Hello readers! After a hiatus of nearly a year, I have returned with the continuation of the story of Whispers, this being a direct sequel to the events of Whispers. I know that I promised this a long time ago, but I've had neither time nor good ideas for quite a while, and have been struggling to make good progress. I have several chapters done now, and have plotted out the entire storyline and character development, so there will not be a long wait after this - however, do expect about a week or two between each chapter.

After Whispers, I want to refine my work more and erase as many plot holes, weak diction, grammatical errors and issues as I can. I want to fix choppy story flow and tweak characters to be more likeable as well as realistic. I want my descriptions to be vivid, my vocabulary to expand, and my plot to feel fresh and interesting. I want readers to enjoy, and thus I'm going to be sacrificing a lot of time to provide better quality. This, of course, doesn't mean perfection, so constructive criticism is highly recommended. Don't just tell me the story is good; tell me why it's good, what stands out to you, and why you like it. And vice versa, don't just tell me the story is bad; tell me why you dislike it, what needs work, and what could be changed. I intend to listen.

So I suppose, without further ado, here we go. This will pick up right after Whispersends, and will continue multiple story arcs as well as start several new ones, and quite soon put an end to a few here and there. I regret the great amount of time I kept any interested readers waiting, so I hope this makes up for that. Please leave a review if you have anything to say, and as always, enjoy!

Cold was his environment, and merciless the air around him. He stepped out of his chamber, reborn, and wailed.

The stones under his feet burned his mortal flesh, so cold they were; in the Void, heat and life were nonexistent, distant memories of a world far above. There was only darkness and silence, the kind of world his master craved.

Defeated by a child? No, not quite a child...a man, but a young man at that. A fool he had been, an earth-born, a youngling who should've been struck down with great ease. Where had he failed? What had he done wrong? Somewhere, somehow, he had made a mistake, and now he would regret that for as long as he was a step behind.

"You disappoint."

The voice of his master echoed throughout the stronghold halls, reverberating off the leering statues and cold bricks and thundering in his ears. The Enderborn was tempted to beg forgiveness, but remained silent, naked before the harsh judgment of his leader.

"I expected you to deal with it," his master continued, his voice omnipresent but his form hidden. The diamond was ahead, writhing with purple effervescence, containing nothing but pure sentience within.

"He tricked me. I was outnumbered and-"

"You underestimated him. He was a man, yes, but a powerful man. You could have foreseen it," his master continued, interrupting him rather abruptly.

"He had allies. A traitor, too, among them. He...he fought dirty, too," the Enderborn explained, knowing his hole was only growing deeper. He knew he had to go back. There had to be something else he could do.

"And you do not?" the voice taunted. "You fight dirty and fight wicked, and have used numerous means of dark magic in your battles. You failed to understand your opponent, and he got the better of you. I expected more."

The words stung like a slap to the face. If his master had arms, surely it would have been a literal slap to the face. Confined within his shimmering prison, however, his only weapons were powerful words and his vast array of intermediaries.

"He is not necessarily powerful, but he is tenacious and his strength is impressive for a youth of his age," the diamond continued. The Enderborn, ever hesitant, began creeping towards it, grimacing with every step. The bricks seared his feet, but he paid little heed to them; mortal pain was only a jot in his long, interminable cycle of death and rebirth.

"I can go back. I can fix this," the Enderborn promised, glancing furtively towards the shadowy niches between each column. The long hallway of the stronghold was supported by towering pillars on each side, between which lay shadow, and even darker things. The stone figures watched him, waiting for a moment of weakness, a moment he knew must never come.

"I have already planned this out," his master spoke, his voice becoming colder and tangibly more calculating. "I have been planning. Weeks, now."

"I was never told-"

"You did not need to be told," his master interrupted again, and the Enderborn decided it would be wise to remain silent. He did so, bowing his head as he arrived at the foot of the diamond's great pedestal, positioned flawlessly in the center of its small rectangular chamber at the head of the obsidian dais.

"I have been working. Positioning. Finding new friends and old, and placing them where I need them. There is another plan...we have another chance," his master spoke.

"An-another chance? But...it's gone, they took it, they destroyed it. Gone forever. The whispers cease," the Enderborn argued, speaking up despite himself. His master audibly snorted, inwardly sneering at his pawn.

