Chapter Twenty

The Rule of Fear and Blood

Before…

Ezalor's horse shied away from the entrance to the cave, snorted, stamped and tossed his proud head.

Ezalor understood. He felt that same dread seeping out of the darkness. There was a palpable wrongness emerging from that place.

He also felt a little amused. His horse may have been born of his will and the unfathomable power that had created him and his fellow Ancients, but he was, still, a horse, and thus behaved like a horse.

Ezalor dismounted and patted the horse's neck. 'Wait here for me, my friend. Just in case we need to run.'

Aurenak had told him of this place. His compassion had drawn him here, to pity the creature which lurked in the cave, but the menace of the place, the sins of the Bereft, had driven him to keep his distance.

Ezalor stepped into the cave, making his staff emit light to drive back the darkness. The Bereft did not have his power, and the shadows reluctantly gave way.

The cave stank. It was an awful reek of rotting matter. Ezalor spied discarded food, mostly small rodents, here and there, left to go foul. Judging by the rest of the stench, the Bereft did little, if anything, to keep the cave or themselves clean.

The stink grew worse as he made his way further in, and now he thought he could hear a voice, low and sibilant.

The Bereft was definitely here, and despite his power and the sorry state of the Bereft, Ezalor felt a distinct thrill of fear.

The sounds stopped. Ezalor also stopped, the light halting just inches away from something in the darkness, something shaped like…

Ezalor squinted, surprised. Aurenak had been reluctant to describe the Bereft, and so he was surprised to see that the entity was shaped like a human.

No, not shaped like one. The Bereft was a human.

The shadowy figure had its back to Ezalor, and it was aware of him. The sense of danger grew and grew.

Neither being spoke. Ezalor merely stared at the Bereft, and the Bereft kept their back to him.

And then the Bereft spoke, and the voice was not what Ezalor had expected. 'You have come for me.' The words were uttered softly, calmly, the voice mellow.

'Yes, I have.' Ezalor answered.

Silence reigned in the darkness for a few moments, and then the Bereft spoke again, only uttering a single word this time. A question. 'Why?'

Ezalor considered his response carefully. 'Because I believe that you can help me.'

'You believe that I can help you? Is that what Aurenak told you?'

'You know him?'

'Oh yes. I know him. I know all of them.' Now a noticeable bite entered the Bereft's words. There was definite anger, and hatred, in his voice. 'They made me into this. They feared me, and so they made me powerless. Pathetic. Human.' He chuckled, but there was no mirth in the sound, only bitterness and despair. 'But not mortal. Oh no, they wouldn't just let me despair for a few paltry decades. No. I have to live with this. I have to live until I fulfil some purpose—impossible in this form.' He paused, letting silence grow between them again, lingering in the darkness.

'I cannot help you.' He said at last. 'Go back. Go back to Aurenak. He can help you. He has power. He has a worthy form capable of wielding that power. He has purpose. I have nothing.'

'You are wrong. You have knowledge.'

The figure stiffened.

'Aurenak believes that you can help me. Perhaps that is a purpose you can fulfil.'

Silence.

Silence.

And then… 'Leave.'

Ezalor did not move.

'I said LEAVE!' the figure whirled round, entering the light. His eyes narrowed against it, having been denied light for a long time. Long, filthy, unkempt hair and a straggly beard fell about his scrawny form, almost covering his ragged robes.

Ezalor did not move.

The Bereft snarled. 'Would that I had my power, I would crush the life from you!'

'But you do not have that power.'

'Do not remind me!'

'You may not have power, or the form of your kin, or a purpose, but you are alive. You can find what it is that you need. And that form is not without its merits.

Humans are weak, yes, especially compared to dragons. They are not blessed with the powers of creation and destruction, but humans have ambition, imagination, the ability to find purpose.' Ezalor took a step forwards. The Bereft shuffled back a little, shielding his eyes. 'Humans, unlike dragons, have the freedom to choose.'

