Deceit: The Light of the New World, #2

By K. R. Gangi

The King is dead…
After surviving two horrific attacks, Trevor, Dodge, Warren, and Sarah follow the Brotherhood, a small band of mercenaries, to a secret village hidden beyond the peak of the mountains. There, they hope to find peace away from the bloodshed that seems to follow them, but what they find is much more.

Who will rule…
As acting steward until a new monarch is found, Francis has everything he needs to achieve a world of peace: the throne of power, and a reincarnated god who obeys his every command. However, peace is not so easily achieved. Deceit lurks within every shadow, and Francis struggles to stay two steps ahead of his enemies, who also happen to be his closest allies. He has sacrificed everything to get what he needs, but will it be enough?

Paths will cross…
Cast out of his village, Quiver's journey leads to a brother he thought long dead, through a dangerous country with a violent history toward his people. With memories of war on his mind, there is one southern face that Quiver hopes never to see again, an old enemy from the battlefield: the Wolf.

No one escapes the past…
Alric has spent every day trying to forget the bloody deeds he has committed, but it seems his past has officially caught up with him, and it has perverted his one good memory into something horrific. Haunted at every moment, no matter how hard Alric resists, the animal clawing inside him is begging to be set free.

• Language: English
• Publisher: K. R. Gangi
• Release date: Sep 20, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201928315

Book preview

Dedication

For those who continue to believe in the power of their own stories, and for those whose stories require more resiliency than most.

For every Alric who tirelessly battles against the ghosts of their past—may you persevere through your darkest battle and succeed in a brighter future. For every Trevor who feels like a small stranger in a large world—may you find your place and cherish the love you undoubtedly deserve. For every Sarah who feels trapped, isolated, and alone—may you find trust in those willing to help you along your journey. For every Quiver who questions the shackles of their traditions—may you come to terms with who you become, rather than who you were conditioned to be. For every Francis who believes one’s self is worth sacrificing in pursuit of the greater good—may you stay true to your belief despite how dark your path may become. For every Vallis, whose perception of what should be is forged by betrayal—may you find acceptance, serenity, and joy within yourself and through others.

For my wife, Melissa, whose light shines brighter than all, which helps guide me safely through my own darkness.

Part One

Where All Paths Cross

Clean Questions, Messy Answers

The air was cooler near the mountain. Quiver followed the beaten path through and around the mountain with Rasca and Masco at his sides. They passed through a thick, luscious forest filled with greenery and wildlife. They scaled rocky passes, balanced over fallen logs to pass over rushing rivers, and made camp within a few caves that were evidently home to predators.

When Quiver wasn’t succumbing to his relentless paranoia, searching anywhere and everywhere for a potential threat, he was enslaved to his thoughts. He was now an exile, a shunned villager cast out of his home and into the wild. Quiver had sacrificed a lot for his people during the war. He partook in unspeakable things, some things he would never forget—or forgive himself for. He had done it all for his people, and yet they abandoned him all the same.

It was for the best, Quiver assured himself. He had been struggling for years about his identity. Now that he was gone, it was as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. It’s not that he didn’t love his village—there were more than a few faces he would surely miss seeing. Mostly, he loved who they used to be rather than what they’ve become. Rather than what Roku, his former elder, had turned them into.

Quiver could never lead a pack again, but those beside him were more than pack—they were his family, now, and he felt truer to himself in their company than he had in the last decade within his village.

Rasca was his oldest friend. They grew close as younglings before the war, had fought together during it, and survived until the very end at each other’s side. Masco, just barely a youngling, had followed Quiver and Rasca into exile by Elder Roku for his own reasons. Reasons Quiver didn’t fully understand, but he accepted him all the same. Together, they were the closest thing to family that Quiver has had in a long time.

The only thing he wished he could change was having Thread there with him. As Quiver continued to distance himself further from his people’s traditions and beliefs, Thread was always there to stand by his side. She always accepted who he was, even before Quiver knew it himself. She was his greatest friend, and his most cherished paramour. He wished he could hold her again, to have just one more moment where he could breathe in her smell.

If that day ever came, I would never let her go.

Of course, Thread and Rasca had been keeping a secret from Quiver for nearly ten years, and that secret was where Rasca was leading them. The Crooked Tooth, a village in the mountains where Quiver’s brother was an elder for another village. Quiver had always thought his brother dead, but now, with the enlightenment of his well-being, Quiver felt both excited and anxious. It was a dark night when Quiver last saw Farren. A dark night with dark tidings, and they hadn’t parted on the best of terms. Not even close.

You’re thinking, again. Rasca scratched the scruff of his cheek where he had been neglecting a clean shave. His excuse was that it would help them ‘blend in’ with the southerners.

Quiver kept his eyes focused on the trail ahead. I’m always thinking.

Don’t I know it, Rasca said. What about this time?

Where we are going, Quiver answered, and what will happen when we get there.

We’re going to the mountains, Rasca told him, and I imagine we’ll see your brother.

My brother. Quiver scoffed. Cast out of one village fifteen years ago only to become an elder himself.

I thought he wasn’t an elder? Masco asked.

He’s not. Rasca shot Quiver an annoyed look. I said he’s a leader.

A different word with the same meaning, Quiver stated.

It’s not the same, Rasca defended. "Your brother doesn’t decide for the people—he decides with them. They all work together."

Fine. Quiver scratched his own scruff. He wasn’t actively trying to grow it out, it was just packing a razor hadn’t exactly been on his list of priorities. Leaders, elders, chiefs, kings— all just different titles for the same people.

The hill they had spent the last two days descending was now finally leveling out with gradual ease. The slope made way for a break in the woods, pines and spurs now thinning into soft grass and firs. The trees broke and revealed a wide, flattened road. Two evenly spaced tracks dug deep into the soft dirt. If the tracks added any reassurance, it was that they had stumbled upon an official road, and it had been recently traveled.

They were now, officially, standing in Navaleth.

Tell me about him, Quiver said, trying to ignore the chill creeping down his spine as they traveled down the road. Tell me who Farren is now.

