind even as he pieced together how to defeat this tin can of death.

“Leverage beats strength every time…”

Realization finally struck Olaf and he threw one final jab to bring the knight’s great sword in close to his chest. Then the noble dashed in close and threaded his blade behind the warrior’s sword’s handle. He planted his foot on one of the knight’s legs and turned so his back was facing him, then pressed the tip of his own blade against the warrior’s chest and pushed out against the great sword’s handle. At this angle, the knight would be forced to break his hold on the great sword and drop the dangerous weapon or risk the legion blade, formerly Poe’s, punching through his breastplate and puncturing his heart.

Predictably, the warrior dropped the massive great sword and it clattered to the ground like a fallen statue. Olaf shouted victoriously and pivoted, pushing off the knight’s thigh and leaping into the air. He raised his sword for a killing stroke.

Unburdened by the sword’s terrible weight, the knight struck out like a viper, his gauntleted hand closing around Olaf’s throat, suspending him in midair. Time seemed to freeze for an instant and the young Amir boy tried to hack the warrior’s extended arm. Before his blade ever came close, he was slammed into the metal floor with unbelievable force.

Olaf was so stunned by the sudden hit that he believed himself paralyzed by the blow. His body tingled and his lungs emptied completely of air. To make matters worse, the knight’s fingers were still around his throat and now they were squeezing his windpipe shut.

Olaf’s sword had slid far away on impact and all he could do was helplessly pluck at the knight’s impossibly strong hands and wheeze pitifully. The warrior’s skeletal mask leaned in, barely a few inches from his own tortured face. Whoever was under that macabre guise was enjoying this…

Olaf’s vision began to fade. Sound became muffled. His lungs screamed for air, but the sensation became less important as the darkness closed in. A howling voice sounded very distant—he briefly noted that it was Octavia’s before consciousness faded entirely.

Suddenly, the weight was lifted—no, wrenched—off Olaf’s throat and the ghostly knight was lifted into the air and held aloft. His arms and legs twisted painfully, and he threw his head back in a silent scream. It was like hands from the void were reaching out and pulling him apart.

The knight slowly rotated away from Olaf and shifted to face the door. There, in front of that door, Octavia stood arms held high and eyes ablaze with a piercing white glow. The Oracle stood just behind and to her left. McCrank’s pirates were much further back, terror reflecting in their own panicked eyes.

There was no terror in Octavia. She looked calm. Ready. With a gesture from her raised hands, the knight floated near, stopping only a short distance away. He struggled mightily against the princess’ hold. If she struggled in return, she did not show it.

“Who are you?” Octavia’s voice was somehow serene and thunderous all at once. It echoed not just around the throne room, but also within her own tones. It was as if a thousand voices just like hers were asking the same question.

The knight shook his head and managed a pained laugh. “You may destroy me, Octavia, but the others will find you. We have our orders, and by design—we enjoy nothing more than the thrill of executing them.”

Octavia tilted her head curiously. “By who’s design?”

The knight cackled briefly, but quickly succumbed to the pain of Octavia’s powerful hold. “They’ll never stop hunting you.”

Octavia straightened her back and seemed to loosen her Cursed grip on the knight momentarily. “Then I’ll destroy them too…”

Feeling the release, the knight snarled and lunged forward reaching desperately for Octavia’s fragile body. She sneered and spread her arms apart. The knight was subsequently ripped to pieces and the chunks of his broken body crumpled into little more than piles of blackened sand. The grains quickly flattened in on themselves and spread into larger shallower piles before lying still at last.

Octavia stood motionless for many seconds, her eyes peering into a void the others could not see. Cometessa quietly approached her and began to whisper gently into her ear.

Across the chamber Captain McCrank and a battered Suileabhain were helping one another limp back to the princess. Olaf had managed to sit up, witnessing the whole thing. His eyes were wide with shock, but he could not speak through constant, painful coughs.

Ansel limped swiftly to Octavia’s side and looked down at the girl—powerful energy was crackling all about her. Long strands of her two-toned hair were lifting into the air. The Oracle’s whispers came to a halt, and she glanced up at the towering Ansel. After a moment she nodded and backed away, signaling for the strange boy to take her place.

Ansel obliged and lowered himself down onto one knee. Looking directly into Octavia’s glowing orbs, he wrapped her in a great hug and held her for many seconds. Eventually, the vortex of energy surrounding them dissipated and her body relaxed.

“Ansel…?” Octavia asked gently.

The boy made an indecipherable gurgle and released his hold, leaning back and looking at her once more. She smiled with relief, pulling him back in close, before stepping away and scanning the room. Her eyes rested on each one of them.

“Thank you. Thank you all…” she nodded.

“Well…” Olaf’s voice had barely returned, and he had already pushed himself through to the center of the circle where he wiggled his way between McCrank and Suileabhain, resting a casual hand on each of their shoulders. “I couldn’t have done it all on my own.”

The small group collectively rolled their eyes and waved the sarcastic noble away. Suileabhain even went as far as to push him back out of the circle surrounding the princess. Octavia shook her head and turned on Cometessa. Her brilliant green eyes rested on her for many seconds. The Oracle did well not to wither under that gaze.

“You and I have a lot to discuss,” Octavia stated at last. “But I’ll begin taking your advice more seriously from now on. Our talk can wait until we’re back on The Shroud…”

Cometessa dipped her head respectfully and let Octavia move past her, turning and following the young woman as she led the way out of the throne room, the huge door once more grinding open with the knight, presumably the force behind the portal closing, reduced to dust.

They traveled in silence all the way back to the ship, most too afraid to speak in fear a second hellish warrior would materialize. Others were simply occupied processing the scene that had unfolded in Eathah’s throne room. And one in particular was distracted an entirely different way, listening to the sounds of the Sunken City—the dangerous allure of forgotten sorceries, brought to the light once more. And of her identity. Something she had been so certain of only a few short hours ago. Now, she wasn’t even sure she knew what she was, much less who…

18

CONTACT

Rhoric Amir and Honnel stood alone in the Viscount’s study. The room was unnecessarily large and filled to the brim with books and baubles as well as expensive paintings and other decorative trinkets. All things left behind after the former Viscount Ovidius’ sudden vacancy. It was a true testament to the man’s hubris—and people actually believe he should have taken responsibility for a whole kingdom! Rhoric Amir snorted derisively.

Honnel glanced up from his desk, which was practically buried by stacks of old books and letters. He eyed the Steward curiously. “Problem, Lord Steward?”

Rhoric Amir sighed and shook his head returning his mind and focus to the paper in his hand. It was delivered by an anonymous bird, but the words scrawled on the inside were quite serious. “Nothing, Honnel…Just reminiscing.”

“Indeed, my lord,” Honnel replied, shaking his sleeves out rather flamboyantly and dipping his quill into one of the many jars of ink sitting open on the desk. “Have you given that letter anymore thought?”

Rhoric Amir narrowed his eyes and breezed through the parchment one final time before setting it down carefully. The contents were minimal and hastily laid out. Whoever it was from, was claiming that they had Princess Octavia onboard and were heading for the Suthian Gap. If true, it was an irresistible opportunity to capture the girl—which is what made the Steward so hesitant.

“Suppose it’s a trap?” Rhoric Amir mused, sifting through dusty journals depicting the day-to-day life of the average nobleman.

Honnel shrugged. “What if it is? We need but send a single raven and we can dispatch as many soldiers from the Scorpion Legion as you please. If there are enemies lying in ambush they’ll be crushed.”

“Who do you reckon our little tip is from?” the Viscount continued curiously. “Surely not Suileabhain?”

Rhoric Amir chortled and set down the journal he was inspecting. “No—the mercenary is too proud to send an anonymous message, besides, he knows I’ll have him executed.”

The Steward crossed the huge study and began to tinker with an elevated map illustrating the known world. “If what Andreas Buth said is to be believed, then I think it’s far more likely that the letter is from this, Gregory McCrank—Captain of The Shroud.”

“Why would he sell the princess out?”

“Because he’s a pirate, Honnel!” Rhoric Amir shook his head, it was easy to forget his old body slave had no proper education besides what the Amir family had provided him—still, the Steward didn’t think he should have to explain this. “He senses the tides turning against Octavia. Perhaps, they failed to obtain whatever they were searching for in the Oval Islands. Or maybe he thinks we are the highest bidders—it hardly matters. There is no honor amongst such thieves…”

“Then Octavia is a fool to put such faith in them,” Honnel reasoned.

“Octavia is a young girl,” Rhoric Amir corrected, running his finger across the map somewhere in the Sunset Sea. “She’s likely not the one responsible for these decisions…No, these are the actions of a thug. Someone who feels safe amongst thieves.”

Honnel stopped waving his quill about momentarily as he considered the Steward’s words. “The assassin?”

Rhoric Amir was slowly nodding. “Yes. Yes, that has to be it. He’s taking her south where he’ll likely trade her to the Empire for a small fortune…”

“Then we can’t risk them making it through the Gap,” Honnel reasoned. “I should dispatch the raven at once.”

The Steward raised his hand, halting Honnel even as the smaller man scooted his heavy chair back. “It’s true. We can’t risk losing the girl. She’s the final piece of the puzzle we need for the ritual…”

“To welcome Thondel back into our world?” Honnel reasoned.

Rhoric Amir nodded dismissively. “Yes. Everything else has been gathered. All that remains is capturing the last of the line of Harth.”

Honnel looked confused. “Then why do we hesitate?”

The Steward carefully crossed his hands behind his back and looked east on the map to the Estuary Ford. “Do you trust Andreas Buth and his Titans?”

Honnel considered that for a moment. “He has no reason to lead us astray…he wants freedom for the legions. Only you can provide that.”

Rhoric Amir smirked. “I suspected you would say as much. I don’t blame you for not seeing it…”

“Seeing what?” Honnel now appeared thoroughly confused.

“A man playing the game hard,” the Steward answered cryptically. “Take for example his hollow threats regarding the purge of the Water District. He barely investigated the whole affair before rushing back to the Ford…He’s hiding something,” Rhoric insisted. “In my experience, with men like him, it’s only a matter of time before he overplays his hand…”

Honnel wasn’t so sure he agreed with the Steward, but he knew better than to voice his opinion on the matter. “Then would it be unwise to believe his tale? Perhaps, he never even saw Octavia or the Reaper. They could both be skeletons decorating the grounds of Chala. The Titan Commander may have used their names to force your unease?”

“Perhaps,” Rhoric Amir mused. “Or perhaps he’s in league with them…”

Silence followed his statement.

“Maybe it’s time to question that woman…?” Honnel remarked quietly, almost afraid to utter the words out loud.

“Soon,” was all Rhoric Amir would say regarding Joanne.

“And the Oracle?”

The Steward shook his head. “Ideally, I should have both for the ritual, but if it is to be only one then I’d prefer her healthy. No visit from me will speed her recovery.”

Honnel returned his quill to the jar of ink and nodded his understanding. “Shall I have the Titans watched?”

“That won’t be necessary,” Rhoric Amir assured. “Andreas is far too cunning to be so easily duped. Leave him for now.”

“Then our focus is the Suthian Gap?” Honnel asked. “There are of course other matters that may require your attention. Though the situation in Brumex has improved drastically since the bishop’s arrival, the Benidary Purists have gained more traction in smaller cities across the kingdom—and even here in the capital…They threaten civil war.”

Rhoric Amir chuckled under his breath.

“Is that somehow funny, my lord?”

“There’s not a Benidary left alive in whose name to rebel, the last one just became a Harth…Still, they would force war…Why can’t they see I’m trying to help them?”

Honnel sighed and began shaking his head, trying to form a response. Before he could manage a word, the door to the study burst open and a Candor scout rushed in. He was flanked closely by two of Rhoric Amir’s royal guards—the rest waited just outside.

“Soldier?” the Steward asked curiously, turning to regard the pale scout.

The scout unloaded a heavy looking sack off his shoulder and set it down on the floor before both Honnel and Rhoric Amir. Then he pulled a plain envelope out of his pocket and presented it to the Steward. Rhoric Amir took it.

“There’s nothing inside this envelope?” He said with a confused expression. Honnel stood up now and approached the sack slowly, a terrified look creeping into his eyes.

“No, there’s not,” the Candor scout confirmed. “But it’s addressed to you—and was attached to the sack when we found it. Strapped to a gelding roaming the plains to the east…Maybe the bag’s contents will make more sense to you…”

Rhoric Amir leaned down close to the sack. A sickening smell clued him into what he would find inside. He glanced up and over his shoulder at Honnel. The Viscount gulped nervously but offered no insight.

The Steward sighed and unfastened the knot holding the sack closed. As the tie came loose, a head came rolling out onto the study floor. After a quick peek inside, he realized the bag was filled with even more heads—all formerly attached to women.

Rhoric Amir slowly stood back up and dusted his hands off absently. “What do you make of this Honnel?”

The Viscount gulped again and tried to answer, though his voice was shaky, “I recognize this woman…S-she works for an organization of assassins called—called the Hyenas…”

Rhoric Amir’s face twisted angrily, but his voice remained calm, if not threatening, “Explain…”

Another gulp from the Viscount. “You recall our conversation after Lord Andreas left us, the day Fortitude came limping back into port?”

Rhoric Amir nodded, his thick brow furling furiously.

“You told me to form a contingency plan in case this pirate ship carrying the princess and assassin should weigh anchor along the northern coast…”

“I’m aware of what I said!” the Steward snapped.

“Yes, yes,” Honnel continued quickly, his tone betraying the fear in him, a shiver running up his spine. “Well, when word from our mole came in from the Tips divulging information on a character matching the Reaper’s description…I thought I would go one step further and find a solution…”

“Please, don’t tell me you were that foolish…” Rhoric Amir whispered with disgust.

Honnel looked on the verge of tears. “I invested some of the royal vault, a trivial amount truly, into a bounty pot for the Reaper’s head…These women, the Hyenas, were the first to answer the call…”

The Steward shouted with outrage and clenched his fists angrily, looking up to the ceiling questioningly. “Thondel, why Honnel?! I meant for you to scramble a legion—increase security along the coasts or send mercenary ships to scour the beaches. Not hire assassins!”

“My lord?” The Viscount stuttered.

“And a bunch of women no less!” the Steward roared, angrily kicking the woman’s severed head across the room where it thudded against Honnel’s heavy desk.

“Th-they came highly recommended,” the Viscount sputtered, barely able to form a coherent sentence. “A-and I assumed their sexual appeal would only aid in cornering the Reaper. You yourself have often stated that many a man’s weakness is a woman…”

Rhoric Amir snarled and grabbed Honnel by the shirt, lifting him and pinning him against a bookshelf. The smaller man broke into tears and shied away from the Steward’s threatening gaze. The Candor scout and royal guard both stood by attentively, neither moving to aid the Viscount.

After many long, painful seconds the rage left Rhoric Amir’s eyes and he slowly lowered a quivering Honnel back to the floor. The burly Steward turned away and began to methodically rub either side of his face.

“His weakness is a woman…One we already have…” Rhoric Amir explained quietly, calm having returned to his tone. “You sent those women to their deaths. Assassins will always fail against him. There’s a reason I picked him after all—he’s the best of them all. No one knows killing like, Grim. He’s mastered it.”

Honnel quietly tried to regain his composure, but he was still shaking violently.

“One good thing has come out of this, at least,” Rhoric Amir continued carefully. “We know where he is…”

“And therefore, The Shroud…?” Honnel reasoned.

“No!” the Steward interjected sharply. “We can’t assume anything…Grim may never have stepped foot on that ship. For all we know he’s been hiding out in the Tips since Chala.”

Honnel meticulously straightened his shirt, finding some of his old gusto. “That would mean Lord Andreas has lied about much…”

“Indeed.” Rhoric Amir silently stroked his beard, while his eyes remained fixated on the sack of severed heads in the middle of the floor.

“If assassins won’t work,” the Viscount asked hesitantly, “Then how are we to deal with Grim?”

After a few more seconds of careful consideration, Rhoric Amir answered, “Fragile Joanne is still our greatest bargaining chip…He will not strike me directly if he cannot get to her first.”

“The guards on my daughters will have to be doubled,” the Steward continued. “As well as yourself. My own elite guard should suffice should he decide to risk attacking me personally. Inform the rest of the Candor Legion and increase their scouts along the coast. If he moves, I want to know!”

Honnel appeared very concerned with the Steward’s orders. “Then your action would be…inaction?”

Rhoric Amir smirked. “In some ways, Grim is very similar to Andreas…We would be wise to let them make the first move and stumble. That is why the assassin would risk sending this message—he wants to draw us out. As it stands, we hold all the power…He’s just a desperate murderer, alone in the wild.”

The Viscount was nodding, finally grasping Rhoric Amir’s point. He looked back up, concern once more present on his face. “Then what of the anonymous message we received? Are we to do nothing as well?”

The Steward’s smirk turned into a full grin, and he glanced back to the elevated map across the study. “No, dear Honnel. That, I believe we will have to take the initiative on…”

The two men leaned in close, and the Steward quietly relayed his plan to the Viscount whilst carefully illustrating it on the map. When Rhoric Amir at last retired for the night, he was confident that Honnel would not fail him again. The plot would reveal itself perfectly…and all the opposition would be caught in his net…

19

COUNCIL OF THE CURSED PRINCESS

The group of seven huddled around the circular table in the middle of Captain McCrank’s cabin. Countless maps and treasures littered the room. Swords from a dozen different lands adorned the concave walls and there was even a full set of royal imperial armor displayed in a corner behind the captain’s chair. Silence filled the remainder of the room.

“Well,” Olaf started, breaking the stillness in the air with a low whistle. “This is nice. Everyone together, deciding the fate of the world.”

“Shut up, Olaf,” Captain McCrank grumbled, before turning to address Octavia. “Princess, you requested this meeting. I gather your restored memories may have given you some new insight into the armored warrior that attacked the ship?”

Princess Octavia sat across the table from Gregory McCrank and his regal captain’s chair, but she easily matched his presence. Her intense green gaze remained trained on the Oracle, who sat diagonal from her, even as she responded to the pirate’s question. “Not as far as the why, no. But his name is Hyram—formerly he commanded the Legion of the Crows. He should have died fighting them when they turned on my family.”

“Should have?” Suileabhain chipped in. Octavia had been hesitant at allowing him a seat at this table, but he had proven himself time after time in battle, and no one had knowledge of their true enemy like he did. “Hmmm, your family was always very dedicated to keeping the identities of the Crows a secret…”

Octavia shrugged. “It turns out, even with my memories returned to me, I was not directly privy to his fate…But no one could have made it out of there alive.”

“You did…” Suileabhain began to counter, but Octavia cut him short.

“You were not there, mercenary! Believe me—what you witnessed during the storm on the Ein does not so much as hold a candle to the smoldering flame that was this memory.”

Suileabhain held up his hands in defeat. The young princess seemed much less young, now that she was once more burdened with the weight of her past. She practically radiated noble air.

Silence followed, and the tension between Cometessa and Octavia continued to build. At last, it was Yolanda who broke the stalemate, “So, explain to me again this ghostly warrior you were attacked by within Eathah?”

The group collectively shuddered as they recalled their harrowing encounter with the near invincible wraith. Ansel even covered his face with his spindly hands.

“Perhaps, our Oracle friend can shed some light on that?” McCrank reasoned, gesturing to the beautiful woman.

Cometessa finally broke eye contact with Octavia and shook her head regretfully. “Admittedly, I know precious little regarding Eathah…Only that nothing but a Harth may reveal its secrets.”

Unanimously the eyes around the table shifted back to Octavia. Unsurprisingly, she handled the attention well. “How long have you known my true identity?” the princess asked plainly.

Cometessa nodded. “Not long. The soldiers you encountered on Sawn—they came seeking the name of the last Harth. It wasn’t until my sister, and I performed the ritual for them that I learned of your surname.”

Yolanda narrowed her eyes. The Oracle was withholding something—Yolanda had a knack for deducing such things. She did not openly accuse Cometessa of keeping secrets, but she did make a subtle gesture to Gregory McCrank who in turn gestured back, indicating he understood. Olaf, absent-minded as he often was, somehow managed to catch the entire exchange. He too, kept quiet for a change.

“Why is Rhoric Amir searching for a Harth?” Octavia asked quietly.

Most of the table turned to regard the mad mercenary. Suileabhain shrugged in turn. “How should I know what the narcissistic bastard should want? Perhaps, he’s simply securing his position and rooting out potential challengers before they become a problem. He hunted you down for that very reason after all.”

Olaf snickered. “I can only imagine how furious he’ll be when he finds out he has to kill you again to finish off a different royal bloodline.”

Octavia was less amused than Olaf and fixed him with her withering gaze.

“Sorry…” the boy apologized meekly.

“Ugh.” McCrank rolled his eyes at the childish noble, then turned to Suileabhain. “Come on you golden thug, think! You must know something.”

Suileabhain shook his head slowly. “No…No, I was not part of Rhoric Amir’s inner circle. I was simply his bully. A boogey man to ensure his plans went off without a hitch.”

“Well, you did an outstanding job with that, let me tell you,” Olaf piped back up sarcastically.

“Shut your mouth boy!” Suileabhain huffed. “You’re the tyrant’s own flesh and blood, why don’t you tell us what he’s up to?”

Olaf shot up, launching his chair back into the wall as he did. “No, no, no! You made it very clear—Rhoric Amir is no father of mine. Remember?”

“Aye,” Suileabhain shouted, leaping up to match Olaf’s glare, “I remember, bastard.”

“Do you want to take this outside, old man?” Olaf growled.

“It would be my exquisite pleasure…” the mercenary responded smugly.

“Enough!” Octavia shouted. Both men turned, regarding her with wide eyes. Energy crackled menacingly about her. “Both of you, sit back down—now!”

Simultaneously, Olaf and Suileabhain dropped back into their chairs without another peep. Across the table, Yolanda chuckled through an immense grin.

“Dumbasses,” McCrank whispered under his breath.

The static energy around Octavia slowly faded and Ansel quietly peeked back out from behind his tightly threaded fingers.

“So,” McCrank continued, carefully. “We gained nothing from coming here…”

“No,” Cometessa was quick to correct. “We gained quite a lot, actually. I was truthful when I said, Octavia must come here to regain her memories. It was powerful Cursed energy that was blocking her thoughts and I have heard legends of Eathah’s restorative properties. It will be much safer now to train Octavia in fully controlling her powers…”

Suileabhain’s silence was short lived, angrily breaking into protest, “You mean to say, that altar could have cured me as well?”

Cometessa was already knowingly shaking her head. “No. Like the entrance—the throne room only responds to the call of a Harth. Which leads me to the second reason I guided you here Octavia…” She focused her gaze on the princess. “I had to know if it was true. If you really were a Harth.”

“Satisfied?” Octavia asked bitterly.

Cometessa nodded. “I am. But are you? What will you do now that your lineage has shifted. Do you seek to stay the course?”

Octavia hesitated only for a moment, before she answered confidently. “My goal remains the same. Whether I am a Benidary or a Harth, Osiris was my father—the man who raised me. I will retake his kingdom and avenge the treachery against him.”

The Oracle smiled warmly. “That is a very wise and mature answer. All the same, I think it would be best if your true identity did not leave this council of friends.” She turned to Gregory McCrank. “I trust you can keep your crew quiet, Captain?”

McCrank nodded. “They have no care for the intricacies of royal lineage,” he explained, far too confidently. “They just want to get paid…”

Cometessa nodded her approval. “I’m sure you have already agreed on something quite lucrative with the princess?”

Octavia cut in before McCrank could respond, “Commander Eriana negotiated a steep price on my behalf, but I’m confident I’ll be able to pay fifty percent up front the moment we take Brumex from the Steward…”

Captain McCrank dipped his head respectfully. “Then you still intend to take the Suthian Gap and travel east to Brumex?”

“Of course,” Octavia replied sharply. “The Wolves will be waiting to rendezvous with us, and I don’t intend to keep Commander Eriana in the dark.”

McCrank was quietly nodding even as she finished speaking. “It’s just…You’ve been through a lot these past weeks, Princess. Judging by the wraith’s warning…It’s not likely to let up.”

“Enemies hide in every shadow, Captain,” Octavia responded bluntly. “But if we run or call it off without even trying…then we lose anyway. I don’t know what that wraith spoke of—for all we know it could have been a dated Harthian construct and of little significance…but I’d still rather die fighting, just short of the mark than live a hundred years under the oppressing thumb of a tyrant.”

The cabin was silent. All eyes rested on Octavia, even a few mouths hung ajar. The young woman’s charisma was startlingly powerful. Even Ansel’s back seemed to straighten after her words. Olaf snorted and released a short chuckle.

“Amused?” Octavia asked coolly.

Olaf shook his head. “It’s just…You sound like, Grim.”

Taken off guard, Octavia quietly looked away and regained her composure. When she looked back her emerald eyes blazed determinedly. “Brumex is still over a month’s voyage away—and that’s assuming we don’t run into anymore sea monsters.”

Captain McCrank grinned and rose from his chair, bowing gracefully. “The Shroud can make it in just under four weeks—and no damn sea monster will catch her with an eastbound tailwind filling our sails.”

“It’s settled then,” Cometessa confirmed, resting her hands in her lap elegantly. “Fate awaits us all.”

With that the council dispersed, leaving only Cometessa, Octavia and Ansel behind in the captain’s impressive quarters.

“I’ll begin your training in the morning,” the Oracle stated flatly.

Octavia did not acknowledge the woman’s words, instead she asked a question, “Did you know?”

Cometessa tilted her head curiously.

“Did you know what your little prophecy would push my father to do—what would happen to us?” Octavia gestured to include Ansel.

“Yes,” the Oracle’s answer was genuine, and she did not elaborate further.

“But you told him anyway?”

“I warned King Osiris of the dangers of far sight…He did not listen. They never do.”

“And have you foreseen my death?” Octavia asked calmly.

Cometessa shook her head honestly. “No. Try as I might, the future is hidden from me. I haven’t been able to read it since the night the great lights flashed above the lands of Harth…When you entered Eathah that was the last vision my far sight had revealed to me. My other visions have all expired. The future is as much a mystery to me as it is to you…I feel blind.”

Octavia nodded slowly. “You’re not blind…You’re just human, like me.”

Cometessa arched a slender eyebrow. “Don’t be so quick to assume, girl. There is still much about this world and its residents that you do not know.”

“Then teach me.”

The Oracle smiled and her eyes shifted to include Ansel. “I will. I’ll teach you both.”

Ansel murmured happily and quietly pressed his hands together.

“And Olaf?” Octavia asked seriously.

Cometessa grinned. “The boy is full of talent there’s no denying that. Still, though I can no longer see the future, I don’t think Curses will find themselves in his repertoire of weapons…”

Octavia thought the Oracle’s choice of words were curious, but she pressed the matter no further. Instead, she took Ansel’s arm and let the boy escort her out of Captain McCrank’s hoard filled cabin. The events of the day had exhausted her and channeling the Cursed energy was no easy feat. She was certain sleep would take her swiftly tonight.

Captain McCrank watched as Octavia and her huge, bumbling shadow disappeared below deck. All of the strays had retired for the night—all but, Olaf. The boy sat far away. All the way on the other side of the ship from McCrank. He was perched on the bowsprit, watching the red tinted horizon fading to black as darkness took the sea, and night enveloped The Shroud. McCrank chuckled and shook his head.

“You like him, don’t you?”

Yolanda’s voice startled McCrank, but he did well not to show it. She had snuck up on him at the helm, as she often did. He glanced over his shoulder to regard the beautiful archer. “Like him? Every time he speaks, I want to drown him in saltwater.”

Yolanda smirked. “You like him.”

McCrank chuckled. “He does remind me a bit of a younger me—far less strapping and able, but his rebellious nature at the very least…I’m sure it’s not easy for him. Plotting against his father…”

Yolanda shot the man a knowing look and he returned her gaze with a wolfish grin. They said nothing more for a time. The sun had fully disappeared behind the waves when she piped back up. “So, the Suthian Gap?”

“Aye,” McCrank replied with a knowing nod. “It seems all of the cards have fallen into our hands…”

“Taking Brumex, starting a rebellion—those will be monumental tasks…”

“We’d go down in legend…” Gregory McCrank whispered absently.

“Perhaps,” Yolanda remarked with a shrug. “Hopefully, it won’t be the one about Rhoric Amir squashing the Benidary revolution and hanging her pirate friends at the gallows…”

McCrank’s tone remained surprisingly serious, despite his First Mate’s joke. “I’m not sure why, but I could see her pulling this whole thing off…”

Yolanda grinned. “She really inspired you with that little speech, didn’t she?”

“I saw your face, Yol…You felt it as well.”

“Aye,” Yolanda admitted, “I felt it. But she’s up against a lot, and without her Reaper. I’m not sure how much more she can take…”

“I think she has a new protector now…” McCrank nodded discreetly to the young man at the bowsprit.

“The boy?” Yolanda asked with an amused grin.

“You weren’t there, love.” McCrank tempered his First Mate’s scornful expression. “Stunned as my body was, I could barely sit up…But I watched that boy battling the wraith in Eathah. He nearly defeated it alone.”

“The assassin trained him well,” Yolanda reasoned.

“Hmmm,” McCrank mused. “Of that I have no doubt, but this was more than training. Sword fighting is in his blood…”

Yolanda nodded slowly. “It sounds like we’re going to be disappointing the Steward at the Suthian Gap…”

Captain McCrank smiled, gently twisting the wheel. “I haven’t made up my mind yet—the title privateer does have a nice ring to it.”

“And how about traitor?”

The captain shrugged. “Eh, not my first time…”

Both pirates broke into cheery laughter. They joked and told stories late into the night, nothing but the cold serenity of the Sunset Sea dancing about them.

From the bowsprit, Olaf listened to the sounds of their distant merriment. He had come out here with the intention of eavesdropping, but in truth, he stopped caring hours ago. The young Amir was lost in thought, his mind carefully dissecting the events of the day…

Olaf did not retire to his cabin until the eastern horizon had begun turning pink with the rising sun. Even then sleep did not find him for many hours…

20

STRENGTH OF THE PACK

Eriana leaned over the flimsy wooden table, quickly sifting through parchment. These were all documents her scouts and runners had lifted off the streets. For several weeks now, her legion had carefully been collecting any such documents they could get their hands on. Letters, notes, invoices—anything with a signature on it. She knew information was flowing through Brumex and she was determined to absorb as much of that crucial knowledge as possible.

The Wolf Commander was in a dimly lit, circular chamber. The room was completely made of old stone and bricks, and connected to a network of other such rooms, some smaller than this and others much larger. The sound of constant water dripping occupied the stagnant air, and the muffled sounds of the bustling city could be heard through ventilation and drainage grates far above.

For all of its lackluster appeal, this place had become her home and the Wolves’ forward operating base for many weeks now. It was the elaborate, yet mostly unused, sewers beneath the city.

When Brumex had been built, the storm drains were necessary for siphoning water out of the city when the Einrill swelled during the Summer. Nowadays, however, the river rarely raged that high and the sewers had been all but abandoned, with nothing but the occasional adventurous teenagers finding their way down here.

The tunnels stretched and weaved for miles underneath the city and even the Wolves hadn’t explored them all yet. Still, they had served their purpose excellently and the rebel legion had managed to make great use of the sewer system thus far. They could strike devastating blows against the Lions, who occupied the city, and disappear within minutes. Plus, the tunnels were expansive enough they could hide and shelter all five hundred of Eriana’s Wolves. They had even discovered an underwater passage that led beneath Brumex’s outer wall!

After a few weeks in the city, they had quickly realized they were not alone in their efforts to upset the balance of power here. Just as Saefong had warned, the Purists were definitely hiding amongst the shadows, wreaking chaos in their own ways as well.

Eriana was a seasoned strategist, and she knew without a doubt that their efforts would be much more effective if they were combined against the Lions and the powers that be within Brumex. Especially, if they could unite under one banner before Princess Octavia arrived in the city. The only problem was, the Purists were impossible to track.

Somehow, they were moving throughout the city like ghosts! They were even more elusive than the Wolves and so far, it had been hopeless trying to make contact with them. She would have had more luck tracking down Baron Hazladeos and determining where the Steward’s agents had dumped him after Tarvidios relieved him of power in Brumex. Thanks to the letters and other information the Wolves had been stockpiling though—this was all about to change.

If the notes the Purists had been exchanging were to be believed, then they were planning an attempt on Bishop Tarvidios’ life. He would be speaking today in the Brume Town Square, and she seriously doubted the Purists would pass up this opportunity to execute their plan. With any luck, she and her Wolves would be able to intercept the rebels before they could assassinate the bishop.

Eriana had multiple, very compelling reasons to prevent this from happening. For starters, Bishop Tarvidios dying as a martyr before Octavia could even announce her survival to the kingdom, would only make her coup more difficult. Secondly, the bishop’s assassination wasn’t even in the cards for the Wolf Commander…She needed the man alive and well for him to uphold his end of their prior arrangement.

She intended to reach out to Saefong before the scheduled speech—not that she thought he would have any difficulties repelling any attempts on the bishop’s life, but because she didn’t believe in leaving anything to chance. Especially something this important. The more the Shadow Dragon knew the better.

Eriana was just compiling the last of the information indicating there would be an attack from the Purists, when she heard a knock on the arched stone portal that framed the entrance into this chamber. She glanced over her shoulder and was met with Etticus’ smiling face.

“Good morning, Commander,” the Eagle greeted her warmly.

“Commander,” she responded in kind, offering the man a casual salute. “What news do the scouts bring?”

“Oh, something foul indeed,” Etticus said dramatically, screwing up his face with mock disgust.

Eriana arched her brow and tilted her head. “Etticus, I don’t have time for these games—out with it. What do you have for me?”

Etticus laughed disarmingly and then stepped to the side, bowing, and sweeping his hand out in front of him. “Have it your way, Eriana—look what we found lurking around the outskirts of town.”

In the empty space Etticus had left behind, another man stepped around the corner to fill it. That man was Orion, Wolf Captain, and finest fencer in all the lands. He saluted the woman smartly and bared his teeth in a huge grin.

“Orion!” Eriana exclaimed happily. She dropped her stack of parchment and rushed forward, wrapping the man in a great bear hug. Desperately, he pleaded for air, until she at last released him and stepped back to look him over. “I’m glad you made the journey safely, old friend. Yours was the last group to depart from Chala?”

Orion nodded, though his grin had faded. “Indeed, just as planned. We were fortunate—the temperatures never dropped too low, and we managed to avoid any run ins with the established legions…” He paused and his eyes drifted to the splintered shield mounted on the wall just behind Eriana’s desk. “Etticus already told me…It’s a damn shame about Borris. There’s precious few as loyal and robust as he was.”

Eriana shook her head with disgust, her own eyes following Orion’s to the shield. “It’s a damn shame we’re still here, fighting our own kind while the real enemy kills as they please…Bloody waste of time this is.” She gestured all about her as if to indicate the city of Brumex itself.

Orion nodded, his jaw firm with resolution. “We’ll honor Borris on the battlefield—and when the day comes, we’ll take the fight to the Drul.”

Silence followed the man’s words and the three friends stood in mutual respect for many moments. At last, Eriana waved to Etticus. “Would you mind giving us the room, Commander?”

Etticus nodded. “Of course. I’ll begin readying the legion for today’s assignment.”

With that, the former Eagle Commander about-faced and marched away into the quiet tunnel ahead, disappearing into the stuffy darkness. When they were both certain he was out of earshot, Orion spoke up, but Eriana was answering his question even as he asked it.

“Does he know?”

“No.”

“Thondel, Eriana—you’ve been shouldering that burden all on your own? Why not just tell him already. We can trust Etticus.”

“No!” Eriana replied sharply, turning to collect her letters once more. “You really think he would understand? He was not there. He’s not a Wolf. He could never see it the way we do.”

“We didn’t have a choice!” Orion countered quietly. “If we just explain the situation to him, I’m certain he would under—”

“He would understand nothing!” Eriana angrily interjected. “He would label us both traitors and defect in the same day.”

Orion quietly contemplated Eriana’s response. “You say that like you think we are traitors…”

“I don’t know what we are…” Eriana admitted in a whisper. “I’m just trying to do the right thing…”

Orion slowly approached the woman and laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. She glanced at it, but then returned to her papers. After many moments she spoke.

“It was him you know…Not just any old Drul.”

“I figured as much,” Orion responded quietly, tilting his head toward the shield on the wall. “I recognize the blade pattern on Borris’ shield.”

“He gave us a new deadline…”

Orion took a cautious step back and met Eriana’s gaze. “When?”

“The Season of Rebirth…”

“Spring?!” Orion’s jaw dropped.

“The Equinox.”

“Six months…” The Wolf Captain breathed. “That’s not enough time.”

“It’s going to have to be,” Eriana replied somberly. “After Octavia takes Brumex, we’ll have to move on the capital almost immediately.”

“If Octavia takes Brumex…”

“She will,” Eriana stated confidently. “Saefong is already here in the city.”

“Really?” Orion’s shock quickly faded. “Always efficient that one…Still, I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors coming out of the north?”

“Yes…” Eriana answered cryptically.

“They’re calling it the massacre of Sawn,” Orion stated hesitantly. “You don’t think she was involved in that, do you?”

Eriana turned to regard her captain with a careful eye. “I think we both know who was involved in that…”

“How long is the Shadomuria warrior going to be willing to work with us when our prospective queen can’t even control her dog?”

“Saefong already said he would deal with Grim if necessary…”

“Really?” Orion scratched his chin thoughtfully. “He’d kill the assassin. Do you reckon he could do it?”

Eriana grinned knowingly. “I reckon he could. But you can always ask him yourself—I’m going to meet him now.”

The two Wolf officers ventured deep into the sewers, traveling far past the points at which Eriana had posted any sentries. It was hard to tell for certain, but Orion felt like they were slowly traveling uphill. Despite that, the tunnels grew darker, and it felt like this part of the labyrinth received even less visitors than underneath Brume.

“Where are we?” Orion asked curiously, glancing up at a slit of daylight far above.

“We’re underneath the central city,” Eriana answered quietly, not bothering to look up as well. “True Brumex. Likely close to the coliseum…”

“Fascinating,” Orion breathed. “Is there no record of these tunnels?”

“Plenty of recordings,” Eriana quickly replied. “Hidden in public documents detailing the original construction of the city. Blueprints…”

Orion grinned and shook his head, amused. “Hiding in plain sight. Impressive as always, Commander.”

Eriana nodded graciously but said nothing more. After only a few more brief seconds of silence they arrived in a small, circular chamber with several tunnels forking away from it. The room was gloomy, but still visible.

“Is this the place?”

“This is the place,” Eriana confirmed quietly.

Orion nodded thoughtfully and glanced around the dimly lit chamber. “How long do you usually wait?”

“He’s always here first,” Eriana replied, her eyes focused on the darkness swirling in the tunnels leading away from the chamber.

Orion glanced around the empty chamber once more. “Not today…”

As if on cue, Saefong emerged from the dark outside of the chamber. He approached them confidently. His footsteps made no noise, and he offered no greeting, stopping a sword’s length from the pair of Wolves.

Eriana nodded ever so slightly. Orion did not, choosing to turn his nose up at the Shadomuria warrior. He would never admit it, but he was incredibly unsettled in the presence of this man. The sooner this meeting was concluded the better.

“Saefong,” Eriana quietly acknowledged. “You recall my captain, Orion?” She gestured to the fencer.

The warrior did not stir. He appeared calm—steady. “Yes.”

“Right,” Eriana continued quietly, after a pause. Subconsciously, she rubbed her palms together. “I wouldn’t call you all the way down here without good reason. The bishop intends to address the city today?”

“That is correct.” Still no movement or even a flicker of emotion from the shadow wreathed warrior.

“There’s going to be an attack…My Wolves have intercepted Purist messages. I’m certain they’ll make an attempt on Tarvidios’ life today.”

Saefong nodded once. “I understand.” He pivoted and began to exit the chamber.

Orion glanced at Eriana. “Is he serious?”

Eriana began to wave her captain down, shaking her head, but he spoke before the words could leave her mouth.

“Hey! Shadow Dragon.”

Saefong stopped in an instant and glanced back. He didn’t utter a word.

“That’s it then?” Orion asked with an exaggerated shrug. “Nothing for us? What kind of partnership is this?”

“Drop it, Captain,” Eriana whispered through the corner of her lips.

Saefong slowly rotated all the way back around to face the Wolves once more. “It is the kind of partnership where we save this crumbling kingdom of yours, defeat the monsters that have killed so many of our people, and you Wolves get to go home to your academy…Do you want to go home, Captain?”

Orion couldn’t help a shiver running up his spine. The man did not appear special. He was of average height and build, yet his simple words carried more weight than a king’s decree. “Yes,” he replied quietly. “I would like to go home.”

Saefong nodded. “So would I—and yet, I cannot go home. Not until the crow beast is dead…”

Orion nodded in return, bowing his head apologetically, but offered no words. Eriana spoke in his stead, “I’m sorry, Saefong. My captain forgets himself in the heat of the moment…You have lost as much as any of us.”

Saefong dipped his head ever so slightly in acknowledgement, but he did not turn to leave. Eriana tilted her head curiously.

“He moved the deadline up…” Orion stated suddenly, though Saefong surely already knew as much.

“Yes,” Saefong responded, some callousness slipping into his tone. “Young Octavia will have to be ready to take the city upon her arrival…and then march on the capital soon after.”

“We’ve discussed this…” Eriana quietly tempered the man’s words.

“Not enough,” Saefong countered.

“We can’t force Octavia’s hand,” Eriana quickly reasoned.

“I can force her hand,” Saefong assured confidently, and without so much as an ounce of boastfulness.

“That’s not how we do things here…” Eriana replied, but even her tone lacked commitment now.

“Then that is good,” Saefong reasoned. “How you Harthians do things is why we are in this conflict to begin with.”

“To be honest, I don’t see you coming within a hundred yards of Octavia with her Reaper still at large.” Orion’s words were not meant to be provoking, but they surely were.

“That’s enough, Captain!” Eriana turned and hissed through gritted teeth.

“No,” Saefong responded, his tone still devoid of any ire. “The captain makes an excellent point. Octavia Benidary will be impossible to influence as long as this ‘assassin’ is by her side. I’ll execute him on sight.”

Eriana swirled back to the Shadomuria warrior. “You will not! Believe me, I want him dead as well, but if you kill him without reason Octavia will never work with you…”

“Without reason?!” At last, some anger crept into Saefong’s tone. It was an intimidating thing and only made the warrior seem more dangerous. “Like the crow beast, he massacred a village. Only, this one was in the north. He is the one who kills without reason. Your Reaper is a rabid Harthian dog…He must be put down.”

Silence followed the warrior’s very serious declaration of death, and Eriana was happy to leave it at that when Orion abruptly spoke back up. “That’s some pretty big talk from a guy who lost all his comrades to a Harthian dog…”

“Not another word!” Eriana growled, turning, and grabbing Orion’s collar. She brought her face within an inch of his and her eyes shifted back and forth, studying his cold expression. She pushed him away. “Get your ass back to the assembly chamber, before I relieve you of your duty, Captain!”

Orion met Eriana’s eyes and shook his head disapprovingly, but ultimately backed away out of respect for the woman and left the chamber the same way they had entered.

Eriana calmed her breathing and slowly turned back to Saefong. The warrior was discreetly releasing the hilts of his katanas. The redheaded woman breathed a shaky sigh of relief. “Forgive my captain for his words and actions…We’ve been through a lot. I’ve never doubted his loyalty.”

“I don’t doubt his loyalty,” the Shadomuria warrior answered cryptically. He then turned and began to leave the chamber once more. Before he disappeared into the gloomy tunnel beyond, he offered a few parting words, “Do what you must today, Wolf. But if these Purists become a threat…I will not hesitate to slay them all.”

“I understand,” Eriana replied quietly dipping her head. By the time she looked up the man was already gone.

The Wolf commander had stood alone with her thoughts for but a moment, before turning and following Orion into the tunnel they had entered through. She barely made it into the next chamber when her marching feet ground to an abrupt stop. Her heart sank and her jaw hung slack.

There in the adjacent chamber, Orion stood shaking his head at a loss. Beside the captain was commander Etticus, who’s own face reflected Eriana’s shock. He opened and closed his mouth many times, trying and failing to form a sentence.

At last, Orion spoke up in the Eagle’s stead, “He heard everything, Eriana…Everything.”

“Why?” Etticus managed to stammer, his tone laced with confusion. “Why do this Eriana?”

“You shouldn’t have followed us Etticus…” Eriana replied quietly, her fingers dancing on the pommel of her sheathed sword.

Etticus shook his head slowly. “The men are scared Eriana…they whisper of you meeting secretly with a shadow from the south. I had to find out if it was true…”

“It would seem they are correct,” the Wolf commander responded evenly, carefully gauging the man’s next reaction.

Etticus shifted uneasily, but he did not leap to conclusions. “I’ve grown to trust you, Eriana…but I need to know that we’re still on the right side—that the tales you’ve told me are true and that you’re not the traitor Rhoric Amir claims you are.”

Eriana did not immediately respond. She glanced at the ground and was briefly lost in thought. When she looked back up, she was nodding determinedly. “They think we’re all crazy, Etticus…That the hell we endured in the east was an elaborate scheme to—to what? Take the throne? Throw the kingdom into chaos?”

“Aid the southern empire in a full-scale invasion of our lands?” Etticus’ abrupt and accusatory claim stopped Eriana mid-sentence. Orion shifted uncomfortably and carefully put some extra space between him and the former Eagle commander in case he was forced to draw his rapier.

Eriana remained surprisingly calm. “Do you believe I would betray my oath, Etticus?”

Etticus thought for some time, but eventually his face softened. “No. No, I don’t believe you would do that.”

Eriana nodded her appreciation for the man. “I only seek to protect Harth from the true threat. The enemy to the east…and to save my remaining Wolves.”

“Is that not what we intend to do?” Etticus asked, his tone growing in confusion and frustration once more. “Was that not our plan with Octavia? Why involve the empire at all?”

Eriana was already shaking her head. “Would you put the fate of Harth in the hands of a little girl, without even knowing her intentions?”

“She’s the heir to the throne,” Etticus argued. “What choice do we have?”

“Our duty goes beyond kings and queens!” Eriana shot back. “Why do you think a legion reserves the right of Domakili? Why is only one allowed to cross into the Capital at one time? You and me—” she gestured to Etticus and herself. “We hold more power than kings and queens—but we must know when to use it…”

“What are you saying, Eriana?” Etticus’ eyes were wide with concern.

“I pray to Thondel, Octavia can ascend to the throne of Harth and when the time comes, she’ll not hesitate to march on the Drul—but if she cannot…My Wolves will be ready.”

Etticus posed like a statue for many seconds, digesting the gravity of her words. Eriana and Orion both stood ready, watching his eyes flicker, prepared to draw weapons against him if they must…

At last, Etticus seemed to relax, and he released a long breath he had subconsciously been holding. Nodding, the man looked up and met Eriana’s gaze. “I believe you Eriana. I believe the Drul are out there. Your words remind me that our loyalties are not to an inherit ruler or lineage…they are to the land and the people. I will follow you to whatever end. But there can be no more secrets between us…tell me everything.”

Eriana nodded respectfully. Her eyes glistened with renewed hope. “I will. But, I’ll have to start from the beginning…”

21

BROKEN OATH

Eastharth, sometime in the closing weeks of Autumn, three hundred and twenty odd days earlier than the present.

Two warriors stood atop the collapsing Halladellian ruin. Their boots were crowded by the torn bodies of Saefong’s comrades. The sun was slowly peaking over the green and golden leaves of the surrounding woods. Their eyes were locked, glistening like the droplets of morning dew that hung from every blade of grass, protruding from the cracks littering the stone roof.

They were not so different from one another and yet, came from two very different places. Saefong’s grip tightened and, inhaling and releasing a sharp breath, he lunged for the Harthian woman who had denied him an honorable death.

Eriana growled and met the Shadomuria warrior’s charge. Even with only one katana he struck with overwhelming speed, and she was forced onto her heels in an instant. Sparks flew from cold steel and her forearms ached from the stress of deflecting so many of Saefong’s thunderous blows so quickly.

“This is madness!” Eriana pleaded, sneaking a kick in to try and break the man’s unrelenting assault.

Saefong checked the kick with his own leg without ever losing forward momentum. He drove the woman back like a spooked horse, herding her toward the edge of the flat roof, where she would have nowhere left to retreat.

Realizing Saefong’s intent, Eriana sprung to the left and tried to rotate around the man—no use. He was simply too good. His feet constantly moved with hers, staying just ahead of where her next move was. His attacks were flawless and left no room for counters. His face was twisted with reckless anger, but his body did not reflect that at all, moving with precision and perfection.

Only inches from the edge, Eriana shouted in protest and deftly unclipped the chain from her short sword, cracking it forward like a whip!

Saefong was unprepared for the unorthodox attack, but countered it anyway, dipping under the coils and slashing across her belly. She barely survived the brutal attack, falling backwards to avoid being disemboweled by the razor-sharp katana blade. Instinctually glancing over her shoulder, Eriana realized she was falling into thin air and would soon be plummeting several stories down before splattering on the rumble below.

With no way to catch herself, the red-haired woman jerked the extended chain back toward her violently. The iron coils bit into Saefong’s leveled blade and wrapped around the steel rapidly. Eriana fell for only a split second before the slack ran out in the chain and the Shadomuria warrior’s weapon was yanked forward. Bracing himself, he managed to dig in before they both pitched over the edge.

Briefly their eyes met, and a mutual understanding of the situation was conveyed—still, Eriana feared the warrior would release his sword and let her fall to her death. She struggled to gain traction on the angular edge of the roof, her boots kept slipping.

Saefong studied the chain she had managed to secure to his katana. His eyes scanned it for any weakness. His breathing was calm and there was no tremor in his arms, even though he held her entire dead weight at bay.

“Saefong, please,” Eriana grimaced, struggling to reason with the man. “If you kill yourself then there will be no vengeance for your fallen brothers!”

“Vengeance is a northern ideal…” Saefong’s words were cool and calculated.

Eriana nodded solemnly, at last slowing her movements and relaxing her struggle to stay upright. “So, it is…”

With a subtle ‘click’, the chain attached to Eriana’s wrist was released and both she and Saefong stumbled backwards. In the same instant, her free hand launched her short sword into the air and then proceeded to grab the loose chain before the Shadomuria warrior could back away.

Eriana used the man’s weight, which was falling in the opposite direction of hers, to hoist herself back onto the rooftop. She caught her sword in her open hand and wrenched Saefong’s katana blade out wide. His belly was exposed, and she lunged forward, short blade seeking to skewer him.

Undaunted, Saefong rolled backwards into a somersault and kicked upward, sending Eriana’s blade high. Then the nimble man drove his katana deep into the tattered roof and simultaneously shifted his momentum back toward the surprised woman. His shoulder caught her in the chest and bowled her to the ground, the chain breaking free of her hand as the katana it was attached to remained rooted in the ground.

Before Eriana could even settle her senses, the Shadow Dragon stood over her. Her own short sword blade pressed against her throat.

“Enough, Saefong!”

Eriana’s eyes shot past the Shadomuria warrior, completely alarmed by the voice and the presence of someone else on the roof. Saefong didn’t flinch, having known all along. His own eyes remained trained on her.

“I said, no more Saefong…Let her up.”

Eriana strained to see who the voice belonged to but pinned as she was there was no way for her to tell. Saefong did not let her up. He continued to watch her, his eyes smoldering, underneath his calm demeanor.

At last, the man belonging to the unexpected voice stepped into her view. He wore robes and carried a plain walking stick that may have doubled as some sort of religious catalyst. His hair was short and well-trimmed, graying ever so slightly, but still mostly a golden brown despite the man’s obvious years. His eyes were dimly colored, but also full of fervor and life.

The man placed a steady hand on Saefong’s shoulder. “Enough of this wildness, Shadow Dragon…She’s a Legion Commander. And part of the reason we’re here…”

Many moments later, Saefong lifted the blade away from her throat and dropped the short sword to the ground beside her. His eyes never moved away from her, even as he collected his discarded katanas. After what seemed like an eternity, he turned his back on her and fell to his knees amongst his fallen warriors. He made no sound.

The unusual, robed man watched the warrior with obvious sadness. He reached down and helped Eriana up. She looked the man over. She could barely form words, not even knowing what to begin to say.

“Th-thank you,” Eriana stammered.

“Of course.” The man nodded. “My name is Desmond Tarvidios…You may know me as Bishop Tarvidios.”

Realization dawned on Eriana and her head only spun faster, slammed by the unlikeliness of this encounter. The bishop was a renowned clergyman and was often far south of Harth’s southernmost border, spreading the will and word of Thondel to the Empire of the Black Tree in whatever capacity he could.

As if he had read her mind, Tarvidios spoke once more. “This meeting is not random. We came east searching for something.”

“Searching for me?” Eriana stuttered, shaking her head at a loss.

“Only partly,” Tarvidios admitted. “Our main objective was to confirm the existence of…” His voice trailed off for a moment. “These creatures.”

Eriana suddenly looked up in shock. “You knew about these monsters…?”

The bishop’s eyes narrowed. “I wish that I could say I knew more…” He paused and collected his thoughts. “This I know for certain: there will be a shift of power in the capital. A coup is coming. I fear that struggle will outweigh the true threat of these beasts…”

Eriana was shaking her head rapidly. “What are you saying? A coup? The capital?”

Tarvidios slowly nodded and moved to steady the woman. “Perhaps, you should sit down, Eriana…”

She wanted to argue, to fight, but truth be told she was exhausted, and her brain was numb. She couldn’t fight if she wanted to. Eriana took a careful seat at the edge of a fallen, moss-covered pillar. Subconsciously, she watched Saefong as he sat perfectly still, head hung low.

Tarvidios sat down next to her. “I was in the Southern Empire, helping to mend the sick amongst the Shadomuria clan when I received his message…”

“Who’s message?”

“Rhoric Amir’s.” Tarvidios said the name like it should mean something to her, but it did not.

“I don’t know him,” Eriana remarked, eyes still fixed on Saefong’s back.

“No,” Tarvidios agreed. “There are few who do. But all will know him soon enough. He seeks to usurp the throne from Ovidius.”

Eriana’s attention snapped back to the bishop, and she cocked her head curiously. “How? And how could you know this?”

Tarvidios was already nodding expectantly. “I’ve known him for many years, and he was always an ambitious man, but this? I could hardly believe it. He outlined much of his plan to me. I am to be an instrumental part in holding the kingdom. He knows he will fail if he tries to do it alone…”

“Who is this man who has placed so much trust in you?” Eriana asked suspiciously. “And how does he know about these creatures…?”

“Rhoric Amir is a nobody. He came from nothing. He existed for nothing…But it seems he’s grown tired of nothing. He intends to take matters into his own hands. To break the line of monarchies that control the fate of Harth and her subjects…

“As for the creatures, I’m not sure. He warned me there would be unrest in the east—monsters from the sea. It seems he hopes the threat will unite the fractured kingdom when he takes the crown.”

“So, you came here to see for yourself?” Eriana reasoned, her voice still shaky, but rapidly calming.

“Yes,” Tarvidios confirmed. “We had to know it wasn’t a fluke. I traveled swiftly across the countryside with Saefong and his warriors…It seems everything Rhoric Amir said was true.”

“He recognized that monster…” Eriana said distantly, nodding to Saefong.

“Yes,” the bishop sighed. “That was unexpected, but it helps us understand this enemy more…and where they came from.”

Eriana quietly rose, still shocked from everything that was happening and the bishop’s words only served to further confuse her. “I-I have to go find my captain,” she whispered. “I think he’s badly hurt.”

She began to walk away, but Tarvidios’ booming voice halted her. “Eriana! We also came here seeking you…”

“Why would you do that—to what end?”

Tarvidios rose and stretched out his arms, unruffling his robe as he did. “Because we need your help, Commander…”

Eriana was shaking her head. “No…no, I don’t know anything about coups or struggles in the west. I just have to get back to my captain and then my legion and I need to warn the kingdom about these creatures.”

“Don’t you see, Eriana?” Tarvidios exclaimed, raising his voice. “By the time you make it to Everharth, it will already be too late! Rhoric Amir won’t do anything to quell this danger. He intends to use it! A man like that cannot sit on the throne of Harth. The Black Tree won’t tolerate it…”

Eriana rounded on him, her eyes growing dangerous and her muscles once again tensing for a fight. “You say that like your allegiance no longer lies with Harth…but the Empire.”

Tarvidios shrugged sadly. “Our kingdom is failing, Eriana…”

“So, you abandoned it for the southerners’?”

“No!” Tarvidios insisted.

“You travel with their elite warriors!” Eriana countered, reaching for her short sword.

“Saefong is bound to me, that is all!” Tarvidios explained. “He owes his life to me, and the lives of many of his people. The Shadomuria operate independently from the Empire. He’s here because I asked him to be, and his warriors died defending you on my request…You could show a little more respect, Commander.”

Eriana’s aggressive posture faded, and her shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry…But if you’re not a traitor then what are you suggesting?”

“I fear Rhoric Amir’s plan is too complete—and yet, dark forces are at work that not even he has accounted for. Hubris will be the death of us all…” The bishop took a calming breath. “If we are to save our home and put a proper ruler on the throne, then we will have to act swiftly…Your Wolves may already be in grave danger, Commander.”

Eriana’s face grew very serious, and she gestured for Tarvidios to continue. “Then tell me your plan, bishop…”

“And that’s it?” Etticus interrupted. “You just forsook all of your vows and took this man, this Bishop Tarvidios at his word and executed his orders?”

“No,” Eriana snapped back coldly. “Although perhaps I should have…”

Etticus stepped away, shocked. “No?”

“Like you,” Eriana continued. “I was too obsessed with honor and upholding the pride of Harth…I told the bishop and his Shadomuria warrior to return to the south and let the legions handle things as they always had…Naturally, they did not, choosing to linger in Eastharth.”

“What happened…?” Etticus asked quietly.

“I rallied the legion and mounted a defense against the Drul. More and more of them poured forth from the sea by the day…I sent ravens to the west detailing my meeting with Tarvidios as well as the monsters we faced. I did everything right…And all that accomplished was the unchecked slaughter of those under my command.

“No ravens ever returned. No reinforcements ever arrived. We lost battle after battle and the Drul drove us further inland. I sent messengers on foot, and they would disappear. I knew short of marching the whole legion west, word would never make it across the Einrill. No one would know what we were facing, what was coming…”

“You did what you had to…” Etticus reasoned somberly.

“No—you still, haven’t heard the whole story,” Eriana quickly interjected. “After months of fighting and dying, Orion and I had finally devised a tactic that worked well against the Drul, a strategy that revolved around the phalanx unit. We lured them into one final battle determined to beat them and kill their leader in a last desperate effort…

“But they remained one step ahead of us, never surrendering the upper hand. On the night of the attack, they ambushed our camp and took my pikemen hostage—a third of my legion. And just like that, we could fight them no longer…”

“So, you took Tarvidios’ deal?” Etticus asked.

Eriana shook her head. “No—no, I made a new deal. Tarvidios, Saefong, Orion and I met with the creature that leads these Drul…The same beast that slaughtered Saefong’s warriors. He gave us a small window to return west and settle the conflict in the capital and then he would free my Wolves…”

“In return for what?” Etticus asked uneasily.

Eriana met the man’s eyes evenly. “All the remaining legions must travel east of the Einrill…”

Etticus recoiled in confusion. “Why would he make such a deal? How could he expect our forces to completely abandon Westharth like that?”

“I don’t know the intent behind his bargain, but I can’t think of a better reason for the legions to march east. With our combined might we can crush the Drul once and for all.”

Etticus nodded, his mind racing. “You believe the beast will keep his word if you uphold your end of the deal? And what’s in it for the Shadomuria?”

“I cannot say if he will or not, but I have no choice. Regardless of his intentions, the legions should be marching east to face him anyway!”

“And Saefong?”

“If what Tarvidios says is true, then he is only here because he owes him a great debt…Tarvidios seeks to displace Rhoric Amir for a true monarch.”

Etticus looked doubtful. “The Shadow Dragon hasn’t merely come looking for revenge? It seems he has history with the leader of the Drul…”

Eriana shrugged. “He swears by some Shadomuria code that vengeance is not in his nature, yet I can see the rage in his eyes when he speaks of the crow monster—what that history is, I cannot say. Neither Saefong nor the bishop will speak of it…”

Etticus tilted his head thoughtfully. “Why the sudden urgency?”

“The Drul have moved the deadline up,” Orion suddenly, inserted. “We only have until Spring before he slaughters our comrades and unleashes his legion of darkness…”

Etticus quietly digested their words, his heart pounding even as his eyelids flickered pensively. “So,” he began at last, “We must succeed by any means necessary?”

Both Wolves nodded resolutely. “So, it would seem,” Eriana whispered determinedly.

“And Tarvidios is in fact our ally, despite our other ally’s approaching attempt to overthrow him?”

More nods.

“Well,” Etticus started with a smirk, “We best go make sure these Purists don’t get the better of him, eh?”

Orion broke into a grin as well and clapped the Eagle on the back. Then he turned to Eriana. “I told you he was a keeper!”

Eriana smiled and shook her head. “So, you did.”

The three soldiers swiftly began to depart the chamber, fearful they may be late to the bishop’s address, when Eriana suddenly, stopped Etticus once more. The handsome man turned to regard her. “Octavia mustn’t know,” she explained.

Etticus slowly nodded his understanding. “You have my word, Eriana.” Still, he hesitated instead of continuing into the sewer tunnel. Eriana glanced at him curiously.

“What about Grim…?”

Eriana stood still for many moments before moving past Etticus. She had no definitive answer for him and so would give him none for now. But his words were not the first time the question had been asked…If Saefong failed to defeat the diabolical assassin—what then?

22

NO GOOD DEED…

It was an undisputedly gorgeous morning on the Plains of the First Harth. Just past midday and the winds carried inland from the Ein were unusually warm and dry. The sky was mostly speckled with ominous looking clouds, yet sunlight still poked through casting brilliant rays onto the moorlands.

Grim stood, quietly absorbing one of those rays. His eyes were shut. He was letting his other senses heighten. Sniffing, he could smell the distinguished scent of a distant fire—not a campfire, but a true hearth. What’s more, the smell of cooking meat was carried with it. His ears picked up on the faint shouts of children playing and dogs barking.

Revenant was clearly picking up on the latter as well, his head tilted left and right curiously with each muffled canine bay. Anna watched them both from a few yards back. She hated to admit it—and she wasn’t even sure why—but they were a handsome duo. Nearly storybook perfect.

The brooding assassin and his dog—the beast blacker than the darkest night. Grim’s own clothes moody and dark as well. With his hair collected neatly on top of his head and his face meticulously shaven, she could hardly deny the man’s attractiveness. Not to mention he was taller than almost any man she had ever ran across—certainly taller than any man who had ever shown her any interest.

She didn’t want to trust him—not really anyway. He was a stranger after all, and a notorious killer. Yet, she found herself lulled into his shadow. Obedient when she should question and complacent when she should rage. Anna was taken off guard by the man’s overwhelming personality and charisma. Even his dog had character!

Anna reached out then and ruffled the fur on Revenant’s back. The warhound glanced back at her happily, his tongue lolling out one side of his enormous mouth. She stepped forward, so she was even with the assassin.

Grim opened one eye and peaked at the woman out of the corner of that squinted orb. “There’s another town nearby.”

“Yes,” Anna confirmed, though it wasn’t really a question. “Platlind. It’s actually quite large for what it is. Likely, one of the biggest towns on the Westharth frontier. If we head any further west, we’ll cross into Everharth’s immediate influence—that’s where the towns get really big. Civilized too.” Anna paused and added playfully, “But Platlind? She’s right on the cusp. You can still get away with murder in a place like this.”

Grim opened both his eyes, but only to fix her with a deadpan stare before rolling them.

“Ah, that’s right…” Anna remarked with a smirk. “You can get away with murder anywhere.”

The assassin sighed. “Let’s stay focused. Platlind. Is it safe? Is there much legion presence?”

“Practically none,” Anna admitted. “The place is large enough to rally its own militia if necessary.”

“Good,” Grim stated with a satisfied nod. The assassin began walking forward once more, gliding through the tall grass with ease. “We’ll stay the night and top off provisions. This is likely to be our last stop before the capital.”

Anna shook her head with surprise and rushed to keep up with the long-legged man. “Last stop? Are you aware we’re still over four hundred miles away from Everharth’s outer wall?”

Grim chuckled. “What’s the matter soldier, are you afraid to piss in the woods?”

She paused for a moment while the assassin kept moving, nearly to the crest of the hill they were climbing. Anna cocked her head, bristling with annoyance. “I’m quite comfortable pissing in the woods thank you. I’m more concerned with sleeping in some field every night next to some animal and his dog!”

If Grim was listening, he showed no signs of it. The man had halted and lowered himself down to a crouch at the top of the knoll. Anna continued ranting, swiftly coming up behind him.

Grim cut the woman off with a hiss and a raised hand, just as she too reached the crest of the hill.

“What?” Anna asked angrily.

The assassin looked at her incredulously before reaching out and grabbing the girl’s arm, dragging her down into the grass beside him. She looked as if she would slap him, but he was quietly motioning with his other hand down the opposite side of the mound.

Anna stubbornly looked and almost gasped when she saw what the assassin was indicating. Far below them, at the base of the hill, sat the town of Platlind. It was indeed large and sprawling, though it lacked any traditional walls or palisade, the closely packed houses seemed to function as a sort of barrier to the outside world.

It was not Platlind that took her breath away, however. It was the long, silver line of legionnaires marching out of the town in neat formation that so alarmed her. There had to be a thousand of them, ten abreast, moving in even ranks in the direction of the capital. She glanced at Grim hesitantly.

“It’s amazing you survived with the Wolves as long as you did…” he grumbled.

“I’m a survivor.” She shrugged. “So—what are we going to do about them?”

“Wait for them to clear out, I suppose,” Grim replied, glancing around in search of scouts or sentries. “They’re moving away from us at any rate.”

Revenant growled quietly, drawing their attention back to the marching legion. The newest file of soldiers to pass out of the town, each carried huge standards bearing the crest of the Candor Legion.

“What do you suppose they’re doing out here?” Anna asked cautiously.

Grim shook his head indifferently. “I don’t know, but I reckon it has something to do with that.”

The assassin nodded, indicating a large, covered wagon that had just rolled into view. It was directly behind the standard bearers and neatly followed up by a line of heavy cavalry. After several more files followed the wagon out of the town, the snaking, silver company at last came to an end. No more soldiers came or went for an hour or more and the legion slowly faded from view, disappearing into the rolling countryside.

Grim slowly stood, trying to determine if it was safe to go into town yet.

“I’m going to go down and take a look,” the assassin decided.

“Right—perfect,” Anna responded in stride, lifting herself out of the grass and dusting her pants off. “I’ll come with you.”

Grim sighed and shook his head. “I’m going down alone.”

“Oh really?” Anna asked doubtfully, placing her hands on her hips, and glaring at the man disapprovingly. “Is Revenant going with you?”

“Yes,” Grim responded without hesitation.

“So, then you’re not going alone.”

“He’s a dog. He doesn’t count.”

Revenant groaned resentfully.

“No offense,” Grim added with a pat behind the warhound’s ears. The dog panted happily.

Anna crossed her arms. “This is bullocks.”

Grim shrugged. “This is the way it is.”

The delicate blond offered no more responses but watched the assassin and the hound the whole way down the side of the knoll. When they at last made it to the bottom and began approaching the dirt road leading into town, she blew a ‘harrumph’ and began making her way down after the pair.

Grim noticed her approaching immediately and made an agonized sound of irritation, brushing his palm over his face, if only to stop himself from marching back up the hill and burying her alive under a grassland bush. Revenant whined curiously as she closed the distance. She waved a greeting.

The assassin issued no reply, instead, choosing to turn back to the road and continue on his way. Anna followed only a few feet in his wake. Revenant for one, seemed happy she was coming along. He offered her a drool-tinged lick and then loped after Grim.

The assassin studied Platlind carefully as they came within a hundred yards of the outlying homes. The town itself sat in the shadow of a huge Halladellian ruin that had all but faded away. Trees and mounds of grass grew all along the old structure’s walls and not a building within remained intact.

Still, the piles of Halladellian debris provided excellent protection from the sweeping winds that plagued the plains. The ruin itself was to the north of Platlind and likely aided in breaking much of the foul weather that traveled inland from the Ein. It was this reason alone that had allowed the settlement to grow so vast over the years.

As they approached the large opening between brick-and-mortar cornerstones, serving as the gate to the city, Grim noticed an overburdened wagon struggling in the mud. An elderly woman and at least six children, none of them older than the age of twelve and a couple of them less than half that old, fought mightily to help the tired nag pulling the cart make it to the gate.

Anna seemed to notice them as well. “We should help them,” she whispered in the assassin’s ear.

“No.”

“Why not?” she demanded, outwardly staring at the poor, muck covered children as the duo and the warhound came up alongside them.

“Because it’s not our problem,” Grim hissed.

“Whatever,” Anna shot back. “I’m helping them.” She broke away from the assassin and plodded into the churned mud, pulling her pant legs up as she drew near.

Grim clenched his jaw and fists, visibly fighting to maintain his calm. After seeming to win out over his rage, the tired assassin sighed and lightly stepped after Anna. He was twice her weight and yet the prints left by his careful boots were far shallower than her own. Revenant bounced after him, not caring how far his paws sunk into the mud and creating loud suction noises with every step.

“Hello!” Anna greeted happily. “It seems like you could use some help?” She addressed no one in particular, but naturally her eyes came to rest on the exhausted old woman pulling the skinny horse.

“Thank Thondel, yes dear girl!” The woman smiled graciously. Looking Anna’s lithe body over, she added, “Though, I’m afraid you might not be much more effective than myself…”

Anna grinned in return and stepped aside, revealing an annoyed Grim. “Maybe not, but how about him?”

“Oh?” The woman’s eyes widened when she saw the assassin. “Yes, he’ll do nicely, I’m sure!”

The children had all taken note of them at this point, but more importantly Revenant. They swarmed around him, staring at the magnificent hound with awe.

“Can we pet your dog, sir?” one of them squeaked at Grim.

“No,” the assassin responded bluntly. “He’s a war dog. He’ll bite you.”

Anna scoffed and rolled her eyes. “Oh, for goodness sakes. He will not! Go ahead kids.”

The children lit up with delight and all crowded in on Revenant. The hound handled it well but seemed to look toward Grim for aid. The assassin simply shook his head. “You’re the one who likes her so much you mongrel…”

“Ugh,” the elderly woman exclaimed, relinquishing hold of the horse’s lead to Anna. “Damn legionnaires and all of their marching…”

“The legion did this?” Grim asked curiously, stepping behind the wagon and pushing it forward with only a small amount of effort.

“Yes,” the woman confirmed, gesturing to the sloppy condition of the road and the many potholes that plagued it. “They’ve been in and out of the city for months! Bringing their huge machines with them…”

“Machines?” Anna asked innocently, tugging on the horse’s lead as she did.

“Yes, yes,” the woman answered. “Digging machinery. They’ve been at it constantly. Up in the ruins all through the night. Quite the racket!”

“Hey mister, I really like your sword!” One of the young lads trailing Grim quietly got his attention, pulling at the corner of his great cloak.

The assassin glanced back at the boy, but offered no response, pulling his cloak out of the child’s hand and focusing again on the old woman’s rambling. “What are they digging for?”

“What were they digging for,” the woman corrected. “Whatever it was, they must have finally found it because they loaded up their wagons and cleared out of town completely just this morning. Good riddance I say!”

“Surely, you must have some idea of what it was?” Anna asked, after catching her breath.

The woman eyed her, suddenly, growing suspicious for the first time since they’d approached her. “You ask a lot of questions, darling. Why are you so interested? Where are you lot from anyway?”

“Uh, we’re—lion tamers!”

Both Grim and the ancient woman stared at Anna, speechless.

“Yes, well—we used to be anyway. When the lions all went away, we were forced to become traveling performers.”

“Oh, cool!” one of the children exclaimed, startling both Grim and Revenant. “Can you show us one of your performances?”

“Maybe later,” Anna replied with a disarming smile. “First, we have to get your grandma’s goods into town!”

The woman nodded her appreciation, opening up once more. “I spoke truly when I said I didn’t know what they were excavating in there…But it was buried deep under that Halladellian junk heap. I’m sure whatever it was, it dates back to their time. Maybe even older…”

Grim and Anna briefly made eye contact before the girl turned back to the gate, and the assassin put his head back down and focused on pushing. Within minutes they were through the front gate—which seemed to have no guards posted—and inside the sprawling town of Platlind.

The elderly woman fell back against the wagon and breathed heavily, silently giving thanks under her breath for a moment. “Thank you, kind strangers. How can I possibly repay you both?”

“We’ll take our payment in gold, thanks,” Grim answered without hesitation.

“We will not!” Anna exclaimed. “Honestly, it’s like you were raised by animals or something.” She turned back to the frail lady. “You don’t owe us a thing…Except, perhaps a tavern suggestion for the night?”

The woman smiled warmly. “Ah, yes of course. Butterflame’s is the best spot in town!”

“Butterflame’s! Got it.” Anna smiled graciously. “Thank you miss…?”

“Winfrey!” The old woman answered excitedly. “It’s Mrs. Winfrey.”

“Mrs. Winfrey!” Anna repeated. “Thank you, Mrs. Winfrey.”

Mrs. Winfrey nodded and then tilted her head curiously. “And your names?”

“I’m Anna!” She quickly replied. “And this here is Gr—!”

“Poe!” Grim interrupted loudly, stepping forward to separate the two women. “My name is Poe, and I’d say it’s high time we were going.”

The assassin grabbed Anna’s forearm and began walking her away from Mrs. Winfrey and her dreadful children. The old crone grasped Grim by his other arm however and forced the man to turn back and meet her gaze.

“Don’t I know you, lad?” she asked curiously.

Grim watched her facial expressions shift for a moment before turning away and replying curtly, “No. We’ve never met.”

And with that, the assassin, legionnaire, and war hound quickly disappeared into town, putting as much distance between them and the curious old woman as possible. She watched them go the whole way, bobbing in and out of the crowd, until they at last rounded a street corner and were gone from her sight.

Once they were alone, Grim rounded on the girl, grabbing her by both shoulders and pressing her against the back of an unassuming hovel. “What were you thinking?!”

“Me?!” Anna exclaimed unhappily. “You’re the one incapable of human interaction! Every time you open your mouth it’s like you’re trying to draw attention.”

“We should never have been speaking with her in the first place!” the assassin growled.

“Well, in my defense, we discovered some useful tidbits…”

“No!” Grim countered angrily. “Enough! Those tidbits are worth nothing if we’re discovered prematurely. I’ve allowed you to travel with me because…” His words trailed off and he looked around desperately. “I’m not even sure why I’ve allowed you to come with me! But so far, I have tolerated your constant need to annoy me. I will not, however, let you ruin this for me.

“Not when I am so close!” the assassin continued “All these years and there’s a chance for me to actually make something of this miserable life, with someone I love—someone who loves me back. Your carelessness will not fuck that. Do you understand?”

Anna was silent for many seconds, staring wide-eyed at the trembling assassin, whose face was so near her own. At last, she seemed to relax, and she cocked her head suddenly. “Hold on—I thought this whole thing was about revenge? You’re supposed to be going to the capital to kill the Steward. You never said anything about a lover?”

“Ugh,” Grim sighed and took a step back, rolling his eyes—an expression he found himself doing quite often in Anna’s company. “Maybe, those two things aren’t as different as they sound…”

“I’m pretty sure they are…” Anna countered, screwing up her face in the process.

“Enough!” Grim shouted, pulling at his hair and glancing around. He quickly collected himself and lowered his voice. “It doesn’t matter why we’re going there. We have to make it, in order for it to actually mean anything. So, stop sabotaging me and listen when I give you an order.”

Anna quietly digested that and gradually nodded. Technically, she was great at following orders. Just not the orders of raving serial killers. Still, she offered a sarcastic salute. “Yes sir, Commander! Although, word of advice, maybe stop sending the guy heads if you don’t want him to figure you out…”

Grim snorted derisively and stepped away.

“Where are you going?” Anna asked.

“To find Butterflame’s…I’m sure it’s difficult to miss.”

“Great,” Anna replied with a nod. “I’ll come with you.”

“No,” Grim declared, already shaking his head. “Go and refill our provisions. It’s best if we’re seen together as little as possible.”

Anna seemed taken aback. “I don’t even have any money!”