'Freedom… to choose?' The Bereft repeated. Now his voice was uncertain, fearful, but tinged with longing, with hope.

No wonder Aurenak pitied him even as he loathed him. For all their power, dragons did not know true freedom. They were born to be what they were, born to do what they did. Even the Eldwurms served a purpose above all else. They did not have the freedom of choice that mortals had.

'The Song… the Thunder… it told me what to do,' the Bereft muttered. 'But now all I can hear is silence. Even when I… became aware… it was there.'

'I know.' Ezalor said. 'But you can learn to live without it. You can learn to make your own choices, just as you always wanted to.'

The Bereft lowered his arms, his eyes narrowing again. 'He told you.'

'He did. And that is why I think you can help me.'

'What I did brought nothing but pain.'

'But what you learned may yet be used for good. Your sacrifice and your suffering may lead you to a new purpose.' Ezalor extended his hand. 'Even if you do not wish to aid me, I would like you to come with me. I would like you to see the sun as mortals do, to breathe the free air, to no longer despair in darkness.'

The Bereft hesitated. 'Why?'

'Because I do not wish to see you suffer. It is my purpose to bring light to the darkness, to bring hope, and that I shall do for you, if you will allow it.'

He stared at Ezalor's hand, his dark, enigmatic eyes unblinking. 'I do not deserve mercy.'

'I am not the judge of that. You have already been judged, and punished according to the ways of your kind.'

'Then what would you have me do?'

'I would have you come with me, to see the city my friends and I are building, and help me to find people worthy of it, and, most of all, to find a champion among them, and to see that they are protected.' He looked into the Bereft's eyes. 'You know of what I speak. You created the first.'

'An accident. The cause of my punishment.'

'I know.'

'You would have me repeat my experiments again?'

'I would.'

Silence fell again. Ezalor waited patiently as the Bereft searched his face, seeming to peer into his very soul.

For the third time, he uttered a simple question. 'Why?'

'This time, it shall be a gift to them. Your purpose will be to give the brave and the loyal purpose—to protect a dream. To protect this world.'

The Bereft blinked. Ezalor sensed he had struck a chord. A dragon's purpose was to protect creation, to protect the world. Though his interpretation was different, it was not so far removed, and the Bereft had not forgotten his old life entirely.

Slowly, the Bereft extended a thin, spindly arm. Slowly, he accepted Ezalor's hand. 'I accept your offer. Your purpose is now mine.'

Ezalor smiled. 'You are not bound to me. As I promised, you may choose to go your own way whenever you please.'

'I understand. But I am not seeking release. Not yet. Turning my mistakes into something good is the start of my atonement. I ask… for only one thing from you in return.'

'Name it.'

The Bereft looked into his eyes, his own becoming firm with resolve.

He asked, and Ezalor answered, giving him what he wanted for the time being. The rest he would have to seek out on his own.

Power corrupted, and absolute power corrupted absolutely. Ezalor knew that, and so he granted the Bereft the first thing he desired, and promised to let him gain the rest of what he needed when the time came.

Now…

They had to practically carry Carliven down to the laboratory now.

Forced to ration what little ember dragon blood remained, he had just managed to cling to life, but his body suffered for it. His muscles had further deteriorated, and his organs were gradually failing.

One vial was all that stood between him and death, and unless Lion had found answers, it would be delaying the inevitable.

Zedraj and Kershon carried Carliven easily between them, their strength augmented by their armour. Sorsenin opened the door for them, letting them into Lion's abode.

The place stank of recently shed blood. Carliven could practically hear the screams still echoing in the room. The table was red with dried gore. Most notably, the severed head of a fire dragon sat at its head, surrounded by various organs, some human, some obviously otherwise.

Despite his apparent failures, Lion did not look dispirited. Nor was he alone.

Standing next to him was a formidable looking oglodi, but not the sort of oglodi Carliven was accustomed to. This one wore rich, heavy robes and bore a staff. Intelligent, cruel yellow eyes peered out from under his hood. 'Greetings, Father Carliven. Lion has told me much about you.'