Tall chestnuts that reached toward an open blue sky shaded the trail. The midday sun hid behind the green leaves and thick branches. The surrounding forest was calm, and the only thing that reassured his safety was the birdsong. When it came to an attack in the forest, Quiver had learned long ago to trust the silence of the birds.

He doesn’t neglect the new ways of the world, Rasca answered. He’s adapted, though he holds on to many of our beliefs. He believes that when we shun away others and how they live, we are only keeping ourselves from growing into something better. He’s kind and passionate. He truly believes that the only way to make a better world is to accept everyone for who they are.

Quiver chuckled at the absurdity. You telling me my brother, a man who’d gladly slaughter every southerner he’d come across, is trying to make this world a better place by accepting others for who they are?

There was a gravity to Rasca’s tone when he spoke. Your brother is not the man you remember. A lot’s happened since his exile.

Quiver thought back to that dark night with his brother. He was drunk and raging, waving the bottle he had been nursing in one hand and an axe in the other. Quiver would never forget the smell of liquor on Farren’s breath, nor the fresh blood dripping from his favorite hatchet.

There’s a good reason why the southerners called him Quickdraw.

If you say so, Quiver said bitterly. He was having a difficult time picturing his brother the way Rasca was describing.

Time changes us all, Masco said from behind them. The youngling had changed since he woke from his coma. He seemed much older, and much wiser. I’m sure you’re not the same person he remembers.

Branches stretched from both sides of the road over their heads. They yawned over the road as the three of them made their way around a bend. Quiver froze the moment he spotted it—a wagon stationed on the side of the road. There was a person lying on their back, reaching beneath the carriage of the wagon for something.

Quiver quickly scanned the area and took a wary step back. Masco was right. Time changes everyone and everything, but in Quiver’s experience it was never for the better, and he wasn’t ready to see how a blood-thirsty war-mongering country like Navaleth had changed these last fifteen years.

Rasca looked at Quiver like he could read his thoughts. It’s not the same place it used to be.

As assuring as Rasca’s words were intended to be, Quiver didn’t trust them. I doubt that.

If they’re a problem, then we deal with it, Rasca told him. It’s just one person.

Quiver shook his head. It’s never just one person. Worry swelled in his chest. And we don’t have any weapons.

They don’t know that, Masco added. Besides, they don’t look like a threat.

Quiver grunted. They never do.

The stranger scooted himself from underneath the wagon and rose to their feet to reveal the slender figure of a man. He brushed the dirt from his pants, patted his sleeves, and looked up to see the three of them standing there. He bounced on the balls of his feet and waved toward them. Ho, there, strangers!

Quiver mumbled a curse to himself. We should have hidden in the trees the moment we saw him. Now it’s too late.

The three of them stood there awkwardly, unsure of how to react. Finally, Masco asked what was on all of their minds. What do we do?

The stranger frantically gestured to his cart. If he was uncomfortable with the fact that he was standing in front of three native strangers, he didn’t show it. There wasn’t an ounce of worry in the man, and Quiver didn’t know how to feel about that. The wheel is a bit wobbly and about to fall off, he yelled to them. Could you help me? I ain’t got much for money, but you’re welcome to anything out of the back as payment.

Quiver took a deep, steady breath. Rasca scratched the side of his stubble while Masco stood patiently for someone to do something. Unlike Quiver, his companions didn’t look the least bit tense. Perhaps I’m overreacting. Rasca said he’s visited this country recently. Maybe it really has changed and I’m just stuck in my ways.

Well, Quiver said finally, let’s see what fifteen years does to a country.

The stranger’s yellow locks were clumped with dirt and grease, and judging by the smell, it was long due for a wash. Besides the clothes he was wearing, which wasn’t more than a comfortable pair of travel clothes and leathered sandals, there wasn’t much else to the man. Quiver searched for a sign, a simple twitch of the eye or a waver in the man’s voice. He waited for anything that would give him a sign that this stranger had ill intentions, but he found none.

Wow, am I glad to see a friendly face. The stranger rested both hands on his hips. She just hasn’t been the same since rolling over a stone back there. Probably just a wheel getting caught off center.

Aren’t you worried? Quiver asked, searching the stranger’s eyes for any sign of mischief.

The stranger brushed off the comment with a shrug of his shoulders. Just gotta realign it, is all. Shouldn’t be much—

About us, Quiver added. Why aren’t you worried about us?

Should I be? the stranger replied with genuine surprise. I mean, I’m not about to argue with help when needed. As far as I’m concerned, you’re just some travelers going about their business, as am I. But... He took a wary step back, showing his palms. If you mean to rob me, please just take the wagon and leave me some water so I can make it back to my family. There’s no need to rough me up. I’m an honest man doing honest work.

We don’t mean you harm, Rasca said as he shot an irritated glance at Quiver. "We just didn’t expect...friendly conversation. That’s all."

Despite Rasca’s reassurance, the stranger now looked hesitant to trust them. The irony almost made Quiver laugh. Almost.

I just need an extra hand or two, the stranger said. The offer still stands—anything out of the back.

Some food would be nice, Masco said, stepping between Rasca and Quiver. He looked at them and gave an innocent shrug. If you can spare it, he said to the stranger.

The man gave an honest smile and nodded his thanks. Absolutely! It looks like I’m the luckiest man in the world. You have my thanks, friends.

Friend? He wouldn’t be calling you friend if he knew what you were about to do to him.

Please. The man ushered them to the opposite side of the wagon. We have to get some leverage and push the wheel back into place. We three can lift while the little one pushes?

Quiver joined Rasca at the side of the wagon. Together, in unison, they pressed their shoulders against the wagon and it lifted. The wagon was much lighter than Quiver had thought it would be.

Alright, little man, the stranger said to Masco. Just push that wheel in until you hear a click. That should set it in place. Hurry now, while we got it.

Masco dropped to his knees and crawled under the carriage. Quiver could hear the sounds of rumbling from underneath, followed by the unmistakable sound of wood locking in place. When Masco had climbed out from beneath the wagon, Rasca, Quiver and the stranger gently lowered the wagon.