"We have greater weapons, just waiting to be assembled. It is no easy task, but we already have half of what we need. The Nether provides us with our materials, and our capstones lay at rest, buried in forgotten places in the earth. Skulls, skulls are what we need. Ancient ones, at that, and more powerful than any weapon we have wielded yet. We need only seize them to construct our Withers, something I should've done in the first place."

"Why didn't you tell me this before?" the Enderborn asked, feeling his tongue slipping out of awe. "This should've been...our first plan. These Withers, if they are as powerful as you say..."

"It should have. It was a failure on my part." The voice sounded only slightly fazed by the recent defeat, acknowledged a mistake but anticipating future success. "But we cannot let that hold us back. The war must continue. We must expand. Three fronts, three. No longer one, nor even two. Three."

"I cannot run three fronts," the Enderborn argued, knowing it was in vain. "There is no way, it's not possible…"

"You lack faith, in yourself and me," his master scolded him, sounding more frustrated now. "You are not alone in this endeavour. You forget...friends old and new? You are not alone."

"Are you certain there are others? Do you trust them?" the Enderborn asked tenuously.

"They are just as trustworthy and powerful as you, but you have command over them. They await your bidding, and are ready to act. You must give the word, though." So much power vested in him...how could he even respond to that? Rebirth was always a painful experience, yet he felt reinvigorated, so alive, despite the cold crushing him.

"I am ready. Send me back. There can be no waiting," the Enderborn answered. That had to be pleasing.

"Do not be too hasty. We cannot afford to make mistakes with this, and the enemy already has a hint of what we're on to. Be crafty and clever, and strike hard," his master said.

"I will not fail this time. There is much work to be done, but I am ready to do it," the Enderborn replied, eager now. Eager to return and burn everyone who opposed him. His voice sounded very determined, even to him. He wondered if anyone else was listening besides his master, but as he turned back the hall was completely empty.

Nothing but shadow and cold, like the world at dusk.

VVVVV

He had played the waiting game for a while. Even made his move. And now, he felt like he was stuck.

Dom the mercenary man had been nothing but a pawn. Even Konstantin Raam, as prominent as he was, was a pawn, perhaps a pinch more if his efforts paid off. In a giant game of chess, there were too many pawns who fancied themselves queens, and stretched themselves thin in bids to take more than they could swallow. In the end they would all be devoured, every piece but the king.

And who the king was, well...that was up for grabs. For now the CEO of Standardized Energy Inc., as impeccably dressed and well-coiffed as ever, would content himself with being a knight, or perhaps a bishop. There could be no true king until all the other pieces had been wiped away, at least that's how he saw it.

Walking through the clean, sterile halls of SE's headquarters in the heart of the metropolis of Terra Nova, he felt like a giant among ants, walking through this concrete and tile labyrinth of his own design. Standardized Energy, utilizing coal, oil, gas, tar sands, and uranium, had become the energy giant of the world, the largest energy company on the planet and the provider of electricity to close to three billion souls. Wielding its own PMCs, SE had established dominance over wild lands and primitive tribes in order to obtain resources; building its own Navy, they had cemented their control of the mighty seas. Through bribery and coercion, gifts and intimidation, they had lorded over tribes, clans, city-states, and nations across the globe, extracting trillions of barrels of oil and natural gas from the remote, wild corners of the three continents. And yet this was only the beginning, the beginning of many things.

The future was something different. He could see it, but not yet grasp it; he wasn't quite there yet.

"Mail today?" he asked Miles, his secretary, as he strode confidently into his office space. Overlooking the vast cityscape of Terra Nova, his office was the beating heart of his company, the nexus of the entire operation. Meticulously painted and lavishly decorated, it was the center of his stronghold, his place of comfort.

"Quite a bit, sir," the diligent secretary replied, scanning his computer screen. "Plenty of email, but two letters. One of them-"

"Tax forms, yes. The Senate never tires of trying to bleed me dry," the CEO mused, removing his jacket and tie. In his office, he was free to relax and breathe a little; it was his personal space, after all.

"Er...yes, one of them is," Miles continued after the interruption. "The other is from Konstantin Raam."

That bit took him off guard. He laid his jacket upon his chair, turned on his heels, and swooped down on the stark white envelope sitting forlornly on Miles' desk, demanding attention. The tiny black fist with its jagged outline was stamped on the corner, indicating Raam's position.