Still walking away and not bothering to glance back, the assassin scooped a small pouch out of his cloak’s pocket and tossed it over his shoulder to the woman. It made a clinking noise when she caught it.

Anna untied it and looked inside at the contents. After a few seconds she re-tied it and searched around. “You still have my sword. What if I get jumped by highwaymen?”

“Highwaymen aren’t in cities. They’re on the highways…”

“Well, what if I get jumped by citymen!”

Grim released one final sullen groan and turned the corner, but not before offering his war hound. “Fine. Then take Revenant with you…”

Anna beamed and the dog seemed equally pleased, bounding up beside her and jumping about. “Come on boy!” she chirped excitedly.

The girl skipped away toward where she hoped the market stalls were. The locals and any unsavory types gave the girl a wide birth. She thought they we’re just suspicious of strangers, but the truth was, no one wanted anything to do with the giant warhound trailing her, who to everyone but Anna, appeared ready to devour a man in full armor. He really was Grim’s dog.

23

AS BELOW, SO ABOVE…

Clouds gathered ominously above. Storm winds whipped through the large town square and upended anything that wasn’t strapped down. Several thousand Brume natives must have been gathered there, and yet amongst them, five hundred Wolves were hidden, waiting to spring.

Only a light drizzle fell from the sky, but distant thunderclaps told a very different story. A hurricane of some magnitude was blowing in from the southern Ataarin Sea. The people of this place seemed mostly unconcerned. Brumex’s tall walls had always protected them and weren’t likely to fail now.

The crowd was gathered and pressed against the east wall of the town square, but easily spread out to encompass the entire clearing. The center of their focus was an elevated, covered stage that filtered out of that wall. Saefong and a fist of the bishop’s elite Honor Guard, were already posted along the stage with the Shadomuria warrior standing just shy of front and center. His eyes swept over the crowd, searching for any sign of danger.

The bishop was yet to arrive, but Eriana knew it wouldn’t be long before he marched onto the stage and took the crowd’s full attention. She heard a slight commotion behind her, and she turned to see Orion pressing through the crowd.

The Wolf captain leaned in close to her ear and whispered, “Still, no sign of them, Commander.”

“Keep looking,” Eriana insisted. “They’ll be here…”

Orion nodded and darted away, keen to check in with the other officers.

Eriana watched him go. They were all dressed in mundane attire, indistinguishable from the general crowd. A few of them—herself included, wore light chainmail underneath their furs, but little else in the way of protection. They had no choice, for fear of triggering suspicion amongst the Lion Legion.

Many of the Lions patrolled the town center now. Some of them weaved their way through the bumbling crowd, while others stood sentry along the perimeter of the square. Bishop Tarvidios had been very careful since his arrival not to gather too many of the Lion legionnaires during events such as these. No one loathed the Purists more than the Lions and he was afraid they would act with aggression and petty violence given the chance.

The feud between the Lions and the local Purists had grown quite personal over the months. With the Purists killing several of the Lions’ senior officers as well as taking a few of their newest members hostage. Another reason why Eriana wanted to make contact with the Purists and whoever was leading them here in Brumex as soon as possible. An all-out war with the Lions would only work against the Wolves’ ultimate agenda.

With any luck, Octavia would take the city peacefully and little blood would be shed between legions. Eriana was mostly unfamiliar with Commander Elberon, the golden-haired warrior at the head of the Lion Legion, but she believed he was a fair man and capable of seeing reason. If he was presented with proof, Rhoric Amir’s claims were illegitimate, Elberon would likely rally to Octavia’s banner—assuming her name was not tied to any more massacres before her arrival…

The crowd suddenly erupted. There were many boos as well as shouts of approval. All were issued in response to bishop Tarvidios’ entrance. The slender man walked out onto the stage and stopped ahead of Saefong. He was dressed splendidly and, despite the straightness of his back and surprising athleticism of his build, he still carried the fancy walking stick he had kept so close in Eastharth.

Tarvidios waved his hands for silence, but the crowd remained mostly frenzied. They pushed their way toward the stage and shouted obscenities at the bishop. Tarvidios sighed and glanced back expectantly at his faithful shadow.

Saefong nodded and stepped forward with supreme confidence. The warrior faced five thousand angry men and women, but when he drew his katana and threw it down into the wooden stage at his feet, they all fell silent simultaneously. The blade quivered only inches from the edge of the platform. The Shadomuria warrior stared down the upstart crowd, his smoldering gaze seemed to rest on each and every man, woman, and child individually. Even Eriana felt the intensity in his gaze like it was directed toward her. She had truly never met a warrior that commanded such a presence on and off the battlefield. The Shadomuria were a different breed.

When Saefong was confident he had instilled the fear of Thondel into all of them, he swiftly wrenched the katana blade free of the stage and sheathed the weapon all in one smooth motion. Then he backed away, allowing the bishop to take center stage once more.

Tarvidios walked forward slowly, shaking his head with what appeared to be disappointment. “My friends, this is not why I have come before you today. Not to incite violence or instill fear in you…”

One brave soul somewhere amongst the crowd piped up, interrupting the bishop. “Then why do you bring the foreign assassin before us like some kind of trophy!”

Saefong looked toward Tarvidios expectantly, hand ready on the hilt of his katana, but the bishop shook his head. “This man is not a trophy nor an assassin…He is a friend. He has ever been loyal to me and to the will of Thondel. He is likely more devout in the ways of Harth than any one of you. I say this not to spite you, but to assure you of Saefong’s purpose and reason for being here today. If I am the voice that is Thondel’s will, then a voice needs hands to carry out his actions. Saefong is my hands…

“I know we have been presented with difficult times,” Tarvidios continued. “The northern islands seek to invade, and unrest is rampant amongst our glorious kingdom, but I can only attest that this…fascination with the dead Benidary line is self-destructive for us all. King Osiris is gone. Viscount Ovidius is gone. This happened for a reason—that reason is Thondel’s will. The god Thondel has a plan and purpose for every one of you. Trust that he knew what he was doing when he elevated Rhoric Amir to the position of Steward. No man is more suited to carry out Thondel’s sacred plan.”

“Thondel didn’t elevate the Steward—he elevated himself!”

“Worse still,” another bystander countered. “The Reaper is responsible for Rhoric Amir’s rise to power!”

Shouts of agreement went up all around the town square.

“Where is the Reaper now?” one man shouted. “Does he stalk the shadows, waiting to fulfil the Steward’s heinous orders?!”

Tarvidios waved his hands and this time the crowd indeed fell silent. “The assassin Grim has no connection to the Steward! Rhoric Amir used him as penance, seeking to right the man’s many wrongs, but true to his nature the assassin fled the first chance he was given. He no longer fights for Thondel. He fights for himself as only a coward does.”

Silently, Eriana wondered if that was true. Did Grim fight for himself? Or was his dedication to Octavia real? Was any of it real? She shook the thoughts away and focused on scanning the crowd for signs of Purist assassins.

“What will you do if the Reaper returns to Everharth?” a voice cried out from the crowd. “What will Thondel do if his Steward is slain by the rabid assassin?”

Tarvidios’ face grew very grave, and he crossed his arms behind his back. “Thondel will do nothing,” he admitted, much to the surprised gasps of the crowd. “Because he has given us the tools to defend his will ourselves.” The bishop looked to Saefong. “My Shadomuria warrior will find and destroy this Reaper, should he crawl forth from the darkness once more.”

The bishop’s words were well received, and shouts of excitement and satisfaction went up throughout the crowd. Eriana couldn’t help but shake her head in awe. Tarvidios was excellent at this. It was no wonder Rhoric Amir had foolishly placed so much trust in him. He had managed to rally the people against a common enemy as well as change their biased perspectives on Saefong with only a few words.

She shook her head, reminding herself not to fall for the allure of the man’s speech. It was mostly grandeur after all, but she admired it. Part of her wondered if that was the academy training in her—brainwashed to respect figures like the bishop and fall easily under his command. She shrugged and suspected not. If that was the case, she doubted she would be having these counter thoughts at all.

The rain began to fall even harder, but Tarvidios simply raised his voice and projected over the downpour. He went on and on about Thondel’s will and each of their obligations to his plan. He seemed to have much of the gathering completely captivated. All but the Wolves.

Eriana and the others remained alert long into the bishop’s speech. Still, no sign of attack. She racked her brain thinking of where they could be and how they had managed to evade the entire occupying Lion Legion and even the Wolves who crept through the city’s darkest shadows. If they weren’t using the sewers to move quickly around the city, then how did they strike and disappear so fast?

Saefong indicated they lurked in the shadows, similar to the Wolves, but her sentries had yet to come across a single one of them. The more she considered it, the stranger she thought that was. After all, there were only so many shadows to hide within the city. Eventually, they should have run into the Purists regardless of how stealthily they moved…the only way they wouldn’t have, is if they were never in the shadows at all…

A thought began to form in Eriana’s head, and it quickly gained traction, until she could barely contain it. The Wolf commander pushed forward through the crowd until she could see the stage clearly. More importantly, she could see Saefong.

From where the Shadomuria warrior stood, he could hardly even see the crowd gathered right around the base of the stage. In fact, he wasn’t even looking down…His gaze was directed upwards! The roof over the stage, the spot Tarvidios stood and projected his voice from, it was all protected from above, not below! Which meant, the only place the bishop could be attacked from—Eriana turned and stared at the buildings behind her and on the opposite side of the courtyard facing the stage.

The young woman’s eyes widened, and she nearly sounded the alarm on instinct. It took a moment to see them, but after several seconds she picked up on the slightest movements just over the peak of the shingled roof. The Purists had never been in the shadows—they were above the shadows!

Eriana twisted back toward the stage and lifted her arms frantically, careful not to raise her hands above the heads of the surrounding crowd out of fear she would be discovered. She quickly began signing orders to the Wolves in her immediate vicinity, who she knew to be watching. Like wildfire they spread the message.

Most of the unassuming civilians were too invested in the bishop’s speech to pick up on the subtle movement between Wolves, but inevitably, a few glanced about curiously and even a couple of Lion legionnaires began to push through the crowd, making their way toward the suspicious activity.

Eriana realized they had been discovered and quickly signed for her soldiers to pull out and scatter before the Lions could close the noose. Just before the approaching legionnaires could make it to her nearest Wolves, the sounds of clicking crossbows and tightly coiled strings unloading, drew her attention back to the stage.

Eriana turned just in time to see Saefong leap in front of bishop Tarvidios and draw both katanas in an elegant spinning motion. The blades never came to rest as the Shadomuria warrior spun them into a frenzy, picking speeding bolts meant for the bishop out of the air with practiced ease. To him, it was as if he was doing something as mundane as cutting dried blades of grass…

Eriana couldn’t believe the incredible reaction and dexterity of the warrior as he danced around Tarvidios and defeated the last projectile in the barrage. A second passed and another volley flew over the crowd, soaring toward the bishop. Saefong twisted and turned, spinning unbelievably fast and once again knocked another seven bolts out of the air.

Tarvidios stood undaunted, shattered bolts laying all around his sandaled feet. Lighting illuminated the Purist assassins on the roof and the bishop pointed a calm finger at them, his eyes full of steel and wrath. “There are the cowards who would see our great Thondel falter—but LOOK!” He spread his arms wide and gestured all around him at the splintered shafts. “Thondel has given us the means to protect ourselves…and fight back!”

Another round of bolts flew overhead. Now the Purists had desperately stood up, having been discovered, taking aim, and unleashing their best shots at the pious man. Saefong calmly stalked forward into the barrage and repelled the bolts once more, his eyes locked on the hooded figures across the town square.

He spread his katanas wide, pointing to the legionnaires lined along each end of the courtyard, then he brought the swords together and pointed up at the would-be Purist assassins. “Bring them to me!” The Shadow Dragon’s accent was harsh and intimidating and seemed to spur not only the Lions into action, but also the Purists who quickly turned and disappeared over the apex of the shingled roof.

The crowd shifted chaotically as some ran for their lives and others ran to get closer to Bishop Tarvidios and his seemingly invincible guardian. Eriana forced her way through, sometimes throwing grown men to the ground as they struggled to move past her. At last, Orion burst from the coiling mass and forced his way to her. Etticus came up on her other flank and leaned in to listen.

Eriana spoke fast. “The Purists attacked from the roof! That’s how they’ve been getting around undetected—we need to catch them before the Lions do. Dismiss the legion back to the sewers, except for our fastest trackers. They’re moving west and will likely try and flee the city before they can be cornered. Find the quickest route to the rooftops and cut them off!”

“Yes, Commander,” both men responded in tandem, though she was already shoving them away.

“Now go!” she demanded, turning, and signaling to her own fist of Wolves to fall back to camp. Eriana wasted no time shouldering her way after the group of Lions exiting the town square and dashing toward the neighborhood the Purists had fled into.

She quickly outpaced the crowd, until she was just behind the Lion legionnaires rushing after the Purists. Unwilling to blow her cover so early, Eriana dodged into an alley before they could hear her approaching and she easily made her way to an abandoned street, running parallel to the one the Lions occupied.

Eriana wore less armor than the lion soldiers and was in far superior shape physically. Within moments she had outran the pursuers in the adjacent street and was sprinting down the muddy path before her, desperately searching for a quick route to the roofs of the clustered buildings overhead.

Wiping rainwater out of her eyes, the fiery redhead suddenly spotted a solution. Just ahead of her and off to the side of the street, was a robust pulley system used to hoist bricks to the upper levels of the surrounding buildings for hasty repairs. A wooden pallet loaded down with said bricks, was suspended just above the ground—likely abandoned before Tarvidios’ speech.

Without breaking stride, Eriana drew her short sword from where it had been cleverly concealed across the small of her back and leaped, grabbing the rope that was fastened down to secure the load of bricks, and severing the anchoring cord with a precise slash.

Eriana shot into the air, dragged upward by the falling weight of the pallet of bricks. Before the pallet shattered on the ground and her rope ran out, she released her hold and sailed clear of the pulley crane, touching down lightly on the corner of the nearby house. She wasted no time, sprinting off in the direction she expected the Purists to be by now.

She was forced to leap from one building to the next, not even stopping to question if she could clear the distance between jumps. The rain had died down, but the shingles remained slick, and one misstep could be fatal. Eriana’s reckless haste paid off when the seven retreating Purists came into view, moving quickly from building to building across the street.

One of the Purists spotted her and shouted a warning, indicating to the others to change course.

“No, Wait!” Eriana cried, working her way up to a roof that overlapped the street below enough to cross. “I’m not your enemy—I want to help!”

If the Purists had even heard her plea, they certainly didn’t slow. Eriana growled and picked up her own pace, allowing the chain around her wrist to uncoil, she deftly used it as a grapple to cross larger gaps. With each jump she closed on the fleeing men. Still, she could tell she wouldn’t reach them before they cleared the city’s walls.

Eriana glanced up just in time to see the Purists make it onto the middle tier of a tall building with many flat roofs. One more building and they would be close enough to reach the perimeter wall…

Without warning, a Lion soldier burst forth from a window, his large shield smacking into the side of an unaware Purist and launching the man off the roof. He screamed for only a few seconds before the ground came up and silenced him with a sickening crack. More Lions poured out of the tower’s windows and surrounded the would-be assassins.

It was an even six on six, but the Purists were only armed with small blades and wore practically no armor, whereas the Lions were crystalized in full legionnaire gear and spoiling for a fight. They would surely massacre their lesser prepared foes…

As if to prove that point, the Lions quickly overwhelmed the Purists and killed two more within moments, further tilting the odds in the legion’s favor. Eriana wouldn’t have time to wait for Orion and Etticus or her Wolf trackers. If she did, they would be rescuing corpses.

The young commander shouted and made the final jump onto the roof where the warring factions were embattled. She rolled twice and came up to her feet amidst the Lion soldiers. They eyed her with a fair amount of surprise. She eyed them in return, hoping she could reason with them, but she saw the panicked bloodlust in their gazes under the shadow of their helms, and knew she would only be endangering herself if she stopped and begged for peace.

The Wolf commander blanched when she recognized one of the men’s faces…Captain Bromley, the man who had apprehended her at the Western Gate some weeks before. His face twisted in disbelief, seeming to recognize her as well. “You. I knew you were a Purist sympathizer,” the captain scorned. “Lions—put this bitch to the sword!”

Eriana growled and leapt forward. The captain lifted his shield protectively, but she hardly slowed, running up the flat edge of the armament and flipping backwards over the man driving in from behind her. He gasped, shocked by her sudden acrobatics, and unable to stop the pleating chain as she gracefully dropped it over his shoulders.

The man’s hands instinctively went to the iron coils, but as Eriana landed, she braced her shoulder against his back and pulled down against the chain with all her might. She heard the soldier’s back suddenly snap under the pressure. No sooner had she heard the noise, than she pushed the body away and released the chain, cracking it forward like a bullwhip and smashing the surprised face of another approaching legionnaire.

The man tried to hide behind his shield, but she sidestepped around it and thrust her short sword once, then twice between his ribs. The soldier keeled over instantly. Behind her, the four remaining Lions had turned on their original adversaries, making short work of two more Purists—the final two were back-to-back and fighting frantically to stay alive.

Clipping her shot sword back to the chain attached to her wrist, Eriana bent low and swept the sword wide. It smacked off the ankles of three of the four warriors, biting deep into their armor, but lost momentum before it could make it to the fourth and final Lion—Captain Bromley.

Captain Bromley shouted with outrage and charged Eriana. The two surviving Purists used the opportunity to fall atop the crippled Lion warriors and finish them off, daggers pumping viciously. Eriana and Bromley’s blades clashed, and he attempted to push her back with brute strength.

Eriana would not be so easily defeated by mindless tactics. She lowered herself down until she was almost completely squatted and pushed back, threatening to pitch the larger man over her shoulders. Realizing what she was doing, Bromley took a step back and tried to kick her from the roof.

Eriana easily slipped past the kick and bashed the pommel of her sword into Bromley’s nose. Before the man could recover from the ruthless attack, she caught his leg—still lifted from his thwarted kick—and drove her short blade through his calf muscle, sending the sword completely through his leg and leaving the weapon impaled in his flesh. He screamed in pain, and begged for his life, even as Eriana pivoted around him and pushed him out over the open air, suspending him with nothing but the blade connected to the chain unfurling from her wrist. The coils abruptly snapped taut, running out of slack and dangling Bromley over the street many stories below.

After several agonizing seconds and attempts to compose himself, Captain Bromley at last fought back his tears and the blood pouring into his throat from his broken nose, long enough to address Eriana. “Who the fuck are you?”

Eriana stared him down, until she was certain he was listening intently to her next words. “I am Eriana Courtright, Commander of the Legion of the Wolf. And mine will be the last face you see Captain Bromley…”

The captain’s eyes opened unbelievably wide, and his mouth twitched as if he wanted to speak but was afforded no such opportunity. With a cold, blank expression, Eriana grabbed the short sword in one hand and released the mechanism holding the chain to the blade. The iron coils ripped free, every link tearing through Bromley’s flesh, before he plummeted to the street below with an agonized howl.

And then there was silence. Only the sounds of distant troops, searching for the runaway Purists could be heard over Eriana’s calm breaths. She turned and looked at the two surviving Purists. Their faces were masked, but she could see a hint of respect—as well as a fair amount of fear—in their eyes.

“Which one of you is in charge?” Eriana asked bluntly, sheathing her sword in a show of peace.

As she inspected them closer, she realized there was a man and a woman. It was the man, with piercing eyes, who raised himself from his crouch and approached Eriana.

“Well—you know who I am,” Eriana said, dropping her gaze on the man. “So, who are you?”

The man carefully removed his hood and pulled his mask down, revealing a mess of blonde hair and a thick, but neatly trimmed beard. His bright blue eyes sparkled with purpose. “My name is Yoram…I lead all of the Benidary Purists. I am the man responsible for what has been done on this gruesome day. If someone should be held accountable, Commander Eriana…Let it be me.”

Eriana watched the intense man curiously. “I’m pleased to finally be meeting you Yoram, but with all due respect—your assassination failed. I suspect you’ll soon realize that’s a good thing.”

Yoram was somberly shaking his head. “You don’t understand—we never expected to succeed here. But the others…Their jobs were likely executed flawlessly.”

Eriana tilted her head and her face turned to one of shock. “There were other assassinations planned…?”

“Dozens,” Yoram confirmed. “Clergymen and nobles all across Harth…”

Eriana subconsciously trembled. “No…Rhoric Amir, the Cathedral of Thondel. They’ll never stand for this. There’ll be a war! Why do such a thing?”

Yoram nodded with resolution. “I don’t ask them to stand…I demand that they fall.”

Eriana turned away disgusted. “They’ll fall—their forces will fall on Brumex and the other free cities like a landslide! You’ve committed us all to ruin…”

Yoram shrugged. His words were filled with venom. “Then we’ll be ruined as free men and women. At least we won’t be forced live and die under the thumb of a false and pretentious ruler.”

Eriana at last nodded. She wasn’t sure what else she expected the leader of a kingdom-wide rebellion to say after all. She stepped forward and extended her hand to Yoram. He took it and they exchanged a hardy shake.

“Yoram,” Eriana began. “I have a lot to tell you, and I suspect you’ll be quite satisfied with much of what I’m going to say…But please, your Purists must stop inciting these conflicts and violence for the time being.”

Yoram nodded in return, releasing her hand at length, and tipping his head toward a distant clock tower. “Then let us be gone from this place before the bishop’s hounds find us and silence your words for good.”

Yoram replaced his hood and mask, and the two Purist assassins swiftly left the roof behind. Eriana stayed and pondered for a moment. Her gaze swept the butchered bodies of Purists and legionnaires alike, their life’s blood pouring into the gutters before being swept away with the rainwater. So much for sparing legion blood…She shook the dark thought away and hurried after the rebels.

One battle at a time. After all, it was Wolf’s blood that she was most concerned with. And so far, none had been shed…

24

THE SHADOW THAT IS DEATH

Rhoric Amir stormed up the steps to the top of the raven aviary. Honnel rushed behind him, panting heavily, and struggling to keep up. He had also summoned High Priest Baize O’mere and expected the small man may have reached the bottoms of the stairs, some twenty or so flights below where the Steward’s elite Honorguard waited.

Rhoric Amir had been in his villa strategizing with his military advisors and brainstorming ways to halt the Purists’ inevitable corruption of the city proper, when he had received the first of many hastily scrawled letters informing of the assassination of one of his priests. Messengers had continued bringing more as they arrived, some even detailing the murders of noblemen—several of which belonged to one of the nine eldest families or another.

Rhoric Amir was enraged. When he made it up the final flight of stairs and crossed the room to the table the ravens were dropping their letters on, he nearly strangled the man responsible for tending to the birds. He was an unremarkable and messy man called Callum.

Callum was trying to organize the ever-growing pile when the Steward came to an abrupt halt across the table from him and began breaking seals on every envelope he could reach. His eyes darted down the simply written words before discarding the parchments and reaching for another. Honnel at last made it over the final step and nearly collapsed on the dirty, shit-stained floor. He managed to hang onto the rail and keep himself upright, wheezing through clenched teeth.

“How many is there?” Rhoric Amir asked, his voice barely audible over the sounds of the frenzied raven wings.

“Hundreds…” Callum replied shaking his head at a loss. “More arrive by the minute—from all over the kingdom. Small parishes and villas have been targeted, mostly, but there are reports from within larger cities as well.”

Rhoric Amir crumpled the letter in his hand with a trembling fist before taking a deep, calming breath and stepping away to look off the balcony connected to the aviary. Bells were tolling all over the city below. He could see the masses panicking as more attacks were carried out even now. He had dispatched the Legions of Thondel and Candor to quell the threats, but it seemed the hysteria would not be contained so easily.

“What of Brumex?” the Steward asked quietly.

Callum shook his head. “A few nobles were killed in the streets, but no clergymen. From my understanding there was a failed attempt on Bishop Tarvidios’ life during his address to the city of Brume…The Lions repelled the attack.”

Rhoric Amir snorted and chuckled. His mirth was somewhere between scorn and doubt. “The Lions…Not likely.”

Callum didn’t hear the Steward’s mysterious words over the squawking ravens, but he wouldn’t have responded to the man’s dangerous tone anyway. Having caught his breath, Honnel made his way over to Rhoric Amir’s side and glanced out over the balcony as well.

“What does this mean, Lord Steward?” The Viscount asked rather timidly.

Rhoric Amir did not turn to meet the man’s gaze, but he did respond in an absent tone. “It means my brother has chosen war. I sought to resolve this conflict peacefully…But it is not to be.”

“You think Roderic is behind the attacks?”

“Yes,” the Steward replied, with a sad shake of his head. “The attacks are too coordinated. These Purists could never have organized this on their own. Before the purge on the Water District, they worked chaotically—inefficiently. Roderic knew the location of all my closest allies and every Priest of Thondel…This was more than retaliation. This was a declaration of war…”

“Oh, I think there’s more to it than that!”

Both Rhoric Amir and Honnel turned, surprised to see the High Priest at the top of the spiraling steps so soon. The small man hardly seemed winded by his swift journey up the tower.

“What do you know, Baize?” the Steward asked patiently.

“Noblemen I can understand. Your brother has no love for them…But my priests? What does the clergy have to do with any of this?”

“They have everything to do with it!” Honnel snapped.

Rhoric Amir held up his hand to silence his easily angered Viscount. “The purge of the Water District was carried out on Thondel’s orders, High Priest. Roderic knew as much. He would have every reason to attack your brothers as well as my noblemen…What are you getting at?”

Baize O’mere glanced away and seemed to contemplate something for a moment. When he looked back, there was a hint of fear in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. “Do you recall Father Bezind, Lord Steward?”

Rhoric Amir nodded, his own eyes narrowing with suspicion. “Of course…He was butchered in the mountains by the assassin Grim…That was ages ago. What does that have to do with these attacks?”

The High Priest was nodding repeatedly. “But he was not just butchered. His head was taken back to the city and mounted on a pike in the Cathedral…The assassin left a note on it.”

“Yes,” Rhoric Amir confirmed, his tone growing agitated. “I remember, of course. My people were keeping very close tabs on him then. What’s your point, priest?”

“The note was a warning,” Baize continued. He slowly reached into his robe pocket and pulled out a wrinkled parchment. He offered the parchment to Rhoric Amir. “Read it again.”

The Steward took the parchment with a scowl but did indeed read it aloud. “Ware’ the man who reaches out to a god with one hand and molests the innocent with the other. Ware’ the liar who sells us with his hypocrisy and grows fat on our strife. And—ware’ most of all, the shadow that is death, who will fill the void left by our violent oppressors and avenge the broken, by devouring the devourers and silencing the silencers…Ware’ me, ware thee shadow that is death.”

Rhoric Amir slowly returned the note to Baize O’mere who was visibly shaken by the words. “So, what,” the Steward scoffed, obviously not as effected as the priest. “He fancies himself a poet. Am, I suppose to believe he somehow predicted this?” His arm swept out over the balcony to indicate the chaotic city sprawling below.

“No,” Honnel interjected hesitantly, his eyes distant, but visibly spooked by the harsh warning as well. “I think I understand…You believe Grim is behind the attacks.”

The High Priest was nodding. “Yes, yes! He must be working with the Purists. He could be working directly with Roderic Amir!”

“Don’t!” Rhoric Amir warned vehemently. “Don’t associate my ancestral name with his own…He forsook his place as an Amir.”

The High Priest bowed profusely. “Yes, of course Lord Steward. But—could what I speak of be possible?”

Rhoric Amir shook his head uncertainly, thrown off guard by the unexpected connection to the assassin. “No—I don’t think so. My sources indicate he’s in the Sunny Tips…not planning kingdom-wide assassinations. If he’s even alive!”

Rhoric Amir didn’t like the thought of it, but he had to admit—there was sound logic behind the priest’s fears. Assassinations were Grim’s area of expertise after all, and no one hated priests or noblemen more than he did. He clenched his fists uncomfortably. Why couldn’t he have just died when he was supposed to?

“Besides,” Rhoric Amir continued, trying to convince himself as much as his two advisors. “Grim loathes Roderic nearly as much as he despises me. Given the opportunity, I think he would skewer him rather than break bread with the man…”

Honnel shrugged. “A circumstantial alliance could have been made…”

Rhoric was nodding, lost in thought. Both Honnel and Baize O’mere looked to him eagerly, desperate for order. They were scared, but they trusted in his judgement more than they feared the unknown…

“Very well,” Rhoric Amir began, nodding with inspiring confidence. “This is what we’ll do. High Priest—take your remaining brothers into the Cathedral of Thondel. Our god will provide protection in this dire time. Take as many of the faithful as you can and seal the doors. I will have the city garrison form a perimeter around the cathedral and the Royal District.”

“Is that wise?” Baize O’mere asked cautiously. “What if they set fire to the Cathedral or the garrison turns on us?”

“The garrison will not turn,” Rhoric Amir scoffed indignantly. “I fill their coffers and they fill twice as quickly since I’ve taken the throne. They will do as I say.”

“Yes, of course, Lord Steward,” the High Priest replied, bowing repeatedly as he began to back away down the stairs. He did stop on the precipice however and turned toward Rhoric Amir once more. “But what of the Reaper? What if he come’s for us…?”

The Steward shook his head. “If he comes here, it won’t be for you, priest—now go!”

Baize O’mere nodded and bowed and pivoted away, rushing down the spiraling steps. When he was gone, Honnel faced Rhoric Amir expectantly.

“My lord? What would you have me do?”

“Double the security on my daughters.”

“We’ve already doubled it…” Honnel began to reassure but was cut short by Rhoric Amir’s angry shout.

“Double it again!”

“Yes, Lord Steward!” Honnel replied loudly, nodding.

Rhoric Amir calmed and then he spoke again. “There will be another purge…”

Honnel looked up curiously. “Truly? Where?”

“Everywhere.” the Steward’s lips curled dangerously. “I want ravens sent to every legion. They are to march out into the cities within their perimeters and root out Purist corruption and halt heretical activity by any means necessary.”

“Any means?” Honnel asked tensely, though there was a hint of a satisfied grin on his lips.

“You know I don’t like to repeat myself, Honnel,” Rhoric Amir warned.

Honnel bobbed his head profusely. “Any means. Understood.” He paused. “What of the Scorpion Legion?”

“Leave them,” Rhoric Amir commanded. “Their current task is more monumental by far.”

“Of course,” Honnel remarked, rubbing his hands together timidly. “And the splinter legion of Candor?”

“Have they retrieved the relic?”

“Yes,” the Viscount confirmed. “They fully uncovered it less than a week ago. The raven arrived just before the first assassination notice…”

“Good,” Rhoric Amir stated with a nod. “Bring out the Thondel Legion’s light cavalry to escort the wagon. Then send a raven to the remaining Candor Legionnaires, instructing them to turn back around and raze those heretical, pagan worshipping frontier settlements to the ground!”

Honnel was still nodding and rubbing his little hands together when he suddenly stopped, a thought occurring to him. “The Lions are already hard pressed enough at the city of Brumex,” he reasoned. “Surely you don’t expect them to spread their forces even thinner…?”

“Of course not,” Rhoric Amir replied with supreme confidence. “Send the next closet legion in to help them purge the city…” the Steward’s voice trailed off knowingly.

“The Titans,” Honnel realized aloud, a wicked grin spreading on his face.

“Indeed,” Rhoric Amir confirmed. “Draw them out of their fortress and run them south…”

“What of the Estuary Ford?”

“Andreas Buth always claimed it could be defended by only a small force of men…Let him prove it. His captain can stay and hold the Ford with a fist of their Titans.”

“Very good,” Honnel responded, his smile hardly dimming. He raised his hands overhead and fended the incoming ravens away while making his way down the steps. Rhoric Amir’s voice stopped him one final time.

“And Honnel,” Rhoric Amir followed him to the top of the stairs to meet his gaze. “Tell the legions to raise militias in every townhall, village, city, or settlement they purge. If the people of Harth are tired of my legions defending them…Then it’s time they started fighting their own damned wars. I want a garrison in every major city and trade point in Westharth—let them deal with the Purist scourges for once. And whatever else is to come!”

Honnel eyed him curiously. “Whatever else, my lord?”

Rhoric Amir did not answer but bayed at him, “Go.” Honnel nodded and rushed away, disappearing down the stairwell.

The Steward turned back to the balcony, contemplating the sprawling city below. He had known from the beginning that the task before him would be monumental but would never have imagined it would be this difficult. Every time he took a step, it seemed like a new obstacle appeared.

Rhoric Amir took a deep, calming breath. The large man steadied himself, briefly closing his eyes. He had acted with integrity and brutal efficiency so far, but he would have to steel himself if he hoped to see this all the way through. He considered Roderic and Suileabhain’s betrayal and wondered if this was how Grim felt when he had been cornered in BB’s so many moons ago…

The thought faded. He couldn’t compare himself to the assassin—the assassin was simply acting out of base instinct. Killing and seeking to defend his lover. He was like an animal—a predator—but an animal, nonetheless. Rhoric Amir was a part of something much greater. What he intended to do would change the world forever. Hopefully leaving it a far better place…

The Steward heard beating wings and opened his eyes. A bird, unlike the others, landed on the balcony rail. Its feathers were still silky black, but it was noticeably smaller than the ravens. Even its beak was more compact. In that beak it held a piece of dirty fabric—fabric he felt he should recognize but could not place.

Rhoric Amir tilted his head curiously at the bird. It crept closer to him, inching its way around the balcony until it was within arm’s reach.

“Is this one of yours, Callum?” the Steward asked suspiciously.

Callum glanced up and quickly shook his head. “No, Lord Steward. Not one of mine—not even a raven in fact. That’s a crow.”

Rhoric Amir’s eyes narrowed, and he curled his lip as if he had just smelled something very foul. “A crow?” he whispered. The corvid crept ever closer, and he reached out, wrenching the cloth from its beak and pushing it away.

The crow leapt from the balcony and took off into the windy sky, issuing several high-pitched caws, before disappearing for good. Rhoric Amir cautiously unfolded the dirty fabric.

As he undid the last fold, his heart sank into his stomach and the fabric nearly fell from his trembling hands. There at the center of the cloth was a severed finger that looked as if it had been soaked in saltwater for many days. The appendage would have been unrecognizable, except for a simple ring still snared about it. The ring had belonged to his sister Malia. It depicted a raging flame engulfing a willow tree, embroidered on a golden band. He had never known her to take it off.

There was something else too. A sketch of some kind scratched onto the fabric he now knew to be part of Malia’s dress. Rhoric Amir carefully removed the finger and spread the cloth out evenly to see the whole image. The wind blew mightily, but he pinned the sheet down with one hand, fingers spread wide. Between the gaps in those digits, he could see the sketch clearly. It was a gauntlet.

Repressed memories flashed through his mind and the Steward was assaulted by images of a gauntlet thrown in challenge and of the anticipated duel. He saw his wife Selene and then he saw his own bound, black, legion armor. He recalled the years of abuse he had suffered in that crow-inspired shell as well as the abuse he had been responsible for dealing out whilst wearing it…

Rhoric Amir ground his teeth angrily and shook the thoughts from his head. He focused on the image of the gauntlet. He recognized the art style—the linework. The last time he had witnessed it, it had appeared less shaky and far more refined. Still, there was no denying who’s trembling hand was behind the drawing…Hyram Amir’s. The commander of the Crows—Osiris’ legion of assassins—His lost brother.

“So,” Rhoric Amir whispered quietly. “Even death is no match for the indomitable will of Hyram…Do you mean to finish what you started…?”

The Steward snarled and stepped out onto the balcony, appearing to shout at the sky. “You will find my will to be more than a match for your own, Commander!”

Rhoric Amir turned and marched back into the aviary, the fight in him reinvigorated anew. Callum watched him with shocked, unblinking eyes. He seemed to have paused halfway through unfastening a message from the leg of one of his ravens. The bird broke free of his grasp and glided to a nearby roost.

“Callum!” the Steward demanded loudly.

“Yes, my lord?!” the man responded, nearly throwing his hand up into a salute.

“Send Captain Levee John a message at the docks. I demand an audience with him and his crew.”

“But Lord Steward…” Callum’s voice drifted uncomfortably. “The captain’s not at the docks. He’s at sea, scouring the northern coast with much of the Harthian fleet…per your orders I believe.”

Rhoric Amir paused and nodded thoughtfully. “Indeed…And repairs on the Fortitude?”

“Unfinished from what I’ve been able to gather,” Callum answered. “He’s aboard a different vessel—The Gale, if I’m not mistaken…”

Rhoric Amir continued to nod. “Send him the message anyway. But don’t ask for an audience. Tell him Fortitude’s repairs have been completed ahead of schedule and he’ll be needed at the helm…”

“My lord?” Callum asked curiously.

“Do not question me!” the Steward snapped, leaning in dangerously close to the dirty man. “And tell no one of this!”

Callum backed away, bowing profusely. “Yes, Lord Steward. Of course, of course!”

Rhoric Amir continued to glare at Callum for a few more moments, allowing the diminutive keeper to wither completely under his scrutinizing glare before he turning, and bounding down the spiraling stairs. He stashed Malia’s torn dress and finger inside his cloak and then pulled the dragon skin cape in close.

He intended to question Fortitude’s captain about their return voyage across the Ein once more. He should never have let the sailor wander so far from him, but the threat of the Purists had been a nonstop burden on his mind, and he had temporarily lost sight of the true objective—something his sister had always been keen to remind him…Something Hyram’s message had achieved instead.

He knew the sketched gauntlet had been intended as a challenge. Just as the real one had been all those years before. But he believed Hyram wanted him to know something else as well. There was something he wanted Rhoric Amir to see. With Captain Levee John a thousand miles down the coast, there was only one other person he could question regarding the intricate truths of that nocturnal attack Lord Andreas Buth claimed they had so fortuitously survived…

Luckily, she was locked in a tower and had nowhere to run…

25

TO CATCH A VIPER

Joanne’s arms were trembling as she pulled herself back up, until her chin touched the rough stone shelf her hands clung to. Then she slowly lowered her body back down until her arms were nearly limp before once more pulling herself back up. Her breathing was ragged. She had been at it for hours, just as she was every day.

The woman’s body had already begun to transform dramatically. She was still a long way off what she had once been during her prime contract killing days, but there was no denying she was well on her way. Her arms and torso were not just toned from the exercises, but practically rippled with muscle. It had gotten to the point that she was forced to cover up and hide under her dirty blanket whenever the guards brought her the daily meal.

Still, her legs were struggling to catch up. Joanne could comfortably stand on them now, but they were still frail compared to the rest of her striking physique. No matter. She was determined to get her body to the same fighting fitness as her spirit.

Panting as she was and attempting yet another pullup, Joanne did not hear the chamber door, obscured from her cell’s view, open. Luckily, Lady Selene was on the lookout for just such a thing.

“Joanne!” she hissed, the word little more than a whisper. “Joanna, someone is coming!”

Joanne heard Selene’s warning in time and gracefully dropped to the dirty cell floor without making a noise. She slid to the far corner of the small prison and covered herself with the flayed rug she called a blanket. With a mighty effort she managed to control her breathing before the heavy footsteps made it down the hall.

She wondered who it could be? Their meal wasn’t due for at least another few hours…

Joanne’s heart sank when the visitor stepped into view, lowering his black hood to reveal his dark facial hair and skin underneath. Rhoric Amir lifted a dead lantern and quickly struck a match on one of the bars containing Joanne. The match came to life, illuminating his long-furled hair and beard before he dipped the flame into the lantern and the whole room lit up.

The Steward watched her hawkishly, a toothy grin spreading across his ruddy face. “Hello, Joanne. I hope you’ve found your lodging to be…sufficient.”

“What do you want, snake?” Ironically, Joanne’s question was the one that was spat, her words laced with venomous loathing.

Rhoric Amir chuckled and carelessly bumped the lantern against the bars of her cell. “You know, it’s a curious thing. I always imagined your accent to be quite proper given all the time you spent here at the capital in that old caretaker’s home…and yet, you sound just like an Eastharthian peasant!

“Still, I suppose you weren’t doing much talking then, were you?” the man snickered and shook his head, setting the lantern down on the cold floor.

“No,” Joanne replied scampishly. “Your sister did all of the talking for me during that time—but no more it seems…”

Rhoric Amir’s grin faded, and he nodded knowingly. “You seek to get under my skin?” He snorted derisively. “Trust me, worse than you have tried and failed.”

“But you bring up a fair point,” the Steward continued. “The reason for my visit in fact. My sister, Malia—how exactly was she murdered?”

Joanne jolted with surprise. The question was unexpected. She didn’t find it odd that the Steward would ask it, only that it took him this long to do so…Did he know something now that he hadn’t known before? Was he baiting her?

“You already know the answer to that,” Joanne replied evenly. “It’s as Lord Andreas said…Grim killed her on Sawn…”

“Hm,” Rhoric Amir mused. “I know what Andreas Buth said. That’s not what I asked. I asked you…How was my sister murdered?”

Joanne shook her head. “Are you daft? I just told you, Grim killed her…”

“Do not lie to me!” Rhoric Amir shouted, suddenly flaring up. “I know well the Beast of the Ein, and I also know that you could not have escaped alive without Malia present to fend it off! No cannons nor arrows can defeat the creature and you had very little of both. So, when did Andreas Buth kill her?!

“Was it before she ferried you all to safety or did he take a gamble and do it mid-incantation? Was her back turned, or did he at least look her in the eyes when he murdered my sister? Tell me!” the Steward banged on the bars dangerously, his cool resolve melting away.

Damn it. How could he know for sure? What had tipped him off? Joanne knew if she revealed the truth now, Rhoric Amir would see to it that Lord Andreas was destroyed, and admittedly, that was not something she wanted to see. She could not betray him—he may be the only one seeking to free her from this mess. She wasn’t even sure if Marcus was still alive!

“Whatever you have heard, Rhoric…I assure you it’s wrong. Your sister was slain by Grim…He was more concerned with killing her than saving me…” Those last words hurt Joanne to admit, but part of her believed there might be some truth to them. Marcus’ first actions hadn’t been to try to rescue her after all. They had been to try and murder Malia…Maybe he had learned to hate them more than he loved her.

Rhoric Amir nodded very slowly. A calm demeanor seemed to have settled over him once more. “Okay,” he said quietly.

The Steward then ripped through his pockets until he pulled forth a key. Joanne recoiled, fearful that he intended to enter her cell. Instead, he grappled with the lock on the adjacent cell until he at last wrenched it open. The man dodged in and pulled forth an angry, screaming Selene. Tears streaked down her face as she was pulled up to her knees by a handful of her dark hair.

“Have you met my wife?” Rhoric Amir shouted, slamming her against Joanne’s cell so she stared directly at her.

“Leave her alone, you monster!” Joanne shrieked, leaping up and rushing to the bar’s opposite of the haggard woman.

Rhoric Amir glanced down at Joanne with amusement. “I see you can walk now—I should have figured my wife would offer her meal to you in exchange for your strength. Too bad you’re not strong enough to break through steel bars…” He glanced down at pitiful Selene and scoffed. “And now she’s little more than bones. I hope it was worth it, dear.”

“Let her go!” Joanne demanded, pounding on the metal cell door.

“Then tell me how my sister died!” Rhoric Amir growled.

“Don’t tell him anything…” Lady Selene managed to sputter between gasping and sobs of agony.

“Very well,” the Steward hissed threateningly. He threw her down and began to kick her profusely.

“Stop it!” Joanne screamed, tears forming in her own weary eyes. “Fine—I’ll tell you!”

“No!” Selene pleaded, clenching her teeth through the pain. “Don’t give him what he wants…”

Rhoric Amir snorted and rolled Selene onto her stomach, beginning to unfasten his belt buckle. “Don’t you remember, darling? I take what I want.”

The large man tore Selene’s frail, dirty dress away like it was wet paper, revealing an even more fragile naked body beneath. He got on top of her and shoved her face into the dirt, further humiliating her, before he began to fumble with himself, attempting to force his way inside the helpless woman.

Joanne saw her opportunity and struck like a hungry serpent. She slammed herself into the bars of the cell and thrust her arms forward as far as possible. She was barely able to reach the burly man’s curly black hair, but that’s all she needed. Her fingers grabbed a handful of his locks and jerked him backwards with tremendous force.

Rhoric Amir’s head ricocheted off the cold iron, and his vision swooned. Before he could recover and pull himself away from the dangerous woman caged behind him, her arms reached out and wrapped around his neck pulling him back in close and locking together behind his head. He fought to work his fingers under her powerful hold, but the grip was simply too tight.

The Steward’s mind raced. Was he truly about to die here in the dark, all alone, with his dick hanging out of his trousers, murdered by a crippled bitch? He growled in defiance and fought back against Joanne’s hold. She began to shout desperately to Selene, her arms weakening.

“I can’t hold him!” Joanne cried. “Grab his dagger and stick him with it!”

There was no response from Selene. She lay there on the cold floor, her eyes distant as she focused on the nothing concealed in the darkness outside the lantern’s glow. Tears streaked her pale cheeks.

“Selene!” Joanne begged, her forearm slipping as the man nearly broke free.

Rhoric Amir continued to growl savagely and pushed himself further away from the prison cell.

“Fuck!” Joanne howled, her grip breaking at last, and she fell backwards into her cage, panting with exhaustion. She just didn’t have the endurance yet to restrain a brute the size of Rhoric Amir. Her body was still recovering.

He laughed, then wheezed, then laughed some more. All the while he crawled closer to Selene. Once he was beside her, he reached down and began to fondle her exposed breast, looking back and sneering at Joanne. “Not strong enough,” he gloated.

“Let her return to her cell,” Joanne pleaded, tears now carving paths down her own dirty cheeks, “and I will tell you…”

“Hmmm, promise?” Rhoric Amir asked fiendishly, even as he pulled Selene’s puny body in close to his loins.

“I promise!” Joanne shouted. “Just leave her alone.”

The Steward nodded at last, growing serious once more. He scooped Lady Selene up with ease and dropped her back into her cell, though he did not offer her torn dress back to her. Then he turned to face Joanne. “Tell me.”

Joanne took a deep steadying breath. She hoped this next gamble would pay off. “Grim didn’t kill your sister…because Grim was never there.”

Rhoric Amir’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, but he beckoned for her to continue.

“Everything happened like Lord Andreas said it did, except Grim wasn’t on Sawn, because he died on the mainland when he failed to kill Princess Octavia…It was the mercenaries that turned on you. They thought Octavia could offer them more if she ascended to the throne…They overwhelmed Grim and dumped his body in the Ein.”

Rhoric Amir nodded slowly, considering the very real possibility of that. “And my sister…?”

“Slain by Lord Andreas as you predicted. He already had Captain Levee John and his crew in his pocket and his Titans would never betray him. It was easy for them to let Malia’s Honorguard die on the Oval Islands, so she was defenseless when the time came…

“We were attacked by the Beast of the Ein, like we told you before,” Joanne continued, rubbing her tired biceps even as she spoke. “Only Malia was there, and it was her spells that repelled the leviathan. She escorted us out of the beast’s storm, but she was too tired from the exertion…That was when Lord Andreas struck. He stabbed her a dozen times until he was certain she would breathe no more…He swore us all to secrecy. He said that he would see us all rewarded when he took the capital from you…”

Rhoric Amir was nodding even more determinedly with every syllable Joanne spoke. “It was as I thought…” he fumed. “The coward could only have bested my sister when she was at her weakest! He saw his opportunity and he struck. He hides behind his moniker as commander, but he is a nobleman at his core and like a nobleman he plotted against me!”

The Steward kicked the wall angrily and continued nodding as he collected his thoughts and processed what he had heard. Suddenly, he froze and looked up, shocked. “The heads…The assassin’s heads. Grim would never have sent them—why reveal himself? It was Andreas fucking Buth! He only sought to further unsettle me with rumors of the assassin’s return, so he put a fan to the flame with falsified threats!

“But the bastard is dead!” Rhoric Amir practically beamed with relief. “He would lay down a false trail and blame it on the dead assassin, so that I would be blind to his next move. Fool. He overreaches, just as predicted…”

The Steward turned and picked the dim lantern off the floor, seeking to exit the prison. “I will show him how this game is meant to be played.” He looked back over his shoulder. “You’ve been very useful, young Joanne. I hope we can speak again soon…Oh, and, you may want to let my darling wife have both helpings tonight for dinner…I don’t think she’s feeling well.”

The Steward cackled and marched off down the hall, muttering insults no doubt referring to Lord Andreas, “Charlatan, Amateur!” He slammed shut the door to the prison and suddenly, everything was dark and silent once more.

Joanne listened quietly, but she couldn’t even hear sobbing coming from Selene’s cell. It was like the woman had simply…given up.

“Lady Selene…?”

No response.

“I’m sorry…” Joanne muttered quietly. She would try many more times throughout the night to contact Selene, but the woman never did respond. Instead, she lay quietly in her cell looking up into the cobwebs of the dusty ceiling, lost in her spiraling memories.

Inside her own prison bars, Joanne wondered if she did the right thing. She knew she had little choice, but she could only hope Lord Andreas would be ready for Rhoric Amir’s retaliation. It was said that the Titans were the best of the best. She hoped that was true.

She also hoped the layers to her only, partially, true story would be enough to buy the Steward’s enemies time to strike first. And give herself another opportunity to live and fight a while longer. That’s what Marcus would do.

Fight another day. She wanted to believe he was still out there fighting…But he had already fought for so long…If ever there was a man deserving of some peace, it was him. Somehow, if he was still out there, Joanne doubted he had discovered any such tranquility.

26

…UNPUNISHED

Grim sat quietly, alone at a table in the corner of Butterflame’s. The table was just outside of the central sphere of light coming from the many lanterns dangling from the low slung, wooden beams that ran the length of the ceiling. The area around him was dim, but the assassin’s dark cloak practically wreathed him in shadows. No one had even noticed him slip into the tavern all of two hours prior.

Grim ate nothing and he drank nothing, as he had not been approached by a barmaid, nor did he intend to approach one. The man simply sat alone in the dark, watching the rest of the raucous crowd gather around the circular bar in the center of the tavern. He had witnessed six different purses cut from the belts of unaware patrons and another dozen pockets picked. The dangerous man could only smirk from within the shadows. This place reminded him of home.

Every time a newcomer entered the tavern, the assassin glanced up. He had been anticipating Anna for some time now, yet she was nowhere to be found. Grim quietly shifted and debated going out to look for the ditzy girl. The sun had nearly fallen behind the horizon and he didn’t like the idea of her being out on those restless streets after dark, even with the gigantic warhound following her about.

Just as Grim was stretching his legs in preparation to rise and begin his search for Anna, the slender blonde pushed her way through the tavern’s front door. Revenant walked in beside her. The hound’s back was even with the girl’s belly button. Many concerned patrons turned and regarded the intimidating beast, the whites of their eyes glistening with fear. Anna waved shyly and then began to look around, confused.

A deep grumble escaped Revenant’s throat—or maybe it was a burp—either way, the hound shook his muscular body with happy satisfaction and trotted across the tavern floor to the shadows surrounding Grim’s table. The assassin greeted the war dog with a friendly scratch under the chin. Revenant lay down beside the dimly lit table, his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth. Many of the patrons gasped or stumbled back with surprise upon realizing Grim’s intimidating presence for the first time.

Anna simultaneously shook her head and rolled her eyes before moving to join the assassin and the hound. After a few more uncomfortable moments the tavern patrons seemed to recover from their initial surprise and went back to their drinking and conversating. The lithe woman unloaded a heavy sack she had been hauling off her shoulder with both hands and onto the table in front of Grim.

“What’s the matter with you?” Anna asked, pulling a lantern down from the overhead fixture and deftly swiping a match to ignite the oil. “It’s pitch black over here.”

Grim quickly hid his face from the rest of the room, recoiling from the sudden light. “Put it out you dunce! If these people find out who I am…”

“They’ll what?” Anna cut in nonchalantly. “Run and tell the Steward?” She turned and grabbed a discarded mug off a nearby abandoned table, hoisting it high for all to see. “Oi!”

Many of the ruffians and farmhands surrounding the bar turned to regard the woman.

“Fuck the Steward!” she toasted loudly.

A roar of approval echoed around the tavern and many hands went up in agreement shouting likeminded cheers in return. “Hear, hear!”

Anna turned back to Grim. The man’s nostrils flared with outrage, and she could easily see the corners of his enraged eyes, even within the shadows of his hood. She shrugged. “Told ya—nobody cares.”

The assassin continued to scowl. “I’m a fool for bringing you with me. I should have buried you in a shallow, unmarked grave in the woods…”

“Yes, but you didn’t,” Anna replied bluntly, lifting her eyebrows with exaggerated sass. She then opened the sack she had dropped on the table and began carefully sorting through the items within.

Grim stared her down for several more painful seconds, but he at last abated with a tired sigh. His gaze shifted to the ridiculous sack before him. “What is all this junk?”

“All kinds of stuff!” Anna replied excitedly. She began pulling things out. “Fresh gauze and pulped herbs for your wound, dried meats, flavored waters, new flasks…”

Grim was shaking his head in disbelief. “You were just supposed to get provisions…”

Anna continued speaking and unburdening the sack. “Special treats for Revenant, some new whetstones, oh…” She pulled a delicately stitched bag from within the larger bag. “This satchel for carrying vials.”

“We don’t have any vials…” Grim cut in irritably. “And Revenant doesn’t need treats. He’s a war dog for Thondel’s sake!”

Much to the assassin’s annoyance, Revenant grumbled his disagreement from the floorboards beneath the table. Anna laughed and picked out one of the “treats” though in actuality it looked just like the dried meats they’d been eating. She then tossed it down to the hound who swallowed it in one slobbery gulp.

“Relax—I got a good price on the treats.” She then turned back to the sack and swiftly ruffled through it before producing a small, glass flask wrapped in leather. “And actually—we do have a vial now.”

Grim rolled his eyes and laid his head back against the wooden headboard of the booth. “What is that…?”

“It’s, um, for you, actually…” Anna replied quietly, her tone suddenly shifting to what almost sounded like embarrassment. She offered the vial to him.

Grim stared at her hand for a few awkward seconds before reaching out and taking the vial. “What does it do?”

“It’s for your arm,” the young legionnaire answered, looking around discreetly and lowering her voice, which confused the assassin greatly, before gesturing to his gauntlet. “I bought it from a shady fellow…Means it’s probably legit.”

Grim continued to stare at the girl through narrowed eyes. He made no attempt to speak.

“You know…” Anna elaborated. “For the curse? It’s supposed to break it—well, temporarily break it. I figured you could use the relief. I see you favoring it every now and then…I know it hurts you.”

Grim inhaled sharply and ran the palm of his free hand repeatedly over his face in an apparent effort to calm down. When he at last stopped, he looked up into Anna’s eyes. “Why did I send Revenant with you to protect our money if you intended to give it away anyway?”

“I didn’t,” she quietly argued. “It’s a potion…”

“It’s not!” Grim hissed angrily. “It’s a vial that’s likely a copper a dozen and is probably filled with cat piss. You were robbed!”

“I was not!” Anna replied evenly. “I thought it would help…”

Grim scowled and moved to toss the vial away, but Anna caught his hand and met his gaze.

“Don’t!” she begged. “It wasn’t cheap…You could at least try it.”

Grim wrenched his hand free of her grip and recoiled uneasily. He then cocked his head with sudden curiosity. “How much did you spend?”

Anna screwed her face up nervously and raised her shoulders apologetically. “All of it…?”

Grim’s body went dangerously still, and his eyes grew cold. Revenant whined quietly beneath them.

“I thought you gave it to me to spend it?”

Just as Grim had internally decided he was going to strangle Anna and leave her body in a storage room in Butterflame’s, desperate shouts from outside the tavern drew his attention. Anna heard it as well, glancing toward the door. Revenant sat up, his ears perking alertly. Other patrons around the common room were also turning to regard the door.

“Come on,” Grim said cautiously. He subconsciously placed the vial in a small pouch on his belt and stood up, grabbing Anna’s arm, and pulling her toward the exit. Revenant jumped up and followed the duo.

“W-wait,” the young woman stammered, reaching back, and grabbing their provisions, before the assassin could pull her too far away. “What about everything else?”

“Leave it,” Grim declared in a serious tone. His tone left no room for debate, but also set Anna on edge.

What did he know, she wondered. Why the shift in demeanor? She swallowed and tried to channel her energy into focusing her senses—something they trained at the Everharth Academy to give legionnaires an edge in combat. Judging by Grim’s own intense gaze, he was familiar with the practice.

“Hurry up. Stay close,” the assassin whispered sharply, leading the way out of Butterflame’s and onto the establishment’s porch. There were a dozen others gathered there all watching the starry horizon over the roofs of the tightly clustered houses. It should have been dark, yet there was a warm, orange glow lighting up the night sky.

The source of the desperate shouts became visible when a skinny man in commoner clothing darted around a bend in the street and rushed up to the porch they were gathering on. He was panting heavily, and his face was beaded with sweat.

“What’s the matter with you?” one man cried, addressing the frenzied commoner.

“The legion!” the spooked peasant responded between ragged gasps. “They’ve returned. They’re burning down our farms and killing at random—Men, women, children, and animals—all of them without reason! We need to fle—!” His words devolved into a panicked gurgle as a crossbow bolt suddenly appeared in his throat and he fell to his knees, grasping helplessly at the spurting blood.

The crowd went ballistic, falling all over each other in an attempt to escape as more bolts flew into the chaotic street. Legionnaires poured into the square, torches, and swords in hand. They were slaughtering anyone who tried to flee and rounding up the cowards who were too afraid to run. A few brave men and women held their ground and fought back, but they were hopelessly outmatched by the ironclad warriors of Harth.

The soldiers bore the Candor Legion insignia proudly on their shields and capes. Officers led splintering fists of soldiers into the village of Platlind. Zealous cries of heresy rang out from the legionnaires and any who didn’t immediately praise Thondel, were cut down without mercy.

Grim turned to Revenant and shouted for the dog to flee. The hound didn’t immediately follow the order but another aggressive shout from the assassin sent him dashing into the shadowy back alleys where he may be safe.

Grim grabbed the collar of Anna’s shirt and jerked her down behind the boarded rails of Butterflame’s front deck. No sooner had they hit the floorboards, than a handful of crossbow bolts pelted the building, killing five unfortunate bystanders.

“What is this madness?!” Anna demanded, the tempo of her voice rising with adrenaline.

“This is how the legions treat free men and women now,” Grim snarled while also peeking out into the courtyard. “Candor has grown both pious and dangerous under the Steward’s rule. They don’t need a reason to sack an independent colony like this—but if there was one, I’m sure it has to do with us.”

Anna considered the assassin’s words carefully. “You don’t think…?”

“Mrs. Winfrey reported us to the legions? Yes, I do.”

“She wouldn’t…” Anna started to argue, her face a confused mixture of shock and betrayal.

“It doesn’t matter now!” Grim growled, darting back into cover as a second volley clattered into the tavern. “We need to get out of this town before they burn the whole place down around us.”

“There!” Anna shouted, pointing to a gap between the building butting up against Butterflame’s.

Grim nodded in understanding and waved his hand, indicating for her to go. Anna darted out and he followed right on her shoulder. As soon as they left the safety of the porch behind another dozen bolts came flying their way. The assassin leapt and twisted, grabbing his heavy cloak in one hand, and throwing it into the speeding crossbow bolts’ path. A few went wide, but the majority were snagged out of the air by his clever trick. No sooner had he touched back down to the ground, than they made it into the side street.

Anna led the way, quickly and decisively choosing directions and paths that she believed would lead them out and away from the legion. But the village was a labyrinth and every time they seemed close, they were presented with a wide street filled with Candor Legionnaires or a building completely ablaze. There must have been half a thousand troops within the sprawling town’s jagged perimeter.

At last, Grim grabbed Anna’s trailing arm and dragged her to a halt. “Stop,” he demanded. She stopped obediently, though she didn’t have much of a choice with the assassin’s vice-like grip on her forearm and looked at him curiously.

“Accept it,” Grim continued. “We’re trapped. Even if we can fight our way out past one of these patrols, they probably have another five hundred legionnaires waiting just outside town…”

“So, what are you proposing?” Anna demanded indignantly. “We lay down and die? That doesn’t sound like something the ‘Reaper’ would do!”

“That’s not what I’m suggesting at all!” Grim replied evenly. “But look around! They’re not killing everyone.” He nodded, indicating a large group of locals that had been rounded up in a clearing akin to a town center. It connected to the dark alley they crouched in. “We could disappear into the crowd and let this blow over. If I’m right, the legion will keep marching east—looking for me. The path to the capital will be wide open…”

“And if you’re wrong?” Anna countered, wiping soot off her face as ash fell from the sky and powdered the ground around them.

“If I’m wrong, then they see me and recognize who I am.” Grim reasoned. “They’ll probably find good sport in killing me—they may even make a game out of it. Rhoric Amir will win, and he’ll crush Octavia’s rebellion before it even begins…”

“And this mysterious lover of yours will be lost for good,” Anna added poignantly.

Grim’s body tensed. “And that,” he quietly agreed.

“And you’re willing to risk that…?” Anna asked seriously.

He glanced around them at the withering town. “It’s the only chance we have…” the assassin whispered.

Anna nodded trustingly. “Okay—lead the way.”

Grim hesitated for a moment, watching the woman curiously. She indicated for him to go and so he went, turning and leading her out of the shadows. They rushed across the muddy street, both concealed in the ripples of his cloak. They made it to the back of the quivering group of prisoners and pushed their way in amongst the masses. None of the many surrounding legionnaires seemed to take note.

It quickly became apparent that they had made a serious blunder here…

Shrieks of terror went up as groups of legionnaire’s bullied more bystanders into the ever-growing crowd in the center of the courtyard. Buildings on the perimeter were sealed up and lit on fire, only for the agonized screams of families trapped within to haunt the night air. Raindrops began to fall from the cloud canopy overhead, but the blaze from the burning town seemed to ward the cold, damp away. Embers rose in clouds of their own brightening the darkness above.

Grim watched in abject horror as a baby, no older than a handful of weeks, was ripped from its hysterical mother’s grasp and slammed against a stone building by a legionnaire clinging to its ankle. The child was swiftly turned into a pulp before being tossed into the mud. The baby’s mother practically lost her mind and clawed at the soldiers with her bare hands, screaming like an animal. They put her to the sword and kicked her body away as well.

Beside Grim, Anna began to sob uncontrollably as more children—large and small—were taken from their parents and slaughtered mercilessly. She begged for the assassin to intervene, her breaths coming in short, crazed gasps, but he would not. He couldn’t blow their cover and attack now; it would be for nothing anyway.

At last, the frenzied killing and torching of houses seemed to fizzle out, and the remaining children were gathered in a line before the huge crowd of bystanders. The Candor Legion then quickly organized the frantic crowd of commoners into several single file lines of their own. Grim and Anna were in parallel lines directly across from one another.

An officer stepped forward, jumping up onto a pile of rumble that had, until an hour ago, been someone’s home. Many of the corpses of the family who had once lived there were still visible underneath.

The man began to shout, addressing the crowd. “My name is Captain Tanner of the exalted Legion of Candor! Can you all hear me?”

There was no response, the crowd watched him in terror, their eyes wide with fear.

“I said,” Captain Tanner reiterated with an annoyed shout. “Can you all hear me?!”

The surrounding legionnaires began to ruthlessly punch and kick any civilian they could reach until the whole crowd was shouting their confirmation and pleading for their lives.

“Much better,” Captain Tanner remarked with a sadistic smile. He then looked down on the children shivering beneath him. “The children you see before you are all heretics—raised by their pagan parents to hate our brilliant god Thondel! They have never attended a hearing in the Great Cathedral of Everharth, nor have they been blessed by a priest of the brotherhood seeing as there is no chapel here!”

A few men and women tried to protest, shouting their disagreement, and claiming that many of the children had been raised in the ways of Thondel. They were all quickly silenced by legion blades until no further protests could be heard.

Grim stood quietly, his blood boiling. Focusing his efforts on calming his breathing and lowering his levels of rage instead of the radical officer before them. Anna watched him through teary eyes, repeatedly shaking her head in denial.

“If it was up to me—I would purge this entire pagan settlement from the kingdom of Harth!” Tanner claimed loudly. “As it stands…It is not. The good and fair Lord Steward, Rhoric Amir has decreed that not all of you be extinguished for your heresy—but that you instead be armed and formed into a proper militia, so that you can defend the kingdom yourselves for a change!”

Chaos ensued as whispers began to run rampant through the crowd. Even Grim glanced up at this news, concerned with why the Steward may want to militarize armies of fishers and farmers. Soon, shouting began anew.

“How could you do this?” one voice cried. “We took many of you same soldiers in—fed you and sheltered you while you were digging in the ruins! Now you return to butcher us? We are not pagans. We’re good Harthians!”

Shouts of agreement went up throughout the gathering. Captain Tanner would hear none of it. He gestured to his soldiers, and they began pulling innocents out of the crowd at random and throwing them to the ground where they were beat and bludgeoned to death by legion fists and boots. When the brutalities finally ended, there was silence once more. Only the sound of muffled sobs could be heard over the crackle of hungry flames.

“Now,” Captain Tanner began with a malicious chuckle. “We’re not just going to arm a bunch of uncommitted, pagan scum…So, there’s going to be tryouts.” He glanced back down at the row of terrified children beneath him. “Any man or woman who wishes to serve in the Steward’s militia will be required to slay one of these heretical lambs. If you cannot…You will be slain in their stead.”

Before the crowd could completely erupt in enraged rebellion, Captain Tanner clapped his hands and gestured. “Begin!”

The first members in line were all given short swords and then walked forward to the corresponding child waiting before them. Unanimously, they all hesitated, unbelievable fear and agony in their confused eyes. After only a few moments, they were all slain by legionnaires on either side of them and their bodies were piled to the side. Then the next batch was armed and positioned.

All nine candidates failed again, unable to raise a sword against the tear-stained children. Many tried to plead for their life, a few even tried to run, but the Candorians’ perimeter was too tight. They were riddled with bolts before they could make it a dozen strides. After finishing off the last in line and tossing their bodies into the pile, another nine natives were armed.

This time, two of them ran forward immediately and quickly executed the child before them. Grim couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps they had done the merciful thing.

“Very good!” Captain Tanner congratulated the two crazed men. “Join the ranks.” He swiftly pointed his chin, indicating they go and stand beside the legionnaires along the perimeter. They acted as instructed, heads hung in shame. The rest were executed.

Another nine were armed and moved forward. All the while Grim and Anna were creeping closer to the front. Anna looked up in horror when she heard a small child speak.

“Father?” the boy asked timidly.

No sooner had the boy said the words than his dad sprinted forward and slashed his throat with the short sword provided him. The man sobbed hysterically, snot bubbling from his nose. Still, he was escorted to join the ranks of those who had succeeded before him. The remaining eight candidates were executed.

“Grim, we have to fight!” Anna pleaded. Her voice was wet with grief. “These are the most unforgivable acts I’ve ever seen committed. I can’t stand by any longer—give me my sword!”

“No!” Grim hissed, his head still hung, eyes focused on the ground, stepping forward ever closer to the children. “We can’t kill them all, Anna. It would be a pointless way to die!”

“You’re the Reaper of Everharth!” she shot back desperately, tears still falling freely from her eyes. “They would tell stories about you to scare the new recruits into obedience! Don’t tell me those tales are all lies?!”

“I’m an assassin!” Grim snarled in response, glancing around to make sure no one overheard them. It hardly mattered, there was too much fear in the air for anyone to register their spoken words. “I don’t fight entire legions!” he explained. “I kill nobles in their sleep! I poison wine and I sabotage a lancer’s armor, so their death is written off as an accident! I’m not the fabled warrior you want me to be. I’m not even a warrior! I’m just a murderer…”

“I don’t believe that!” Anna countered with bloodshot eyes. “You’re more than a killer—Fight back!”

“No!” Grim seethed. “I am too close to throw it all away—not again!” They took another step forward. Only a few ranks remained between them in the children. “When it is our turn, we will give those babes a merciful death and then we will slip away into the night, and we’ll make Rhoric Amir pay tenfold.”

“I thought you don’t kill children?!” Anna snapped, her tone bitter and hopeless.

“They’re doomed anyway…” Grim closed his eyes as they took another stride towards the front.

Another seven were executed. Two more murderers went to join the new garrison’s ranks. Nine more were armed and nine more fell. Then Grim and Anna were forced to move up, each placed in front of a child.

The assassin looked down at the poor, frightened kid before him. He couldn’t have been older than six. His hair was messy, and he peered up at Grim through dirty bangs. His eyes were filled with fear and dread, but also life. The all-consuming fire around them reflected off the boy’s teary orbs. A short sword was handed to Grim, but Captain Tanner’s voice paused the act, if only for a moment.

“You there,” Tanner shouted, pointing to Grim. “You have your own blade?” He cocked his head, glancing sidelong at the steel on the assassin’s hip. Grim’s head nodded slightly, but he did not meet the man’s gaze.

Captain Tanner shrugged. “Then proceed, but with your own sword. Let’s see how well you know it…”

Grim subconsciously nodded and drew the wolf headed weapon, carefully concealing its intricate hilt with his long fingers. He stepped forward and quietly raised the sword, still looking down into the child’s eyes. Beside him, Anna sobbed as she took the short sword from her legionnaire and stepped up to face the child in her row. It was a young girl, with dark hair.

The assassin felt his muscles bulk, looking down on that dark-haired child. She had the most striking green eyes. All he could see while staring at her was Octavia.

Grim had been nothing short of a statue until that moment, but when he thought of Octavia, moisture welled inside his eyes, and he felt a tear slide down each cheek. His lips trembled with rage. He wanted to scream in protest—in anger! Why must this cruel, cruel world test him so? Had he not suffered enough?!

The assassin was so close! One last unforgivable act, after a lifetime of unforgivable deeds and he would be free to save the one thing that had ever given him hope—the one thing he didn’t deserve, but actually needed! If he died now, then Joanna would live out the rest of her days in miserable servitude to Rhoric Amir. All he must do to have a chance of preventing that was end this doomed child’s life in a merciful manner.

He raised the blade high and curled his lip resolutely.

Before him he saw Reuven, and Octavia, and Aleigh, and so many others. He imagined Joanne’s disgust if she knew the blood-soaked path, he had travelled to reach her. He pictured Octavia’s piercing gaze, judging him—seeing him for the monster he had been when he first entered her hidden vault, instead of the guardian and man she thought he had become. He closed his eyes, letting it all go, and let muscle memory take over.

One last unforgivable deed…

27

OBLITERATION

The seconds slid by and still Grim remained, sword leveled for a killing blow he could not commit. The sounds of falling rain and crackling flames deafened the silence around them. Somewhere in the distance a lone bitch howled, and more hounds returned the call. Screams could still be heard periodically throughout the town, but they were desperate pleas for mercy—the sure sound of defeat. Rainwater plastered the assassin’s long hair against his forehead and disguised his empty eyes.

The other seven candidates had already dropped their short swords and accepted death. Only Anna’s remained, ready to strike. She was quietly watching Grim to see what he would do. Everyone seemed to be—the Platlind natives, the legionnaires, Captain Tanner, and especially the young boy staring fearfully up at the assassin’s imposing silhouette.

Grim chuckled hopelessly and breathed a tired sigh, before lowering his long sword away from the child and closing his eyes. “Still just as weak…”

Anna breathed her own shuddering sigh of relief and dropped her sword arm as well. She didn’t even try to stop the legionnaires as they wrenched the weapon from her grasp. She was simply content knowing she wouldn’t die with this child’s murder on her conscious.

Captain Tanner was stroking his bearded chin. At last, he shrugged dismissively. “Pity—you looked like you had some potential.” Turning to his soldiers he commanded, “Kill them.”

Grim’s eyelids burst open, and he snarled with a savage rage. The legionnaires on either side of him, who should have been responsible for his execution, recoiled instinctually before raising their blades to hack him down. The assassin half-spun, half-fell, slashing his blade across the throats of both surprised men, before tucking backwards toward Anna’s captors. He exploded out of that roll and pivoted, bringing the wolf headed blade across in a diagonal and ripping through the plackarts of both soldiers, leaving their guts to spew out in heaps. All four legionnaires died within an instant of each other. Anna stumbled back in shock.

Grim turned his wrathful gaze on Captain Tanner. The man gulped, stuttering to recover his bravado after the brutal and subtle murder of his men. “What the fuck was that?” The captain glanced around frantically at his many remaining soldiers. “Are you blind? Shoot him!”

The legionnaires swiftly leveled their crossbows. Grim turned and grabbed the nearest child by the tunic, tossing him out of harm’s way with an effortless one-handed throw, before reaching under his cloak and drawing Anna’s hidden legion blade. He leapt in front of the woman and the child she had been tasked with killing and spun both swords in a frenzied vortex.

A volley of bolts was loosed at the assassin, their hungry serrated heads whistling toward his chest. Grim growled and met the volley head on, knocking the bolts down as he had seen the armored fiend do against Yolanda’s own onslaught aboard The Shroud. A few made it through but were mostly defeated by his blackened legion breastplate. Only a couple pierced his flesh, and the punctures were minor.

The crossbowmen began to quickly reload, but even the most seasoned of archers could only cock and place a bolt so fast. Grim leapt through the mud and the blood and was upon them before they even came close to finishing the task.

The assassin danced about without so much as slowing or losing momentum. In his right hand he swung the long sword with ease, taking limbs and severing heads with abandoned. In the warrior’s left and gauntleted hand, he carried Anna’s short sword. The blade repeatedly bit into the ribs and hearts of legionnaires quick enough, but not clever enough to escape the rampaging long sword. They attempted to draw swords of their own before he closed the gap, but most could not even get them free of their sheaths before the Reaper’s blade found them.

Within a few short moments, nearly twenty legionnaires lay dead, an entire fist of crossbowmen destroyed, their ranks broken. But Grim’s reckless and savage element of surprise was gone now, and Captain Tanner was rallying several more fists of soldiers to confront him in an organized assault. The assassin easily faced off against five dozen legionnaires now and more were flooding into the clearing by the second.

Grim scanned their tight ranks with a cold stare. Realizing there was no escape he turned back to meet Anna’s gaze. She was no longer crying. Her face was resolute and determined, her jaw set. He nodded to her, and she nodded back. Then his eyes drifted up to meet the smug glare of Captain Tanner. The man responsible for organizing this macabre scene—no, perhaps not the man responsible. That, Grim supposed, was Rhoric Amir. The captain was merely the tool used to deliver the Steward’s will…

No matter. Tanner would die in Rhoric Amir’s stead.

“You have some skill,” Captain Tanner admitted, bravery returning to his voice now that it seemed Grim had no chance of victory. “But it will carry you no further…Any last words, heretic?”

The assassin brandished an unsettling grin in the face of such impossible odds and the captain flinched away from that smirk. Grim threw his head back and let the drizzle cool his sweat-stained face. He never felt freer than in moments like this. There was only one choice ahead of him. Fight.

“What are you smiling about?” Captain Tanner demanded. There was sudden annoyance heavy in his tone. “In a few short moments you’ll be dead, and your heathen face will be peeled off and pinned to a Candor shield…”

Grim chuckled. “But I’ll be free.”

The captain snorted contemptuously. “You really think so…? How about we leave that up to Thondel…Bring me the heretic’s face!”

The Candor legionnaires began to creep in, encircling the assassin completely. They beat their shields menacingly. But Grim was not afraid. His grin remained, widened even. His gaze returned to Anna.

“A wolf should die fighting, should they not?” He launched her sword across the clearing where it landed blade-first, quivering in the mud.

Anna plucked it from the ground and gave the sword a powerful swing, letting the muck slide off its killing edge. She then proceeded to salute Grim and turned to face the opposing line of legionnaires. “Die well, Reaper!”

The sudden sound of battle joining erupted from somewhere nearby in the town, followed by the agonized screams of the dying. Apparently, whatever it was, was not part of Captain Tanner’s agenda. The man swirled and looked in the smoky distance. Many of his legionnaires followed suit, dropping their guard to listen for more clues.

A distinct shout went up into the air and was echoed back with typical legion efficiency until the warning made it back to Captain Tanner’s grisly clearing. “Ambush!”

“Ambush?” the captain repeated softly his tone confused. “Who in Thondel’s name…?”

His words were cut short. A lithe figure adorned in dull black armor emerged from the shadows of the night and plunged a long-curved dagger under his armpit, before fading back into darkness. Captain Tanner’s body collapsed like a bag of stones and tumbled down the pile of rubble, crashing into the mud at Anna’s feet.

The Candor Legion exploded into decisive action, moving to crush the unknown threat. In unison they raised their shields once more and marched forward. The conjoined crowd of Platlinders began to panic, trampling one another to escape the crashing legion ranks.