Thank you so much, my friends! The man jumped to each of them and shook their hands with joy. His hands were thick with calluses. So, what will it be? Dried beef? I have packaged rations in a chest near the front if that’ll serve?

That won’t be necessary, Quiver said, ready to be on his way. Already he was feeling they had spent too much time with the stranger. He seemed genuine enough, but something was itching at the back of his skull in warning. Something about the weight of the wagon, and the toughness of his hands. Does a trader need such rough hands?

Honest men, you are. The stranger gave them a skeptical smile. Perhaps then an honest trade? I am first, and foremost, a tradesman after all. Volva the Traveling Tradesman, they call me. Let’s make a deal, yes? Then Volva winked and said, If it’s a pride thing, then I won’t even offer a discount.

Masco looked down at himself. We have nothing to trade.

Volva waved the comment away. Everyone has something to trade.

We have nothing of value to you, Quiver answered plainly.

Quiver watched as the ploy faded from Volva’s face, and he felt a rock drop within his gut. It was the simple change in his posture, then the smile hooking the corner of his mouth, and finally the flash of hunger lighting his eyes. "Oh, but you are incredibly valuable."

Quiver heard the snap of a twig. He spun around just in time to earn a heavy fist to his face. He stumbled back from the blow, but he stayed on his feet. Instinctively, he reached out and launched blindly forward, hoping to grab his attacker. He felt another punch sink into his gut and it sucked the air from his lungs. As he sank to his knees, clutching his stomach, a third blow to the side of his face sent him face first onto the ground.

Tie him up, an unfamiliar voice ordered. Quickly, now. Don’t forget the little one.

This one’s huge! another voice praised with a squeal of joy. We’ll catch a nice price for him!

We’ll never catch a price for any of them if you don’t tie them up, a third voice said.

Quiver fought against his dizziness as someone dragged him to his knees. When his vision steadied, he saw Masco and Rasca on their knees before him. Men surrounded them, all of them wearing a black handkerchief wrapped around their faces. They were all holding swords, and they looked eager to use them.

Easy, big fella, Volva whispered into Quiver’s ear from behind him. Don’t try anything foolish, now. Ain’t nothing worth dying over.

Believe me, Quiver said to Volva, you better make this quick, because if I get loose—

Volva slapped the side of Quiver’s head. Threats won’t be rewarded in kind, so keep that mouth shut. Slaves only need their hands and feet, not their tongues. Remember that. Volva stepped from behind Quiver and approached the rest of his gang. What the fuck are you standing around for, Danial? he asked one bandit that was leaning against the carriage. Go grab the rag. The sooner they sleep, the sooner we get them on the wagon. None of this is new.

Why am I always the one to gag them, eh? Danial complained. It stinks, and I can’t get that shit off my hands for weeks. Gives me a maddening headache.

I’ll give you a bloody headache if you don’t get that damned rag, one of the other men grumbled.

Fine, fine, Danial said, defeated. He tucked his dagger into his belt and walked toward the wagon like a stubborn child. But I swear, next time I get to play the tradesman. I have plenty of experience in theater and I really think—

Something whizzed through the air and Danial’s head snapped back with a thud. He staggered on his feet momentarily, his arms out to the side as if to keep his balance.

Danial, Volva warned. I told you before that I don’t care about your damned...theater... His words trailed off as Danial stumbled forward and crashed to the ground. There was an arrow sticking out of his eye.

All was silent. Quiver could sense the fear in the bandits as they stared dumbfounded at Danial’s corpse. When they fully realized that Danial was just murdered right in front of them, they tightened the grip on their weapons and scanned the trees.

Then a voice spoke from somewhere in the forest.

Let me tell you what’s going to happen, it said. You’re going to throw your weapons on the ground, take a few steps away from those three men, and put your hands behind your head. If you don’t, you’ll end up like...like...shit, did anyone catch his name?

I think I heard Devon, another voice shouted from the trees.

You deaf idiots, a third voice shouted. It was Dekkard.

Oh, fuck it, the original voice cursed to himself. If you don’t do as you’re told, I’ll have my man here shoot you in the cock. I promise you, he’s very good, especially when it comes to cocks.

Thanks for that! another man hollered sarcastically from somewhere among the trees.

You’re welcome, bud, the first voice replied.

One of the bandits took a wary step back. What do we do?

Quiver debated whether this was his moment to break free. This would be the perfect moment, but he didn’t know if those hidden in the trees were on his side. They obviously had the bandits outnumbered, but it didn’t mean they were on his side.

Before he could decide, Volva lifted Quiver to his feet and pressed a dagger to his throat. Together, they faced the trees, Volva safely behind Quiver’s back and shouting over his shoulder. We’re not doing a fucking thing, he yelled to both his men and the ones hiding in the woods You’re quick for threats while hiding about, but my guess is you’d scatter like rats once we rush you.

Yeah? the voice asked from the woods. I think my friends on your right beg to differ.

Volva, along with his group of bandits, swiveled their gazes to their right where six men stood ten feet away from them. They were all holding weapons, some bows, others swords, but all of them had a mean-looking smile on their faces.

In fact, the voice from the woods continued, "I know my friends on the left are hoping you’ll try."

Volva and his gang twisted anxiously around again to see another group of similar looking thugs standing by.

And don’t forget the ones behind you, the voice cooed. Other voices among the trees were laughing now.

Volva wasn’t keen on surrendering, but, like his fellow bandits around him, he knew they were heavily outnumbered. He released his grip on Quiver, dropped his knife, and took a step back and joined the line of his comrades. You win, he said bitterly.

I always win, the voice replied. You’ll see that soon enough.

A man revealed himself from the trees. He stepped through the brush with his arms held out to his sides in welcome as he kept his eyes focused on Volva. He wore black leather with three dark straps of buckles criss-crossed on his chest. Two swords with bronze pommels rested on his back, and a pair of axes dangled on each side of his hips. Despite his friendly smile, he looked mean. His brown hair, tied back into a ponytail, showcased a dark pair of eyes and a nasty scar that curved down the left side of his face.