"The Black Watch has been a storied part of history. Their fist has been synonymous with order and fear for centuries, even before the Disaster," the CEO said, opening the missive.

"Of course, sir," Miles replied dryly, his attention fixated on business at hand. The amount of emails he had to sort through was mountainous; even with the spam filter working at full throttle, hundreds came to his attention from all over the world.

"Raam is part of an elite group. I do not believe he realizes that. He still thinks himself a mercenary man, a brute hiring himself out to the highest bidder. Little does he realize that he sleeps in my palm." He was talking mostly to himself, of course; Miles was paying little attention. He was paid to do his job effectively, not engage in small talk.

He read it to himself, scanning the words cautiously, praying for good news. Raam's successes had been proliferous, but he had not reached his goal yet; with luck, given the prowess and power of his ally, Raam would be there within a few weeks' time.

"Give me the news," he ordered Miles, combing the next paragraph for any salient details. So far it was just a recap of previous events, nothing particularly interesting.

"AIMS militants conducted a suicide bombing in Mul, ninety dead. Cyterra'sa is already up in arms," Miles reported quickly.

"Cay's getting bloodier and bloodier. I expect a war soon," the CEO commented.

"The Nalii fleet is sailing out to confront Malluthea, apparently," Miles said a few seconds later, scanning the headlines intently. "What do you think?"

"Medieval barbarians. Let them fight, as long as our colony remains untouched. They have no clue what's really worth fighting over," he scoffed, reaching the final paragraph of the letter.

"Seems like there's been major fighting in Connaughtsshire, too. By the looks of it-"

"The army from Ais Kleisardathos won, yes. It was on the news ticker today, if only briefly. Only because the server has become such a big event as of late," he replied, brushing the event off. Minor rubbish, nothing important; so what if a few thousand barbarians and earthmen died in a distant, pointless war? So long as Raam reached Delphos, he had little to worry about.

Then he reached the end of the paragraph. That was what he had been waiting for. His eyes lit up as the words leapt out at him:

Bombers made their initial sally over target today. Multiple buildings destroyed, fire damage large, casualties most likely in the hundreds. Pilot reports ongoing battle b/w allied and enemy forces. Results unknown, casualty count unknown, likely in favor of ally. Planes had no malfunction or operational error. Fuel cells all positive. No fuel cell overheating detected. Aesar groups ready to be shipped out, give them the go ahead. Everything here will continue according to plan.

-K.R. Vive, Servire, Morere

He wadded up the missive with a sense of satisfaction and dashed it into the wastebin, repeating the words in his head.

"What did he say, sir?" Miles asked, inquisitive.

"Everything went according to plan. We've got a god damn green light," he replied, feeling smug. "I need you to grab an envelope and a slip of paper."

"Writing back?"

"I'm giving him the go ahead. Ship the bombers to the Cay, push to Delphos. With luck, everything will fall into place," he replied, watching the secretary intently as he began jotting down the letter. It would take a bit to get to Raam, but he could wait.

For now, everything was looking golden. Dusk was turning into dawn.

VVVVV

It was, in a sense, some small miracle.

The sight of two hostile armies was never completely appreciable, but the fact that they had chosen to fight each other first gave Sir Lyonel Cormac some small comfort. It meant that one of them would be devastated, and the other weakened.

Arrayed in formation on the plains before the Ditch, which were littered with rusted metal, armor and bones from the year's previous battle, the two armies squared off and began exchanging missile fire, not five miles from the gatehouse. Reinhardt and Kleisardathan, about fifty thousand each, had both marched towards the Ditch with the intent of besieging and forcing the surrender of the mighty fortress, thereby securing the northwestern corner of the province. However, neither had expected to encounter the other, and Sir Lyonel considered himself incredibly lucky that they had decided to engage instead of work together.

"They will fight hard. Both will be decimated," Lord Tanser observed, standing upon the parapets beside his second-in-command. Lyonel, absorbed by the shifting masses of tiny shapes on the horizon, grunted but did not answer.

"Are our defenses prepared?" Tanser asked a little while later, wiping phlegm from his nose.

"Everything we can do. It will not hold them if they want to get in," Lyonel replied.

"I won't yield easy," Tanser promised.

"I'm not sure you'll have to fight at all. Depends on how this goes," Lyonel said. The frontlines of both forces were now engaging, solid walls of pikemen marching towards each other while absorbing wave after wave of arrows and ballista bolts. The Kleisardathan hoplites, secure in their rigid phalanxes, had the clear advantage over the levy pikemen of their enemy, but nobody had secured victory quite yet.

