The King's Eight: How do you kill a god?

By Argon Masters

Titus Albrecht is a problem.
He's crown prince and heir to the throne of Cecame, and abuses poetry and addictive substances in equal measure. He's also the chosen of a god of the night sky and war, and that fact dumps him right into the middle of a battle between an entire pantheon of gods.
Surviving that battlefield is the first miracle. He'll need a lot more of them to survive the rest of it.
Those miracles arrive as seven other survivors chosen by gods, and now he has an entire pack of fools to attempt to attack and dethrone a mad god.
If plotting advisors and assassins don't kill him first.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tablo Publishing
• Release date: Jun 30, 2022
• ISBN: 9781685833947

Book preview

Prologue

There were Ten of them.

Gods, that is, and by the reckoning of the mortals of the world, they’d all arrived at about the same time. History before slide gates, before trade language was agreed on by those with slide gates, was a bit harder to line up, but everyone generally agreed anyway. There were other gods, but they all slunk away in front of the Ten.

When the Ten arrived, they chose spheres of magic, and four chose to move closely with the mortal races. They became known as the Four Above, or to some, the Four of the Known.

Sheda, goddess of fertility, harvest, family and sacrifice.

Ahial, god of law and order.

Dreigei, god of teaching, of books and learning.

Xai, god of architecture and commerce.

Their influences marked mortal society, but a bit further out were the Two Neutral, gods of things both known and yet distant.

The Oak Lord, god of nature.

The Trickster, god of art, music, chance, and fate.

They were respected, and even a little feared. And further out, at the edges of the map, the last four stood looking out. They claimed the Unknown as their realms, and mortals came to them seeking more, as explorers, the curious, the brave. They became commonly known, also, as the Four Below.

Arsen, god of the night sky.

Temerij, goddess of the oceans and waters.

Wij, god of dimensional magic.

Inclides, goddess of death.

To mortal eyes, the Ten worked peacefully together, a distant but respectful pantheon, until one day, Arsen added War to his domains.

And it became abruptly, suddenly clear that perhaps, the Ten weren’t getting along at all.

Chapter 1

There were a lot of warnings that things had gone horribly wrong, or as wrong as the culmination of a holy war between an entire pantheon could go wrong. Which was pretty fucking wrong as these things went, it turned out.

The wyrm slamming into the ground nearly on top of Titus was the giant sign.

He had been mostly deaf from the battlefield already, ears ringing in a dangerous way and only really aware of what was going on across the battlefield because Arsen’s voice didn’t need his ears to issue commands. So the impact was muffled: it was more the physicality of it, the rush of wind and the ground jumping and the writhing of a giant broken body before hot blue-black blood rained onto him, saturating him right through the suit of armor and making his horse buck and scream, both of them blind under the wave.

He got ahold of his horse with effort, head shaking and actually spitting some of the blood out and not even clear on how the blood had gotten into his mouth in the first place or if it was the wyrm’s or his own, backing his mount up several steps and watching the wyrm die, a relic of twitching flesh and shattered bones facing the skies.

His eyes turned from there, toward the sky in spite of his best judgement; the threat was around him on the ground but he couldn’t help it at this point. The wyrms were falling all over the battlefield, plowing full weight into the ground and wiping out entire sections of the warring factions, holy and profane alike crushed.

But the phoenixes, those holy battling birds, were faring no better and winking out in pyres in the sky, cascades of ash and fire raining down. Injured when they took the wyrms down or something else, Titus doesn’t know and he turned his gaze down just in time to bring his sword up and deflect the blade of a crusader, wincing as the toothed edge of it dragged against the straight edge of his own.

The ground lurched again and their horses broke the fight for them, Titus’ mount bolting as the earth rocked. The entire battlefield rattled and screams were rising, not the ragged shouting of a battlefield but cries of terror, both sides wailing with it.

RUN.

Arsen’s voice was like a spike between his eyes and he almost vomited on reflex, leaning forward in his saddle before sheathing his sword and digging his heels in, yanking the reins. His horse needed almost no encouragement and lit into the ground, running as fast as he could from the battlefield, standing in the stirrups and leaning close in like he was racing and he was, he could feel the earth failing behind them.

Peripherally he was aware that other fighters had broken off in the same way, scattering away from the battlefield in random directions and a few curved their path to match his, falling in as they all fled.