I haven’t won yet, though, he said as he strutted toward Volva, two men at both of his sides. When he was in front of the line of bandits, he tapped a knuckle against Volva’s chest and laughed. But you’ll help me get there, won’t you, my new friend?

Volva shook his head, confused. I don’t—

No no no. The man waved Volva’s words aside. You’ll have time to talk. That, I promise you, but now it’s time to listen. You’re obviously the one in charge here, which means you’ve got the answers I want. Isn’t that right... Wait, what’s your name?

Vinson, one of the man’s companions said.

Another scoffed. Verigaul, he corrected.

The first bandit slowly swiveled his head to the other, his eyebrow lifting his forehead. Verigaul? Seriously?

Volva, Volva answered quietly. My name’s Volva.

Sure, the man in charge answered. So, here’s the thing, Volva. I know your type. Even though I’ve got you nice and tight by your goodies, you still think you’re in charge. You still think you can win here. So, as much as it pains me to do this, I’ve got to make a point before we can move on.

Before further explanation, the man paced down the line of bandits, tugging off each handkerchief as he walked by. Quiver slowly backed away, but he felt a gentle hand press against the lower of his back. It was gentle enough to let Quiver know he wasn’t involved with the unlucky bandits before them, but firm enough to let him know his time wasn’t done here.

Let’s get started then, the man said as he stopped before the first bandit in line. You ready, big guy?

Y-y-y-yes, the bandit replied, his bottom lip quivering with fear.

We’ll see. The man crossed his arms. First order of business, what’s my name?

The bandit in question furrowed his eyebrows, his mind drawing blankly with an answer.

It’s a simple question, the inquisitor asked. Who am I? he repeated.

The bandit looked to his friends for help, but they offered none. Eventually, he looked toward his questioner and answered, I don’t know.

The man sighed. That’s too bad. For you, anyway.

With a swiftness that was too fast to prepare for, the man snatched an axe from a loop at his hip and buried it in the bandit’s face. He grabbed hold of their body before it could crash to the ground, reeled back, and brought the axe down into his face again. Then again, and again. Several vicious hacks later, the bandit’s face was a bloody ruin. Only when his murderer seemed satisfied did his corpse collapse to the ground in a mess of gore.

Looks like we need to increase our reputation, gents. The thug’s men laughed to themselves as their leader walked to the next bandit in line. "I already know you were tracking these natives for a while now. But, what you didn’t know is that we were tracking you. Funny thing, isn’t it? Irony, that is. You guys thought you were in charge, only to find out you were actually completely fucked this entire time."

He slipped his axe back into the loop at his belt and wiped his hands on the front of the next bandit. Same question. Ready? The second bandit nodded. "Good. So, do you know who I am?"

Unlike the previous bandit, this one stood confidently. Yes.

Oh? the man looked genuinely surprised. Then what’s my name?

The bandit’s eyes didn’t stray from his interrogator’s. You’re Lazar. Leader of the Loyalists.

You’re damned right I am. Lazar smiled with an approving nod. Kneel. The bandit was forced to his knees by one of Lazar’s men.

Lazar stepped to the next bandit in line. These questions tend to get harder as we go along, but I have faith in you. Ready?

Please, the next bandit begged, tears flowing down his face. Please don’t. I’ll do anything.

Oh, come on, now. Lazar rested a comforting hand on the bandit’s shoulder. You’re a damned outlaw! You knew the rules of the game when you signed up to play. Now, I never enjoy repeating myself, but I’m feeling generous today. I’ll give you one more chance. Ready?

The bandit nodded his head, which was satisfactory enough for Lazar.

Good. Now, you know my name, Lazar speculated with a bloody finger pressed to his lip, "and you know my Loyalists, but what exactly do we do."

Y-y-you, the bandit took a deep breath, trying to gain control over his fear.

W-w-we? mocked Lazar, earning a laugh from his Loyalists. I’ve never met a batch of stuttering outlaws before. G-g-get to the p-p-point before I really lose my s-s-shit.

The bandit gained control of himself. You set fires to the country. You burn farms.

Yes! Lazar patted the bandit’s cheek. "But there’s so much more! I burn the fields, sure, but I also hunt, rob, and I kill. As of late, I’ve grown very interested in a certain man, and, admittedly, finding that man has proved quite...difficult." Lazar nodded to one of his Loyalists and they forced the bandit to their knees. Lazar moved to his next prisoner.

You see, continued Lazar, this man has many names, travels to many places and hides in many shadows. People speak of him as a trader, but I know better. They also call him many names, but the last I heard, he goes by the name Marquis.

Lazar snapped a finger inches from the next bandit’s face. Now, I know without a doubt you don’t know his real name, but you do know who I’m talking about, right? The prisoner answered with a soft nod. Good. See? This isn’t so bad. Now, your question is much tougher. But let me promise you something. Your friend here? Lazar nudged his chin towards Volva. He’s going to get the worst of it. Consider yourself lucky you ain’t him. Now, are you ready?

The bandit kept his chin held high as he nodded his head.

Right, then. Lazar cleared his throat. Why am I looking for Marquis?

The bandit thought hard for a moment, and then his eyes brightened with hope. A deal, he answered. You want to make a deal!

For a moment, Lazar simply stared at the bandit. Then, he leaned back on one leg, crossed his arms, and shook his head disappointingly. I’m afraid not. Then he gave his man the signal.

The bandit braced himself for attack, but, instead, the two kneeling bandits to his right were kicked forward onto their stomachs. Lazar’s men stepped forward, both of them holding very nasty-looking clubs. They swung down without remorse, bludgeoning the two bandits to death by bashing their skulls in. They hammered like a pair of smiths working the anvil. Blood and bone sprayed in the air as the bandits were turned into red mush.

The bandit before Lazar trembled in terror. He closed his eyes, no doubt anticipating a similar fate. Instead, Lazar rested a soft hand on his shoulder.

I’m not looking to make a deal with Marquis, Lazar said softly, almost at a whisper. "I’m all about business, but I never was too fond of snakes. I’m looking for him because I need him to know." Quiver didn’t even notice the dagger in Lazar’s hand, not until it was buried in the bandit’s gut.