Grim leapt up onto a fallen boulder protruding from the mud and waved his sword in the air. “Fight you cowards! Defend your home. Protect your children and your lands. Fight!”

The crazed commoners heard the assassin’s rallying cry over the sounds of battle and turned to regard him on his perch. The wind whipped his heavy black cloak out to the side and revealed the remarkable armor and armaments beneath. In that moment, Grim looked more like a symbol of hope than the icon of death he had come to embody. Even Anna felt her fighting spirit leap as she stared up at him.

The commoners roared defiantly, and many reached down into the mud, plucking up discarded weapons or tools and baring down on the legion’s front line. They were repelled with ease, the ironclad warriors of Harth chopping them down with blood lusted abandon. Realizing their chances were slim, Grim leapt down from his boulder and bounded up to Anna.

“Take these children and anyone else who will listen and get them to safety!”

“What safety?” Anna countered, shouting to be heard over the chaos. “This whole town’s a battlefield!”

Grim shook his head. “Someone else is here drawing the legion’s ire, attacking them on the eastern front. Find them. Help them if you can!”

“What will you do?!” Anna demanded.

“I’ll fight,” Grim replied simply. “Now go!”

Anna nodded and turned, gathering the scared children together and herding them away from the gruesome massacre of the rest of the Platlinders in the square. There were less legionnaires on the dirt road to the east, but she would still be forced to fight if she expected to make it out of the doomed town. Tightening her grip on the hilt of her sword, Anna sprung forward heroically.

Grim watched Anna as she led the children away, each of the traumatized youngsters clinging to one another’s hands and following closely on the brave woman’s heels. He hoped they would all make it out together, but even with the majority of the legion at his back, he knew their odds weren’t good. The assassin shook his head and rolled his shoulders experimentally. There was no more time to fret over such things. The Platlinders were all but dead and now the legionnaires were upon him.

Grim twisted to meet their hungry blades. He swept his longsword across, picking off several jabs meant for his back and launched himself forward, breaking through their frontline. The legionnaires never expected such an aggressive, straightforward assault and several died immediately for their arrogance.

The assassin’s blade ripped left and right, tearing through armor and splintering shields. An overwhelming number of enemy soldiers tried to smother him, pressing forward, and grabbing at his sword arm. Grim danced from one target to the next, slashing high and feigning low.

One legionnaire started to bash him to the ground with a shield rush. Grim matched the soldier’s momentum and crashed against the shield with his own armored shoulder. As the man recoiled from the hit, the assassin’s gauntlet shot out, snatching the edge of the shield, and ripping it away from him. Grim then smacked the kited object against the faces of two more charging legionnaires before pivoting all together and hurling its edge into the stomach of another man.

The blow connected with such force that the shield smashed through the man’s armor and lacerated his stomach, sticking there until Grim kicked it with all his might, nearly severing the legionnaire in half. Without slowing he spun, swinging his sword over his shoulder in a half-moon slash and tossing several more legionnaires back. More tried to fill the space left by their fallen brothers and sisters, but Grim rushed forward into the gap instead.

The assassin leapt into the air and kicked out with both feet, leveling the man unfortunate enough to catch the blow. The momentum from Grim’s kick launched him back and he tucked into a midair roll, longsword breaking free of his tight form and splitting another soldier’s shield in half, before burying itself deep in the man’s chest. He lifted the doomed man over his head and threw him back the way he had come, slowing the approaching legionnaires, just long enough for Grim to spin again, tossing his cloak wide and catching three of them under its entrenching leather.

The soldiers quickly fought to free themselves and regain their line of sight, but the assassin’s blade swept low severing their legs from their bodies and leaving them to die in the mud. Still heavily outnumbered Grim parried and dodged, constantly moving away from slashing blades. When it seemed, he had nowhere left to run and the legion swords would finally catch up to him, he leapt straight into the air, landing on two separate pairs of shoulders and dancing from vessel to vessel.

The wolf headed sword struck down repeatedly, killing with reckless abandoned as the assassin jumped over the heads of the confused soldiers. Midleap a spear was launched at his chest. Grim caught the spearhead under his gauntlet just as it connected with his breastplate, but the momentum was enough to knock him to the ground. He landed gracefully and rolled, coming to his feet in time to shove the spear through a charging legionnaire’s exposed eyeball. The man screamed in agony before Grim kicked him away.

In rushed another fist of legionnaires eager to meet the warrior’s longsword and vanquish him in the name of Thondel. Grim snapped the spear in half with a single clenched fist and quickly felled three unsuspecting soldiers, as he thrusted the shattered spear like a rapier. Unable to wrench the spear free of the third man’s ribs, Grim chopped the next two in line down with precise strikes of his longsword. The sixth man he caught around the throat with the gauntlet and lifted him high into the air before slamming him back down to earth with bone-shattering force.

The legion ranks began to thin and Grim used the reprieve to glance around desperately between exhausted gasps. He realized why his challengers had slowed—many of them were rushing around him attempting to catch the fleeing Platlinders, as well as Anna and the children. The assassin snarled angrily and charged after, slashing them down and ripping great gouges in their backs.

Realizing his efforts wouldn’t be enough to divert the entire pursuing force, Grim broke away and rushed up the pile of rubble Captain Tanner had used as a podium. A few soldiers tried to follow him up, but he struck them down, throwing his cloak into the eyes of the last two before pivoting low and kicking their legs out from underneath of them. They tumbled back down to the bottom of the pile.

Anna defeated another Candor challenger, pulling her short blade free of his skewered ribcage. She panted from her efforts. He had been the third warrior that had caught up to them and more were closing in—not to mention the approaching soldiers from the east.

“Stay close, children!” Anna commanded calmly, though she was anything but calm. How could she be? She wasn’t a legendary swordsmen like Grim or Eriana. She was a simple legionnaire. She had received the same training as the soldiers pursuing her now. Heavy footsteps behind her clued Anna into another approaching legionnaire and the time for such thoughts was over—all she could focus on was winning this next sword fight.

Anna whirled to meet this fourth Candorian warrior. It was a woman, not much older than she was. She grimaced and accepted the larger soldier’s lunging blow, deflecting it off the edge of her own blade. She then punched forward with the pommel of her sword, bashing the woman’s chin, and leaving her open to a strike.

Anna should have felt repulsed to kill a fellow legionnaire, but after what she witnessed in the square, she had no qualms with ending these soldiers’ rotten lives. Her blade slashed downward and left a bloody line across the larger woman’s neck. Within seconds blood began to spray forth and the legionnaire collapsed to the ground, her lifeforce quickly ebbing away.

Anna supposed she had one advantage over these soldiers…She was a Wolf. She had slain monsters before.

Glancing up from her most recent quarry’s body, she soon realized none of that would matter. The Candors were skirting Grim by the dozens now. Burdened by the gang of children she was escorting; they would be upon her in moments. She couldn’t even decide where she should make her final stand, at the front of the group of desperate kids, ready to confront the Candor reinforcements, or at the back, holding their pursuers at bay.

The sound of a familiar voice crying out over the ruckus stole her attention. Anna glanced back to see Grim, now high atop the rubble which Captain Tanner had commanded from. The assassin’s silhouette was black against the raging fires that wreathed the houses on the clearing. His sword glistened, wet with blood and his cloak appeared to be drenched in the same dark substance. He addressed the legion in a rasp, his voice having fled him after so many blood lusted shouts, imbued with primal rage.

“Hey, you bastards—look up here!” The legionnaires seemed to reflexively slow and glance back at the looming assassin. “Don’t you know who I am?!”

What was he doing, Anna wondered? If he revealed himself, these zealots would stop at nothing to destroy him.

Grim coughed and spit out a wad of blood before continuing in his menacing tone. “I’ve slain dozens of your god’s priests. Massacred warriors of your esteemed legions by the hundreds! Defiled the Cathedral of Thondel, and murdered THOUSANDS of practicing faithful…”

Whispers and shouts began to move through the Candor Legion, already they were beginning to rally, once more turning to face the assassin squarely. The word ‘Reaper’ could be heard spreading like wildfire amongst their ranks. Anna turned, quietly gesturing for the kids to move with her—she wasn’t about to let the mysterious, brooding warrior sacrifice himself in vain. She was determined to make this count.

Grim threw his hood back, revealing more than the simple strands of hair and faint silhouette that had been visible until now. The legion cast their gaze upon him in all his savage, unhinged glory. He met their startled eyes with another sadistic smile. “Come on then, you dogs—do you want to live forever?! Slay me and be immortalized in legend!”

The legionnaires roared in unison, accepting the Reaper’s challenge, and charging him from all sides, chanting a Thondelite war cry. The very last thing Anna saw, before guiding the children past the frenzied soldiers and out of the square, was the assassin calmly twirling his blade…

Grim watched as a sea of dull legion silver washed in around him. Many began scaling the rubble. They were easily repelled by singular crushing blows from the wolf headed longsword, but not so easily repelled were the crossbow bolts that flew in from every angle.

He was forced to dodge repeatedly on his precarious perch, deflecting the more obvious projectiles. Still, it was only a matter of time before one found their mark. Unsatisfied with the knowledge that he may die at the end of a coward’s bolt, Grim leapt from the top of the rubble pile, nearly falling the full twenty feet to the ground. His descent was broken, as his feet smashed onto the shoulders of an unsuspecting legionnaire. The assassin’s weight crumpled the poor man’s body, and Grim rolled away from the destroyed corpse, coming to his feet in a sprint.

The assassin charged through the legion’s ranks, recklessly defeating foe after foe in the only manner he could, given the odds—with sheer speed and ferocity. He constantly moved trying to string the entire enemy force along without ever letting them box him in. It was simply an impossible task. There were far too many of them for him to outrun entirely. When they inevitably pinned him down, the assassin fought with even more animalistic rage, sweeping his sword in wide arcs, destroying anything in its path.

He struck at anything he perceived as a weakness, anything that might take just one more attacker out of the fight—fingers, legs, feet, and ribs—none of it was safe from the Reaper. He continuously pivoted, swinging his cloak wide and staggering the would-be backstabbers. His opponents were forced to climb over the bodies of their fallen comrades just to reach him. When the corpses stacked too high that Grim was in danger of being trapped, he kicked the lifeless bodies down and burst forth from the carnage, his blade hungrily seeking its next victim.

The assassin parried three strikes at once, catching a fourth on his gauntlet and countering all of them with a hasty, sweeping slash. He punished the fourth attacker with a chest pulping kick that ricocheted the woman’s body so hard, her helmet shattered the face of the legionnaire behind her.

Grim’s long sword bit through the ribs of one attacker and sailed clean through to fell a second behind them. Just as quickly, he retracted the blade and spun around their tumbling bodies, drawing a dirk off one of their belts and hastily shoving it into the throat of the next unsuspecting warrior in line. He was only trackable by the mist of blood that hung over him, constantly refreshing as his blade ripped through attacker after attacker.

Grim’s breaths came in rapid, ragged gasps. His arms and legs ached from the whirlwind of movements. His knuckles were shattered and bloodied from hundreds of glancing blows. He could no longer feel his toes as he had broken and rebroken them countless times throughout the grueling encounter, many of his kicks bouncing harmlessly off his enemies’ thick plate armor. Sweat and pulverized flesh crept into his eyes, stinging, and burning them. He wasn’t even afforded enough time to wipe them clean, as he was constantly being pressed by several more attackers—even if he could, there was not a patch of leather on him that was not also covered in gore.

He hardly registered his own movements anymore. His mind retreating in on itself and allowing his muscles to do what they knew best—kill.

Another spear was hurled at him. Grim barely managed to deflect it, batting it wide against the base of his blade. One attacker tried to dive into him, dragging him into the mud, but the assassin would not be stopped, instead catching the man by the collar, and throwing him over his back to collide face first with the ground. Grim’s vision swooned from exhaustion, but he somehow managed to fight it off, twirling into another killing dance and felling Harth’s warriors in every direction.

A massive swing from a hammer wielding legionnaire suddenly snuck through Grim’s seemingly impenetrable guard and thundered off his chest knocking him back and dropping his weakening body into the mud. The assassin raised his longsword in time to deflect a second would-be lethal hit from the hammer, but it took everything he had left not to drop the sword after. A third hit came down, accompanied by a wave of sword tips from the other surrounding legionnaires. Grim grabbed what he could of his traveling cloak in the iron gauntlet, sweeping it over his chest like a shield.

The trick defeated most of the attacks, but the hammer still clattered painfully against his gauntlet, fracturing the delicate bones underneath. Grim wheezed angrily but was unable to muster a true cry of agony. He watched as the legionnaire raised the hammer for a fourth and final blow…

Before the hammer could strike, a familiar shadow passed over Grim’s head, knocking the clustered legionnaires away and flattening the hammer wielding brute. With a vicious snarl, Revenant tore the man’s throat out and leapt over top of the assassin growling and barking, foam frothing from his mouth in an intimidating show of savagery. The warhound threatened to shred any man, woman or weapon that came within a six-foot radius of the assassin.

It hurt Grim just to draw ragged breaths, but he managed to roll to his feet, coming up in a crouch beside his frenzied shadow. Revenant bumped against the assassin anxiously and Grim subconsciously grabbed a handful of the beast’s thick fur in return, patting him reassuringly.

“I thought I told you to run…” The assassin grimaced, but his frustration quickly faded and was replaced by what he could only describe as serenity. Revenant growled stubbornly and Grim thought he understood the hound only too well. “I suppose we’ve both been living on borrowed time, huh…?”

There was no telling how many of the legionnaires were left, but he reckoned he’d slain at least fifty of them in his wrath induced onslaught—a staggering feat which, until now, was completely unheard of.

Some of his finest work.

The dark thought brought another ridiculous smirk to his face, revealing teeth soaked in watery blood. The sight was enough to send more than a few legionnaires running, having seen plenty of this so-called Reaper. Still, at least another fist-and-a-half of soldiers remained. These were the true zealots. The sharks of the legion. They smelled blood. They knew the assassin was exhausted and hurt. Sure, a few more of them may die, perhaps even a dozen, but they still had the numbers to achieve victory.

Then it would be like Grim had said—they would be immortalized in song. The devil-slaying legionnaires of the Candor Legion, greatest of the faithful. True heroes of Thondel…The thought made the assassin sick.

Channeling one final burst of adrenaline, Grim dashed forward, Revenant at his side. With a thunderous retort, the assassin and hound collided with the last zealous warriors of the Candor Legion. The scene that unfolded in the wake of that clash was no less remarkable or brutal than the stuff of Harthian legend. The blood bathed grounds of Platlind shook and thunder muffled the sounds of battle…

28

PATH OF THE DAMNED

Anna forced a second and third Candor Legionnaire back. Her short sword slashed left to right with ferocious precision. One cocky soldier drew too near, and she cut him down, but the other two rushed in, eager to avenge their fallen brother and finish the resilient Wolf for good.

Miraculously, she repelled both attacks, parrying one wide and sidestepping the other. Still, it wasn’t enough. The man she had sidestepped continued forward and instead shifted his attention to the children cowering behind her. Anna tried to disengage the first legionnaire and aid her frightened charges, but the warrior pressed her relentlessly. There was little hope of her defeating this man quickly enough for her to make it back to the children, and to make matters worse, she could hear more Candor reinforcements pouring into the muddy side street.

Distracted as she was with thoughts of the children in peril, she let her guard sag just long enough for the soldier pressing her, to slip a pommel bash past her defenses. Anna’s head recoiled from the painful blow, and she spat up a mouthful of blood. She tried to focus her eyes, but her vision was swimming. Through sheer luck or possibly years of muscle memory, she intercepted the legionnaire’s next slash, but only barely. The blade still blasted past her guard and nicked her bicep, before slapping her stomach and knocking the wind from her lungs.

Anna fought the urge to vomit and lunged forward violently, creating just enough space for her to turn and shout at the children to flee—though, her words instead came out as a rasping wheeze. “Run!”

They wouldn’t get far, but perhaps a few would make it away into the shadows of the dying town.

Anna whirled back to face her immediate threat once more, only now he had been joined by two more legionnaires. All of them smirked hungrily, dancing forward in unison. She was already dead in their eyes. She raised her short sword defensively, knowing damn well she couldn’t block all three of their blows at once.

Her stoic resolution was shattered by a sudden whooshing sound, accompanied by a blast of air that threw Anna’s sweaty hair free of her face and sent her staggering back. All three charging legionnaires were torn asunder, chunks of their bodies and shocked faces were tossed to the side. In their place stood the largest man Anna had ever seen. He wielded a massive, blood-soaked claymore—the weapon responsible for the trio’s obliteration. His hair was like the black wings of a raven and his pale skin glowed in the dim light of dusk.

“Commander Ramsey…?” She stuttered with surprise.

The man didn’t initially respond, raising his huge sword for another attack. Anna braced herself and clenched her teeth, unsure of how she was supposed to defeat this giant, suddenly returned from the dead. But she was not Ramsey’s target. The Obsidian Commander took two long strides, easily carrying him passed her and dropped his claymore into a vicious downward strike. The blade cleaved the final Candor legionnaire from shoulder to balls and left him to collapse in two steaming halves of a fractured corpse.

Anna’s mouth hung open and she quietly lowered her short blade, knowing now that it would be of no aid to her in stopping the massive warrior if he chose to slay her. The children also stood wide eyed and wide mouthed, staring up at the great Ramsey the Black, like they had just witnessed a hero of legend leap forth from the pages of a storybook.

More soldiers poured into the clearing, flocking to Ramsey’s side. They wore legion armor, but it quickly became apparent to Anna that these men were no legionnaires. Signs of defaced insignias could be seen on all of their armor and legion crests had been torn from their pauldrons. These must be the warriors responsible for ambushing the Candor Legion! And, it would seem, they were led by the Obsidian Giant himself.

“You’re all lucky to be alive,” Ramsey stated to the disheveled cluster of children. He dropped down to one knee as he addressed them, and his gaze shifted to Anna. “This woman is responsible for your survival?”

The children nodded their heads in unison, one of the older girls even stepped forward and piped up bravely, “She fought off a dozen soldiers trying to protect us! She’s a great warrior…”

Anna felt her cheeks redden and she glanced away, waving her hand dismissively. “Any Wolf would do the same…”

Ramsey’s gaze shifted curiously, and he stood upright once more, taking a stride Anna’s direction. “Did you say Wolf…?”

Anna’s grip tightened instinctually around the hilt of her sword. “Why? What’s it to you—afraid you made a mistake?”

Ramsey noticed her fingers whitening as they clenched her sword, and he smiled. “At ease legionnaire. I am not your enemy. I wasn’t when last we met, nor am I now…”

Anna hardly relaxed her hold. “I recall a vulgar man last we met, who spoke like a beast and tried to break a woman less than half his size…”

Ramsey chuckled self-deprecatingly, as did several of the not-legionnaires gathering around them. “That is indeed true—but it was your fiery commander that broke me instead…I came as close to death as I ever cared to that day. That changes a man. Even a man like me…You’re safe in my company Wolf. Sheath your blade, the fight is done.”

“It’s not done!” Anna countered angrily, as sense suddenly returned to her in full. She wanted to kick herself for her foolish hesitance. “My friend is still fighting to the west—he faces an overwhelming number of legionnaires. We have to go to him. It could already be too late!”

Ramsey appeared confused. “My scouts reported little legion activity in the western half of the town…”

“Well, your scouts were wrong!” Anna shot back. Her voice grew shaky with panic.

Ramsey looked to an unremarkable soldier in dull black armor who had quietly crept up some moments before. The man’s—if he was a man—face was completely covered by a curious looking helmet. The soldier nodded quietly and signaled with his fingers several times in response to the Obsidian Giant’s questioning gaze.

“Damn it!” Ramsey exclaimed, shaking his head with frustration. He immediately began calling out orders. “Get these children to the safety of east Platlind—put a guard on them and mobilize the rest of the Exiles West! There’re another hundred troops lying in wait. Close the perimeter and get ready for a fight!”

“What’s your name, girl?” Ramsey demanded, turning his questioning eyes on Anna.

After a brief pause, she answered. “Call me Anna.”

“Very well, Anna,” Ramsey said with a nod. “Lead us to these bastards, so that we may exact a proper Harthian punishment on them…”

The slender Wolf nodded and turned, climbing her way out of the gully of mud she had been fighting through. The children she had protected shyly waved their goodbyes to her. She couldn’t be bothered to notice. Anna was too concerned with what she would find in the clearing to the west…

Grim growled defiantly as he swept another legionnaire’s legs out from under her and impaled the woman before she had even hit the marshy ground. Exhaling a painful, ragged breath the assassin turned and caught another attacker’s blade on his armored forearm and rolled his hand over the weapon, grabbing it and yanking it free. He used the stolen weapon to skewer a third man coming up on his flank and ripped his own wolf headed longsword free, chopping down on the unarmed soldier’s collarbone and leaving the sundered man to die.

Revenant snarled weakly. The huge hound didn’t have the strength left to tear through the coif of the legionnaire he had pinned but was still heavy enough to suffocate the soldier in the blood infused mud. More soldiers rushed in, kicking, and beating the dog’s muscular back with maces and axe handles. The warhound yelped painfully and lurched to the side, trying to escape the flailing weapons.

Another enraged sound, barely human in origin, escaped Grim’s raw throat and he leapt out of the mud, landing between the frenzied soldiers and his loyal hound. His heavy longsword swept high and low, and just like the blade, the assassin jumped clean over strikes only to land in a crouch, bracing with his free hand and leaping back up again. His blade and cloak swirled with him, whipping and slicing through legion metal as he defeated another fist of troops their bodies falling away like crushed wheat.

“What is he?!” one man exclaimed in horror. “What kind of man fights like that!”

Other legionnaires were starting to shake their heads, many beginning to back away, their fear of the assassin’s thirsty blade outweighing their dreams of glory. He had already butchered several dozen of their comrades—what madness would it be to continue to throw their lives away against such savagery?

“He’s more beast than man!” another cried.

“Nonsense!” a third, proud warrior shouted, rushing forward. “He’s only a man—like us. What are we compared to the Will of Thondel!”

The zealous warrior leapt into the air, lunging forward and more rallied to his battle cry. Grim met the man’s charge, accepting the slender rapier blade through his shoulder in exchange for a thrust from his own heavy blade, smashing through the warrior’s breastplate and impaling him midair. The assassin flicked the sword to the side and let the man glide off like a slab of skewered meat.

More soldiers threatened to overwhelm Grim, but he leveled his sword, bracing the blade on his gauntlet and pushing the ranks of legionnaires back, before freeing the tip of the blade and sweeping it across to decapitate four of the five soldiers. The fifth ducked under the blade and attempted to thrust his short sword through Grim’s exposed stomach.

The blade had barely pierced his skin when the assassin caught it and held it completely immobile. With his pommel he struck down on the legionnaire’s blade, shattering it before bringing the longsword’s wide blade across the doomed man’s throat and severing his head as well.

Anna’s jaw hung slack, as did those jaws of the men around her. Even Ramsey watched with startled eyes as the assassin fought with all the primal rage of a caged lion. The field before them was littered with piles of dead legionnaires, their bodies ripped to pieces, their blood pooling in the mud like rainwater.

She had expected to find the assassin’s head on a spike by now, yet there he fought, beaten, and battered, but still very much a threat to anything around him. Anything but Revenant it seemed. The dog had apparently returned and was fighting in perfect harmony with the assassin, constantly rotating as Grim danced about, in order to protect his flank.

Both hound and man were covered in gore and Grim’s chest injury appeared to have reopened as blood soaked through his leather surcoat. It was impossible to tell as the bodies of the fallen legionnaires had been butchered completely but based on how many soldiers had stood in this square less than an hour before, Anna reckoned the assassin had slain a staggering sixty, maybe seventy men…

“So,” she breathed, hardly able to form the words. “This is the Reaper…”

Ramsey was having a similar thought. He recognized the man—well, not so much the man, for Grim was truly a grotesque sight, covered in mud and the blood of his victims, but the hound that fought alongside him. This was the wandering vagabond he had encountered in the Sunny Tips. He was not surprised by that realization, as he had, had his suspicions. What did shock him and chill him to his core, was the amount of carnage one man seemed to be capable of.

Another brutal blow ricocheted off of Grim’s shoulder, as he faced off a dozen legionnaires at once, and it seemed to shake Anna from her stupor. “Come on!” she cried, starting to rush forward and down the slope into the clearing. “We have to help him!”

“No!” Ramsey countered, taking a step forward and catching her just before she was out of arm’s reach. “Let them fight.”

Anna turned and looked up at the huge man incredulously. “Let them fight?”

“Yes.” Ramsey reiterated with a nod, his eyes never breaking away from the clash in the clearing. “I want to see the truth behind the legend…”

Anna glared at him with disgust and fought vehemently to break free of his iron grip. Her struggles were in vain and at last she stopped fighting, resigning to watch Grim in what was likely his last desperate moments.

The assassin sprinted and dove to his knees, sliding across the muddy field and underneath one soldier’s sweeping blade. He hacked the man’s legs out from under him as he passed. The unfortunate legionnaire tumbled to the ground and Revenant moved to finish him off, as Grim had already leapt back to his feet and met the next oncoming challenger.

Two more legionnaires fell, overwhelmed by Grim’s flurry of blows. Still, a third managed to sneak a vicious hammer strike past the assassin’s guard as he was occupied with more immediate threats. The hammer head bounced off of his shoulder with a sickening crack.

Grim howled in pain, and reflexively dodged away from this newest attacker. His sword arm suddenly hung limp and it took everything he had left not to let the wolf headed hilt slip free of his numb fingertips. Realizing the assassin’s shoulder had been dislocated, the legionnaires pressed him aggressively.

Grim gritted his teeth and snarled defiantly. Blood and spittle flew away and he braced himself. Just before the first soldier reached him, the assassin leapt up and twisted violently, whipping his own limp, sword wielding arm around like a catapult. The long blade came down and around in an overhead chop, biting deep into the first charging legionnaire’s skull and sticking there. Hardly slowing, Grim leapt again, rolling over the convulsing, dead man’s back while maintaining his grip on the longsword. The maneuver pulled his dislocated shoulder taut and with another subtle jerk, he popped the joint back into place.

The next wave of legionnaires hadn’t even realized what had just transpired, when Grim ripped his longsword free of his last victims helm and swept the blade across in a lightning-fast slash. Three more legionnaires were disemboweled. Somewhere behind the assassin, Revenant overpowered another soldier, dragging him to the ground and thrashing him like a doll, despite the hound’s own exhaustion.

Four legionnaires remained. All of them trembled as realization set in…they would not win this fight. They would die horribly, amongst a sea of their fallen comrades. One man pissed himself, dropping his sword and running. Revenant gave chase, easily outpacing the man in the mud and knocking him to the ground, before circling back to snap the coward’s neck.

Grim stalked forward, twirling his sword in lazy semicircles. The remaining legionnaires stared into his eyes, but they found no humanity there—no mercy. A static wall of rage had glazed over the assassin’s smoldering face.

One soldier dropped to her knees groveling for her life with clasped hands. Grim chopped her down without breaking stride, affording her no more than a passing glance. The other two began to beg as well. Tears welling in their eyes.

“Oh, please—mercy!” one man screamed, snot running freely from his flaring nostrils and down his quivering chin. The other legionnaire was simply frozen in terror, staring wide-eyed as the legion slaying Reaper came within a few yards of them.

At last, Grim broke his silence, his tongue tethering a venom coated sentence together. “Where the fuck is your Thondel now?” he demanded, his voice shaky with both rage and fatigue.

The crier’s sobs intensified, and he fell to his knees as well. “Please…” he begged.

Grim came to a halt at last, only a few feet from the duo. His blade lashed out suddenly, tearing a deep gouge in the frozen legionnaire’s throat. Blood spurted into the air as the dying man collapsed backwards, leaving only the terrified soldier on his knees. Revenant paced circles around them, hungrily eyeing the prostrated man.

The seconds passed and Grim’s blade did not fall. He quietly watched the legionnaire, measuring his every move. When the burden of waiting for that final blow became too much, the man leapt to his feet and began shouting hysterically.

“Do it already! I’m ready to greet Thondel—send me to his side! I can’t take this anymore. Just kill me, monster!”

Grim snarled and pushed the man back to arm’s length. “If you do meet Thondel, tell him I’m not finished yet…”

The soldier’s hysteria momentarily abated. He began to cock his head confused, but Grim’s sword came too fast, burying itself in his stomach and plowing him to the ground. The legionnaire howled in pain and the assassin ripped the blade free before plunging it back down again. He continued the action repeatedly—sometimes stabbing sometimes slashing. The soldier’s screams faded away to a gurgle and then silence, but still Grim continued.

The assassin shouted inaudibly. Hot tears streaked down his face. Veins pulsated on his neck. His hair, once neatly collected in a knot, hung in gristle-matted strands around his face. His enraged howls continued, until he wasn’t even sure if he was shouting anymore. His muscles ached. His lung screamed. Blood dripped from a hundred minor wounds across his body. Fractured bones and broken limbs had gone numb. Still, he hacked the man’s lifeless corpse.

Revenant crouched nearby, watching the assassin nervously.

Up on the hill, Anna finally broke free of Ramsey’s grip as his hand had gone all but slack, watching the assassin’s macabre rampage. She half sprinted; half slid down the hill. She was forced to jump and high step over the scattered bodies of Grim’s victims. It took her many moments to reach the lone warrior, but she was almost at his side when she cried out, “Grim! Enough, Grim—It’s over! We’re safe—you’re safe!”

Revenant saw the familiar girl approaching and started to move towards her. His tail lowered cautiously, but his ears perked up in greeting.

Grim’s onslaught suddenly slowed. His subconscious only registered approaching footsteps. They sounded like legion boots. The smell of so much fresh blood, shit and piss clouded his senses. His body was on edge, reacting out of violent desperation and before he could stop himself a wild snarl spread across his face, and he spun. The wolf headed longsword was already seeking its target before his mind could catch up. The vicious blade tore through Anna’s chest, biting deep until it dug into her sternum bone and launched the small woman several feet back into the mud. Her body tumbled and skidded before coming to a halt, face down in the muck, completely motionless.

Grim froze. The intense rage he felt melted away in an instant and his heart sank into his stomach. He stared in horror at Anna’s broken body, hoping, praying that she might make a move—anything to indicate she was alive. Of course, his prayers went unanswered, and after many painful moments the woman remained still. Revenant quietly padded up to her body and buried his nose in her hair, releasing a long, sad whine before lowering his body into the mud and settling beside her.

Grim’s breath came in quick, ragged gasps. He tried to rationalize something, anything! But nothing made sense. His body shivered with adrenaline and his hands trembled so badly that his longsword at last broke free of his white knuckled grasp and dropped into the mud.

“Anna…I…” he stuttered, searching for words to fill the eerie silence that now surrounded the battlefield. “I…This isn’t…” His words trailed off and he slowly looked down at his trembling palms, covered in layers of both dry and fresh blood.

The assassin collapsed into the muck and suddenly buried his hands under the mud. He pulled them out and rubbed them together rapidly trying to clean away the blood or conceal it under layers of dirt. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t hide it all and his gasps continued to quicken. Tears wanted to fall from his wild eyes, but there was hardly any moisture left to give.

Grim focused every bit of his remaining sanity on controlling his breathing and containing his rising emotions. He backed his mind into a contained space and tried to shut everything else out.

Like a true warrior, his chaotic thoughts began to fade, and he felt control returning—the destructive emotions that threatened to consume him were being suppressed and his breathing steadied.

A squelch in the mud clued him into another’s presence behind him. Grim pivoted, raising his gauntlet defensively as his sword had been discarded. He was too late. The wide edge of a massive blade swept forward and met him with all the force of an avalanche. The assassin was flattened against the ground and his vision faded to nothing in an instant.

29

SHACKLES OF WRATH

Grim struggled against a larger foe, wrestling it with only his bare hands. His back was pressed into the snow and the jaws of his adversary, a huge wolf, were snapping at his throat. The assassin managed to push the beast back, only for it to lunge forward once more, clamping its teeth around his chest. The warrior screamed in agony and wrapped both hands around the wolf’s monstrous head, pulling its wicked jaws apart with all his might.

Fresh blood and saliva drizzled out of its gaping mouth and trickled down Grim’s chest. The beast snarled at him, a low, threatening rumble that promised death. The assassin returned the snarl with savagery equal to the animal’s own…And then nothingness took him once more.

Grim awoke with a trembling gasp and instinctually struck out. His gauntlet connected with something solid and threw the object away—that object was an Exiled medicus who had been attempting to treat the ugly wound on his chest. The man returned Grim’s wild gaze with his own look of bewilderment.

“Stay away from me!” The assassin snarled, reaching around for his sword. The weapon was nowhere to be found. He simply floundered in the mud, quickly attempting to rise, but thinking better of it as his vision swam, dark specks dancing in his peripherals.

“You’re badly wounded…I can help,” the medicus tried to explain, holding his hands up to steady the assassin.

Grim snarled again, kicking the man in the chest and sending him sliding across the mud. The medicus cried out in pain and several more Exiled legionnaires ventured into the assassin’s blurry line of sight. They wore angry expressions as they helped the medicus out of the mud. A few even spat in Grim’s direction. It was clear these people bore no love for him—nor was any lost on the assassin’s end.

“Fine! Bleed to death for all I care!” the medicus exclaimed. “You rabid beast!”

Grim held his resolve, casting the medicus and the other soldiers a hateful glare. Still, he was confused, desperately trying to sort through his muddled thoughts and memories. The assassin leaned back against the rubble he had been propped against and tried to collect himself, taking in the destroyed town around him.

Mud caked the ground, though the rain had seemingly stopped. Puddles of blood and piles of torn bodies overwhelmed the small clearing before him. Smaller piles of the dead’s armor, stripped from their bodies, were being gathered as well. There were many more examples of rubble, similar to the one he leaned against now, surrounding the clearing’s jagged perimeter. Dark clouds of smoke wafted into the sky, but all that remained of the raging fires he fleetingly recalled, were smoldering embers.

Grim’s chest burned, and the front of his head throbbed painfully. Glancing down, he noticed more Cursed, gray skin beginning to spread outside of the gauntlet on his forearm, no longer able to be concealed completely by the iron bindings. This was the price of wielding the wolf-headed blade continually…

The assassin carefully moved the afflicted arm and certainly noticed extra weight, perhaps even less flexibility. The stone like Curse was taking a toll—still, it seemed unlikely he would live long enough for it to become a true concern. At this rate, he may not live to see the dawn…

The thought triggered many of his recent memories to come flooding back. The assassin was so lost in the rush, he failed to hear the huge, approaching feet of Ramsey the Black. Grim trembled as he recalled the hopeless battle, waged in the mud of this meaningless little town. His mind was threatening to spiral into a dark place when the Obsidian Giant’s voice summoned him back to the present.

“Hello, vagabond…”

Grim glanced up, his trance broken by the large man’s gentle tone. “Ramsey…”

The Obsidian Commander crouched, balancing himself on the balls of his feet as he looked Grim up and down. “You refused aid from our medicus. Why?”

The assassin glanced up, his eyes taking a moment to adjust once more on the man who had been attempting to dress his many wounds. Grim snorted. “I can treat my own wounds, Commander…”

“Like you treated them in the Sunny Tips when we found you the first time barely clinging to life…?”

The assassin sneered, rolling his eyes as he did. “What do you want from me, legionnaire? Why won’t you just let me die?”

Ramsey shook his head, disgust creeping across his chiseled face. “Perhaps I hit your head too hard, Reaper…Do you remember nothing?”

Grim quietly swallowed. He figured the clever man had already guessed his identity, but the game was certainly up now. “Of course, I remember…” He paused, mulling through his thoughts. “Firstly—where’s my dog?”

Ramsey laughed and straightened himself back upright, glancing at a few of his fellow soldiers who chuckled in turn. “Your warhound is safe, assassin. Though he proved far more difficult than you to subdue…”

Grim’s face darkened and his features twisted angrily. “If you hurt him…”

“You’ll what, Grim?” Ramsey asked loudly, spreading his arms out wide as he did. “You’ll kill me? Slaughter our merry band? Rip what few survivors are left here out of their charred homes and bash them to death?!”

Grim shook his head vehemently and pulled himself out of the mud, somehow fighting back the urge to pass out once more. “Killing you sounds like a good start…”

Ramsey chuckled. “Ohhh, and I bet you could do it too—even now, exhausted and wounded as you are. Seventy-eight! Do you know what that number represents?”

Grim didn’t respond. He simply watched Ramsey through cold, wrathful eyes.

The Obsidian Giant answered anyway. “That’s how many soldiers you killed. We counted—well, we had to take some liberties with a few of the bodies as you didn’t leave much of them, but piecing everything together we figured that’s pretty close to accurate…”

Grim shrugged. “What’s your point, legionnaire?”

“Don’t.” Ramsey warned, recoiling at the mention of his former identity. “The moniker of legionnaire, and the shortcomings that apply to it are long behind me…” The huge man collected himself for a moment then, with quite a bit of bravado, he continued. “But of course, that number would mean nothing to you! After all, you’re the mighty Reaper of Everharth. Still, that’s quite a feat…

You know, there’s men who have served their entire lives within one of the legions or another and they’ve never even came close to taking that many souls…and here you did it in a single battle…Remarkable. You really are everything they say you are, aren’t you?”

“What do you want from me?” Grim demanded angrily. “An apology? Repentance?”

“I want to know if any of them meant anything to you?” Ramsey asked, catching the assassin off guard. “Or do you see them all as an obstacle—a bag of flesh and blood to be destroyed…?”

The question surprised Grim, and he lowered his gaze. Many of the lives he had taken haunted him—even now. But he wouldn’t seek atonement from this brute! The thought angered him, and he felt his blood begin to boil.

“You mean like Rhoric Amir?” The assassin countered viciously. Ramsey cocked his head curiously at the seemingly random mention of the Steward’s name. Grim continued, “Did you know I was there, when he sentenced, your entire legion to death? I watched as he wiped them out. Like cattle, slaughtered in a corral…

I have no love for the established legions, perhaps less than even you and your exiles, but I felt the sting of their deaths. I heard their pleas for mercy and wished I could have ended their slaughter.” Grim paused, pondering his next words carefully. “Men like Rhoric Amir murder without cause, without care…When I take a life, it’s with my own hands, and I feel it poignantly. It may seem like nothing to you, but every kill has its price…Believe me, I’m paying dearly…”

Ramsey digested the assassin’s response with a bobbing head. Then he hooked his chin to the right, asking another question as he did. “What about her?”

Grim’s rising hostility instantly dissipated as his eyes followed Ramsey’s gesture to the elegant form of a fragile woman, her eyes peacefully closed, and her body wrapped in a soldier’s discarded cloak. Anna’s blonde hair was stained with mud. Dried blood tainted the cloak around her chest. The sight pained Grim and threatened to shatter his determined resolve. The assassin swallowed the lump rising in his throat.

“She named you friend,” Ramsey continued quietly. “Right before you struck her down.”

Grim shook his head, fighting back the tears that wanted to fill his empty eyes. “It was an accident…I didn’t…I didn’t mean to.”

Ramsey watched the assassin’s tortured eyes and was surprised by the pain and the regret that he saw there. When he could watch no longer, he stepped forward, quietly covering Anna’s peaceful face with slack from the cloak she was bound in. “I believe you…”

Grim slowly glanced up at the man. Now he was the one that wore the surprised expression.

“I mean it.” Ramsey continued quietly. “I can’t imagine what sort of primal place your mind and body must go to accomplish what you did and survive the things you have. Your ancestors would be proud…Here.” He reached behind his back and produced Anna’s short sword, handing it over to Grim without hesitation.

The assassin took the blade and studied its simple design.

When at last he spoke, Grim’s voice was calm. “I found her in the Sunny Tips—a lone Wolf, separated from her legion…I should have left her there.”

Ramsey chuckled sadly. “I doubt that she would have let you. If she was anything like her commander then I’m sure she was proud to die by the sword, on the field of battle.”

“She wasn’t.” Grim said simply.

After a long silence, understanding seemed to pass between the men and Ramsey spoke up, waving forward a lean soldier who had been quietly lurking at the edge of their conversation. The warrior was dressed in plain black armor. “Crow tells me you spared those children—choosing to fight the Legion of Candor instead of taking the obvious path and saving your own skin.”

Grim looked the newcomer up and down. The man didn’t seem like much, but he was unmistakably the same soldier responsible for Captain Tanner’s abrupt execution. He knew how to kill, and he did it with efficiency.

“He told you that, did he?” The assassin quipped doubtfully, referring to Crow’s apparent muteness.

Ramsey nodded, unperturbed by Grim’s sarcastic words. “Seems like it would have been simpler for you to go along with the legion’s plan and ride this out—sneak away before first light and be halfway to the Capital by lunch.”

Grim nodded. “Sounds like a good plan. Maybe I should start now.”

Ramsey scoffed. “You’re wasting your time, Reaper. A man of your skills could make a real difference fighting for the right cause. For now, the battles to the south, not in Everharth.”

Grim scowled and shook his head scornfully. “At last! The truth comes out—your reason for sparing me. You wish to add another weapon to your arsenal, is that it, Commander?”

The Obsidian Giant shrugged, as did Crow in his shadow. “I would be remiss not to.” He admitted. “And is it really such a bad thing? You’ve fought for worse causes—why not fight for something good for a change?”

“Because I don’t give a damn what happens to this wretched kingdom!” Grim explained ruthlessly. “I have one goal and it sits to the west, in Everharth. That is where I will go. That is where I will fight.”

Ramsey shook his head disappointedly. “Then that is where you’ll die.” He paused, pinching his bottom lip thoughtfully. “I always thought you to be a selfish monster, happy to carry out egregious wrongs for the right price. But that girl saw something in you. She thought you were worth saving. Was she so wrong?”

“Yes,” Grim answered evenly.

Ramsey was still shaking his head. “I don’t believe that Grim. Legends have been coming down out of the north—Octavia is alive. We know that for certain now. Rhoric Amir knows it too and he’s trying to thwart her before she can get a foothold here in Harth.”

“But that’s not the only rumors that have trickled down from the Oval Islands.” Ramsey continued. “There are tales of a vicious battle, The Massacre of Sawn. That’s what they’re calling it. At first, I wrote it off as hearsay—Purist propaganda. I thought to myself, ‘there is no warrior alive who could singlehandedly slay so many seasoned fighters’, but then I saw you, surrounded by a field of corpses…And I realized, you’re already part of the cause. You’ve been fighting for Octavia the whole time, I’m sure of it! So, give up on this mad dream of vengeance and travel south with us. We’ve gathered enough Candor Legion armor to disguise every Exile. With any luck, what’s happened here will go unnoticed in the Capital and we can sneak into Brumex right under the bishop’s nose!”

Grim took a deep, steadying breath and quietly approached Ramsey. Crow lowered himself defensively, but the former commander gestured him relax. The assassin stopped inches away from the giant, looking up into the man’s pale face. “You’ve got the wrong man, Ramsey. I’m going west. Start your little revolution by your own damn self.” There was a slight pause and unfriendly looks were exchanged.

“Who knows—if the timing is right, perhaps I’ll even get to bear witness to another mass execution, created by you and called for by Rhoric Amir, when he stomps out what’s brewing in Brumex…” The assassin’s words cut deep, and Ramsey visibly flinched at the subtle mention of his desolated legion.

Grim slowly backed away and began collecting his things, including his longsword which had been retrieved by one of the Exiles’ scouring the ruined town of Platlind. The soldier did not fight the assassin as he plucked the weapon from his grip and sheathed it at his side.

Ramsey watched the assassin quietly, slowly shaking his head. “Damn you, Grim.” He whispered under his breath. Then he spoke up his voice rising in crescendo. “Go then! It’s as you said, the road to the west is open. You’ll have little trouble reaching the capital!”

“Where’s, Revenant?” Grim’s words were cold and callous.

“The dog?” Ramsey asked incredulously. “That’s what your concerned with?”

“Where is he?” The assassin demanded.

The Obsidian Giant spat and waved his hands dismissively. “Locked in a pen near the western gate. Here.” He tossed Grim a large, brass key. “Go and free him—plenty of horses roaming loose as well, perhaps you can steal one to hasten your travels, just as you stole my coin purse when last we met!”

“Excellent advice!” Grim snarled back, hardly missing a beat. The assassin flipped his cloak over his shoulder and carefully tightened his surcoat, using the restricting belt across his chest to slow the ebb of blood from his old wound. He then turned and began to move away, but stopped just as suddenly, his gaze drifting over Anna once more. The assassin quietly watched her motionless form, his own body sagging defeatedly.

“What would you have us do with her…?” Ramsey asked, a gentle calm having returned to his voice after witnessing the shift in the assassin’s demeanor.

After many moments, Grim shrugged and turned away. “Bury her how you see fit. You’re more familiar with legion customs than am I.” His voice threatened to crack with every word.

The assassin couldn’t explain why he felt Anna’s loss so keenly—it’s true, by cruel misfortune he had been the one to slay her, but he had certainly felled ‘allies’ before…It was different this time. Unexplainable, but different. Maybe it was because the naïve woman, pure as she was, reminded him of someone else he knew…Someone else he was failing…

Ramsey shook his head and watched the assassin turn his back, slowly trudging away, until the infamous warrior limped from view entirely.

Sometime later the sound of galloping feet drew Ramsey’s attention and the former legion commander turned from his current task to see Grim, followed by his warhound, cantering up the rolling hills to the West and disappearing into the long shadows of the new dawn, his lengthy black cloak trailing behind him, until it too disappeared in the foliage.

Though Grim was no longer visible, Ramsey watched for many more moments. At his side, Crow gestured quietly to him. The Obsidian Giant glanced down and sighed. “I don’t know, Crow. Maybe he is just a lawless, selfish, killing machine…But if he’s not…I hope he remembers, before it’s too late. We could use skill like that when we reach Brumex.”

Crow nodded and signed again. This ‘Reaper’ seems familiar. I’ve known his kind before. Only words spoken by the right voice are capable of changing his mind—and that voice is neither of ours.

Ramsey nodded and turned away, plunging his shovel back into the soft earth. He scooped another load out and deposited it on the pile they had already been compiling. After many more minutes they had dug a grave sufficient enough and the solemn warriors carefully lowered Anna’s body down into it.

The former legion commander closed his eyes for a brief moment, dipping his head respectfully before nodding and scooping the first load of fresh dirt down on top of her. “Rest easy, Wolf.” Ramsey whispered. “May you find your pack again at Thondel’s side…”

From a not-so-distant roof, the children Anna had saved watched as their hero was put to rest. Many of them waved their goodbyes or offered what they thought to be a fitting salute. The older girl, responsible for speaking up before, quietly issued a pledge that the others agreed to with nodding heads. “Thank you for saving us miss. We’ll make it count, we will. I swear it!”

And with that, they crept back down off the roof. Orphaned and with no home to go to, they instead, found shelter in the nearby Halladellian ruins, far from the massacred streets of Platlind…

30

A HERO’S WELCOME

Octavia awoke in a cold sweat, and she was quick to shake away the haunting dream that had plagued her sleep. She was alone in her cabin beneath the deck of The Shroud and her lantern had gone cold hours ago. The young woman didn’t bother to relight it as she swung down from her hammock and silently made her way out of her room. She wanted no part of the sadness being alone in the dark seemed to bring her these days.

Quietly, she made her way through the belly of the ship and up onto the main deck. It was dim, but she could tell dawn was not far off. The morning air chilled her to the bone, despite how far south they had sailed. The powerful winds left in the splitting wake of the speeding Shroud easily cut through her light traveling clothes. Octavia shivered and pulled her tunic tight.

Glancing around the deck she spotted Olaf in his usual spot overlooking the bowsprit. Above her and at the helm, Yolanda confidently steered the galleon. The woman nodded and offered the princess a friendly wink when she noticed her watching. Octavia warmly waved a greeting, but then turned away. She continued scanning the deck.

She noticed Captain McCrank, and to her surprise, Suileabhain through the thick glass windows surrounding McCrank’s cabin. The two were seated across the captain’s table from one another. They appeared to be playing cards. Witnessing the unusual scene, Octavia couldn’t help but grin at the duo. Still, the light-hearted smile quickly faded and was replaced by the dread she hadn’t been able to shake since awakening.

The princess quietly made her way up to the bowsprit. Olaf noticed her approach and turned to regard her. “Morning, Your Excellence. I’m surprised to see you up so early. Are you aware the sun has not yet risen?”

Octavia rolled her eyes, disregarding the young man’s sarcastic heckle. “Where’s Ansel?”

“Still sleeping I believe,” Olaf answered flippantly. “You know, like a normal person…”

She cast him an annoyed glance. “Then why are you awake?”

Olaf shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep. You?”

Octavia nodded, her eyes watching the distant horizon as a reddish-gold light began to appear. “Same.”

Olaf grinned. “Figures. Out of the three of us, Ansel happens to be the most normal.”

Octavia couldn’t help but grin at the boy’s clever words. Still, her grin was once more replaced, only this time by quivering lips as she began to shiver.

Olaf snorted and shook his head. Then, he quickly removed his own tunic and wrapped it around the girl’s trembling shoulders. Naturally, she began to protest and even attempted to strip the tunic off. He held firm his hands clasped on her shoulders. “Just take it for Thondel’s sake. Obviously, you’re cold.”

Octavia stopped struggling and he relaxed his grip on her shoulders before removing his hands entirely and turning back to the horizon. She watched him.

“And you’re not cold?” The princess asked plainly.

“I’m fine.” Olaf assured. “Actually, I was getting hot and was hoping that a dusty old coat hanger like you would rattle by so I could relieve myself of its burden…”

Octavia chuckled and rolled her eyes once more. How was it that he was always this chipper?

“Why couldn’t you sleep?” Olaf asked curiously.

Octavia considered his question for a moment, briefly reliving her nightmare. “I was dreaming of Grim…”

Olaf arched an eyebrow and fake shuddered. “That would keep me up all night, as well…”

The young woman sighed and punched the back of the obnoxious boy’s shoulder. “Not like that…I dreamed he was fighting—battling for his life. He was surrounded by an overwhelming force…There was blood everywhere. It was horrible…”

Olaf tilted his head, subconsciously rubbing his shoulder where Octavia had slugged him. “You sure that wasn’t just a memory, Princess…?”

Octavia shook her head. “No. I didn’t recognize the place he was fighting. It was dark, and everything was burning…It looked like a village in the Plains…”

He shrugged. “Well, it’s just a dream, Octavia. I’m sure Grim is finally getting some well-deserved rest. Suppose death is peaceful like that…He’s free from battle forever now…”

“Don’t count on it.” Suileabhain’s voice surprised them both and they turned to regard him. Apparently, he had crept up behind the youths while they were reminiscing.

“What are you on about?” Olaf asked the mercenary boldly.

“I don’t think your assassin friend could ever find peace. Even in death.” Suileabhain explained, coming to stand directly between the two and squinting in the direction they had been looking. The rising sun was now casting brilliant, bright, rays of light their way. “That one would try to slay Thondel himself, alone in High Hathborn, if it meant getting to swing his damn sword…”

That brought a warm smirk to both their lips, and they couldn’t help but nod.

“Go wake your friend,” Suileabhain continued, patting Octavia’s shoulder indicatively. “McCrank says we’ll reach The Suthian Gap soon. He wants all hands-on deck, in case Rhoric Amir is on to us. If we’re sailing into an ambush, it’s best to be prepared.”

Olaf nodded his understanding and Suileabhain began to strut away, but Octavia wouldn’t let the grizzled mercenary off that easily, “Shouldn’t you just call him Gregory at this point…?”

Suileabhain glanced back at her annoyed. “What now?”

“I saw you playing cards together.” The princess grinned. “Figured you two were on a first name basis now.”

The mercenary glared at her, but chose not to respond, turning and continuing his departure from the bow of The Shroud.

“Who won?!” Octavia shouted after him, to Olaf’s explicit joy.

Still no answer from Suileabhain, but Captain McCrank’s voice echoed down from the helm, where he had relieved Yolanda of her duty there. “The house always wins, Princess…or in this case, ship!”

The pirates as well as Olaf and Octavia, shared a hearty laugh at the mad mercenary’s expense. To which he waved them all away dismissively and stormed below deck—likely to wake Ansel up himself. Still, despite that, spirits were high and for once, true comradery could be felt all across the deck of The Shroud.

The feeling brought a genuine, lasting smile to Octavia’s lips and lingering thoughts of her fallen protector, entrenched in a battle he had no hope of winning, disappeared from her mind like the morning fog dispelled by the rising sun.

It was not yet midday when the Gap came into view. It was an impressive sight to behold, no matter how many times Gregory McCrank had witnessed it. To their left—north—a sheer rock cliff rose out of the water, towering mountainously overhead. This dramatic, natural stone structure was The Ten Thousand Steps. A narrow winding path that snaked all the way up to the Adant Plateau—the southernmost point of Harth and consequently the only path by land between the Kingdom of Harth and the Southern Empire. That path was only accessible above the sealine for a mere four months out of the year. Those wintry months were fast approaching.

Despite the Ten Thousand Steps seasonal barrier, a full legion was posted at the top of the steps all year long. The looming threat of the Southern Empire was nothing to scoff at and the Benidary family had always been meticulous about maintaining the Steps utmost importance. After all, even without the land bridge readily available for the majority of the year, it was still an easy journey by boat to cross the Suthian Gap, as this was where the Southern Sea was at its narrowest.

It would be a minor task indeed to ferry an army across the Gap. Of course—it would be another thing entirely to march them all the way up the Ten Thousand Steps, and a monumental, nearly impossible feat to accomplish with a full Harthian legion stationed at the peak, raining arrows and pilums down on them the entire way, only to then greet the foreign invaders by way of a cavalry charge once, and if, they made it to the top.

Still—that was under the Benidary’s rule. It would be foolish to assume the new Lord Steward would place as much emphasis on the steps, especially as an invasion via the Suthian Gap hadn’t been attempted for over a decade…

To their right, and to the south, the landscape was vastly different. There were no mountains or crags. It was nothing but sandy beaches and rolling hills, giving way to arid looking terrain far in the distance. If McCrank strained his eyes just enough, he could make out the city of New Haamlaash, rising out of the desert like a beacon of civilization. It was an impressive city, for sure—every bit as impressive as Brumex. The seasoned pirate knew it well…

The Suthian Gap itself, lie directly before them. Though, to McCrank’s budding concern the gap itself was quite a bit narrower than he had anticipated for this time of year. Apparently, the sea level had dropped much quicker than usual…No matter. There was still plenty of room for The Shroud to knife between Northern Kingdom and Southern Empire unscathed.

And knife she would…

Normally, it would take an hour or so to pass through the channel separating the opposing landmasses, but Captain McCrank had every intention of cutting that time in half. It was for this reason that he hardly let the intimidating, black galleon slow as it lurched into the Gap. Near the ship’s bow Octavia, Ansel, Olaf and even Suileabhain gathered. They were wide-eyed and slack jawed as they marveled up at The Ten Thousand Steps.

McCrank chuckled and glanced sidelong at his First Mate, “You remember being that impressed by the world, Yol…?”

Yolanda grinned. “A fleeting memory, but one I can still recall for the time being.”

“Indeed,” McCrank echoed cheerfully. “Enough grog in me and all of the world’s joys seem to return!”

“We made the Gap in impeccable time,” Yolanda noted knowingly. “And I see you’re showing no signs of slowing…”

“Yes,” McCrank responded slyly. “A whole three days ahead of schedule, no less!”

Yolanda snickered. “I guess we’re all gonna be great big heroes, aye?”

“Depends on how you look at it,” McCrank mused his eyes scanning the rocky beach to the left. “Either way, I imagine, Rhoric Amir is going to be very disappointed in us.”

Yolanda shrugged. “In for a copper, in for a crown, eh captain?”

Gregory McCrank didn’t immediately respond, his eyes still sweeping the banks to the north. When at last he did speak, his tone was much more serious. “I think I’m going to need you in the crow’s nest now, love…”

Realizing the intensity of her captain’s tone, Yolanda quickly saluted and grabbed her bow, dashing down the steps from the stern deck and jogging up to the main mast. The athletic woman carefully grabbed the ladder and began making her way up in silence.

From the bow, Suileabhain watched the entire exchange with a curious tilt to his head. “What do you suppose the pirates are up to?” He asked quietly to no one in particular.

“Who cares?” Olaf responded absently as he leaned out over the gunwale. “Do you see how clear this water is? I think I can see the bottom!”

Ansel roared with excitement and leaned over top of Olaf, beaming happily as he stared down at the crystal-like salt water. The young Amir tried futilely to shove the larger boy back and retake his personal space. Eventually, he gave up and planted his chin in his palms and propped his elbows up on the galleon’s railing.

“I want to see!” Octavia shouted eagerly, hopping up and down as she attempted to peek over the two young men blocking her view.

Ansel swirled and scooped her up with ease. Though she had grown quite a bit since the last time he had done this, the gangly boy complained not at all as he placed the young princess on his shoulders so she could gaze into the sparkling water beneath them.

Olaf looked up enviously at Octavia on her perch and then glanced back at Suileabhain, offering the mercenary a friendly smile.

Suileabhain scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Not a chance, Amir…” And with that he stalked off, leaving the youths to gawk at the sea.

Olaf shrugged. “Worth a shot…” He then returned to his previous position, hunched over and propped against the gunwale.

He sat like that for many moments, lazily watching the northern shore as they drifted past. It looked like a shale strewn nightmare to cross. Large boulders and smaller shards of boulders littered the shoreline all the way up to the base of the soaring cliffs. It was obvious, over the years The Ten Thousand Steps had been slowly corroding and crumbling into the Suthian Gap.

How much longer would this even be a viable entrance into the Kingdom of Harth? As it stood, the Adant Plateau must be shrinking every year as less of the cliffs remained intact…Would it even be safe for an army to traverse the path up through the mountain?

Forced to action by the thought, Olaf’s eyes slowly roamed up the nearly invisible path, snaking to the summit of The Ten Thousand Steps. It appeared abandoned at the moment, but it was impossible to tell. From here, the top looked unfathomably far away.

The young Amir sighed and glanced back down, his mind once again drifting as he watched the shoreline. He was surprised when he noted a hint of movement. Not thinking much of it, Olaf raised no alarm, instead choosing to peer closer at where he thought he had noticed something. He saw nothing more.

Probably just an animal, the noble son reasoned. Still, that did little to settle his nerves. What sort of animal would be poking around on this desolate stretch of beach? Suddenly, he saw more movement and this time he spotted the culprits.

There were soldiers hiding amongst the rocks! Carefully concealed from above by dirty tarps and sand-stained blankets. Some of them were beginning to eagerly creep out from under cover.

“Uh,” Olaf started gauchely. “Who are those guys…?”

“What guys?” Octavia asked anxiously. “I don’t see anyone?”

“Err, those ones right there!” Olaf stated much more seriously this time, pointing to indicate where he saw the soldiers lurking.

“This better not be another one of your jokes…” Octavia warned.

“It’s not!” The noble son exclaimed, turning and shouting across the deck. “We’ve got company! north shore, north shore!”

Captain McCrank leaned forward over the helm, listening carefully to Olaf’s words and confirmed he heard them right. Then the well-dressed pirate looked up hastily to the top of the central mast, shouting as he did. “Yolanda, what do you see?!”

“I’ve got nothing up here!” Yolanda called back. Still, she strung her bow and nocked an arrow for good measure.

Olaf leapt up on the gunwale, clinging to some of the ship’s rigging as he did and swung his free hand frantically in the direction of the ambushers. “You can’t see them because they’re below your line of sight! They’re hiding under tarps—”

His words were cut short by the blast of a shrill horn, followed by the roar of soldiers charging forth from cover. Tarps were ripped away revealing legionnaires in ruddy iron armor and desert hued capes. Battle-ready scorpions sculpted the tops of their helms and one soldier with a particularly menacing looking headpiece leapt up onto a fallen boulder resting on the beach.

“There she is!” He cried, pointing his sword at a very startled looking Octavia, perched atop an even more alarmed Ansel’s shoulders. “Anchor your ship and prepare to be boarded by the Scorpion Legion!”

From the helm, McCrank hesitated, then laughed a hearty pirate laugh and shook his head with great exaggeration. His crew followed suit, pausing their duties long enough to point and cackle at the legionnaires as they glided by effortlessly aboard The Shroud.

“I think not!” Captain McCrank shouted back. “But you boys enjoy your hike back up the Steps. Hah hah hah haa!”

“Hm.” The intimidating Scorpion Captain blew an angry breath out his nostrils and raised a closed fist. “Then prepare to be boarded…”

When he lowered his fist, more tarps were suddenly thrown back revealing small ballistae cleverly concealed from watchful eyes. On initial count, there were at least four and likely more in hiding.

“Damn!” McCrank cursed. Then he shouted up to his trusty First Mate. “Yolanda!”

The fiercely accurate archer was already on it, having loosed two arrows before the ballistae had even been fully revealed. Her arrows struck home, nailing the legionnaires intending to operate the giant crossbows. She had a third and fourth arrow on the way before their bodies ever hit the ground.

“Infantry!” Shouted the Scorpion Captain. “Protect the ballista!”

Legionnaires carrying scorpion adorned kite shields rushed to aid the ballistae crews, creating a sheet of iron over their heads to defend against Yolanda’s murderous arrows. She continued to find gaps in their shield wall, but her rain of death was mostly stopped as she could no longer hinder the ballista operators.

To make matters worse, the Scorpions had begun to fire back, archers hidden in the shale-stricken landscape were taking potshots at anyone they could spot over The Shroud’s gunwale. One such shot bit into the arm of a pirate working the sails and the man tumbled to the deck grabbing at the protruding shaft and shouting painfully.

“Get down you idiot!” Suileabhain shouted, jerking Octavia off of Ansel’s shoulders and hiding her behind the gunwale.

Similarly, Olaf grabbed the back of Ansel’s spindly neck and pulled him down beside them. “Careful, buddy. Haven’t you caught enough arrows for one lifetime?”

Further down the deck and closer to the main mast, Cometessa—who until moments before had been laying peacefully in the sun—had found shelter behind the gunwale as well. She called out to Octavia grabbing the girl’s attention. “Servants of Rhoric Amir’s—we’ve been betrayed!”

“By whom?!” Octavia blurted. Her eyes were still wide with shock.

Olaf turned to regard Suileabhain, and the others quickly followed suit, even Ansel grumbled disapprovingly at the mercenary.

The mercenary threw his hands into the air, nearly losing one as an arrow skipped off the ship’s railing. “Don’t look at me you fucking twits! I had my chance to thwart you, Princess—I chose not to. If anyone’s to blame, I’d say it’s the strange woman who miraculously appeared afloat after a storm that would have washed away the strongest man. She’s been pulling all of your strings since!”

All eyes reversed back to Cometessa and now it was the Oracle’s turn to look appalled. “Surely, you’re not listening to this mad drivel?! How does any of that even make sense from a strategic standpoint?”

“Since when are prophecies strategic?!” Suileabhain countered angrily.

“Well, if you ask me—” Olaf began to interject.

“No one asked you!” the clustered company shouted in unison.

“—I’d say it was the pirates…” Olaf finished quietly, despite their unanimous pushback.

“Enough!” Octavia shouted, drawing their attention back to her. “We can figure out who double-crossed who later. Right now, we need to focus on getting out of this mess in one piece!”

“Suileabhain,” she continued authoritatively. “Think you can do something about those archers?”

The mercenary shrugged nonchalantly, before dipping his chin with confidence. “I just need to make it back to the captain’s quarters. That’s where McCrank keeps my long bow…”

Octavia glanced first to Olaf then to Ansel. “Give them something else to shoot at, until Suileabhain can shoot back!”

Both men nodded eagerly, understanding her orders clearly. She then turned to address Cometessa, hesitating before at last shouting, “Just try not to get killed!”

The Oracle smirked but bowed obediently. She remained crouched behind the gunwale as the others all sprang into action.

Suileabhain leapt up, sprinting several feet before dropping back down to the planks of the deck. A volley of arrows soared just over his prone form. On cue, Ansel and Olaf both sprang from cover next, running in opposite directions and swinging their arms. As quickly as they had jumped up, they both crashed back down, neither overly eager to take an arrow for the mad mercenary’s sake. Another volley flew over each of their heads.

This cycle repeated itself another three times and Suileabhain was now extremely close to McCrank’s quarters. The mercenary glared up at the pirate who was crouched behind the galleon’s helm and was expertly maneuvering the ship through the Gap despite the many archers hounding him from the beach.

“Why don’t we shoot back?!” Suileabhain demanded, angrily gesturing to the cannons lining The Shroud’s deck, whilst once more narrowly avoiding being turned into a pincushion.

“We’ve only enough powder for a single good barrage, and I’m not wasting it on the Steward’s tin men!”

“What?!” Suileabhain exclaimed incredulously. “Tell me you jest you greedy, fucking pirate!”

“No jest!” McCrank assured calmly. He then reached into his shirt pocket and pulled a remarkable looking key forth, before tossing into down to Suileabhain, who now lay on his back glaring up distastefully at the pirate captain.

Suileabhain caught the key and tilted his head curiously.

“For the case containing your bow,” McCrank explained.

The mercenary shook his head indignantly and rolled to his feet, charging the remainder of the way to the captain’s quarter’s and shouldering his way through the heavy wooden door. Arrows pelted the ship all around him until he at last dove into the safety of the cabin. He lay panting only momentarily before jumping back to his feet and moving to the corner where he knew his bow to be encased.

Suileabhain glanced from the expensive looking glass case displaying his family’s long bow, back to the key McCrank had tossed him, back to the case again. With an agitated shrug, he pocketed the key and smashed the glass box to smithereens, using his armored forearm to clear the remaining shards away, before reaching in and pulling out the massive bow, along with a full quiver of equally large arrows.

“I’m not your prisoner anymore, Captain…” the mercenary snarled.

Out on the main deck, things were looking bad. Octavia remained crouched near Cometessa, while Ansel lay prone at the bow of the ship. Olaf maintained a similar position, only much closer to the stern of the galleon. Several pirates scurried around the deck, aiding McCrank to guide the ship safely through the shallow waters, but their casualties were climbing, and many were electing to remain behind cover rather than jump out into the archers’ line of sight.

“Think, Olaf.” The young Amir whispered to himself. “What the hell would Grim do…?”

“Fresh quiver!” Yolanda shouted down from the crow’s nest, tossing her own empty one to the deck far below. It clattered onto the planks before being scooped up by one of her loyal crewmates. The pirate rushed to a nearby barrel, clawing a handful of new arrows out and shoving them into the discarded quiver.

The brave man then began to scurry up the main mast, practically sprinting vertically to reach Yolanda. He made it about halfway before a legionnaire arrow found its mark in his neck. The man fell backwards without a sound, plummeting back to the deck and splitting open in a gruesome scene. Octavia and Cometessa both looked away, squeezing their eyes shut and doing their best not to vomit.

“I need more arrows!” Yolanda shouted emphatically and unphased.

“We’re getting killed down here!” A second crewmate, burly and covered in dark ink, shouted in response. The man cowered behind a barrel only a few short feet from the fallen quiver, now resting in a pool of pirate blood.

With no one to stop them, the ballista crew managed to load one of the giant crossbows and jumped back, letting the mechanism’s design do the rest. When the lever restraining the taut rope was released, a huge harpoon like projectile was released, links of a heavy iron chain trailing in its wake.

The massive bolt struck The Shroud’s stern, rocking the galleon ever so slightly. Then, as the chain attached to the base of the projectile ran out of slack, the ship lurched violently, nearly grounding to a halt. Several pirates who weren’t already prone, were thrown to the deck. Yolanda nearly pitched over the edge of the crow’s nest! She managed to save herself at the last second, but more ballistae were being angled to intercept them.

From her vantage point, she could see the long chains attached to the huge steel bolts were not connected to the ballistae themselves, but rather ran through the huge weapons and braced to much larger, fallen boulders. Breaking free of those restraints would be no easy task.

A second bolt was released and blasted through the gunwale only inches from Octavia and Cometessa before snapping tight and pulling The Shroud even closer to the northern shore. Scorpion legionnaires began to line up along the beach, readying to board the menacing, black galleon.

“More ARROWS!” Yolanda shouted desperately.

At the helm, McCrank cursed under his breath and shouted orders to his crew. “Help her if you can! But focus on bashing those ballista bolts free of our hull. If they pull us aground, we’re all going to be hung for treason!”

Up above, Yolanda continued to call for arrows.

Octavia moved to bravely crawl toward the discarded quiver, but Cometessa immediately pulled her back. “Have you gone mad, Princess?!”

“She needs them!” Octavia argued. “Yolanda’s the only one with a chance at stopping those ballistae from reeling us in!”

“So, then you find it reasonable to throw your life away?” the Oracle demanded. “Octavia, without you this is all for nothing—try to have a little bit more sense, girl!”

The princess was about to argue vehemently, but her attention was suddenly drawn back to the deck. Ansel had been slowing working his way closer, crawling on his belly, and was now within a dozen feet of the quiver. He made eye contact with her.

Octavia slowly shook her head. “No, Ansel…”

He started to smile and braced his arms and legs.

“Ansel, no!” Octavia screamed more determinedly now. “Leave it!”

The gangly boy made a noble sounding shout and even issued a funny looking salute—something he had witnessed all of them do countless times—then bounced to his feet, sprinting toward the pool of blood at the base of the mast.

“Ansel!” Octavia screamed. She tried to leap up, but Cometessa held her tight. Olaf rolled over to witness the boy’s mad dash and even McCrank glanced away from the narrow straight long enough to spectate Ansel’s heroics.

A shout went up from the shoreline and the Scorpions trained their bows on his lumbering form. It seemed the boy’s fate was sealed. But before they could release a volley on him, another threat emerged.

Suileabhain’s slender silhouette rounded the doorframe leading to McCrank’s cabin and in one swift motion, he nocked an arrow, planted the tip of his ridiculously large bow, letting fly a shaft. The arrow whizzed through the air and smacked into the chest of one of the Scorpion archers. The man was swept off his feet and fell back among pieces of shattered shale and red sand.

The mercenary quickly nocked a second arrow and fired it off in short order. Another archer fell dead and the Scorpions, predictably, stumbled back into cover. He wasn’t quite as quick, nor as accurate as Yolanda, but every arrow he released was large enough and fast enough to slay a bear—legion steel did little to slow them.

“Suileabhain!” Octavia cheered.

“Please,” the mercenary responded haughtily. “Save your applause, Princess.” He then turned his head to regard Ansel who had just reached the bottom of the mast. “If you’re going to do something boy, then do it fast!”

Ansel mumbled his compliance and then stripped off the beautiful and robust jacket that Captain McCrank had rewarded him with.

“What are you on about…?” Suileabhain asked curiously, watching the boy for a moment as he sat down back-to-back with the barrelful of arrows which the unfortunate pirate, who was splattered across the deck, had refilled Yolanda’s quiver from.

To the mercenary’s, and everyone else’s, disbelief Ansel used the jacket to cleverly secure the barrel to his back. The strong boy slowly rose to a crouch and then a stand. Suileabhain was trying to formulate a properly degrading response, when a legion arrow skipped off the wooden plank near his head and summoned him back to more pressing issues.

The mercenary settled for an eye roll and twisted back to face the northern shore, quickly beginning to return fire while carefully dodging left and right to avoid being pierced. The others watched in amazement as Ansel, burdened by his ingenious contraption, began to climb the mast toward Yolanda in the crow’s nest.

Only Olaf saw the tactic for what it really was—months before, Grim had used a similar technique to carry an injured Ansel up a great tree in the middle of the abandoned Halladellian coliseum. The boy could only grin foolishly as he watched their lanky friend applying the same strategy while meandering up the mast. His smile quickly faded as arrows began to smack into the barrel Ansel was hauling as well as the mast all around him.

Olaf rolled to a crouch and peeked over the gunwale at the northern shore, now infested with legionnaires and no more than forty feet away. That distance continued to close as the ballistae crew reeled The Shroud in. The other ballistae were now manned once more and were slowly rotating to an angle they could fire on the sleek, black galleon.

The young Amir glanced up and could see Ansel wouldn’t make it in time for Yolanda to completely shut the ballistae down once more. If he even made it at all with the continuous volley of arrows humming his way…

Olaf glanced back to the shore and could see the archers were now employing the same strategy they had used against them, bobbing out of cover one or two at a time and then dodging back so another could lean out and get a clean shot at The Shroud. Suileabhain was doing the best he could given the obvious numbers disadvantage, but he would not be able to consistently defend Ansel as well as himself for much longer.

His mind was made up then. Inspired by Ansel and his brilliant ploy, Olaf drew his sword—Poe’s sword—and placed his back against the gunwale, taking a deep breath and looking Suileabhain dead in the eyes.

“What are you up to…?” The mercenary asked uneasily between arrows, almost afraid to hear the young fool’s answer. From below the gunwale and some dozen feet away, Octavia also, anxiously listened for Olaf’s response.

The boy smiled and gripped the sword. “I’m going to do what Grim would do…I’m going to save us all…”

31

THE SCORPIONS OF THE STEPS

“You’re WHAT?!” Suileabhain exclaimed in rabid disbelief, barely slipping a speeding legion arrow bound for his heart.

Olaf laughed nervously then issued a shrug and what he hoped was a confident wink, before leaping up and charging across the deck to where the second ballista bolt had pierced the gunwale. The boy briefly made eye contact with Octavia and the girl aggressively shook her head.

“Olaf, don’t you dare!”

“Sorry, Your Highness.” The young Amir replied with an anxious grin. “Seeing as we’re not technically in Harthian waters, I think I can safely disobey your orders for a change.”

Octavia stared at him with a slack jaw and before she could recover and berate him for his stupidity, Olaf leapt up onto the gunwale and carefully tiptoed out onto the huge chain connecting The Shroud to the northern Shoreline. The boy wobbled and swayed as he tried to find his balance, both arms flailing on either side of him, desperately pumping against gravity.

“Just like a tree branch,” Olaf mumbled, recalling the time that Grim had led them across a giant swaying oak bough. “A giant, metal, clinky, tree branch…”

Unlike the tree branch however, Olaf, quickly found his balance and began to shuffle across the chain. He made it about halfway to the shore before he realized there was a very important variable he hadn’t considered when conjuring this hairbrained idea—Crossbows.

Bolts began to whizz past Olaf, accompanied by the shouting of Scorpion Legionnaires. The sudden and intense danger threw him off balance. His arms pumped wildly as he attempted to recover. Miraculously he steadied again, but it was only a matter of time before one of those bolts found their mark.

From the deck of The Shroud, Suileabhain released a fluent string of curses, whilst also doing his best to slay the dogged legion archers before they could level their weapons on the reckless Amir boy. “You’re a damned fool, Amir!” The mercenary snarled angrily, nocking and releasing another arrow.

Distracted as he was, Suileabhain didn’t notice as one of the distant crossbowmen took aim at him instead of Olaf. The mercenary heard the click of the man’s weapon, but he had no idea who the target was until a bolt pierced his own unarmored shoulder.

“Arghh!” The mercenary howled painfully, dropping back into cover.

With Suileabhain’s arm out of commission and Ansel still a dozen feet from the top of the crow’s nest with Yolanda’s arrows, Olaf was a sitting duck out in the middle of the chain as he was. The archers carefully took their time leveling their crossbows toward the young noble. Many of them sneered victoriously even as their fingertips moved to release the trigger.

Olaf froze, knowing he was surely doomed and cursing his own idiotic antics. “Ah hell,” the boy groaned. Just as the bolts were released, accompanied by the familiar sounds of clicking crossbows, the chain lurched violently, throwing him off and into the briny sea water below.

Back on deck Suileabhain slouched back into cover, having only had enough of an opening to kick the huge metallic bolt holding the chain from which Olaf had been balancing and dumping the boy into the saltwater before he could be turned into a pincushion.

“Well done, Suileabhain!” Octavia shouted, peeking over the ship’s railing and down into the swirling water below.

“Did they get him?” the mercenary asked between gritted teeth.

“I don’t think so,” Octavia replied nervously. “I don’t see any blood…”

“Mores the pity…” Suileabhain groaned sarcastically under his breath.

A third ballista bolt suddenly smashed into The Shroud’s hull, stopping the sleek galleon entirely. After several seconds of what seemed like a stalemate, the ship slowly began to creep toward the shoreline.

“Damn it!” McCrank cursed from the helm, hunched low to the deck as bolts pelted the wood all around him. “They’ve got us. We’re dead men if we can’t knock those chains loose!”

Sensing his urgency, many of his pirates sprang from cover, wielding axes and hammers and rushing to bash the harpoons free. They were quickly repelled by a shower of bolts, several pirates falling to the deck and crying out in pain as they were pierced by the serrated steel projectiles.