The Reinhardt side lacked boars, but they had siege engines with them-mangonels, ballistae, and dreadful scorpions that fired armor-piercing bolts at the thick clusters of enemy hoplites. It was clear that the phalanxes were taking casualties from missile fire, but they had yet to waver.

When the two sides engaged, however, it quickly became clear that the Kleisardathans, despite the enemy artillery, had the upper hand. Even with gaps in their ranks they threw the enemy pikemen back, breaking their line within a few minutes after a din of clashing steel. Parts of the Reinhardt reserve began to break after that; most of them were likely conscripted peasants, Lyonel noted, forced to pick up spears and mauls and fight in a land they knew little about. They would hardly be able to fight off robbers or city criminals with their gear and training, much less stand before the onslaught of a well-trained foreign army. Within another ten minutes the rest of the Reinhardt force was beating a hasty retreat, packing up and fleeing as Kleisardathan cavalry swept in to sweep up the wounded and slow.

Within another ten minutes, the Reinhardt forces had pulled off the battlefield, abandoning half of their siege engines behind. Already Kleisardathan runners, trampling the corpses and equipment of their foe, were rushing forward to torch the artillery pieces that had been abandoned, rubbing salt in a fresh wound. Erik Tanser's face, which had been tranquil and motionless before, writhed as the smell of burning wood and pitch wafted into the gatehouse, driven north by the wind.

"What's your plan?" Lyonel asked, leaning over so that he could whisper directly into his superior's ear.

"Wait," came the reply. Lyonel, feeling his muscles tense up, watched and waited as ordered.

The Kleisardathan soldiers swarmed upon the field for a good hour, distributing supplies, tending to their wounded, finishing off enemy stragglers and reforming their lines. Lyonel watched anxiously, his finger idly tapping the hilt of his blade. If they were making a move on the stronghold, they were taking their good time about it. He was growing impatient, but he dared not question Erik's orders; as long as Tanser remained still, so would he.

"They're moving," Lyonel pointed out after another good ten minutes, his legs growing numb after standing at the parapets for a good two hours without moving.

"They are," Tanser acknowledged. His face was nothing but contemplative; clearly, he was not concerned.

"What's your plan?" Lyonel asked again, more anxious this time.
"Nothing," Tanser replied.

"Nothing at all? You aren't going to react?"

"They're moving away from us," Tanser pointed out, and Lyonel followed his gaze as he looked upon the reserve of the Kleisardathan force. The reserve was indeed shifting south, moving after the Reinhardt forces; not in pursuit, either. They appeared to be marching away from the Ditch, and over the next half hour both men observed the gargantuan Kleisardathan force slowly, surely drifting off to the southeast, marching away from the bloody battlefield. By the time the sun was setting, all that was left behind was carnage and wreckage, and not a single man stood at the gates of the Ditch.

"Unbelievable," Lyonel said, wiping his nose. "We dodged a bullet."

"Maybe," Tanser replied. "I don't understand why, but we should not let our guard down. It may very well be part of their ploy."

"They took everything away," Lyonel argued. "You think this is a trick or something?"

"It's possible. I'm not going to brush it off as coincidence. Guard is doubled on the wall until noon tomorrow," Tanser ordered.

"There's nobody out there, my Lord," Lyonel continued. Had he been a second later, he would've been able to correct his mistake; the sight of about two dozen mounted figures streaming across the plains to the east made him flush with embarrassment.

"I believe that you have just been proven wrong," Tanser said, smirking. "How many?"

"I count at least twenty, maybe more," Lyonel replied, squinting.

"I don't believe they're enemy," Tanser said, watching the riders approach. "And if they are, well, we can act at least somewhat hospitable. Let's go down and greet our guests, shall we?"

VVVVV

They had dismounted and waited the moment they saw the flanking guard of the Kleisardathan army approach.

The foreigners came from the east, marching in wide, deep phalanxes with their baggage train and camp followers escorted by small, V-shaped formations of scout horsemen. The flanking guard existed only to protect supplies and baggage from raiders, but they could easily overrun Leon's tiny escort force if they caught sight of him.