Carliven struggled to lift his head. 'And you are?' His voice came out raspy and weak.

The man bowed his head. 'Master Demnok Lannik of the Ultimyr Academy. I come bearing salvation.'

Carliven perked up at once. It did not matter to him that Demnok was known for practising profane magics. He would have gladly paid the steepest of prices to live.

'Lion tells me that you wish to imbue yourself with the essence of a dragon. This is not a thing done lightly, nor would it possible with these means.'

'You were explaining why to me.' Lion said.

'It is simple. It is the same reason why lesser dragons are less powerful than the Eldwurms: they lack souls.

Carliven, of course, has a soul, but it is not a dragon's soul. Therefore his mortal form cannot sustain the power a dragon's blood would provide.'

'So Davion was able to survive the transfusion because Slyrak attached his soul to Davion's.' Zedraj surmised.

'Yes, Dragon Knight.'

'That…' Carliven paused to cough and spit bloody saliva on the floor. 'That does not explain the wurm-forged.'

'Does it not?' Demnok seemed to be enjoying himself. 'Your predecessors were too thorough in trying to eradicate them, and the knowledge needed to make more of them. One does not simply force the blood of dragons into their veins and hope for the best. No, that is not how a wurm-forged is made. That was the mistake you made: you assumed the cause was simple. It is not.

For a mortal to become wurm-forged, they must draw power from an Eldwurm. They must take a piece of its soul.

The wurm-forged you met may not know it, but within her rests a fragment of the Eldwurm of Light. A tiny piece, perhaps, small enough for most to miss it, but a piece nonetheless. It becomes a part of them, indistinguishable from their own souls, and the essence is formed anew in their progeny.'

Sorsenin grimaced. 'Then… are we supposed to hunt down Davion and bring him here? Or do you know some devilry to sunder his soul from his body?'

Demnok chortled. 'No, no. That will not be necessary. It probably would not work. But I come bearing an alternative, something better. With Lion's help, we can make Father Carliven, and the rest of you, far more powerful than any mere wurm-forged.

To wield the powers of the Eldwurms, the essence of an immortal being is needed. For this Davion, it was Slyrak's soul. But dragons are not the only immortal creatures we can use.'

Lion nodded. 'Demons are also immortal.'

Zedraj's eyes widened. 'Are you insane? You're suggesting possession?'

'We only need a piece of a demon's essence. It will not be able to take over. Carliven will consume it, it will become a part of him, and he shall have the power he needs to master the blood of a dragon.'

'Well, Father?' Demnok gazed at Carliven, his eagerness palpable. 'What do you say? What will you choose?'

Carliven did not give himself time to doubt. Doubt was weakness which would kill him. 'How soon can you begin?'

'We can begin now.' Lion stated, gesturing at the slab. 'Take that last vial of blood. You will need it.'

'Father!' Zedraj protested. 'This is too dangerous!'

'It is dangerous. We cannot promise that you will survive. But you will most certainly die if we do not try.'

Carliven glared at Zedraj. 'Put me down on the table. Either I die, or I become something truly great. But I will not die meekly.'

Zedraj sighed and nodded. 'As you command, Father.'

As bidden, they laid him down on the stone slab. Without ceremony, Lion stripped off Carliven's robes and tossed them into the corner, then secured his limbs to the slab. He nodded to Demnok, then produced an evil looking blade. 'Drink. The pain will be immense. Without that blood, you will certainly perish.'

Sorsenin produced the last vial of blood. He lifted Carliven's head so that he could gulp it down.

'Now we begin. Whatever happens, you will cast aside your feeble humanity today.' Lion lifted the blade, and brought it down.

Carliven screamed as Lion dragged it down his chest, slicing through flesh and bone. His screams only became worse when Lion used flat-bladed implements to peel away the flesh, exposing his sundered ribcage, his labouring heart and pulsing lungs, riddled with loathsome growths and malformed bones.