The explosion behind them felt like a wash of heat, something beyond fire; the still-wet blood he was covered in sizzling and his horse screeching but not stopping as he gritted out a healing spell between his teeth. His horse dying now was him dead, he knew that with total certainty. The sky was turning strange colors above him and the world was slanted around him, other-voices keening in tongues he didn’t know, his vision washing and he just focused on straight ahead, mindless, spitting spell after spell.

His armor was cold again when he finally dropped the reins and sat back, sagging over the pommel of his saddle and gasping for air before he turned and looked.

The sky was white and gold, frozen-still, the clouds shattered and shining.

Holy balls of bastards. The curse fell out of his lips but he barely heard himself talk, ears still ringing.

There was nothing else to say in the face of the death of a god.

It wasn’t Arsen. Probably. The sliver of ice-cold still sat in his chest, the strange vision on one eye lingered, signs that his god had survived but where Arsen was, in what condition—those questions he couldn’t answer or even ask. He had followed orders. Fled the battlefield.

He was aboard a shaking, exhausted horse in a field already going fallow as the land started to go strange and poisoned, the life-sap of whatever god that was seeping into the earth and warping everything it touched. He was probably far enough away. Maybe.

Get away from here! Go home!

He was seated and somehow staggered in spite of that, nearly tumbling right out of the saddle before he caught his balance again. Arsen? It was not a protest, not against the order anyway because he couldn’t protest the orders: they laced into his bones and all he could do was obey, but the voice of his god had sounded like shattered glass.

I’m going to be silent for a long time. Go. Return to your kingdom. I will need you.

Then Arsen’s presence all but winked out, Titus’ vision darkening then clearing on one side, returning to normal, leaving him only with that sliver of ice in his chest.

All right. All right. He was babbling, hands trembling on the reins. How? It was a thin plea that received no answer. He was so far from home.

He leaned over the saddle and on the neck of his horse, barely awake as the horse walked, towards his shadowy memory of a river that he could only hope was clean enough for them to use. It’s a dead walk, exhausted and really only held up by magic. His hearing had started to clear, slowly, the ringing dying down but the world still just vaguely muffled away. Clear enough he can hear other hoofbeats following behind him, but how many he couldn’t tell and he didn’t have the energy to bother looking over his shoulder. Every muscle shook in effort just to keep him upright. Whoever was following hadn’t tried to kill him yet. Good enough. Maybe they’d also heard Arsen, maybe one of the other gods had screamed in a similar way at nearly the same time.

The river was clear and he all but fell from the saddle as he dismounted, leaning helplessly on his horse for a beat before leading her down to the river. Her gulps of the water were desperate and he fell to his knees, peeling off his gauntlets and helm and tossing them aside, following suit. The water was a benediction, so cold it nearly made him sick yet again but he pushed it down and drank his fill before sitting back on his heels, head falling back and eyes shut, just breathing.

He had no provisions. Not even something to change into that’s not soaked in wyrm blood. But at least he’s not thirsty and he’s got enough magic left to start a campfire. He splashed more water on his face until he thought it was no longer bloodied, looking sideways when someone who had followed fell into a similar stance next to him, then someone else. He shoved his helm back on with a groan and grabbed his gauntlets, glad when his horse nosed him and supported him as he stood, taking stock of the tiny group of survivors that had all simultaneously fled.

And hysterically laughing because they number eight.

The Four Above, the Four Below, and the two between. Two four eight ten, all auspicious numbers, and they number eight. Of course. Standing there laughing he suspects that two more will show up, somehow. Or maybe not. Fate was a wicked bitch with spiked boots.

They all looked at him and he looked back before just gesturing at it all, and they glanced around and seemed to understand what he was indicating because a few raspy laughs joined his own. Everyone’s livery was stained and torn and had barely survived the battlefield but he’s able to take count, and laughed again because they’re two, and two, and two, and two.

Two for Arsen.

Two for Inclides.

Two for Temerij.

Two for Wij.

Well. Isn’t this just fucking perfect? he wanted to know, standing on his own and gesturing his arms wide. A perfect eight. Well. I have my orders. What were all of yours?

Inclides said you’re for Arsen. Hallow for Arsen. A leather helmet peeled off revealing hair dark and tangled like a storm, falling out of its careful braids and pins, the hard-edged face looking back at him. Said to follow you.

"Oh. Great. That comes out nothing but sarcastic. Is that all of you?"