So he hid, with the rest of his soldiers, and watched. The horses were either lashed to trees or held steady by their riders, and the men made every effort to conceal themselves within the tiny grove in the center of the vast plains of the Green Rush, hiding from two enemies.

Concealed within the undergrowth of the grove, Leon and Darius observed the battle commence, squatting down amongst the leaves and bushes to keep their profile low. It was unlikely that they would be discovered by anybody, but neither men were about to risk their safety, not now.

So close, Leon thought. So close to home...yet right now, so far away.

The two factions engaged and the din of battle consumed the party, muffling any other sounds temporarily. It did not last long, no more than half an hour, but Leon could see that both sides had taken casualties, judging by the immense amount of bodies left on the field after the Reinhardt forces, defeated, retreated south, leaving their siege weaponry behind.

"They will storm the city," Darius warned, watching the Kleisardathan force reform. "It's what they're here for."

"They may send terms first," Leon said.
"You heard the reports. Every tavern we bought from, reports of scorched earth and destruction from the east. They're dead-set on wasting as much as they can," Darius argued, shifting his position to get a better view. The gatehouse, the only legitimate access point to the Ditch, was just barely visible from their hiding place; the two gray concentric towers stood sentry over the vast sea of sawgrass, austere as ever.

"They won't find a warm welcome here," Leon mused dryly.

"They won't need one. All that siege equipment the westerners left? It's all theirs," Darius pointed out.

But to the surprise of both, the Kleisardathans began to torch the weaponry their enemy left behind, simultaneously reforming their lines and finishing off any wounded they came across. Thick, swarthy columns of smoke rose from the burning contraptions, and the phalanxes began to march southwest, reforming and filling any gaps in their lines left by casualties. Concealed within their isolated copse, the riders were only able to watch in awe as the white-cloaked column of hoplites, thousands in number, marched past them and to the southwest, hardly in pursuit of their defeated enemy.

"I don't know," Leon said before Darius could say a word. "I'm not sure what they're doing."

"They don't mean to attack?" the captain asked.

"Clearly, otherwise they wouldn't be marching the main bulk of their army away. The Xonos has something else in mind," Leon explained, cautiously watching the river of spearmen flow past.

"I don't believe it," Darius said.

"It may be our only chance. I say we break as soon as the rearguard is beyond that hill," Leon advised, pointing to a relatively mundane mound of earth on the horizon.

"It may be hours," Darius warned.

"I can wait. I will not risk it," Leon told him, determined. They had come too far to get themselves spotted and killed now; too close to home to fuck it up.

And so they waited; it was a good hour and a half, at least, before the last remnant of the enemy force faded into the horizon, disappearing into the amber sea of the late afternoon sunset. When the rearguard had all but disappeared into the sky, the group broke for it.

Horses were mounted in a flash, riders geared up, and the party dashed across the Green Rush, hastening for the gate towers. They crossed the width of the battlefield, trampling corpses and leaping over broken siege machines as they raced for home. Leon felt his stomach tighten and his heart beat ever faster as they came closer; behind every hill could be a Kleisardathan scouting party, waiting to catch any stragglers returning to the field of battle. But nobody attempted to accost them; by the time they reached the familiar cobblestone road and the great gates of the city entrance, the towers were already buzzing with activity, and the doors were already parting for their lord and master.

"My Lord," Erik Tanser greeted them breathlessly, a wide smile spreading on his face. He fell to one knee, bowing his head sharply, and the entourage gathering around them did the same, paying their respects. A gaggle of activity formed as soldiers, trainers, stable hands and captains gathered around the gate to greet their liege.

"We have much to take care of," Leon spoke to Tanser as the latter rose. Stablehands attended to the horses and squires took care of armor and gear as the gates closed and the great oaken bars fell into place, sealing the entrance from the inside.

"Nobody has entered or left the city without express permission," Tanser explained as he led Leon through the entry hall and towards the city proper. "Trade has all but died, farmers have sought shelter within the city, and we send only a few scouts out. There's no need to keep them open."

"I agree," Leon said. He had little else to say to that; he was relieved Tanser had made such a decision, rather than opt to keep the gates open. Some may call it paranoia, but Leon would call it caution. Decades of rule had taught him that in times of trouble, excess discretion was better than outright neglect.