A fifth ballista came to a halt after a short swivel, the menacing harpoon protruding from the weapon angled right at The Shroud’s main mast. All hope seemed lost as the crew operating the machine cocked it to fire. Just before they could release the lever restraining the huge, bowed weapon a flurry of arrows struck them down. The surviving legionnaires surrounding the ballista dove for cover.

“That’s right you rats—RUN!” Yolanda shouted the words down from on high even as she nocked more arrows to rain down on their adversaries. Ansel had made it to the top and was quietly sitting beside McCrank’s fiery First Mate as she plucked arrow after arrow from the barrel secured to his back.

Despite Yolanda’s brutal barrage, the galleon was still being tugged toward the shore and nearly scraping on the rocky shelf beneath the surface of the water.

“Oracle!” McCrank screamed from the helm. “Help me keep her off the rocks!”

Down on the deck, Octavia looked at Cometessa’s exotic face curiously. “What does he expect you to do…?”

Cometessa caught her breath and quickly collected herself before responding to the girl. “Octavia, you will need to use your powers again…”

“What?” Octavia exclaimed. “No! I’m not prepared for this. It’s too much. The last time I channeled Curse energy against an enemy force this large, I lost myself…I almost killed Ansel!”

“But you didn’t!” Cometessa countered.

“Only because Grim choked me unconscious!”

“Well, Grim’s not here!” The Oracle stated evenly.

“Hence my reservations!” Octavia shot back.

“But I am,” Cometessa interjected.

“No, no, no!” Octavia hissed. “This isn’t Eathah, Oracle! There’s no Curses flowing through this place. If I channel now, there’s no telling what kind of destruction I could cause!”

“Not if I channel first,” Cometessa explained calmly.

Octavia cocked her head curiously.

“I’m still not strong enough to do what must be done,” the Oracle explained. “Not after Malia and what happened on Sawn—perhaps, I never will be—but I can channel a small Curse, opening up the gates for you to control the current of energy that washes through…”

Octavia wanted to argue and shake her head in outright denial, but she was seemingly seized by a fighting spirit, and she quietly steeled herself, slowing her eradicate breathing and flattening the short hairs on her arms. “What do you need me to do?”

Olaf burst out of the saltwater and clawed his way onto land, the red sand that decorated the northern shoreline quickly plastering itself to his drenched body. He coughed up a mouthful of seawater and caught his breath, slowly looking up and taking the terrain in before him.

From here, he was below the archers’ line of sight, but the column of infantry who had been hungrily preparing to board The Shroud—which was only a few dozen feet behind him and slowly creeping toward the shore—were now eyeing him instead. A few of them dropped down from the boulders they were perched on and began stalking toward him, wolfish grins visible under their scorpion crested helms.

“Maybe we can talk about this?” Olaf joked through a hopeful smile.

“Not much to discuss.” One of the legionnaires replied cryptically. “Orders were pretty simple…and they didn’t include sparing any chatty nobles…”

“All right,” Olaf said with a sigh, doing his best to look bored. “Last chance to escape with your lives. I’d rather not hurt you lads…”

Unimpressed by his boast and hardly believing the bluff, both soldiers burst into laughter. One of them stopped abruptly, however, and narrowed his eyes curiously. “Say, isn’t that a Wolf Legion blade?”

Olaf glanced down at the sword he brandished and shrugged, continuing to bluff anyway. “This dusty old thing? I’ve a dozen back on the ship, including a real long one—wolf head on the pommel. You’d like it. It’s a real nice piece.”

The legionnaire chuckled and continued to advance, shaking his head as he did. “Never got the chance to kill any of those traitorous Wolf bastards…guess I’ll have to make do with you instead.”

Olaf smiled disarmingly and then, without warning, threw a handful of sand he had been clutching in a fist in his free hand directly into the closest man’s eyes. The legionnaire howled and swung his sword wildly in an attempt to ward the young noble off.

The effort was futile. Olaf had been forced for weeks to try and find openings in Grim’s impeccable defense; one blinded soldier was no challenge at all. The man fell to the ground defeated by a well-placed thrust to the armpit and the young Amir was already moving to confront the next legionnaire.

This man was not blinded however and held the advantage of superior armor and experience. The two men clashed, swords crossing high above their heads, and Olaf quickly realized the soldier would not be defeated as easily as the first. With more warriors creeping down the slope to the shoreline, the young noble reckoned he would be in deep trouble shortly…

McCrank grimaced and groaned as he heaved the ship’s wheel away from the approaching shoreline, but there was simply no way to defeat the reeling ballistae. Sweat poured from his brow, and he glanced up, making eye contact with Cometessa across The Shroud’s blackened deck.

“It’s now or never, Oracle!” the pirate captain shouted plainly.

Cometessa nodded back and turned regarding Octavia and clutching the girl’s shoulders. “Are you ready, Princess?”

Octavia drew a shaky breath but managed a nod. “Yes. I’m ready.

“Good,” Cometessa replied, turning to face the shoreline. She then lifted one hand toward The Shroud’s main mast and closed her eyes. “Do as I do and when you feel the energy—don’t hesitate…”

Olaf fought desperately, doing more running than actual sword fighting as the grizzled warriors of the Scorpion Legion attempted to corner him. It seemed his luck was about to run out too. The noble son delivered a series of thrusts to drive back his nearest pursuers, but two more men had flanked around and were bearing down on him, swords leveled menacingly.

He thought to drive them back too, but their combined threat was too much and one of the men parried his sword harmlessly wide, leaving the boy open to a brutal riposte—only the counterattack never came. His would-be killers fell back in silence, each of them groping at the wooden shafts of Yolanda’s wicked arrows protruding from their bloodied throats.

He risked a grateful salute in the direction of the incredible archer, before turning once more to face the many remaining legionnaires, all drawn out in a long line as they attempted to catch up to the fleetfooted boy.

“I can’t see the boy anymore!” Yolanda screamed down to the stern deck even as she let fly more Scorpion seeking arrows. “He’s gone below my line of sight. Captain, he’s doomed for certain!”

Captain McCrank looked from Yolanda down to the Oracle and her royal pupil, then to the rocky shore crawling with Scorpion soldiers, and finally back to Yolanda once more. He quietly shook his head, his entire body trembling as he fought to keep his galleon off the shoreline.

“Oracle!” The pirate captain hissed through gritted teeth.

As if summoned from a reverie, Cometessa’s eyes snapped open and she reached for the boulder-strewn beach, her palm snapping closed in the direction of one of the legion archers. The man’s own eyes widened with panic, and he began to shout in terror as he was lifted from his dusty perch.

Briefly, The Shroud seemed to slow its relentless approach toward the jagged rocks running the length of the northern shore—however, the lull was quickly expended, and the crossbow wielding legionnaire dropped back to his feet just as swiftly as he had levitated into the air. The galleon began creeping toward the red sands once more.

The Scorpion Legion started to celebrate the witch’s failure prematurely, shouting insults her direction and leveling their crossbows vengefully. The air crackled and hissed as Octavia’s own eyes snapped open. Her hair rippled with a powerful force and her pupils glowed a blinding white.

The princess closed her fist violently and thrust her arm toward the sky. Snatched up by whatever powerful Curse, Octavia was bargaining with, the Scorpion’s entire line of archers was yanked into the air where they flailed in pain.

Their bodies twisted and bled, and they screamed out in agony. Octavia showed no sign that their words might have reached her absent ears. She drew on their lives’ force like a syphon. The Shroud bucked and foamed in the ocean water and the galleon pulled hard away from the hull-shattering shoreline.

From the helm Captain Gregory McCrank grinned in awe of the girl’s raw power. “Well done, Princess.” The pirate whispered. Still, even for her absurd might The Shroud was in a stalemate at best with the ballistae, and there was no guarantee Octavia could hold the ship for long.

Relieved of his duty at the helm, McCrank brandished his quarterstaff and stepped away from the ship’s wheel. He glanced up at his First Mate. She was busy keeping the ballistae crew from firing on them once more, Ansel covering his head behind her. The pirate captain nodded knowingly and took several confident strides, until he was right beside the ballista harpoon closest to the helm.

In one athletic motion, McCrank leapt overboard, catching the ballista’s chain with his quarterstaff, and riding it across the angry waves, until he came to a running stop on the northern shore, directly beside the harpoon’s origin spot.

This ballista had been abandoned, as it was already performing its task to the fullest. McCrank shrugged and leveled his quarterstaff. The pirate then struck the huge chain with one swift blow. The iron links exploded, and The Shroud lurched further away from the shoreline.

McCrank nodded approvingly and was turning to run down the remaining ballistae when a desperate shout drew his attention down the beach. The pirate’s eyes searched for the source, and it didn’t take long to find Olaf pinned against the sea surrounded by a dozen or more Scorpion infantry. The boy was barely holding them back, and that was only because they were taking their time with him.

“Foolish boy,” McCrank growled under his breath. He thought to leave him and allow Olaf’s sacrifice to be the distraction he needed to eliminate the remaining chains, but the idea didn’t sit right with him. The young man had freely taken on many duties aboard The Shroud over the last few weeks—even becoming rather skilled at a few of the tasks. The captain did well to hide the fact that he admired that and was slowly beginning to see Olaf as one of his crew…A distinction he didn’t make lightly.

Olaf was quickly realizing he hadn’t been leading these men on a merry goose chase at all. They had simply been cornering him away from the reach of Yolanda’s deadly arrows. Now he was exhausted and covered in a dozen small knicks and wounds. The saltwater splashing up around him burned many of those fresh cuts.

Three of the closest legionnaires rushed him at once. Olaf braced and swept his sword across to slow them, but they were hardly deterred by the act. The soldiers beat down his blow and sprung forward to finish him. The noble son dove backwards, trying to leap out of range of their hungry blades. He splashed into the shallow seawater and crawled back swiftly.

An unfamiliar battle cry on a familiar tongue drew his attention and he glanced up in time to see Gregory McCrank leap off a nearby sea boulder and over the legion’s backline to land directly behind the men rushing Olaf. They barely had time to turn and regard him, before his quarterstaff swept them all away, tossing their broken bodies into the water like ragdolls.

McCrank glanced down at Olaf and offered a crafty grin. Then he extended his hand. Olaf was too exhausted to return the smirk, but he did take the pirate’s hand and McCrank jerked him up out of the seawater and onto his feet. The pirate captain clapped his back and motioned him to turn and face the remaining legion threat.

“You were a fool to come down here, son.” McCrank said. There was no scolding in his matter-of-fact tone, and he chuckled after finishing the statement.

“Better a fool than a coward.” Olaf reckoned defensively, leveling his sword at the approaching soldiers.

“Better alive than dead…” McCrank countered with amusement.

“Yeah…” Olaf breathed, nodding as more soldiers joined their enemies’ numbers. “Even I can’t argue that…”

“Mind their blades,” McCrank offered helpfully, tipping his hat toward one of the legionnaires longswords. “They often coat them with scorpion venom—I know, a bit on the nose, but still…”

The soldiers snickered as Olaf looked down anxiously at the many shallow cuts on his arms. McCrank noticed him looking as well and offered a reassuring thump on the boy’s shoulder. “Nothing the medicus can’t handle, boy. Now, let’s be rid of these nuisances.”

Before they could leap forward and clash with the legionnaires, the Scorpion Captain stepped forward, pushing his way past his warriors to stand directly across from Olaf and McCrank. “You risk much, pirate. Why not hand this boy and the girl over and escape with your life intact?”

McCrank paused and to Olaf’s dismay, seemed to be truly contemplating the officer’s bribe. The Shroud lurched less and less as Octavia’s Curse seemed to be dissipating and even Yolanda’s constant stream of arrows was waning…Surrender sounded like the most enticing option by far.

Gregory McCrank didn’t know if it was the promise of riches that blinded his tactical mind or some newfound sense of heroism, but he met the Scorpion Captain’s determined gaze with steely eyes of his own setting his jaw, whilst also straightening his hat. “Tell Rhoric Amir the deals off…I’m afraid he can’t afford Captain Gregory McCrank and the crew of The Shroud…”

Olaf glanced sidelong at the pirate with wide eyes. He had seemingly just admitted his own betrayal, even though he was fighting for the right side once more. After a time, the noble son shrugged and turned, squaring his shoulders equal to McCrank’s own. He supposed they had all been on the wrong side of things at one point or another…

“Hm,” the Scorpion Captain grunted irritably. “You can tell him yourself, after my men dismantle your galleon and haul it upland along with you and your crew to be hung all along the Adant Plateau…” The man spit on the ground at McCrank’s feet and drew his sword. “Kill them!”

Unwilling to give any more ground, Captain McCrank leapt forward the moment the Scorpion Captain gave the order, and he unleashed a series of painful jabs and thwacks with his staff. Olaf, quick to learn, followed suit dodging in and out of the pirate’s attacks and capitalizing on any opening made by McCrank larger more powerful weapon.

They had some luck and quickly fell four of the legionnaires, but the Scorpions were fierce combatants and bolstered by their captain they soon gained the upper hand once more. In no time at all Olaf and McCrank were once more on the defensive and they were fighting wildly to stay ahead of the venom tipped blades.

Every sword McCrank managed to touch with his quarterstaff was instantly destroyed as if by some sort of magical blast. Still, despite this mighty advantage, they were heavily outnumbered, and more legionnaires poured down to the shore by the minute. Word quickly spread to avoid direct clashes with McCrank’s devilish quarterstaff and soon he was only engaged by the most heavily armored legionnaires, each bearing large tower shields which his wooden staff had less success smashing through.

Olaf on the other hand was being confronted by the swifter of the Scorpion combatants—a good match for his own speedy blade. He danced between their swords, if it could be considered dancing with his largely uncoordinated steps and struck back whenever the opportunity presented itself. The boy fought hard, harder than he ever had before. Even harder than he had on the island of Sawn, but it wasn’t enough. His heels were once again splashing in the seafoam…

McCrank knew they were in way over their heads. What’s more—the legion archers who had been levitating somewhere up ahead, had all fallen back into the dirt, their bodies crumpled and emptied, and The Shroud was now drifting lazily back toward the northern shore.

Octavia was spent. They had overstayed their welcome and it was time to go.

Between defeating combatants, McCrank carefully gauged the distance to the ship and the two remaining chains anchoring her to the beach. He chewed his lip pensively before at last nodding and turning his attention back to the fight.

“Listen up, boy!” McCrank called to Olaf, while sweeping his quarterstaff back and forth, aggressively giving the duo some breathing room. “We’re not gonna win this fight, understand?”

“Aye,” Olaf nodded resolutely, defeating a legionnaire’s powerful slash and kicking the off-balance man back into his comrades. “I thought as much. The last stand of Olaf and Captain McCrank then. So be it.”

McCrank chortled as he casually bashed a man’s skull in. “Not so fast, hero—Captain McCrank doesn’t make last stands. We’re pirates, not legion dogs. How’s your swimming?”

“My what?” Olaf asked exasperatedly after a brief pause, narrowly avoiding catching a Scorpion blade on the chin.

“We’re gonna have to swim!” McCrank explained, pivoting and drilling an unsuspecting legionnaire in the chest. “Their archers are dead, and these iron lugs will sink to the bottom of the channel if they try to follow!”

Olaf was momentarily locked in combat with the Scorpions’ captain, the angry soldier bore his teeth as their blades collided. Just as quickly as they had come together, Olaf disengaged and rolled away, slipping behind Captain McCrank and slashing the pirate’s own opponent’s legs out from under him.

“Right! Together then?”

“Aye!” McCrank agreed loudly, taking a step back and turning to get a bead on the ballista chain closest to where they fought. “Together!”

“Try and keep up, Captain!” Olaf taunted as he sheathed his sword and high-stepped over the lazy waves rolling up the beach, dashing for deeper water.

McCrank cackled with confidence waving the boastful boy past. He then readied his mighty quarterstaff like a spear and launched it at the nearest chain shackling The Shroud. The pirate’s aim proved true, and the staff thundered through the binding iron with little effort, clattering against the hull of the galleon beyond and plummeting down into the seawater beneath.

Eager to be away from the battle-hardened Scorpion warriors, who were quickly closing in on him, McCrank dashed off after Olaf and his quarterstaff, floating lazily on the waves alongside The Shroud.

Just as swiftly as he had taken off, McCrank ground to a halt, Olaf similarly slowing to a stop ahead of him. Both men glanced back toward the shore, their curiosity seized by the sounds of raised alarm.

“Ambush!” one legionnaire cried. “We’ve been flanked!”

Both men watched with shock and confusion as the Scorpions were overwhelmed by an unknown threat which had seemingly materialized out of the sand. Small lithe warriors wrapped in sand-colored shrouds burst from cover, firing bow and arrows and lobbing short spears into the legion’s fast dwindling ranks.

The newcomers’ faces were covered by similarly camouflaged cloths. Many of them rushed in attacking the legionnaires on their exposed flanks as their formation reeled to try and meet the enemy threat on all sides. The Scorpions’ efforts were futile and within moments only the intimidating captain was left standing.

“Purist bastards!” The Scorpion captain roared, spittle flying from his mouth. “Rhoric Amir’s Scorpion Legion will find you and pile your corpses high!”

For a moment there was no rebuttal and the Purists remained silent, quietly watching the legionnaire from behind their facemasks. But then, a large, burly man stepped forward. He was taller than the Scorpion captain and twice as wide, even though he lacked the soldier’s plate armor. The huge Purist stopped within sword striking distance of the captain, though the man personally carried no weapon.

“You know this for a fact, do you?” The Purist man questioned, his voice sounding frighteningly familiar to Olaf who had crept back in close to Captain McCrank.

“Who are you?” The Scorpion officer asked at length, eyeing the shrouded man suspiciously.

Another pause, and then the burly Purist pulled his mask down, revealing a friendly, ruddy face, bristling with thick, black beard hairs. “My name is Roderic Amir…”

McCrank glanced rapidly between Olaf and the huge man, wrapped in desert shrouds. For Olaf’s own part, the boy’s mouth hung open and his eyes were wide and unblinking. The pirate captain placed an urgent hand on the boy’s shoulder and attempted to shake him from his stupor.

“Listen, boy—I think we should be going now…”

Unable to look away from the conversation transpiring before him, Olaf absently waved the pirate’s hand away and even took a few subconscious steps toward the Purists. He had to know. He had to hear Roderic out. He had to…

32

CROWBEAR

“Thondel…” the Scorpion Captain whispered, the word barely coming out. “You’re the Steward’s traitor brother…”

Roderic blew a whistle through his teeth and shrugged. “That’s a subject of perspective, isn’t it?” He paused, turning and indicating the Purists behind him with a sweep of his broad hand. “You see, if you asked these men and women, they would tell you that my brother Rhoric is in fact the traitor…”

“I suspect the traitor to be the one masked, and lurking from shadow to shadow…” The Scorpion’s tone was hot, apparently disgusted to even be in the presence of one as disgraced as Roderic Amir.

The big man shrugged again. “We do what we must.”

The legionnaire’s expression seemed to soften for a moment, and he quietly nodded. “As do we all…”

No sooner had the words left his mouth than the warrior burst into action, snarling like a rabid beast and bringing his sword to bear against the huge Purist less than three feet from him. He struck hard and fast, aiming to drive the cold steel into Roderic’s heart.

But Roderic was prepared for just such a desperate and futile attempt on his life. The broad man deflected the legion sword wide with a well-timed slap from his calloused hand. The Scorpion officer lurched forward with surprise and Roderic quickly caught him behind the helmet.

The man’s eyes widened in terror only briefly before the huge hand on the back of his head yanked him down and a powerful knee rose up to meet him, smashing his face even as darkness overwhelmed his vision, and he dropped out of consciousness.

Roderic made a repulsed face before dumping the soldier’s slumped body onto the dirt and dusting his palms together distastefully. Slowly, he then turned to face Olaf and McCrank who stood completely motionless in the shallow waves. The large man took a couple of hesitant steps toward the duo, his hands lowered submissively.

“Olaf…?” Roderic questioned quietly despite the bass in his deep voice. “Is that you, my boy?”

“Not another step, uncle…” Olaf cautioned evenly.

Roderic nodded knowingly, slowing to a halt just beyond the water’s edge. “I understand your caution Olaf, but…Believe me, I’m not your enemy…”

“Aren’t you?” Olaf asked, spite and bitterness creeping into his tone. “Well, you could have fooled me!”

Roderic exhaled softly and hung his head, nodding quietly as he accepted the boy’s venomous words.

“How could you let him do this?” Olaf asked, his voice cracking. “Did he even care that I turned up missing? Did he even notice?”

Roderic slowly raised his head, meeting Olaf’s pleading gaze. “I’m disgusted in the part I played to aid Rhoric’s villainous plan. Not a day goes by that I don’t regret it…” He paused, turning and indicating his Purist companions once more. “But I’m atoning for that in what ways I can now…”

“And what about me…?” Olaf asked solemnly.

Roderic sighed. “I urged your father to send search parties to find you after news of what happened at Chala began to trickle in…Your mother and I both did…He refused to listen. In his eyes, it was you who was turning your back on him. Which is of course preposterous, but you know how he is…”

Olaf quietly nodded. Captain McCrank placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, patting his back reassuringly.

Olaf suddenly perked up, a thought occurring to him. “Is my mother with you as well?”

A sad look crossed Roderic’s face and he shook his head. “No—no she’s not here.”

Olaf’s eyes narrowed. “What did he do to her?”

Roderic continued to shake his head. “I’m not certain, Olaf. Much has happened since you last stepped foot in Everharth. Your father burned half of the Water District to the ground, and he’s locked your mother, Lady Selene, somewhere far away. Even our internal spies can’t figure out exactly where he’s keeping her…”

“And my sisters?” Olaf demanded. His young voice filled with pain.

“They’re safe.” Roderic reassured. “Rhoric won’t let anyone within a hundred yards of them, but they’re both being treated with the utmost care.”

Before Olaf could ask a dozen more questions, Gregory McCrank loudly cleared his throat, drawing a look from Roderic.

“Who’s your friend?” The big man asked curiously.

“Captain Gregory McCrank,” the pirate captain answered without hesitation, sweeping his hat off of his head and dipping into a bow. He then straightened, placing his wide brim back on his head and met Roderic’s sharp gaze with an intelligent one of his own.

“I understand you’ve seemingly defected from your brother’s side and joined his sworn enemies, these—Purists,” McCrank continued. “But why are you here? What brings you this far south, big man? I didn’t think the rebels had that much of a presence on the plateau…”

“We intercepted a messenger bird,” Roderic explained. “The letter the bird was carrying detailed this meeting point and indicated the goods to be exchanged equal to one…Octavia Benidary. We thought her dead. I was there when Rhoric Amir declared her so…another one of his lies I suppose.

“The opportunity was too good for us to pass up.” Roderic continued at length. “We had to let the bird go in the case a second letter was meant to be sent confirming the rendezvous and time. So, unless I’m mistaken and far from the mark, it would seem the esteemed Captain McCrank is a liar and a backstabber to boot…”

McCrank shrugged, hardly bothered by the man’s stinging words. “I had a momentary lapse in judgement. I was weak and let the possibility of short-term silver outweigh the promise of long-term gold. When I came to my senses and realized my folly, I ran The Shroud like she’s never been run before and made it to the channel days in advance of the date I gave Rhoric Amir. Unfortunately, he’s quite an efficient man and seems to have planned for just such an event…”

“Well,” Roderic said with a grin. “Fortunately, so did we.”

“Hooray…” McCrank grumbled sarcastically. “We’re all early…”

“Listen to me, Olaf.” Roderic beckoned, his grin fading as he grew serious. “We don’t have much time. We managed to follow this fist of legionnaires down the steps undetected, but more will come, and a second fist already waits further down the channel for you, so I must be quick. Are you safe on this pirate’s vessel? Where is he taking you?”

Olaf glanced sidelong at McCrank, carefully considering the jeweled and finely dressed seadog. It was a strange thing to admit, but he felt at ease in the man’s presence, despite his most recent betrayal. He nodded and McCrank nodded gratefully in return.

“Yes. We’re safe with Captain McCrank. We’re sailing to Brumex, with plans to rally…” Olaf’s voice trailed off as he realized Roderic was no longer listening to him. Instead, the man was staring up and past him, as were all of the other Purists. One of them suddenly fell to her knees and the others quickly followed suit, until only Roderic remained standing. He too, finally bowed. The slightest dip before straightening his posture once more.

Olaf turned to see what they were prostrating to and was immediately lost for words. Above them, aboard The Shroud and leaning over the gunwale Octavia stood watching their unlikely gathering through sharp, emerald eyes. Her dark hair glistened in the afternoon glow, highlighted by the white streak she had earned the last time she had strained her powers past their limit.

The young woman was nothing short of regal on her perch, but she also looked tired. Her eyelids were heavy, and she wore a gaunt expression. Clearly, holding the huge black galleon in place for so long had taken its toll on her. She carefully scanned the scene beneath her, picking them apart and dissecting each of the Purists with her piercing gaze.

“The rumors are true…” Roderic whispered, his words barely more than a breath. “The girl lives. The throne has a legitimate inheritress…”

Octavia cleared her throat and turned her gaze on Roderic. “And who are you—some friend of my father’s?”

“Not exactly,” Roderic explained with a chuckle. “Personally, I never met your father…But I fought for him for many years…I still fight for him through the Purists who operate in his memory…My name is Roderic Amir.”

Octavia’s eyes narrowed and her nostrils flared, visibly bristling at the mention of the Amir family name. “You are the brother of Rhoric Amir?” She demanded.

“An unfortunate family tie,” Roderic replied with a regretful nod. “One I’m not proud of, but hardly an obstacle I allow to get in my way.”

Yolanda suddenly appeared beside Octavia, stepping up to the gunwale and brandishing her bow menacingly. “Is this guy giving you trouble, Princess?”

Octavia nodded coldly. “I tire of his voice. Perhaps you can silence him for good?”

The princess’ words had barely passed her lips and Yolanda already had an arrow nocked and trained on Roderic Amir, ready to pelt him at a moment’s notice.

“STOP!” Olaf’s cry echoed through the channel as he rushed through the shallow water and leapt in front of Roderic, throwing his arms wide and turning to face The Shroud in an attempt to shield his uncle. “This is insane! He’s on our side. He just saved our lives! I won’t let you kill him in cold blood. I won’t.”

Roderic carefully tapped Olaf’s shoulders. “It’s all right, boy,” he murmured. “If it’s my time then it’s my time.”

“No!” Olaf shouted angrily. “I’m not going to stand here and let her murder you, uncle…”

“It’s not murder,” Octavia corrected through clenched teeth. “It’s an execution. One that would be well-deserved.”

From further out in the shallows, Captain McCrank sighed. “Just move, boy. If Yol wants to put an arrow between the big man’s eyes, your gangly ass isn’t going to stop her…”

Olaf stood firm. He stared the black galleon down, his cool gaze never wavering away from Octavia’s own. At last, the princess nodded and placed a resigned hand on Yolanda’s forearm.

“Olaf’s right,” the girl admitted evenly, calm returning to her voice as her initial rage faded. “I can’t afford to make any more enemies. If you served my father then perhaps, you could serve me as well…”

Olaf’s rigid body relaxed, and he released a great sigh of relief, slowly stepping away from Roderic. “Thank you…” the boy whispered.

Roderic was nodding his hairy head appreciatively.

Yolanda looked disappointed but grudgingly returned her arrow to the quiver on her hip. “Pity. Oh well, maybe next time…”

“And how was it that you fought for my father…?” Octavia continued. “Are you ex-legion then?”

“I am…” Roderic confirmed quietly. He muttered something inaudible, even to Olaf who stood much closer than Octavia.

“Speak up,” Octavia beckoned. “What legion did you fight for?”

Roderic cleared his throat and spoke evenly this time. “The Crows, your majesty. I fought for the Legion of the Crow…”

Octavia’s eyes went cold once more, her gaze raking Roderic like an icy shard. “Then you’re aware The Crows betrayed my father—betrayed me?”

From Roderic’s tense features it was easy to tell that he was rethinking ever coming down The Ten Thousand Steps, and especially reconsidering the damnable merits of telling the truth…

“Yes, Your Highness…I am aware of their betrayal—though, for what it’s worth, I had left the legion far behind by the time of their treachery…”

“A coup orchestrated by your brother no doubt?” Octavia asked leadingly.

“No—No, not him.” Roderic was quick to correct, even coming off as defensive, much to the princess’ annoyance. “My little brother is many things—idealistic, opportunistic, power hungry—but he’s not an evil man. He wants Harth to flourish, not destroy itself. He didn’t commit regicide, Princess Octavia. He saw his chance and he took it…But he didn’t plan that. I know that doesn’t pardon him for what he’s done…what he’s still doing…”

“If not him, then who?” Octavia demanded angrily.

Roderic slowly shrugged. “I don’t have the answers you seek, Your Highness, forgive me…It hurts my pride to admit, but Rhoric and I deserted the Crow Legion many years before they turned on your father.”

Olaf stared in wonder at Roderic, his own thoughts a menagerie of bubbling questions. He had no idea that his father or uncle were a part of the Legion of the Crow, much less deserters! How could he have gone this long without knowing? What other secrets were they keeping from him? Did his mother know?

“So,” Octavia started irritably. “You’re nothing but a coward—a deserter. You abandoned my father’s cause, you even abandoned your own brother’s cause—why should I believe that you’ll fight for mine?”

“That’s not fair, Octavia!” Olaf blurted angrily, taking a step toward the young woman on her lofty perch.

“Easy, boy…” McCrank warned, carefully placing a hand on Olaf’s chest, and easing him back. “We’re all of us on the same side here…”

“He’s right, Olaf,” Roderic insisted, nodding. “Listen to your friend.”

Olaf deflated ever so slightly but remained poised to leap to his uncle’s defense once more.

The large, bearded man then looked up and addressed Octavia plainly. “I’ve done many things in this life that I’ve regretted, Princess. Many, many things. But I assure you, deserting your father’s Crows is not one of them.

I bore much resentment for the things we were forced to endure under that legion’s banner—we all did. Perhaps, if more of us I had chosen to step away then it never would have escalated to the point that it did…Or maybe I’m wrong entirely.”

“Or perhaps, more of you should have been half the soldier that your commander was, and maybe you never would have broken the oaths you willingly swore!” Octavia’s words were barbed, and every syllable seemed to cut Roderic deep. The burly man flinched away, acting as though he had been struck, rather than simply berated.

“Our commander…?” Roderic echoed absently. He then quietly looked up, meeting Octavia’s piercing gaze once more. “What do you know of him?”

“I know his name is Hyram,” Octavia replied, her tone still dangerously agitated, bordering on hostile. “I know that he stood alone against the rest of his traitor legion when they betrayed my father. He saved my life! He was willing to sacrifice everything to fulfil his oaths and uphold his fealty…”

Roderic stood very still for many moments, digesting the information Octavia had just dumped on him. Truth be told he had never heard exactly how events had played out that fateful day, but it was no surprise to him that the mighty Hyram had remained loyal to the bitter end, forfeiting his own life for his beliefs. Only…something the girl had said didn’t sit well with the former barkeep.

“You said his name is Hyram…Why did you say it like that?”

“Because it is.” Octavia answered plainly.

“Hyram is dead…” Roderic replied in turn, his voice quivering ever so slightly.

“Not quite…” Octavia said with an uneasy shake of her head.

Roderic looked from her to Olaf and his face demanded confirmation.

The younger Amir shook his head as well, “It’s true, uncle. He’s alive…He attacked our ship on the Ein.” The boy paused, choking back some emotion. “He killed Grim…”

“Grim…dead…?”

Olaf nodded silently, pain etched in his soft eyes.

Roderic seemed frozen for many seconds, unable to speak until he was at last summoned from his paralysis by the pirate captain, McCrank.

“You didn’t just know this Hyram character, did you?” the pirate murmured. “He meant something to you…”

Roderic glanced Olaf’s way once more. The boy watched him back, stupefied by how strange the larger man was suddenly acting.

“Hyram was a great warrior and a great commander—perhaps, the greatest. I’d never met a man more dedicated than he was…But there was something else he was as well, something very few know.” Roderic paused for a moment, taking a deep breath before finishing his claim. “He was an Amir…”

Olaf’s mouth fell open and he quietly shook his head, now completely and totally confused by everything Roderic was saying. Octavia on the other hand was scowling deeply.

“Then perhaps that would explain why he now hunts me and my companions…”

“Listen to me,” Roderic explained hurriedly, glancing back up the Ten Thousand Steps and quietly dismissing his Purist followers to scout for any Scorpion reinforcements. “Rhoric is a dangerous man, not one to be taken lightly, but our brother Hyram poses a threat on another level entirely. If what you tell me is true, and he is somehow alive and hunting you then your whole campaign is in grave danger.”

“We know how dangerous he is…” Captain McCrank interjected quietly. “I lost half my crew to his blades…”

“You have no idea how dangerous he is.” Roderic insisted, stopping the pirate midsentence. “The fact any of you escaped with your lives is a miracle, or more likely a sacrifice made by my old friend, Grim. A ferocious warrior to boot, but even his skills pale in comparison to Hyram’s mastery of the blade…”

McCrank didn’t argue the point further, but did solemnly nod his agreement, having watched Grim’s defeat firsthand. There was no denying the assassin’s overwhelming combat prowess, and to think he was beaten so easily…The pirate shivered at the memory.

“What would you suggest we do then?” Octavia asked, throwing her arms wide, clearly at a loss.

Roderic shook his hairy head. “I’m not sure what foul hex has turned Hyram so cold as to hunt the one’s he swore to protect, but there is no hope fighting him.” He paused, glancing up to meet Octavia’s gaze once more. “Princess, I’ve witnessed your powers at work today. I reckon your Curses are the only thing that could pose a challenge for Hyram to overcome…”

“He was barely even slowed by my powers.” Octavia snorted derisively. “And I threw everything I had at him…”

Roderic quietly nodded. He hardly seemed surprised by that revelation. “Then pray to Thondel he does not catch up to you again…”

“Well, there was one thing that seemed to affect him…” Olaf blurted, but his words were cut short by a hearty clap from Captain McCrank.

“Let’s not go telling him everything, aye?” The pirate whispered quickly into the younger man’s ear.

Olaf shook his head confused but pushed the matter no further. Roderic, for his part, seemed rather suspicious of Gregory McCrank’s interruption, but held his tongue as well.

The burly man suddenly, glanced back up the mountainous pathway once more. He squinted his eyes and seemed to find something he did not approve of there. He turned and began to shoo Olaf and McCrank back to The Shroud. “You must go, friends. We are out of time. take the channel east and rendezvous with whatever ally is waiting for you in Brumex. Hug the southern coast and the Scorpions’ remaining ballistae shouldn’t be able to reach you…”

“But Roderic,” Olaf began, “What about Hyram! I didn’t even know I had another uncle and now he’s trying to kill me…? There must be more…”

Roderic caught Olaf’s shoulder and looked him directly in the eyes. “You’re a good lad, Olaf. When next we meet, I promise to tell you all about your uncle Hyram…”

“Now go!” Roderic continued, pushing Olaf out into the rippling current of the South Sea. He looked up to Octavia once more. “I am your ally, Princess Octavia, whether you see that or not. Do what you must in the south but know that you have friends in the capital. Should you march north to Everharth, your supporters will welcome you with open arms. I’ll make certain of it…”

Octavia remained perched pensively at the gunwale even as Roderic Amir turned his back and silently faded into the cluttered, rock-strewn shore before her.

The girl murmured under her breath, “Until next we meet, friend of Grim’s.”

Olaf was still ringing his drenched shirt out onto the deck of The Shroud when Captain McCrank made it to the helm. What was left of his crew was hammering away at the single remaining harpoon restraining them. Within moments they had battered it enough to wrench it free of the blackened planks of the sleek galleon. In no time at all, she was once more gliding, unhindered, down the Suthian Gap.

The deck of the ship looked like an infirmary hot on the wake of war. Blood stains christened the wood all over the galleon and the screams of dying and injured men dominated even the sound of the huge sails fluttering overhead. A lone medicus dashed about the deck aiding those he could.

The Scorpions’ ambush had taken a painful toll on The Shroud’s crew, but also the ship herself. Arrows riddled much of the hull and huge chunks were missing from the gunwale where ballistae had battered her with their great, iron salvos. But the ship’s resilient spirit was hardly dampened.

The long, black galleon slid forward with increasing speed, knifing through waves that would have tipped a lesser vessel. Captain McCrank, guided but Yolanda, sailed the ship swiftly along the southern coast, undaunted by the narrow straight and the jagged rocks protruding from the shallow water on either side of the galleon.

Just as Roderic had said, a second fist of the Steward’s Scorpions were indeed waiting for them further down the channel. Despite many frantic shouts and angry taunts, there was little they could do to hamper The Shroud’s passage. As predicted, the ballistae bolts felt into the sea water just short of their intended mark.

Captain McCrank held the menacing galleon as close to the southern shore as possible without running her onto the rocks. At times, Olaf could have reached out and scraped the crags rising out of the shale beach. If the skilled skipper ever felt uneasy riding the delicate line between cliffs and crossbow fire, he never showed it.

Minutes later they finally slipped free of the restraining boundaries of the channel and open seas sprawled out ahead of them. McCrank only quickened their pace, putting the Suthian Gap far behind them. With Harth’s southern coast to their port and nothing, but open water to their starboard, it was a straight shot to the city of Brumex and the mouth of the Einrill. With fair weather it would be a two-week journey or less.

Olaf at last left his sentry at the bow of the galleon and made his way toward the stern. The medicus was still bustling about, applying bandages, herbal mixes, and occasionally just a splash of rum to clean a wound out. Yolanda was close by, helping the quirky little medicine man as much as she could. There was plenty of injured who yet required aid.

The young noble was surprised when he saw Octavia kneeling amongst the wounded, Ansel by her side. Olaf approached but didn’t immediately announce himself as he was quietly studying what the girl was doing.

In one hand, she held a squirming bilge rat and the other hand she placed on the chest of a pirate whose torso was riddled with fresh punctures. After several seconds of silent meditation, the rat suddenly stopped squirming, stopped moving all together and went limp, hanging from Octavia’s hand. In turn, the pirate’s wounds slowly closed, until they looked closer to a month old rather than a span of hours.

The pirate thanked Octavia profusely, before laying back and preserving his strength. The princess nodded humbly and then looked away shaking her head as if to clear a fog from it. Then she lay the rat’s dead body down gently and turned to Ansel. “Go and fetch another if you can, Ansel. There are more people to heal.”

Ansel groaned in the affirmative, nodding excitedly and bouncing away, happy to be of even more use, after already having saved all their lives with his heroic climb up the mast. Octavia watched him go with a weak smile, before at last turning to Olaf and nodding a greeting.

Olaf came and crouched down beside her. “You should take a break from the Curses…You’re exhausted, I can tell.”

Octavia glanced away, her eyes coming to rest on Suileabhain and Cometessa. Both lay against the gunwale close to where the mad mercenary had been shot. They were sleeping—resting after the medicus had seen to them.

Suileabhain’s wound would heal, but it was the Oracle who worried Octavia. Using her powers, brief as it had been, had taken a heavy toll on her and she seemed completely leeched of strength. The medicus had no idea how to treat this kind of mental fatigue and so Cometessa’s recovery was contingent entirely on her own strength.

“I’m fine,” Octavia started. “Really, I am. She was right,” she said, referring to the Oracle with a nod. “The more I use these powers, the less taxing they become.”

“Hmmm,” Olaf considered her words with a pensive expression. “That sounds like a slippery slope to travel…”

She looked at the young man and shook her head amused. “Don’t worry about me, Olaf. I can handle myself. It’s you that worries me. Why would you do something so stupid, leaping out onto that chain like that?”

Olaf’s face turned very red, and he looked away, pretending to scratch the back of his neck. “I’m not sure actually. It just felt right, you know? In the past we’ve had Grim to do the brave stuff everyone else was too afraid to do, but…He’s gone now and I wouldn’t want to fail him by not doing it. Does that make any sense to you…?”

Octavia stared at him blankly for many seconds before finally bursting into laughter. “No, not at all you idiot! That must be the most nonsensical thing I’ve ever heard. If Grim were here right now, I imagine he would throw you overboard himself for such foolishness!”

Olaf couldn’t help but grin at the thought and the girl’s infectious giggle. Soon he too was chuckling at the craziness of it all. “I guess, maybe it wasn’t my best idea ever…”

“Not even close!” Octavia was quick to agree. At last, she simmered down and took on a more serious tone. “But what of the Scorpion Legion lying in ambush? Someone must have tipped them off…Is there no one we can trust?”

“It was McCrank.” Olaf replied instantly. “He practically admitted as much on the beach to Roderic and I before you arrived.”

“But that makes no sense…” Octavia said irritated. “He lost so many sailors in the attack and risked his own life and the well-being of his ship to get us out of there.”

“Apparently, he had a change of heart.” Olaf reasoned. “That’s why he ran The Shroud so hard the last several days. He was trying to beat the Scorpion Legion to the Gap!”

Octavia glanced up to the helm where McCrank was casually guiding the ship across the waves. The pirate captain glanced back at her and offered a brief nod and salute. She did not return the gesture but did continue to watch him through narrow eyes. “I can’t afford to have any more doubters, Olaf. I’m afraid my reign will be short lived if at all at this rate.”

“I don’t think he has any doubts left…” Olaf reasoned. “And it’s not like we’re gonna get far without him.”

“Agreed.” Octavia said with a thoughtful nod. “We need him for now…but what about you, Olaf?”

“Me…?” Olaf asked confused.

“I saw the conflict in your eyes today—whether to defend your family or listen to me. Is that the loyalty I can expect when the day comes that we must confront your father?”

“No!” Olaf replied irritably. “Of course, not—I’m loyal to you, Octavia. But I won’t stand there and let you butcher an innocent man!”

“Is that what your uncle is, innocent?” Octavia hissed, her voice very low.

Olaf looked ready to argue but hesitated and exhaled slowly. “No—no, you’re right. He’s far from innocent. It seems I barely even knew him…But Grim trusted him and that must count for something, right?”

Octavia nodded slowly. “Maybe, maybe not.”

“Octavia,” Olaf said, grabbing the girl’s attention with his tone until at last their eyes met. “You can trust me.”

After what felt like an eternity, the girl nodded. “I know.” She paused, glancing back up at McCrank. “Soon will be back with the Wolves and we won’t have to rely on the honor of pirates…”

“I don’t believe I’m saying this,” Olaf stated with a low whistle. “But I actually can’t wait to see Eriana again.”

Both teens grinned and nodded their agreement.

Just then Ansel came bounding back with another bilge rat held gently between his palms. He offered the rodent to Octavia, and she took it carefully.

Olaf shook his head, amazed at Ansel’s apparent ease with which he captured these creatures. He was, however, surprised to find that Octavia didn’t immediately move onto the next injured sailor, instead lingering for a moment to whisper something to him.

“Brumex. We’re almost there, Olaf. We just have to make it two more weeks.”

With that the young princess shifted away, tiptoeing between the prone forms of sleeping pirates until she located the man she intended to heal. Olaf tried digesting her words, but really there was only one thing he could think about. He hoped he’d made the right decision in telling Roderic that Captain Gregory McCrank could be trusted…

If the young noble could feel the pirate captain’s eyes burning through his back now, then perhaps he would know for certain the answer to that question…

33

CROSS ROAD OF DREAMS

Grim’s head lulled from exhaustion. Just before he slipped from the saddle entirely, he startled himself awake once more and corrected the meandering horse’s path with a quick jerk on the steed’s reins. Revenant padded along quietly at the horse’s side, sometimes glancing up at the bedraggled assassin and whining anxiously.

Grim would take a couple of deep, refreshing breaths and awaken his body enough to reach down and pat the hound’s head reassuringly, but the fatigue crept back relentlessly. He had made good time throughout the morning and midday, but his insane feat of endurance from the previous night was now taking its toll on him.

To make matters worse, the steadfast gelding he had stolen from the fields outside of Platlind was showing signs of exhaustion as well. Sweat coated the animal’s muscular body and clover colored drool frothed from its mouth. The beast wheezed as he chomped at the snaffle bit between his teeth.

Grim went to take another deep breath but stopped midway through inhaling. A smell he was all too familiar with assaulted his nostrils. That scent was the stench of death. The assassin’s fatigue seemingly dissipated entirely as adrenaline surged into his weary limbs. In an instant he had his longsword drawn and readied.

Revenant’s throat erupted in a low growl and the hound suddenly bounded off, quietly rounding a thicket of trees that pressed out into the road and hid the bend beyond. Grim dismounted and let the gelding go, confident the horse would not roam far as the beast was hungry and there was plenty of green grass to occupy him here.

Carefully, the assassin turned the corner, sword hidden underneath his traveling cloak, but ready to strike at a moment’s notice. The sight before him came as both a shock and was mildly expected, if not forgotten. He lowered his sword, but not his guard, still quietly stepping forward.

Before him, was an upturned wagon, the contents of which were littered about and smashed to pieces. Hundreds of footprints were imprinted in the mud all around the ruined carriage. Grim immediately recognized the prints as legion and judging by the age of the indents, they were almost certainly belonging to the Candor detachment that had attacked Platlind last night.

The assassin kept walking until he made it to the other side of the wagon. There he found Revenant circling and whining. Grim saw the reason behind the distraught hound’s pacing the moment he rounded this side of the heavy wagon—the source of the stench. The bodies of half a dozen children lay motionless in the mud, scattered all about.

A more innocent man, one less weathered by the world, would have looked away instinctively or perhaps even thrown up, but Grim merely scowled. He was sickened by what he saw, but these were hardly the first small corpses he had seen in his life. The adrenaline that coursed through his body was fading, and yet anger was quickly taking its place. He moved from one child to the next, hopelessly checking for signs of life when he knew there would be none.

They were all slain in an unkind and inefficient fashion. Cold satisfaction crept into the assassin as he recalled how mercilessly he had slaughtered the animals responsible for this butchery. Good. Those soldiers had deserved to die full of dread and hopelessness. He only wished some of them could have suffered longer…

Grim had no doubt in his mind that this wagon was the one belonging to Mrs. Winfrey and her plethora of street urchins. Yesterday he had voiced to Anna his suspicions of the homely woman, and her involvement with the arrival of the Legion of Candor…It seemed he was wrong about that as well. She had no doubt suffered a fate just as despicable as the rest of the doomed little town.

Revenant issued an abrupt warning and Grim’s sword came back out in an instant. He looked to where the huge war hound was growling and followed the dog’s gaze to a discarded flap of canvas that may have once been used to shelter goods within the wagon from the elements. Now it was hiding something else…

Grim approached the canvas and used the tip of his sword to flick the cover away, revealing what was underneath. The assassin’s blade drooped back to his side, and he released a somber sigh.

“Hello, Mrs. Winfrey…”

The woman was in bad shape. The assassin could see her stomach had been pierced, likely by a short sword or spear, and bits of her entrails were seeping out of the nasty wound. Remarkably, she hadn’t seemed to have lost all that much blood, despite her frightfully pale skin. Still, there was no saving her—that much Grim knew with certainty. The best he could do for her was a swift death.

Mrs. Winfrey began to cackle painfully upon seeing the assassin. Her body bobbed with discomfort and her voice was harsh, clearly dry from dehydration. “Hello, Poe. Never thought I’d be seeing you again. Where’s that sweet girl of yours…?”

The woman broke into a fit of coughing and Grim carefully sheathed his sword. He then crouched down, kneeling in the mud beside the wounded woman and threw his riding cloak back, revealing a pigskin bottle underneath. The assassin took the water off his belt and offered it to Mrs. Winfrey, who drank it graciously with some help from the man.

“Who did this to you?” Grim asked quietly, already aware of the answer, but longing for the woman’s confirmation.

“You don’t know?” Winfrey wheezed doubtfully.

Grim glanced down at the boot imprints surrounding them. “Legionnaires…”

The older woman nodded. “Yes. They were heading east, toward the village, and they stopped us. Ransacked the wagon and smashed everything to bits—little Walt over there tried to stop them, so they killed him first.” She tilted her head, gesturing toward the crumpled body of one of the children, before continuing.

“Then they moved onto the others—murdered them all right in front of me…They kept shouting and calling us pagans, little heretics, and sinful bastards…They ran me through and left me to die. The wagon cover helped keep the buzzards away, but I’m afraid I’m too weak to fight them off any longer…”

Grim quietly replaced the waterskin on his belt and lowered himself down beside Mrs. Winfrey, resting his back against the side of the wagon and staring off across the plains. Revenant sat silently in the shadows of the cart nearby, vigilant of any dangers that might present themselves.

“They left you like this?” Grim mused.

Winfrey shrugged. “Yes. I expected Thondel to take me away from this wretched hurt hours ago…yet still I remain.”

The assassin slowly shook his head. “I’ve seen wounds like this before. It could take days for you to finally pass—even then it may be from infection or dehydration.”

Mrs. Winfrey stared at Grim, horrified.

“Thondel will grant you no mercy—but I can.” The assassin moved to rise, reaching for the hilt of his sword.

“Wait, wait…” Winfrey caught Grim’s forearm and carefully eased him back down. “I’m not ready yet. Can you believe that—an old woman like me hasn’t come to grips with the thought of death yet? Ironic, I know…”

Grim hastily removed Winfrey’s hand from his wrist, but did not attempt to stand again, instead he stared off once more, subconsciously looking to the west.

After some time, Mrs. Winfrey spoke up once more, breaking the somberness of the evening air. “Your name’s not really Poe, is it?”

Grim shook his head, his eyes still fixed on the horizon. “No.”

Winfrey nodded knowingly. “I thought as much…You reckon it’s safe to tell an old dead woman your real name?”

Grim at last turned to meet the woman’s tired gaze. He wasn’t sure why—perhaps it was because she was a dead woman, or maybe he was just delusional from exhaustion—but he felt surprisingly comfortable in her presence.

“My real name is Marcus…But you would recognize me by another, one much fouler.”

“Tell me then, Marcus. I’m not afraid.”

Grim snorted derisively. “You’re at peace going to the grave, knowing you spent your last moments of life in the presence of a wicked man…?”

Winfrey shrugged painfully. “I’ll be dead. Why should I care?”

The assassin nodded, gaining no small amount of respect for the woman’s pragmatic gusto. “Very well. I’m known by most as Grim, the Reaper of Everharth…”

Mrs. Winfrey did not flinch at the realization of the assassin’s true identity, however, after many seconds she did chortle helplessly.

“What’s so funny, Mrs. Winfrey…?” The assassin’s tone rattled with annoyance.

The woman settled down, but a silly smirk remained on her pale face. “I never thought myself a very special woman, assassin—unremarkable at best. Yet, here I am, about to die by the sword of the same man who has slain countless men and women mightier than I. It’s quite surreal!”

Grim’s brow relaxed and some of his frustration dissipated. The woman’s body was slowly shutting down and it was very likely that this conversation was much different from her perspective. He spoke up more gently this time. “Yes—I suppose it is rather surreal, isn’t it? To tell you the truth, I’ve felt like I’ve been living among the pages of a storybook for many fortnights now…”

“Oh, how divine!” Mrs. Winfrey responded happily. “That sounds lovely.”

Grim met her gaze with a sad smile, before offering a head shake. “I’m afraid there won’t be a very happy ending to this tale, Mrs. Winfrey…”

The woman pondered that for a moment, before an idea seemed to come to her and she spoke up excitedly. “Then tell me this tale of yours and perhaps I can give some insight on how it’s most likely to end?”

Grim leaned back at the preposterous proposal, his eyes wide with surprise. He hardly ever opened up to anyone, much less a near complete stranger…Still, he supposed there was no harm in telling her a few things. With any luck the woman would succumb to her fatigue and fall asleep. Then he could send her to whatever afterlife awaited her with dignity and peace…

“I imagine you’ve already heard the bit about the night of Bishop Ovidius’ would-be coronation…?”

Mrs. Winfrey nodded, but still bore a curious look. “I have, yes—many times. But never from your perspective. Perhaps that would be a good place to start?”

Grim slowly bobbed his head, somewhat touched, he supposed? By the woman’s thoughtful response. “Very well. From the beginning then…”

Mrs. Winfrey clapped her hands elatedly. “How marvelous.” She beamed. “The duel that shaped the world…Let’s hear it then!”

The assassin snorted dismissively at her bold claim, but went on to tell the story regardless, sparing no details, good or bad, and making no effort to disguise his part in Rhoric Amir’s rise to power. He didn’t stop after the duel. Soon he was telling her about everything—Roderic and Malia’s betrayal, the strange lights and shrieks in the sky above Everharth, the battle at Chala—he even found himself revealing Octavia’s whereabouts as well as the carefully guarded secret she yet lived.

Mrs. Winfrey was an excellent audience, captivated by the story from the beginning. Her eyes were wide when he depicted his battle with Eriana and her Wolves and she wore a great smile every time the assassin spoke of the foolish, yet charming, pair of young men Olaf and Ansel. She even shed tears, all but sobbing, when Grim explained how close he had come to saving his lost love Joanne, only for destiny’s cruel jaws to rip her away from him once more.

The one thing Mrs. Winfrey did not do, however, was fall asleep. Before Grim knew it, the sun had set, and the starry night sky sparkled overhead. Hours had passed with neither of them moving an inch, other than to pass the waterskin between them. Revenant had edged closer throughout the assassin’s breathtaking tale and was now sprawled out at their feet. If not for the corpses that surrounded them, it may have seemed like an ordinary night under the stars.

Grim had at last fell silent and was subconsciously stroking the scruff of Revenant’s neck, once more staring off into the darkness. Mrs. Winfrey followed suit, unfocused eyes staring at nothing as she processed every word the man had said.

The woman grimaced, likely an indication of the extensive pain she was in but managed to speak up regardless. “Well, you were certainly right, Marcus—it is quite a tale.” She shook her head in awe, briefly reliving the story once more. When next she broke the silence, her tone was much more serious. “There is one thing I don’t seem to get, however…Would you mind helping me understand?”

Grim offered no response apart from a tiny, nearly indistinguishable nod.

Mrs. Winfrey decided that was a sign to continue and so she did. “By all accounts, by your own claim, Princess Octavia—the only known living heir to the throne—Is sailing for Brumex, even as we speak, likely to start a rebellion that will decide the fate of this waning kingdom and here you are traveling west. In the opposite direction of the war to come! Tell me, why is that…?”

The assassin snorted and shook his head irritably. “I don’t see how that’s important…”

“Of course, it’s important!” Winfrey insisted, her face growing as animated as it could despite the blood she had lost. “You’re her protector. She needs you!”

Grim waved his hands dismissively at the notion and forced himself to his feet, knocking the dirt from his pantlegs. “She doesn’t need me. I’m the last thing she needs. And I’m certainly no one’s protector…” The assassin paused, gazing off into the darkened plains once more. “Who have I ever managed to protect…?”

Revenant stood up anxiously and padded to the assassin’s side, pressing his head against the man’s hip.

Mrs. Winfrey chuckled, perplexed. “You protected them all. Octavia is only alive because of you. Ansel and Olaf only live because of you. They need you Marcus…”

“Joanne needs me!” Grim exclaimed angrily, his serene aura wilting away. “Not the princess, not the Steward’s bastard son. Joanne. Thousands of protectors will flock to Octavia’s banner. Noble houses and legions alike will throw their lot in with her, but who is going to save Joanne if not me?”

Winfrey quietly lowered her gaze. “Perhaps, you are underestimating this woman of yours. After all, is she not the one who trained you how to be an assassin?”

Her words simmered Grim’s rage considerably, but his tone was still filled with contempt when he answered. “She merely refined a weapon already possessing a killing edge…”

Mrs. Winfrey sighed. “Nothing but death waits for you to the west, Marcus…”

Grim slowly shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut and clenching his jaw. “Enough with that name. It sounds like a lie each time it’s uttered. I can’t stand to hear it anymore. Call me Grim…”

Winfrey sadly shook her head but did not argue.

“And death does not lie in wait for me to the west,” the assassin quietly corrected. “It lurks over my shoulder always. I can never be free of it…”

“I’m afraid it’s your obsession with this woman that invites it in.” Mrs. Winfrey claimed, trying to reason with the assassin.

Grim turned to regard her curiously but did not speak up. Instead, simply waiting for her next words patiently.

“I’m surprised you can’t see it,” Winfrey said plainly. “The nearest you’ve come to saving Joanne is when you’re not trying to…Aiding the princess got you closer than your own efforts ever have. If you’re not careful, your rage and obsession will destroy any chance you have left, but perhaps by doing the right thing you might succeed.”

There was an abrupt shift in the assassin’s demeanor, triggered by something the woman had said. After much contemplation, Grim slowly began to nod his head. A great burden seemed to lift from his shoulders. He found a surprising amount of peace in Winfrey’s words.

“Yes,” the man mused, his tone shifting dramatically. “Maybe there is some wisdom in what you say…I’ve always found the greater good to be a naïve notion, something for foolish lads and spoiled knights to chase after, and yet—Perhaps, my own selfishness has crippled me. I do feel strangely…fulfilled when I’m at Octavia’s side…”

Mrs. Winfrey was nodding happily. “You must help the princess win the throne. I believe this is the only way to save your Joanne. Even should you manage to fight your way through Everharth and free her from whatever prison she’s been forced into, your happiness will be short lived. How long could you protect her alone in a kingdom ruled by your enemy?”

“Unless I kill Rhoric Amir first.”

“Then you will be hunted to the end of your days.” Winfrey stated. “Save her, yes—but first give her a world worth remaining in…”

The old woman’s words hit somewhere deep within Grim, and he found himself nodding even more emphatically now. He thought of the many bridges he had burned getting here and the people he had so needlessly hurt. Then he thought of Princess Octavia alone, surround by those pricks and vultures at court. They would try and exploit her in whatever way they could. And if it wasn’t the nobles than it would be the pirates, or the fucking legionnaires…Grim quaked with anger once more.

“I’ve been a fool.” The assassin hissed.

“Yes. You have been.” Winfrey confirmed with a nod. “But it’s not too late. Forget this silly dream of wrath and strike Rhoric Amir where you can truly hurt him. Aid Octavia in taking the throne and then you will see…there will be no one left to hurt Joanne.”

“Except me…” Grim replied unexpectedly, his head hanging in sudden defeat.

“Grim…” Winfrey waited until the assassin looked up, meeting her gaze. “You’re not the monster you think you are.”

Grim’s eyes glistened with tears, and he clenched his jaw, fighting back a distraught outburst. Still, he whispered through bared teeth. “I am. I’ve done so much bad. I’ve hurt people I cared about. Murdered innocents. Anna…I killed Anna—not just killed but slaughtered. I butchered her like an animal, and she never even saw it coming…never had a chance to defend herself…”

The assassin cupped his blood-stained face between his palms and fought back the pain rising within him. Two sharp inhales escaped his lungs before he managed to defeat the agony and force the lump rising in his throat back down. When he removed his hands, his eyes were surprisingly dry, and a new air of determination exuded from him.

Mrs. Winfrey saw the change in his demeanor, and she nodded. “I’m sure I don’t know the half of the trauma that you’ve endured, but I do know many a lesser man would have broken…” She paused, choosing her next words carefully. “I know you never meant to hurt that girl, Grim. It’s not okay, and it may even happen again, but that must not stop you from moving forward…They need you—She needs you…So, fight on Marcus.”

Grim closed his eyes, slowly nodding for many moments. It seemed he was processing every word Winfrey had spoken to him. When at last he opened them again, they were calm and focused.

“Thank you,” the assassin whispered quietly. His words were almost lost in the brisk night air.

Mrs. Winfrey did not respond immediately, but she did smile, looking up into the star-filled sky with hope. At last, she spoke, though her eyes were still fixed on the sparkling canopy overhead. “I believe I’m finally ready.”

After a brief hesitation, Grim nodded his understanding and reached for the wolf-headed blade. Before he could draw it completely, however, he looked at the wounded old woman once more. “Are you certain…?”

Winfrey nodded. Her face was filled with serenity. “Yes. I’m at peace…”

The assassin finished unsheathing the longsword and stepped forward, until he stood directly over top of the kind woman. He met her gaze one last time. She smiled and seemed at ease, though a small amount of fear—likely of the unknown—still seeped through.

“You’re quite good at this, yes?” Winfrey asked timidly. “It will be quick?”

Grim nodded. “You won’t feel a thing, Mrs. Winfrey. It will be like falling fast asleep after a day of exhausting fun…”

The woman nodded and looked as if she was going to say no more, when she suddenly spoke up once more. “The legion that did this to my children…” she asked in a trembling voice, glancing around at the torn bodies of her urchins. “Did you…?”

The warmth drained from Grim’s face when remembering Platlind, but he answered honestly. “I killed them all.”

A tear traced its way down Mrs. Winfrey’s cheek, but she nodded graciously and closed her eyes, mouthing the words ‘thank you’.

Grim lifted the wolf-headed sword up and let the vicious point of the weapon dangle over Winfrey’s shoulder. With no further hesitation, the assassin drove the blade down rapidly. The cold steel plunged through the woman’s heart and just as he had said, she died without even realizing it.

Grim felt the infernal blade beginning to feed on some essence inside of Winfrey and he retracted the sword immediately, gazing at it with disgust. He had rarely felt it do this before, but he supposed there was still quite a bit he didn’t know about the Cursed weapon. Swallowing the disgust, he wiped the blade clean on some scattered debris from the abandoned wagon, and swiftly returned the weapon to its scabbard. He then lay Mrs. Winfrey down gently and stepped away.

The thought of vultures picking at her flesh sickened Grim, but he knew he couldn’t risk lighting a fire to burn their bodies and he doubted he had the strength or stamina left to bury them all. Instead, he collected the bodies of the slain children and lay them alongside Winfrey, before covering them all with the tarp from the wagon and weighing it down on all sides.

He knew it was far from a proper burial, but he hoped it would protect their bodies from further desolation until someone more honorable stumbled upon them and could risk lighting a fire. Revenant dutifully stood watch throughout the assassin’s brief vigil and when he finished and summoned his horse with a whistle, the hound padded over as well. He scratched behind the loyal shadow’s ear and quickly mounted the gelding, throwing his boots through the stirrups.

Grim took one long, final look to the west, to where he knew Joanne to be, before he turned his steed east, squeezing his heels and urging it forward with haste.

“Come on, Revenant!” the assassin shouted over his shoulder. “We’ve a legion to catch!”

The hound barked excitedly and took off after the horse, easily pacing the beast as they loped back down the dirt path they had come. Behind them and somewhere not so far to the west, a diminutive lone figure wrapped in the finest of robes watched from the cover of one of the rare pine thickets that were sprinkled across the Plains of the First Harth.

A cold smirk spread across the individual’s thin lips, and he slowly backed away, fading into the shrubbery surrounding him until he disappeared completely…

34

DRAGONFLY

Rhoric Amir stood at the edge of the water quietly gazing out over Legion Bay. The harbor was filled with warships as he had recalled many of them home and flocks of gulls hovered lazily amongst their sails. Normally, their incessant shrieking would have irritated the short-tempered man, but today he felt more at ease than he had in months. An aura of serenity seemed to have settled over him and his face was a stonewall of calm.

The Steward was carefully cleaning his hands off with a soft towelette when a shriek, not of gull origin, drew his attention up shore to the north. After a moment of panic, he quickly calmed again, realizing that the cry had been a cry of joy from one of his daughters—both of whom were playing in the shallow sea water with a few of their friends and an escort of pages.

Rhoric Amir chuckled at his own foolish nerves. Of course, his daughters were safe. After all, they were surrounded by nearly half of the Legion of Thondel—two thousand soldiers wrapped around the perimeter of Legion Bay. Each of the men and women among those ranks was tasked with the protection of his girls, and though they gave the young women a wide enough birth to feel some privacy, there was no denying the ridiculous show of power the Steward was displaying.

Some of the lords and ladies in court had proposed the protection he had placed on Natalie and Josslyn to be absurd, and that there were more important tasks a legion could be attending to than following a couple of doe-eyed girls around. Rhoric Amir had of course agreed—and yet, that wasn’t enough to stop him from seizing those men and women’s lands, military assets, and any other doweries they had happened upon.

He supposed his time of playing nice with these fools at court was now behind him. It would have been ideal to be respected and well-received, but there were, unfortunately, more important matters at hand than his reputation. If fear was how he was forced to govern in order to get results, then he would not shy from it…

The Steward carelessly handed the, now bloodied, towelette off to one of his Honorguard. The man took it without hesitation and pocketed the macabre cloth within his great cloak. He then took a step back away from Rhoric Amir, falling into rank with the other seventeen men that made up the Steward’s elite. They stood motionless in a semi-circle, awaiting their next orders.

Rhoric Amir’s eyes slowly shifted down away from the lazy, rolling tide within Legion Bay and toward the pebbly beach at his feet. There on the ground lay Captain Levee John and his entire crew, bloodied and broken. They had answered the Steward’s call, returning to the city as he requested, only to be ambushed and shackled by Rhoric Amir’s Honorguard. He had interrogated them for hours without any luck.

Many of the sailors had died from loss of blood and shock, pulverized by the Steward’s elite warriors. But Levee John had hung on to the very end, until Rhoric Amir’s own knuckles were bloodied and bruised from beating him. He had at last grown tired of the game and mercifully slit the skipper’s throat with Levee John’s own serrated fillet knife. The Steward had then left the knife impaled in the man’s chest, seeing no better way to discard of the simple tool.

Still, the Harthian Captain had never broken. His story had remained the same until the very end. The same story Andreas Buth had spun within the Steward’s throne room a full moon’s cycle before. That consistency should have worried Rhoric Amir, given him pause and perhaps spread the seeds of doubt in his mind—perhaps Andreas’ tale was no lie at all, but the truth. No such doubt ever crossed the Steward’s mind.

He understood how hardy these sailors were. He also knew how uneducated and dull they could be. For one of Lord Andreas Buth’s breeding, it would be no difficult task to convince these men to believe his lies…They may not have been in on the manipulative Titan Commander’s scheme, but there was no doubt in Rhoric Amir’s heart whether or not he could risk their survival. And so, they had to die.

A small price to pay for peace of mind, the Steward thought.

Subconsciously, Rhoric Amir heard the frantic approaching footsteps of a soldier in the sand. He wore armor but was not fully burdened by it—likely a scout. More bad news the Steward reckoned with a sigh. Still, the thought did not bother him as much as it should have. He was on the attack now after all, and it was when he was attacking that he felt the most invulnerable.

The sound of eighteen steel blades being drawn in unison left a satisfying symphony in the crisp morning air. The scout’s feet ground to a halt, skittering on the pebbly shore.

“That’s close enough,” One of the Steward’s elite warned. “What business brings you with such haste to the Lord Steward’s side?”

The scout, a decidedly young man as many of the scouts in the Harthian Legions were, was collecting himself and catching his breath, when the Honorguard spoke up once more.

“Speak quickly, scout!”

“Take it easy, Khadan.” Rhoric Amir interjected calmly, turning, and taking the scout in for the first time. “The boy is young, and by the look of him, he ran through the night to reach me. Give him a moment for goodness’ sake.”

“Of course, Lord Steward,” Khadan replied respectfully, sheathing his blade, and stepping back obediently. The other guards followed suit.

The scout smiled gratefully toward Rhoric Amir, then seemingly remembering himself, dipped a low bow before shouting an introduction. “My name is Esperon, Lord Steward! I’m a long-range scout with the Legion of Thondel and I come bearing a message from the south!”

“Yes, yes,” Rhoric Amir said, acknowledging the lad’s introduction with a wave of his hand. “I could tell as much by your crest and garb. What I do not know is the message you carry. Be a good lad and waste no more of my time. Out with it already.”

Esperon bobbed his head, nodding profusely and pulled forth a sealed parchment, offering it to the Steward.

Rhoric Amir did not take the letter. Instead, he waved to the scout. “You can read, can you not? Give me a summary.”

Esperon looked taken aback, but was a sharp enough young man, not to make the dangerous Steward ask twice. With a shrug he broke the seal on the letter and quickly unfolded the parchment, his eyes scanning the ink traced on it. After only the slightest hesitation, he spoke up. Though, his tone betrayed his own confusion, the scout did his best to convey the information without question.

“It’s a message from the Scorpion Legion, Lord Steward. It states the mission you tasked them with was a failure…Some interference with the Purists foiled the plan.”

Rhoric Amir nodded, narrowing his eyes shrewdly. The news should have made his blood boil, but he remained calm. He knew this was risky business from the start, and yet, there was still much he could gain from this defeat.

“Is that all…?”

“Not quite,” Esperon said with a shake of his head. “There’s more, though I’m not sure I understand…They say Princess Octavia has continued south, down the coast, and is sailing for Brumex. They estimate by the unnatural speed of the craft she’s borne; she’ll reach the city in no more than two and a half weeks…”

A grin slowly spread across Rhoric Amir’s face. “Very good, Esperon.”

Esperon looked even more perplexed after hearing the Steward’s strange response. He wore that confusion on his face.

“You have a question?” Rhoric Amir asked the boy, noticing his expression. “Ask it.”

Esperon shifted nervously but did as he was told. “I obviously don’t know as much as you m’lord, but this message doesn’t sound like a very good thing…?”

“No, I suppose it doesn’t.” Rhoric Amir admitted, pacing carefully as he spoke. “But sometimes it’s better to hear bad news than to hear nothing at all. Though, this is not the message I had hoped to receive, it does confirm one very important thing; Octavia is alive and sailing toward the fortress city of Brumex.”

“And that’s good…?” Esperon asked hesitantly.

“Better to know,” the Steward reiterated. “To know who my enemy is and where she will strike next…”

Esperon nodded slowly, the look of confusion he had previously worn was melting away. “I think I’m beginning to understand, m’lord…”

“Indeed,” Rhoric Amir said with a curt nod. “And what of an assassin? Does the letter mention anything of an assassin?”

Confusion quickly returned to Esperon’s face. “No, nothing, Lord Steward. Just Purists.”

Rhoric Amir grinned all the wider. “Yes—I assumed as much…”

Esperon’s face suddenly lit up, and he spoke once more. “Though, that does bring up another important bit of information…”

Now it was Rhoric Amir’s turn to look at the young man curiously. The Steward’s bushy eyebrow arched with curiosity. “What is it, lad? Speak.”

Esperon nodded in the direction he had come. A fist of additional legion scouts was making their way down the winding cobblestone road from the Water District and onto the docks which led down to the shoreline Rhoric Amir paced.

The young man looked as if he was about to explain, when he noticed Levee John’s butchered body further down the beach. He froze up at the sight. He wasn’t certain how he hadn’t noticed it sooner or if perhaps one of the Honor Guard had accidentally shifted just enough to let his gaze through. He remained speechless until the Steward stepped in front of the body, once more blocking his view and summoning the scout back to the present.

“Enough of that.” Rhoric Amir cautioned. “You needn’t worry yourself with the fate of traitors…Now tell me, what is it these scouts bring me?”

Esperon swallowed hard, collecting his wits and shaking the image of the dead Harthian skipper from his mind. “We were on our way back from the Adant Plateau when we found him. A lone traveler, wandering the edge of the Plains. Dirty and unassuming. He claimed he was on his way to the Capital to share some very pressing information with you, m’lord. I decided it best we escort him in, in case his true intentions are more…nefarious.”

Rhoric Amir recoiled fearfully at the scout’s description of the man. “And you brought him here? Straight to me?” the Steward asked incredulously.

Esperon waved his hands in submission, even as Rhoric Amir’s elites drew forth their blades once more. “He’s quite harmless!” the scout insisted. “He’s not even armed!”

“Get out of the way!” the Steward howled at the foolish young man.

The fist of scouts transporting the vagabond were now much closer, nearly upon them and they could hear the Steward’s panicked orders. They hesitated and slowed. “Something the matter?” One of them called out fretfully.

“Get away from him!” Rhoric Amir hissed. “He’s dangerous! Khadan—seize the prisoner from these fools!”

“At once, Lord Steward!”

Khadan and the other Honorguard rushed forward, even as the legionnaire scouts dispersed, making way for the black-cloaked warriors. With little effort the elites apprehended the man they had been transporting and brought him before Rhoric Amir, forcing the dirty traveler to his knees and holding apart each of his arms to further debilitate him.

Khadan grabbed a handful of the man’s hair and jerked his head back, revealing his face.

The Steward rushed forward, producing a gladius from a loop hidden on the inside of his dragon skin cape and readying it to strike. At the last second, he slowed, and the vicious point of the blade drooped. Relief spread through Rhoric Amir’s body like wildfire as he saw the man’s terrified face and realized he did not recognize it at all.

The Steward laughed and placed his sword back into the loop within his cape. He shook his head and closed his eyes, even as he continued to chuckle. “Forgive me,” Rhoric Amir said after a pause, opening his eyes once more and motioning for his warriors to let the man up. “I thought you to be someone else…”

The terrified man carefully straightened his knees and stood upright before Rhoric Amir, not even coming up to the Steward’s chin. He began to chuckle nervously and the soldiers around him joined in—even the Thondel scouts who had appeared ready to flee moments before, wore confused grins.

“A thousand apologies!” Rhoric Amir continued, happily. “Well then, seeing as you’re not who I figured you to be, what’s your name, lad?”

The young man spoke up with nervous relief. “My name is Aaron, Lord Steward. I come from a tiny settlement far to the west, nestled in the Sunny Tips. It’s called Desola, though I’m sure you’ve never heard of it…”

“Nonsense!” Rhoric Amir replied hastily. “Of course, I’ve heard of it. It’s spoken of in song, is it not? Built on the bones of Yarro’s Folly…?”

Aaron looked quite impressed by the Steward’s knowledge and was nodding eagerly. “Yes! Yes, exactly—that’s the place!”

Rhoric Amir stroked his beard thoughtfully. “That journey would take you well over a fortnight on foot…”

Aaron continued to nod his head emphatically. “Yes. I’ve been on the road for nearly a full moon cycle. I thought to buy a horse…But I haven’t the money. Still, hopefully the information I came all this way to tell you is worth…something?”

The Steward smiled pleasantly, but there was an underlying warning in his eyes. “Well, Aaron of the village of Desola…That would depend on what you have brought me.”

Aaron nodded again, though this time much less enthusiastically. “Yes, of course. You’ll find it to be important. I’m certain of it.”

Rhoric Amir gestured for the man to proceed, and so Aaron continued.

“You see, we were plagued by some kind of monster, m’lord—a beast. It haunted the woods around our homes and would take people in the night…me and the other lads thought it was going to kill us all, but then this big, intimidating, warrior-type wandered into the middle of town one day.”

The Steward’s eyes sharpened suspiciously. “Warrior-type? Describe him…”

“Uh, I dunno.” Aaron started, caught off guard by Rhoric Amir’s abrupt curiosity. “Tall, long-hair, stubbly beard…He had a dog…?”

“Weapons,” the Steward interrupted. “What kind of weapons did he carry?”

Aaron screwed his face up pensively. “Just one I believe. A big sword. Longest one I’ve ever seen a man wield. Though, I haven’t actually seen that many…”

Rhoric Amir nodded slowly. “Was this sword marked by a wolf’s head?”

Aaron scratched his chin. “Well yes it was, now that you mention it. I do remember it having a wolf carved on it. A bunch of little pictures too…”

The Steward digested that information for a moment before further questioning the young man. “Well? Did this warrior slay your monster?”

Aaron nodded in confirmation. “He slayed it all right. Fought it all through the night but came out on top with the morning rays…”

Rhoric Amir’s face revealed nothing, but his temper was slowly beginning to rise. “And did you come all this way to regale me with the tale of this battle or was there something else you were hoping to tell me?”

“Aye, something else,” Aaron replied cautiously, glancing over his shoulder as he did. “That night, our baron threw a celebration in the warrior’s honor. So, I ventured out to a nearby town to spread the word, and I ran across a group of very strange women…

They asked me if I knew anything about a man who fit the description of the warrior in our village. I wasn’t going to tell them anything at first, but they offered me a lot of coin and they said they worked for you…”

Rhoric Amir arched his eyebrow at that, but otherwise said nothing.

“So, I led them back to Desola and even took them to the inn he was staying at…Problem is I didn’t stick around long enough to get my money. Those women went upstairs to do whatever it is they was gonna do to him…But I was scared they weren’t going to come back alive, so I ran…”

“You ran…?”

“Yes, I ran,” Aaron reiterated. “I ran as fast as I could.”

“All the way to Everharth…” Rhoric Amir concluded quietly.

“Indeed…” the young man said nervously. “I figure if you hadn’t heard anything by now then it’s as I suspected, and that warrior killed all them women…But surely, if you hired them then you would be thankful for any information regarding the situation…”

Rhoric Amir closed his eyes for several seconds, processing everything Aaron had told him. When he at last opened them, he wore a smile. “Very good, Aaron. Thank you for bringing this to my attention. You may go now…”

Aaron didn’t immediately turn and leave. Instead, he remained where he was, anxiously rubbing his hands together.