All the while, Demnok chanted some awful, unholy invocation, the very words hurting the ears of the Dragon Knights and cutting into their psyches.

A burning ring of fire appeared beside Demnok, and something terrible emerged, something which had no place on this earth, a thing with too many limbs and insane physiology. It screeched, opening a beak-like maw lined with tentacles and spines.

Lion wasted no time. With one hand, he stabbed a thin skewer tipped with a red orb into Carliven's heart. With the other, he pointed a clawed finger at the demon, and his ring flared. A lance of red fire shot into the demon, ripping a black mass from its chest. The demon wailed, jerked, then fell to the ground, dissolving into black powder.

Lion drew the black mass closer, then forced it into the orb atop the skewer. The orb hissed.

Carliven jerked and yelled, his blood spattering the floor and walls. Lion ignored it raining upon his hide.

Demnok stabbed a ritual blade into the dragon's head, chanting all the while, and then picked up the dragon's heart. His eyes glowing with infernal power, he raised it over Carliven, then crushed it in his fist, showering the suffering man with blood.

Carliven's eyes flashed yellow. His cries faded into a bestial hiss and became a low snarl.

Lion withdrew the skewer and stepped back. All of them moved away as Carliven snarled and bucked, the restraints giving way as his limbs swelled.

Before their eyes, abraded flesh fell away, swiftly replaced by new skin, free of wrinkles and liver-spots, but leathery and corded. His chest closed, the bones and skin fusing together again. Carliven's muscles grew. Fangs lengthened in his mouth. His fingernails fell out, making way for claws. Red scales pushed through his skin, wet with blood, then withdrew into his new hide.

Then… he lay still. So very still. As still as a corpse.

For just a moment, Zedraj actually hoped he had died.

And then he breathed. His now muscular chest rose and fell again, and a faint growl accompanied his every exhalation.

Unassisted, Carliven sat up, his broad chest covered in blood.

His Dragon Knights stared in mingled wonderment and fear. He no longer looked like an old man. It was as if decades had fallen away, as if he had returned to his prime. He would have rivalled Davion and Kaden in form. He surpassed them.

But it was obvious that he was changed in terrible ways. Two horns protruded from his forehead, and a third, smaller one protruded from his chin. His ears were tipped with barbed cartilage. The angles of his face were sharp and cruel. Ridges of hard material stuck out of his shoulders, and his eyes blazed yellow with elliptical slits.

Breathing hard, Carliven lifted his powerful hands and stared at them, curling them into fists.

Slowly, he swung his legs onto the floor and raised himself, no longer stooping, until he stood a foot taller than even Lion.

His mouth spread into a terrifying grin, and his laughter was rough and harsh.

'Father?' Kershon breathed. 'Father? Is it still you?'

Carliven's grin widened, showing rows of sharp teeth. 'Is it me? Yes, I suppose it is me. But I am not what I once was. I am no longer weak. Now… now I am strong.

I am greater than I was. And with this knowledge and this power, we shall all be greater than we could ever have dared to dream!'

Lion and Demnok both looked upon the mighty being they had created, and they both felt pride stirring within them.

He was the first of his kind. But he would not be the last.

'Senator Draxius?'

Draxius turned onto his back and sat up, blinking his eyes clear and yawning widely. 'What is it, Coris? Can it not wait until morning?'

Coris shook his head. 'I am sorry, Senator. It's Lady Lina. She's here. She says she needs to speak to you.'

Draxius sighed and threw back the covers. Luresia groaned and opened her eyes. 'She knows how to make things difficult.'

Draxius dressed quickly and followed Coris down to the lounge. He supposed Lina was being sensible, arranging to meet them after dark rather than during the day. But it was still irritating. Why could she not just make up her mind and kill Mirana for them? Everything would be so much better!

Well, not for her. But she did not need to know that.

And he did at least have the necessary tools ready for her.

Lina was pacing anxiously, wearing a simple hooded cloak to hide her clothes and distinctive features.