The city, though damaged by war, remained alive, though it lacked its usual vibrancy. Throngs of people sold their wares in the markets, conversed in open-air bazaars and establishments, and went about their daily errands, somewhat muted as they were. Crowds of miners, returning from a long work day in the mines and tunnels a mile below, were clustering into the bars to drink and go over the day's events. A few caravans, leading their mules laden with goods and supplies, were stationed at the First Level hostel, sitting around blazing fires and sharing stories over dinner.

And then there were the refugees.

The wooden platforms were like a cancer upon the stone city, jutting out over the menacing abyss. Tenaciously supported by rickety scaffolding and rope, the platforms held thousands of refugees living in squalorous tents and squat wooden shacks, packed together in rudimentary housing like sardines in a tin. Built into the fifth and sixth levels, the platforms were separated from the main city and the staircases leading down to their levels were guarded by at least a dozen soldiers each, with archers manning watchtowers from above. Leon could only imagine the smell emanating from those filthy clusters of desperate exiles; isolated within the industrial zones, they received significantly less fresh air than the levels above them.

"Fewer than expected, but still a large number. Thousands," Tanser said when interrogated on the subject.

"Are they all counted?" Leon asked.

"Didn't have the personnel for that," Tanser said. "We're stretched thin, my Lord. Disease is becoming a problem, we lost quite a few soldiers back in the spring and there's far too many refugees."

"I understand." A necessary evil. He could live with that. Inheriting all of Tanser's problems would not be easy, but it was his duty after all.

Three staircases and one bridge later, he was almost home. A few people had gathered on the streets ahead of him, cheering his arrival and celebrating, but their numbers were small. Many people simply watched him as his column, escorted by Tanser's guard, passed their homes and businesses. There was no atmosphere of hostility, but Leon could feel their anxiety, and see the fear in their eyes.

"The city is quiet," he commented when they were near to the Main Hall.

"It has been for a while. People are nervous, they want to know what happens next," Tanser said. People watched from their windows as the party passed, their eyes following Leon as he rode. A few people shouted his name, but most of the observers were silent. They carried on with their daily chores while fixing their eyes upon him.

"I wish I knew," Leon said.

"There's a lot you're going to have to deal with, my Lord. We're stuck between a rock and a hard place, and the war is really just beginning," Tanser said.

"I know what we're dealing with. Beyond Thellden and Reinhardt, that is," Leon said. Both men knew what was being referred to.

"I've heard plenty, but there's little verification. Apparently Lord James Kleiner is holding out east," Tanser reported. They passed the last few houses, leaving the anxious eyes of the watchers behind. Leon felt a surge of relief as he entered what he considered to be home; the stone walls were unyielding and cold to the touch, but this was home. Leon finally felt secure, ensconced within his earthen fortress.

"I thought he died?" Darius said, finally speaking up.

"Apparently not, and he's got the great bridge at Milltown locked down. I've heard this from many sources, so I'm apt to believe it," Tanser said.

"What about Cymander?" Leon asked. Darius Cymander was no ally of his, really, but any living human should be counted as a friend when the dead were walking the earth.

"Nothing from him. He's either dead or he's cut his city off from the world," Tanser said.

"Not a bad move," Darius quipped. "In times like these…"

"In a few months we're going to be in a desperate position, my Lord," Tanser said.

"I'm more optimistic about it," Leon replied. The three men walked on while the guard, halting in the middle of the hall, saluted and turned back around to return to their barracks.

"I've thought over it for a while. Our stocks can only last for so long, and what if we come under siege?" Tanser asked.

"You know I'm not above negotiating terms, or even surrendering. Survival is more important than victory, sometimes," Leon replied firmly.

"I was not considering surrender," Tanser stated, clenching his jaw. They moved into the conference room, home of the ever-so-familiar discussion table, and each took a seat.

"You should. It will save you a lot of trouble and perhaps your head," Leon said frankly.

"What do you make of Antar?" Tanser asked, shifting position to get comfortable.

"Antar? Not a bad guy. Good leader. Potential ally, I should think," Leon replied.

"Potential ally? He's an invader, my-"

"He's not the real enemy, Erik," Leon warned, his voice becoming cold. "You know who the real enemy is. If the person lives and breathes, he could be our friend. When the dead walk, any man can be part of the confederacy of the living. This is the mindset you need to have."

"What of Thellden, then?" Tanser asked, changing the subject hastily.

"Thellden...may be negotiated with," Leon decided, pondering the notion briefly.

"Impossible," Tanser said.