Lazar snarled evilly, staring deep into the bandit’s eyes as he slowly worked the knife. "I need him to know I’m the only bandit in this fucking country. I have men everywhere, and the longer he continues to do business in my country—Lazar ripped the dagger to side and sliced open the man’s belly, his entrails unfolding through the pocket of flesh and spewing onto the ground—then I will continue to treat his lowlife thugs as such."

Lazar backed away as the bandit sank to his knees. He frantically tried to gather his snaking intestines within his hands, but to no avail. He lasted only a few moments longer before he fell face first into his own guts.

Quiver had done a lot of things in his life, a lot of them bloody, but never had he done anything so ruthless. He wanted to vomit, but he was too afraid to do so.

Now, for the finale. Lazar approached Volva, who was perspiring despite the cool temperature of the day. "You’ve got the hardest question of all, little Volva. You’ve heard the message I have for Marquis, and we both know he’s your employer. Like I said, I know your type. Even in the face of this mess, your pride will get the best of you. But I’m sure you’ll understand that a dead man can’t exactly deliver a message."

I don’t know where he is, Volva answered before Lazar could ask.

Lazar smiled wickedly at Volva. Come on, now. That’s what your friends in the south claimed before we tied them to some rocks and dumped them in the Silver Lake.

One of Lazar’s thugs chuckled. If the Pale Lady is really down there, she got one hell of a feast that night.

She sure did, Lazar agreed. As did the crows after we hung your other buddies from Mariella’s Gift.

Another thug of Lazar’s grunted, but this time in disappointment. Disrespectful, that.

Lazar rolled his eyes. Which is exactly why I didn’t use those stakes we bought from Felkert, Jaecon, no matter how much easier it would have been to nail them to the damned thing. Seriously, if the gods wanted to protect their tree so badly, they shouldn’t have left the responsibility to us savages. Lazar shot Quiver with a sympathetic look. No offense.

Lazar shook his head and waved away the distraction. You’ll have to excuse Jaecon. He’s a superstitious brute, but I’m not. I believe what’s right in front of me, and what’s right in front of me now is a damned liar. You had one, Volva, and that was it. Where is Marquise?

I really don’t know, Volva answered.

Can you at least get a message to him?

Volva took a deep breath, looked at Lazar and nodded his head. I can.

"Well, of course you’d say you can. Lazar laughed at the absurdity. But how?"

I’m an informant for his business partners, Volva said. They meet at the end of every month. We don’t get word of where they are meeting until a few days before.

How do you give them this message if you don’t know where they’re meeting? Lazar asked quizzically.

There’s a rendezvous near Servitol, Volva answered. An old house just outside of the city. They leave a coded message in a cabinet about their next meeting.

Why Servitol? Lazar asked.

It’s their hub. Most of the trade happens within the city. Marquis smuggles them in and sells them within twenty-four hours. It’s his largest trading port.

Lazar shook his head and spit to the side. Organized crime. It’s fucking disgusting.

Are you going to let me go? Volva asked. His entire body was shaking.

Well, that depends, Lazar said. Will you deliver my message? Volva kept his stare blank and nodded. Lazar responded with a bright smile. Well, that’s all you had to say. One of the thugs shoved Volva to the side. Run along now, little Volva. Lazar dismissed the bandit with a flick of his wrist. Deliver my message, or find out what happens to those who lie to me. I can, and will, find you.

Volva wasted no time. He turned and fled down the road the way Quiver and the others had come from. Lazar stared at the bandit’s back, watching as Volva distanced himself from the bloodbath. Then, Lazar pursed his lip, and then shook his head. You know, he said, speaking more to himself than to those around him. He let out a deep sigh and tugged an axe from his belt. "I really, really hate slavers."

He wound back and lobbed the axe with great force. It spun through the air, spiraling down the road toward Volva, and then buried itself in his back between the shoulder blades. Volva crashed to the ground, slid a few more feet, and stopped moving altogether.

Now I win, Lazar mumbled victoriously to himself. He turned to Quiver then, matching his eyes, and the sight sent a chill of fear through his chest. His Loyalists began dragging the bodies of their latest victims into the shrubs as Lazar approached Quiver, Rasca, and Masco.

We’re going to skip the part where you pretend you don’t understand what I’m saying, he told Quiver.

Not sure exactly how to answer, Quiver settled with, Okay.

Appreciated, Lazar said, sounding genuinely thankful. Seems like a lot of you Natives have been on the move lately, but you’re the furthest north yet. I won’t ask where you’re headed, or where you came from, but I will ask which direction you’re going.

Lazar was carrying on the conversation as if fresh blood wasn’t currently dripping from his clothes, like he hadn’t just brutally murdered six men moments ago. It was an uneasy feeling, talking with a man who held little regard to the death he so easily caused.

A bit more south, Rasca answered for Quiver. Then east.

South, then east, Lazar repeated to himself. The rest of the way should be clear from these guys, but next time you come across a wagon on the side of the road in the middle of the woods, how about you use your head, yeah?

Quiver shot Rasca a look that said I told you so, but his friend just shrugged his shoulders.

Best be off then. Lazar slapped Quiver’s shoulder, leaving a bloody handprint on his shirt. Don’t worry about this mess. We’ll be sure their friends find our message when they come looking.

Quiver didn’t waste any time. He, Rasca, and Masco walked awkwardly past Lazar and his Loyalists and made way. When they were further down the road, he glanced over his shoulder and was relieved to see them gone. Once they were around another bend, he looked at Rasca and Masco, relief and safety finally easing in. Relief and anger.

Can you explain that to me? he scolded Rasca.

Rasca scratched the side of his face. Like I said, it’s not the same place as you remember.

Yeah, Quiver agreed as he continued his journey through Navaleth. It’s worse.

Those Who Rule

T he hour grows late . Three men knelt at the base of the dais. Francis had been waiting over a month for the dukes to show up, and although he was short one of them, these three would have to do. He knew their absences were the petty attempts of a power-play, to show Francis they worked on their own time, not his. He knew it, they knew it, so he kept them bending the knee just to remind them who was the true ruler. "I am sure you are quite weary given your expedited journeys."