“What?” the Steward asked impatiently.

“It’s just,” the young man began. “Those women promised to pay me in your name…I figured since they were unable to, then perhaps you could pay me in their stead…?”

Rhoric Amir smirked, scoffing distastefully and shaking his head incredulously. “I’m surprised Andreas Buth didn’t just pay you himself.”

Aaron’s face twisted with confusion. “Who?”

“Lord Buth. The Commander of the Titans?” Rhoric Amir clarified. “It was him who put you up to this little task after all, was it not?”

Aaron shook his head, clearly at a loss.

“Oh, come now, the game is over,” the Steward insisted. “You’ve been had, Aaron. I know Andreas hired you to plant more seeds of doubt in my mind. To ratify the lies he’s already told me himself! Did he actually tell you to collect your payment from me, or did he in fact pay you upfront and this was a selfish attempt on your own end to double dip? Tell me. I’m truly curious about the answer.”

Aaron continued to shake his head hopelessly. “No, no. I don’t even know an Andreas. I came here of my own accord. Not to plant seeds, but to inform you of the whereabouts of a very dangerous man, who I assumed you were trying to catch…?”

Rhoric Amir smirked again and chuckled. “The man you describe is dead. He died in a tiny coastal village no one has heard of, many months ago…”

“He looked about half dead,” Aaron said with a shrug. “But he was surely alive when I saw him last.”

“Enough!” the Steward shouted, drawing curious looks from many of the distant legionnaires. Aaron stumbled back fearfully.

After a brief, but tense pause, Rhoric Amir continued with another chuckle. “So, was it Andreas’ idea or yours to send me the Hyena Sister’s heads?”

Aaron offered no response, only more confusion.

“Andreas’ then,” the Steward confirmed. “He must have really believed that would seal the deal.”

Rhoric Amir made a tsk, tsk noise and paced back and forth. “What to do with you, Aaron. What to do?”

Aaron began to breathe very heavily as he was seized by panic as well as the realization that he had erred horribly. “Please, you don’t have to do anything m’lord. Just let me go! I’ll return to Desola and never speak of this again. I don’t even want the coin anymore!”

Rhoric Amir watched the young man plead for his life, before slowly shaking his head. “I’m afraid it’s not that easy, lad. You see—treason comes at a very high price…” The Steward slowly stepped aside, as did his Honor Guard, revealing the mangled bodies of Captain Levee John and his crew of sailors. Aaron blanched at the macabre scene, the blood draining from his face.

“More friends of Lord Andreas’,” the Steward explained, unsheathing his gladius once more. “Though, I reckon you already know a few of them, don’t you, lad?”

Aaron subconsciously shook his head, his whole-body quaking with fear. Tears began to swell in his eyes. “I don’t—I don’t know any of them. I’ve never met those men in my life! Please m’lord, I’m no traitor! Just let me go!”

Rhoric Amir shook his head, tapping the flat edge of the gladius against his palm as he did. “Not just a traitor, but a liar as well…”

With sudden speed and precision, unexpected of a man his size, the Steward struck out with his gladius, stopping the blade just before it pierced the skin on Aaron’s quivering neck. He held the blade there effortlessly and looked deep into the mewling commoner’s eyes, where tears were beginning to break free and streak down his cheeks.

“Tell me, Aaron,” Rhoric Amir whispered slowly. “What is Lord Buth’s next move? How will he strike at me…?”

Aaron sucked down the sob building in his throat and managed to regurgitate an answer. “I don’t know Lord Steward. I’m sorry!”

Rhoric Amir stared the younger man down for many moments before nodding, lowering his sword arm and taking a step back. “I believe you.”

Aaron released a shaky breath of relief and slumped back.

“Esperon.” The Steward’s authoritative summon made the legion scout abruptly tense up.

“Yes, Lord Steward?” Esperon asked, stepping forward and recovering with a smart salute.

Rhoric Amir reversed the gladius in his hand and offered the weapon to the legion scout. Esperon did not move to take it, instead looking back at the Steward with obvious confusion.

“M’Lord?”

“Take it.” Rhoric Amir insisted.

Esperon took the gladius without further question and awaited the Steward’s next instruction. Aaron watched the entire exchange nervously.

Rhoric Amir made eye contact with Khadan and another of his Honor Guard and quietly nodded. They swiftly seized Aaron by either arm, pulling the young man off the ground so only the worn toes of his boots drug in the sand. Esperon watched the scene unfold, his eyes clouded with conflict.

“Esperon,” Rhoric Amir began again, speaking loudly to be heard over Aaron’s cries for mercy. “This man is a traitor and has conspired with my enemies. Kill him.”

Esperon had anticipated the command and yet it still, it left him shocked. “B-but why me, m’lord?”

“Because you seem to be of similar age and health as this traitor,” Rhoric Amir explained. “And yet you have chosen a much different path than him. I think it would be most potent if you were the one to deal out his sentence. Thondel would approve, I assure you…”

Esperon swallowed the saliva building in his mouth and dipped his head obediently. He then turned and faced Aaron, stepping within striking distance of him. The Steward’s Honor Guard held the man steady.

“Please!” Aaron cried, babbling with incoherent fear. “Please, stay your hand!”

Esperon raised the Steward’s gladius to strike. He hesitated for only an instant before calculated mercy took over his sword arm and he lunged forward, piercing the peasant’s chest and silencing his crazed screams. Within a handful of seconds, the young man stopped struggling altogether as the last bits of life left his body.

The legion scout deftly retracted the gladius and wiped its blade clean before carefully handing it back to Rhoric Amir.

The Steward took the weapon with a satisfied nod and clapped the young legionnaire on the shoulder. “Well done, soldier.” He then looked to Aaron’s still body and motioned to Khadan. “Throw him with the others and then dispose of all their bodies. I’ve had enough of this foul business…”

The Steward’s Honor Guard set about gathering the sailor’s torn bodies like proper coroners without complaint or misgivings and quickly set fire to the pile of corpses. Aaron’s was thrown on top. Esperon and the other legionnaire scouts watched quietly from a distance.

After the flames had burned for some time, Esperon cautiously approached the Steward once more. Khadan watched the scout’s approach with scrutinizing eyes, one hand on the hilt of his sword. Rhoric Amir gestured for his Honorguard to relax and Khadan calmly let Esperon pass.

“Perhaps, it’s not my place to ask…” Esperon began quietly, addressing Rhoric Amir directly. “But what should I tell the Legion Commanders at the front? Candor, the Bears, the Scorpions, the Lions—they’ll want to know the next move. If our adversary sails for Brumex then she likely intends to try and take it out from under you, m’lord…”

Rhoric Amir was nodding slowly. The man’s eyes were very distant as he considered a great many things. At length, he called out to the captain of his Honor Guard. “Khadan!”

“Yes, my lord?”

“Viscount Honnel is, most unfortunately, outside of the city at this current time…But you served in a legion, did you not—attended the academy the same as any recruit?”

“I did ten years in the Legion of the Lion, yes, my lord. I served under Elberon, a fierce warrior and commander.”

“Then you are well-versed in battlefield tactics?” Rhoric Amir reasoned.

“Of course, Lord Steward.”

“Trade routes?”

“Not likely as familiar as the Viscount,” Khadan admitted. “But I studied my fair share of them during my years in the academy.”

Rhoric Amir nodded his understanding, thoughtfully stroking his beard. After many moments of contemplation, his gaze fixed on the flames which licked away at the bones of those who would defy him, the Steward spoke once more. “And do you think the infrastructure of the Kingdom of Harth could remain intact without the city of Brumex?”

Khadan was taken off guard by the question, but thought about it from a reasonable standpoint, carefully considering every angle. “Yes. Harth could certainly survive without Brumex. Though its trade routes are important, and its harbors dock many Harthian ships, there are other ways to move goods from Eastharth to Westharth. The Estuary Ford for example. It’s far more centrally located, as well as being a true fortress and not just a mound of fancy spires and arches…”

Rhoric Amir continued to nod, then turned to include Esperon as well. “You agree with this assessment, scout?”

Esperon considered Khadan’s statement and began to bob his head in the affirmative. “Captain Khadan makes several very good points, m’lord. Although Brumex sits at the mouth of the Einrill, a river we all know to be invaluable, as well as provides armies and carts a footpath between Eastharth and Westharth, The Estuary Ford rests upon the very same river. Serving the exact same purpose, while being strategically much closer to the Capital…”

Rhoric Amir grinned, pleased that these men—both soldiers as he had been—operating in two very different branches of service, had arrived at the same conclusion he had many days prior.

The Steward chuckled and gestured for both his servants to gather closely. “Then this is what we will do…”

35

MONSTERS AMONG MICE

Ramsey’s long strides carried him about the Exiled legion’s—now disguised as a splinter force of the Legion of Candor—camp. The air had grown uncomfortably cold overnight and the slow rising, morning sun was doing little to dispel that bitter frost. It seemed the shifting season of autumn was on in full as dried and crackled leaves blew about the many legion tents speckling the edge of the plains.

The cold kept the soldiers inside their shelters later than usual and it was winding up to be a slow start to the day. So be it, Ramsey decided. They were no longer a proper legion nor were they bound by the restrictive discipline associated with one. Still, they would eventually have to increase the pace if they were to make it to Brumex in time to be of any use to the blooming rebellion…

The sound of rapidly approaching boots drew Ramsey’s attention and the tall man, never difficult to spot in a field of stooped tents, quickly turned in time to see a scout, formerly of the Obsidian Legion and a man he knew well, named Throle, sprinting to catch up to him.

“What’s the matter, Throle?” Ramsey asked evenly.

“We’ve a spotted a rider!” Throle explained, coming to a halt a few feet shy of colliding with the Obsidian Giant. “Approaching from the west.”

Ramsey cocked his head curiously. “Alone…?”

Throle nodded. “Yes—well, not entirely. Some of the other scouts claim there’s a dog with him as big as a pony, but I reckon they’re exaggerating that bit…”

A grin spread across Ramsey’s hawkish face. “Oh, I reckon they’re not…”

The scout glanced at his former commander with bewilderment but held his tongue regarding the concerning size of the rider’s hound.

“How far out are they?” Ramsey continued seriously.

Throle answered without even having to consider the question. “A few minutes before they’re visible from the camp. Assuming he keeps up the pace, a few more and they’ll be within the first line of tents.”

Ramsey nodded approvingly. “Good. Tell the sentries to let him through.”

Grim trotted the gelding toward the tents decorating the slope before him. Revenant loped alongside them with conditioned ease. Their path remained completely unobstructed, and no one had stepped forward to challenge the assassin’s progress yet.

That bit came as no surprise to Grim. He had spotted the Exiles’ scouts on the horizon nearly an hour prior. Their silhouettes would have been invisible in the early dawn light, except the assassin knew exactly what to look for when scanning shadows that may conceal enemies. The Exiled Legion had proven to be no enemy of his, but still, they hadn’t exactly parted on the most pleasant of terms. Either way, he suspected they knew he was coming.

A few sleepy faces watched the assassin with unconcealed surprise as he waltzed into their camp. These soldiers may not belong to a legion anymore, but they had all been taught the same processes and it was no shock to Grim when he quickly realized their camp was laid out identical to a standard legion camp. Within minutes he had found his way to the center of it, where officer tents and a war table would have been constructed. In place of those things stood one incredibly large man. Ramsey the Black.

“Hello, and well met Grim.” The giant beamed.

Grim visibly shuddered with revulsion at Ramsey’s warm welcome and did not immediately respond. Instead, he threw his reins down and swiftly dismounted. The assassin looked spry, though, some stiffness in his torso betrayed the pain he was actually in.

“You look nice,” the assassin quipped, referring to Ramsey’s undersized Candor Legion armor.

Ramsey glanced down at the tight-fitting plates and chuckled. “Yes—turns out standard issues haven’t fit me very well since my days in the academy.” The ex-legion commander paused and offered the assassin a wise grin. “Actually, there were a few larger sets in Platlind…unfortunately some lunatic chopped it all to bits in a mad rage…”

Grim smirked at Ramsey’s humorous retort and then carelessly untied his gelding’s cinch, pulling the worn-out old saddle off its back and dropping it into a dusty pile on the ground. No sooner had the assassin completed this task, than he moved to remove the horse’s bridle as well.

Ramsey slowed him with a cautionary warning. “You sure you won’t have need for that horse again soon?”

Grim shrugged. “He won’t go far.”

The Obsidian Giant nodded. He didn’t know how true the assassin’s claim was, but then, the man did seem to have a way with beasts. Ramsey watched him now as he freed the gelding and slapped it endearingly on the rump. The horse ambled away, searching for somewhere quiet to graze.

More Exiled troops were beginning to gather in the central clearing surrounding Ramsey and the infamous assassin. They wore guarded expressions and whispered amongst each other. It was obvious they did not trust the mysterious man. Revenant sensed their distaste and offered a low, rumbling growl to temper their rising courage. The closest soldiers back away several steps. Grim scratched the hound’s cannonball sized snout affectionately.

“Why have you returned?” Ramsey asked plainly, cocking his head with curiosity.

Grim mulled the question over for a moment, at last offering another shrug. “Anna, probably.”

Ramsey nodded, accepting that answer for what it was and then gesturing to the assassin’s chest. “How’s the wound?”

Grim tensed up at the mention of the seemingly, unhealable searing gash, left by the warrior from the Ein. “Still feels like shit.”

The assassin glanced around the Exile’s camp and the swarm of gathering faces, before continuing. “I expected you to be miles further to the south. Yet here you all are, barely a half day’s ride outside of Platlind. Why the delay?”

Ramsey grinned. “It took us longer than expected to find Candorian armor for every one of our Exiles, and we stuck around Platlind to help quench the flames. The locals were very grateful.”

Grim smirked and replied scornfully. “Recruit any of them?”

“I think they’ve seen enough of violence for a time.” Ramsey answered in a somber tone, tempering the assassin’s cavalry attitude. “Besides,” the ex-legion commander continued. “It’s a good thing we stayed as long as we did, otherwise Rhoric Amir’s raven may not have found us so easily.”

That information caught Grim’s attention, and the assassin was suddenly very serious, his eyes narrowing inquisitively. “What raven?”

“Thought that might intrigue you.” Ramsey chuckled slyly. “It flew right down to our camp yesterday. Apparently, we weren’t too far from where the actual splinter force should have been. The message contained explicit orders for the remaining Candor forces in the area…”

“Which were…?” Grim asked irritably, tired of the former legionnaire’s puzzling words.

“We’re to head straight to Brumex, abandoning our current task of quelling the blossoming heresy in the Tips, and regroup with the rest of the Legion of Candor. The Steward suspects a full-blown rebellion to break out there, led by none other than Octavia Benidary.”

The Obsidian Giant paused, grabbing his listeners’ undivided attention. “She’s alive, assassin. We have written proof! Rhoric Amir himself admits it—the letter bears his stamp. And she’s sailing to Brumex as we speak!”

“Or it’s a trap,” Grim reasoned, ever the pragmatic thinker.

Ramsey shook his head doubtfully. “It’s a tempting excuse to run the other way, assassin, I’ll give you that. But we both know that’s not the case…”

Grim glared up at the man. “Who’s running? I came back to fight.”

Ramsey grinned wolfishly at the warrior. “Then you’ll come with us? All the way to Brumex and see this through?”

The assassin returned the grin, answering the challenge. “As long as your chafed asses can keep up in that armor.”

The Obsidian Giant sneered. “Not all of us have the luxury of stealing horses from helpless farmers…”

Grim shook his head and waved the man’s rebuttal away. “In all seriousness, the princess is an…explosive one. When she arrives, fighting is likely to follow soon after. We should make haste.”

Ramsey nodded his agreement and then clapped his hands, creating a thunderous retort, before placing them to his cheeks and shouting for the Exiles to break camp. “You heard the assassin, lads! There’s fighting to be done down south and we’re fixing to miss it all. If that isn’t encouragement enough, just know that the banks of the Einrill surrounding Brumex glow with midsummer heat, even this time of year. Most afternoons they’re crawling with scantily dressed lasses too, soaking in the last of those warm rays…”

A unanimous ‘hurrah’ went up from the gathered men and women of the Exiled Legion and they quickly dispersed, scrambling to break down their tents and ready their packs for a forced march. Still, the bustling crowd continued to give Grim and Revenant, sitting calmly at the assassin’s side, a wide berth.

Ramsey went to clap the assassin on the shoulder in a friendly manner, but Grim was too fast, dodging away from the larger man and shooting him a sour look. “Don’t push your luck, Commander,” the assassin warned.

Ramsey raised his hands in surrender then gestured toward Grim’s chest once more. “You really should let the medicus take a look at that.”

The assassin seemed ready to argue, but something inside of him silenced the retort. Instead, he nodded appreciatively. “I will.”

Ramsey’s eyebrows arched with surprise, but he didn’t press the matter. Still, he couldn’t resist a final jab at the assassin. “Try not to kick him around this time.”

Grim chuckled and shook his head, reaching down to swipe up his discarded saddle and bridle. “No promises.”

Before the assassin could depart to the medicus’ tent, Ramsey stopped him one last time. “I’m glad you’re here, Grim…I reckon Anna would be too…”

The assassin’s eyes seemed distant and unfocused, but he managed a slight nod in Ramsey’s direction, before turning and disappearing into the maze of tents. The huge warhound slunk after him, surprisingly light on its feet despite its great heft.

Ramsey watched him go and after he vanished from view completely, another figure seemed to fade into something substantial out of thin air. That figure was Crow and he stood right beside Ramsey, staring in the direction the assassin had gone as well.

The Obsidian Giant glanced down at the small, dangerous warrior and spoke quietly. “Follow him but keep your distance. I believe his reasons are genuine, but that doesn’t change the fact, he’s a deeply troubled and destructive individual. Best not to let him wander the camp unsupervised…”

Crow nodded his iron veiled head and quickly signed a response. He’ll never know I’m there.

“Good,” Ramsey replied with a nod of his own. “I’d hate to imagine how he’d react if he did…”

The slender, darkly clad, former crow needed not respond for Ramsey to understand he felt the same nervous, trepidation about the assassin. Still, allies were in short supply, and there was likely no one more invested in destroying Rhoric Amir’s plans then the Reaper himself…

Lord Andreas sat in the mess hall of the Estuary Ford, positioned in the high halls of the fortress, where the winds coming out of the east constantly whipped through the smooth stone portals used as look out points running the length of the massive tower, suspended above the Einrill far below. The legion commander straddled a long pine bench, which seated several more of his legionnaires, exchanging hardy laughs with the men under his command.

The room itself would have appeared glum, layered with thick stone blocks and dimly lit, but the unignorable sense of camaraderie between the Titans made the mess hall always seem alight with festivity. When they were off duty and not patrolling the surrounding lands to the east and west, the soldiers under Andreas’ command spent much of their time here, cracking open flasks of ale and sharing different martial techniques amongst each other. The commander himself spent nearly as much time here with his charges as they did. When he wasn’t sharing their table, he took to his own private study, where he pondered over old maps and history books.

The level of respect the Titans placed in Commander Buth was legendary, often told with notes of awe in every corner of the Kingdom of Harth. It was no ruse that they felt this way. The Titan Commander had earned every ounce of that respect well beyond the years he had already served. The man was a brilliant strategist and inspiring leader, but he was also a caring individual—personally keeping up with nearly every soldier under his banner.

Normally, with the ever-shifting hierarchy that made up the legions, this would be an impossible feat, but the Titans were subtly different than the other legions. Despite their frequent patrols and journeys to the front, they had suffered surprisingly few losses and of the five and a half thousand troops under Lord Andreas Buth’s command, only a handful had ever ridden their contract out and transferred to a different legion. Loyalty ran fierce throughout the Titan’s ranks, and it was generally seen as an honor to serve in the esteemed legion.

Still, Lord Andreas was no fool. He recognized that there would always be bad apples in every bushel and there would always be ambitious young challengers, hoping to take his place one day. It was because of those exact reasons that he made such an effort to walk amongst his legion and speak with them man to man. These methods weren’t unique to Andreas as far as legion commanders went, but he had certainly honed the skill the most.

Lord Andreas watched with a grin on his face as two of his senior officers, arm wrestled across the large pine table they were gathered around. Many others spectated the match up as well, munching on roast duck the kitchen aids had prepared. After, much huffing and puffing, one man eventually gave out and his knuckles fell flat to the table, bested by his opponent. Both legionnaires clapped hands heartily after the bout and complimented one another’s strength, while simultaneously throwing humorous jabs at the other.

This is how things ought to be, Andreas thought to himself, smiling warmly at his soldiers’ unjaded respect for one another. Every legion around the kingdom should operate with similar grace—if not the entire kingdom itself.

The former noble-turned-commander was shaken from his political thoughts. The heavy wooden door to the mess hall was thrown open, rousing the cooks at the bar and a few sleepy soldiers sitting at the edges of the large room. Through the door walked Sir Brady, Andreas’ loyal captain and protégé, accompanied by a handful of other legionnaires. They still wore their armor, including their intimidating, masked galea. It appeared they had just returned from patrol. Sir Brady carried a piece of folded parchment in one hand.

The newcomers approached Andreas and his officers, stopping a respectful distance from the Titan commander. Brady stepped forward, offering the parchment to Lord Buth.

“What’s this then?” Andreas asked, taking the parchment, and carefully unfolding it.

“Our new orders it seems…” Brady’s response was tinged with a hint of sarcasm, a subtle reminder of how little he respected the Lord Steward.

Andreas quickly read through the letter, his shifting facial expressions indicating his surprise. When he finished, he quietly handed the parchment to the officer to his left, allowing the man to read through the scribbled message as well. A sign of trust not lost on his veteran legionnaires.

“So,” Lord Andreas began, raising his voice so that all of his present Titans could hear his words. “The Steward would send the might of our legion south, in a preemptive attempt to deny Princess Octavia the city of Brumex…”

Sir Brady nodded, then removed his galea, placing it on the table nearest him. “Yes. And it seems we’re not the only ones. Our far sentries reported all of the Candorian forces in the area, broke camp this morning and are also heading south.”

“That’s quite a lot of soldiers to handle one teenaged girl…” Andreas sneered.

“Brumex already has a legion handling matters.” One Titan chimed in. “What of the Lions?”

Lord Andreas shrugged. “By all accounts, they’ve failed to contain the growing threat of the Benidary Purists. Though, I’m sure that’s not for a lack of effort on the Lion’s part. Commander Elberon is a very fierce warrior and leader, but I suspect he’s missing the…diplomacy…required for such tasks.”

“And Rhoric Amir’s solution is to throw ten thousand more legionnaires at the city of Brumex?” The Titan scoffed and shook his head. “The man is a fool…”

Lord Andreas shook his own head in response. “No—no, the Steward is many things, but he is no fool. I imagine he’s merely scared. The slaughtering of the priests undermined him greatly—not to mention the murders associated with the eldest families…He’s lost quite a bit of support from the nobles and even his Church of Thondel wavers.”

If he can’t win them over with his charm and he can no longer indoctrinate their minds through his priest…” Andreas paused, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “Then he must control them with fear. This is simply a show of power to him. He plans to crush Octavia’s rebellion with an overwhelming display of force, and in doing so weed out any doubt that he is fit to lead the Kingdom of Harth.”

Quiet filled the room for many moments as the Titans pondered Lord Andreas’ confident words. Eventually, Sir Brady spoke up. “And how will we answer his call to arms? Deny their relevance to our post and the importance of our charge, same as last time?”

Lord Andreas quietly shook his head, unfocused eyes lost in the shadows of the room. “No, we can’t disobey a direct order like this, but…” The Titan Commander paused, glancing over and making eye contact with the soldier currently holding the parchment and declaration of war. “When did the letter say Octavia was likely to make landfall?”

“A week from the day.”

Andreas nodded. “Good. Then we will answer our Steward’s call to arms and begin our march south—though…I imagine we’ll run into all kinds of delays along the way…”

Sir Brady grinned. “Eh, the road to Brumex is a long and winding one indeed. If we’re not careful, we may miss the fighting entirely.”

Lord Andreas continued to nod. He was quite proud his young captain caught on so quickly. “If there’s any fighting…that could give Octavia a chance…”

“And if she miraculously wins the day and takes the city proper?”

The Titan Commander shrugged. “We would be no worse off. The Steward is a dishonest and vile man, but he unfortunately holds the key to our freedom. Still, it couldn’t hurt to let the princess’s rebellion soften him up a little.

“Besides,” Andreas continued. “There’s no guarantee that Princess Octavia can’t offer us the same incentive as Rhoric Amir.”

“Is that all we are now?” A second legionnaire spoke up unexpectedly. “Mercenaries—loyal to the highest bidder, Commander?”

Lord Andreas turned to regard the man carefully. His name was Bellamy, a small, stout fellow who frequently questioned orders, but despite all that had always been fiercely loyal.

“Not at all.” Andreas reassured the man. “We all took oaths, myself included. But we would be sorry protectors indeed if we did not question the morals of the people leading us. Our duty is to defend the Kingdom of Harth and her people. Not charlatans and bureaucrats.”

Bellamy nodded his blocky head, appearing to be satisfied with Andreas’ answer. But the Titan Commander continued anyway, though now he seemed to be addressing the entire room.

“Long have Harth’s Legions been the backbone of this kingdom. Good men and women who have given their lives to serve faithfully and with dignity. These are the people I would see lead us…Not bishops, viscounts, or stewards—nor kings, queens, and emperors. Men and women like you and I. Honest and hardworking. I believe that is what this kingdom has gone without for too long. It pains me to admit, but I have watched our once mighty Harth grow frail and soft.”

All in the mess hall had gathered near to Lord Andreas’ table, but now they pushed even closer, nodding their heads and whispering their agreement with his words.

“There was once a time when savage islanders would not have dared raid our northern shores, but now they do so with impudence. Pirates lurk in our waters, preying on honest folk—looting and pillaging their homes and trade vessels. To the south, more and more imperial troops gather every year—how long before they storm The Ten Thousand Steps and expand their empire into Harthian territory? Even within the borders of our kingdom, fresh tales of monsters stalking the woods and the less ventured paths of Harth trickle in daily. Our people feel unsafe in their own homes!”

The crescendo in the room grew and many soldiers were barely containing enthusiastic shouts.

“We’ve allowed corruption to spoil Harth’s leadership. Noble houses who have no business ruling, are dictating the future of the common people, men and women you know and love, simply because they have the coin to do so. The religion of Thondel has been inserted into matters that should be handled with military assets, not pampered priests! Even the legions are unsafe. Weakness and selfishness have taken hold in many of our fellow brothers and sisters…Leading to the destruction of not one, not two, but four legions in the past three years.”

The mess hall was ready to burst with anticipation. Every legionnaire present was nodding their heads and pumping a fist, clinging to each syllable Lord Andreas uttered.

“Trust in me brothers and sisters. I have yet to lead you astray or down a path I would not venture myself. Of course, we are more than common mercenaries. We’re Harth’s Silver Titans—the defenders of the kingdom and all her people. We are the only ones capable of saving this decaying land. Follow me as you always have. GLORY AWAITS!”

The Titans erupted with unbridled fervor. Cheers of elation and eagerness were shouted. Many of them clapped Andreas on the back and once more swore their undying loyalty to him. They seemed invigorated; their determination renewed.

“Now prepare to march!” The Titan Commander shouted over the uproar.

At his side, Sir Brady chuckled and shook his head in disbelief. Lord Andreas eyed him with a questioning gaze.

The Titan Captain shrugged. “I’ll never understand how you do it.”

“What’s that?” Andreas asked with a grin.

“Give us all such hope. You could make a dead man feel life again.”

Lord Andreas laughed at Brady’s jest and slowly stood up, clapping the youth’s shoulder affectionately. “What other news do you bring? Surely, there’s more excitement to report?”

The captain answered with nonchalance. “Only that the esteemed Lord Steward has just sent his daughters on holiday to Macron Polis.”

Andreas stroked his bare chin thoughtfully. “The villa to the northwest? An odd retreat to take at the end of autumn. Perhaps, they plan to weather the winter there…What of their ridiculous escort?”

Sir Brady chuckled. “The two thousand Thondel legionnaires following them about? Yes, they’re still there.”

Lord Andreas shared a laugh with his captain and shook his head. “The man must have one diminutive cock to compensate for the way in which he wields his military might. Still, I trust you’ll keep a keen eye on Macron Polis while I’m away…”

Sir Brady looked up, confused. “I won’t be coming with you?”

Andreas shook his head apologetically then gestured to the rest of the room abuzz with celebration and soldiers readying to depart. “I’m sorry, Brady, but look at this bunch. They’re fine warriors all of them and excellent at following orders—but not many of them have the brains between their ears like you do. It’s not strength of arm that makes good leaders, after all…” The commander paused, tapping his index finger to his head. “It’s the strength of one’s mind. Unfortunately, I need yours here.”

The captain seemed crestfallen to be left out of the action once more, but Andreas’ words were indeed true, and Brady was no fool. He understood the importance of him staying behind to hold the Ford. The disciplined young man nodded and saluted his commander respectfully, placing one clenched fist over his chest.

Lord Andreas smiled and saluted his captain in return. “Good man, Brady. Perhaps, when I return you and I can discuss the Titans’ next move on this ever-shifting game board.”

Sir Brady reciprocated the smile with a wide grin of his own. “I’d like that very much, Commander.”

36

LANDFALL

Standing near The Shroud’s bowsprit, Olaf rocked suddenly. The movement wasn’t enough to make him lose his footing, as his sea legs had grown quite seasoned over the past several weeks, but it was subtle enough that he instinctually glanced around, afraid the low-slung galleon had hit something. Despite his best efforts, he saw nothing but open water, and the crew of pirates—what few were left—showed no signs of panic.

Curious about the obvious shift in the ship’s momentum, Olaf began to make his way across the deck. The young noble immediately noticed that several of The Shroud’s sails had been halved, stealing much of the vessel’s wave splitting speed and leaving her to coast at a much more merchant pace…

Olaf noticed several familiar faces gathered on the stern deck around the helm, including Octavia’s attractive profile. The young man quickened his pace and bound up the stairs to the helm, casually leaning against the railing nearest the princess and inserting himself into the ongoing discussion at hand. “We’ve slowed considerably…”

Ever at the wheel of the galleon, Captain McCrank let out one of his mocking cackles throwing his head back for additional flair. “Another astute observation by the hero!”

Hero was something Gregory McCrank, and by extension his entire crew as well as Suileabhain on occasion, had taken to calling Olaf since his heroic—if not foolish—acts during their battle with the Scorpions. Normally, the young man would have been enthusiastic about such a distinguished nickname—only, he knew the pirates and the mercenary used it scornfully. It was little more than a taunt, designed to frustrate him.

Still, Olaf had yet to give them the satisfaction of becoming outwardly annoyed by it and owned his nearly suicidal mistake with humble humility. That kind of growth was not lost on any member of their company, especially Octavia.

“Just add ‘astute observations’ into my storied repertoire of giftedness and skills.” The words flowed from Olaf’s mouth without hesitation, once more proving his wittiness, despite some differing opinions on the subject of his intelligence.

McCrank grinned all the wider and shook his head, in turn causing the wide brim of his hat to jitter in the wind. “Yes—no doubt, the bard’s will be singing songs of your repertoire before the year is up…”

Octavia rolled her eyes at the two’s constant degrading banter and turned her gaze on Olaf, answering his earlier statement, “It seems we were making too good of time. The pace we were traveling would have had us at the mouth of the Einrill, and the city of Brumex by midday.”

Olaf raised his eyebrows with concerned surprise. “I can see why that might not be ideal…”

Octavia quietly nodded. “Captain McCrank has clipped The Shroud’s wings so to speak. Now, with any luck, we’ll slip in just after nightfall.”

McCrank was already nodding his confirmation before the girl ever finished speaking. “We’ll arrive after nightfall that much is certain. The tricky part will be making it close enough to the city without being detected…”

“Surely, that won’t be a problem for a seaman as experienced as yourself, Gregory?” Cometessa’s words were sickly sweet, and it was difficult to tell if the Oracle’s tone was tinged with sarcasm, or if she was merely naïve to the challenges of bringing a vessel the size of The Shroud into shallow water in the pitch black of night.

Captain McCrank answered the Oracle’s words with an air of confidence, regardless. “No lights to guide our way other than the glimmer of the city? Carefully avoiding fishing boats and other smaller vessels? Controlling our wake to avoid alerting the sea guards?” He glanced at his First Mate Yolanda, perched agilely on the ship’s gunwale. “What do you think, Yol—smooth sailing?”

Yolanda shrugged, a foxlike smile on her lips. “Sounds like business as usual to me, Captain.”

McCrank flipped his hat in salute to the woman’s assessment, then turned and winked at Princess Octavia. The girl grinned. “You’ve safely taken us this far, Captain McCrank. I see no reason to doubt you now.”

The pirate captain dipped his head appreciatively and with all seriousness, to the admirable young woman. “Thank you, Princess.”

Olaf shrugged, seemingly satisfied with the pirate’s confidence. “And where abouts will we hide the ship? It won’t be nighttime forever…”

McCrank nodded his agreement. “You finally bring up a fair point, hero. If my memory serves me right, there’s several large sea stacks protruding from the surf, less than a mile offshore and to the south of the city. We should be able to anchor down there for the night and into the early hours of the morning. Fog covering will protect us from curious eyes aboard other vessels until the sun is fully risen.”

The pirate captain paused, turning to address Octavia specifically. “You best figure out what you’re doing by then, Princess. I’m afraid your element of surprise won’t last long if the bishop discovers the same galleon responsible for the Massacre of Sawn is lurking in the waters just outside his city.”

Octavia shook her head. “I doubt ‘surprise’ is still an advantage I can rely on. Word will have reached the capital by now of our fight with the Scorpions in the Suthian Gap. It doesn’t take a brilliant strategist to guess where we were going from there. I imagine Bishop Tarvidios has been warned by now…”

“Our only advantage is speed.” Octavia continued. “Even if they’ve figured Brumex for our destination, no Harthian ship could have made the journey in so few days. They won’t expect us in the city already. If Eriana has done her job, then her Wolves should have fully infiltrated Brumex by now and we need only find her and announce our intentions.”

“This commander you speak of,” Cometessa questioned suddenly, “when did you last speak with her?”

Octavia shrugged, glancing between Olaf and McCrank. “Seven, maybe eight weeks ago. Why?”

Cometessa’s eyes narrowed. “Then you have no idea if she’s even alive, much less remains loyal to your cause…You gamble much on the success of these Wolves, Princess Octavia…”

“What other choice does she have?” Olaf interrupted angrily, not giving Octavia the chance to answer the Oracle’s doubt herself. “We’re short of allies. Eriana and her legion are the best of the best. They’ll fulfil their duties.”

“And if they don’t?” Cometessa asked knowingly.

“If they don’t, then we’ll find another way.” Octavia interjected calmly, though her green gaze burned intensely.

The Oracle nodded and stepped away, unwilling to openly clash with the fiery young woman once more.

Sensing the tension in the air, Captain McCrank quickly spoke up. “And who will go ashore when we anchor The Shroud?”

Octavia held the Oracle in her gaze a moment longer before turning and acknowledging McCrank’s question. “Obviously, I’ll be on the rowboat. How many more can the skiff take?”

The pirate captain shrugged. “Half a dozen?”

Octavia nodded. “Then it will be Captain McCrank, Yolanda, Olaf, Cometessa, Ansel and myself.”

Olaf seemed happy with the princess’ pick, but the captain was already shaking his head. “I’m not sure if the big lad should go…” The pirate quietly admitted. “Our mission will require discreetness, I’m not sure the boy possesses…Besides, he’s no help in a fight and sticks out like a sore thumb.”

Ansel, who had remained characteristically quiet at the edge of the crowd up until this point, released a long groan of disapproval, fixing Gregory McCrank with his disappointed gaze.

The pirate captain chuckled. “I mean no offence, skinny. But it’s for the best.” He turned and pleaded with Octavia. “Let him stay here. He’s much more useful on the ship. My crew could use his strength and the extra pair of hands.”

Octavia considered the pirate’s words for a moment and nodded her agreement at last. She turned and looked at the gangly boy. “The captain has a point, Ansel. You’ll be a lot more helpful here, and besides—you’ll also be safer on The Shroud.”

Ansel mumbled his dissatisfaction and gestured to Octavia with a gnarled hand.

Octavia grinned. “Don’t worry. I’ll be safe in the city. Olaf and Captain McCrank won’t let anything happen to me. Eriana has made it a safe place anyway.”

The tall boy thought about that for a moment, then nodded. He wasn’t thrilled with the decision to be left behind, but he seemed to accept Octavia’s choice based on the fact she would not likely be in any danger.

Olaf shifted away from the railing near Octavia and made his way around the circle to place a hand on Ansel’s shoulder. “I’ll look out for her. Don’t you worry, buddy.”

Captain McCrank sighed and exchanged looks with Yolanda, quietly whispering, “I’m sure that’s what he’s afraid of.” The archer snickered, her strong shoulders bouncing cheerfully, but she said no more on the matter.

“Then who will be the sixth member of our company…?” Cometessa asked the question calmly, but assertively, trying her best to keep the distracted group on task. They looked amongst each other, each searching for the answer in the others’ eyes.

Just then, the hatch to the galleon’s lower deck flipped open and Suileabhain’s lanky form slunk through the portal. He was quite animated and cursing at someone out of their line of sight. Probably one of McCrank’s ‘fucking pirates’ by the sounds of it. The mad mercenary shook his head arrogantly and did his best to distance himself from the entire unpleasant exchange.

Absently, Suileabhain glanced up to the helm, where several faces were smugly staring down at his own marred visage. They were all people he hated. No surprise there.

“What the hell do you lot want” The mercenary demanded. “You never seen a civilized man lose his temper before? It happens to the best of us—even me!”

Up at the helm, McCrank chuckled and motioned to the disgruntled man. “There he is—lucky number six.”

Octavia shrugged and turned away, eager to get some rest before their nighttime exploits. “He’ll do.”

Cometessa also turned away, paying no heed to the ongoing bickering of the group by the helm and hardly convinced a sixth member of their party would make a difference anyway. Ansel followed the woman away. Only Olaf and the pirates remained.

Olaf was staring wide-eyed at the maniacal mercenary. “You sure there’s no one else we can bring? What about your cook?”

Captain McCrank smirked. “Be nice to your father’s crazy mercenary, Olaf.” He laughed loudly, carefully steering The Shroud in the direction he knew Brumex to be. “Besides, the cook is too valuable to send on such a risky endeavor.”

Olaf started to chuckle, but quickly caught himself and glanced at the pirate captain with wide, questioning eyes. “Risky?”

Gregory McCrank only cackled all the louder. “Go get some sleep, boy. I’m sure we’ll be needing your heroics again shortly.”

Olaf nodded dumbly, still processing all of Captain McCrank’s words and perhaps for the first time, truly considering how dangerous what they were about to do was. Sleep sounded nice though, and he decided to take the pirate up on his suggestion, moving below deck for a brief afternoon nap.

Just as Captain McCrank had predicted, the city of Brumex came into view with the last waning rays of sunshine, moments before the fiery orb dipped below the sealine for good. It was an impressive fortress city to be sure—nothing as grand as Everharth, but breath taking, nonetheless. From the angle of their approach, they could see all three major segments of the Southern Jewel. There was the westernmost town of Brume, as well as its sister settlement on the Einrill’s eastern bank. But the most eye catching of all was the city proper positioned directly in the center of the mouth of the Ein and rising defiantly out of the rapids to tower above each of the bridges connecting Eastharth and Westharth.

“There she is.” Captain McCrank murmured quietly. Only Octavia and Olaf were close enough to hear him.

“Whoa…” Olaf was taken aback by the exotic beauty of the city. Though he could barely make out many of its defining details across the waves in the gathering darkness, there was a certain elegant, allure that drew him in. The mysterious unknown shrouding the city seemed to call to him—perhaps it was the bustling markets within. Brumex was home to the most wildly varied bazaars in all of Harth. Or maybe it was the huge coliseum he knew to be housed in the city proper, where gladiators made names for themselves that transcendent the deterioration of time. Perhaps, it was something much simpler than that—maybe he was just longing for home and the soaring stone walls before him reminded Olaf of simpler times.

He shook the nostalgic thoughts away, as well as some of the cold that had crept in with the onslaught of night and turned to Octavia. “Have you ever seen it before?”

Octavia looked up at the boy and nodded. “A long time again. I admit, I barely remember that visit. I was very young. My father was here for one of the great gladiator games.”

Olaf arched an eyebrow, detecting something odd by the manner in which she had referred to her father. “Just your father…? Where was the queen?”

Octavia shrugged. “My mother did not care much for gladiator fights. Father used to say she had never gone to them—even before I was born, she avoided such things. If my memory serves me right, she stayed behind in the capital and handled more delicate affairs.”

“But not you?” Olaf asked, a grin on his freckled face.

Octavia returned the smirk. “No—not me. For as long as I can remember I’ve been fascinated with sword fighting. I used to love watching the gladiators battle. Of course, Sir Avatori would always know when the end was near and covered my eyes just before I could see any real bloodshed…”

Quiet as a mouse, Yolanda had crept up in the dark and unexpectedly remarked on Octavia’s story. “Well, where’s the fun in that? Don’t fret princess. This time when the killing starts, there will be no one there to cover your eyes.”

Olaf looked away uncomfortably and clumsily scratched the back of his neck. Octavia took the pirate woman’s strange comment much more in stride, but still was unsure how to respond. “Thanks…?”

Yolanda grinned, then pulled a very small, but sturdy dagger from her belt. She handed the weapon to the princess. “Hang onto this for me, would ya…?”

Octavia stuttered, “Uh—I’m not sure I’ll need this…”

Yolanda placed a finger on the girl’s lips, silencing her. “I know you have your powers, Princess. But sometimes there’s nothing better than good old fashion steel…”

Octavia stared blankly at the dagger for a moment, then looked up into Yolanda’s attractive face and nodded her understanding. She quickly stashed the short blade inside her shirt.

Yolanda winked and offered a nod to the girl before moving to Gregory McCrank’s side. “We’re close, Captain. I saw the rocks you mentioned. For now, they seem to be free of any smaller vessels.”

McCrank nodded, running a few calloused fingers through his scraggly beard. “Very well. Guide me in.”

Olaf and Octavia watched with admiration as the pirate crew skillfully maneuvered The Shroud through the shadowy waters outside of Brumex. With their lanterns doused there was almost no light to guide them other than the star canopy overhead. Still, the black galleon knifed across the water with hardly a sound, leaving almost no waves in its wake. Seemingly undetected, they made it to the huge, jagged rocks thrusting out of the sea and carefully anchored The Shroud just out of eyesight of the city to the north.

By the time the galleon was safely tucked away, and the skiff intended to ferry them over to Brumex’s harbor was lowered into the water, Captain McCrank estimated they had about ten hours before the sun started to rise once more.

“Could be an hour to the dock and an hour back depending on the tide,” McCrank warned. “We’d best get moving, Princess.”

Octavia nodded her understanding and turned, swiftly hugging Ansel around the shoulders, as the tall boy stooped, embracing her in return. “Be careful Ansel and trust your instincts. If something doesn’t feel right, don’t be afraid to run.”

The twisted youth murmured in the affirmative and offered what he believed to be a very official looking salute. The effort made Octavia laugh and she embraced the boy once more, before releasing him and climbing down into the rowboat. The others followed suit, until Suileabhain—who was the last in—carefully released the ropes securing the skiff to the larger vessel and pushed them away into the surf.

Nearly an hour later, the small rowboat glided into Brumex’s open harbor, sliding between larger boats to avoid detection. When at last the skiff bumped into the stone dock, and McCrank and Olaf were able to place their oars down, Suileabhain scampered out onto dry ground cursing the sea in every tongue he could speak.

Captain McCrank’s predictions had once again been true, and the choppy waters had fought them every inch of their short journey. Like Suileabhain, Octavia was more than a little excited to be off the tiny boat and onto solid ground. Even Cometessa, who was always stalwart, if not completely unphased, in the face of discomfort, looked relieved to be clambering off the rowboat. Only Yolanda, Captain McCrank, and surprisingly Olaf seemed unbothered by their harrowing ride.

After several minutes their well-trained company was able to haul the rowboat out of the water completely and disguise it underneath a pile of fishing nets and wet lines from a nearby ship. With any luck, they would be back before the crew of the fishing vessel—who had obviously been out on the waters late—returned for the day.

Wiping his hands clean on the legs of his pants, McCrank quickly looked to Octavia. “The skiff should be safe here for the night, Princess. What’s our next move?”

Octavia looked a little overwhelmed by the question but did her best to answer calmly. “To be honest, I’m not quite sure. We never discussed with Eriana how we would find her once we made it into the city. I didn’t picture us being so pressed for time…”

“If the Wolf bitch is even here…” Suileabhain muttered scornfully.

“She’s here,” Cometessa confirmed, glancing around at nothing in particular, her eyes roaming the night. “I can feel a heavy presence over the city…”

“The Wolves have a heavy presence…?” Olaf asked quietly. “That’s good, right?”

The Oracle issued no response, but her eyes continued to sweep the area around them.

“No…?” the boy pressed after many moments without a response. “Good chat then…” Olaf rolled his eyes and shifted his focus back to Octavia.

The princess had also been watching the Oracle, trying to follow her flittering gaze. “If Eriana is here then she’ll have scouts all over the city. Let’s just get out of the harbor and into Brumex proper. I believe she’ll come to us…”

“Or the bishop will…” Yolanda warned.

Octavia shook her head. “He won’t expect us yet. Besides, he has no idea what any of us look like. We’ll be hidden in plain sight.”

McCrank nodded, then glanced up toward the outlier town of Brume. “Let’s start there. We should be as discreet as possible leaving the docks—rather not be questioned by any guards. Once we’re in the city, however, it would be best to mix with the crowd and give Eriana’s Wolves a chance to find us.”

The others nodded and began to make their way from the water. Captain McCrank suddenly stopped Octavia and pulled her hood up. She glanced up at him questioningly and he pointed to the streak of white in her hair. “Might be wise for you to keep yours on, Princess. You’re a bit more…distinguished than the rest of us…” The pirate paused and then offered a mischievous wink. “Other than myself, of course.”

Octavia nodded, quickly understanding the pirate’s meaning. She then turned and led them off the docks and out of the harbor. So far, they had been fortunate and with the exception of a few distant sentries, no guards had even come near them. They had almost made it to one of the steep, cobbled stairways leading up into the town of Brume when the princess abruptly stopped. Olaf ran into her back and barely managed to stay on his feet.

“Hey,” Olaf grumbled. “What’s the problem…” His voice quickly trailed off as he saw what Octavia was staring at.

Several steps up, a lone figure—presumably a guard—was casually blocking their path. He glared down at them accusingly. The man offered no greeting.

Gregory McCrank laughed invitingly and quickly stepped forward, placing himself between Octavia and the guard. He swept off his hat and went about introducing himself. “Ah, didn’t see you there, good sir! A thousand apologies and well met. My crew and I only just returned from angling all day—the fish were really jumping, and I believe we may have gotten carried away, lost track of time and such…”

The guard held up a hand silencing him and then motioned with his other. Suddenly, seven more similarly dressed men and women revealed themselves from unsuspecting hiding spots all along the dock. They quickly closed in around McCrank’s company, blocking any chance of escape.

The pirate captain raised his hands in surrender and glanced around perplexed. The others slowly followed suit.

“What kind of guards are you guys…?” Olaf muttered suspiciously.

The man blocking their path took a couple of steps upward and gestured for them to follow. “You lot are coming with us—stay close.” His voice was muffled by a mask, yet somehow sounded familiar.

Octavia bulked. “We’re not going anywhere. We don’t know who you are. Tell me where you intend to take us!”

A long uncomfortable silence followed, in which everyone stood completely still, quietly gauging one another. Just as the pause became unbearable, Suileabhain reached out and with deft hands he pulled up one of the guard’s cloaks, revealing their sword hilt underneath. The head of a raging lion could be made out embossed into the crossguard.

“Thondel be damned!” The mercenary snarled, leaping back, and drawing his own blade. “They’re the bishop’s men—we’ve been had!”

McCrank pulled the quarterstaff off his back and readied it before him. Olaf followed suit, drawing Poe’s old sword, and leveling it at the closest legionnaire. Yolanda retreated into the middle of their company, nocking an arrow, and training it on the man up the stairs. Cometessa and Octavia appeared to do nothing, but within each of them energy was building. The legionnaires all drew their swords and stepped forward, ready to fight.

“Enough!”

All eyes looked upwards, including the eyes of the man on the stairs who’s were concealed by his hood. Another figure had appeared, stepping out of some shrubbery further up the path. He was strongly built, but still quite lithe. Like the others, his face was hidden under his cloak. A few light steps carried him down to the first man’s perch where he paused, looking over the bedraggled crew before him. Every one of them was prepared to strike. Another moment quietly passed, and the newcomer suddenly pulled his hood back, revealing a familiar, smiling face underneath.

37

THE GLORIOUS DEAD

“Etticus!” Olaf blurted the name happily and with blatant relief.

“Hello, Olaf.” The smiling legion commander replied cheerfully. His gaze continued to sweep across them. “Well met as well, Captain McCrank and…Forgive me, m’lady I don’t recall your name…?”

“Yolanda,” the attractive archer answered, gently relieving the tension in her bowstring. “But you can call me whatever you’d like, handsome.”

Etticus hardly broke stride despite the flirtatious woman’s comment. “Of course! The gorgeous markswoman from Chala where first we met. Well met again.” Moving on from Yolanda, the former Eagle thrust his chin forward welcomingly. “And Suileabhain you mad dog! It’s encouraging to see you out of your shackles, though I’m not sure what kind of illness my friends must suffer to have freed you…”

“Ah,” the mercenary sighed, dipping into a mock bow. “Former Commander Etticus. I wonder if you still talk prettier than you fight?”

Etticus offered a provoking grin, but nothing more. Instead, choosing to move on down the line. “If I’m not mistaken…” He hunched over a bit to glance under Octavia’s hood. “Judging by height and build—though you’ve grown quite a bit in the short time you’ve been away—I’d say this is none other than Princess Octavia.”

The girl removed her hood, a warm smile on her lips. “It’s good to see you again, Commander Etticus.”

Etticus nodded kindly then turned his gaze on Cometessa. “And this must be your mentor?”

The Oracle offered no reply, instead, staring deep into Etticus’ eyes seemingly in search of something there.

Octavia answered for the distracted woman. “She is indeed. Her name is Cometessa—though, I’m not sure its use will secure you any additional responses…”

“Indeed…” Etticus eyed the curious woman in her borrowed, oversized pirate clothes for only a moment longer before breaking free of her gaze and looking to the man beside him on the step. Casually, Etticus reached up and removed the man’s cowl. “What’s the matter with you, Captain? Are you trying to incite an accidental slaughter?”

Captain Orion flippantly shook out his hair and reached up with his own hand, ruffling his scalp until every strand sat perfectly as intended. He then narrowed his eyes, raking his gaze over the group of newcomers. “Well, you can never be too certain, Etticus. I wanted to make sure they’re all who they appear to be…”

The Wolf Captain’s eyes rested on Olaf while making the skeptical remark. That fact was not lost on the young man, who had yet to sheath his blade and gripped the hilt more firmly in response to what sounded like a barely veiled threat.

“Still,” Orion continued, his gaze lifted from Olaf and flitted about the rooftops overhead. “There appears to be at least one member of your company missing…The assassin. Where is he? I imagine he’s slinking around the shadows, miraculously having gone unnoticed by my warriors…”

Octavia slowly lowered her gaze and an air of glumness settled over her. She quietly shook her head.

Orion watched her curiously and then turned to face Olaf. The boy had all but mimicked the girl’s response. His head was similarly hung, and his eyes searched the ground restlessly. Etticus and Orion exchanged surprised looks.

Captain McCrank quietly stepped forward and shook his head somberly. He chose his next words carefully so as not to upset the younger members of their party any further. “He’s gone. Best not to dwell on it right now…we’ll reveal all when Eriana is present…”

Etticus nodded respectfully and gestured back up the path he had descended. “Very well then. We’ll take you to her at once.” He paused and glanced back down to meet Octavia’s gaze. “Are you ready to see your new capital city, Your Highness?”

Octavia did her best to shake off the residual sorrow dredged up by the memory of Grim and answered evenly. “I’ve seen the city of Brumex before, Commander.”

“Not like this you haven’t.”

Etticus grinned and led the way up the path, whilst Orion invited them to follow closely behind the Eagle Commander. The fencer waited until all had passed, including the other Wolves, to take up his position at the rear of the company. Despite McCrank’s claim, Orion continued to scan the shadows around them unable to shake the feeling that Grim was out there in the darkness…

Etticus’ bold statement proved to be true, and Octavia spent much of their journey—which took them deep into the bowels of the city—gawking at the oddities that filled the streets. Even at this hour, the roads were busy with locals wandering between taverns and merchants peddling their goods. Exotic animals from all over the world were caged along the streets and performers were around every bend, demonstrating their unique talents to the best of their abilities.

There were men swallowing flaming knives and women who could bend their bodies in ways that didn’t seem possible! Bards and minstrels played sweet music all through the night and sanctioned fights were being held in the middle of courtyards that would have been bustling with wagons during the day.

Octavia was surprised by the lack of guards or legionnaires. This part of the city seemed almost completely unsupervised and yet it appeared to be thriving! Etticus did his best to explain how the Purists had all but taken the town of Brume, rendering the Lions’ presence obsolete here, though she could hardly hear him over the laughter and shouts of the crowd.

Etticus led them into an unsuspecting alleyway and the chaos of the streets came to an abrupt end. The sounds of celebration could still be heard, but they were muffled, and the many-colored lights of the main streets were blotted from view. The narrow path they now stood in was dimly lit by nothing but the stars and moon overhead and the only other souls present besides their own were drunkards who had fallen asleep, slumped against brick-and-mortar hours before.

The Eagle Commander continued to lead them confidently and dropped down into what appeared to be a cellar of some sort. Octavia and the others followed suit, only Orion stayed behind for a moment, instructing his fist of Wolves to return to their posts. The captain then dropped down after them, closing the cellar hatch behind him.

Etticus removed a torch from a sconce on the wall and ducked behind a pile of unremarkable barrels. On the other side there was a passage, and the passage led to a tunnel. After dodging in and out of tunnels—most of which were progressively getting larger and larger, until nearly all eight of them could walk side by side—they at last came to what appeared to be some kind of huge chamber. Years ago, it might have been used as a great cistern. Now it was much more akin to an underground courtyard.

The clearing was well lit, with dozens of candles lining the perimeter as well as dim starlight filtering in from somewhere far above. Near every candle was a bed of some sort, many of which were filled with sleepy-looking legionnaires. At the center of the cistern were several smaller tables that had been combined into one large war table. Maps, letters, and parchments of every ilk littered the uneven surface.

Poring over those parchments, surrounded by several of her closest advisors, was Eriana Courtright, Commander of the Legion of the Wolf. She was dressed up to her slender neck in full armor—not legion armor, but a flexible, high-quality metal of some other sort. On the table next to her was a badly damaged kite shield and her short sword. The quick-release chain, unique to the Wolf Commander, was coiled snuggly around her forearm.

The woman was every bit as tall and attractive—if not terrifying—as Octavia remembered. Her bright red hair, hung in thick locks around her shoulders and freckles splotched her strong features, as well as more than a few scars. A smile danced across her lips, but the surprise in her blue eyes was impossible to conceal.

“Princess Octavia?!” The Wolf Commander greeted, stepping out from behind her war table and approaching the small company. “It’s wonderful to see you, but how can this be? We didn’t expect you for days!”

“But you did expect me?” Octavia’s question sounded rhetorical, but the curiosity in her eyes revealed it was not.

Eriana nodded, still taking in all the newcomers. “Yes. We intercepted some of the first messages detailing your voyage through the Suthian Gap, but since then word has spread like wildfire through much of the kingdom…I fear it’s no secret at all that you’re alive and sailing east.”

“Hence, the celebration on the streets.” Etticus chimed in from where he had taken a seat at the edge of the cistern, breaking away from their company.

“Sounds like a good thing.” Olaf said with a shrug. “Maybe we can use this to our advantage?”

The boy’s logic was sound, but the others, namely McCrank, seemed to understand the true folly of this information. The pirate captain calmly spoke up. “If it’s common knowledge that Octavia’s alive, then the Steward will be out ahead of it by now…”

Eriana glanced at the Captain of The Shroud. The cunning woman looked more than a little impressed. “You’re not nearly as dull as I took you for, pirate.”

Captain McCrank swept a sarcastic bow, allowing Eriana’s double-sided compliment to slide off his shoulders harmlessly.

“You would be correct.” Eriana continued, her tone taking on a much more serious note. “His priests—the few that have survived—hold services in which Octavia’s claim to the throne is assassinated in all the most abominable ways. He’s trying to convince the common people that she is illegitimate—an impostor, reaching out for what is not hers.”

“Well, what about the nobles?” Octavia demanded, irritation creeping into her voice, triggered by the unwelcome news. “Surely, they do not believe his propaganda so easily?”

“I’m sure they do not.” Eriana confirmed taking a step back and propping herself against the war table. “Unfortunately, what they believe hardly matters. They’re scared. Or they’ve been bribed by Rhoric Amir’s deep coffers. Either way, they don’t yet believe that you could pose a legitimate threat to the Steward’s reign. Until you can prove you’re a serious challenger, then they won’t even consider the legitimacy of your claim.”

“And would taking Brumex prove to them just how serious I am?” The princess’ words were heated, and Olaf was inclined to place a calming hand on her shoulder. She hardly seemed to notice.

Eriana digested Octavia’s question for a moment and allowed the younger woman to simmer a bit before replying. “That will be easier said than done, Your Highness…”

“We knew as much when we set out to do it!” Octavia stated incredulously. “Assuming you and your Wolves have accomplished what you were tasked with, I’d say we have a pretty good chance of success.”

“My Wolves have gone above and beyond,” Eriana stated, her tone leaving no room for debate on the matter. “But variables have changed, Your Highness. Defeating the Lions and the city garrison alone would have been a difficult task. Just last night my scouts received word that a second and third legion are marching on Brumex! Rhoric Amir intends to crush this rebellion before it can even begin…”

Octavia looked taken aback, as did McCrank, Suileabhain and Olaf.

“Who?” the princess asked simply.

“Candor and the Titans,” Eriana replied somberly. “The Legion of Candor will be here by tomorrow…”

“And the Titans…?” Octavia was almost afraid to hear the answer.

“Uncharacteristically lagging behind,” the Wolf Commander admitted. “But I’m sure they’ll quicken their pace if battle is joined.”

A long quiet followed, almost as if the gathered folks were taking a moment of silence for what seemed to be the end of Octavia’s rebellion.

True to his nature, Olaf broke that silence. “Is there no hope of victory?”

“What the fuck do you think?” Suileabhain exploded angrily, pacing across the room and taking an empty seat by Etticus. “They outnumber us thirty to one! Do those sound-like good odds to you, boy?”

Olaf gulped. “Well, when you put it like that…”

“That’s not entirely true, mercenary,” Eriana confessed, though she was careful not to give them too much hope. “We’ve been incredibly fortunate in our time here. Despite our best efforts, it was dumb luck that put us in touch with the Purists, who number close to a thousand in the city alone. And more than a few Lions have defected to our side. The true odds sit closer to…five to one…?”

“That’s hardly any more winnable. It won’t be enough…” Suileabhain declared.

“Perhaps not,” Eriana agreed. “But it is a start.”

“Tell me,” the woman continued sharply. Her gaze swept the shadows curiously. “Where is Grim? Why isn’t he with you?”

Before the others could respond, Cometessa stepped forward, speaking for the first time since they had stowed the skiff. “Funny you should ask, wolf. Your fate is, after all, irreversibly tied to his…”

Eriana regarded the Oracle strangely. “Who is this woman?”

Octavia cursed and stepped forward, pulling Cometessa back. “She’s an Ovalander. She’s supposed to be my mentor, but she hasn’t stopped speaking nonsense since the Suthian Gap…”

“An Oracle’s words are never nonsense…” Suileabhain warned from where he sat uneasily at the edge of the room.

More silence followed and Captain McCrank at last stepped forward and eased the tension in the clearing. “An Oracle’s words are rarely nonsense…” He corrected evenly. “But ours appears to have hit her head on the crossing over and could likely use some rest.” He carefully took the exotic woman by the shoulders and handed her off to Yolanda.

The pirate archer looked to Eriana questioningly and the militant woman at last gestured with her chin to a corridor breaking off from the main chamber. “There should be some spare beds in there. If sleep is what she needs, then she will have it.”

Yolanda nodded appreciatively and walked Cometessa away down the secluded passage. The Oracle didn’t try to fight it at all, but she did look back over her shoulder many times, unable to take her gaze off of Eriana for long.

When both women disappeared from view, Eriana turned back to the bedraggled group. “You all look exhausted,” she remarked, her tone bordering on empathetic. “Perhaps, we should find a bed for each of you…?”

“No,” Olaf unexpectedly spoke up, stepping forward, though his eyes were still fixed on the ground. “You asked a question. You all have. You deserve an answer…”

Many in the room narrowed their eyes, shifting their focus onto the lean boy, his dirty blonde hair, hanging in messy curls around his somber face. Eriana in particular pushed off the table she had been using to support her tired frame and leaned forward curiously. Only Octavia remained unprovoked, her own posture still slumped forward despairingly standing near to Olaf’s side.

“Go on then, hero…” Captain McCrank encouraged quietly, leaning on his quarterstaff like a crutch. “Tell them…”

Olaf nodded. “There is no time for sleeping,” the young noble explained, at last lifting his gaze from the mossy sewer floor and raising his voice so all, including those at the farthest edges of the cistern, could hear him. “Because you see, there’s far more at stake here than who sits the throne of Harth. This is no longer simply a contention of birthright or hereditary claims. Nor is the importance of moral righteousness our greatest priority anymore.”

Orion and Etticus once more exchanged curious looks across the cistern. Eriana’s face was a wall of cold focus, and the other Wolves had abandoned any attempt to rest their eyes in the shadows at the edge of the clearing, each of them creeping forward, drawn in by Olaf’s dramatic words.

“Speak plainly.” Eriana demanded.

Olaf was pacing now, slowly crossing the diameter of the cistern as he relived not-so-old memories. “As I’m sure you’ve all heard by now, our galleon was ambushed by a Harthian warship in the waters surrounding the Oval Islands…”

The noble son heard whispers of “The Massacre of Sawn” echo about the huge chamber, but he acknowledged them not at all. Instead, choosing to continue his tale. “But what you likely haven’t heard is that both our ships were attacked by a great creature. A monster like nothing I’ve seen before. It made Harth’s mightiest galleon look like a child’s toy, tossed about in tub water. A leviathan. The Beast of the Ein.”

A few snickers followed in the wake of Olaf’s bold claim. The heads of legionnaires, barely containing their laughter, could be seen bobbing in the darkness.

With an unexpected snarl, Suileabhain jumped to Olaf’s defense, leaping to his feet and kicking his chair across the chamber. “The beast is real! Deny its existence if you will, but do not mock the boy for merely telling you what he saw with his own two eyes!”

Olaf’s face was one of shock, and it took him a moment to collect himself, but he eventually found his wits and gestured—appreciatively—for Suileabhain to calm down. The mercenary obliged, fetching a new chair, but only after fixing the doubters around him with an intimidating grimace. Eriana calmly gestured for her own men to stay their tongues. When the chamber fell silent Olaf continued.

“Doubt me if you will,” the boy started. “I hardly blame you. Not so long ago I would have scoffed as well, but I have seen things over the past several months that have begun to open my eyes. Something is changing in Harth. Things that belong in bedtime stories have revealed themselves, right here under our very noses. Beings that shouldn’t exist outside of nightmares walk the same grounds that you and I do!”

Olaf hesitated.

Octavia looked up. She met his gaze, nodding him on with a sad smile.

The boy took a deep breath, steadying himself before continuing. “One such being boarded our ship during the chaos of the leviathan’s attack…An armored warrior more akin to a wraith, appeared out of thin air and unleashed an onslaught upon us.”

Eriana’s gaze sharpened. She could feel her heart beating faster with every one of the boy’s words. She knew exactly the being he was describing and yet she could not fathom how it could be possible…?

From across the room Orion watched Eriana’s reaction silently. She did well in hiding her shock, but internally he knew she was shrieking in stunned outrage. He himself could not seem to comprehend what Olaf was telling them, though he knew it must be true, for they had never revealed the nature of their mysterious adversary to anyone in this chamber, save a select few…

“Grim tried to stop the warrior’s rampage,” Olaf continued. “He crossed swords with it once…Before it overwhelmed him. The wraith stabbed him through the heart and threw him overboard in the middle of the storm…”

The noble son took a shaky breath. “No man alive could survive those icy waters adrift in a storm and bleeding to death…Not even Grim. He’s well and truly gone. We couldn’t…” He stammered for a moment, collecting himself once more. “We couldn’t even find his body…”

Olaf’s unusually frail tone almost broke Princess Octavia who stood beside him once more now that his pacing had seized. The girl reflexively reached out and embraced the boy in a firm hug. After a few seconds of quiet shock, Olaf hugged her back.

The chamber was in a shocked silence, following Olaf’s description of the wretched night that had taken the seemingly unkillable assassin from them. Gregory McCrank somberly removed his hat and held it on his chest in a gesture of respect.

Surprisingly, Orion dropped his air of typical superiority and lowered his gaze to the floor, placing a clenched fist on his own chest in a salute to the dead assassin. He had never felt fondly toward the man, but there was no denying his willfulness and his unusual skill with a longsword.

Etticus slowly rose from where he was seated, mimicking Orion’s salute with one of his own. “I cannot condone many of the things Grim was responsible for, but I can say with genuine satisfaction that I’ll miss having him at our side. At his core I believe he was a good man, and I doubt the lands of Harth have ever spawned a more ferocious warrior.” The Eagle Commander paused, turning to Olaf and Octavia and bowing low. “You have my deepest condolences, Princess Octavia and Olaf Amir.”

Octavia nodded appreciatively to the former legion commander. “Thank you, Etticus.”

Even Suileabhain dropped his head respectfully. The mercenary would never admit it, but he was honored to have crossed swords with the legendary assassin so many times before his death. His only surprise was that he had somehow outlived the man. A cruel twist of fate he supposed.

Only Eriana seemed unmoved. She stood in the center of the chamber, her eyes fixed on the pair ahead of her. When they at last released one another from their embrace, she spoke up.

“Tell me, how did you defeat this wraith if even the Reaper’s blade fell short…?”

Olaf quietly wiped his dampened eyes with the sleeve of his shirt, turning to face Eriana. “We didn’t.” The boy answered plainly.

“Then how could you have escaped such a fiend?”

“Because he spared us…” Octavia’s unexpected answer seemed to stun those around her, including her own companions. Olaf looked at her curiously, confusion in his eyes.

“It’s true.” Octavia continued, stepping away from the young man. “It’s been something I’ve thought about constantly since the attack. The wraith mostly struck to incapacitate or disable, only killing when it was absolutely necessary…After defeating Grim once, it came for me. It recognized me. But before it could harm me, Grim attacked it again, getting the jump on it from behind. That’s when it committed to killing him…when it realized he wasn’t going to stay down.”

Octavia paused, her eyes searching the far corners of the cistern with absent curiosity as she recalled the terrifying moment. “After that, I crumpled—defeated. So, it spared me. Then it grappled with Ansel…I think it said something to him. Or was…surprised…when it saw him. Like it was expecting something else. Then it just faded back into thin air…”

Eriana was shaking her head in disbelief. “How could that monster have known who you were?”

Octavia’s eyes shifted to match the intensity of Eriana’s own blue orbs. “Because it isn’t a monster at all. He’s a man. A man thought to be dead…Just like me.”

Eriana shook her head, not understanding. “Who?”

“Hyram Amir. The Commander of the Legion of the Crow…”

Eriana’s eyes widened, unable to contain her shock any longer. Many of her Wolves gasped, taken completely off guard by the unexpected news. Etticus leapt to his feet, stepping forward reflexively. Even Orion’s jaw dropped.

Before the whispering and chaotic exchanging of words could become any more uncontrollable, Eriana spoke up, addressing Octavia over the commotion in the chamber. “I need you to tell me everything.”

38

WAR WAGERS

Quite some time had passed since their first meeting in the Wolves’ huge cistern underneath Brumex. Octavia and her company, as well as Eriana, Orion and Etticus, had since retreated into a smaller chamber that bordered the much larger anteroom. Like the first, this one was also littered with paper and bits of enemy intel intercepted by the Wolves. Chairs lined the cobbled walls and a lone table sat in the middle of the room, lit by the light of a dozen candles’ burning wicks.

Octavia, along with the help of Olaf and McCrank had just finished fully recounting the events of their many weeks at sea to Eriana and the others, since their parting in Chala. The red headed woman sat quietly behind the rickety table she had been using as her own personal workspace and was calmly digesting the dump of information. When at last she broke her silence, her words were filled with resolution. “And so, this is why we must take Brumex, regardless of the odds stacked against us. Because foul things are afoot in the world. Things the Steward refuses to acknowledge…”

Octavia nodded. “That’s correct. I know you tried to warn Rhoric Amir of this many moons ago, and he wrote you off as a mad woman…I will never do that to you, Eriana. Help me take back the throne of Harth and I assure you, preparing the kingdom to face this growing threat will be my foremost priority…”

Eriana dropped her gaze in return. She wanted to tell the princess everything she knew about Hyram and his army to the east, but she also feared what other questions that would bid the girl to ask…For now, she would continue to shoulder that knowledge alone. She knew she could count on her captain to do the same. She was slightly more concerned with Etticus holding his tongue, however…

Eriana glanced sidelong at the former Eagle Commander. Briefly, he met her gaze. She saw no signs of weakness or rebellion there. Still, it was difficult for her to shake the shadows of doubt that haunted her judgement. For now, she would have to trust in the man’s discretion…With that thought, she pivoted her focus back to Octavia.

“You know I am your faithful servant, Princess,” Eriana replied, dipping her head respectfully to the girl. “If taking this city will aid you in reclaiming the throne, then I will do everything in my power to accomplish that goal…”

Octavia quietly mulled the woman’s claim over. When at last she spoke up, renewed determination energized her voice. “Good. I knew I could rely on the strength of the Wolves.”

Eriana acknowledged the princess’ compliment graciously, bowing her head.

“But we’ll need more than strength,” Octavia confessed. “We’ll need strategy as well. Only superior tactics can even the odds heaped against us…”

Eriana nodded, absently rolling a small brass map icon between her fingers. “I think I can help with that as well.” She pushed her chair back and stood up, hovering over the parchments on the table before her. “We’ve been observing the Lion’s movements in the city for weeks now, and my scouts have also been keeping a close eye on the legions closing in on us. What we lack in numbers we can make up for in positioning.”

Octavia was nodding intelligently, listening intently to every one of the commander’s words.

“Brumex has many key choke points that we can utilize to maximize our chances of victory,” Eriana continued. “Our greatest advantage is that we’re already inside the city.”

Octavia stood up as well and made her way to the table standing across from Eriana. She was at least a head shorter than the woman and likely half the lean Wolf Commander’s bodyweight, yet somehow, she appeared as an equal in every aspect. The princess truly had no idea she exuded so much charisma, but it certainly wasn’t for lack of effort on her part. The girl was often trying to convince herself more so than anyone else in the room.

“What are these chokepoints you refer to, Commander?” Octavia asked curiously.

Eriana hesitated before answering, pulling a blueprint of Brumex from one of many piles of paper. It included the city proper as well as both neighboring towns of Brume and Targe. She placed it down on the table before Octavia, weighing the corners of the curling parchment with scattered map icons, then she rotated it so the princess could see it clearly.

“Both of Brumex’s great bridges—east and west—make for narrow passage into the city proper. Despite our enemies’ superior numbers, they would be forced to send ranks of no more than ten soldiers abreast.” Eriana paused, tapping her finger on the blueprint thoughtfully. “It would be difficult to defeat two entire legions this way, but it would certainly buy us more time in the city proper…”

“Time for what?” Olaf blurted, curiously stepping forward to join the women at the table.

“Time to force the bishop’s surrender,” Octavia answered without hesitation.

Eriana glanced up at the girl, surprised. “That’s right, Princess. Very intuitive.” She took a step back away from the table. “If we can force the bishop’s hand and make him surrender the city then Candor and the Lions will likely stand down. They wouldn’t risk endangering a hostage as valuable as Tarvidios…”

“And what if this bishop doesn’t want to surrender?” Olaf asked evenly.

Octavia beat Eriana to the punch again, but this time there seemed to be a bit less agreement between them. “Then he dies,” the princess stated plainly.

“We shouldn’t be so hasty in dealing out death.” Eriana was quick to rebuke Octavia. “Without holding the bishop as a hostage, it would be difficult to break a siege. Especially so, if the Titans are afforded enough time to join the fray. Besides, killing Tarvidios would simply make him a martyr, something I’m certain the Steward would spin to his advantage…”

Olaf was nodding. What Eriana said made perfect sense. However, one look at Octavia’s unhappy face was enough to tell she did not agree with the commander’s assessment.

“I’d prefer to defeat our adversaries outright, Commander Eriana.” The princess explained. “I would not give them even the slightest bit of leverage to hold over us. Once we take Brumex, I believe many of the nobles will flock to my banner. My father, King Osiris, was well loved throughout the Kingdom of Harth. We have more allies than you know…”

“There’s no way to know that for certain.” Eriana stated evenly. “I deal in facts, Princess—not theory. Taking Bishop Tarvidios hostage gives us leverage, not our enemies. We can apply bolder strategies once we actually take the city of Brumex, but for now we cannot afford to be reckless…”

Octavia fumed internally, but she did well to hide her fury. Instead, the girl eventually nodded her consent. “Very well, Commander. You’re the expert. What’s your plan?”

Eriana quietly watched the raven-haired girl for a moment before nodding graciously. “Thank you, Princess.” She then turned back to the map resting on the table and placed a finger on the city proper. “Tomorrow morning, just before the Church of Thondel’s first service lets out, I will take thirty of my best Wolves into the city’s great hall and apprehend Bishop Tarvidios. Though it’s not widely known, he regularly takes his breakfasts here along with many of his closest clergymen. It will be an ideal time to strike at him.”

Octavia nodded her understanding. “Then I’ll go with you.” The princess noticed as Olaf perked up at her declaration and leaned forward pleadingly. “And Olaf will come with us as well.” The girl quickly added.

Eriana was shaking her head. “I don’t think so, princess. You I will allow, but there’s no reason to handicap us further with the Amir boy…”

Octavia bristled angrily. “Olaf is not a handicap, and neither am I, Commander. You’ll take us both with you.”

Eriana was surprised by the young woman’s demanding tone. Realizing this was a direct order the Wolf Commander chose to dip her head obediently and not press the matter. “As you wish, Princess.”

Olaf’s eyes briefly met with Octavia’s, and he blinked with gratitude. She nodded in return.

In the uncomfortable silence that followed the women’s spat, Captain McCrank stepped forward and spoke for the first time in many minutes. “If I may ask, how do you plan on taking Bishop Tarvidios hostage, Commander? Am I to believe you’ll simply march your Wolves down the main boulevard and up Brumex’s golden stairs to the Great Hall?”

Eriana chuckled. “Not exactly, Sir McCrank…”

“Captain,” McCrank corrected swiftly.

The red headed woman paused, eyeing the pirate quietly for a moment before sighing and chuckling once more. “Very well—Captain McCrank.”

The pirate swept his hat off and bowed graciously.

Eriana rolled her eyes and continued. “We’ve spent the last several weeks integrating into the city. When the time comes to approach the Great Hall, my Wolves will already be in place…Tarvidios won’t know we’re there until it’s far too late…”

Captain McCrank nodded, satisfied with that answer. Olaf was slightly more curious, however. The boy spoke up. “What kind of resistance can we suspect in this Great Hall? Surely, the Bishop doesn’t leave it unprotected…”

Eriana slowly shook her head. “No. He rarely goes anywhere without a small army to defend him. But my scouts tell me, this morning meal occurs when his security is at its weakest. I suspect that’s because the mandatory sermons throughout the city draw much of the Lions’ strength in order to keep the peace…”

The commander hesitated ever so slightly before continuing. “Tarvidios will, however, have his Shadomuria pet nearby. He never ventures far without him.”