"No, not impossible. But highly unlikely, I will admit that," Leon acknowledged. "Shandra Thell is out for blood and power."

"Do you think Antar will face her?" Darius inquired.

"After he recovers from his defeat today, I should think so," Tanser judged.

"I'm inclined to agree," Leon said. "Thellden is a much larger threat than the rogue Xonos. He is stranded in enemy territory, abandoned by home and without a base. A swift and well-planned attack, even by a smaller force, can destroy him. Thellden, on the other hand, has a large power base, a vast treasury, and a devoted soldier corps," he explained.

"They will move soon," Tanser said.

"Not yet. I don't know what Shandra Thell is planning, but I've seen her act. She's heartless and capable of treachery, and she's cunning. A dangerous enemy," Leon said.

"What are you thinking?" Darius asked.

"Nothing important, at the moment. Thinking I need hot food, and my own bed," Leon decided, fixing his mussed hair. "I need a good night's sleep."

"We all do," Darius agreed, rubbing his eyes.

"Have dinner and amenities arranged please, Erik. Tomorrow I have things to take care of. I need to talk to people," Leon said.

"Who? What needs to be arranged?" Tanser asked, rising.

"Big people. Big men. I need Herobrine first, and then I need to leave. Again," Leon said, noting the look of concerns on both mens' faces.

"Where would you be going?" Darius asked, his voice low. Leon was silent for a moment, wondering if they needed to know. They didn't have to know...but given how much he trusted both men, he decided it was better to share. He needed confidants.

"Stockholm. There's business to be done."

Big business.

VVVVV

The true Xonos watched his enemy fall back in disarray, and then turned to pick up the pieces of the battlefield.

As of late, he always signed documents and orders with "Xonos Aleithes", or the "True Xonos". The usurper would never receive the title peacefully while Mallistron was still alive; he would either have to submit to the power of the Aleithes, or he would have to kill the latter and all of his army.

Wherever his kinsmen were, they were aware of his presence. And they were out to get him.

The Aleithes watched as the siege engines of Stanislaus Antar, abandoned on the sweeping plains of the Green Rush, went up in flames and collapsed into ash and charcoal. The bodies of the enemy he would leave for crows and maggots; the bodies of his own men, of course, he would burn. It would be unethical to leave their corpses to rot.

Over the next hour, the battlefield was cleared and abandoned, all proper tasks being taken care of. A massive pyre consumed the Kleisardathan bodies, all four thousand of them, and the thousands of Reinhardt levies were left on the field, the wildlife already attending to their lifeless carcasses. After supplies were repacked and every wagon was readied, the army began to move southeast, leaving the grim specter of death behind.

"Close to four thousand, we didn't get an accurate count. Another seven thousand wounded, a fair number of those won't survive the night," his aide reported as they marched.

"Too many," the Xonos said.

"I am sorry, Xonos-"

"It is not necessary to apologize. Victory is victory." That wasn't necessarily true, but he wasn't interested in arguing the merits of victory. Today had been exhausting, and he had something to contemplate.

Too many casualties. Too many questions.

"Why are we not pursuing?" one of the captains had asked earlier, demanding an answer.

"We have lost thousands, and may lose hundreds more to injuries. I will not risk it," the Xonos had declared firmly. The pyre had only just been lit but he already smelled the thick, nausea-inducing smoke.

"That has not stopped us before," another captain pointed out, his demeanor less bellicose than his comrade's.

"It will stop us now. We move away from the field, to recover and regroup and plan our next move," the Xonos said.

"The enemy is defeated and disorganized! We can divide them and shred them!" the first captain insisted, his hands clenching into fists. "We've dealt a stinging blow! Think of how much more we could deal them!"

"We will not be in pursuit. They are already getting away," the Xonos said, raising his hand towards the south. The Reinhardt army had since disappeared into the horizon, beating a hasty retreat directly south.

"Cavalry, sir!"
"The companion cavalry is ready to hunt them down if you deem it necessary, Xonos," a cavalry commander spoke, adding his words to the debate.

"I will not," the Xonos declared, growing impatient. "We must move on. There is nothing for us here. More blood is unnecessary."

"What about the city? Are you going to move on without besieging it?" the first captain asked, and several of the others murmured their assent. They wanted a fight, a better fight, and the Xonos hadn't come out to the Ditch for nothing. His original intent had been to besiege and capture the fortress, and use it as a new base, but now...now the letters had changed everything.