A rich golden rug with red velvet stitching stretched across the throne room, connecting from the grand doors up front to the stone platform where the throne sat. Like the rest of the castle, the throne was made of solid stone. It was decorated in a crimson blanket, stitched with a golden sun that was draped across the back. Stonemasons had spent years skillfully smoothing down the stone into an intricate piece of art. Small and delicately etched pictures encased the entire stone, working from the base of the legs all the way up into the rests of the arms.

These depictions were chiseled to the finest detail. They comprised farmers plowing the fields, soldiers standing guard outside of a church, and children frolicking about with their friends and family. There were also etchings of the gods kindly watching over cities, or even, sometimes, planting crops with the farmers. The throne was a symbol of Navaleth more than it was for a monarch. It was built to remind all who assumed power where they came from and what they stood to govern.

Symbolic it may be, but it was also a right pain in the ass. The stonemasons had focused so intently on depicting what it stood for rather than considering those who sat in it. It was impossible to sit comfortably in. It only took a few minutes for Francis’s cheeks to go numb, and another minute to shoot a wicked stiffness through his back. It had become both his bed and office ever since ascending to his temporary place as the kingdom’s steward.

Francis had spent his life waiting for this moment, but the daunting tasks that were necessary in ruling soon diminished the excitement of guiding the kingdom to eternal peace. For weeks now he sat on the throne in Servitol, listening to the pleas of the populace, scheduling meetings, signing decrees, hiring builders to reconstruct both Servitol and Robins-Port, managing expenses and taxes—all of these petty tidings on top of trying to locate the true heir that escaped his grasp.

Francis watched the setting sun from a window across the room. At least you’ve got a nice view to watch the world pass you by. Another day wasted in this damned chair.

The dukes before him were meant to be his colleagues to help with these day-to-day tasks, but they had taken their time, much longer than Francis had expected, in answering their summons. Francis had to take all matters regarding the state of the country into his own hands. It had been absolutely exhausting, and he was well past pleasantries.

"Apologies, Father Balorian, Duke Scyllis said coldly. Or is it Your Grace now?"

Duke Scyllis had always reminded Francis of a weasel. Not just because of his thin face, pointy nose, and lanky body, but also because every time Francis was cursed with his company, he always had an overwhelming feeling of wanting to send Scyllis skittering across the floor. Even though he was well beneath Francis, both figuratively and literally, the sight of Scyllis sent an irritable rage heating his chest.

Francis tried his hardest to keep control, which proved to be his hardest task of the day. Francis will do just fine. You can rise now, gentlemen.

"Thank you for your permission to stand, Francis," Scyllis said.

Navalethian guards stood in a ranked formation, waiting to carry out any order given by Francis, yet Scyllis played his petty means of dominance as if they were his own men. Francis wanted to send one of those soldiers forward to put the duke beneath their boot, but physical force wasn’t the game at play—it was politics. It was a dirty, selfish, nasty game of deceit and wordplay. Admittedly, it was a game Francis hated.

I’m sure no other title would be appropriate, Scyllis continued to rant. And you’re right, the hour is growing late, and I’d like to be on my way. Best we make this quick.

Navaleth relied on four dukes to carry out the tasks decreed by the king. To be a duke was a political honor. In the instance of governance, an order from a duke was an order from the king, so long as it was, in fact, a direct task given from the monarch themselves. Given the power that they had, Francis knew these men to become corrupt in their own ways. They may have done what was expected, but only as a means to gain more political power. Duke Scyllis, Gunther, Vaelin, and Roland. Francis knew everything there was to know about these men, for they were the next pawns in his machinations.

The dukes used to answer solely to the king, but now they found themselves in a unique position. For the first time since the beginning of Navaleth’s history, the castle was absent a monarch, and the country lacked a legitimate heir to the throne. The country was in turmoil, desperate for guidance, which left the throne vulnerable for the taking.

The obvious decision would be to appoint a duke as the next king. They had plenty of political experience, and they held influence both within the borders as well as across the ocean with Navaleth’s neighboring countries. The dukes were the most likely candidates as next king, and they knew it. Unfortunately for them, Francis had full legality on deciding who was best fit to rule, of which all dukes were well aware of, and less than thrilled.

It will take as long as necessary, Francis said to Scyllis, his voice radiating authority. The pair of guards to both Francis’s left and right tightened their position, their discipline unquestionable. Duke Gunther and Vaelin both shifted uncomfortably at Scyllis’s side, a weary eye locked on the soldiers. No matter how many men the dukes held as a personal guard, they couldn’t match against the force of Navalethian soldiers.

I expected you weeks ago. Francis continued his challenge. If you had come when you were summoned, this would be quick and easy. Yet, you took your sweet time. You weren’t even present for our late king’s funeral.

I’m sure it was a beautiful ceremony with an overpriced casket. Scyllis sneered underneath his hooked nose. He was making a play, one that both Gunther and Vaelin didn’t seem to want a part in. It’s not as if he’s going anywhere. I’m sure there’ll be a day I’ll find time to pay my respects.

Anger spread like a storm through Francis. To insult a king, even a dead one, was a great offense. Of course, Francis didn’t truly care. He was the one who sent King Viktor to his early grave in the first place. But the Head Herald would care. The steward to the kingdom would care. It wouldn’t do to let a comment slide by so easily, especially when trying to demonstrate your power to those who are now your subjects.

You might as well deal with this sickness now instead of letting it fester into something worse.

Francis was just about to raise his hand to signal the soldier at his side when Scyllis spoke. Apologies, he said, this time with meaning. Things have not been good in my Dukedom, as I’m sure you already know, and I find myself short of patience. I meant no offense.

Perhaps the sudden change of heart was a ploy, but bluntly challenging Scyllis’s bluff would bring greater offense to the situation, as well as prolong this misery. This was, after all, politics. It was a game of give and take, of stabbing from the shadows to bring things to light. A game Scyllis was very good at.