'Lady Lina,' Draxius tried to sound courteous rather than tired and annoyed. 'To what do I owe this pleasure?'

Lina turned to him, and at once he could tell that this was not a pleasure to her either. Gone were the bags under her eyes. Perhaps some decent sleep had finally erased her doubts.

'I'd like to keep this brief.' Lina stated. 'You're asking me to kill Princess Mirana.'

'A difficult mission, but a necessary one.'

'So you say. And what of those who follow her? What of those who are loyal to her?'

Draxius acted as if he was considering. In truth, he already taken this into account. 'They will be offered a choice: to serve the people, or leave Rasolir.'

They would have a choice, yes. But he had no intention of letting the loyalists live to oppose him. People like Kashurra, the Princess' handmaiden, any who were doggedly loyal to her, would have to die.

Lina nodded. 'You said you could procure the means.'

'I did. And I have done so,' Draxius nodded to Coris, who quickly went to the kitchens and returned with a bottle of wine in an opaque bottle. 'This wine is the Princess' favourite: Icewrack White. A good vintage, albeit it one laced with poison. It will be quick and painless.'

Lina eyed it warily, as if it was going to attack her. Draxius knew that poison was shunned in Misrule, but the Misrulians were not a subtle people—much like Lina herself. 'And I'm supposed to just make her drink that?'

'I imagine it will be easy. She will wish to raise a glass to her triumphs and the reclamation of the Solar Throne. She is a proud and vain woman, much like her uncle and her father before her.' He accepted a small vial from Coris. 'This is for you. Be sure to drink this before you drink any of that wine. Mirana will likely make you toast her apparent victory too. This is an antidote. The poison will likely make you ill, but having drunk this it will not kill you. That way, it will look as if you were the lucky survivor of an assassination attempt, and you will live to become Empress.'

'Not Empress.' Lina said as she took the vial. 'I am not doing this for myself. I'm doing it for the people of the Imperium, and so that Misrule can be free.'

'Of course.' Draxius did not protest. It did not matter why she did this, so long as she did it. 'You have a noble soul, Lina.'

Lina seemed to doubt that, and she grimaced as she accepted the bottle of wine and stowed it under her cloak.

Lanaya perched on the edge of a roof overlooking Draxius' house. Wrapped up in a black cloak, she was practically invisible in the shadows. She had no fear of Lina seeing her, or any of Draxius' guards.

Draxius had a small contingent of House Guards, as well as hired muscle. Too many for her in a direct fight, but not enough to stop her from slipping into the house and killing their master.

She was not planning to spill blood tonight though. That was not what Kashurra wanted. As practical as it would be to simply kill Draxius and Lina, he wanted to avoid simply murdering potential enemies. After Shabarra had exercised his whims without a care for the law and due process, Lanaya could understand why. Better that they wait and let Mirana and the courts deal with them properly.

Lina emerged from the house, her cloak wrapped tightly around her body and her hood up. Lanaya remained where she was, only her eyes moving to track Lina as she made for the street.

Lanaya was about to follow when movement caught her eyes.

Five figures, also cloaked and hooded, were making their way to the servant's entrance, their movements careful and deliberate. They were not exactly furtive, but they were wary and cautious, smooth enough not to draw much attention, but something about them made Lanaya watch them carefully.

It was the way they strode, she realised. Their walk was not unlike a march. They stood with their backs straight, and they walked as if they were accustomed to wearing armour.

Sure enough, Lanaya's patience paid off. As the leader approached the door and extended his arm to knock, the cloak slipped enough to reveal a glimpse of a red and gold vambrace.

Lanaya gathered herself and plotted her route. She knew where Lina was going, but she did not know why five members of the Sun Guard were calling upon Draxius before sunrise.

Draxius could not fault Luresia or Coris for being uneasy.

Lina could have incinerated them all in a moment.

But the five men standing before them were just as dangerous. Every member of the Sun Guard was rigorously trained in various methods of combat. These five men could kill Draxius, his wife, his servants and guards in any manner of ways, even with their bare hands.