McCrank’s eyes widened. “The bishop is protected by a Shadomuria warrior?!”

Eriana nodded. “Yes—and not just any warrior. Amongst his people he is called, Shadow Dragon…the greatest of their warriors.”

From the shadows in the corner of the small room Suileabhain suddenly cackled with futility, drawing attention to himself. The others watched him distastefully. Chief among those glares was Eriana’s, which was laced with much loathing.

“What’s so funny, mercenary?” the commander asked coldly.

“Thirty Wolves is not enough.” Suileabhain mocked. “If he is truly Shadow Dragon, then the bishop needs no other protectors. The Shadomurian will defeat you.”

Eriana scoffed and waved the marred man’s doomsaying away. “The skill of the Shadomuria is a wonder to behold, but not even they can defeat so many trained warriors at once. He will fail to stop us and likely fall on his blade in shame.”

Suileabhain issued no rebuttal, but his scornful cackles continued. The others did their best to ignore him. All except Orion who broached an excellent question.

“Why is he even here?” The Wolf Captain asked.

“Because he is a fine swordsman,” McCrank answered abruptly, his tone surprisingly supportive of Suileabhain. “And no one knows our enemy better than him. If the mercenary says we should beware this Shadomuria warrior, then I suggest we beware…”

The mercenary snickered even more intensely from his chair at the edge of the study.

Octavia sighed, shaking her head. “Whatever this Shadow Dragon is, he is still just a man. If action must be taken, I’ll summon a Curse to defeat him myself.”

Eriana cocked her head, intrigued by the girl’s confidence. “Have you come so far in your training already?”

Octavia shrugged meekly. “Not exactly, but I have learned to control it better. I’m prepared to do what I must.”

The Wolf Commander shrugged in return, accepting that answer. She then turned her attention back to the map, namely the two bridges, Brume and Targe. “Capturing Tarvidios may be tedious, and negotiations could take longer than we’d like. In the meantime, the Lions and Candors must be held at bay.

If the bishop believes a rescue is just around the corner, he will make a play to burn time—time which we can’t afford to lose. He must be convinced that no help is coming and for that to happen we’ll have to keep our enemies out of the city proper, winning the field for as long as possible until the Benidary banner can be raised over the High Keep. If Elberon and Tartisius believe we hold prisoners, they will likely pull their forces out of the city rather than sacrificing legionnaire lives for every inch of blood-soaked ground they can take.”

Octavia ran a hand through her hair whilst staring down at the map before them, absently considering Eriana’s words. “Can we stop the advances of two whole legions for that long? Our numbers are so few…If thirty of the Wolves’ finest legionnaires are with us in the city proper, then the remainder of the legion is more depleted still.”

Eriana deftly moved one of the map icons just outside of Brume and placed a second on the bridge dividing the smaller settlement from the rest of the city. “The Legion of Candor will be simple enough to hold at bay—they’ll be fighting their way in and forced through many bottle necks before reaching the bridge. Even with less than five hundred soldiers, I trust my legion to defeat their advance into the city.”

Octavia narrowed her eyes, scrutinizing the blueprint depicting Brumex. “Very well, but if you are in the city proper then who will lead the Wolves’ defense on the west bridge, Commander?”

“Orion will,” Eriana answered without hesitation. “You needn’t worry about my absence. He is a brilliant tactician and well respected by the troops.”

Orion lacked the humbleness to remain quiet, speaking up before Octavia could fully digest that answer. “Yes, yes,” the Wolf Captain said with a dismissive wave. “We know the Wolf Legion will do its job when the battle begins, but what of the Lions? They’re already inside the city—how can we hope to throttle their numbers when they’re all around us and throughout Brumex?”

“Good point,” McCrank said with a concerned nod. “It sounds like the Wolves will have their hands full just dealing with the Legion of Candor…”

Eriana smirked, her lips curling into a satisfied snarl. “That’s the second reason for launching our attack in the morning—many of Brumex’s churches and monasteries lie to the east in the smaller city of Targe. We estimate that well over half of the Lion Legion is dispatched into Targe each morning during the initial sermons to enforce peace and quell any upstarts or riots…”

“Half is a good start, but we’ll need Elberon’s whole legion to cross into Targe if we hope to hold them at the bridge,” Octavia reasoned. “Otherwise, our soldiers will be vulnerable to a flank.”

“Precisely,” Eriana said, her cunning smile wider than ever. “Which is why Yoram’s Purists will incite a massive riot, spreading chaos on Targe’s cobbled streets. Yoram himself will make a public appearance and fire up as many citizens as he can. Elberon won’t be able to resist the temptation of crushing Yoram’s rebels for good! I’m confident he’ll throw the full might of his Lions into Targe eager to end the Purists once and for all.”

Olaf was nodding enthusiastically now. The plan sounded like a good one. Maybe even one in which they could find victory. He did have one question bothering him however, “Where even is this Yoram? Shouldn’t he be here helping to plan?”

Eriana took a step back, leaning against the smooth stone brick behind her. “Unfortunately, Yoram’s work is never done. He is not afforded the same luxury of secrecy that me and my Wolves possess. The bishop is very much aware of the Purists existence and scourers the city for them constantly. They are forced to stay mobile, traveling from safehouse to safehouse. I have, of course, offered them a place here, deep under the city, but he rejected my kindness.”

For good reason, however. The sewers are barely large enough to contain my Wolves, any more and we would be inviting disaster…Besides, there’s the obvious danger of placing all of one’s eggs in the same basket…”

“Do not fret though, Princess,” Eriana comforted. “Yoram knows the plan.”

Octavia nodded, placing two more icons on the map around Targe. “So, the Wolves will hold the bridge to the west and the Purist the one to the east, while we go straight up the middle to confront Tarvidios…?”

Eriana nodded solemnly, pressing off the wall with her boot and once more returning to the war table. “Exactly. With any luck we’ll capture the bishop before too much blood has been shed. Still, it would be wise if we preemptively struck the opposing legions rather than waiting for them at the bridges…”

“You mean attack first and then lure them to the chokepoints?” Octavia questioned seriously.

“Yes,” Eriana replied, thoughtfully staring down at the map. “The Lions and Candors need to feel like we’re bigger than we are. Going on the offensive first would help solidify that.”

The princess understood the fierce, older woman’s logic but she still had questions. “If our forces are striking at once from opposite sides of the city, how will they know to strike in coordination and not reveal the others’ position and intent?”

“There will be a signal,” Eriana assured, elaborating no further.

Again, Octavia ran her hand through her thick locks. Eventually, she nodded, having to accept Eriana’s answer for what it was. “What about all of Brumex’s citizens? They could be caught in the fighting. We should warn them before the attack…”

“No.” Eriana quickly cautioned, drawing an incredulous look from Octavia. “I’m sorry princess, but we can’t afford word getting out before the battlefield is set. Positioning alone will win us the day. If anything is out of place, even the slightest err, then it could be the end for us all.”

Octavia hung her head. The thought didn’t sit well with her. What sort of ruler would she be if she sacrificed innocent lives to secure victory?

Eriana noted her crestfallen look and reached across the table, gently squeezing the girl’s arm. “Take heart, Princess. Most of the innocents will have been rounded up into holy places by the Legion of the Lion. These people are no strangers to conflict. This is the City of Gladiators after all! They will know to take to their homes when the fighting starts. But no war is won without the loss of at least a few innocent lives…”

Octavia looked up into the taller woman’s eyes and found courage there. She steeled herself with a curt nod and pulled away. “It’s settled then. The battle for the Kingdom of Harth begins with the rising sun.”

Eriana grinned wolfishly. “It began when the usurper failed to snuff out the unrelenting flame that is you, Octavia Benidary. But tomorrow, for the first time, we strike back.”

Octavia grinned in response to the clever commander’s inspiring words. Both women reached out, clasping forearms and giving the other a firm shake. The exaggerated clearing of Gregory McCrank’s throat drew their attention across the room once more. The pirate captain carefully stalked forward, hardly making a sound on the soles of his fabulous boots.

“And what of my crew and I?” McCrank questioned sourly. “Am I to simply take The Shroud and fuck off until the fighting is finished?”

Eriana shrugged. “Unless you can think of a more productive way to implement that galleon. This will be a land-based battle, Captain. Not much opportunity for a boat to make a difference…”

McCrank’s eyes narrowed at the legionnaire’s condescending words. The man’s leather knuckles clenched, and he seemed ready to burst.

Octavia sighed and took a step closer to the pirate captain. “Gregory your services have been priceless and the speed of your ship unrivaled. That speed alone may be the only reason we have a chance at defeating Brumex’s host now, but unfortunately The Shroud does have its limits. There’s simply nothing else your crew can do at the moment.”

Captain McCrank chewed his beard with frustration, but nodded at length, giving into the princess’s will.

“Thank you, Captain. Just knowing Ansel is safe at sea with you and Yolanda will help focus me on the task ahead.”

McCrank sighed and reached out, softly clasping Octavia’s shoulder. “Your friend will be safe with me, Princess. But I’ll keep The Shroud close by just in case.” He then turned away, but not before leaning and whispering quietly into Olaf’s ear, “Watch out for the girl, hero—these legionnaires aren’t like you and me. They’d do anything for victory in battle…”

Olaf turned, glancing curiously into McCrank’s weathered face but hadn’t the time to ask what any of that meant, before the man turned and began to depart from the room.

“Where are you off to in such a hurry, pirate?” Eriana questioned suspiciously.

“Sun will be coming up in a few hours,” McCrank explained, not bothering to stop and face the woman directly. “And the tide with it. I intend to be back aboard The Shroud when it does…”

“Well take him with you!” Orion suddenly interjected, thrusting his jaw to indicate Suileabhain.

McCrank paused only long enough to look between Orion and the mercenary. “As you wish,” the pirate muttered, grabbing Suileabhain and pulling him to his feet. “Come on you mad man…”

The mercenary did not fight against the wiry pirate, though he did continue to cackle manically, even offering a parting warning to Eriana and her Wolves. “The Shadow Dragon will slaughter you, Wolf…”

Eriana rolled her eyes, knowing better than to let the mercenary’s words creep into her thoughts, infecting her courage. More importantly, she knew something the mercenary did not. She knew the Shadow Dragon was not her enemy—or so it had seemed that way for quite some time. Still, recent discoveries had begun to make her question many things…

Eriana shook the thoughts away and addressed those remaining in the room as a whole. “The captain was right about the sun—it will be rising soon. You should all get some rest while you can.”

“What about you, Commander?” Octavia asked seriously. “Your strength will be needed the same as all of ours come the morning…”

Eriana feigned a smile. “Of course, Princess. I must check in with my scouts one last time, and then I too will retire for the night…”

With that, their council was dismissed. Each of them scattering to perform what duties they must, before answering the tempting beckons of sleep, however temporary that reprieve would be. Though they could not feel it physically, the cold, heavy dread of battle rested on all their hearts.

Something else was there too, something they did not pick out from the tangle of other emotions they were feeling…That something was a presence, but like the dread that presence was also not tangible. Not yet…

39

BECKONINGS

Octavia approached the side chamber containing Cometessa’s bed. The princess had only just departed her war council, but already her thoughts were alive with questions. Not only questions, but concerns. The Oracles was one such concern, and knowing Yolanda would have left with Gregory, her footsteps quickened to bring her to the mysterious woman as fast as possible, without raising the alarm.

She found the Oracle sleeping soundly on a thin straw mattress. A lone candle burned a safe distance away, casting an eerie, flickering light on the powerful woman. Octavia approached slowly, crouching down beside Cometessa, and resting a gentle hand on her forearm. The woman quietly awoke, her eyes opening slowly to take in the princess.

“Hello, Princess…” the Oracle whispered. “Forgive me for my earlier outburst. I’m afraid I’m not feeling so well.”

Octavia shushed the woman and pulled forth her waterskin, along with the remnants of Grim’s cloak. She dowsed the cloth in water before placing it on Cometessa’s forehead. “No harm done,” the princess reassured. “I am curious what exactly your words meant, however…?”

The Oracle’s face was blank. Eventually, she shook her head. “I’m not even certain myself…” The woman paused, calmly removing the damp rag from her face and returning it to Octavia before continuing. “You see, Princess, there’s a reason we Oracles live in such isolated solitude…The world is too loud. Visions and half fulfilled would-be’s plague my senses. It’s like everyone’s thoughts in this city are overflowing and drowning my mind…It’s impossible to focus on anything.”

“You did not have this problem before?” Octavia reasoned.

Cometessa shook her head. “No—no it was quiet at sea, but this place is draining me. It’s loud. Too loud!”

Octavia brought a finger to her lips and shushed the Oracle once more. “This is my fault then,” the princess claimed. “I should have sent you back to The Shroud with Captain McCrank.”

“No!” Cometessa hissed. She seemed wild and savage at that moment, but quickly she calmed, and her voice returned to normal. “No,” the woman reiterated. “My place is here, at your side. I can sense I am needed, but for what I cannot tell through the discord in my own head.”

Octavia slowly nodded. “Very well. Then I will ensure Eriana allows you to remain near to us come the morning…”

The Oracle nodded. She looked tired and weak, as if she might slip away into sleep’s peaceful embrace at that very moment.

Abruptly Cometessa pulled back the thin covers and revealed her naked body underneath. The woman’s skin appeared soft and tender, and beneath her pale pigment an agile frame supported the muscles of youth. She waved Octavia in.

“Come, join me, girl. I can sense my powers leaking away, leeched by this world’s curse. If I am indeed to lose them, then I would have them passed on to you instead…”

Octavia stared at the woman perplexed. She wasn’t sure what was expected of her here and she hardly would have imagined this is where the conversation would go. “I, uh, I’m not…”

“Be silent,” Cometessa commanded. “You need only lay with me, nothing more. This is the way our gift has been passed down for generations in the Oval Islands. And it is a mighty gift indeed. It should not be squandered…”

Octavia nodded complacently, a dumbfounded expression on her face. She carefully curled up on the mattress beside the Oracle.

Cometessa dropped the blanket over her and pulled the girl in close against her bare chest, wrapping slender legs around Octavia’s own to further entwine her. “Now sleep, Princess and awaken stronger than before…”

For her part, Octavia felt strangely safe in the Oracle’s embrace. The warmth of the woman’s body was comforting, and the weight of her breasts made the girl imagine she was just a child in her mother’s arms once more. Sleep found the princess quickly and her consciousness soon faded away completely…

Outside the Oracle’s chamber, Olaf stood guard vigilantly. He knew they were as safe as they possibly could be given the circumstances, but somehow, he couldn’t shake McCrank’s warning. The noble son still couldn’t make heads or tails of the mysterious words, but there was one thing he was certain of. Octavia was all out of protectors.

With Grim gone and Ansel and the pirates back on The Shroud that left only Olaf from the original group who set out from Chala in order to find Octavia a mentor. Of course, there was Eriana and her Wolves, but McCrank had made a valuable point—they weren’t like them. The legionnaires hadn’t experienced the things that had made the others so close over the past couple of months…

And so, Olaf felt as though Octavia’s safety fell to him. If he failed her, he felt as though he was failing Grim—failing McCrank and Yolanda, even Roderic! So many great warriors and yet this most paramount of tasks weighed on his shoulders, not theirs…Olaf intended to make them proud and took his self-proclaimed duty with great seriousness.

The young man remained wide awake all throughout the night. Many times, he smiled inwardly at himself, recalling a time, he had fallen asleep against the boughs of a huge oak when he was supposed to be standing watch…

Olaf chuckled under his breath. “Oh, if only you could see me now, Grim…Would you be proud…?”

His question was answered with resounding darkness and quiet throughout the larger chamber. The boy smirked and decided that was fitting. After all, he’d never had much luck making the assassin respond to foolish questions…

Grim’s cold gray eyes watched the horizon slowly shift hews. The sun was still some hours from rising, but already the gentle warmth of dawn was lighting the clouds to the east. Revenant snored softly nearby, never far from the assassin’s side.

The light of their company’s campfires barely reached Grim from where he stood, his back to the legionnaires’ low-slung tents. The warmth of those flames was lost long before they came close to the assassin. Still, despite the cold, early morning air he remained comfortable, wrapped in his thick legion cloak.

The assassin pulled the cloak tighter as he considered the road ahead. Brumex was little more than a day’s march away. The Exiles had made excellent progress since Grim’s return to their ranks, and spirits were surprisingly high. He himself felt better than he had in months, thanks to frequent visits from the company medicus.

The man was no fonder of Grim than he was of him, but they respected the mutual benefit of having the other around. For the assassin, the benefit was obvious. He was finally in solid fighting condition—though the jagged would on his chest had still not fully healed, and likely never would—and he felt strong despite being hot on the heels of the most grueling battle of his life. For the medicus, he simply hoped the assassin would continue to slay their enemies by the dozens and he would be content enough with their trade off…

Still, despite their fortuitous positioning behind enemy lines and their high morale, Grim felt uneasy. Not uneasy because he feared for their success in battle—they could have no chance at victory and the assassin would not openly fret. The thing that gnawed at his thoughts, was the possibility he was marching toward the wrong battle. He could not shake the feeling he had made a grave mistake by returning to aid Ramsey’s legion of deserters…

Mrs. Winfrey’s words echoed in his head, and he could not argue with their potent logic. Grim knew how monumental the task before Octavia was…He also knew what would happen to Joanne if Rhoric Amir lost his temper…It felt wrong to be turning his back on her once more, especially when the Steward’s attention was directed elsewhere for now. What would happen when the usurper discovered the assassin was alive and aiding his enemy in the south?

Grim silently cursed himself for his indecisiveness. He had been fighting this internal battle for months now! Ever since finding that girl hidden deep inside Chala, his life hadn’t been the same…Part of him wondered why he couldn’t have just killed Octavia when he was supposed to…But the other part knew why.

Anyone capable of stopping him from saving Joanne, was too important to kill. He wasn’t sure why, but he knew it to be true. Something had been guiding him back to Octavia ever since he had been separated from her on the Ein. No matter how much he fought it, it was impossible to resist. And no matter how greatly he loved Joanne and wished to see her again, the ever-calculating side of him knew better than to abandon all reason and attempt a one-man raid of the Viscount’s Keep…Supporting Octavia was still his best option for rescuing Joanne.

Deep in the recesses of his mind, an even smaller part of him wondered if that was even the true reason, he was electing to journey south and fuel Octavia’s rebellion…Or had he simply come to value the girl’s life more than Joanne’s…?

The thought haunted him constantly, but he did well to contain its debilitating infection of the rest of his anxious mind. Instead, he focused on the task at hand. Just as he had trained to suppress intrusive thoughts as a child, he implored the same tactics now. The assassin would drown the unresolved moral questions in his head with fantasies of swinging his blade in battle and anticipation for when the opportunity would present itself again.

Grim continued to watch the horizon as red crept into the sky like the stain of fresh blood. “Soon…Soon…”

Eriana crept through the winding tunnels beneath Brumex. She had made this journey enough times now, she could even do it without light. And tonight, she would have to. Following the breaking of their war council, she had directed Orion to see to the needs of the legion whilst she herself traveled secretly deep into the labyrinth of storm drains.

Eriana was looking for one chamber in particular. The room in which she often met with Saefong and exchanged information. The hour was late and there was no reason to suspect he would be there, and yet, she felt confident he would be…

When at last she arrived in the intersection of tunnels that formed the chamber Eriana typically met with General Saefong, she was disappointed. There was no sign of the warrior. The Wolf Commander cursed her naïve foolishness and turned to make the long journey back to the cistern.

The smallest of sounds stopped her, before she could take a step. The noise was so slight, it could have been a mouse scurrying about the sewer floor. Eriana knew better though. She pivoted back and faced the pitch black of the connecting tunnel she suspected the sound to have come from. Out of that darkness walked Saefong.

“Commander—the hour is late; I was beginning to think you would not come…”

“I’m not here to listen to your riddles,” Eriana warned, her tone more aggressive than she had ever allowed it to become with the intimidating swordsman. “How did you know to come here?”

Saefong’s eyes twinkled in the dark, before narrowing sharply at Eriana’s accusatory tone. “You know how I knew…”

“My Wolves were very discreet; you can’t have seen her entering the city…”

“I saw.” Saefong insisted. “And I imagine others saw as well. We’re wasting time. Tell me, what does the princess plan to do next?”

Eriana remained very silent for many moments, before finally speaking up once more. “Did you know it was Hyram…?”

Saefong’s head cocked to the side, appearing—perhaps for the first time since entering this city—confused by Eriana’s question. “Hyram?”

“The wraith—the monster—responsible for the Drul attacks in the east!” Eriana seethed, barely managing to contain her rage and the betrayal she felt.

Slowly, Saefong nodded. Now he understood. “I admit, this is the first time I’ve heard his name.” The warrior’s words were genuine and filled with honesty. “But…I knew what he was, where he came from.”

Eriana had calmed down a marginal amount, but her tone was still heated. “Why hide this from me? You would have me operate on the basis of faith with you and your bishop, but none can be afforded to me by yourselves?”

“The wraith’s origin is hardly important…” Saefong’s words of reason were cut short, by Eriana’s sudden outburst.

“He is the Commander of the Crows—a servant of the crown! I’ve foolishly been treating him like a beast from a foreign land when I could have been negotiating with him in the ways of our people! Your secrecy and lies have cost me thousands of my soldier’s lives!”

“He is a beast!” Saefong hissed, his temper spiking in an unusual show of emotion. “He may have commanded a legion like you, Wolf—but I assure you, he is not the same. The Crows were not a legion like other legions. They were assassins. They operated in the shadows. They carried out the darkest and dirtiest of deeds for the King. Tasks that would have spoiled his name a hundred times over if anyone had known! He is a brute. There is no negotiating with him…”

“You don’t know that…” Eriana fumed.

Saefong paused a moment, collecting himself and allowing his temper to dissipate. “When this Hyram and his followers attacked my village, he did not lead monsters into our camps…he led men…”

Eriana glanced up, confused by the Shadomurian’s words. “But you said Hyram and his Drul were responsible for the butchering of your people…You said what they had done to those farmers in Eastharth they had also done to your village…?”

Saefong did not immediately respond, instead holding the woman’s gaze for many seconds. “Hyram led Crows into my village to do the butchering that day…Not Drul. And they were there on the King’s orders.”

“H-how could you know that?” Eriana stuttered.

Saefong shook his head sadly. “Because the Crows never did anything without King Osiris’ direct instructions…Part of me believes they still don’t…”

Eriana looked at the warrior, horrified. Tears had gathered in the corners of her eyes. “What are you saying? What does all this mean…?”

Saefong began to pace, slowly gathering his thoughts. “Long have we believed the Drul to be some mutation of the former Crow Legion…It only makes sense. Why else would their commander be at the helm of this army of darkness?”

Eriana had no words. The woman stood in the center of the chamber staring at the floor, her mind racing uncontrollably.

“The Crows disappeared nearly two years ago,” Saefong continued bluntly. “Not long after that you encountered the Drul on the Akinmere Coast…I do not think this is coincidence.”

Eriana at last took a long, shaky breath. “Who else knows?”

“Only Tarvidios and I, and now you.” Saefong confirmed. “There were others with our company who traveled north, but…They are all gone now.”

The Wolf Commander slowly looked up and met the Shadow Dragon’s eyes. “Tarvidios told you not to tell me, didn’t he?”

Saefong eventually nodded. “Yes. He was afraid the knowledge of the Crows would be too heavy of a burden for you to bear. He believed the thought of killing fellow legionnaires might sway your judgement in a time when he needed your strength…”

Eriana shook her head with disgust. “They are no fellows of mine. Never have the Crows shared the same bond of brotherhood that the other established legions share…If what you say is true, then especially so now…”

The Wolf Commander looked back to Saefong, sudden shock spreading across her face. “But how?” The woman demanded.

Saefong shook his own head now. “We do not know. They must have found something out there in the Ein…Or something found them. It hardly matters now. Their threat remains, and Hyram’s deadline only grows closer. So, tell me—what does Octavia Benidary plan to do?”

Eriana took another jagged breath and steeled her nerve, trying to convince herself that nothing had changed. “We will seize the bishop tomorrow morning in the Great Hall, while he’s breaking his fast…And then Octavia will announce the city is hers…”

Saefong nodded with satisfaction. “Good. Then she intends to waste no time. I will inform Tarvidios and ensure he does not put up a fight. Just make sure Octavia will not harm him.”

“She’s made it very clear no harm will come to him if he does not resist…”

Saefong pondered that claim for a moment before moving on. “And her forces—your forces—where will they attack? I imagine there will be an attack of some capacity? If for no other reason than to prove the legitimacy of her right to challenge.”

Eriana hesitated. She wasn’t sure why, but in that moment, she realized she need not reveal all of their plans to the dangerous southerner. She trusted Saefong, but the tactician in her convinced the Wolf Commander to lie. “They will attack the Legion of the Lion across the Targe in Eastharth during the first service of the morning. With any luck, we will defeat them on the field and the capture of Tarvidios will force their surrender before the Candors make it to Brume…”

Saefong watched her carefully for a moment before at last nodding. “It is a good plan. We will make things in the Great Hall quick so that fewer legion lives are lost on the morrow…we will need all the swords we can get to defeat Hyram’s Crows.

“You should be proud, Eriana. Your adaptiveness and willingness to work with the bishop has saved thousands of lives. One day I hope Queen Octavia will be able to appreciate what you have done for her here.” With that the Shadow Dragon turned to leave the chamber, evidently confident they had discussed all there was to discuss. Eriana’s next words drew him back, but for a moment.

“Her assassin is dead.”

“The Reaper…?” A small amount of disbelief crept into Saefong’s tone.

“Yes,” Eriana confirmed. “Hyram killed him on the Ein in an unexpected meeting. It seems the others barely escaped intact…”

Saefong quietly digested that news, eventually shrugging with indifference. “Then we can thank the Crow King for that at least.”

With that, the Shadomuria warrior turned back and quickly departed into the dark. His footsteps faded instantly, and Eriana was suddenly all alone in the chamber. With haste she began her return journey. Nothing but her tangled thoughts accompanied her on the journey back to the cistern…

40

THE REBEL QUEEN

The sun was steadily rising in the eastern sky and the heavy fog coming off the churning waters of the Einrill was quickly dissipating. The city of Brumex was uncomfortably quiet for the hour, though Eriana assured their company that it was always this quiet in the morning. The woman didn’t go as far as to elaborate why, but Octavia assumed the unsettling calm was tied to the mandatory religious services held throughout the city, especially in Targe.

Octavia herself felt confident, despite the scale of the task they were preparing to embark on. She had indeed awoken strong, just as Cometessa had said she would. The girl wasn’t sure exactly how, but she felt more energized—more powerful. But the extent of that power went beyond the gift of Curses. Physically, she felt more threatening as well. It was an odd thought, considering she was only a small, young woman, but somehow, she felt…larger?

Octavia wasn’t certain, but she believed that change ascended even beyond a feeling in her mind. Judging by Olaf’s frequent and curious glances at her out of the corner of his eye, she must indeed look subtly different as well…

When Olaf finally realized he had been caught staring at the princess, he quickly looked away, his face turning bright red. Octavia didn’t try to press the matter with him, but she did narrow her eyes. She was paranoid and suspicious of what Olaf kept gawking at.

Eventually, Octavia looked away from the scruffy boy and pulled a ragged piece of cloth from her coat. The shredded remains of Grim’s traveling cloak. Staring down at the memento briefly, the girl sighed and brought the cloth up over her head, pulling her hair back and using the cloak’s remnants to fasten a ponytail. Her thick, raven-black hair was secured by the assassin’s tattered cloth—only the stark-white strands she had earned by exhausting her powers hung free. Those pale hairs drooped forward, well past her forehead.

Satisfied with her new look, Octavia then glanced over her shoulder to gaze at the only other member of their company who had made the voyage upon The Shroud. The Oracle Cometessa did not look well. She hid underneath the cloak the Wolves had provided each of them with, as if she feared to be seen at all. When she noticed the princess watching her, she pulled her hood even tighter and focused her gaze on the cobbled street beneath their feet.

Octavia shook her head, still at a loss as she considered the Oracle’s quickly deteriorating situation. Greater strength hadn’t been the only thing that had shocked her upon awakening this morning. She had also been surprised to find Cometessa much skinnier and frailer than she had been the night before. It was as if she had aged decades overnight! When questioned about this phenomenon, the Oracle refused to answer and pushed Octavia away.

The princess was jostled from her thoughts, nearly running into Olaf as their small company of six suddenly came to a halt. Shifting her gaze from Cometessa, Octavia looked to the front of their tight formation where Eriana and Orion faced each other, exchanging a hardy handshake.

“Good luck, Captain.” Eriana was saying. “This is where we leave you. Send the Candors my regards when you stop them at the bridge.”

Orion grinned in return, dipping his head warmly and respectfully to his commander and closest friend. “These are your Wolves, Commander. You know better than any we have no need for luck.”

Eriana smirked. “All the same—be safe out there. Hopefully this is over before it can truly begin.”

Orion nodded, and removed the hand crossbow from his belt, handing it to Eriana. “Make Tarvidios squeal…”

Eriana rolled her eyes and placed the crossbow on her own belt. “With any luck, there’ll be no squealing.” She paused, nodding in a dual gesture of dismissal and respect. “To your post, Captain.”

“Aye,” Orion agreed, reciprocating the nod.

The Wolf Captain quickly turned and shot down an intersecting street. Two more Wolves, wrapped in similar disguises, joined up with him and moved toward the west, where the bridge of Brume and the Legion of Candor would be waiting. Octavia suspected, by the time he made it there, four hundred or so more Wolves would have joined him. Which left the remaining Wolf legionnaires to rendezvous with their own company of now five.

Eriana turned to Octavia. “Are you ready, Princess? From here it’s only a short walk to the road up to the Great Hall. We’ll be there soon.”

Octavia glanced around at the faces that surrounded her—Olaf, Etticus, Cometessa and Eriana’s—these were her generals and closest councilors. If she was not ready to begin the play for her father’s throne with them at her side, then how could she ever be?

The princess nodded resolutely. “Lead the way, Commander Eriana.”

The tall redhead bowed and turned away, beginning their trek into the city proper and up the many, many grand stairs that led to the Great Hall, where it sat overlooking the rest of the elegant city.

Normally, this winding path would be overrun by Lion legionnaires guarding the way into the upper city, but Yoram’s riots across the Einrill to the east seemed to have drawn them all away. Whenever they did come across the odd lion embossed soldier, they would not try to stop them nor question where they were heading, in fact, the vast majority of them quietly joined Eriana’s party.

Octavia was quick to realize these were all Wolf legionnaires disguised as Lions—similar to the ones who had apprehended them on the docks last night. By the time they had made it up to the first large viewing platform, still some ways from the top, their numbers had more than tripled!

At the overlook Olaf slowed and stared in awe out over the city sprawling across the Einrill and over the river’s opposing banks. “I can see the coliseum from here!” The boy shouted, pointing north and up the river to the center of Brumex.

“Shhh!” Eriana hissed. “Keep your voice down, Amir. There’s still guards in the upper city. For now, I’m sure they’re all gazing east toward the Purists’ rebellion, but if they hear us, it will only take them a moment to rally a defense!”

“Sorry…!” Olaf whispered apologetically, raising his hands submissively.

Eriana rolled her eyes and signaled the company forward.

Despite the gravity of the situation, Octavia couldn’t help but snort and cast a smug look Olaf’s way. The noble boy returned her smirk with a sarcastic one of his own, before continuing up the path toward the looming Great Hall.

It took some time to make it the remainder of the way up the wide steps, but after a determined pace set by Eriana, they at last were within a few dozen steps of the top where it leveled off and the massive doors into the Great Hall sat. The doors were flanked on either side by several huge pillars, spiraling to the ceiling and supporting a great canopy that stretched out from the hall and covered the huge balcony jutting forth from its base.

It was here the remaining Wolves joined them and their once small group had grown into a very threatening legionnaire raiding party. On Eriana’s orders they formed rank and filed into columns on either side of Octavia, ready to burst through the great doors and flood the hall beyond.

Olaf smartly fell into rank alongside them, complimenting Etticus’ own position in the formation. The Eagle Commander saluted the boy approvingly. Cometessa, in contrast, remained huddled behind Octavia, making herself as small as possible and continuing to hide her face…

Eriana turned to face Octavia once more. “On your order, my queen…”

Emboldened by the woman’s quiet claim to her nobility, Octavia nodded bravely. “Open it.”

Eriana saluted and stepped back, allowing her first line of Wolves to rush forward. They shouldered each great door in unison and knocked them wide open, allowing the rest of the troops to explode into the Great Hall within.

The Wolf company split down the middle, half of the legionnaires rushing right and the other half rushing left. Within seconds they formed a large semicircle, covering any escape through the hall’s massive ivory door and protectively flanking Octavia and Eriana in the process.

Octavia took the scene in before her as quickly as possible, stunned by the size of the goliath chamber stretching out before her. Huge pillars, akin to the ones on the overlook outside, ran the length of the hall, supporting the weight of the giant sprawling ceiling overhead. Narrow windows, running from floor to ceiling, also surrounded the perimeter of the room in such numerous numbers that the chamber was nearly as well-lit as the winding path that led to the hall.

Suits of armor and great tapestries depicting gladiators of legend were displayed on every inch of open stone and many huge tables ran down the center of the hall, providing enough seating for a thousand patrons of honor. Near the center of the hall and in between two such tables, a small podium lifted out of the marble floor and a grand seat was positioned atop it, to easily observe every other seat and table in the lofty building.

Octavia expected to see priests lining those tables, taking their breakfasts with Bishop Tarvidios, just as she had been told they would be. But there wasn’t a single white robe in sight. Instead, the hall was filled with the agile plate armor that decorated Harth’s legions—and decorate them it did.

“We’ve been tricked!” Olaf hissed, clutching his legion sword fearfully.

Two, maybe three hundred Candor legionnaires were in loose formation, spread out to cover the span of the echoing hall. They each stood with weapons drawn and were obviously prepared for a fight. What’s more, at the front of those staggered ranks, near the huge seat rising out of the center of the hall, stood the Shadomuria warrior, Octavia had been warned about. He was dressed from head to toe in flexible, black cloths and he bore a thin purple sash. Two katanas, one short and one long, hung from his belt.

To either side of the southern swordsman, stood two men Octavia recognized if only barely. She had seen them in the past during ceremonial events, and their armor—similar to Etticus’ own—solidified who she knew them to be.

To Saefong’s left stood the Commander of the Legion of the Lion, the savage, battle-axe wielding warrior known as Elberon. To the Shadomuria warrior’s right stood Commander Tartisius, the religious zealot and sword wielding soldier responsible for leading the Legion of Candor.

A third man of note stood just behind Saefong, though Octavia wouldn’t have known him personally. He was easy enough to recognize by his long, dark red hair and clean, chiseled jawline. His eyes were nearly as piercing as the princess’ own emerald gaze, and he stood a healthy six feet in height. What truly gave the warrior away, however, was his unique armaments. A huge tower shield, nearly as tall as he was himself, was brandished in one hand. The face of the scutum was decorated with a beautifully painted raging moose. The color of the paint matched the red of the warrior’s heavy cloak.

There was a slit in the man’s tower shield, designed like a crab trap to allow a specific blade to pass through the back of the shield but not the front, enabling a way to thrust through the huge scutum and surprise one’s enemies. The blade in question was a sword wielded in the warrior’s other hand. It was a strange longsword that was stocky and wide at the base of the blade closest to the hilt, but quickly and viciously narrowed down to a razor thin point.

Octavia shuddered. Yes—she knew this warrior. His name was Hader Ternicus. Champion of the Great Coliseum and arena of Brumex. He had never known defeat in all his years in the arena and was more myth than man. His name was well known throughout the kingdom. His support of Rhoric Amir—if that was indeed what this was—might be enough to upend Octavia’s entire rebellion alone…

The chamber was sickeningly quiet. Eriana stared in shock at the gathering of warriors before them. She knew in an instant that she had been betrayed. Not only had Saefong been feeding her false information, but he had also rallied a force to defeat her in the one place they absolutely had to succeed. She cursed the Shadomuria warrior under her breath and met the man’s gaze across the hall.

“Where is Bishop Tarvidios?” Eriana demanded. “I am here on the orders of Octavia Benidary, true ruler of the ancient lands of Halladell and Queen of Harth, to remove him from his station immediately.”

Commander Tartisius began to laugh, slowly clapping his hands as he did. The legionnaire looked as if he was preparing to speak, when Saefong raised a hand into the air, silencing the zealot mid cackle.

“Bishop Tarvidios is far from here.” The Shadomuria warrior explained plainly. “He left many days ago on important business for the Steward…”

The man’s calm voice felt like a cold blade in Eriana’s back.

“The queen you support is a charlatan,” Saefong continued. “You and your Wolves should lay down your weapons, Commander Eriana and hand her over peacefully…”

Eriana quietly exchanged a look with Etticus to her left. The Eagle was subtly nodding at her. He seemed to be encouraging negotiations. Like Eriana, he knew they were severely outmatched and scrambling for a solution.

The Wolf Commander gently lowered her short sword and Borris’ marred shield, which she bore in her offhand. “Perhaps, we can discuss terms in a more civil manner—in more civil company. Dismiss your warriors and I will dismiss mine…”

Saefong eyed her cautiously. His face was impossible to read, but he seemed willing to at least talk. The Shadomuria warrior looked as if he was about to counteroffer when Octavia suddenly spoke up, taking a proud step forward to stand at the head of the Wolf company, even before Eriana.

“I am no charlatan!” The girl declared. Her voice was filled with outrage. “I am the only living heir to King Osiris, and I have returned to reclaim my father’s throne. It is you, foreign warrior, who is the charlatan. This is not your land, and these are not your people!”

Octavia’s anger continued to build as her tirade persisted and soon, she had taken another step forward, pointing an accusatory finger at the commanders of the Lions and the Candors. “I’ve known your faces for as long as I can remember! You were two of my father’s most loyal lieutenants, yet now you take orders from an imperial agent! Tell me, how could this have happened?”

“Princess, please,” Eriana quietly warned, stepping forward and placing a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “This is a delicate situation. You’re only inflaming the matter…”

“Enough!” Octavia snarled, smacking Eriana’s gloved hand away from her. “I will not suffer your infringements any longer, Commander. Fall to rank…”

Eriana’s face went pale, and she stared down at the smaller woman for many seconds before at last dipping her head and taking a short step back. The soldier’s expression was not difficult to read. She was enraged by the belittling order, but complacent to obedience…For now.

Once Octavia was satisfied the Wolf Commander knew her place, she slowly turned back to the center of the hall and addressed the opposing legionnaires again. “Well? What say you?”

Commander Elberon appeared agitated. His large arms flexed and unflexed as he gripped the long handle of his battle axe. The man puffed a heavy sigh and cast his gaze to the ground. They were the actions of a guilty soul, but one that had committed to the cause of that guilt.

Commander Tartisius, however, did speak up. “I do not recognize you, girl—but even should I…your father was never a religious man…Certainly not as devout as our new Lord Steward. I believe the kingdom is far better off in Rhoric Amir’s labored hands…”

“Traitors…” Octavia hissed, barely audible.

“No,” Tartisius rebutted. “You all are the traitors. Every last one of you! You Wolves are a plague. Just like in the days of old when your legion betrayed the Harth family, now you turn your backs on the rightful inheritor of the throne! Your corrupt pack should have stayed dead…”

“And you,” Tartisius continued, pointing a finger in Olaf’s direction. “You are the Steward’s own son, and still you have thrown into an alliance with this rebel queen…You are a taint on your father’s great name!”

Olaf scoffed. “You spew so much shit, Tartisius, I would have guessed you as a taint yourself.”

The Candor Commander recoiled in disgust. “Putrid words, from a putrid bastard…I’ll enjoy putting you to the sword, boy.”

“No.” Saefong interrupted evenly. “The Steward’s son is to be taken alive, along with anyone else who doesn’t fight…”

Eriana looked up for the first time since Octavia’s barbed command. Her gaze met the Shadomurian’s.

“Order your warriors to stand down, Wolf.” Saefong implored, his voice devoid of any emotion.

Octavia looked from Saefong to Eriana in disbelief. “You too, Eriana?” the princess asked incredulously. “Do you take your orders from Shadomurian assassins as well? Or is there still one legion commander loyal to her oaths in the Kingdom of Harth?”

Eriana’s gaze did not break from Saefong’s, but she answered Octavia’s question without hesitation. “I am no oath-breaker, Your Highness…”

Octavia’s nostrils flared and she nodded resolutely. “Show me.”

Eriana’s eyes finally shifted, glancing down to meet the princess’ own. “What?”

“The signal. Give the signal and order your Wolves to attack. Bring these traitors to me…in whatever form they deem to come…”

Eriana shook her head. She was at a loss. “Princess…this is not a fight we can win…”

“I am your queen!” Octavia shouted. “Or do you only recognize me as such when I give you orders you agree with…?”

Eriana said nothing. The redheaded woman stood her ground and made no attempt to incite a battle that would end in the destruction of her legion.

“Commander…” Octavia fumed. “This is your last warning. Give. The. Signal.”

The Great Hall was uncomfortably quiet. All of the collective warriors present seemed to be holding their breath, waiting to see who would win out between the two willful women. Everyone except Saefong. The Shadomurian stood calmly, unphased by the tension in the room.

Suddenly, with surprising speed and precision, Olaf broke rank from the surrounding Wolves and rushed past Eriana. The young man snatched Orion’s crossbow off her belt and in one deft movement, loaded the weapon and prepared it to fire.

“What are you doing?!” Eriana demanded, her words filled with shock.

The other legionnaires in the room braced their weapons and raised their shields, stumbling to fall into a defensive formation. No one knew who Olaf’s target would be. Even Saefong fell into a ready stance…

Olaf spun a full pivot and lifted the crossbow toward Eriana. The Wolf Commander growled and raised Borris’ battered kite shield, prepared to repel the boy’s foolish attack.

“Olaf wait—” Octavia gasped, but the noble son had already pulled the trigger and a wave of heat washed over them as the bolt ignited and released in a loud whoosh.

Olaf’s aim was true, and the bolt sailed over Eriana and the Legion of the Wolf and darted between the great doors hanging ajar at the entrance to the chamber. In a split second the flaming projectile was gone, released into the morning air outside the Great Hall where it would fall somewhere down into the city below.

Eriana slowly lowered her shield, her gaze shifted between the open doors and Olaf. A look of panic had spread across her face.

“What have you done?” The Wolf Commander whispered.

Olaf didn’t like the strange look in Eriana’s eyes, and he felt as if he had somehow miscalculated something. “What?” The boy exclaimed with a shrug. “That was the signal, wasn’t it? I remember from Everharth—that’s what Orion did to signal the trebuchets…”

Eriana shook her head at the reckless youth. “You’ve killed us all…”

41

THE BALLAD OF WOLVES

Far below the Great Hall, Orion lay in wait with the Wolves. They lined the alleys on either side of the main road leading out of the Westharth settlement of Brumex and across the bridge of Brume. The road itself was filled by Candor legionnaires, marching eight abreast toward the city proper. They were in defensive formation with their shields facing out toward the dark walkways the Wolves lurked within.

There was no sign of any common folk or merchants. They were all likely locked away in their homes or within houses of worship to the east…

Something felt very off to, Orion. It was like the Candors were baiting them. They shouldn’t already have been within Brume in such force. Their legion should have only just now been trickling into the city from the West Road—even still, there seemed to be far fewer of them than expected given how far they had advanced into the town.

Perhaps, a few battalions were lagging behind in the wilds? Captain Orion did his best to shake the feeling and focused his ears on the signal he knew would be coming any moment…

To the south of Orion and his four hundred Wolves, a bard sat alone, casually staring up toward the great overlook and the upper city. When at last, the flaming bolt she had been expecting flashed across the sky, she took up her lute and began to play a sad melody.

As the notes of the bard’s melancholy song drifted through the air and echoed through Brumex’s quiet streets, more strategically placed instrumentalists began to take up the chords, until the entire city thrummed with the same sad chorus…

The notes of that song carried all the way to Orion’s waiting ears where he sat ready to command the legion.

“The Ballad of Wolves…” whispered the captain reverently and with familiarity. “Fitting.”

With that, he quietly leapt to his feet and rushed forward, signaling down each intersecting alley he passed with silent hand gestures for his Wolves to charge. Like a well-oiled machine the Wolf Legion writhed through the tight corridors between houses and shops until they arrived at the main road. Unanimously, they burst from the cover of morning shadows and struck the Candor Legion as one. With devastating precision, they tore into the unsuspecting ranks of the zealous warriors.

Shouts of alarm and quick-witted defensive orders could be heard echoing around the squat buildings of Brume as battle joined and the ring of steel shattered the serenity of the quiet morning. The main road was soon bathed in blood as legionnaires fought against legionnaires and academy brothers and sisters were forced to strike one another down.

“Quick kills!” Orion shouted over the cacophony, slipping between the hacking slashes of enemy broadswords, and riddling one unlucky legionnaire with rapier wounds. “Attack swiftly, then fallback—this is not where we die!”

As soon as Orion gave the order, the Wolves fell back once more, disengaging from the heavier armed and armored Candor troops and fading back into Brume’s side streets where they sprinted from view and rallied in smaller more agile groups.

The soldiers of Candor were left reeling and struggled to reform their line. It didn’t take them long however, to realize the Wolves’ plan and soon legion officers were whipping their troops into formation.

“To the bridge!” A Candorian captain shouted. “They mean to cut us off from the city. Step quickly to the bridge!”

Orion heard the man’s cry from the other side of a cluster of buildings and he himself spurned his troops on faster. “Come on Wolves—with me!”

The Candors had the more direct path to the bridge, but the Wolves were more lightly dressed and far more familiar with the city’s paths than the opposing legion who hadn’t been within Brumex’s salt bathed walls for many years. Orion’s warriors could still hear the eerie ballad retelling the legend of their namesake, and the lutes drove them forward with eager determination.

Just as planned, the Wolves made the bridge before the Candors, streaming out of several side streets ahead of the slower legion and rushing across the narrow, arching causeway. As they reached the center of the bridge of Brume, Orion called his warriors to heel.

“Hold!”

The Wolves slowed to a halt and redrew their swords.

“Turn and face them!” Orion shouted over the raging Einrill beneath their feet, and the stampede of approaching Candor boots.

The Wolves swiveled to face the charging legion and fell into a defensive formation. Orion stood front and center of their strong line and readied his sinister rapier.

“This is where we hold them!” The Wolf Captain declared. “Don’t give them an inch!”

A brave and defiant cry went up from the Wolf Legion and they bared their teeth menacingly.

“For the queen!” Orion roared heroically.

“For the queen!” His battle cry echoed throughout their ranks and seemed to reverberate within the stone they planted their feet on.

Moments later the Candor army made the bridge and the two legions collided for a second time. The thunder of battle overpowered all else, the city, the bards’ song, even the angry river fell silent in comparison to the storm of blades and death that raged atop the viaduct…

To the east in the town of Targe, Yoram fought an even more desperate battle than Orion and his Wolves. Somehow the Lions had known they’d be there and attacked the Purists in force as soon as they had revealed themselves. Legionnaires had poured from every alley and warehouse to surround the rabble rousers and put them to the sword.

It was obvious to Yoram, he had been betrayed. Whether by Eriana or some other party, their plan had been leaked to the enemy and now his entire rebellion was fighting just to survive. As the leader of the Purist forces, he couldn’t be bothered to wait for the Wolves’ signal and their ridiculous song.

“Back to the bridge!” Yoram desperately screamed, hoping enough of his rebels would hear him over the overwhelming sounds of battle. “We’ve been deceived! Return to the bridge—we will repel them there!”

Yoram fought off legionnaire after legionnaire as he backpedaled toward the Einrill and the city proper. His Purists were dying by the hundreds. The Lions’ ambush was too thorough, too perfect. Still, several hundred feet from the banks of the river and the eastern bridge that spanned it, the blonde-haired rebel commander realized they weren’t likely to make it, and even if they did there wouldn’t be enough of them left to hold it.

“Damn it!” Yoram cursed through gritted teeth. The man looked around futilely. He saw no way out of this slaughter and so he did the only thing that made sense. He stayed the course. Slowly, leading his warriors, and the few citizens who had taken up a blade against the Lions, back toward the bridge.

Yoram could only hope that Eriana and the young Benidary girl were not the one’s responsible for outing his Purists to the Lions and that they would soon present the bishop as a hostage, demanding their enemies stand down before all hope was lost…

“B-but it makes sense,” Olaf stuttered. “From here the fire could be seen with ease to both the east and the west…was this not the plan…?”

Saefong’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, and his voice rose ever so slightly in pitch. “There’s troops in western Brumex as well…?”

“No!” Eriana blurted, pushing past Olaf. “You have our warriors cornered in the east. They’ve likely stood down by now. There’s no need for further bloodshed. Let us negotiate terms.”

Suddenly, the sound of distant, concussive blasts rocked the walls of the Great Hall and Saefong’s nostrils flared—the only true sign of his quickly rising temper. “Were those…cannons?”

Eriana’s confused gaze quickly shifted between Octavia and Etticus before returning to meet the Shadomurian’s cold stare. “I know nothing of cannons, or troops to the west. There was no signal—it was a bluff. Now let us put up our weapons…”

“Lies!” Tartisius hissed. “The bitch lies, General Saefong! Their forces in the east are a distraction for Elberon’s Lions while the true threat falls on my soldiers in the west. We’ve been double-crossed—your anonymous mole is a traitor!”

“You do not know what you speak of zealot!” Eriana retorted. “Your warmongering will cost thousands of legionnaires’ their lives!”

“Your lies and your rebel queen have already forfeited those lives, you blasphemous whore!”

“That’s enough!” Saefong stated, his tone warding off further argument. “Elberon, Tartisius—order your men to take this false queen prisoner, slay any who try to stop you…”

Eriana stood speechless. She looked to Etticus for some sort of assurance, but he was equally lost. There seemed no way out of this mess, but to surrender.

Eriana dropped her head in defeat. Just as she began to loosen her grip on the hilt of her short sword, a wave of energy powerful enough to knock the wind out of the Wolf Commander, washed over her. Gasping, she spun to face the source of that blast. Octavia’s eyes were alight with golden fire and her hair danced in a chaotic frenzy.

The light radiating from the young princess was blinding and many were forced to shield their eyes from the powerful aura. Across the hall from Octavia, Saefong calmly braced himself.

With a primal scream of rage bubbling up from deep within Octavia’s lungs, she released the gathering storm of energy building around her and let it sweep through the Great Hall. The Candors’ first rank was completely obliterated by the sheer strength of the Curse, each legionnaire all but melting in their armor. The following few lines in their formation were knocked from their feet, and the final legion rank staggered back, some collapsing to their knees as they attempted to catch their breath.

Tapestries were blasted from the ancient hooks they hung from and fell to the floor in a cascading effect all the way down the hall. Every window from Octavia forward was shattered, the glass panes within each portal exploded into dust and flittered away on the wind. Tables and chairs were blown away and smashed into fragments along the huge chamber’s exterior walls. The pillars supporting the arched ceiling vibrated and shook in protest—one of them even cracked under the pressure of the invisible assault, fracturing like a great oak struck by lightning…

Tartisius was thrown from his feet—though he quickly recovered.

Hader allowed the blast to sweep him back but maintained his footing in an elegant dance.

Elberon accepted the barrage and simply shrugged it off, staggering only a little under the force of the attack.

Saefong, who had spread his feet wide, moved not at all as the rogue energy passed through him…

When the room finally settled, the light radiating from Octavia dimmed and revealed the woman to be as she had appeared before the blast. Her hair lay flat, and her eyes had returned to their normal, though still quite marvelous, green. The girl looked stunned. Her hands trembled as she gazed out over the destruction she had wrought.

Many of the legionnaires along the destroyed front rank of the Candor Legion were twisted and hollow, the color drained from their skin. These soldiers were the ones who’s lifeforce had been unknowingly wielded by Octavia, triggering the blast of energy…

Tears welled in the young woman’s eyes as she realized the extent of what she had done.

Octavia’s companions were equally shocked. Olaf stared with wide eyes at the decimation that started at the princess’ feet and ran all the way to the far end of the Great Hall. Eriana and Etticus were speechless as well, unable to look away from the macabre scene before them.

Commander Tartisius slowly rose to his full height and cast an accusatory finger toward the princess. “Witch! She’s a cursed witch! It’s not natural, General! She must be slain!”

Even Commander Elberon, who had at one point seemed reluctant to attack the girl, readied his axe. A look of grim determination dampened his face.

Saefong lamented with a regretful sigh. He slowly closed, then opened his eyes and scanned the remaining Candor ranks. Two thirds of them had survived, and though they seemed spooked by the princess’ dreaded and unnatural gift, they also appeared ready to fight. The warrior’s gaze returned to Octavia and then to Eriana.

“Legionnaires,” Saefong called, his voice carrying through the hall with surprising ease. “Slay the charlatan queen.”

The Shadomurian’s order summoned Eriana from her trance, and she snarled defiantly. A string of curses would have flown from her mouth just then, but she was already occupied rallying her Wolves. “Wolves, raise your blades—Protect the queen!”

No sooner had Eriana given the order than her legionnaires charged forward, forming a protective wedge around Octavia. Etticus led the Wolves on the left side of that formation in an attack against oncoming Candor warriors, whilst Eriana rushed to the opposite side of the formation, putting herself between Octavia and more charging soldiers.

Olaf stayed close to the princess’ side. She still seemed shocked by what she had done, though her trembling fingers did manage to pluck a short sword off the ground. Behind the pair, Cometessa stumbled back, collapsing to the floor and covering her head.

“Is this really happening?” Olaf questioned, his words filled with panic.

Before the noble son even finished speaking, the Wolves and the Candors collided. The once beautiful hall soon became a battlefield. The devastation left by Octavia was nothing compared to the fight that was unfolding between the two passionate legions.

“Olaf,” Octavia gasped, looking around her as the Wolves battled with unbridled fury just to hold back the overwhelming Candor numbers. “What have I done…?”

“Put it from your heart and your mind, Octavia!” Olaf replied glancing about the hall as he responded. “They’re all traitors—you gave them a chance. That’s more than they deserved!”

“But I’ve killed us all!” Octavia blurted hopelessly.

“Hah!” Olaf smirked as convincingly as possible. “Have a little faith, Your Majesty.”

Just then, a Candor legionnaire managed to punch through the Wolves’ thin line and charged toward Octavia hungrily.

Olaf intercepted the man, knocking his thrusting sword down low and shouldering the legionnaire back before delivering a bone-rending slash to the man’s neck. He crumpled instantly, but no sooner had he fallen than he was replaced by another charging Candor, only this one was coming for Olaf.

The noble son defeated the legionnaire’s powerful overhead chop with a deft sidestep and easily finished the zealous warrior with a stab to the back. Another soldier pushed through and another, and soon Olaf was in the thick of the fight.

Octavia snapped out of her haze of guilt and rushed to aid her friend, hacking, and slashing at the Candor legionnaires whenever she could. Ultimately, the princess was the zealous warriors’ target and there was only so much she could do before she was forced to step away and allow Olaf to once more draw their ire.

Eriana struck enemy after enemy down. Some fell to her short sword and chain, while others were simply torn open by the jagged edges of Borris’ kite shield. Still, the Candors flooded over them, attempting to wash them away like driftwood. But the Wolves held firm, more akin to heavy, river rocks than fragile, soaked wood.

She had often boasted her legionnaires were worth three similar warriors of any other legion…Eriana supposed now was the hour they would prove that. A quick glance revealed Saefong was still standing lazily atop the dais at the center of the hall. She believed if he stayed out of the fight long enough, then they may yet win the day. Perhaps, that was his plan all along…

The thought was dashed from Eriana’s mind as the two Wolves to her right were suddenly swept away and Elberon the Lion charged through that opening, barreling toward her with abandon. She raised her shield and braced for the impact of the larger man.

Elberon stopped short and threw the pommel of his axe’s long bezzled handle into the base of Eriana’s shield, blasting her back and raising the blade of his battle axe for a finishing blow. The Wolf Commander slipped the powerful chop and danced to the side, attempting to go on the offence.

Elberon was simply too ferocious in his assault and continued into a broad slash even before Eriana had finished dodging his first strike. The woman was forced to feign her attack and pivot away once more. Elberon followed with his battle axe, roaring a war cry and twisting into another full-blown swing, throwing every ounce of his strength into crushing Eriana.

The Wolf Commander continued to back peddle and deflect the savage warrior’s attacks, patiently waiting for an opening to strike back…

Across the hall and on the opposing side of the Wolves’ intimidating formation, Commander Etticus may have been having even worse luck than Eriana. Before him stood the Champion Hader. The handsome man was grinning politely and circling in opposite rotation of Etticus’ own tip-toeing boots.

Whether it was out of respect for the two legendary warriors or fear, neither Wolf nor Candorian tried to step between the dueling men—giving them a wide enough birth that they had an almost arena-like area to clash.

“Etticus Umbra.” Hader greeted, his words gentle and serene. “Your reputation precedes you. They say you are a fierce swordsman.”

Etticus nearly laughed at the champion’s ridiculous words. He couldn’t tell if the notorious warrior was mocking him or truly meant what he said. All the same, the Eagle Commander felt his cheeks redden from the unexpectedly high praise.

“Not nearly as fierce as yourself,” Etticus replied swiftly, then paused before finishing his thought. “That is—if the legends are true…”

Hader chuckled with genuine mirth. “They exaggerate…Still—,”

The Champion of the Arena had barely finished speaking when he lunged forward abruptly and with vicious precision. Etticus deflected the powerful blow off his shield and struck back at Hader’s exposed left side.

The tall warrior withdrew his longsword and brought the edge of the large tower shield across his body to parry Etticus’ counterattack. The Eagle’s blade bounced harmlessly wide, and Hader pressed forward with relentless vigor.

Etticus fought valiantly and likely with greater skill and strength than he ever had before, but he knew without a doubt in his mind…He was losing this fight. The former commander could only hope his allies fared much better and the scales would shift before it was too late…

42

THE BLACK SHROUD

Many days had passed since Platlind, and the city of Brumex had only just come into Ramsey’s view for the second time that day as he and the Exiled Legion continued their steady march down the South Road to the coastal fortress hub. One of his scouts came sprinting around a bend in the wide dirt road. The man was obviously running with every ounce of strength and determination he could muster. From experience, Ramsey knew that he was either bringing with him very good news…Or very bad news.

The assassin, Grim seemed to understand this as well, quickly leaping up onto his horse and trotting to the front of the disguised legion’s formation. His hound, Revenant, was right on his heels.

“Good or bad?” Ramsey asked the intimidating swordsman as he arrived at his side.

“It’s always bad…” Grim grumbled irritably, as well as—much to Ramsey’s surprise—anxiously.

The scout made it to the frontline of the Exiled Legion and collapsed to his knees, panting uncontrollably. The entire formation came to a halt.

Ramsey the Black took three great strides, bringing him to the kneeling man’s side and grabbed him under the arm, hoisting him to his feet like a child. “Speak man! What news?”

The exhausted scout managed to catch his breath just long enough to blurt the words, “City under attack. Legion’s already there…”

“Already there?” Ramsey blanched incredulously. “How? The Candors should have barely made the city perimeter by now, much less launch an assault on the proper!”

“Fuck!” Grim growled, spinning his horse away from the legion and preparing to gallop off.

“And where are you going?!” Ramsey demanded, subconsciously handing the scout off to another exiled legionnaire and stepping forward to grab the assassin’s loose rein. “You’ll be no help to us riding into the Candor’s frontline and getting yourself butchered!”

Grim eyed the large man dangerously. “I’m not here to help you and your misbegotten legion.” His gaze shifted to Ramsey’s great paw. “Now get your hand off my horse, before I cut the whole damn arm off…”

Ramsey held the assassin’s gaze for many moments. With a shrug, Grim reached for his longsword swiftly drawing the blade from its sheath.

The former Obsidian Commander stepped away, releasing the horse’s reins and sighing. A look of disgust poisoned the giant’s otherwise handsome features. “You’re a man without honor, Grim. You’d kill a friend just for getting in your way…Not surprising though, just disappointing.”

“Go on then!” Ramsey continued, waving his hand to shoo the assassin’s gelding away. “Be off with you, you damned selfish bastard!”

Grim issued no response, nor did he try to defend himself from Ramsey’s accusations. He did look the man up and down just once, before turning with his horse and breaking into a gallop toward Brumex.

“Try and at least soften them up for the rest of us, Reaper!” Ramsey shouted at the assassin’s departing back.

Grim didn’t have time to play these games with Ramsey or his fair-weather friends. For the first time in a longtime he was riding toward a goal without troubling shadows of doubt looming in his heart. The last time he had felt this way was right before watching Malia Amir sail away with the woman, he loved bound and chained. He did not intend to arrive too late a second time…

After defeating yet another legionnaire, Yoram at last made the bridge of Targe. Twelve of his closest supporters and most elite fighters stumbled onto the smooth stone alongside him. The Purist leader glanced around rapidly. He saw nothing but more approaching Lions. There must have been two thousand of them, if not more! It was like their whole damn legion had come against them. There were no other Purists in sight—no other Benidary supporters, but his brothers and sisters to either side of him.

“Are we all that’s left…?” Yoram demanded, his voice trembling with disbelief.

The surviving warriors nodded their heads as one, saving their breath on words as they took a quick reprieve. Across the bridge the Lions were gathering their strength, likely in an effort to defeat the Purists in one final push.

“Thondel,” Yoram breathed. “They’ve slaughtered us all…”

He glanced back into the city proper. It was hard to tell, but he believed he could hear the sound of even more soldiers clashing from deep within. It appeared the Wolves were holding up their end of the bargain. It seemed a damn shame that they would ultimately lose regardless. Not even those nearly fabled warriors could win a battle on both flanks when Yoram and his final defenders at last fell…

“Well,” the Purist leader started, turning to address what few loyalists remained. “I suppose it just wasn’t our time, lads…”

His words were met with resolute, nodding heads.

“All the same,” Yoram continued, brandishing his sword as he did. “Let us die in battle like the heroes of old. Let us go to our final rest knowing more will one day take our place…”

Those nodding heads became more enthusiastic and soon shouts of encouragement and approval went up from those few who were left.

“Know this—our lives may end today on this field of battle, but our story will be immortalized in legend! The false Steward, Rhoric Amir will not know sleep, he will not even know the feeling of malcontent comfort for the rest of his days. For more brave men and women will take up our banner and fight in the true Queen of Harth’s name!”

The twelve Purist warriors lining the bridge shouted with elation and bravely raised their swords. They were prepared to greet their deaths warmly.

“The Wolves have a song,” Yoram continued, his tone sombering only for a moment. “They call it The Ballad of Wolves…Let us give the bards something else to sing of when they remember this day! Let our enemies woe this day—Charge!”

Boosted by their commander’s brilliant speech, the Purists charged forward with a mighty battle cry. From the opposite side of the Einrill, the Lions charged as well, eager to rid themselves of their long-time city rivals.

The Lions made the center of the bridge first and expertly dropped their shields into a defensive wall, whilst their second rank merged in behind them, lowering swords to meet the Purists’ charge.

Yoram did not slow, nor did his soldiers waver as their enemy fortified. Instead, he only quickened his pace, knowing he would likely die against that wall of lion embroidered shields, run through by a dozen legion blades.

He cared not. The man believed in his own words—he believed they would die today as martyrs, opening the way for greater men and women to take up their cause. For Yoram, that was enough.

The Purists were nearly within reach of the Lions’ swords when an earsplitting barrage of thunderous and angry retorts echoed off the surrounding city’s walls. Just as Yoram registered the deafening noise, he was abruptly knocked from his feet. They all were.

The Purists were thrown to the ground, many of them sliding several feet back the way they had come. The air around them was suddenly filled with dust and debris, chunks of stone masonry from the bridge clattered across the viaduct alongside them.

Yoram sat up, his ears ringing, and tried to make sense of it all. The Lions’ shield wall had been decimated. Their torn bodies were scattered about like broken toy soldiers. More of them still rushed about trying to gather their bearings or reform some sort of defense. It was no use, and the Purist leader quickly saw why.

A second barrage of cannonballs pelted the bridge, ripping through the stone’s elegant design and slaying a dozen more stumbling legionnaires. The waist-high wall, running the length of the south end of the bridge had all but crumbled away, revealing the water down below. Yoram saw black sails, dancing chaotically in the wind. Backblast from cannons lining the deck of the ominous vessel only caused the sails to jump even more violently, revealing a skull and crossbones painted in jagged, white paint.

“What…?” Yoram’s head spun as he tried to make sense of what his eyes were telling him. Somehow a galleon—a pirate galleon—had sailed upriver and was unleashing unchecked fury and hellfire on the Legion of the Lion.

The Purist leader saw a flamboyant figure walking confidently across the topyard of the main mast, the ship’s black sails creeping ever closer to the bludgeoned bridge…

Unable to hold his conscious any longer, Yoram tumbled back to the quivering stone floor and allowed darkness to wash over him…

Captain McCrank swayed with practiced ease, moving in unison with the rocking hull of the galleon far below his booted feet. From this vantage point he was almost even with Brumex’s eastern viaduct, standing only a handful of feet above it. The Shroud’s broadside had left the bridge in shambles and the Legion of the Lion had crumbled along with it. Still, they were hearty warriors, and already they were regrouping to push into the city proper.

“Damned stubborn tin men.” Gregory muttered under his breath. His words were lost to the wind.

Beneath the pirate captain, on the galleon’s narrow deck, his few remaining pirates rushed about. They readied crossbows and worked sails and oars, doing everything in their power to hold the huge, black vessel upriver. They were a strong and competent bunch—he knew they would do their job.

What worried the stalwart captain was the fact they had just used the last of their powder. To make matters worse, all but a few of the Benidary Purists had been knocked completely unconscious by The Shroud’s initial bombardment. McCrank silently cursed as the rallied Lion force pushed forward across the bridge.

Only Yolanda and Suileabhain’s constant stream of arrows, from the crow’s nest overhead, slowed them—if only a little.

McCrank glanced up at the exceptional archers, shielding his eyes from the sun that peaked out just above the upper city. “It’s not enough!” The pirate shouted. “We’ll never stop them all like this!”

Yolanda glanced down long enough to nod in agreement. “We’ll run out of arrows at this rate!”

“My quivers half empty already!” The mercenary beside her confirmed grudgingly.

“We must destroy the bridge,” Yolanda cried out. “We need more powder for the cannons!”

“There is no more!” McCrank countered. “We’ll have to break it with what we have!”

Yolanda’s look of confusion lasted for only a moment, before McCrank brandished his quarterstaff, and suddenly everything was very clear. She offered the valiant man a nod and salute. “I’ll cover you, Captain.”

McCrank returned the nod and with one last look to the deck of The Shroud, he rushed out across the maintopyard. The dexterous pirate used his quarterstaff as a counterbalance to hold himself upright, and quickly gained speed. When he reached the end of the black wood beneath his feet, he was in a dead sprint. With a great leap, McCrank cleared the gap between The Shroud’s mast and the bridge of Targe, landing nimbly on his feet and rolling several times to absorb the impact.

“And they call me, mad!” Suileabhain shouted in disbelief, nocking another huge arrow and taking aim at the soldiers charging the pirate.

Captain McCrank rolled to his feet in the midst of the Lion host, expertly sweeping his quarterstaff in a full rotation. Everything in the long, weapons path was leveled or knocked back, many legionnaires flung from the bridge entirely. Still, the Lions were relentless—and they were angry. The mysterious pirate vessel had already robbed them of victory once, killing many of their brothers and sisters in the process. They wanted vengeance—even more, it seemed, than they wanted to get over this damned bridge.

The warriors of the Lion Legion had all but abandoned their attempts to cross over into Brumex’s city proper. Instead, they swarmed Captain McCrank, eager to run the pirate down.

The Captain of The Shroud laughed in the faces of the angry legionnaires, and he quickly took up an old sea shanty, singing the words loudly and without a care. “Come on then, you addlepates!” McCrank taunted between chants. “Let’s see how many lions it takes to kill one old pirate! Hah hah!”

The Lions happily took the captain’s challenge and rushed him from every angle. No normal man, armed with a normal weapon should have been able to defeat that assault. But McCrank was neither.

The pirate captain spun and struck, then spun back and struck the other direction. He needn’t deliver killing blows, all he had to do was catch his foes’ slashing blades, for the powerful Curse that bound him to the quarterstaff he carried was devastating and unforgiving. Every time the weapon connected with a legion blade, the blade was subsequently shattered, shards of steel flying back and peppering the attacking Lions.

With a maniacal laugh, McCrank danced back a step and thrust out with the staff, leaning forward on one foot. The blunt tip of the weapon smashed into an advancing legionnaire’s chest plate and blew him back with bone crushing force. The man’s limp body collided with two more soldiers and took all three of them off the damaged edge of the bridge and down into the Einrill. Their screams were quickly drowned out by the sound of the mighty river.

More warriors rushed to take their place, undaunted by the pirate captain’s skill and fervor in battle. McCrank quickly showed them the error of their ways, smashing one soldier’s helm like a melon and whacking two more through the air like dry hazelnuts. Still, the Lions pressed forward.

McCrank was forced to give a little ground in return for landing another sword shattering blow. Catching on to the powerful advantage the quarterstaff gave the pirate, the seasoned legionnaires began to faint attacks, withdrawing their blades before the staff could obliterate them. They took to throwing quick stabs rather than more powerful slashes, and soon the pirate captain was on the defensive, battling just to avoid being skewered.

McCrank’s flank was mostly protected by his eagle-eyed First Mate and the mad mercenary, who both continued to rain arrows down onto the Lions. Even their skills had limits. More than a few blades had managed to slip through the captain’s whirling staff and nick his flesh. He quickly decided he had, had enough fun and was ready to depart this brutal frenzy of plate armor and thrusting broadswords.

Only he realized he could not.

The Lion swarm was so dense and their focus so complete on destroying him, McCrank didn’t even have the time he needed between parries to do what he knew must be done. A seed of doubt began to take root in the pirate’s dauntless heart and suddenly he wasn’t sure that he could survive this. The thought brought a self-deprecating and incredulous smile to McCrank’s face. Perhaps, he had finally outplayed himself…

No sooner had the thought taken hold, than a wave of strange energy washed over his body, nearly knocking him from his feet. The Lions felt it as well and staggered against one another, fighting to stay upright. McCrank had no way of knowing that this powerful blast had originated from the skinny girl he had ferried halfway around the continent—but part of him certainly expected as much.

Not one to waste a good opportunity, Captain McCrank took advantage of the Lions momentary loss in momentum and raised the Cursed staff high above his head. Some of the legionnaires stared at him confused, others used the opportunity to strike at his unguarded chest—it mattered not.

McCrank brought the staff down to the ground with tremendous force and the ensuing blast defeated any attempt to land a clever strike on the pirate. Not only were the legionnaires thrown from their feet, but the already compromised architecture of the east viaduct immediately gave out, incinerating under the force of the blow.

Having only intended to destroy a small portion of the bridge, McCrank managed to yelp in terror as the entire viaduct came crumbling down, taking him and a hundred legionnaires into the raging Einrill below…

Yolanda cried out in fear and shock as the great viaduct was reduced to rumble, tumbling into the river, and jostling The Shroud into a sickening lurch.

“Thondel…” Suileabhain whispered, slowly lowering his bow, and bracing his back against the tip of the dancing mast. “He fell…”

Water washed over the deck of the galleon, nearly sweeping the pirate crew into the Einrill with their captain. Just as the ship began to even out, Yolanda heard a strange, panicked cry. She leaned over the crow’s nest’s circular guardrail and searched for the source of the wailing. The markswoman found it, just as it went overboard. The gangly and malformed boy, Ansel leapt over the gunwale of The Shroud and into the churning water down below, presumably to save Captain McCrank.

Duty was calling and Yolanda was unable to dwell on the thought of her lost captain or the strange, yet unarguably heroic boy. She quickly crawled out of the Crow’s nest and began her descent down the towering mast. Suileabhain scurried down just above her. Debris from the great viaduct threatened to overturn The Shroud if they didn’t escape the mouth of the Einrill and out into the open water.

With a deft hand, Yolanda sprinted to the stern deck and grasped the galleon’s wheel. Her voice was firm yet calming as she directed the crew in stabilizing the sleek, black vessel and getting it downriver as quick as possible.

“Hold it together, lads,” the woman shouted over the roar of the river. “We’ll survive this yet! Make for open water!”

43

THE LION AND THE WOLF

Etticus continued to back pedal, unable to regain any sort of even footing against the Champion of the Arena. Hader’s form had been too perfected. His blade continuously hounded the Eagle’s every step, jabbing and slashing. Every time Etticus believed he had found an opening to strike back, the champion’s huge shield would swipe away his blow.

Even if Etticus managed to parry Hader’s own blade out wide, the relentless warrior simply turned the battle back into his favor, by bashing out with the scutum and forcing the Eagle to defend once more. He realized he had mistakenly fallen into a predictable pattern against this most elite of foes and now Hader was slowly cornering him. Eventually, there would be no where left to run…

Understanding he must do something to shift the momentum of the battle, Etticus suddenly tried something very unorthodox, hoping to catch the champion by surprise. Hader slashed in from the right and he hammered the longsword out wide with a strike from his own blade. As expected, the champion lunged out with the front of his shield, aiming to bludgeon Etticus to the ground—only, Etticus bludgeoned back.

The Eagle Commander met Hader’s shield bash with a thunderous and jarring bash of his own, smashing his kite shield against the larger scutum. Locked in a stalemate, the two swordsmen pushed back against one another testing the other’s strength. With a sudden and explosive spin, Etticus rotated away from Hader’s sword arm and rolled around the edge of the warrior’s great shield, lashing out with his sword in a backhanded slash.

Hader reflexively rolled too, dodging away from the incoming attack, and bringing his longsword around in a backhanded swing of his own. The champion’s quick reaction managed to knock Etticus’ sword just high of beheading him, but not before the blade drew a thin slice across Hader’s cheek, releasing a small trickle of blood.

The Eagle meant to press his advantage, but Hader had already reset and delivered a swift kick to the legionnaire’s stomach, staggering the warrior back before he could strike the champion again. The redheaded man casually reached up to his cheek and dabbed the blood with a fingertip, examining it with great intrigue.

“That’s a marvelous blade you have,” Hader stated, his voice just as charming and undisturbed as it had been before their duel had begun. “Its bite is like none I’ve felt before…”

Panting heavily, Etticus tried catching his breath and nodded in response to the champion’s observation. “I keep it sharp…”

“Hm,” Hader murmured, his eyes narrowing. “Very well, keep your secrets, Umbra. Let me show you one of mine…”

The champion suddenly rushed forward, leading with his shield once more. Etticus tried to sidestep the bullrush, but Hader pivoted, reading exactly where he would go. Unable to dodge the attack, Etticus raised his shield to absorb the blow.

As their shields connected once more, the blade of Hader’s unusual longsword burst through the front of his scutum, striking Etticus’ own shield and sliding up the face of the metal kite with an earsplitting screech. The Eagle Commander narrowly avoided being stabbed between the eyes as Hader’s blade slipped over the edge of his legion shield and grazed his helm.

Etticus staggered back and Hader followed. Just as quickly as he had threaded his longsword through the small opening in the front of the scutum, the champion withdrew it and pressed his sturdy Eagle adversary with more sweeping blows.

Etticus foolishly thought he had broken from Hader’s defeating pattern of attacks, but just as easily, the champion had corralled him back in. The former Eagle Commander didn’t even have time to glance about the Great Hall and evaluate his odds of survival, for Hader’s assault was too overwhelming. With an uncharacteristic and defiant roar, he fought back, focusing all his efforts on not dying.

Olaf heard Etticus’ battle cry but couldn’t see the man through the crowd of enemies that surrounded him and the Wolves still defending Octavia. He could hardly keep his own head above water, much less find a way to aid the Eagle swordman.

The Candors hadn’t taken more than a handful of Wolves’ lives, but still, their numbers were dwindling. The torn bodies of their adversaries decorated the floors of the hall and yet they kept coming. Olaf was quickly realizing they would have to kill every single one of these zealots if they hoped to be victorious.

For some reason or another Saefong had stayed out of the battle thus far, but Olaf seriously doubted the Shadomuria assassin would stand by and watch them murder Tartisius’ entire army. Eventually, the Shadow Dragon would join in…

Olaf tried to sneak a glance at Saefong, or even scan the battlefield in an attempt to find the Candor’s Commander, but he simply couldn’t afford to take his eyes off of the advancing ranks of legionnaires. Enough Wolves had fallen, for the young Amir to be needed in their formation just to hold the Candorians back from completely surrounding them.