They all glanced at each other then back to him, nodding. Are you? This came from one of the ones wearing livery for Temerij over magic-gleaming chainmail.

I mean, I don’t know about Hallow. Hollow, maybe. He had to scoff. "Great blessing my arse. How’s that different from any of us that were there, though. All of us got ordered there which meant we heard a voice ordering us."

I’m not sure how accurate that is. It was the other in Arsen livery that told him that. But, point made. We heard the gods say follow you. Why?

Arsen just told me to go home. He put his gauntlets back on, nothing but weary and trying to think. Hey. Wij-touched. There were slide gates that brought many here. Didn’t your people build them.

Some of ours were involved. Great adepts. I’m no great adept. The one speaking was young, barely-adult young but if Titus is right, no one here is old—hell he was sure his parents still qualified him as barely a grown man. But they are slide gates of Wij.

Are they still useable? Standing? he hazarded. I’m half a world from home with the orders of a god trying to drive my bones. A slide gate would be a blessing.

I don’t know. But we can all go find out.

Shouldn’t we at least exchange names? This came from the woman with tangled-storm hair, looking at him. "We are, apparently, going to be traveling together. At the very least, we should know who you are. As you’ve been so marked."

Does it matter? he wanted to know, nothing but bitterness in his mouth.

Well, it might, Temerij Two said. Since apparently we’re following you home. That suggests if nothing else you have resources there.

Yeah, that’s putting it mildly. How he was going to explain this to his parents, or the palace guard, being a whole other question. A holy war making it just a bit difficult to bring a perfect eight of the Four Below into a kingdom largely following the Four Above, even if his parents preferred a goddess that had barely been involved in this whole, stupid mess. Which was possibly a narrow blessing but that wasn’t something to linger on. One of the ten died. Do we know which one?

Xai. I think. The same Wij-touched frowned, their hood was down so far he could barely see their mouth and the eye slits in the material didn’t give him much hint either.

And even as that was said, the sky flicker-flashed in colors again from the direction of the battlefield, the earth rattling under their feet and the river sloshing, and twin wails of sudden shocked pain rising from the two wearing Temerij livery.

…And Temerij, the Wij mage added, voice distant in the wake of the death of another god as the world slanted, again, colors straining against their boundaries, the very trees on the edge of the river seeming to struggle in the revelation of it all.

Titus wanted to rub his eyes, realizing there was no need for another two to show up. Eight they were and eight remained. Temerij has died before. Or so say the books. The seas won’t allow her to stay dead for long, they’ll cough her back up wrapped in pearls and spray as they always have. The words don’t feel entirely his own and the ice in his chest burns in a shivery pulse. Arsen, the sky, the long reach, loves Temerij: it is known and so it always was.

Not that that fixed this, this moment now: the two men in chainmail supporting each other and screaming at the sky in pain and fury, the fishhooks in their souls ripped free in a shockwave, their patron ruptured from this world.

You’re still coming with me, Titus decided, and that statement seemed to disrupt the cries of the Temerij-touched, both of them startling and looking at him. Temerij on land was always ridiculous looking and the chainmail just made it worse. The idea of someone wearing chainmail on a ship was absolutely preposterous but he supposed that the goddess had been forced to adapt to the stupid circumstances, same as everyone else. You were sent to me, I’m taking you, I’m keeping you. Until such time she returns.

They stared at him then nodded, one leaning on their long hooked polearm with both hands around it, shoulders shaking. I’m not going to deny her last order.

I wouldn’t ask you to and this is apparently what I am to do. He sighed. But if you follow me… you follow my orders. Am I understood? That goes for all of you. That statement done he looked to the Wij-touched, lifting a foot to a stirrup and swinging back up astride his horse. Find me a slide gate. Let’s move. I don’t know what and who else survived and I’d rather they not have a chance to catch up.

They needed no further encouragement and everyone got back in the saddle, following his wake as he got moving again. The Temerij-touched ended up in the middle of the pack, making broken noises and the others just silently walled around them, two ahead, two behind, one to each side.

Sunset was broken.

It was a stupid thing to think but the world was stuck bright, too bright when shadows should have long been stretching, long past when golden hour should have been coming or even gone. It should be evening, it should be dark, there should be stars out. Every bit of Titus’ being was screaming about how wrong it was, the bit of him connected to the dark sky and stars wanting those back. He couldn’t get lost under the stars and the stars were gone, were stolen.