And of course, them being here was risk enough. Like Lina, there was every risk they might report his intentions to Kashurra.

But despite everything, the Sun Guard were only mortal, just like Lina.

'Welcome,' Draxius beckoned them into the parlour. 'I trust you were not seen.'

'We have eluded Kashurra's spies,' the lead Sun Guard, Decius, confirmed confidently. Draxius had no reason to doubt him, the Sun Guard were the best at what they did—but he knew nothing of the Hidden Temple or its servants, and he certainly did not know that Lanaya was eavesdropping on the conversation.

Through a balcony window someone had carelessly left ajar, Lanaya had slipped into Draxius' house. At this hour, there were plenty of shadows for her to blend into. Draxius' House Guards were focusing much of their attention on the doors and the exterior, and there did not seem to be that many of them.

Lanaya easily crossed to the other side of the house. Unchallenged, she slipped through another window and climbed down a latticework to reach the parlour window.

It was shut, as she had expected.

Now came the tricky bit. There were five Sun Guard in that room, and they were always alert for danger.

Very carefully, Lanaya reached out, not with her hands, but with her mind. The gifts of her masters had aided her in many missions, and they did not disappoint her this time either.

If anybody had been looking behind the curtains in the parlour, they would have seen the window latch lift, as if moved by an invisible hand, and the window open by the tiniest increment.

Layana maintained a careful hold on it. There was a very faint breeze tonight. A rustle of the curtains would arouse suspicion.

'You are confident that you can deal with Kashurra?'

'It should be easy enough.' Decius stated. 'For all of his cunning, he is no warrior.'

'And the loyalists among the Sun Guard?' Luresia asked.

Decius stiffened ever so slightly. 'Hopefully, that will not be necessary. But if we must kill them, then we shall.'

'That beast who disgraces the Guard may be a capable fighter, but he is no match for us.' This came from Ammun, who, like some of his fellows, felt slighted by an ursa being allowed to join the Sun Guard.

'And that handmaiden,' Quintius agreed. 'She was never worthy of learning our ways.'

'Hopefully, Lina will poison her along with the Princess and her closest defenders.' Draxius said. 'I imagine Kashurra will be among them too. Your task is simply to ensure that Lina plays her part and to eliminate Kashurra's accomplices.'

'And if Lina tries to seize power herself?' Decius asked. 'Are we to kill her too?'

'I doubt she will try, nor will she have the opportunity.' Draxius said. 'I have already taken precautions. The "antidote" I provided her with is useless. She will poison herself along with the Princess. But should she survive, or refuse to go through with the plan, then yes, you will eliminate her and the Princess.'

'And how are we to trust a man who betrays his own accomplices so easily?' Domitius, the biggest of the Sun Guard present, demanded.

Draxius did not miss a beat. 'Would you trust someone like Lina? A temperamental Misrulian with insidious sorcery at her command? I will not betray Imperial soldiers loyal to the people they serve, soldiers like you. But we cannot trust Lina. I do not betray her lightly, but I must for the sake of us all.' He looked to their leader, a grizzled veteran who, like Garrisan, had served Mirana's father. He had managed to retain his position when Shabarra had taken charge, though he had begrudged the man for seizing his place with violence and had been plotting to get rid of him. The uprising had taken him by surprise, but he had done his part by throwing in his lot with the rebels. 'Decius, you know that sacrifices are necessary.'

'I do,' Decius agreed. 'For too long has House Caelum drawn the Imperium ever closer to destruction. Their carelessness and callousness must end once and for all.'

'Would that we could end Shabarra too.' Tertius muttered.

'His time will come soon enough,' Ammum said.

'Indeed,' Draxius agreed. 'But Mirana is on her way here, and she will continue the decadence and incompetence her House is all too happy to indulge in. Worse still, she will bring the heretical ways of the Dark Moon Order to Rasolir. I do not wish to cast aside the true faith. Do any of you?'