Lazar continues to plague our lands, Gunther said. It was the first time he had spoken during the meeting. Duke Scyllis’s lands, worst of all. He controls the greatest agricultural contribution to the kingdom. With the burning of his farms, times have grown very hard.

And aren’t you two just the best of friends? Francis eyed him suspiciously. And how do you feel about that, Duke Gunther?

Gunther was a burly man. His dark locks of hair curled down to his shoulders. He had a stern face that complimented his deep eyes, and he always seemed to be sweating. Francis knew that he, too, was suffering losses at the hands of Lazar. He also knew that Gunther had a nasty habit of drink, and a quick temper that started with the short contents within his mug.

Well? Francis continued as Gunther stared at him, confused. "Where Duke Scyllis contributes agriculture out of his territory, you control the contribution of materials to rebuild the very homes being burnt. You amongst everyone else in the kingdom have found themselves in quite a profitable position while your fellow dukes suffer."

Gunther shook his head in bewilderment. Are you accusing me of having a hand in this? These random attacks are not of my doing, and it offends me to hear you say so.

I do not care what offends you, Francis said plainly. And these attacks are not random. Either you’re bold or an idiot if you can’t see that.

What exactly are you suggesting? Vaelin asked, coming to his fellow duke’s rescue. That he’s hiring a terrorist to burn our farms just to turn a profit?

I am suggesting nothing of the sort, Francis answered Vaelin. I am only shedding light on the position he’s in. Francis bent forward slightly, a wry smile on his lips as he stared down at Gunther. Besides, I’ve looked at all of your activities through the banks. You may be profiting, but your expenses line up accordingly. Unless you’ve hired out the banks in your favor—which I’ve considered—you’re managing your role as expected.

Gunther’s eyes creased with flare. You’re spying on me?

I am looking out for Navaleth’s best interests, which is expected of me as steward to the kingdom, Francis told them. But if you would like me to put it simply, Duke Gunther, then yes. I am spying on you. Francis let the smile run from his face. "I’m spying on all of you."

That seems extreme, Vaelin commented. He crossed his arms and raised his chin at Francis. That reeks of paranoia.

Francis let out a genuine laugh. "The king is murdered in his own castle, Servitol is attacked for the first time in our history, and our country is on the brink of civil war. Yes, Duke Vaelin, I am very paranoid."

"Let’s not forget it was you who failed to protect our late king, Scyllis accused. It was you who let enemies within these walls. You who have brought us to the brink of war. The weight of failure hangs like a chain fastened around your neck, and it’s by your own making. Do not think for a second I will let you paint me a traitor."

At the mention of traitor, the guards to Francis’s sides ripped their swords free from their sheaths. They stood ready for the order, and Francis was ready to give it. The power of life and death was held in the simple flick of his wrist. He savored the moment, watching as the creases of worry furrowed in the duke’s brow. Tell me, my fellow and loyal dukes, when you were summoned the week before the attack, why didn’t any of you show? Both General Gorman and Destro were able to make the trek, so why couldn’t you?

Scyllis was about to speak, but Francis cut him off with a glare. Then after the attack, still you did not come. At the king’s funeral, still, you failed to show. All while Francis spoke, his guards remained at the ready. How convenient that none of you were present when the attack happened, or when the city needed help to rebuild. However, now that the throne remains empty, a lineage nonexistent, you come running like dogs to a bone.

Gunther curled his lip. "I don’t like being called dog."

As to your prior offense, I also don’t care about what you like, Francis scolded. But I am sure I’ll find out soon enough. As of right now, I am launching a full investigation on each and every one of you.

This is preposterous, Scyllis complained, his face red with rage. An investigation to what ends?

Francis tilted his head with a smile. To see where your loyalties lie, of course. He let the weight of his accusation settle on the dukes. When he was satisfied they were realizing what he was implying, he continued. I can’t help but notice how easy it would have been for you to conspire and usurp the throne. How easy it would have been for you to distract us all with this notorious Lazar and his band of heathens, to pull our eyes to the left only so you can stab us from the right.

Francis slowly lifted his hand, a simple gesture that would decide the fate of three men before him. He wondered, once the attack began, whether the dukes’ guards would rush to their masters’ defense. If Francis declared the dukes traitors, that would be the end of them. He would solve many unseen problems with the flick of his wrist. Francis relished the moment as he watched the fear and tension twitch in their eyes.

But as much as Francis wanted to do it, he also saw the value in their positions. He needed them if he was going to follow through with his plans. He extended his four fingers and signaled to the guards to stand at ease. They sheathed their swords, and they stood like statues flanking Francis’s sides.

Yes, I have been spying on you, but I think we can all agree with good reason. The tension in the room eased as Francis spoke quietly, controlled. His power had showcased, so now it was time to dangle the carrot. I will be blunt. I have been investigating you because what I said is true—it is likely that our next monarch will be one of the four dukes of Navaleth. It is my duty as Steward to make the best decision, so forgive me if I become intrusive. I am sure you will one day value my sense of security and thoroughness, as one of you will most likely assume the throne.

After a moment of consideration, Vaelin slowly nodded his head. I understand, Francis. I apologize for being so rash.

Aye, Gunther agreed. This is a troubling time, is all.

We meant no offense, added Scyllis, his demeanor more relaxed.

You absolutely meant offense, Duke Scyllis, Francis said, but I forgive you all the same. You were right. I have failed to not only protect the king, but the closest friend I had in this world. That is something I will have to live with for the rest of my life. It’s as you said; my failures weigh heavily around my neck.

We were attacked by cowards, Scyllis said. And from what I heard, we brought those cowards to justice. Nobody blames you, Francis. Not truly.

Francis faked a smile, something he’d mastered over the course of his life. I appreciate that. Really, I do. Just know I will strive to make things right, and so will our leadership.

Speaking of... Vaelin looked around curiously. Where are Generals Vallis and Gorman? I’d like to thank them personally for their efforts in fending off the attack.

Gunther scoffed. I’d like to know where Roland is, he grumbled. I’m surprised he’s not here yet.

Francis shifted on the throne. His back throbbed with stiff pain. I may hate these men with all of my heart, but I hate this damned chair even more.