But it was probably safer to be traveling when it was light. At least, theoretically, they could see a threat coming right now, even if the entire world seemed tilted.

Did they break the world? he asked, voice numb, staring up at the sky. They couldn’t have. A god may shake foundations but shatter them?

I don’t know, the other Arsen-touched told him, seeming equally disturbed by the broken-gold-bright sky. What I know of how the planets dance shouldn’t allow it. If the planet ceased to turn everything would die. If not, get thrown into space. I don’t know exactly, I am not an astronomer.

Nor I. It must be magic.

It is. They shook these foundations but they broke the foundations of another plane. The Wij-touched told him in a bitter voice. I can feel it.

Oh, well, it’ll be delightful seeing how that will change everything. Titus groaned, pulling up his horse as the Wij did, both of them pointing at the clearing below them and the stone arch that still stood. Oh. Oh that is just beautiful. Can you activate it?

We can run slide gates, Wij Two told him with confidence. If it’s still ley connected. If not we’ll have to try to reconnect and it’ll take time. We also need to know where we’re going.

I have slide coordinates. There’s one outside the capital. His whole being is numb with exhaustion but he knows that’s all of them, even as they move forward again.

Which capital? storm-haired Inclides wanted to know.

He sighed. Liardan Athosan.

Everyone turned to look at him again, a long silence following.

He sighed and reached up, pulling his helm back off and shaking his hair out of his eyes, looking at them. I’m Titus Albrecht. Crown Prince of Cecame.

They looked, he was forced to admit, a lot more shocked by that than he figured they would be. Those from all walks of life and all over the world had been pulled into this stupid damn holy war including royalty. Above and below, there’d been at least a few kings in the fight. A crown prince was hardly worth noticing, let alone from a country half the world away like Cecame. Cecame, a country more interested in farming and artificing than anything else, where a prince inclined to swords and fights was actually an embarrassment. No shock, probably, that he’d found Arsen, or been found by Arsen, walking away from the Four Above and welcomed into the following of one of the Four Below. Let alone by the warrior king of the night sky, the lawful conqueror.

The silence stretched and he huffed. What?! It came out sharp and he almost shoved the helm back on just as a defensive motion, but having the weight off his head and neck was honestly a blessing, the breeze stirring his hair and drying sweat. He was certain he smelled like a slaughterhouse but his nose was too numbed by the battle to know.

I kind of saw you earlier but, eye. The other Arsen-touched removed his helm and looked back at him, grinning. They were, Titus realized, about the same age but the other man was reddish skinned and tanned besides, similar pale scars crossing his skin and a few teeth missing in a still-bloody way that suggested they’d been lost in the battle that very day. You know.

Mine’s back to normal mostly now. He nodded. So?

Wasn’t expecting a fuckin rich well-fed pretty boy under the helm.

Oh fucking bless the ten, really, is that the level we’re on?

He’s a prince, of course he’s a well-fed pretty boy with good teeth! Wij Two scoffed from inside the deep hood they wore.

Titus groaned and looked upwards at the unnatural sky in a silent prayer for strength. Yes, yes, I just said who I am, now we’re moving. The sooner we get the slide gate moving, the sooner we can get somewhere with beds. There is no point in making camp, we have no provisions. He left his helm hooked on the pommel of his saddle, riding forward and letting them follow him. Even if those beds are in a guardhouse while the guards fetch his parents, he doesn’t care anymore. He was ordered home and the crush-press of the orders are still dug into him like barbs.

The clearing was quiet at least, and it gave them all a chance to dismount and just sit among the grass and flowers while the two Wij-touched checked over the slide gate and conferred spellbooks pulled from Wij space, halos and arcs of magic around them turning into writing and charts and diagnostics. Titus sat with his arms on his raised knees, watching them work, resisting the urge to fall back and let himself sleep. Sleep could wait for him. The Temerij-touched huddled together and passed out nearly immediately and he didn’t blame either of them.

We’ve met before.

He looked to Inclides Two, who had her helm off as well. Her hair was short, dark and short-wool like, but her eyes were strangely pale, almost honey-amber, considering him seriously. Really.

Yes. I have been to Cecame before, but it has been several years. I was working as a bodyguard and there was a ball. You were there.

I could never get out of it. I’m certain I was a disaster. He huffed out a laugh. I was very fond of ash-shine powder and alcohol.