'Of course not, Senator.' Decius answered immediately. 'We are blessed by the Sun. Neither Selemene or her Bleeding Moon have any power over us.'

'Indeed.' Draxius agreed. 'And once Mirana and her kind are all gone, the Imperium shall know true prosperity.'

Very carefully, Lanaya dropped the latch. She had heard enough.

It was time to report back to Kashurra.

He would decide Lina's fate.

The people of Mistmill could scarce have guessed their terrible fate. Until now.

Sentries upon the walls had reported seeing a cloud of dust rising in the distance, as if an army was marching towards them. Scouts had gone out to learn more. None had returned.

The militia had roused themselves, organising a defence. They had expected Stonehall to send a punitive force, and they were prepared to meet it.

Mistmill was not a large settlement, but it was decently fortified. It held a position of strategic importance, hence Galanius' desire to keep the settlement under his thumb.

For a time, the people of Mistmill had acquiesced to Galanius' will. Little had changed with the fall of Old Stonehall and the rise of its successor city. They had tilled their fields, ground grain, sent tithes to the city, occasionally sent men and materials at Galanius' request, and they had continued as they always had.

Then Galanius had declared that they should follow a new deity, some moon goddess once venerated in the north.

Most of the vassals, fearing Stonehall's wrath, had bent their knees to this new goddess, casting aside the old gods who had watched over them for centuries.

Not Mistmill. They had no desire to follow Mene, and no desire to send men to die in a pointless holy crusade which neglected their true gods.

Galanius, through his Lord Regent, had threatened them. Messengers had come, bearing dire warnings of retribution.

The garrison commander had sent back a fitting answer the last time the messengers had come: the messenger, beheaded and tied to his horse, his head in his own satchel, branded with the symbols of Zeus and Ares.

The message was clear: We will hold to the true gods, and we will fight if you come for us.

A bold move for a small town mostly consisting of farmers. But it had a strong garrison, the better to defend the grain stores against thieves, bandits and creeps, two-hundred strong. The farmers had been armed with whatever could be contrived, making the garrison stronger, and the families had pooled their money to hire a small but stout force of misthophoroi.

Now they had roughly four hundred men to withstand an assault. Stonehall had a massive army, yes, but they could not afford to send the entire army to take Mistmill, not when they were preparing for war against the Helio Imperium. Such a move would provide opportunities for pre-emptive strikes.

No, they would send some phalanxes. That, the militia could handle. Mistmill had strong walls and a strong position.

But when the morning sun rose into the bloodied sky, the confidence of the defenders shrivelled away.

Marching across the plain were not the phalanxes they had counted on seeing. Instead, an enormous horde of burly warriors advanced upon them, banners of flayed skin wavering in the wind. There was no mistaking them or their intent. The Bloodmist Army had come for them, and they would bring only death and ruin.

Every terrified man counted each foeman twice over, yet that hardly mattered. The enemy force was many times their own number. The Bloodmist Army could afford to lose a few hundred warriors, they had many thousands to spare.

Drums throbbed and raucous voices bellowed out songs of mayhem and bloodshed. The very air shook before the horde.

Even before the army reached them, there were losses. Men threw down their weapons and fled, hoping they could cross into Elze or the Imperium and find safety. Though some were halted, some punished, others slipped through. But it was not long before the Bloodmist Army had completely encircled the town.

Sorla Khan rode at the head of her army atop a long-legged stryder, spear in hand. Around her were her Bloodied Ones, her personal guard—the biggest and strongest of the horde, their exposed skin covered in scars—ritualistic and earned in battle—piercings and tattoos.

Knowing that Mistmill was weak, Sorla Khan had also ordered the Runts to the front. These were the youngest fighters—mostly teenagers—who had yet to kill. Only when they slew an opponent in battle and presented their heads to the Khan would they be considered warriors.

It also seemed to provide some small advantage. Sorla had noticed that some opponents hesitated when faced with a foe so young. Her warriors had no such weaknesses.