General Vallis is on a mission right now, Francis said. "We may have sent those responsible for the attack to the gallows, but the Brotherhood is still at large. Bringing them back is General Vallis’s top priority. Navaleth will never find closure so long as the Brotherhood remains at large.

As for General Gorman, Francis said, he’s training our troops as we speak. We’ve had an influx of new recruits this last month, and he is taking it upon himself to meet every one.

What of Duke Roland? Scyllis asked. Any word on his arrival?

Francis nodded. Duke Roland is en route and near to the city. However, I cannot guarantee when he will arrive, so I don’t intend to make you wait. The hour grows late, my back grows sore, and there are countless duties that need completing before the night’s end. But, Francis added as he saw the dukes getting ready to leave, I would like to spare a few words before you leave.

The dukes eyed Francis curiously. When he spoke, he made sure it wasn’t in a tone of power, but one closer to resembling friendship.

"Starting tomorrow, we all walk the same path. The country is in turmoil, and it is up to us—all of us—to fix it. We will work together on this matter, though ultimately my part is to decide who our next king will be. One of you, Francis pointed at each duke, could very well be our next king. I expect you to prove to me, as well as to the country, that the crown is fit for your head."

Francis rose to his feet. You will be notified when Duke Roland arrives. Until then, let’s start thinking about how we are going to get this great country back on its feet.

Each of the dukes nodded and then took their leave. Francis watched as they left, shaking his head behind their backs.

This was supposed to be our political strength in the absence of a king? Pathetic. They were nothing more than children playing a game they don’t fully understand, and now I have them like dogs waiting for scraps. Francis had no intention of letting one of these vultures assume the throne. The dukes would prove useful, but only to Francis’s own means. As soon as they’ve exhausted their usefulness, then, and only then, would he gladly watch them burn on the pyre.

The sun was already down by the time Francis could find Gorman—or rather, Malicar. The reincarnated god was standing in the courtyard outside, staring off into the darkness, gazing at the stars sparkling in the night sky.

I had hoped you’d be in the meeting this evening, Francis said to Malicar as he approached him from behind. Your absence was noticed by our dukes.

Malicar slowly swiveled his head and looked at Francis. Are you well, my liege?

Even at night, Francis could still see the dark orbs of Malicar’s eyes. In moments like these, Francis had to remind himself that it wasn’t the general that spoke, but Malicar, the god he resurrected with the power of necromancy. The body of late General Gorman worked as nothing more than a vessel. His body may still be here, but Marcus Gorman’s soul was long gone.

I am fine, my lord, Francis responded with a bow of his head. I just hoped you could have provided me with guidance, is all.

Malicar stared at Francis for a brief moment before he turned away and fixed his gaze back to the darkness. I did not think my counsel was worthy of such matters, he said, his long hair blowing in the breeze.

Your counsel is essential, my lord, Francis encouraged. It’s why I brought you back. I’ve devoted my life and sacrificed much in order to make that happen.

Francis thought back to that night in the Counsel Chamber with Gorman, Destro, and Vallis. He remembered the power flowing in his veins, the euphoric pleasure that came with harvesting souls. He’d spent a decade tracking down the locations of the hidden ancient tablets, and with the help of simple mercenaries, he could retrieve them and discover the secret to godly power. He had sacrificed hundreds of people, thousands maybe, in order to resurrect Malicar. He did so under the promise that Malicar would bring eternal peace to the world. A world without death, war, or famine.

I gave you counsel before my return, Malicar reminded Francis. I told you what was needed, yet not all of my requirements were met. There is only so much we can do so long as the old blood lives on.

Francis’s scheme didn’t entirely go as planned. He’d ordered the sack of Robins-Port because King Viktor’s illegitimate heir resided there, a bastard that only Francis and Vallis knew existed. So long as the bloodline continued to exist, the chance of achieving a world of eternal peace was at risk.

Are we sure that the heir is still alive? Francis asked.

Malicar closed his eyes, tilted his head back and breathed deeply. Yes, he said finally. The heir lives. We cannot achieve our goal until they perish.

Francis nodded. Of course, my lord. I have Vallis searching for the Brotherhood now. I expect his return within the week. Is there anything else I can do for you?

For me? Malicar turned and looked back at Francis. "I am here to serve you, master."

Right, Francis said, forgetting the unwritten law of necromancy. Whoever summons the dead therefore controls the summoned.

Precisely, Malicar said, as if reading Francis’s thoughts. Then he faced back to the shadows.

Francis followed Malicar’s stare. Are you waiting for something?

Malicar smiled, and it was an image that could curdle dairy. Not anymore. They have just arrived.

Before he could respond, Francis heard a rumbling growl coming from the darkness. Slowly, a figure took shape, a shadow upon a shadow. He didn’t hear them as they approached, and the fact that they were only a few feet away from him proved just how deadly these monsters were. That, and their overwhelming size, along with their glowing red eyes that floated brightly in the dark. There were four of them, as big as bears and as quiet as mice. Francis took a step away, lowering himself in a crouch, preparing to flee.

Malicar stepped forward and knelt down next to one beast, the one with a single red eye. It’s been too long, he said, roughing the fur atop the beast’s head like a pup. Looks like someone lost an eye. You’ll have to tell me that story another time. And what’s this?

Francis’s stomach twisted as he watched Malicar stick his hand inside the beast’s yawning mouth. When he pulled it back, he was holding something that resembled a limp piece of raw meat. Malicar smiled approvingly. Recently fed, I see. Seems you haven’t lost your touch at all. That’s good. We have plans for you, old friend. He will need you.

The others circled around Malicar, nuzzling their heads against him, a pack of hounds begging for their master’s affection. They licked his face and brushed their muzzles against his cheek. Francis turned to leave, fighting against the icy fear of turning his back on the monsters. He was just leaving the courtyard when he heard a noise that would undoubtedly haunt his dreams, a chilling howl that echoed loudly through the quiet night.

Where Loyalties Lie

The cabin was small , cluttered, and empty. The hounds led Vallis and his twenty soldiers to a small copse of trees a few miles outside of Servitol. There, they followed a beaten trail that