She smiled a bit. You were a glorious sight, really.

Lie to me more. He’s not even mad: it’s amusing to hear.

No lies. You looked like you’d stepped out of a painting. You were captivating. And also, very very sad.

He couldn’t argue that, honestly. I don’t remember you.

Honestly, I’m surprised if you remember anything from that night.

He stared off, away from her. They all blend together, after a while. So it makes it hard for me to say which night was that particular night. I’m sure it started and ended the same as any of them.

She sat next to him in the grass, picking a handful and idly braiding it. I’m sure that this is one of those things that’s hard to understand unless you’re in the exact position.

Don’t worry, any number of priests have told me that I am a selfish and self-centered boy who is more interested in personal vanity than the well-being of my kingdom. He took his gauntlets back off and dropped them aside, rubbing his temples.

Oh, oh, let me guess. Four Above priests, obviously, in Cecame, but I can’t see a priest of Sheda putting things quite like that. She hummed.

You’d be surprised but no, it mainly wasn’t Sheda, he admitted. My parents and the country are mainly followers of her. Farmers. But the country also has mages and artificiers, which means there’s a relatively strong presence of Dreigei.

You’d think the church of Dreigei would appreciate someone wanting to learn the sword.

You’d think, but apparently, not for me. He propped his forearms on his knees and considered his scarred hands, turning one to look at the four-point star on the palm with a sigh. You’d think that they would have realized they were just feeding me motivation. Spite. It made it that much easier to walk away and kneel to Arsen.

Funny how that works.

Just hilarious. How’d you end up with Inclides?

She tipped her head at him, lacing tiny flowers into the grass braid. Neither of us are Hallow for Inclides, I am relatively certain.

We aren’t. Storm-haired Inclides was off to one side, standing with the horses, holding a collection of bridles and letting them graze.

So while we certainly heard the call for war, that was our first experience with … that level of connection to Inclides, I’d say. Which I’d wager is different from you.

I heard Arsen before I was called to the war if that’s what you mean but that wasn’t exactly a spontaneous event. I imagine the gods were choosing who to call long before we heard the voices and drums, he pointed out. And as royalty I’m in an advantageous position for Arsen, or none of you would be here with me.

Do you really think that’s why he chose you?

I think it doesn’t matter why he chose me.

She considered her creation, weaving more grass and flowers. Why you chose him probably matters more.

Being acknowledged probably did help, Titus reflected. What is religion but reaching out a hand and asking a question, and so few have that hand taken and the question actually answered, except perhaps by clergy. Arsen did answer me, one night a long time ago, or what feels like a long time.

Did he cut your palm that night?

He laughed. No, I did this. His mark is here. He thumped his chest plate with the marked fist. I didn’t even feel it honestly.

She leaned over, setting a crown of grass and flowers on him with a smile.

He blinked, eyes rolling up to look at the sprays of tiny white flowers haloing him now, then looking at her and lifting an eyebrow. So, Inclides. Were you a bodyguard at the ball, or a spy.

She laughed out loud. As if I would tell you, Hallowed for Arsen. Just know that in these moments, I am only seeking information for myself.

I’m not sure how much better that makes it.

There was a noise like a great latch closing, something metallic and connecting, and the slide gate lit up, the symbols spiraling the arch lighting up in succession. The gate is up! one of the Wij-touched called, looking to them. We need a connection code.

He grunted and hefted himself up, the armor nothing but a thousand pounds of dead weight, carrying his gauntlets in one hand as he walked over. Show me the controls, I’ll dial it in. This, I know by heart. The Wij moved him in front of the glowing floating controls and he stared at it before turning each spinning light-up combination dial, symbols snapping into place. Someone wake up the Temerij, he called over his shoulder. We’re about to leave. He got the last symbol into space and hit the circle above it and the floating symbols went bright gold, the ones on the gate following and humming filling the air before red flashed up in the Wij control structure. What’s all this?

There’s no reply on the other side. The Wij-touched frowned and pushed him back aside, taking over. That won’t stop us sliding though, I’m turning on the alarms on the other side so we don’t layer with anyone and cause slide trauma.

Strange. This is a high-traffic slide gate, there’s someone with it around the clock no matter the weather. Titus frowned, considering. Nothing to be done about it. An easy decision because it was true, walking back up the slight incline and looking at the others. The Inclides had awoken the Temerij and were helping them up, the bridles back on all the horses. Any last protests?