Sorla raised her spear and bellowed the command to charge. There was no grand strategy in such fights. They would simply overwhelm the enemy with their sheer numbers and might. Mistmill would make for a poor opponent, but it would provide some sport.

The circle of red began to close around Mistmill. Warriors on foot or atop stryders pounded across the plains and stomped through the river. The ground shook under their feet.

Some of the defenders finally found some small measure of courage. Arrows began to fall into the horde's ranks. Some warriors fell into the dirt, to be trampled by their comrades, others continued to run despite the shafts protruding from their flesh. Some of the stryders raced ahead, their riders carrying composite bows of horn and sinew—powerful in spite of their short length. The mounted archers launched their arrows with great skill despite the speed at which they rode, and many defenders fell from the walls.

The high walls loomed before the Bloodmist Army, and did not halt them. Even as ladders were raised and a ram was slammed against the gates, more stryders leapt, seemingly absurdly high in the eyes of their soon-to-be-victims, and alighted upon the battlements, beast and rider alike sowing carnage.

Sorla was among them, skewering militiamen and misthophoroi on the end of her spear, her stryder raking bodies with its claws and biting necks with its triangular fangs. Blood flowed across the stonework and dripped down the walls, flowing into the streets below.

The militia organised a hasty defence before the gates, but it was a hopeless attempt, and they all knew it.

The gates crashed open before they had even formed a proper shield-wall. Though some over-eager oglodi were impaled upon spears, hundreds more rushed forwards and simply crushed the militiamen to the ground, hacking, stomping and beating them to death.

The townsfolk quailed and tried to hide, all for naught. Most were dragged kicking, screaming or pleading from their homes, to be tormented and butchered at will. Others were simply barricaded inside their homes as they were set alight.

Sorla let her warriors enjoy their spoils as she rode to the centre of the town. She let them pillage, rape and murder as they saw fit. Many runts would become warriors this day, and more people would learn to fear her and her army.

In the town centre, some of her Bloodied Ones had forced the local governor to his knees, stripped him and bound him before the statue of Zeus. Some enthusiastic warrior had already knocked off the statue's head and smashed it upon the ground.

Sorla grinned as she approached the kneeling man, tasting the blood on her lips, as she drew a sharp knife from her belt. 'A spirited defence for so pathetic a town,' she declared. 'Your skin shall make a decent banner for the Bloodmist Army.'

The horrific revelry of the Bloodmist Army continued, long, cruel and brutal, as Sorla personally skinned the governor. His corpse would be chained to the broken statue, as both a warning and food for scavengers.

When they eventually finished their gory celebrations, not a single living soul would remain in Mistmill. No man, woman or child would remain alive. In the eyes of the Bloodmist Army, weakness was something to be punished, not pitied, and only the strong survived.

Though some in Stonehall had worried that using Sorla and her ilk would make them look weak, the massacre nevertheless had the desired effect: no other vassals would dare to defy them, lest they wake to find the merciless horde outside their walls on the morrow.

Nobody seemed to pay Lina much mind as she returned to the palace. Nobody questioned why she was roaming the corridors so early in the morning. She had been prepared to say that she'd been out for a walk, yet nobody asked.

Nobody assumed she was part of a group plotting regicide.

Or so she believed, right up until she entered her quarters.

There were three people waiting inside, all of them expectant, all with very different expressions.

Kashurra stood before the balcony, facing the door, arms folded, his eyes smouldering, his look one of intense disappointment.

An elf, very pale with strange markings on her face, stood to one side, looking wary, ready to spring.

And lastly, sitting in a chair by the desk, not able to meet her eyes, was Drysi.

Lina sighed and lowered her head, unable to look Drysi in the eye. For what felt like an eternity, nobody said a word. Lina could feel the bottle of poisoned wine against her side under her cloak, chilling her through her clothes, laced with lethality. She felt ill, as if the beads of moisture seeping into her through the bottle were already killing her.

'You know,' she whispered at last.

Drysi hung her head, hiding her damp eyes from Lina.

Kashurra nodded gravely. 'We know.'