Octavia was not large enough, nor skilled enough with a blade to join in that formation, but she did stand directly behind Olaf her hand resting on his back as a gentle reminder she was there. With steel, there was not much she could do, but she did not shy from the Candor Legion’s taunts and cries for battle, and she was quick to thrust her commandeered blade into the flanks of soldiers foolish enough to leave it open to her.

Olaf wasn’t sure why she didn’t just summon another blast of Cursed justice to level these traitorous sons of bitches, but he suspected it had something to do with the raw panic he had seen in her eyes after the initial wave of destruction she had unleashed. Now she was likely too afraid to open up that funnel of power once more, for fear that he and the Wolves would be her next source of energy…

If only Octavia had some kind of mentor to reliably guide her in the ways of this powerful gift…

The sarcastic thought made Olaf’s blood boil and he risked sneaking a peek over his shoulder at the useless Oracle who still cowered on the cold marble floor. The young man snarled in disgust and renewed his assault on the line of Candor troops angrily pressing back against him.

A lot of things could be different, Olaf reminisced bitterly—but they weren’t. So, instead it was up to him to balance the scales and protect the princess. Emboldened by his thoughts and by Octavia’s small palm on his back, the young Amir pressed forward…

Eriana had been completely isolated from her legion at this point. She fought the savage Elberon without a formation or an ally to assist her, and he continued to drive her further and further from the host of Wolves. They had nearly reached the edge of the hall and the shattered windows that lined that surface, and her mighty adversary showed no signs of tiring.

His mastery of the battle axe was truly unmatched, and he chained an onslaught of graceful yet devastating attacks together, any one of which could have chopped the Wolf Commander down like a hollowed tree.

Eriana managed to dodge the majority of those vicious attacks, or parried them with her sundered shield, but never did she try and stop the full force of Elberon’s strikes. She knew even a glancing blow might be enough to shatter her shield—or worse, her bones.

“Why do you fight us?” Elberon demanded angrily, not bothering to slow his assault between words. “The Steward would restore our legions to their former glory. He would reinstate us as lords of the lands. We would be earls and barons—rule our own fiefs!”

“We would be warlords!” Eriana countered vehemently, deflecting another axe strike off the edge of her shield. “We are not fit to govern over lands. We’re warriors, Elberon—not nobles!”

“We deserve the chance to choose!” Elberon growled, striking out with the pommel of his axe’s huge haft.

“We did choose!” Eriana spat in return, slipping the man’s pommel bash, and kneeing him in the gut. Elberon staggered back a few feet. She didn’t attempt to pursue him.

“We chose to be legionnaires,” the fierce woman continued. Her voice was more collected now. “You and I chose this life, and we took oaths…I will not break mine for Rhoric Amir’s vision of grandeur.”

“Not all of us chose this!” Elberon snarled, gesturing to the legion insignia on his chest. “We weren’t all born to renowned father’s, Courtright. Some of us were from casteless families, forced to scrape bugs out of the cold earth just to fill our empty bellies!”

If Eriana sympathized with the Lion’s pitiful words at all, she didn’t show it. Her brow hardened and a look of willful determination settled over her. “The Academy of Harth took you in, they fed you and clothed you—taught you how to fight. Taught you how to read and write…They gave you duty and honor. They gave you responsibility and reward—a new family…”

Eriana paused. A look of disgust clouded her features. “And all you had to do was swear to defend her borders, to do what was right for the Kingdom of Harth…to look after your brothers and sisters who have taken the pledge…But you couldn’t even do that, could you…?”

Elberon bared his teeth in an inaudible growl. His knuckles turned white as he clenched the braided handle of his battle axe.

“Oath breaker…” Eriana whispered. Her lips curled in disgust as she uttered the words.

Elberon howled in outrage and charged the woman, slashing wildly in an attempt to avenge his wounded pride.

Eriana easily slid under the warrior’s murderous strike and spun on her heels, slashing out with her short sword. The small blade bit into the flesh on the back of Elberon’s calves and triggered another enraged scream. He pivoted and dropped his battle axe in a swift chop aimed for her skull.

Eriana stepped inside of the powerful slice and rammed the jagged edge of her shield into the Lion’s stomach, just below his chest. The warrior grunted in pain and dropped his axe, grabbing the smaller woman in his burly arms and trying to wrap her in a smothering bear hug.

The swift, redhaired woman ducked under Elberon’s reach and leapt onto his back, positioning the blade of her short sword to sever his throat. Realizing her angle, the Golden Lion clawed his fingers between his throat and the sharp legion blade just before it bit into his flesh once more. The thick plates of Elberon’s gauntlet protected him from harm.

With Eriana’s blade frozen in his fist, the Lion slowly reached down with his free hand and plucked the shield from his chest letting the bloody armament clatter to the ground. Then Elberon began to stoop ever so slightly, reaching for his discarded battle axe.

Sensing the shift in his balance, Eriana suddenly released her hold on the hilt of her short sword, surrendering the weapon completely to Elberon. At first, the savage legionnaire was confused by the tactic, but he quickly realized the danger he was in.

With both her hands free, Eriana deftly pulled the incredible chain off of her forearm and wrapped it around her adversary’s thick neck. In a panic, he dropped the short sword and attempted to reach up with both hands, pulling the links away from his throat—but it was already too late. The cunning Wolf had secured the metal noose and leapt off his back.

Still holding one end of the chain in her hand, Eriana kicked Elberon with all her might. As the larger man staggered back toward the shattered window, she reached down and swiftly secured the loose end of the chain to the Lion’s battle axe, grabbing her sword as she did.

Elberon caught himself on the frame of the towering window, just before pitching over the edge. He snarled defiantly and invited the woman to attack. Panting, Eriana lunged forward with her blade. She stabbed toward the man’s chest. The Lion warrior released his hold on the window frame and, with unbelievable strength, caught her quivering blade in both hands. His stone grip halted the weapon just before it pierced his skin.

Elberon smirked victoriously in Eriana’s freckled face.

The woman smirked in return, her lips curling into a wolflike grin. She released her hold on the short sword and swiftly kicked out. Her strike thundered against Elberon’s plate armor and sent him careening out the window. The Lion shouted in surprise.

The slack in her chain, still wrapped around his neck, quickly ran out as Elberon plummeted toward the street below. Eriana calmly stepped back as the descending iron links dragged the Lion’s battle axe across the marble floor and toward the shattered window. The lengthy weapon snagged against the portal’s narrow frame and brought her adversary’s fall to a sudden stop. With a sickening snap, Elberon’s shouts came to an abrupt end.

Eriana did not waste time grieving her fallen Lion counterpart. Instead, she reached down and plucked Borris’ bloodied shield off of the cold marble floor. With her short sword somewhere on the street below the Great Hall and no time to hoist Elberon’s corpse back up and reclaim her chain, this was now her only weapon.

The fierce commander was undeterred—she had made do with less.

“You are indeed a magnificent swordman, Umbra!” Hader applauded, while pressing the Eagle Commander with a flurry of beautiful strikes. “Truly—you have my thanks for such an outstanding duel!”

Etticus nearly broke into laughter—at least he would have if his lungs weren’t already screaming for a reprieve. Sweat poured from the man’s brow and he could no longer feel his shield arm from the number of bone-snapping wallops Hader had rained down on it. He didn’t feel like a magnificent swordsman. He felt like a child, hopelessly battling his father in a competition he knew he could not win.

Determined to fight to his very last breath, Etticus clenched his jaw and dug his boots in. It was difficult to tell, but he believed the Wolves were somehow winning the rest of the battle in the Great Hall. Perhaps, if he could just force Hader back onto his heels for a few more minutes…

The thought was erased from Etticus’ mind as a sudden burning pain erupted across the back of his thigh. The warrior collapsed to one knee and quickly twisted his torso to face this new threat, raising his shield protectively. There simply wasn’t enough time for him to defend.

Tartisius, who had quietly flanked the Eagle legionnaire while he was locked in combat with the Champion of the Arena, brought his sword back around for a second strike. The Candor’s blow knocked Etticus’ shield down low, then he delivered a savage kick to the crumpled warrior’s chest. Etticus fell the remaining distance to the floor, landing painfully on his back. Wasting no time, Tartisius brought his blade down for a killing thrust.

At the last second, just before the zealous commander’s blade found Etticus’ throat, a second blade swept it away…That blade was Hader’s. The Champion of the Arena calmly rested his longsword on the prone Eagle’s neck and fixed Tartisius with a chilling glare.

“Why did you do that?” Hader demanded.

Tartisius stared at the tall man incredulously. “Perhaps, you’ve spent too many years dancing around in your little theater playing at war—or maybe you never knew it in the first place. But in a real battle there is no honor. There is no ritual. There’s just death, and the last man standing…”

“We’re not on one of your battlefields,” Hader stated. His tone was still calm, but his frustration shone through. “This is my city. And in my city battles are fought with honor.”

“Pfft.” Tartisius scoffed. “You have lofty ideals Hader—I’ll give you that. But ideals don’t win wars. Blades do.” He glanced down at Etticus who was holding very still, pinned beneath the champion’s longsword. “Now use yours for what it was made for or move it—so I can use mine. Your choice, champion…”

Hader did not respond, nor did he move his blade. His eyes remained fixed on Tartisius.

The Candorian Commander quietly returned his glare.

Neither man showed signs of backing down, and Etticus believed it would soon come to blows. Silently, he prayed for as much, if only to crawl away and bandage his leg…The throbbing pain continued, and he could feel the blood pooling around him. The man would need a miracle if he hoped to survive this…

The Candors seemed to have taken note of Elberon’s brutal defeat. Their morale was swiftly dropping whilst the Wolves appeared to be rallying, emboldened by their own commander’s pivotal victory. With a stirring battle cry the Wolf Legion pushed forward in a wedge, breaking through the Candors’ seemingly impenetrable formation.

Gaining momentum, the Wolves continued to push and soon they were slaying the opposing legion’s warriors in slews. Eriana commanded them forward. She had witnessed shifts in momentum during battles like this before. For the first time sense they walked into this ambush she actually believed victory was within their grasp.

The Candors were routed and appeared to be falling back. Eriana rejoined her surviving fist of Wolves just as they made the dais at the center of the hall. She immediately realized the mistake they had made. The Candorians weren’t retreating…They were regrouping.

Atop the dais, Saefong stood. His hands were casually crossed behind his back. With the slightest of movements, he reached up, calmly flicking his thumbs to pop each katana loose from the sheaths they were stowed in on his belt.

Eriana saw the subtle motion through the scrambling legionnaires all around her. She quickly scanned the battlefield. Her Wolves were too spread out. They had nearly broken formation chasing the Candors across the Great Hall. Instinctually, she slid to a stop spreading her arms wide to slow the Wolves on either side of her.

“Hold!” Eriana shouted loudly.

“Hold?” Olaf questioned from just behind her, nearly trampling the redhead. “But we have them beat—”

The noble son’s words came to a screeching halt as a sound that could only be described as a dancing wind reached his ears. Up on the dais, Saefong drew both katanas and leapt into a violent flurry. His blades spun and slashed with such speed and force that he appeared to be cutting the very air around him, leaving blurry afterimages with every swing.

Within moments all eight Wolves, who had broken from the defensive wedge to pursue the fleeing Candors, fell dead. Their bodies weren’t torn or bludgeoned—they had been cleanly and precisely cut. Many of them likely hadn’t even realized they were dead by the time their consciousness faded.

At the center of those fallen Wolves stood Saefong, katanas held wide. The blades were still pristine with hardly a drop of blood on them—a true testament to just how fast they cut. The Shadomuria assassin looked out over the remaining Wolves. His gaze lingered on Eriana. There was no crazed glimmer in his eyes nor any sign of the rushing adrenaline the rest of them were familiar with when fighting for their lives. He appeared at ease. He appeared ready.

“I gave you a chance already to surrender peacefully,” the Shadomurian warned. “You will not be given another. Lay down your weapons now and surrender the girl to me. No one else should have to die needlessly for her sake…”

Eriana’s will did not waver, nor did the will of her Wolves. Their eyes remained cold, and their hearts steeled. They still faced a hundred Candorian legionnaires and perhaps, two of the most fabled warriors alive, but there was not a trace of fear amongst them. They after all, had fought and killed beasts twice the size of these men. They had defeated legions with nary a casualty amongst them. They did not expect to die today—whether that death was certain or not.

Olaf wanted to taunt the proclaimed dragon, but admittedly his tongue was frozen. He had never seen anyone kill with such proficiency before. The Shadomurian had done it effortlessly. The boy wanted to be brave, but in the face of such dread, he felt that old familiar cowardice creeping up inside of him.

He silently cursed himself and whatever weakling had sired him. Damn this cowardly blood that runs through my veins…Olaf was starting to step away when suddenly he felt Octavia’s hand once more. The girl squeezed his arm reassuringly and slowly slipped past him.

The lithe woman weaved her way through the few remaining ranks of Wolves and stepped out beside Eriana. The redhaired commander glanced down at her, surprised.

“Princess, no…!” Eriana sputtered.

Octavia raised an authoritative hand, demanding silence. The Wolf Commander fell quiet, but her eyes continued to sweep the scene unfolding before her in distress. The young princess dropped her sword at the bottom of the dais and turned to face her loyal warriors.

“What the Shadomurian says is true…No more of you should have to die for me…” She quietly scanned the crowd of confused faces staring back at her. In that crowd she found Olaf’s. The boy was shaking his head, a bewildered look was worn openly on his features.

“You are the greatest men and women a queen could ask for. Each and every one of you is truly worth a dozen of these traitors…But I will not stand by and let you all die for my own gain. What kind of queen would that make me?” Octavia paused, glancing down, and taking a moment to consider.

“You know, a wise friend once gave me a bit of painful advice…” The young woman looked back up, her gaze once again settling on Olaf. “He told me, that if I continue on the path I was heading I would surely find my way to the throne—I may even win it. But by the time the dust settled…there would be nothing left for me to be queen over…no one left…I would be a queen of nothing.”

Olaf stared at the girl, his mouth hanging open as he tried to collect his thoughts. The interaction Octavia referenced was a foolish one, born of hurt feelings and heated emotions. She knew that as much as he did—so why was she choosing now to take that advice so seriously? He slowly shook his head at the girl.

“That’s not the kind of queen I intend to be.” Octavia said with finality. She then turned and looked up the dais toward Saefong. The strange warrior returned her gaze.

After a moment, Saefong nodded indifferently and gestured for the princess to join him on the dais. “I will not harm you, girl. But do not give me reason…”

Octavia released a shaky sigh and quietly ascended the shallow steps to the top of the dais. She stopped just in front of Saefong and turned her back to him in surrender. The warrior silently returned his katanas to their sheaths and removed his purple sash, fashioning it into a restraint for the girl.

Before Saefong could place the sash around Octavia’s arms, she reached into her shirt and wrapped her fingers around the hilt of Yolanda’s small dagger. Listening to the click of the Shadomurian’s katanas returning to their sheaths, the princess suddenly pulled the blade free of its hidden sleeve and spun violently.

Holding the weapon in a backhanded grip, Octavia intended to drive the blade home between Saefong’s ribs, bleeding the warrior out. It was a well-executed attack and should have surely succeeded—against a lesser swordsman.

Saefong knew the attack was coming long before the girl ever reached into her shirt. Returning his blades to their sheaths had merely been a means to an end—bait to lure Octavia’s attack. The Shadomurian swordsman defeated the trick with ease, redrawing the longer of his two weapons just far enough to catch the girl’s stabbing blade on the spine of his katana.

Once the attack was halted, Saefong drew the rest of his blade in a dramatic flurry, disarming Octavia and launching her dagger far from the dais. The girl yelped and the Shadomurian deftly flung his purple sash over her, tightening it and pulling her close.

“Your sacrifice would have been an honorable thing, little one…” Saefong whispered, leaning down near to the girl’s ear. “But I knew that’s not who you are. Still, I respect your will to fight…”

The silence between the two warriors had grown unbearable. Etticus could practically feel the overwhelming weight of tension suffocating him. Their stand-off was surely about to come to a head. He quietly decided to make his move when their first strokes fell—Hader would likely still slit his throat and fend off Tartisius’ attack in the same gesture, but it was a risk Etticus was prepared to take.

“Commander!”

The unexpected call came just in time—Tartisius’ muscles had been bunched and ready to strike. With an exasperated sigh the Candor Commander relaxed his sword arm and responded, annoyed. “What?!”

The legionnaire who had cried to him was less than a dozen feet away, standing near the great ivory doors to the hall, each of them still hung ajar from the Wolves’ dramatic entrance. “There’s a rider coming up the path!”

Tartisius’ eyes remained fixed on Hader, but they narrowed—intrigued by what his soldier had to report. “Are they alone?”

“It appears that way.” The legionnaire confirmed, stepping closer to the great doors, and staring out into the midday sun. “They’re not one of ours…”

The Candorian Commander’s sword drooped even lower, and he casually glanced over his shoulder, still watching Hader out of the corner of his eye. “What crests do they bear?”

The legionnaire shook his head. “None. It looks like unmarked legion armor.”

Tartisius quickly readied his sword again and returned his full attention to Hader. “No matter—seal the doors. We’ll deal with them after we’re finished here…”

The legionnaire saluted and rushed to one side of the huge doorway. A handful of other Candorian troops left behind as the main battle had swept through the Great Hall, joined in on either side of the soldier. Together they began to push, grunting from the exertion. Their feet slipped hopelessly against the bloodied, marble floor, and they failed to make any real progress.

Hader grinned, his smile was lined with perfectly shaped and marvelously white teeth. “Your men appear to be struggling, Commander…”

Tartisius was obviously furious. His gaze shifted from Hader down to Etticus then back again. After several more seconds of hopeless grunting and fumbling from his legionnaires, the Candorian Commander snarled in outrage and swiftly stowed his blade.

“Fine. I’ll do it myself!” He abruptly turned from Hader and moved toward the door, motioning to his handful of struggling legionnaires. “Make yourselves useful and slay the exiled Eagle Commander. If Sir Hader tries to stop, you—bring me his head.”

The soldiers chuckled menacingly and stepped away from the great doors, eagerly drawing their weapons and turning on the Champion of the Arena.

Hader smirked and glanced after Tartisius. “Really?” the champion asked scornfully.

The Candorian Commander snickered. Placing a hand on either door, he looked back over his shoulder. “Your choice, Hader. It’s treason to get in the way of a legionnaire carrying out his orders. The crown will have your head—or I will.”

Etticus slowly glanced up into Hader’s eyes. Without turning his head, the champion returned his gaze, looking down his nose at the prone warrior. After many seconds of contemplation, Hader sighed and took a step back, sheathing his longsword.

Etticus watched as the warrior resolved himself. The Eagle sighed as well, painfully rolling onto his knees into a crouch, he gestured to his discarded sword by Hader’s boots. “Well at least give me a blade so I can die fighting…”

The champion nodded and kicked the weapon across the marble floor. It slid to a stop inches from Etticus and the wounded man scooped it up, giving it a familiar swing.

“Come on then…” The Eagle swordsman growled defiantly, beating on his chest with his free hand. “I reckon I’ll still kill the lot of you!”

The Candorians continued to chuckle as they slowly surrounded Etticus. They were like a pack of lesser predators circling in for the kill on an unfortunate apex they never would have challenged under normal circumstances.

It was a rare thing for a lowly legionnaire to be granted a shot at slaying one of the ten legion commanders. The zealous warriors intended to bask in every second of it. Behind them the huge doors started to creak shut as Tartisius threw his strength against them…

Just before the legionnaires made their move on Etticus, a strange whooshing sound drew their attention. They quickly turned their heads, curious to find the source of the noise.

Staring between the great doors and down the path into the city, Tartisius suddenly yelped in surprise—or rather he tried to. Before his lungs could gather the air to even make such a sound, a huge longsword, flipping end over end, flew through the great doors and impaled the Candorian Commander.

The momentum of the hurtled weapon lifted the man off his feet and carried him back. Tartisius clattered to the ground, sliding several feet and leaving a streak of dark blood on the marble floor. Screeching accompanied the commander’s journey, as the razor-sharp tip of the longsword protruding out of his back dragged along the hard ground.

Eventually, the man’s limp body came to a halt. He lay very still, and it was obvious he was dead—likely killed in an instant by the vicious blade now rising from his corpse.

The commotion of Tartisius’ sudden and brutal death seemed to have drawn the attention of everyone in the room, including Saefong and Octavia who were locked in a brief struggle atop the dais at the center off the hall.

Etticus was eye level with the longsword standing upright only a handful of feet from where he crouched. His gaze traveled up the expanse of the blade, already covered in blood and not just Tartisius’, until it at last came to rest on the weapon’s beautifully ornamented and imposing hilt.

The eyes of a lunging wolf, hewn into the sword’s pommel, returned his gaze…

44

INVINCIBLE

Olaf caught his breath as the heads of every soldier around him swiveled, turning to face the great doors they had stormed in through. The young man didn’t immediately turn with them. Instead, his gaze remained fixed on Octavia, bound by Saefong’s sash, and restrained by the intimidating warrior. He wanted to meet the princess’ gaze, to try and assemble some plan to free her, but she couldn’t be bothered to look his way…

Octavia’s eyes were fixed on the same thing the legionnaires were mesmerized by—even Saefong’s gaze had come to rest on the entrance to the Great Hall. Olaf considered taking his chance and making an attempt to wound or even kill the distracted Shadomurian, but he thought better of it. Even distracted, the warrior would likely still repel his best efforts, and if he wasn’t careful Octavia might be hurt in the process.

With a defeated sigh, Olaf turned to see what the others were so interested in. Unable to see the door from where he stood near the front of the formation, the noble son began to push his way through the Wolves’ ranks.

Etticus didn’t even realize it, but he was holding his breath. The entire hall was eerily silent, and all eyes seemed to be fixed on Tartisius’ body. The second, dead legion commander in a matter of minutes…

The small gap in the hall’s great doors widened ever so slightly and a massive black hound pushed its way through. The beast, nearly as large as a full-grown wolf, stalked forward on a meandering path. Huge, throaty growls emanated from the monstrous hound and spittle foamed on its chops. Every Candorian soldier it came within a dozen feet of took several cautious steps back, including the legionnaires charged with killing Etticus.

Then, with a great creak, the doors opened completely, slowly pushed from the outside by a lone man…Grim.

Etticus had never been more grateful to see the menacing warrior…

Just as Tartisius’ legionnaire had claimed, he was dressed in unmarked legion armor. It was different than the armor Etticus had worn—older, and more meticulously crafted. Unique in every way. The assassin had painted it black, or perhaps he had found it that way, and a heavy leather cloak nearly dragged the floor in his wake.

The assassin’s face was clean shaven. Only a shadow of his former beard remained, dark stubble lining his jaw. His hair had grown long but was tied in a tight knot on the crown of his head. His gray eyes were cold—colder than Etticus remembered—and they were scanning the room, searching. Calculating.

Those eyes swept over the Eagle Commander and quickly moved on, clearly not interested in the dire situation he seemed to be in. Etticus gulped and a shiver ran down his back. He almost felt bad for whatever person did earn the assassin’s interest…

Grim took a deep breath and prowled into the room. Despite the eerie quiet his boots didn’t make a sound. Only the rumble of his hound’s angry snarls disrupted the uncomfortable silence, echoing throughout the destroyed chamber.

Etticus believed the assassin looked far more dangerous than he ever had before. More so than their first encounter in a, not so different, chamber in Everharth. He was all business. And his business was death…

Olaf was grunting with exertion as he pushed his way through the crowd.

“What? What is it?” The boy asked no one in particular.

His voice trembled with nerves and frustration. When he at last pushed past the final rank of Wolves he felt his heart skip a beat and his jaw fell open. He didn’t trust what he was seeing with his own two eyes.

Olaf shook his head, blinking repeatedly. At first, he was speechless—full of disbelief. Then, he felt an overwhelming sense of joy rising up inside of him and he couldn’t help but smile from ear to ear. By some unknown miracle, completely unfathomable to him, it seemed, Grim—a man he had once believed to be nothing short of immortal—had returned from the dead and was strolling through the Great Hall of Brumex.

To see the assassin here, ripped entirely out of time and place, shrouded in all black and accompanied by the giant Ovalander warhound, was haunting…But Olaf had learned a long time ago to love his terrifying presence.

As if suddenly freed from his trance and once more returned the gift of gab, Olaf threw a victorious fist in the air and shouted a single word in elation, “YES!”

No sooner had the word left his mouth than Olaf felt a cold rush of air fly past him. Startled, the boy glanced around just in time to see Saefong fall out of the air, landing gracefully on his feet and exploding toward the assassin in a dead sprint.

Olaf’s heart sank. His friend had only just been returned to him. He couldn’t watch the man die again. “Grim…!”

Grim’s eyes narrowed. He heard Olaf’s call, but he had already seen the Shadomurian warrior approaching. In fact, his gaze had already swept the chamber, analyzing the battlefield in a way only a few could. Which is why he had seen Saefong standing in the elevated center of the hall…Holding Octavia hostage.

The imagery brought the assassin back to a darker day—a day in which he had entered a chamber in Chala seeking to slay the young princess, not rescue her. The thought angered Grim, and his lips curled into a snarl, even as Saefong pushed Octavia back into his ranks of Candor legionnaires and leapt from the dais.

The Shadomurian was unbelievably fast. Too fast. He would reach Grim before the assassin could reach his longsword, still impaled in Tartisius’ mangled corpse.

So be it.

Saefong leapt into the air, his momentum carrying him the last dozen feet toward Grim with ease. Crossing his katanas at the base of each blade, the warrior meant to behead the unarmed assassin before a drawn-out fight could ensue…

With a growl, Grim deftly unfastened his cloak and spun in a full rotation. The force of his spin filled the leather cloak with wind and lifted it off his shoulders. Just as the assassin finished his pirouette, he released his hold on the cloak and launched the heavy leather mantle into the air, directly into Saefong’s line of sight.

The Shadow Dragon was hardly deterred by the assassin’s flamboyant display of footwork nor his ragged cape. With a satisfied hiss and a sharp exhale, Saefong slashed his katanas left and right, aiming to cut straight through the obstacle and bear down on the cowardly reaper hiding behind it…

Anticipating the Shadomurian’s hubris, Grim lunged forward just behind his discarded cloak and reached forward with an outstretched palm, fingers spread wide. The mighty and resilient iron of his gauntlet collided with both of Saefong’s blades through the leather barrier between them, at the exact point where the katanas crossed. Clenching his fist down around the single edged blades, Grim stepped forward and leaned into the airborne Shadomurian warrior.

Saefong grunted in surprise, taken off guard as he collided with the much more heavily armored assassin. Grim bulled him over, completely reversing the Shadomurian’s momentum and slamming him into the marble floor with devastating force.

Saefong gasped in pain and fought to wiggle out from underneath Grim and his suffocating traveling cloak. It was a desperate and messy struggle, but ultimately the Shadomurian was outweighed and outmatched in this battle of pure strength.

Still, clinging tightly to Saefong’s katanas through the leather cloak, Grim began to slowly pry them from the smaller man’s grasp. The nimble warrior wouldn’t give the weapons up without a fight. The assassin began raining blow after blow down onto Saefong’s shrouded face with his unarmed, free hand.

At last, the smaller swordsman’s powerful grip gave out and Grim ripped the dual katanas away from him along with the heavy, black cloak that still concealed them. The assassin discarded the messy pile of belongings to the side and held Saefong down. His bare hand was wrapped loosely around the man’s throat, whilst his heavily armored off hand was cocked for another beating.

The two most dangerous of men met the other’s gaze for the first time. Grim’s eyes were wild and full of rage. Saefong’s were still wide with shock and his mouth was bloodied, but he hid his emotions well, doing his best to appear unperturbed…

The room was silent. The soldiers within held their positions. All eyes were fixed on Grim and Saefong.

“Stand the Candors down.” Grim demanded. “…Release, Octavia.”

Revenant’s huge, frothing muzzle appeared in Saefong’s peripheral and the hound issued a long, low growl that promised death should he not comply with the assassin’s every command.

“I will not.” Saefong answered plainly, unphased by the Reaper or his menacing hound.

Grim sneered and with terrifying ease he hoisted the Shadomurian to his feet, then off the ground entirely. The assassin’s arm stretched upward and Saefong was suspended in the air clawing at Grim’s powerful forearm and wheezing painfully.

“Tell your men to stand down!” The assassin roared angrily, his voice thundering through the Great Hall.

Eriana shuddered as Grim’s voice echoed in her ears. She knew he was just a man. She had faced real monsters, and yet—standing there, holding the most renowned warrior in the known world like a child, he was scarier than any Drul she had ever faced…

She didn’t know how he was alive. Perhaps, Octavia and the others had lied to her, or perhaps they were as shocked by his sudden and violent arrival as she was…Eriana couldn’t know for certain. What she did know was, the scales had just been equalized.

Saefong continued to writhe and fight for air, but the assassin’s hold was like an iron vice—there was no way out. At last, the warrior went limp and began to desperately tap the larger man’s hand in surrender. Grim held him aloft for a few seconds longer before loosening his hold just enough to drop the Shadomurian to his tiptoes.

Saefong wheezed for a moment longer, trying to collect himself after the assassin’s abuse.

“Give the order.” Grim demanded impatiently, hooking his chin toward the dais elevating Octavia and her captors.

Saefong calmly looked up, meeting the assassin’s deadly glare. “Very well. Execute the girl!”

The words had barely left the Shadomurian’s mouth when Grim’s strong hand clamped back down on his throat, squeezing his windpipe closed. It wasn’t quick enough, however. The Candors had heard the command.

Upon the dais the man restraining Octavia drew a wicked knife off his belt and brought it to the girl’s neck. Having anticipated Saefong’s ruthless command, Eriana was already charging the stand and spiked the legionnaire-turned-executioner with Borris’ jagged shield. The Wolf Commander threw the skewered man back into his advancing comrades and pulled Octavia behind the protection of the kite shield.

Eriana’s Wolves surged forward. They spear headed after her own brash assault of the Candor’s front rank. Battle rejoined anew in the hall as the legions collided a second time in one final, epic struggle.

“Push them back!” Eriana shouted over the ring of steel. “Now is our hour—now we defeat them!”

Octavia recovered her dagger and pressed forward with Eriana and her Wolves. Fighting for her life and exhilarated by the scope and sheer momentum of the scene unfolding before her, the girl couldn’t help but echo the Wolves’ battle cry.

Only Olaf did not spill forward with the rest of the Wolf Legion. The noble son rushed in the opposite direction, charging back the way they had come to aid Grim.

The assassin had once more tightened his hold on Saefong, but the nimble warrior’s feet still grazed the marble floor. With an explosive leap, the Shadomurian jumped into the air and wrapped his legs around Grim’s arm. The assassin quickly moved to smash Saefong against the blood-soaked floor of the Great Hall, but the Shadomurian wasn’t finished.

Saefong kicked Grim hard across the jaw and staggered the tall warrior to his knees. Feeling his iron grip loosen, the Shadow Dragon burst free from the assassin’s hold and rolled into a backwards somersault, coming up into a crouch beside Grim’s discarded cloak.

Saefong quickly retrieved his katanas from that heap of leather and fell into a ready stance, square with the reaper. The Shadomurian cocked his head toward Tartisius’ crumpled body.

“Fetch your sword, Reaper. Now you will fight me as a man, not a beast.”

Grim smirked knowingly and slowly rose to his full height. He calmly stalked across the hall to retrieve his longsword. The assassin grasped the wolf-headed hilt and wrenched the blade free of Tartisius’ guts. The violent motion lifted the dead man up with the sword before tossing his corpse to the side like a ragdoll.

Grim continued to stalk his way around the Shadomurian warrior. Revenant prowled opposite the assassin, snarling and snapping Saefong’s direction. Tarvidios’ General appeared unbothered by the massive hound…

“You are Shadomurian.” Grim stated. “You’ve come a long way just to die…”

Saefong did not return the assassin’s smirk. His face remained indifferent, uncaring. “I am not just Shadomurian—I am Shadow Dragon. You might wear your hair like my people, Reaper, but it would seem you still have much to learn of our ways…”

“Hah!” Grim mocked, dipping into a half-assed Shadomurian ritual bow. “A thousand apologies. I didn’t recognize you, mighty Shadow Dragon, without your…purple towel.”

Now Saefong did smile, but it was a sad smile—almost pitying. “You’re just like the other northerners—arrogant and foolish. I had hoped this would be a satisfying duel. It seems I am to be little more than a butcher…”

Clattering boots drew both warriors’ gaze before Grim could offer a barbed rebuttal. In unison their heads turned to find Olaf Amir rushing across the hall.

“No, no, no…” Grim whispered. “Stay out of this!” The assassin demanded, raising his voice so it would carry to the approaching boy’s ears, now within a dozen yards of them.

Perhaps, Olaf didn’t hear the assassin’s call over his own stomping feet, or maybe he was still the same pigheaded youth Grim had plucked from the jaws of death numerous times before—either way the boy continued his charge. He was nearly within reach of Saefong’s murderous katanas…

Knowing Olaf was as good as dead if he didn’t, Grim lunged forward with blinding speed. Revenant lunged as well, jaws reaching for the Shadomurian warrior’s unguarded leg. The youthful Amir pressed Saefong from the other side, striking out with a snaking jab.

The Shadow Dragon countered them all.

Reaching into his pocket, Saefong pulled forth a handful of strange powder which he threw into the mouth and eyes of the lunging hound. Revenant immediately halted his assault and began coughing and sneezing, pawing at his face helplessly. In the same motion Saefong spun and parried Olaf’s thrust wide, allowing the foolish boy to pass by harmlessly. The Shadomurian extended his leg and tripped him to the ground.

Then Saefong pivoted on his back foot and met Grim’s sweeping longsword with a crossed guard from both katanas. The power of the assassin’s blow pushed the Shadomurian back a couple of feet. Unharmed, Saefong withdrew his katanas from their defensive position, and he quickstepped inside of Grim’s reach, launching into a flurry of powerful slashes, all aimed at the larger warrior’s center mass.

With a snarl, Grim began backpedaling rapidly to avoid being torn apart by the Shadow Dragon’s onslaught. Still, he was forced to intercept each of the katanas with his own gauntlet or longsword. The cacophony of steel beating against steel and iron rasping iron droned in his ears, making it difficult to even think of his next move.

Grim dipped and spun underneath a nearly invisible slash of the Shadomurian’s longer katana, then kicked out to the side aiming to buckle his adversary’s knee. Saefong checked the kick with his shin then spun into his own high kick.

The assassin caught the nimble warrior’s leg in the pit of his sword arm and pinned it there. Deftly, Grim threw the wolf-headed blade into his offhand and struck to sever Saefong’s trapped leg.

The Shadomurian was a step ahead of the assassin’s cruel blade, bracing on his grounded foot and leaping into the air kicking up and smashing the warrior’s strong jaw. Grim staggered back under the immense force of that kick and Saefong managed to snake his foot out of the man’s grasp. The assassin’s mighty blow fell just short of chopping the Shadomurian’s leg in half, cracking the marble floor and sending bits of debris ricocheting across the hall.

Saefong somersaulted into the air and kicked out with both feet.

Grim managed to block the blow this time, but was still thrown back a yard or more, iron fingers screeching against the floor to slow his unintended retreat. Saefong landed cleanly on his feet and moved to pursue the assassin, only just then Olaf rejoined their clash once more.

The young Amir slid to his knees and tried to cut Saefong’s feet out from under him, but the Shadomurian was far too agile to be defeated in such a way. He leapt over Olaf and hammered the boy’s sword with both katanas, knocking the weapon out of his grasp. When the Shadow Dragon landed, he spun and flicked both blades across the noble son’s face leaving deep gouges above each of his eyes.

Olaf cried out in pain and in an instant his brows were gushing blood, blinding him to Saefong’s next attack. Fumbling to recover his sword, on his knees and unable to see, he was as good as dead. But the Shadomurian’s next strike did not come for him.

Saefong was forced to shift his focus once more, turning to meet Grim’s newest attack. He gulped with surprise as he was nearly overwhelmed by the speed of the assassin’s assault. For the first time, the Shadomurian was forced onto his heels, deflecting blow after blow of the hungry longsword.

Grim went high then low then fainted high before striking out with his pommel and bludgeoning Saefong. Then the assassin spun, or started to, but he fainted that as well reversing his spin and striking back the opposite direction. The Shadow Dragon hopped over the blade but was caught by Grim’s fist as he followed the slash with a left hook. Still, Saefong recovered, landing on his back and immediately kicking up to his feet. Grim’s sword continued its pursuit of him.

They danced left and right and Saefong tried to slip between the assassin’s crushing blows, anything to go back on the offensive. Grim hounded him, once more going low, but fainting again then chopping down from on high with a heavy strike.

Knowing the assassin would not faint a second consecutive blow, Saefong crossed his katanas up high to intercept the powerful chopping blade before it could gain momentum, then he savaged Grim’s face with yet another kick!

Grim happily accepted the blow to his battered jaw and Saefong realized too late that the assassin had lured him into this exact position on purpose.

In exchange for the painful boot to his face, Grim lunged out with his armored off hand, catching both katana blades once more and twisting Saefong into an awkward position. The assassin disengaged his longsword from the mess and poised it to cut the helpless Shadomurian down.

Saefong released his hold on each weapon and instead grabbed Grim’s sword arm, freezing the man’s killing strike. The assassin in turn released his own hold on the wolf-headed longsword and let the sudden weight of the huge weapon drag the Shadomurian’s hands down. In that split second of vulnerability, Grim bashed his forehead into Saefong’s surprised face and sent the man reeling back.

Fighting through the pain and the nausea of the assassin’s blow, Saefong twisted underneath the long handle of Grim’s sword and heaved it over his back, proceeding to chop downward like an executioner aiming for his larger foe’s chest.

Grim threw down the katanas and deflected the meager blow from his own blade with the intrepid iron gauntlet.

With unbelievable speed, Saefong released the longsword and dove to the ground, catching each katana in opposing hands before they ever reached the marble floor. Never losing his momentum, the Shadow Dragon rolled to his feet and brought both blades up in a slash intended to disembowel the overextended assassin.

It was very likely the move would have been successful too, had Revenant not suddenly locked his great maw around Saefong’s black tunic, pulling the warrior back and thrashing him like a toy, before tossing the dazed warrior back to the floor with a resounding smack!

Saefong recovered to his feet and squared himself with Grim’s huge hound, though his vision was still swimming with pain. The giant black beast snarled menacingly. The Shadomurian braced himself for another attack, not sure if he could survive yet another barrage from the assassin’s furious longsword.

Grim’s unexpected snicker startled Saefong, and he glanced up from Revenant’s intelligent eyes. The assassin smirked scornfully, and he held that wicked Wolf blade at a lazy angle, dipping toward the ground. Confused, the Shadomurian glanced about inspecting the battlefield—something he had lost track of during his harrowing minutes locked in battle with this Reaper creature.

Then he saw it—the source of Grim’s amusement. The Candor Legion had been defeated. The Wolves had completely routed them, killing over half of the zealous legionnaires, and forcing the survivors to surrender. Two dozen of them kneeled in the center of the hall, swords thrown down against the marble floor and heads hung in shame. Less than a dozen gallant Wolves stood just behind them, prepared to finish the job if called upon.

Eriana had drawn near. Her ugly tarnished shield, the only weapon left in her arsenal, hung from an exhausted arm by her waist. Still, her gaze was harsh and undefeated—she was prepared to order her Wolves to finish this…

Octavia stood close to Eriana’s side. The thin young woman appeared completely unscathed. Her emerald, green eyes were no less vibrant than ever, though, the blood stains on her dagger indicated that gaze may lack some of its previous innocence…

It was hard for Saefong to admit—he hadn’t expected this result. The Shadomurian turned and directed his words to Eriana. “They’re a vicious pack of hounds that you lead, Wolf…But they’re loyal, and they’re brave—both things my clan hold in highest honors. You have my respect.”

Eriana’s face darkened and her eyes raked over Saefong like a cavalry charge. She issued no response to the man’s praise.

Saefong shrugged. He did not care what the stark faced woman thought of him—she did not understand. His attention was summoned back to the assassin as Grim began speaking once more.

“Your sword or mine, Shadomurian?”

Kneeling on the ground, not far from the two men, Olaf was quietly trying to stem the flow of blood from his brow and clear his vision. He thought Grim’s question very strange, and he was not the only one who didn’t understand. Octavia also watched the exchange curiously.

Grim scooped his leather cloak off the marble floor and deftly secured it to his shoulder. Then he spoke up once more. “I’m short of time, hunter. What is your preference…?”

Unable to stomach the assassin’s nuanced taunts any longer, Saefong’s brilliant resolve finally shattered.

“Do not speak like you have any real understanding of my people, Reaper!” The Shadomurian hissed, spitting a gob of blood in Grim’s direction. “You are not like them. You are like the others—the men who butchered my village, slaughtered my clan! You are without honor…”

Grim shrugged, unphased by Saefong’s angry words. Admittedly, he had been called much worse in the past. “Your words are riddles, Shadomurian. I don’t know what you speak of—nor do I care…”

Saefong scoffed. “Fool. Like them, you fight like an animal…”

The assassin scoffed in return and shook his head with a wry grin. “I fight like a man. It is you who are the fool…for thinking there is a difference…”

Saefong shook his head at the killer’s bitter response. He turned to face Hader. The Champion of the Arena had remained silent throughout the battle, electing to watch and see how things unfolded. He seemed content with his decision to do so.

“And you, Sir Hader?” Saefong questioned. “Will you cower like these other animals, or join me in a glorious death?”

Hader shook his head somberly. “Just surrender, Saefong. There’s no honor in dying like this…”

“Hmph.” Saefong snorted then turned back to face Grim, striking his katanas together repeatedly in challenge. The warrior shouted over the deafening cadence of his ringing steel. “So be it. I will slay you all!”

45

GUARDIAN GHOSTS

Yolanda gripped The Shroud’s wheel and braced herself against the ship’s helm. The current remained violent and unpredictable from the crumbled viaduct, but they had at least made it into relatively open waters. The corpses of fallen Lions churned in the chaotic waves alongside debris from upriver. She was using every ounce of her strength to keep the galleon’s rudder from steering them straight into the base of the towering cliffs that Brumex’s city proper was perched upon.

“There!”

The abrupt cry startled Yolanda and she glanced down to The Shroud’s gunwale, where Suileabhain was leaning, shielding his eyes, and staring out across the Einrill. She tried to follow his gaze, but huge waves relentlessly slapped the galleon’s hull and sprayed water sixty feet and more into the air, blocking her line of sight.

“There, what?!” Yolanda demanded, scanning the deck as she did to ensure none of her crew had been swept away.

“There they are!” Suileabhain elaborated hotly. “I see McCrank and the boy on the shore. He’s waving for aid. I believe they’re injured…”

Yolanda shook her head. There was nothing she could do for her captain now, except stop his ship from splintering on the rocky coast.

“You have to bring the ship about!” Suileabhain exclaimed.

“NO!” Yolanda argued back over the thunderous waves. “If we try and turn out of the current, the river will capsize us!”

“Argh,” Suileabhain groaned. “Then your medicus must swim!”

The “medicus” was a pudgy and heavily tattooed man, who happened to be packing away one of The Shroud’s many sails so a rogue gust of wind wouldn’t pull them onto the banks of the Einrill.

The man dropped what he was doing and looked at Suileabhain in shock. “But I can’t swim!” The fat man declared fearfully.

“You can’t swim?!” Suileabhain echoed incredulously. “But you’re a pirate—you live on a boat!”

“Hardly any of them can swim!” Yolanda cried out irritably. “They don’t make a habit of falling in!”

The mercenary fumed with outrage and mumbled a string of curses involving the uselessness of pirates. At last, he reached out to the medicus. “Give me your medical satchel!”

The man looked at him stupidly for a moment.

Yolanda watched the exchange from the stern deck where she continued to fight the rudder. When the medicus didn’t immediately surrender his supplies, she shouted impatiently. “Give the merc’ your damned bag, Quincy, before I throw you under The Shroud’s keel!”

Quincy needn’t know further encouragement and quickly fumbled the satchel from his tunic, handing it to the mad mercenary with a quivering hand.

Suileabhain snatched the satchel away and strapped it to his own belt before hopping up onto the gunwale and glancing down into the water.

“Good luck, mercenary!” Yolanda shouted over the crashing waves. “If you make it to McCrank, try and find higher ground—the tides coming in. These banks will soon be underwater!”

Suileabhain nodded his understanding, then without further hesitation he leapt into the churning waters of the Einrill, disappearing below the surface.

The mercenary was quickly lost from Yolanda’s line of sight. She shook her head and whispered under her breath, “Crazy son of a bitch…”

Gripping the ship’s wheel, she held it on course with all her might, letting the Einrill carry them down the channel and out to sea…

Captain McCrank nearly laughed out loud as a drenched Suileabhain breached the surface of a wave and fought his way to shore, medicus satchel and all. The pirate was too exhausted to offer him a proper greeting, but he silently waved him over.

Suileabhain stomped out of the shallows and collapsed beside McCrank and Ansel—the latter of the two was laying very still, the mercenary wasn’t even sure he was breathing…

“I can’t believe you came.” McCrank coughed in disbelief. “You really are mad!”

“Silence, pirate…” Suileabhain wheezed in return, lying on his back, and staring up at the midday sun.

McCrank gestured to Ansel, exhausted. “I don’t know how the damn boy ended up in the river. He must have lost his balance and fallen overboard…”

Suileabhain slowly sat up and pulled himself closer to the nearly drowned duo. “He didn’t fall, you lack-brained goat. He jumped!”

“Jumped?” McCrank asked incredulously. “The fool can barely walk with those twisted limbs—why would he think he could swim?!”

“He wasn’t thinking.” Suileabhain groaned. “He was trying to save you!”

“Me?” Captain McCrank’s tone suddenly shifted, realizing the mercenary was correct. “Ah, the child’s a damned fool. But he has a good heart…” The pirate glanced toward the mercenary, his face turning desperate. “You can’t let him die, Suil. Not after he just tried to save my life…”

“Not to mention the girl will kill you if he expires on your watch…” Suileabhain added slyly.

“Aye,” McCrank agreed with a tired nod. “And there’s that.”

Suileabhain leaned in close to Ansel’s mouth and felt for breath. “He’s not breathing…” the mercenary exclaimed, rolling the gangly boy onto his back and beginning to pound on his chest.

Ansel wasn’t moving. His body lay limp, even as the mercenary beat on it.

“Oh, for the love of the Black Trees,” Captain McCrank groaned anxiously. “I implore you—you have to get him breathing again, mercenary!”

“Shut up!” Suileabhain howled angrily, still hammering Ansel’s chest. “Let me work—let me think!”

The mercenary leaned down and tried to force air into the drowned boy’s lungs, breathing straight into his mouth.

Still, nothing.

Suileabhain tried the mouth-to-mouth approach a couple more times before reverting back to his chest pounding compressions. Ansel remained silent and unmoving. For all intents and purposes, the boy appeared dead…

“Shit!” McCrank cursed. “Shit, shit, shit!”

“Quiet, pirate!” Suileabhain snarled, his marred face twisting angrily. The mercenary continued to hammer the boy’s chest and breathe air into his lungs long past the point anyone else would still have been trying.

Captain McCrank was about to call the man off his hopeless mission when suddenly, Ansel’s body lurched and the boy shot straight up, coughing seawater all over himself and vomiting what was left onto the wet beach.

Suileabhain collapsed in exhaustion and breathed a great sigh of relief.

Ansel shied away from the mercenary as soon as he became aware of his surroundings, shuffling back through the sand.

“Oh, praise you mercenary!” Captain McCrank roared in joy, dipping his head in a bow and tipping the brim of his sopping wet hat. “You just saved two lives…”

Realizing Suileabhain was responsible for resuscitating him, Ansel slowly cocked his head then scooted back across the sand. He draped the mercenary in a lengthy hug and moaned his appreciation.

At first Suileabhain recoiled from the odd boy’s abrupt touch, but exhausted and with nowhere to run, not to mention the arrow wound now reopened on his arm, he eventually gave in and let Ansel squeeze him graciously.

The mercenary caught McCrank grinning at him over the boy’s shoulder, and he fixed the man with a most hateful of stares. “Not a fucking word, pirate…”

The captain grinned all the wider but said nothing. Instead, he braced himself against the cliff face behind him and pushed himself upright, looking about the slender beachhead.

“I see a small footpath!” The pirate exclaimed, nodding to an unassuming trail a hundred or so feet upriver.

“Good.” Suileabhain replied, jerkily disengaging from Ansel’s embrace, and pushing the boy away from him. Then he stood and began to make his way over to McCrank. Ansel coughed and smiled happily, rising to pursue the pirate and the mercenary.

“Your First Mate said the tide would be rising soon and that we should make for higher ground, before we’re swept out into the Southern Sea…”

“Truly?” McCrank questioned. “Well, Yolanda has a good eye for the tides—even in unfamiliar waters. If she says it’s coming in, then it’s coming in.” He paused, gesturing with his hat to the overgrown footpath winding up the cliff. “I reckon this will lead out into the upper city somewhere.”

Suileabhain shrugged and pushed past the pirate. “Anywhere is better than here…”

McCrank began to follow, but both men’s attention was suddenly drawn back to the beach. Ansel was making a strange throaty noise, akin to a growl. His eyes were fixed on the river. The boy began to back away from the water fearfully.

“What the hell is wrong with him…?” Suileabhain’s words trailed off as a massive cloud of black sand erupted from the frothing waters of the Einrill and rushed past them.

The sand swirled and twisted chaotically, quickly clawing its way up the cliff face and toward the city proper. Strange and inhuman noises emanated from within the cloud. Something deep and droning followed in its wake, shaking loose pebbles free and showering the three soaked men on the beach with debris. They were forced to cover their heads and look away as the swirling cloud disappeared from view.

“What in Thondel’s name…?” Suileabhain started, gasping for air, and glancing between the Einrill and Brumex.

“I don’t think that thing has anything to do with Thondel…” McCrank whispered, briefly staring up the cliff in disbelief. He grabbed Ansel’s shoulder and hurried the boy along, motioning to Suileabhain as well. “Come on! No time to waste, lads. It’s after the girl!”

Grim listened to Saefong’s outburst with an uninterested look on his hardened brow. The assassin was absently fiddling with his gauntlet, brushing his fingers over the many shallow cuts that decorated the cold iron armament. The wolf headed longsword was propped lazily against his shoulder, steel tip balancing precariously on the marble floor.

When at last the assassin looked up and met the Shadomurian’s outraged gaze, there was an ominous tint in his own eyes. That look promised pain and a slow demise.

“There will be no glorious death for you, Shadomurian…I will make sure of that.”

Saefong arched a questioning eyebrow and cocked his head at the assassin curiously. “Who are you to say what glory there is in my death, Reaper…?”

Presumably, Grim satisfied himself with whatever he was messing with on the iron gauntlet and picked his sword up, taking a menacing step in Saefong’s direction. “You are painfully mistaken if you think I’ll allow you to die here. In battle. In this hall…You will be defeated, but the final stroke will not fall. I’ll preserve your life, only to strip you naked and parade you through the streets of Brumex.”

Eriana and Etticus both glanced at the assassin in morbid disbelief, but he was not finished with his promise just yet.

“Then, I will march you to the largest square in this city and I will personally chop off one of your limbs—or maybe I’ll get creative and cut something else off. But you will not die. My strikes are precise. I will preserve you.”

Grim took another intimidating step forward.

“After Brumex, I’ll shackle you to a mule and lead you across Harth. The insects will bite at your tender, exposed flesh and in time you will be covered in your own piss and shit and blood…I’ll be careful to feed you just enough to keep you alive, and if you refuse to eat, I’ll break your jaw and force the food down your throat. We’ll stop in every Harthian city and outpost, and I’ll cut off another body part and nail it to each of their gates. Eventually, sickness and infection will take you and you’ll die shivering in the night, without a sword or sign of battle to be seen…”

Grim paused briefly to ensure his words had sunk into the Shadomurian’s stubborn head. “So, you tell me Shadow Dragon…Does that sound like a glorious death to you?”

Saefong stood speechless for many seconds before a cunning smile at last spread across his face. The warrior tipped his head to Grim. “You are far cleverer than you appear, assassin…”

The Shadomurian’s gaze circled the room, and he took in the faces of all those surrounding him. “You might have saved their lives today, but it is a downward spiraling path this queen leads them on…”

Now he looked directly at Grim and raised the shorter of his two katanas like an index finger, gesturing to the assassin. “When next we meet, Reaper—I will avenge those words…”

Saefong held Grim’s gaze for a moment before spinning and sprinting for a gap in the Wolves’ formation. They attempted to close rank and hold him there, but the Shadomurian was simply too fast. He leapt over their flailing blades and dove through one of the shattered, towering window frames.

Grim quietly breathed a sigh of relief.

“Follow him!” Eriana shouted to her Wolves, ordering them to pursue the nimble warrior.

“What’s the point?” Hader suddenly spoke up, aiding a limping Etticus in crossing the hall to be at Eriana’s side. “That’s a forty-foot drop or more. No one could survive that fall. He chose death on his own terms—a sentiment I can respect.”

Grim was shaking his head in disagreement with the champion’s assessment. “That’s not so far a drop for a Shadomurian…”

“Why would you run him off?!” Eriana demanded angrily, stepping forward to confront the assassin. “We could have slain him here. He was prepared to fight—and die!”

Grim turned his cold gaze on Eriana and shrugged. “I agree. We could have beaten him. But at what cost…?”

Eriana seemed taken aback by the assassin’s unexpected response. She stammered for a rebuttal, but no coherent words formed on her lips.

“I would not fret over the Shadomurian,” Grim continued. “No one will make it through the blockade on this city.”

“The blockade?” Eriana suddenly remembered the rest of her embattled legion. “They’re okay…?”

“As far as I can tell,” the assassin replied. “I suspect the Legion of Candor has surrendered by now…”

Grim’s words were cut short at the sound of rushing feet. He was compelled to pivot and face the unknown threat. With great determination the assassin stayed his sword arm, letting the long weapon droop to the ground and then drop entirely.

No sooner had the steel of that great sword clattered against the marble than Octavia leapt into his arms, wrapping his neck in a powerful embrace. Grim staggered back a step under the weight of the girl’s impact. He stood awkwardly for a moment, his arms out to either side, seemingly afraid to hug her.

He could feel her sobbing into his chest plate and her whole body rocked with emotion. She tried to form words—to say anything to him, but she choked on tears every time she made an attempt.

Slowly, the assassin lowered his arms and held the young woman in return. After a few more seconds he squeezed her tightly and lowered his cheek onto the crown of her raven-haired head. They stood silently for many moments, their eyes closed, grateful for one another’s touch.

Grim startled as he felt the touch of a third presence, but quickly settled when he recognized the voice of Olaf. The boy had approached from the side and wrapped them both in a warm embrace.

“Ah, this is nice.” Olaf quipped cheerfully.

Grim grinned and released Octavia, taking a second to ruffle Olaf’s already famously messy hair.

Octavia broke into laughter and her sobs turned to a teary-eyed, joyful smile. She glanced at the young man and sighed, “Oh for goodness sake’s Olaf, you have blood all over your eyes…” The princess reached up to her ponytail and removed the scrap of cloak she had fastened there, letting her hair down in the process.

“Come here, you goof.” Olaf obediently leaned down and allowed Octavia to wipe the dried blood from his eyelids. When she was finished, he blinked repeatedly and glanced around as if seeing the room for the first time.

“You still have that raggedy old thing?” Grim asked quietly, gesturing to Octavia’s makeshift handkerchief with his chin.

The girl smiled sheepishly at the torn remnants of the assassin’s old cloak and dried her eyes with a free hand. “It’s the only thing I had to remember you by…”

Grim was taken aback by her heartfelt response, so much so, he was at a loss for words. The hardened assassin felt an unexpected lump rising in his throat and he forced himself to look away, hiding the inevitable moisture that was forming in his eyes.

All this time he had forced the memory of these two young people—still practically children—to the back of his mind, in order to justify abandoning them, and in the meantime, they had worn the only remaining vestige of his existence like a badge of honor…

Grim had never felt less worthy in his life.

“We thought you were dead…” Olaf mumbled, his tone growing more serious than the assassin had ever recalled hearing it before. “How…how are you here?”

Grim blinked away the tears he would not shed and turned back to face Olaf and Octavia. The latter stared up at him, desperate and confused.

The assassin stammered to formulate an answer that would make sense, and just as he was about to give up and shrug, he felt Revenant’s strong frame brush against the back of his knees. The hound circled the three companions, rubbing against each of their legs and panting happily.

Grim reached down and scratched the dog’s broad head. “You remember Revenant, don’t you?”

“I think you were still referring to him as ‘the mutt’ when last we saw him,” Olaf joked, “but yes, I remember him…I remember you starting a war with the Ovalanders over him…”

Grim rolled his eyes at Olaf’s relentless heckling. “Well, it seems he returned the favor. When I…” The assassin paused, reliving the painful memory in his mind, before continuing. “When I fell overboard, Revenant must have followed me in…I can’t be certain, but I believe he carried me all the way to shore…”

Octavia dropped to one knee and hugged the muscular hound around the chest, grabbing great handfuls of his sleek black coat. “Thank you for saving my friend.” The girl whispered. Revenant barked happily and licked her face, until she broke away giggling.

“Ahem,” Eriana subtly cleared her throat, drawing their attention back to the present. “I hate to break up this touching reunion, but from the sounds of it, there’s still some fighting going on in the city. You must declare victory, Princess.”

Octavia stood up and dried her eyes once more. She looked to Grim for advice and he nodded reassuringly.

“Courtright is correct, Octavia. The fighting won’t stop until your enemies realize they’ve lost all chance of victory.”

Octavia nodded her understanding and then turned to Eriana. “Raise the banners, Commander.”

Eriana smiled hawkishly and saluted. Then she called out to her remaining soldiers, who were just finishing restraining the surviving Candor legionnaires. “Wolves! Raise the banners. Lay claim to the city!”

Eriana and her Wolves wasted no time rushing out onto the lookout in front of the Great Hall. Grim, Olaf, Octavia, Hader and Etticus followed them, trailing only slightly behind. On their ascent up the long winding stairs to the upper city, the disguised legionnaires had carried trunks in tow, which they had stashed just outside of the audience hall for exactly this purpose.

The Wolves threw open those trunks now and pulled forth a dozen long banners and even more pole mounted flags. Every one of the canvases was emblazoned with the Benidary family crest—a great bull running down a fire breathing drake and skewering the lizard on its huge, curved horns. Eriana’s troops draped the banners over the guardrails of the lookout and mounted the smaller flags at the base of every pillar supporting the huge overhead of the Great Hall.

From this vantage point, one could see nearly all of the city of Brumex sprawling below and likewise, those down in the city could see the audience hall on its perch. When the adorning of that balcony was complete and Benidary banners ran the length of the hall’s front façade, Eriana reached out to Etticus. The injured warrior unclipped a simple black horn from his belt and handed it to her.

Eriana turned and offered the horn to Octavia. “Would you like to do the honors, my queen?”

Octavia slowly took the horn and raised it to her soft lips. Then, with a great puff, she blew a shrill note that carried deep into the city and across the Einrill to opposing banks.

It took many moments, but at last cheers began to go up throughout the city. People were coming out of their homes and pointing to Brumex’s summit where the crest of Osiris decorated the Great Hall. Wolves in the streets pumped their swords in the air victoriously and surviving Candors and Lions still eager to fight felt the wind leave their sails, deflated by the apparent defeat of their commanders.

Seized by the elation of victory, Olaf snatched one of the Benidary flags out of its metal sconce and leapt up onto the guardrail, waving the banner enthusiastically. Octavia and the others laughed. It was a hard-fought victory, and they felt the relief of their successful endeavor washing over them. All except Grim.

The assassin was peering toward the north, his eyes narrowed intently.

Eriana noticed the assassin’s occupied look and moved closer, trying to follow his line of sight. “What? What is it—what do you see?”

“Another legion.”

Eriana’s heart dropped and she leaned out over the guardrail, narrowing her eyes in the direction Grim indicated. As sure as day she saw the glimmer of legion silver snaking down the South Road along the Einrill.

“Thondel be damned…” Eriana whispered. “It’s the Titans!”

The Wolf Commander began to pace shouting orders to her troops. “Take down the banners—the fighting’s not finished. Those people must return to their homes. We need to reinforce the bridge of Brume…!”

“No, don’t!” Grim shouted in response, drawing his sword and leaping up onto the guardrail beside Olaf. “Leave them up.”

The assassin angled the great blade of his sword to catch the midday sun fully and reflect it toward the north. It was a desperate play, but they were all out of tricks. Their ragtag forces combined would be no match for the organized might of the Titan Legion, should they choose to siege the city. Similar to dodging a final confrontation with Saefong in the audience chamber, Grim realized their best chance at survival was to avoid a conflict with the Titans all together…

46

THE WARLORDS OF HARTH

Andreas Buth signaled his legion to slow and with an abrupt and formidable stomp, their entire formation came to an organized halt. The Titan Commander extended an open palm to one of the masked warriors to his right.

“Spyglass.”

The legionnaire quickly released a pouch from his belt and pulled the strings securing the items within loose. He plucked a spyglass out of the leather bag and passed it to Andreas. The commander took the helpful tool in both hands and extended it as far as possible before bringing it up to his eye.

“Hmmm…” Andreas mused, scanning Brumex’s high walls, as well as the gatehouses on either side of the Einrill. The seasoned commander took note of the great gates thrown open to the west and clouds of thick black smoke rising from the settlements of Brume and Targe.

Andreas sighed and lowered his spyglass. “It seems we may have missed all the excitement…Tartisius’ legion must have beat us here by several hours.”

The disappointed Titan Commander was about to order his troops to continue their march into the city when he noticed an odd, flickering reflection from the peak of the upper city.

“Curious…” Andreas murmured, lifting the spyglass once more to his eye.

A sly and triumphant smile creeped across the noble-turned-legionnaire’s face. “I’ll be damned…”

“What do you see, Commander?” A Titan officer enquired from over Andreas’ shoulder.

“I see the symbol of the Benidary Tribe over the House of Gladiators…” Lord Buth lowered the spyglass and tucked it away, handing it back to the legionnaire on his right flank.

The Titan Commander signaled with his fist for the legion to about-face and return up the road they had come. “Brumex belongs to the Benidary’s. We’ll return to the Ford and await further instructions from our esteemed Lord Steward…”

“You mean not to attack the city at all…?” The Titan officer asked curiously.

“That’s correct, Bellamy,” Andreas confirmed, looking the man in the eyes and holding his gaze. “Young Octavia Benidary has somehow, or another defeated two legions and claimed the Jewel of the South as her own…I would not rob that victory from her just yet. Nor would I throw away good Titan lives fighting for a city as isolated as Brumex. Rhoric Amir’s orders were to quell the Purist uprising and reinforce the Legions of Candor and the Lion—the Purists are no longer uprising for it seems they have risen up completely. As far as the Candors and Lions, I’d venture to say they are no more, therefore there is no legion for us to reinforce…”

We will return to the Estuary Ford until we receive updated orders from the Steward or new information regarding the fate of Brumex.” Lord Andreas paused, still holding his officer’s gaze. “Does that seem fair to you, Bellamy…?”

The officer took a step back and saluted respectfully. “Yes, Commander Buth!”

“Good man,” Andreas responded, patting the soldier’s shoulder. Then he turned and gestured for his Titans to follow suit. “Come on, lads—there’ll be no dying today. We’re going home.”

“It’s working!” Olaf shouted in disbelief. “They’re turning around!”

“They’re retreating…?” Eriana asked incredulously.

“Yes!” Olaf declared, waving the banner of Osiris even more fervently. “Their tucking tail and running!”

Octavia was not so convinced. Her pretty face was screwed up pensively. “The Titans never run…”

“No,” Eriana agreed, rubbing her chin thoughtfully. “But Andreas Buth is no fool. He would not march his men into a losing fight…” She glanced up at the assassin, now stowing his blade. “How did you know what he would do…?”

Grim shrugged, hopping down from his perch atop the thick, stone guardrail. “We pursued Andreas and the Fortitude for nearly two days…He never turned to try and dispatch us, though from his perspective he was certainly aboard the mightier ship and with triple our firepower…He chose to avoid what he likely believed was an unnecessary conflict in order to preserve lives. I suspected he would do the same here.”

Eriana arched an eyebrow. Somehow this seemingly shallow assassin surprised her at every turn. Knowing how to wield a sword was one thing—but to understand how to wield an army and interpret your enemies next move…That’s what set commanders apart from common soldiers. How could this lowly killer be so…brilliant?

The Wolf Commander dipped her head ever so slightly in the assassin’s direction. It wasn’t a dramatic show of respect, but it was the tiniest of acknowledgements. As much as she wanted to pay Andreas back for turning her Wolves away at the Estuary Ford, she was also fully aware how slim their chances of victory against the Titans were given their own depleted forces. Grim had chosen wisely in seeking an alternative to clashing with that most dangerous of legions. It seemed a reckoning for Commander Buth’s cold reception would have to wait…

Olaf’s distant voice summoned them all back to the immediate present.

“They’re burning the churches…” the boy muttered in confusion.

Eriana took a step toward the edge and peered over into the city below. Sure enough, many of Thondel’s houses of worship were going up in flames to the east in the smaller city of Targe.

“Tarvidios and his priests tried so hard to bring them into the fold…they only succeeded in turning them even further away from their god…” Eriana shook her head sadly. “There will be riots to quell tonight…”

The Wolf Commander’s words were cut short by a strident scream from just behind them.

Eriana and her Wolves pivoted, readying their weapons as they did. Grim leapt in front of Octavia—Olaf and Revenant were quick to join him. The assassin’s horse, which had been grazing close by, spooked at the unexpected sound, and fled back down the winding path he had come.

Standing just behind them was the Oracle, Cometessa. She was grabbing at her ears and screaming in apparent terror.

“What in Thondel’s name is wrong with her?” Eriana demanded, flinching away from the Oracle’s distraught howls.

“I don’t know…” Octavia stuttered.

“Shut her up!” Olaf demanded impatiently, shielding his ears from the ruckus.

Octavia began to approach her, but the woman fled back inside the Great Hall, her screams fading to whimpers. The princess slowed and glanced back at the others, confused. It was then that she heard—or rather felt—the approaching, inhuman drone…

Black sand erupted over the guardrail surrounding the audience chamber and poured onto the stone balcony. More and more of the strange, dark substance slipped through the cracks in the railing and convulsed chaotically, twisting, and contorting in on itself. The buzzing, black cloud slowly spread out and began to encircle the small company of warriors left on the overlook.

Realization dawned on Olaf, and he took a defensive step back. “Not this guy again!”

“What?!” Grim demanded, lowering his wicked sword into a ready position.

“It’s a long story, Grim…” Olaf grumbled anxiously. “You had to be there!”

Eriana and her Wolves hunkered defensively as well, shields joining to form a wall of iron. She turned her gaze to Octavia. “Princess, you defeated this thing before, right?”

Octavia was shaking her head, her eyes wide with worry. The black sand continued to expand and grow. It was now starting to take shape, but not in a singular position like their previous encounter—at least eight different warriors were rising from the hissing cloud.

“No, this is different.” Octavia shouted. “That was in Eathah, against just one!”

“What?!” Grim shouted for a second time, swirling to cast an alarmed look over Octavia. He was completely taken off guard by the mention of the sunken kingdom of Eathah. It seemed the assassin had missed quite a bit in his time away…

Revenant snarled viciously, saliva dripping from his bared fangs. His jaws snapped at the nearest warrior, still taking shape. The action displaced some sand, but hardly seemed to hurt the strange entity. The warhound’s intimidating growls turned into a fearful yelp as the shadowy soldier solidified and kicked out, sending the huge black dog skittering back in pain.

Now Grim snarled angrily, slowly advancing on the three warriors in the center of the cloud’s formation. Every one of them stood a foot or more above the assassin. That fact hardly seemed to intimidate him…

Just before the Reaper could launch his assault, the central most warrior spoke up. His voice was cold and raspy. Somehow it sounded both dry and wet.

“Hmmm,” the shadow mused. Its black face was covered up by a grinning mask. All eight of the giant shrouded knights wore similarly expressive, steel face coverings.

They were armed with an assortment of weapons, from battle axes and paired daggers to war hammers and longswords. Ominous cloaks of dark whisps hovered in the air about their shoulders. The last of the shifting sand that created them took shape and all eight warriors appeared just as solid and real as the marble pillars to either one of their flanks.

The only difference between them and the warriors of the Wolf Legion, was their breath didn’t leave gray tendrils of steam in the cold, afternoon air…It was as if they weren’t breathing at all…

“I can feel both your presence…Good,” the towering knight rasped, taking a long inhaling sniff, and drawing their scents into his shadowy nostrils. Still, no exhalation followed that great whiff. “This will be a most efficient hunt…”

“Hunt…?” Grim repeated curiously, glancing from one end of the knight’s semi-circle to the other.

“We are the Harth’s hunters and huntresses,” the shadowy warrior explained indifferently. “We were entrusted with leading their tribes—waging their wars. We are eternal, even if they are not. A failsafe.”

“What kind of failsafe…?” Grim demanded, his eyes narrowing.

“I really don’t think you should be talking to these things…” Olaf whispered out of the corner of his mouth.

“Should the campaign fail,” the shrouded knight explained in a wry tone. “Or should the Divine Opulents circumvent their true purpose and break free…Then we are released to the hunt…”

Silence followed the warrior’s words and the Wolves shifted uncomfortably in the ghostly gaze of all eight hunters…

Grim stared into the knight’s haunting mask and he got the impression that an actual grin could be found underneath that hideous visage.

“In this example of failure,” the shadowy warrior elaborated. “The campaign has been ruled a total loss and the Opulents are free…Now you all must quickly perish…”

Grim didn’t wait for the ghostly knight to finish speaking. The assassin snarled and lunged forward, sweeping the blade of his longsword across the warrior’s torso. The hunter tried to deflect Grim’s powerful blow with his own sword, but the assassin’s hungry cursed blade smashed right through the knight’s blocking weapon, sending slivers of black steel exploding into the air then vanishing into small sand particles.

Grim’s sword slashed through the hunter’s chest and the shadowy warrior fell back, crying out in surprised pain. The two knights to either side of that warrior stepped in and blocked the assassin from following through and finishing the wraith off.

The wounded hunter coughed and wheezed before breaking into entertained laughter. “They said some of you would fight back—that you wouldn’t understand…No matter. Slay them all.”

In unison the remaining seven hunters leapt forward, blackened weapons chewing into the Wolves’ tight ranks. Within seconds, several of the legionnaires had fallen, simply overwhelmed by the giant warriors coordinated assault. The ones who did survive that initial frenzy were forced onto their heels and pushed back toward the Great Hall.

Eriana deflected left and right with her jagged shield, covering for the men on either side of her as much as she possibly could. To the woman’s right, Etticus struggled to stay on his feet, but his quick sword hand was just as devastating as ever, picking the hunters’ blows off prematurely and striking back whenever Hader—positioned to Etticus’ far side—created an opening with his huge tower shield. Olaf and Octavia were offered a brief respite as they were directly behind Grim. The ruthless assassin was battling the two hunters before him to a standstill…

Octavia used the space to check on Revenant. The hound was limping but based on the angry rumble in his throat, he still had quite a bit of fight in him. She squeezed the dog’s thick coat, closing her eyes and attempting to focus.

She was searching for a source to draw from—something to channel against the shadow wreathed hunters and their unexpected arrival. There was nothing. Even the giant warriors themselves gave off no energy or lifeforce to leech from. Only the essence of her allies reached out to her—and she wasn’t about to sacrifice any of them.

Octavia opened her eyes just in time to see Olaf rush forward and join Grim. Side by side she was amazed by just how much the younger man had grown as a swordsman. There was a time when he would have looked like a fool beside Grim—and though he certainly had a long way to go before he could hold a candle to that most magnificent and deadly of warriors, he was certainly holding his own. Olaf was quick—remarkably quick—and competent, and his positioning complimented the assassin’s own.

The two men began to actually drive the hunters back, landing half a dozen hits on both of them. Abruptly, the third knight, the one responsible for absorbing Grim’s brutal initial blow, rose back up. The warrior shook off the pain of the assassin’s venomous sword and leapt back into battle alongside his comrades. The extra blade—conjured out of thin air by the hell-spawned knight—was enough to tip the scales against the Reaper and the young Amir.

Suddenly, Olaf and Grim were the ones retreating, barely managing to stay ahead of the hunters’ furious onslaught. The younger man stumbled and nearly fell to the ground. He would have been trampled by the knight’s advancing feet, had Grim not caught him mid-fall and pulled him back up, deflecting three consecutive attacks from the trio of pursuing giants.

“Get back in the formation!” Grim shouted impatiently.

“But—” Olaf started to argue. He was shut down by the assassin’s commanding tone.

“Back with the Wolves—NOW!”

Olaf was exhausted and nodded obediently, turning, and grabbing Octavia as he fell back. He pulled her along with him, until they were hurried back into the Wolves’ dwindling ranks. Hader covered them with his great shield, catching the pursuing blows of multiple adversaries as the two young nobles slipped past and to the back of the formation.

Revenant rejoined Grim and together they danced about, scoring as many hits as possible against the three towering wraiths. It wasn’t enough. They were too resilient, and no matter how many times he disarmed them nor how many times he cut them, they kept coming. Their shadowy blades were beginning to slip through his reckless assault and more often than not, he was losing each engagement…

The assassin parried one massive blade out wide, and half ran, half crawled up the hunter responsible for the blow. When he reached the creature’s chest, he hacked into it with the wolf headed longsword. Before he could do any more significant damage, he was forced to leap away, back flipping into the air and parrying a strike from another hunter’s sword as he did.

The assassin landed nimbly on his feet and glanced up at the most recent victim of his blade. The ghostly knight was still coming, unphased. Grim cursed and fell back, sweeping his cloak out wide to confuse the hunters and cover his retreat. They were only deterred for a moment before all three lunged after the assassin.

Revenant ran through their legs, tripping them up long enough for Grim to make it back to the relative safety of the Wolves’ formation and leap straight over their heads, rolling to his feet behind their ranks. The warhound rushed under their shields, keeping up with the assassin.

“We need to fall back!” Grim roared over the cacophony of steel.

Eriana glanced about, taking in as much as she could. The three hunters Grim had distracted were now rejoining the fray and her Wolves were at risk of being completely surrounded. Only six of her legionnaires remained—they only just barely outnumbered these shadowy warriors, and if Octavia’s story was to be believed than just one of them was enough to nearly defeat McCrank and his entire crew of pirates on Eathah.

“Fall back!” Eriana shouted. “Fall back into the Great Hall!”

The Wolves closed rank and back backpedaled, fending off as many of the wraiths’ attacks as they could. Two more of Eriana’s soldiers fell, just as they slipped through the arched entrance into the hall. The hunters were relentless and undeterred by the chokepoint, smashing through the towering ivory doors with ease and continuing their dogged assault on Octavia’s few surviving protectors.

One of the hunters caught half of the falling ivory door and redirected its descent toward the retreating Wolf Legion. Most of them managed to scramble out of the way, but one unlucky soldier was caught underneath the debris, crushed in an instant by the thundering collapse of the door.

Eriana tried to pull the man out, but the hunters rushed over the fallen ivory barrier and lunged toward her. She barely dodged under the first two blows and caught the third on Borris’ marred shield. The force of that strike sent her careening across the floor and smashing into her Wolves crumbled ranks.

Grim and Hader pushed through the Wolves’ scattered formation and met the hunters’ charge head on. Each of the legendary swordsmen caught multiple slashes and turned them away harmlessly. Still, the shadowy knights’ momentum couldn’t be stopped and both men were quickly pushed back toward the center of the hall.

The Wolves were attempting to regroup on the elevated dais, where the Candor legionnaires were screaming in terror and begging to be untied. They hadn’t the time to free them. Two of the hunters had flanked around the perimeter of the audience chamber and were crashing down on the Wolves’ van. They quickly executed three more legionnaires, leaving no one left standing, but Octavia, Olaf, Grim, Eriana, Etticus and Hader.

Those six formed into a tight circle, each of them back-to-back with the other five. Revenant jumped back and forth in front of Grim, jaws snapping intimidatingly at any hunter that crept near. The knights snickered in low, scornful tones. Behind their masks they whispered taunts—to the hound, to Grim, to anyone they could. It was obvious they were enjoying their little hunt, savoring this precious moment before the kill.