"We will not be. Defenses are too strong, and we don't have the supplies for a protracted siege," the Xonos said. Both were true; the Ditch would be difficult to break, and a siege would drain all that he had, which wasn't much to start with. A few men nodded in assent, but others became more belligerent.

"That is what we are here for," the first captain grunted, baring his teeth angrily.

"Where will we go now?" another asked, his eyes narrowing at his commander. The Xonos felt anxiety from them more than hostility, but he knew that many among them would prefer an expected fight than an unexpected, if not more sensible, flight.

"This is madness!" someone declared hastily, and his comrades quickly hushed him.
"It's the exact opposite," the Xonos replied, deciding not to call out the aggressive declarator. "We cannot hold a siege, that much is clear."

"We came out here to take this goddamn city. You intend to just walk away?" the first captain challenged.

"I intend to ride away, honor and life intact," the Xonos said. "We are going south. That is the final word on the matter, or there will be consequences." He raised his voice for the last part, and clenched his own fists to ensure that his point was clear. After that, they dispersed, accepting the decision on the matter. Some of them were certainly unhappy about it, but as long as they followed their orders they would not be troubled by him.

That had been about an hour ago. Now they were on the march, just as he had ordered.

"The letters, sir. What are they?" his aide asked. He was the only other person who knew; as the Xonos' personal attendant, he had seen both of them. They had been enveloped differently, and had different insignias stamped on the papers; two very different missives, two very different senders.

"Very important," the Xonos muttered.

"Who are they from?" his aide asked.

"When we decamp, you will see them. Wait until then," the Xonos said. Nothing more was inquired about.

They decamped when the sun set and the army slumbered on the plains, with double the normal number of sentries posted in case Reinhardt parties snuck in for night ambushes.

The Xonos' tent, always in the middle of the camp, was relatively quiet that night. The doors were closed and the hoplons outside denied any visitors entrance, unless they had an emergency. The only men inside were the Xonos himself, and his loyal aide.

"One from Thellden, one from Ais Kleisardathos," he said, pulling the two missives out from their folder.

"A letter from home?"

"In a sense," the Xonos said. "It's from the current Xonos, Aleithes." Hardly the Quieros he might claim to be. He always tried to differentiate.

"Where is he now?" the aide asked.

"Still on the shore, presumably. He is slow to act, and too cautious. He is afraid of the undead, and refuses to move without...other support." The Xonos Aleithes knew only a little about what sort of artifacts the Archon was seeking. He'd heard the rumors, about the skulls buried in the deep places of the earth, but it was hard to believe. He had seen the skeletons with his own eyes, but this was something entirely different.

"What do they ask?"

"Allow me to read," the Xonos said, pulling the letters out.

The first was from Thellden, containing the stamped insignia of High Lord Keldon Thell, noble leader of the city and its army. In short, it promised a quarter of the land in Connaughtsshire province should the Xonos sell his services to Thellden, and provide his army for their operations. After reading it he scoffed and set it aside, pondering the terms established by Shandra Thell-the true leader of the city, he knew.

The second, of course, was from the Xonos Aleithes, the betrayer. It hurt more to read this one; the language in it, professional as it was, was insulting and belittling. The fact that it came from home made everything worse.

"Forgiving every transgression?" his aide repeated.

"Every one. I will be relieved of my debts and be made a free citizen, but I do not intend to relinquish my command for that," the Xonos said, throwing the second letter down.

"I didn't think you would," his aide said.

"He's trying to buy me out by promising me freedom if I submit. I find this difficult to believe."

"I don't particularly like the terms provided by either," his aide commented.

"I've decided that I have to make a choice," the Xonos said, pacing the tent now. "The question is, which?"

"You are pondering the...other Xonos' option, too?" his aide asked hesitantly.

"I will not rule it out. It will have to do if Thellden falls through...I must make a decision, though," Mallistron declared.

"What will you do for now?"

"Continue marching south," he decided, making for the door. "I have a gut feeling about what I must do. But I have to go south to do it."

He poked his head out only briefly, for a whiff of fresh air. He needed a little, just a little, to clear his head. He had an idea, oh yes, and he had an inkling of what he was going to do. But first, he had to move south.

With luck, his dusk would turn into a new dawn quickly. He needed luck, and sleep.