Octavia was at the back of the circle, facing the two hunters responsible for slaughtering the last of Eriana’s Wolves. They were meandering lazily amongst the terrified Candors, who were bound like livestock so they couldn’t flee. On occasion the hunters would strike out, cutting down one of the helpless legionnaires. Their attacks seemed to be completely random, killing purely for sport…

“Anyone got any ideas…?” Olaf panted nervously.

Etticus was shaking his head, equally winded. “They just won’t die…”

“Everything dies…” Grim growled defiantly, driving back a wraith that had lurked too close.

“Including us…” Eriana whispered defeatedly, her gaze sweeping across the marble floor and resting on each of her butchered soldiers.

“Well,” Hader started with an exasperated sigh. “I always knew I would die in this city…”

“Speak for yourself!” Olaf replied fearfully. “I don’t want to die in this place—I don’t want to die at all!”

Octavia closed her eyes and did her best to shut the other’s voices out. This time when she searched for the Curses, they answered her. The lifeforce of the restrained Candorian zealots radiated in her mind’s eye like a beacon…At first, she resisted. The thought of using those helpless soldiers’ energy never crossed her mind, but slowly…her focus was drawn back to them…

There were nearly two dozen of them left. A powerful Curse could be exchanged for their lives…It felt wrong to her, and yet, these men were doomed anyway. They had chosen their side after all…right? Were they not still her enemies…?

Octavia’s eyes suddenly opened, revealing nothing but overwhelming light radiating from within. Her hair began to rise with gathering power and the girl’s lithe body was lifted ever so slightly from the marble floor. Her hands reached out and her palms extended in the direction of the Candorian legionnaires. Streams of tears fell down her cheeks, though, they were hardly visible through the glare of dancing energy building within her.

The Candors realized what was happening—having already witnessed the princess’ powers once before—they cried out in protest, begging for mercy. The eight hunters made no move to stop the girl, they watched with curiosity as she readied her assault.

“Octavia—no!” Olaf screamed. The boy broke through the circle and moved to grab the princess, attempting to deny her sacrifice of the Candor Legion.

Grim grabbed Olaf first. The strong assassin snagged the noble son above the elbow and held him from getting any closer to Octavia. The younger man turned and looked at him in disbelief. Grim merely shook his head.

“She’s going to kill them all,” Olaf stated desperately. “How can you let her do that? She’s not thinking straight—they’re unarmed!”

“Better them than us.”

The assassin’s cold response stunned Olaf and he struggled to find words that could possibly rebut that savage logic. Unable to conjure a convincing argument, the boy surrendered. He slowly turned to watch in sickened disbelief as Octavia harvested the lifeforce of the remaining Candorians in typically violent, Cursed fashion…

Their bodies were crushed within their armor like rotten fruit. Red mist sprayed from each of them, even as their broken forms crumpled to the floor. In unison, their screams of terror and mercy ended.

Octavia drew in all of the energy pulled from the legionnaires’ husks, then in a single mighty push she launched the energy back out. A powerful wave exploded from the center of the dais and rippled out into the rest of the hall, smacking each of the hunters in the gut and dropping them to their knees.

The lingering energy dissipated from around Octavia, and she sunk back to her feet unsteadily, the glow fading from her eyes. Grim released Olaf then and allowed him to rush forward and steady the princess. She leaned into him heavily and opened her eyes scanning the room expectantly.

All eight shadow wreathed warriors remained. Each of them slowly rose up, their snickering was renewed in full. Octavia glanced back at the destroyed Legion of Candor, her eyes widening in horror and disbelief. She had killed them for nothing. They had died in pain, and she had failed to stop a single one of these relentless hunters.

Dry sobs wracked Octavia’s body and Olaf pulled her close. His own eyes were wide with shock and horror. Still, he subconsciously comforted the girl, whispering reassuringly into her ear. “It’s okay, Octavia—you tried. You did what you had to…”

Grim stepped up to cover the crestfallen youths from the hunters once more stalking in from every angle. Eriana and the others followed suit, stepping out and widening the circle just enough to encompass Octavia and Olaf completely.

Etticus stammered as if wanting to say something—anything to address the circumstance. There were no words to truly describe the sense of hopelessness amongst them, though Hader took his best stab at it with a fairly lighthearted remark.

“For what it’s worth, you all seem like fine people to die alongside. If only we had more time…”

The hunter with the grinning mask quietly spoke up, his tone degrading and directed toward Octavia. “All those helpless lives in exchange for such a small chance at victory…” The shadowy knight paused, cocking his head in a look of mock pity. “Tssk, tssk…How the mighty have fallen…”

Captain McCrank led their party of three in a relentless sprint up the winding footpath. Despite heavy, wet clothes and limbs exhausted from fighting the waves now far below them, they had nearly made it to the top of the spiraling summit. Brumex’s Great Hall was just above them.

“We’re nearly there, gentlemen,” McCrank shouted excitedly. “Don’t let up now!”

The pirate captain was expecting a very uncivil rebuttal from Suileabhain. He was almost disappointed when it never came. The reason for the mercenary’s apparent silence suddenly became very obvious.

Suileabhain dropped to his knees and reached for his skull, screaming painfully. Ansel tripped over the mercenary and tumbled to the ground beside him, a confused and scared look on his face.

“What—what’s the matter with you…?” McCrank demanded in surprise, skidding to a halt, and swirling around.

“Get out of my head!” Suileabhain screamed, beating the base of each of his palms into his temples. “Stay away from me!”

Captain McCrank stared at the mad mercenary for only a moment longer before realization struck him. The pirate slowly reached up and pulled the wide brimmed hat off his head, placing it against his chest respectfully. His gaze turned up toward the Great Hall just above their heads. A look of abstract terror dampened his bronzed face. He knew what might create such sudden and explosive torment for the mercenary—or more accurately, who.

“Oh, shit…”

The chatty hunter swept a disappointed gaze over Octavia’s company of battered warriors. His own shadowy knights crept in closer, preparing to execute the fragile humans when he gave the order.

“These are the greatest of Halladell’s warriors…?” The hunter asked with disgust, directing his question to no one in particular—if it even was a question. The towering knight snorted derisively. “Pathetic…”

No sooner had the insult passed through the hunter’s smirking mask, than did the room begin to darken. Eriana glanced through the shattered windows and could tell there was nary a cloud in the sky…Why then did it feel as if the sun had disappeared?

The others felt it as well.

Olaf looked up curiously and then back down at Octavia. “Is this you…?”

Octavia shook her head, wiping away tears as she too inspected the threatening ambience settling in the chamber. Their eyes shifted back to the hunters, but even those callous and ancient warriors seemed confused.

The air just behind the eight shades began to shimmer and contort in an odd, but familiar ritual.

Eriana’s eyes widened and she suddenly sidestepped, throwing Etticus to the ground and covering him with Borris’ shield. “Get down!” The woman screamed.

Recognizing the distortion as well, Grim leapt in front of Olaf, Octavia, and Revenant, sweeping his cloak over them like a canopy.

Hader was unfamiliar with the strange glistening in the air, hovering some ten feet off the floor, but his instincts were strong, and he had yet to find himself in a battle he couldn’t adapt to. The Champion of the Arena dove to his knees, sliding in front of the hunkered bodies of the other five and turned his massive shield horizontal, sheltering them all from potential threats.

The distorted air contracted once more than exploded outward. Out of that blast flew a dozen featherlike knives, each of them finding their mark in one of the hunters—and a couple of them finding that mark twice. The shadow wreathed knights staggered back and fell into defensive positions, turning to face this newest threat in unison.

The portal responsible for unleashing the throwing knives had calmed, but not before dropping a warrior swathed in dark armor to the floor. The chamber seemed to tremble as he fell to the ground, landing in an agile crouch…

A familiar beaked helm quietly rose from those hunched shoulders, ominously scanning the nearly empty chamber. The slit visor in that barbute helmet was hidden behind deep shadows, and yet, Eriana still felt his eyes keenly as the warrior’s gaze passed over her. Judging by the others’ violent shivers, they felt it as well. The fiend’s blank stare was enough to freeze the blood in all their veins. Even Grim’s…

The assassin tensed uncomfortably, unable, and unwilling to look that beast in the eyes.

With the screech of worn iron and weathered leather, Hyram slowly rose from his crouch…

47

THE KING’S CROW

Hyram blew a cold, sharp breath, leaving a cloud of angry steam in the air around his helmet. The metallic sound that accompanied that breath was almost enough to make Olaf turn and flee. The boy resisted the urge and managed to hold his ground, peering out from behind Hader’s huge shield.

The talkative hunter, and apparent leader of their shadowy company, took an arrogant step toward Hyram—his other hunters followed suit, closing in on the Crow. The leading knight raised his weapon and addressed Hyram angrily.

“Interloper! How dare you spoil the hunt!”

Hyram’s head tilted to the side as if he didn’t quite understand. The Crow’s knees quietly bent, lowering himself ever so slightly. With another metallic hiss, he took a deep breath before releasing a blood curdling roar laced with primal rage and defiance.

Octavia and the others swiftly covered their ears and turned away from the Crow’s tortured howl. The hunters rushed forward, eager to be done with the unexpected newcomer and finish what they had come for. Their brash assault revealed just how little they knew about a foe like Hyram…

The armored Crow leapt from his crouched position with explosive strength. The powerful jump carried him twelve feet or more to land directly on top of the lead hunter. The shadowy knight attempted to fend off Hyram’s onslaught, caught off guard by the legion assassin’s aggressive advance. It was no use.

Hyram disarmed the hunter in a matter of seconds, then with a flurry of near invisible blows from the Crow’s strange, curved swords, the knight was reduced to ashes. Hyram’s blades slashed through his target’s torso two dozen times, until there was nothing solid left of the shadowy warrior.

The armored fiend had no time to revel in his kill, nor would he, as the other seven hunters collapsed on him simultaneously. Hyram burst through the crumbling black sand that had framed his first victim and met the hunters’ charge head on. He was parrying, dodging, and counter attacking them all at once. The agile Crow leapt over low swinging slashes and deflected higher blows in the same agile movement, spinning from hunter to hunter and delivering several rapid stabs into the chests and stomachs of any he could.

Many of the hunters cried out in pain and before long, Hyram was pursuing them around the chamber. The ring of steel was deafening and the Crow Commander’s howls never ceased. It was as if he was in pain, but also blinded by an insatiable fury.

“Can you believe your eyes…?” Etticus asked in quiet disbelief, stunned by the Crow’s inhuman battle prowess.

“What in the cold Underheim is that thing…?” Hader wondered out loud, his shield sagging lazily. “Is he one of them?”

“No,” Eriana answered plainly, her gaze locked on the terrifying warrior and the ancient hunters he clashed with. “He’s worse…”

“Why is he here?” Octavia demanded, silencing their curiosities.

“Pfft, who cares?” Olaf responded enthusiastically. “He’s kicking their asses!”

“And when he’s finished with them…?” Grim asked evenly, standing upright and readying his blade. Revenant joined him, snarling angrily at the dancing Crow.

Eriana caught the assassin’s eye and quietly shook her head. He arched a surprised brow. She simply continued to shake her head, and for once…he felt like agreeing with her…

“What is it?!” one hunter howled.

The other knights responded in kind. Hisses and groans came from the piles of crumbling black sand.

Hyram parried multiple attacks harmlessly wide then reversed his grip on the hilt of his blades, thrusting them backwards and into the hunter flanking him. The shadowy knight cried out in pain, and the Crow slammed his head backwards, crushing the ancient warrior’s face with his barbute helm. Before the hunter could fall, Hyram spun again, slashing the foe’s legs out from under him and kicking his body into an explosion of smoke and sand.

Another hunter stormed through that cloud to press the attack on the off-balance Crow. Hyram leapt off his one planted foot and tumbled into a midair front flip, his extended boot smashing down and shattering the charging warrior’s shoulder, which in turn dropped his sword arm helplessly limp at his side. The Crow roared in outrage, metallic vapors dancing about the injured hunter’s covered face. The ancient knight tried to recoil in fear, shielding his head from the enraged newcomer.

Hyram knew he was being flanked once more and twisted, hurling each of his curved blades one after the other. They both found their mark, toppling the hunters whose chests they had impaled. Then the Crow twisted back and with his bare hands, ripped the unusual mask off of the face of the cowering knight. The shade wailed in pain before exploding into a cloud of fine dust.

Hyram pivoted again, running, and sliding to his knees, he plucked both weapons out of the kneeling hunters and beheaded them in the same fluent movement. Their bodies slowly disintegrated into the same black sand as the others. Only three knights remained, each stalking nervously before Hyram…

The towering Crow Commander, still quite a bit shorter than his adversaries, slowly stood back up, turning to face the final trio of hunters.

“Impossible…” One warrior mused. His face was hidden by a mask depicting a man weeping.

Hyram offered no response or explanation, leaping straight back into the air and slashing across with both weapons. The trio of hunters fell back, avoiding being cleaved, but the Crow pursued them anyway. His blades churned like an industrial machine, destroying anything in their path and interlocking in endless, unique patterns.

The closest of the hunters was pulled into that vortex of rigid steel and within seconds she fell. Her body was torn in a dozen places and Hyram bulled through her crumbling form before she had even hit the marble floor. The remaining two hunters had seen enough and turned, attempting to flee from the chamber before falling prey to the armored Crow’s impossibly quick blades…

Olaf watched in stunned disbelief. He had to consciously remind himself to breathe for fear he would pass out. The last two hunters were actually trying to run! These…entities that had terrified them, slaughtering a fist of Eriana’s best men like it was nothing—crippling McCrank’s crew with ease, were running for their lives…

Hyram proved to be the fastest yet again, sprinting to catch up to the fleeing hunters and chopping them down one by one…When the last warrior fell, the piles of black sand left from the destroyed corpses of the Crow’s enemies, began to swirl, and pool together. Hissing, quiet, unintelligible voices could be heard howling within. The cloud twisted and spiraled around Hyram, rising well above his head, and lashing out at him.

The legion assassin stood unphased by the sand’s feeble attacks, basking in what could only be insults and threats cast his way from inside the angry, black storm. The Crow was no longer roaring in pain—though he did seem to tremble with discomfort. Seconds passed and he grew tired of the cloud’s pestering annoyance. Hyram suddenly exploded into action once more. His blades slashed out in every direction, and he leapt high into the air, twirling like a razor-sharp top, dismantling the black sand from within.

More unintelligible screams of agony spawned from the cloud itself, and just as suddenly as it had arrived, the black sand twisted and contorted, violently filling the entrance to the Great Hall and dissipating out into the cold sunlight. Hyram fell back to the floor, landing agilely with his back to the dais. The Crow watched as the cloud of smoke and sand fled from the chamber and disappeared completely.

Olaf stared at the Crow’s armored back, and the tattered black remnants of a cloak that had once been there. The boy could feel his own heartbeat, his pulse quickening as Hyram glanced about. Beside him, Grim stepped forward resolutely. Even the assassin’s aggressive lust for battle seemed to be drained. For the first time since meeting him, Olaf realized Grim felt dread. He didn’t want to fight…The thought made the boy shiver.

Hyram drew a long, shaky breath, seemingly brought back to the present. Eventually, the warrior sheathed his blades neatly behind his back and without a word, made his way toward the hall’s exit…

Collectively it seemed, their group breathed a sigh of relief. Olaf felt a satisfied and confused smile start to creep across his face, his muscles relaxing, when Octavia’s voice startled him.

“Not so fast!”

“What are you doing?!” Grim demanded angrily, turning on the girl, a wild look in his eyes. Eriana and the others were equally wide-eyed, taken off guard by the princess’ bold words.

“I have questions.” Octavia explained, as if that should have been a reasonable answer.

“I don’t give a shit!” Grim responded angrily. “Let that thing leave—” He caught himself mid-sentence, pausing briefly to calm down before continuing in a more somber tone. “Octavia—you know I can’t protect you from that beast…”

“I know.” Octavia answered in her own subdued tone. “I’m not asking you to.”

Grim tilted his head confused.

The princess didn’t bother explaining and called out again. “Hyram—don’t you turn your back on me!”

The Crow had chosen to ignore her so far, but now he stopped, his head turning to stare at her over his shoulder. Cold breath could be seen radiating from his visor.

“Oh, Thondel…” Olaf moaned nervously. “Maybe you should choke her out again, Grim…?”

The assassin waved the anxious, younger man’s comment away, choosing instead to focus on the nearly seven-foot tall, armored monstrosity pivoting to face them directly.

“You know my name,” Hyram stated. His voice was just as metallic and rasping as before. “You do not know me.”

“I know you,” Octavia countered evenly. “I know you served my father. I know there was a time you would have given your life to protect me!”

Hyram snarled angrily, taking a predatory step forward. “You do not know what you speak of!”

“I do!” Octavia insisted. “I saw it in a memory in Eathah. You were ready to die for me. It was you who saved me from the Crows—from your own legion!”

The girl’s words drew a curious glance from Grim. The assassin was still out of the loop and uniformed on a lot of things, but this news was something he never would have guessed. He turned back to this Crow and now saw him in a different light. At least, this explained why those months ago when he attacked The Shroud, the warrior had referred to him as monk…

Hyram’s advance suddenly froze and he cocked his head unexpectedly. “Your memories have been…restored?”

Octavia quietly nodded. “Yes. I saw you—I saw you ready to give your life for me…”

“I did give my life,” Hyram exclaimed ruthlessly, his voice echoing throughout the massive chamber. “But it seems it was not mine to give…”

“I don’t understand your words’ meaning…?” Octavia shook her head at a loss.

Hyram suddenly doubled over, clenching at his face, and muttering angrily. Indecipherable snarls carried across the hall to the raised dais. The others exchanged confused glances.

“The memories, how?” Hyram mused. “The Oracle, yes—of course, the Oracle…”

Only Grim’s keen ears caught what the Crow muttered.

Hyram looked up and just as he did, the chamber around him was suddenly filled with darkness! It was like a black cloud of smoke had exploded from within him.

“What?” Octavia started to ask. No sooner had she said the words, though, the smoke started to dissipate, only—Hyram was no longer there…

Their attention was quickly drawn to the perimeter of the hall, where Cometessa had been hunkering down in cover. Now the huge Crow had reappeared and was towering over the Oracle, clutching the woman by the head. She screamed in silent agony and Hyram leaned down, his own agonized roar exploding from his mask and washing over her face. The sound of his howls drowned out the sounds of Cometessa’s terror.

The Crow thought he would have more time, but he was taken by surprise when the annoyingly resilient monk leapt out of the fading smoke, longsword held high over his head.

Olaf was also surprised to see Grim already so far across the chamber. He hadn’t even noticed him leave the circle! The assassin must have seen something that tipped him off to where the Crow would appear—little did he know, Grim had actually overheard the royal assassin’s mutters and located Cometessa in a span of a few seconds…

Grim brought his cursed blade down with a mighty swing, throwing all of his rage and strength into that strike. Hyram glanced up in surprise and immediately, his body became only partially physical as the air around his frame began to distort and shimmer. He had nearly disappeared completely when the assassin’s wolf-headed longsword slashed through the space he had been, slamming into the ground just before the Oracle Cometessa and sending sparks and debris flying high into the air…

48

CEMETERY OF DREAMS

Grim roared in frustration. The Crow had seemingly evaded him. Faintly, a haunting howl of abstract pain reverberated throughout the audience hall, ghostly and muffled but quite real…Perhaps, Hyram hadn’t escaped completely unscathed…

The assassin didn’t have time to ponder the likelihood of that, as a hysterical Cometessa collapsed to the floor just beside him. He did not immediately go to her, instead holding his sword at the ready and rotating out should the Crow reappear. Octavia and Olaf rushed over in his stead, dropping down to their knees and attempting to calm the crazed woman. Revenant was sniffing about dutifully searching for any sign of the disappeared Crow. Several minutes went by and he found nothing. The hound looked up and dropped to his belly, tongue lolling calmly.

At last, Grim sheathed his blade, despite continuing to glance over his shoulder uneasily, he made his way over to Cometessa and the others. Eriana, Etticus and now Hader joined them as well. Between the six of them, no one could stop the woman’s pained screams. Whatever Hyram had done to her, she was completely unhinged.

Olaf looked at Grim hopelessly. “You have to make her stop, Grim. We can’t even begin to think with her screaming like that—much less what to do next!”

The assassin found himself in agreement with the outspoken young man and looked to Octavia quietly for her consent. The princess eventually nodded, and Grim carefully stepped behind Cometessa, wrapping his arms around her neck. With a powerful squeeze, he cut off the air in the woman’s windpipe. After a few seconds she slumped down and he released her unconscious form, letting her slip to the ground where Octavia gently caught her.

The screams had left all of them rattled and on edge and for many seconds they did not speak. It was Eriana who was first to break the silence.

“Princess Octavia, I know we all have much to discuss considering the events that just unfolded around us, but you must address the people. And I need to see to my legion…We still have a city to secure, and there are things that demand our immediate attention.”

Octavia quietly nodded and Eriana stood, lifting Etticus with her. She began to move away when the princess’ voice stopped her. “Commander Eriana…”

Eriana turned to regard the raven-haired girl. “Yes, Your Highness…?”

“It’s queen now…”

At first, the Wolf Commander hesitated uneasily, but then a smile broke out across her lips. “Queen indeed.” She bowed respectfully. “I must go. I trust I’m leaving you in capable hands…” Her gaze went past Octavia and rested on Grim, Olaf, and Hader.

Olaf pointed to himself in surprise, whilst Grim ignored her all together. Hader on the other hand fell to one knee and pledged his sword to Octavia.

“Queen Octavia. I know fate had us meet as enemies, but in the short time I’ve known you, I’ve seen you to be a powerful young woman and more than worthy of your father’s throne. Please, accept my sword and my shield…”

Grim scoffed and moved away. Rolling his eyes, he departed toward the balcony with Revenant on his heels.

Olaf looked on in shock, unaware the broody assassin had even taken his leave. The noble son couldn’t believe what he was witnessing. His childhood hero just pledged their allegiance to Octavia right before his eyes! The young queen took it much more in stride. She gently laid Cometessa back against a beautiful and intricate pillar, then stood to face the champion, Hader.

“I watched you fight with much honor today, Sir Hader Ternicus. In the past my father spoke of you in the highest regards…I’m not sure if I’d ever observed him treat a name with more respect…” Octavia paused, leaning forward and tapping the champion on his heavy pauldron. “Rise, Sir Hader, Champion of the Arena and protector of Brumex. As the head of the Benidary family and heiress to the throne of Harth, it would be my honor to have a warrior and knight as distinct and devoted as yourself at my side.”

Hader slowly rose, meeting Octavia’s sharp gaze and dipping into a respectful bow. “Long live the queen.”

A lonely round of applause went up from an overly excited Olaf. His exuberant face brought a happy smile to Octavia’s own previously tense expression, and even Hader grinned.

“And what is your name, brother?” The champion stepped forward, extending a gauntleted palm in Olaf’s direction.

The boy’s claps froze midair, and he stammered for a response, completely flabbergasted that the Champion of the Arena would address him directly. Before Olaf could form a proper sentence, Grim’s cold tone drew him in, summoning the boy from the other side of the chamber.

“Little Amir,” the assassin called. “I’m going to patrol the upper city, try and pick up Saefong’s trail—you with me?”

Olaf gulped.

Hader looked from Grim back to the young noble in apparent confusion. A look of disapproval slowly crossed his handsome features and he glanced at Octavia. “Amir…? You keep strange company, my queen…”

The lithe woman shook her head, glossy black and white hair bouncing on her shoulders. “For the time being, don’t concern yourself with the pitfalls of names, Sir Hader. It’s like Commander Eriana said.” She tipped her chin to the fiery woman making her way from the audience hall. “There is much we’ll have to discuss, but for now there are more pressing matters…”

Hader hesitated. He appeared unconvinced for a moment, but eventually nodded, dropping his gaze respectfully and stepping out of the young queen’s path, gesturing for her to lead. Octavia curtsied graciously and moved forward, past the tall red-haired man and after Eriana. Both women only made it a handful more steps before grinding to a halt.

Three more newcomers stood just past the threshold of the Great Hall’s smashed ivory doors. On the left, a mercenary, to the right a pirate and in the center was a gangly and twisted young man. Sir Hader reached for his sword, but the queen’s excited greeting stayed his hand.

“Ansel?!” Octavia exclaimed happily. “W-what are you doing here…?”

“Never mind all that,” Captain McCrank interjected swiftly, barring Ansel from running to embrace the emerald eyed girl with a strong, outstretched arm. “Where’s Hyram? Suileabhain felt his presence—we know he’s close by! It’s not safe here…”

“He’s not here. He fled.”

The pirate’s alarmed words quickly died off at the sound of Grim’s voice, though his concerns certainly doubled. McCrank dropped his arm restraining Ansel and stared in complete shock at the tall, darkly clothed assassin, lingering at the edge of the room. The color drained entirely from the pirate’s weathered face and his jaw went slack.

Ansel seemed unphased by Grim’s sudden and unexpected return. In fact, he hardly seemed to notice he had been gone. With a happy shout, the odd boy ran to Octavia, wrapping her in a great hug. The girl laughed and held him tightly in return.

Sir Hader watched the exchange carefully. Eventually, a warm smile spread across his pearly white teeth. Eriana watched as well, only there was no joy to be found in her face—she was far too concerned with the state of her legion. She simply wanted to be done here and down into the city where she could assess their casualties…

“Thondel’s ass,” McCrank muttered under his breath. His gaze remained fixed on Grim and his slobbering hound. “I think your madness has rubbed off on me, Suileabhain—I’m seeing dead men, plain as day…”

Grim smirked and slowly stalked across the hall to stand directly before Captain McCrank. He looked the finely dressed pirate up and down. His eyes narrowed and there was a dangerous twinkle within.

Captain McCrank held his ground, though surely, it would have been wiser to piss himself and run. Grim abruptly extended a shaky hand. The pirate looked down at it confused, fearing it was a trap.

“You kept them safe,” the assassin explained. “For that, I am grateful.”

The captain quietly nodded and at last reached out as well, taking Grim’s hand and clasping it heartily. “I’m only in it for the coin. Don’t think on it too much, Reaper.”

Grim smirked knowingly. “Right—and I just like to kill people.”

“Of course, you’re alive,” Suileabhain’s sarcastic voice disrupted their quiet exchange and Grim pulled away from McCrank, turning to face the mercenary.

“Same goes for you,” the assassin muttered. “Shame McCrank didn’t tire of you and wipe you from his heel like the shit you are…”

“Shove your insults,” Suileabhain hissed, pushing his way past Grim and into the hall, square with Olaf who had silently drawn near. “It’s not safe here with that Hyram beast lurking about…I only just felt his presence fade. He can’t be far…”

“There!” Olaf cried out, pointing just over Suileabhain’s shoulder. “He’s returned!”

All but Octavia and Ansel drew their weapons, turning to face the door. There in the huge bent frame was a smaller warrior in nearly identical armor to Hyram’s own.

“No,” Grim swiftly stated, pushing forward and standing between Crow and Octavia’s company gathered in the chamber. “It’s not him!”

Olaf cocked his head in confusion. “Could have fooled me…”

Multiple heads bobbed in rare agreement with the young man’s assessment.

“It’s not.” Grim declared evenly. “His name is Crow…” The assassin took a step back and glanced at the quiet warrior who had seemingly appeared from the shadows. “Truth be told, he and his company are likely the only reason I am alive and stand before you today…they’re also the ones responsible for Brumex’s lower city not being overwhelmed by Amir-loyal legionnaires ready to storm this summit and slay the new queen…”

“Company…?” Octavia asked curiously. “What company?”

Grim was about to answer when Eriana suddenly spoke in a soft tone. Her eyes were fixed on the stairs leading up to the balcony just outside of the chamber’s entrance. “Someone is coming…”

Grim followed her gaze and quickly recognized the hawkish features of Ramsey the Black…

Eriana recognized them as well. She looked alarmed at first—her face was pale and shocked, as if she had seen a ghost. It wasn’t until she saw what he was carrying that her own features twisted and contorted in pain, all questions enquiring about the Obsidian giant’s demise fled from her mind. “No…” The woman breathed.

Ramsey reached the top of the steps and quietly made his way across the balcony and through the splintered ivory doors. He wore a somber look on his face, and he didn’t even bother to glance up and greet Crow and Grim, walking past the duo quietly. The huge man made a straight line for Eriana, stopping only a few feet before her and hunkering down to one knee. In his arms he held the limp body of Captain Orion, which he lay gently at the Wolf Commander’s feet.

“No…” Eriana whispered. “Nooo!”

Her whispers broke into wails and the woman collapsed, scooping her fallen captain up in her arms. She sobbed hysterically, cursing between breaths and pounding her fist angrily against the marble floor.

“No, please!” Eriana begged. “Please get up—get up!”

The rest of the room was silent.

Tears filled Etticus’ eyes and he dropped down beside Eriana, holding her tightly. Ramsey slowly stood up and took a respectful step back, his gaze fixed on the floor. Olaf stared at Orion’s still body in disbelief, his own jaws wiggling without a noise, wanting to speak but unable to conjure words.

Sir Hader drew his blade and rested the hilt of the sword against his chest in a warrior’s salute. Captain McCrank swept off his hat respectfully and even Suileabhain placed a fist on his own chest in silent tribute to the fallen fencer…Grim turned away completely, unequipped to deal with the powerful emotions coming from Eriana and the rest of the room.

Octavia quietly made her way to Eriana’s side, Ansel close behind. She placed a comforting hand on the shattered woman’s trembling shoulder. The Wolf slowly looked up, her gaze unfocused and finding no one in particular. “How could this happen…?” Eriana begged.

“I’m so sorry…” Octavia whispered.

Eriana was repeatedly shaking her head and whispering incoherently. The queen leaned closer, trying to decipher her muttered words.

“The city must be secured.”

Octavia nodded. “It will be, Commander. We’ll take care of it.”

The young queen’s eyes darted around nervously, until they found Grim. The assassin met her gaze reassuringly.

“Grim,” Octavia pleaded. “The city must be held. The surviving Candors and Lions need to be rounded up and the damage throughout Brumex should be contained. People are already starting to riot and burn things. We can’t leave the settlements completely unsupervised.”

Grim nodded his understanding, reaching out and slapping Ramsey’s arm as he did.

Ramsey met Octavia’s intense gaze and saluted intelligently. “We’ll deal with the looters and rioters and establish a presence in the city. Several hundred Wolves are alive and well in the streets of Brumex, but they need guidance…”

“I will direct them,” Etticus volunteered, rising from his crouch, and limping forward. “They know me. I will have them form a city perimeter and restrain the remaining Candors and Lions…”

“You can barely walk…” Ramsey’s words were direct, but not impolite.

“I’ll help him,” Sir Hader said, stepping up.

Ramsey nodded. “Very well. Anyone else…?”

McCrank stepped forward, replacing his wide brimmed hat atop his head. “There’s a lot of injured good guys to the east in Targe—I’m going to get some men together to start moving them to an infirmary.”

“Go then,” Ramsey replied. “My men have already begun assembling an officer’s camp in the city square. We have a medicus there…”

The militant men’s voices slowly faded as Grim moved away from them, approaching Octavia. He stopped and kneeled just before the girl, nearly level with her eyes. They were full of unshed tears. Olaf and Ansel were standing to either side of her.

“Octavia,” Grim started quietly. She silently looked up to him. “This is still a victory.”

She slowly shook her head, gesturing all around her, to the countless torn bodies in the chamber, to the shattered windows and tapestries, to Orion’s motionless body. “It doesn’t feel like victory…” she breathed.

“No, it doesn’t,” Grim agreed, reaching out and tentatively grabbing Octavia’s thin shoulders. “But look around. We’re alive—you, me, Olaf, and Ansel! We’re still here. We’re not finished…”

The assassin’s words struck Octavia hard, and she painfully choked back her sobs, glancing around, and holding each of them in her gaze. “You’re right,” she admitted with a nod.

“I know I am,” Grim replied, without missing a beat. “Now dry those tears, Queen Benidary…You have a city to address.”

The words reminded Octavia of something very important, and she spoke before she could stop herself. “Actually, I have something I have to tell you about that, Grim…”

Grim cocked his head curiously. “About what…?”

The girl began to respond, but then thought better of it, catching herself at the last second. “You know what, it can wait…”

The assassin watched her suspiciously for a moment, but then nodded slowly. “Okay—okay good.”

Grim helped her to her feet and led her toward the exit. Olaf pulled the gangly Ansel up and the two, accompanied by the war hound Revenant, followed them out of the Great Hall, leaving Eriana to her grief. Their small band wandered out to the overlook, past Ramsey and the others preparing their plan to secure the settlements, to where the city of Brumex sprawled out to the north, east, and west…

Grim glanced down at Octavia. “Are you ready?”

The young queen nodded, stepping forward with confidence. “I am now…”

49

TRUE PURPOSE

Six days had passed since Lord Andreas Buth had ordered his men to stand down and abandon the city of Brumex to its fate. After a forced march back north, the Estuary Ford—their fortress and home of many years now—was at last visible on the horizon. It was a decidedly gray morning, and clouds promising evening snowfall lingered heavily about the great dam’s peak.

“Home sweet home,” Andreas chirped, taking in the majestic view of the river fortress. Many of his officers followed suit, nodding their heads happily at the sight of the towering structure. The Titan Commander waved them on. “March on men. Less than an hour and you’ll be back inside warm walls and amongst good company.”

A cadence of approval carried throughout the legion, and they did indeed continue their march.

Nearly thirty minutes later, Lord Andrea was beginning to grow worried, however. “Where are the sentries?” he wondered out loud.

Bellamy shrugged. “Perhaps, they’ve rotated the hour of shift change?”

Andreas shook his head doubtfully. “No. Captain Brady would not implement such confusion in war times with the majority of the legion away…” He paused, scanning the surrounding hills and forest tendrils. “Keep your eyes open, men. Something’s decidedly off…”

Some of Lord Andreas’ anxiousness faded when they at last reached the great gates of the Ford. A fist of Titans was visible standing above in the top of the gatehouse. They watched the legion’s approach quietly.

Andreas was thrown back on guard when they didn’t immediately lift the portcullis. “What is the meaning of this?” Lord Buth demanded. “Open the gates!”

Still the portcullis remained down. One of the Titans up above whispered something and moved out of sight, several seconds later, Captain Brady returned with him, leaning against the wall and staring down at Andreas and his legion apologetically.

“Forgive me, Commander,” the captain explained. “There were simply too many of them. It was impossible to hold the Ford with so few men…”

“What…?” Andreas’ words trailed off, his confusion growing, as the small wicket gate built into the larger portcullis swung outwards. A burly man, cloaked in dark leathers and sporting a long untamed beard, stepped out from behind the man-sized door. A dozen Thondel legionnaires followed him out, as well as a handful of his Honor Guard.

“Rhoric Amir…” Andreas breathed in shocked disbelief.

“Lord Andreas Buth,” the Steward greeted evenly. He wore a look of unrefined satisfaction across his broad face. “You’re right on schedule.”

“What is this?” Andreas demanded angrily, stepping forward to stand face to face with the larger man.

Rhoric Amir’s Honorguard swiftly reached for their weapons, but he called them off with a casual flick of his hand. Then he began to pace slowly around Lord Andreas, his wrists crossed behind his back. “You mean, you don’t know…?” the Steward asked, amused.

Andreas didn’t bother to turn with Rhoric Amir, he let the man slip out of his line of sight and then back in again as he circled him methodically. The Titan held his tongue, knowing full well that the Steward would elaborate regardless of his answer.

“Allow me to explain it to you then,” Rhoric Amir continued scornfully. “You see—you chose to play a dangerous game, Lord Andreas. You involved your men, your post, and everyone else around you. But it’s a game you’re unfamiliar with. The politics of Harth are a much different battlefield than the ones you’re used to…”

“I don’t care for your politics…”

“Lies!” Rhoric Amir shouted, stopping directly in front of Andreas, and poking an accusatory finger into his chest. Andreas recoiled from the spittle off of the Steward’s words.

“You’re lying…” Rhoric Amir continued in a more reserved tone. “You’ve been trying to deceive me for some time now, Commander…”

“Is that so?” Andreas asked sarcastically.

“It is,” the Steward hissed in return. “You lied to me about the assassin being alive…”

“He is alive!” Andreas declared in annoyance.

“You lied to me about my sister…” Rhoric Amir continued, unphased by the Titan’s objection. “Tell me, how long have you been in Octavia Harth’s pocket…?”

Lord Andreas scoffed, glancing about at his legionnaires, who all chuckled as well. “I am in no one’s pocket, Lord Steward—I assure you of that.”

“Perhaps that is true…” Rhoric Amir scolded with a disappointed scowl. “But then why did you not lay waste to her rebellion like you were instructed to do?”

“Because I do not lead men into traps.” Andreas growled, taking a confident step toward the Steward.

Rhoric Amir smirked. “Oh? Then what do you call this?” He raised his hands in a smug, satisfied gesture.

Lord Andreas turned abruptly. The rolling hills of the Plains of the First Harth, were suddenly crested with legion silver for as far as the eye could see. The Titan Commander swirled back to Rhoric Amir. “Is this your plan, Steward? To ambush us at the gate of our own fortress? I fear you must have miscalculated, because I have nearly five thousand soldiers at my back who are more than willing to run you and your guards through, so that we may re-enter the Ford. We’ll have the gates sealed long before your men make it to the river.”

Rhoric Amir continued to smile. “Captain Brady,” the Steward called, without looking up at the man. “Have your men open the gate.”

A few seconds passed and there was a loud click. Moments later the gate began to creak as it was slowly hoisted up. When the portcullis was totally out of the way, two large doors behind those iron bars swung open and revealed a dozen legionnaires abreast, their ranks running deep into the shadows of the fortress and out of sight. They bore the crest of Thondel.

“H-how could this be…?” Andreas stuttered, looking from Rhoric Amir to Captain Brady in confusion.

“With your help, of course!” the Steward gloated. “The Legion of Thondel never could have accomplished such a feat had your Titans been here to defend the Ford with you at their head—but then, you weren’t here were you…?”

Realization was beginning to crash in on Lord Andreas as he stared at the ground in shocked disbelief. “You knew I wouldn’t attack Brumex…you just needed my legion out of the Estuary Ford.”

Rhoric Amir nodded. He wore a conniving grin.

“We weren’t even gone a fortnight,” Andreas stammered. “How could you have mobilized an army this size…?” He hesitated, and suddenly it dawned on him. “Macron Polis…”

“Yes,” Rhoric Amir confirmed. “You must have thought me quite the paranoid fool to waste an entire legion protecting my daughters…”

“Only they weren’t there to protect your daughters,” Andreas guessed. “You simply needed a believable reason to send them east…less than a hundred miles from the river Einrill…”

Rhoric Amir continued to nod. “Indeed. Even without you and the majority of your legion to defend the Ford, it was no easy task to take. Which is why my soldiers camped upriver, beyond the fort’s line of sight, and crafted rafts to cross the Einrill and besiege the Estuary Ford on both the west and eastern fronts…the fortress fell in a day…”

Lord Andreas shook his head at a loss. How had he allowed himself to be so outplayed?

The Titan Commander eventually looked up to meet Rhoric Amir’s gaze. “You never planned on stopping Octavia from taking Brumex, did you…?”

The Steward shrugged and shook his head. “I had to make it believable, didn’t I?”

“But why?” Andreas queried, still unsure he understood Rhoric Amir’s entire motive.

“Truth be told I needed Octavia in one place. She’s far too mobile on a lone galleon in the middle of the ocean. Brumex was only ever a means to an end. A way to hobble her—keep her in one spot, until I have use for her…”

Andreas scoffed. “So, you sacrificed an entire city, one of your most lucrative and fortified trading outposts, in order to keep tabs on the rebel queen?”

Rhoric Amir snickered. “You still don’t get it, Lord Buth.” He paused, glancing back at the towering fortress behind him. “Brumex is only as powerful as the rest of the kingdom allows…It’s isolated—easy to quarantine. It provides access to Eastharth, yes, but so does this fortress behind me, and in a far superior location relative to the rest of Harth.”

“You’ll lose control of the Einrill…” Andreas argued.

“The Estuary Ford is control of the Einrill!” Rhoric Amir countered impatiently. “You forget, this fort need only raise its floodgates and the river down and through Brumex will dry up, along with their commerce and naval advantage…”

“The ancient Halladellian gates are in disarray.” Lord Andreas replied knowingly. “They haven’t been functional for years…”

“My engineers are repairing them as we speak.” There was no lie in Rhoric Amir’s tone. If he was bluffing, it was a very good bluff.

Andreas sighed and at last broke into a slow, helpless clap. “Very good, Lord Steward. You have proven yourself the more brilliant man. You should be very proud. But I admit, I’m still a little confused. What is it, exactly, you want from me and my Titans?”

The Steward scowled. “I want you to resign from your station immediately. You will relinquish all control of your legion and allow me to choose a successor for you, as I do not find Sir Brady fit for the role…”

Lord Andreas smirked. “No, I don’t think so.”

Rhoric Amir frowned. “Are you certain?”

“My answer is no,” Andreas reiterated plainly. “I find your judgement on this matter…Unqualified…”

The Steward chuckled. “Very well, Lord Buth. I wish I could say I was surprised by this answer, but I fear you’ve grown predictable…” He paused, turning to address the rest of Andreas’ legion. “You are all fierce, loyal subordinates. For a soldier—that is respectable. But I wish for you to be more than just soldiers. I would see Harth’s fighting Titans returned to their former glory!”

The Titans shifted uneasily, exchanging puzzled looks.

“I would have a legion of Titans who do not run from battle. Who do not shy from conflict. Who are not led by a pampered lord…”

Andreas Buth scoffed. “You mistake me for another.”

“No,” Rhoric Amir replied curtly. “I see you for who you are. You can hide underneath all those medals and war accolades, but at the end of the day, you’re still just a spoiled, noble brat.”

“I will avenge those words,” Lord Buth warned.

Rhoric Amir sneered. “I’m certain you will try.” He then threw off his cloak, revealing two razor sharp gladiuses strapped to his belt. The Steward drew them, one in each hand, and lifted them high into the air continuing to pace around Andreas.

“I will show them all who you really are,” Rhoric Amir continued vindictively. “I have already proven myself the greater strategist, but I knew that wouldn’t be enough to convince your legionnaires you are unworthy. Now I will expose you as the inferior warrior as well. Draw your blade, Commander.”

Lord Andreas chuckled and shook his head. “So, you can have me executed for treason? I don’t think so.”

Rhoric Amir continued to sneer. “This is no ordinary brawl, Lord Andreas. I issue the Rite of Challenge…”

The Titan Commander perked up at that, as did his surrounding legion. “You realize what you’re doing?”

The Steward nodded impatiently.

“If I defeat you—as I certainly will—your title, your rank, the throne of Harth and everything that comes with it…will be mine…”

Rhoric Amir held his gaze. “Do you accept or not, Commander…?”

Lord Andreas couldn’t believe his luck! The man grinned and deftly drew his own gladius, as well as readied his scutum. “I accept your challenge…”

Rhoric Amir didn’t hesitate. As soon as the words left Andreas’ mouth, he leapt forward, swiping both blades across. The Titan Commander easily blocked the attack with his shield and was preparing to counter, when the Steward’s heavy boot suddenly collided with his scutum.

The power of Rhoric Amir’s kick launched Andreas backwards and sent him careening through the mud. The Titan nimbly rolled back to his feet, a look of surprise on his naked face. The Steward was quickly on the attack once more, leaping forward and jabbing a blade over the top of Andreas’ shield. The Titan deflected the thrusting gladius high and smashed his scutum into Rhoric Amir’s chest. The burly man staggered back from the heavy blow. Andreas pushed his advantage, dropping his scutum low and sweeping his own gladius in a powerful slash from left to right, aiming to disembowel the off balance, Steward.

Rhoric Amir parried the strike out wide and stepped in with his other sword thrusting over top Andreas’ shield once more. This time, the Titan couldn’t deflect the stab fast enough, and the blade nicked his shoulder, drawing a painful cry from the man. No sooner had the gladius pierced him, than Lord Andreas knocked it away with his scutum. The Steward released the blade, letting it twirl away into the mud, where it landed upright with the hilt in the air.

Now with a free hand, Rhoric Amir grabbed the edge of Andreas’ shield and stripped it away from him, as easily as if he was plucking a toy from a child. The large man tossed the shield into the mud and pressed Lord Buth with a flurry of short jabs and slashes.

The Titans watched in uncomfortable disbelief as their commander was chased around the small, makeshift arena.

Lord Andreas couldn’t believe it either. He thought this would have been an easy fight! Never would he have guessed that Rhoric Amir the usurper would have him retreating back on his heels. Where had he learned to fight so well? And with such strength!

The Steward blasted Andreas from his revelry as he attempted another powerful, rib-shattering kick. The Titan managed to sidestep this one, but he slipped in the mud as he did, and Rhoric Amir caught him with a vicious uppercut, smashing the pommel of his gladius into Andreas’ jaw. The Titan swooned, doing his best not to faint.

Rhoric Amir snickered and backed away, calmly retrieving his second gladius as he did. Andreas shook away his dizziness and readied his blade for another attack. Before he could take a step, however, the Steward kicked his fallen shield with great force, sending it skimming along the top of the mud. Lord Buth tried to avoid it, but the raised metal edge of his own scutum caught his ankle, blasting his foot out from under him and forcing him to collapse back into the mud.

Andreas fought to quickly regain his footing and managed to raise his blade just in time to deflect a barrage from the Steward’s gladiuses. Rhoric Amir hammered the Titan’s lone sword relentlessly, until at last the vibrations were too intense and the weapons clattered from Andreas’ hand falling toward the ground.

Rhoric Amir caught the gladius with his foot, before it hit the mud beside Andreas’ own boots, and flicked the weapon harmlessly away. He thought the duel finished, but the Titan Commander surprised him with an unexpected tackle, dumping the Steward into the dirt and pounding him with his fists.

Rhoric Amir crowed like a mad man, raising both hands defensively and sheltering his head from the majority of Andreas’ punches. The Titan Commander suddenly switched up his tactic, reaching for his discarded shield and raising it overhead to crush the Steward’s face into the mud.

Rhoric Amir kneed Andreas in the back, knocking him forward and off balance. The Titan was forced to catch himself with his scutum just to avoid face planting. The Steward smashed his forehead into the noble’s face and rolled the smaller man off of him. He then attempted to return to his feet, but Andreas caught hold of his collar and held him down.

The Steward roared angrily and pulled himself upright anyway, despite the Titan’s best effort to keep him down. Rhoric Amir’s shirt ripped down the middle, leaving nothing but torn cloth in Andreas’ hand. The Titan glanced down at the flimsy fabric, then back up at the Steward’s bare chest. Dozens of strange black marks were tattooed in familiar patterns all across Rhoric Amir’s pale skin.

Lord Andreas’ mouth fell open. He recognized that tribal ink from the Oval Islands. They were Tertormers—Cursed marks of unbelievable power!

“You son of a—”

Andreas’ words were cut short by a swift kick from Rhoric Amir. The blow sent the Titan sliding across the mud, winded. Before he could recover, the burly Steward planted a boot on his chest and brought the blades of each gladius to either side of his neck.

“Yield.”

Lord Buth, gasping for breath and convulsing in pain, didn’t immediately surrender.

Rhoric Amir brought his blades closer together, each of them drawing blood along the Titan’s neck. “Yield!”

“Fine.” Andreas coughed, raising his hands submissively. “I yield!”

The Steward stepped back instantly, retrieving his cloak, and wrapping it around his shoulders to conceal his Tertormer covered torso. He then turned to the disappointed Titan Legion. “You see, men?!” Rhoric Amir cried loudly. “He is not the flawless man he has manipulated you into believing he is! I have bested him in both mind and body.”

Lord Andreas slowly and painfully rose from the dirt, clutching his bruised sides. “You cheated,” he insisted. “Those marks give you an unfair advantage!”

“Unfair?” Rhoric Amir snarled in disgust. “War is unfair. I would not expect our enemies to forgo an advantage on the principles of honor, nor would they be so naïve to anticipate the same from us…”

Andreas started to argue, but he quickly realized he hadn’t an argument to make here. Rhoric Amir was right. There were no rules in war. For him to have accepted the Steward’s challenge so willingly without considering the possibilities of trickery was a failure on his part, not his enemy’s…

“You’re out of your depth…” Rhoric Amir continued, directing his cold words at Lord Andreas. “You’ve lost your touch, Buth…”

Lord Andreas hung his head defeatedly. “Perhaps, I have…” the commander muttered. “I lost sight of my true purpose, allowing myself to be swept up in these pointless political games…”

“Lord Andreas Buth,” Rhoric Amir stated plaintively. “As Lord Steward of Harth and highest authority within the kingdom, I relieve you of your rank as commander and exile you to the far lands of Eastharth. If there are any present who would object or protest that order, say so now, or forever hold your peace…”

Lord Andreas swept his gaze across the many ranks of his legion. Not one among them spoke up or stepped forward. Most of them couldn’t even set their eyes on him. He turned and glanced up at Sir Brady. The young man looked away as well, refusing to meet his gaze. The Titan Commander slowly turned back, nodding in silent understanding.

“What’s your name, legionnaire?” Rhoric Amir asked a Titan officer plainly.

“Sir Bellamy, my lord,” the man answered honestly, stepping forward and saluting.

The Steward nodded. “Very well, Sir Bellamy—be a good man and strip the former Commander Andreas of his rank.”

Bellamy hesitated for a second, making uneasy eye contact with Andreas. Looking down and away from his commander, the tenured officer stepped forward and reached up, grabbing the platinum badge of commander on Andreas’ shoulder, and violently ripping it off. Then he moved behind him and grabbed the corners of Buth’s muddied cloak. With a powerful tug, he tore that off as well, folding it neatly in his hands and stepping back into rank alongside the other officers.

Andreas’ pulse quickened and he glanced up at Rhoric Amir. “You’re not going to kill me?”

“There’s no point,” the Steward replied. “You’re no threat to me.”

“I could come back—rally an army against you…”

“You won’t,” Rhoric Amir stated simply.

Lord Andreas nodded, his eyes roaming absently. He was about to turn and begin his long journey across the Estuary Ford and into Eastharth when some uncontained emotion possessed him to stay and address the Steward one last time.

“I underestimated you, Amir…You were a far more worthy adversary than I gave you credit for.”

Rhoric Amir grinned and bobbed his head in agreement. “Have you ever wondered why they call me, Dragonfly…?”

The banished commander shrugged. “I wasn’t aware they did.”

The Steward nodded. “Yes, well, I suppose you wouldn’t be…it was a long time ago after all.” He paused, his own eyes growing distant for a moment as if reminiscing over a nearly forgotten memory. “There is no predator more efficient than the dragonfly…There may be others more dangerous and threatening in every way, but—there are none that can match the dragonfly in successful hunts…not even us…”

Lord Andreas pondered that for a moment, before at last nodding and turning to face the east gate. An army of Thondel legionnaires stood between him and the wilderness beyond.

“Make way,” Rhoric Amir commanded. “Let him pass…”

The soldiers obediently split down the middle and stepped to either side, creating a narrow walkway for Andreas to cross the dam. It was such a lengthy walk; the exiled commander couldn’t even spot the exit on the far side of the river…

Lord Buth paused one last time after stepping just inside the Estuary Ford. He turned back to face the Steward. “For what it’s worth, Amir—I did not kill your sister. I do not know how she perished. But her screams from above deck were enough to turn even the bravest man’s blood cold…No man could have evoked that from her…”

The Steward seemed unsurprised. Lord Andreas supposed he had likely perfected that façade by now and there would be no true way of knowing whether or not the information actually caught him off guard or not.

Andreas shrugged. He supposed it didn’t matter. With one last look at his legion—men and women he had named family for over two decades—he turned away for the last time and began his long journey into deserved exile…

EPILOGUE

ALL THAT REMAINS

Olaf watched carefully as the carpenter set the wooden plank, steadily hammering it into place. The man gave it an experimental tug and satisfied with his work, handed the hammer over to the young Amir.

“Your turn, lad.”

Olaf took the hammer dutifully and with the help of the older man, pulled a new board from the pile and set it alongside the last. He lifted his fingers to his lips and removed the small nail he had pinned there. Then Olaf placed the nail against the plank and hammered away. When the head of the nail was nearly flat with the rest of the board, he stepped back to admire his work.

The carpenter nodded and smiled. “You’re a natural, son. Honest work suits you. Who was your daddy—a carpenter or mason by trade?”

Olaf grinned and shook his head. “Not exactly…”

The man shrugged. “Well—you can be the first!”

Clapping the shaggy haired Amir boy on the shoulder, the carpenter moved away, turning his attention to other areas of the project. Olaf continued doing what he was doing, slapping board after board down to help build a temporary bridge in place of the viaduct McCrank had destroyed in order to defend the Wolves’ flank. It was a huge undertaking and tradesmen from around the city had gathered to help orchestrate it. In fact, men and women skilled in every vocation had been flooding into Brumex for days now, eager to help rebuild in the aftermath of the great battle that had been waged here.

Olaf suspected many of them were also aiming to earn favor with the new queen…The young man chuckled. It was a strange thing to be so involved with events that were shaping the world around him. Barely a week had passed and already Brumex felt like a new city! Bannermen from all over the kingdom were flocking to meet Osiris’ daughter and more merchants than the boy had ever seen in his life were gathering throughout Brume, Targe, and the city proper.

Yes, Olaf thought, it felt good to be a part of this…

“Care if I borrow that, love?”

Olaf was so startled by Yolanda’s sudden appearance over his shoulder, that he nearly dropped the hammer into the river. “Thondel’s sake, Yol!” the boy blurted. “Give a man some warning, would ya?”

“Sorry, darling,” the woman cooed. “I didn’t mean to…startle you.” Quick as a flash, she pinched his butt with one hand and yanked the hammer away from him with the other. Then she skipped away as if nothing had happened.

Olaf was left reeling, rubbing his stinging butt cheek, and shaking his head at a loss. “That woman…” he grumbled.

Suileabhain and McCrank walked past him just then, balancing a large board between the two of them and following after Yolanda.

“You’re hopeless.” The mercenary snickered as he passed.

Captain McCrank—carrying the back half of the long plank—leaned toward Olaf and whispered, “Don’t feel bad, lad. Yolanda has stolen the hearts of men with twice your resolve!”

Olaf watched them go with a sigh. “Great…”

He supposed it was nice that the pirates were pitching in with the repairs, but he couldn’t help but feel things would be easier if they left it to the professionals…

“Speaking of professionals!” Olaf exclaimed out loud.

Ansel came hobbling past, dragging a long walnut board of his own. The gangly boy attempted to wave to Olaf as he did, but the act nearly lost him his grip on the heavy plank.

“Here,” Olaf said, rushing forward and hoisting up the opposite side of the board. “Let me help you.”

Ansel smiled graciously and the two young men hurried after Suileabhain and McCrank. Olaf couldn’t help but grin. He never had many friends growing up—his father had always been on the move, preventing him and his sisters from getting too close to anyone—and he had certainly never had anyone who admired him quite as much as Ansel did. The tall, oddly shaped boy seemed to follow him around nearly as much as he pursued Octavia these days!

Yes, Olaf reiterated to himself, he was indeed thankful to be here and to be part of whatever great story was unfolding around him…

Grim rounded a blind corner on one of Brumex’s many narrow streets and was relieved when he at last spotted Hader’s bronze armor. The red-haired man was standing just outside a small house of worship—one of the few that hadn’t been burned in the Purists’ coordinated attack.

The assassin b-lined for the door to the church, marching with determination.

“Reaper,” Sir Hader greeted evenly, dipping his head in a friendly gesture.

Grim didn’t bother responding to the man, in fact, he didn’t even look his way—though, Revenant offered a low growl as they passed. The Champion of the Arena shrugged, unphased by the assassin’s impoliteness. He was quickly learning that the man didn’t care much for niceties…

Grim shoved his way through the narrow church door and stepped inside. The interior of the building was just as tiny as it looked from the outside, and a thick sheet of dust covered every surface in sight. Even the chairs and wooden benches lining the short walkway to the altar of Thondel looked as if they hadn’t seen use in many days.

Octavia kneeled just beneath that altar, her back to the assassin.

Grim quietly moved into the claustrophobic room, stopping only a few steps behind the young queen. Revenant laid down protectively near the door.

“I’ve been scouring the city for you all morning…” The assassin started irritably.

“Congratulations,” Octavia replied, not turning to face the man. “You found me.”

“This isn’t a joke, Octavia.” Grim warned impatiently. “The city isn’t safe for you to just go wandering around willy-nilly. New faces are flooding in daily—anyone of them could be an assassin sent to kill you. Not to mention we have no idea what became of Saefong after the fight in the Great Hall!”

“Now that would be something I’ve never experienced before…” the girl stated sarcastically, referencing the many assassins who had tried to kill her in the past—including Grim himself. “I have Hader with me, and you yourself said you tracked Saefong to the edge of the city. He’s gone. I’ll be fine.”

Grim rolled his eyes. “Yes, Hader—the man you met a week ago, who was trying to kill you if I’m not mistaken?”

“Huh, sounds familiar!” Octavia opened her eyes and twisted to glare back knowingly at Grim.

The assassin sighed and took a step back, raising his hands in surrender. “Fine—you’ve got me there…” He took another step and plopped down on one of the empty benches, glancing around the church as he did.

“What are you even doing here?” Grim asked at length.

“Praying,” Octavia answered plainly. “That’s what people do in churches, Grim.”

The assassin scoffed. “You believe that little bird is going to answer your prayers…?” He pointed an armored finger to the small bust of Thondel sitting atop the altar.

Octavia sighed irritably. “I don’t know. Perhaps it just makes me feel better. Now can you be quiet?!”

“Fine,” Grim responded in kind, leaning back, and propping his head on his open palm.

Many moments of silence passed and Octavia at last turned around to face him. “You’re not going to leave, are you?” she asked hopelessly.

“No,” the assassin answered simply. “Not until you explain why you’re so angry with me.”

The young queen sighed. “Where were you, Grim? After you were thrown from The Shroud, where did you go?”

The assassin looked confused. “I came here…?”

Octavia shook her head. “No. I asked Eriana. She told me her Wolves never saw you. You weren’t here. You were unaccounted for, for nearly eight weeks…”

Grim shrugged. “It took me a long time to get here. There were…complications. I arrived as soon as I could…”

Octavia stared at him knowingly. “You went looking for Joanne, didn’t you?”

“What?” the assassin protested. “No! I came straight here. This is where we intended to meet, so this is where I came. There was nowhere else. It was a long, challenging road, but it was always the road I traveled. No other…”

Octavia didn’t seem convinced. She stood up and crossed the room to sit on the bench opposite the assassin. “Grim, I told you I would help you find her, didn’t I? I intend to honor that promise. I won’t rest until she’s safe.”

The assassin slowly dropped his gaze. “I know…I know that.”

“But first you have to help me defeat Rhoric Amir.” Octavia stated evenly. “I won’t be much help if I have to keep hiding in abandoned churches just to say a prayer…”

The assassin grinned plaintively and nodded.

Octavia smiled somberly in return. After some time, she pointed to his cloak, “I see you found a new one.”

Grim glanced up and subconsciously ran the leather cloak through his fingers. “Yes. It’s quite a bit sturdier than the last one. I’m afraid it might be a while before you can help yourself to any souvenirs…”

Octavia chuckled and pulled the fragment of Grim’s old cloak from her blouse, holding it up high. “Not to worry. I still have this one.” She replaced the torn fabric and glanced back at the assassin. “It’s a good look. Black suits you.”

Grim nodded and turned away. A few more moments of silence passed, before Octavia spoke up once more.

“I was terrified, Grim…We all were. I felt lost without you…”

The assassin glanced back at her. He could no longer hide the pain in his eyes. “Forgive me, Octavia…I never meant to abandon you.” He paused, looking around hopelessly. “Hyram…he’s no normal adversary. Had I known…”

“Shhh,” Octavia hushed calmingly. “It’s not your fault. You were just doing what you know how to do. Somehow, it worked out in the end…We’re all here after all.”

“Somehow,” Grim agreed.

“But if it’s taught me anything,” Octavia continued. “It’s that not all threats can be defeated with swords. Enemies like Hyram and the hunters will return. I can feel it in my bones. I see them in my dreams…I know I must master this power within me, but I’m afraid to try…” She slowly turned away to face the altar of Thondel.

Grim followed her gaze. “That’s why you’re here,” he reasoned. “To ask Thondel for guidance. You fear you’ve lost your way…”

Octavia quietly nodded. Fighting back tears she lurched forward and embraced Grim, squeezing the assassin tightly. He held her against his chest and stroked her black and white hair comfortingly. Revenant whined, slowly climbing to his feet, and crossing the room to sit down, leaning against the queen’s leg.

Grim chuckled and pushed the girl back, looking her up and down, before eventually holding her gaze once more. “You’ve grown since Sawn,” the assassin stated. “You’re not the desperate and frightened girl I remember. There’s something different about you…”

Octavia shifted uneasily. “There’s a lot different,” she admitted.

Grim nodded. “I know. But you’ve grown into a true leader. I saw as much when you addressed Hyram…You weren’t afraid of him, were you?”

Octavia shook her head.

“I was,” the assassin confessed. “I was terrified he would defeat me again and there would be no one to stop him from hurting you…” He looked into her eyes, searching the depths of those green jewels.

“But I realize now, I’m not the only one who can protect you.” Grim continued. “You have lots of protectors after all. Eriana, McCrank, Hader, even Olaf, to name a few. And more will come. Soon, you’ll have twenty thousand protectors!” The assassin paused, pondering something for a moment. “Octavia…you don’t need me anymore…”

“That’s not true!” Octavia protested loudly. “We would have failed without you, Grim. Saefong and the Candors would have slain Eriana’s Wolves and captured the rest of us.”

“And Hyram would still have killed them all,” the assassin reasoned.

“But I’m not brave without you there…” Octavia countered with a shrug. “What I said to Hyram…I only did it because you were there at my side. I need you, Grim. I’ll always need you.”

Grim nodded and cast his eyes elsewhere. “I’m just afraid of failing you again, Octavia…”

Octavia smiled and tilted her head so she could see the assassin’s face, and he hers. “You never failed me, Grim. You were ready to die defending me. I don’t see how that could ever be considered a failure.”

A moment of uncomfortable silence passed, filled with sounds of the assassin fidgeting uncomfortably with his gauntlet and evidently his own skin underneath. Eventually, the emotions became too much for Grim’s tortured psyche to handle. He abruptly stood up and reached for his sword and sheath, left propped against the bench. He displayed the weapon for Octavia to see.

“I’ll leave you to your prayers. Call on me if you have any threats you need defeated with a sword.”

With that, the assassin turned and left the stuffy, confined place of worship behind. Revenant leapt up and followed him out obediently.

Octavia tried to stop him and continue their conversation, but he was gone before the words could even form in her mouth. She sighed and looked down at a loss. The young queen spent many more hours there in silent confusion, helplessly trying to work through her jumbled thoughts…

Eriana sat silently in a mostly abandoned wing of one of Brumex’s many infirmaries. She was kneeling next to a tiny bed, where Orion’s body lay motionlessly atop. Her eyes were fixed on his pale face, while her mind roamed deep in thought. It had been over a week since the battle that had taken her captain’s life, but she had vehemently prevented his body from being taken away. It had sat here in this, now nearly empty, infirmary for days…

She heard the quiet approach of someone’s boots, but Eriana didn’t bother to turn and look. There was only one person it could be.

Etticus gently cleared his throat, letting his presence be known. “Good morning, Commander…”

The red-haired woman did not respond. Instead, she reached forward and lifted a handsome rapier off of the bed, carefully rotating it in her hands.

“Orion’s rapier,” Etticus recognized with a plaintive grin. “Was there ever a man fonder of his weapon?”

Now Eriana did chuckle. She turned and offered the slender sword to Etticus. “Why don’t you take it? I’m sure he would want you to have it.”

The Eagle commander backed away quickly, shaking his head. “No—I couldn’t. I was never trained with the rapier. I wouldn’t know how to use it in a way to honor his memory…”

Eriana sighed. “Neither was I. None of us were. It wasn’t a weapon the academy standard issued…Orion taught himself. Best damn fencer I ever knew, and he learned it all without a mentor. Flashy bastard…”

Etticus smirked. “That sounds like him.”

“Hardly matters now.” Eriana shrugged, sliding the rapier through her belt. “It seems I’m doomed to collect the armaments of all my fallen friends…”

Unsure how to respond to that, Etticus remained silent for some time. When he at last spoke up, it was in a gentle tone. “Eriana…We ought to put him to rest. He deserves a proper burial…”

“He deserves to be avenged!” Eriana countered angrily, her voice suddenly rising in pitch.

Etticus recoiled in confusion, gesturing for the woman to lower her tone. “He has been avenged. The Candors were handily beaten, crushed between the Wolves and Ramsey’s exiles. They were almost completely wiped out!”

“You think so?” Eriana asked venomously.

Etticus shook his head at a loss.

“Examine his wound,” the Wolf Commander insisted. “Look at the injury that killed him!”

Etticus was preparing to protest, but Eriana leapt to her feet, moving out of the way, and pointing to the deep gouge in Orion’s still back.

The Eagle Commander shrugged, a puzzled expression on his face. “It has the appearance of any other fatal wound…”

“Look closer—at its placement!” Eriana demanded. “The pattern of the wound…the killing blow came from up high and tore upwards. It was a backstroke that did this. The same type of attack an enemy on horseback would favor.”

“So, Orion was killed by a man on horseback? No surprise there. He was an incredibly skilled swordsman. I wouldn’t expect him to be defeated by an attacker face to face and on foot…”

“Only the Candors cavalry regiment never made it into the city! The Exiles flanked them first and scattered the horses before they could rally a defense,” Eriana countered. Her eyes were wide open and wild.

“You’re scaring me, Eriana…” Etticus replied softly. “A few men on horseback could have made it as far into the city as the Bridge of Brume. It’s not an unrealistic possibility…”

“Look at the wound!” Eriana reiterated angrily. “A battle axe leaves flesh torn this deep. But the length of the tear indicates a sword. Now tell me, Etticus—how many men do you know that wield a sword capable of rending flesh like a battle axe?!”

Etticus was slowly shaking his head. Unwilling disbelief was painted on his face. “No…No, it couldn’t be. Someone would have seen it. There would be witnesses!”

“His entire profession revolves around ensuring there are no witnesses.” Eriana hissed.

Etticus didn’t want to believe what the woman was telling him, but a large part of him couldn’t ignore the evidence she was presenting. The more he stared at Orion’s cold body and the festering gash across his back, the more he suspected the same…

“But why…?” Etticus asked quietly.

Eriana shrugged. “He hated Orion. He hates the legions…The fucking bastard hates everything. He saw his opportunity and he took it.”

“How do we proceed…?” Etticus wondered out loud. “Do we tell the queen?”

Eriana shook her head. “Octavia adores the man…for whatever sick reason. If we’re to prove our case, we’ll need evidence…”

A stifled cough from a nearby bed drew both legionnaires’ attention. A familiar blonde-haired man sat up and scooted closer on his cot.

“You and I are of like mind, Eriana,” Yoram whispered. “We were all betrayed—the Legion of the Lion was waiting to crush my loyalists in the settlement of Targe. Someone sold us out. At first, I feared it was you, but now I see you were also a victim of this deceit…”

Eriana and Etticus exchanged uncomfortable glances.

“Luckily, a few of my people survived the massacre,” Yoram continued, breathing heavily, and clutching the bandage across his ribs. “They’ve already been in to see me…”

Eriana arched her eyebrow. “If you have something to say then speak plainly, Yoram. There is no one here but us…”

Yoram nodded graciously. “My people have ways of finding things out…If you have a potential lead, then tell me their name and I will have my loyalists look into it. Perhaps, we can get to the bottom of this and avenge all of our fallen friends…”

Eriana exchanged a final, uncertain look with Etticus before replying quietly. “His name is Grim. You know him as the Reaper of Everharth…”

Joanne had no idea how much time had passed. She felt like she had been sitting in this dungeon for months. The cold winds whipping through the cracks in the stone walls had only sharpened over that time, and now they were nearly unbearable. She was forced to huddle under her one, ragged blanket constantly. To make matters worse, Selene had stopped responding to her entirely, days ago. She was completely alone in the dark…

The only time she could defeat the sting of the cold air was when she was working her muscles out. Luckily, that had been an almost nonstop endeavor for her these days. It was hard to tell for sure, until she could hold a sword in her hand, or get up and run a mile, but she suspected her body was nearly back to its full strength. At the very least, she certainly looked healthy.

The natural curves of her powerful legs and her slender yet lean torso had returned in full. She almost felt human again—if only she could soak herself in a warm bath and shave some of the hair growing in droves on her body…

Joanne was summoned from her daydreaming by the sound of a heavy metal door opening just out of her line of sight. There was no need for her to cover up, as she was already huddled in the corner of her cell shivering beneath the dirty blanket. It felt too late for lunch, but then again, it was difficult for her to keep track of time as it was—and that was assuming the guards even bothered to keep a regular feeding schedule…

The woman was surprised when instead of a sleepy guard, Rhoric Amir himself stepped out in front of her cell. The man leaned in, staring down at her huddled form, similar to how a farmer might appraise a sick calf. He had brought no lamp with him this time and he was only distinguishable from his large frame and the cunning glint in his eyes.

“What do you want?” Joanne asked, her voice cracking unexpectedly. She supposed it had been sometime since she had spoken out loud…

Rhoric Amir quietly stroked his beard. “I thought you should know…your friend Lord Andreas Buth has been relieved of his duty and cast into exile.”

Joanne snorted. “Why would I believe anything you say?”

The Steward shrugged and pulled a small badge from his cloak, tossing it carelessly into the cell where it skittered to a halt at her feet. Joanne recognized the medal immediately. She had had more than one conversation with Andreas and typically in close, hushed proximity. The legion badge was indeed his. He had worn it proudly on his left shoulder.

“How did you do it?” Joanne wasn’t even sure why she was asking. Maybe she just craved some form, any form, of interaction right now.

Rhoric Amir sighed. “It’s a long story, but ultimately, I defeated him in single combat. Proving him to be the lying, charlatan he is…”

“Am I supposed to be impressed?” Joanne asked scornfully. “You nearly lost your head to two starved and unarmed women. You don’t impress me, Amir.”

Again, the Steward shrugged. “I have no desire to impress you.”

“No?” Joanne replied doubtfully. “Then why come here and gloat?”

“Hmm,” Rhoric Amir mused, still stroking his chin. “Because according to my scouts and other recent reports, it seems Lord Buth was at least telling the truth about one thing…Grim is alive and very much still a pain in my ass.”

Joanne nearly burst into tears. The unexpected news came as a rush of relief. Subconsciously, she had given up on Marcus’ survival weeks ago. She just didn’t have the courage to admit it to herself. But to find out he was alive? The feeling was unreal.

Holding back tears, Joanne smirked. “Sounds like you’ve got a real problem on your hands.”

Rhoric Amir nodded. “One you’re going to help me solve.”

The woman shook her head in disgust. “I don’t think so.”

The Steward grinned, looking up at the ceiling and shaking his head briefly. When he glanced back down, there was a knowing look in his eyes. “All this time, you thought he was coming to rescue you,” the man stated. “But he was on the other side of the kingdom, looking after the young Octavia instead. I wonder how that makes you feel…?”

Joanne laughed. “Very clever. I see what you’re trying to do, snake. It won’t work. If Marcus chose to help that little girl, it’s because he believes in her. He thinks the world would be a better place with her in power. Certainly, a trade up from you I’d say…”

Rhoric Amir chuckled scornfully. “Yes, the world would be a better place with Octavia Harth at its helm. She who supports organized terrorist attacks across the kingdom, as well as the full-scale slaughter of thousands of innocent noblemen and priests. The girl with nothing, but brigands, pirates, deserters, and exiles flocking to her banner. The prodigal child who has elevated a well-known murderer and a council of traitors to a position of advisement at her side…”

The words seemed foul coming from the Steward, but it was difficult for Joanna to argue the truth behind them. Perhaps, this child didn’t have a very savory record…Still, she trusted Marcus’ judgement.

“Oh well, I digress,” Rhoric Amir stated plainly. “Octavia is inconsequential for now. There’s a plan in place for her. I want to know more about the assassin.”

Joanne was shaking her head, rocking on her heels. “He’s going to kill you. That’s all you need to know. Just like the Oracle said—you’ll die at the end of an assassin’s blade.”

The Steward blew a sharp breath and grinned. “Though that may eventually ring true, I can assure you it won’t be at the end of your Marcus’ blade, and it won’t be anytime soon.” The man paused, absently examining the dirt under his fingernails. “Seeing as he’s given up on you, I’ll have to take something else he cares for—hurt more people he loves…”

Joanne trembled. She couldn’t understand the Steward’s tactic. “Why? He hasn’t done anything to you!”

“He refused to die when he was supposed to.” Rhoric Amir explained with a shrug.

She laughed in disbelief. “And you think hurting Marcus’ friends will make him less of a problem for you? I can assure you, it will not…”

“It’s not about hurting his friends.” The Steward sighed, rubbing his forehead with his thumb and index finger. “It’s about making him angry. Spiraling him out of control. If he’s blinded by rage, then he’s predictable…I fear the assassin’s cunning far more should he be given the chance to use it.”

Joanne scoffed. “Then you are a fool, Rhoric Amir. Marcus is most dangerous when he’s blind with rage. Should you lose your sight today, you would revert to doing only the things you know. Any chance of change for you would become obsolete…Marcus is no different. You take away his ability to think and he will operate on base instinct alone. Do I really need to educate you on what that would look like…?”

“Do you know what else acts on base instinct, young Joanne?” the Steward asked sharply. “Animals! Animals which are easy to hunt and trap. Animals which will always find themselves inferior to men…”

Joanne snorted derisively. “Need I remind you of the Venatian Monastery? You were a Crow, weren’t you? You were there. You saw the aftermath of what Grim did when pushed to his breaking point. You witnessed firsthand what happens when you take away his loved ones and leave him with nothing else to lose!”

For the first time in a long time, Rhoric Amir was confused. He tilted his head, a perplexed look on his face. “That wasn’t, Grim? We caught the man responsible for that massacre. The Crows hunted him down. He hadn’t made it past the edge of the forest…”

The Steward’s words trailed off.

Joanne wore an amused look on her face, and she began to snicker contemptuously. “This whole time? You really thought…?” She paused, consciously containing her laughter before continuing in an oddly serious tone. “You caught the wrong man, Amir…”

“Huh.” The Steward released his hold on the bars of Joanne’s cell and quietly stepped back. He wore a contemplative expression. “Well, now that would explain some things, wouldn’t it…”

Rhoric Amir paused, scratching his chin before breaking into amused laughter. “I told Hyram that guy didn’t fit the bill. Of course, my big brother was never good at taking advice from others…” He hesitated, turning away from Joanne, and making his way toward Selene’s cell.

“You remember that about Hyram, don’t you, dear? Terrible temper, and shit at listening to anyone’s suggestions but his own…Oh, but he followed orders all right. Never met a better soldier than old Hyram…”

Rhoric Amir’s words trailed off and just then he moved beyond Joanne’s line of sight. She heard him mumble something from the dark.

“Selene…?”

There was no response.

In a more frantic tone this time, the Steward raised his voice. “Selene!”

Still nothing.

Joanne began to grow worried, and she shuffled forward, pressing her face against the bars and attempting to peer across at Selene’s cell. She couldn’t see anything, but the door was open, and she could tell the Steward had gone inside. His voice suddenly echoed in sickened disbelief, cracking with grief.

“Oh, no…”

“What?” Joanne demanded. “What is it?!”

“Oh, Thondel, no…” Rhoric Amir’s typically powerful voice was little more than a cracked, fragile whisper. Without warning, the man cried out, breaking down into pained sobs. His breath kept catching in his throat as he wept uncontrollably.

The pathetic sounds were enough to bring tears to Joanne’s own eyes. She sniffled in the dark, her face still pressed against the cold iron bars of her holding cell. She needn’t see into Selene’s own dirty chamber to know what she had done…

The wistful sounds of weeping filled the Viscount’s dungeon for many hours that night. It was the most noise Joanne had heard in weeks…

…To Be Continued

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Cole was born in Tennessee in 1996. His love for fantasy started at a very young age, fueled by the many movies, videogames, and of course books he enjoyed all throughout his youth and still to this day. He loves chess, cars, and soccer-- the latter of which is a passion he shares with his wife, Lindsey. Together the two recently welcomed their daughter Cecilia to the world. The three now live happily in Northern Kentucky, along with their two Black Labs, Ziggy and Eevee.

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