We’re with you. His fellow Arsen-touched assured him, and the others nodded, a gallery of weary souls all having marched from a slaughterhouse. Just lead us.

They were all back in the saddle when the gate activated, a white haze snapping into the space inside and Titus squared his shoulders before riding forward, passing through a field and a certain marked blankness before the hooves of his horse hit cobblestones and actual, proper daylight, not the fake brightness of the area around the battlefield.

And smoke. The air was full of hazy, choking smoke and the smell of the burning dead.

He removed the flower crown in favor of hastily donning his helm and his gauntlets, turning his mount in a circle as the others came out of the gate, looking around. The usually neatly organized square that was around the slide gate was abandoned and in disarray, and the noise of the city was a suppressed murmur, barely there. Oh. Oh what in the ten.

I take it this is not normal. It was a Wij that asked this once they had closed the gate.

No. No, this is not normal for Liardan Athosan or anywhere in Cecame, he replied, voice coming out harsh. I know that smell. Those are funeral pyres.

We all know that smell, the other Arsen-touched told him. And I hate to tell you, but this many? That’s one thing. That’s plague.

Chapter 2

White flags.

That was what marked Titus’ memory from his ride through the town, leading his perfect eight through a city gate with no guards, only a hastily hung banner waving in the wind across it that shouted, in painted letters, PLAGUE – TURN BACK. The cobblestone streets were deserted, a few cats and dogs picking along and watching them ride by, and white flags.

White flags hanging off storefronts and houses, out windows and from doors and from poles, many dipped in black ink on the ends. Every building, it seemed. Every door. He caught glimpses of people looking out as they rode but he focused his eyes forward and pushed to the town center. There the pyres burned, most burning low, smoke dumping into the air and stinging his already tired, overworked eyes, singing his lungs. Here finally there were people, also wrapped in white, cloths over their mouths that muffled their voices as they called to him as he drove on, riding by, filing it all away as he headed for the castle. Past the square, past fountains still softly bubbling water, past church doors covered in pinned or just nailed on strips of vellum covered in desperate prayers.

Death.

He’d just left a battlefield and this felt so much more fatal and final.

Orders painted on walls. Isolate. Wash. Listen to the healers. Pray.

None of which had apparently stopped a wave of death. He could only hope it wasn’t bad air, that this thing, this disease wasn’t in the smoke-filled air around them, that his eight wasn’t bearing it now as they crossed the drawbridge over the moat. Still no guards, even here, but the smoke was less and they spilled into the main courtyard, also empty of people. No court musicians, no staff, no advisors or visiting dignitaries. An empty echoing walled in space and an overgrown garden.

He wrenched his helm off and screamed, a feral desperate noise before turning it into a shout, a simple call that he was home.

No voices answered him.

His voice echoed in the empty courtyard, and nothing else came back, leaving him breathing hard and listening to the rustling as a flock of birds that had been roosting took wing. The castle was empty, or everyone was so far behind closed doors they couldn’t hear him.

Titus pressed his eyes shut, drawing a breath then opening them. One thing at a time. Our horses. Then us. We stable our horses. If it comes down to it and we have to flee this plague we need them in good shape and there is nothing we can do right now to change the situation. He took his reins back up and rode on, cutting through the courtyard and hearing the others follow, praying quietly that someone had had the forethought to turn the stable loose and that it wasn’t full of starving or dead horses.

The stable was standing open to the corral, and he rode through the open doors, immediately relieved to see the stall doors almost all open and empty, except for a set of carriage horses that perked up and looked at them. They seemed in good shape though, bright-eyed, so he dismounted and claimed his usual stall, leading his horse in.

Choose a stall. It doesn’t matter right now.

He was halfway through pulling the tack off his charger when he caught the change of light at the door and moved to look, one hand landing on his sword without real thought. The figure there was small, maybe ten or twelve, a white cloth covering their mouth and nose and their pale hair loosely back in a braid. Who are you? the child wanted to know.

I could ask the same thing, he said dryly, looking at the child. Titus Albrecht.

Oh! Oh, sir. Oh, sir we thought you dead. The child seemed genuinely shocked to see him, and something soured further somehow in the pit of his stomach.

Surprise. These are allies of mine. Who are you?

My father was the stablemaster. There... there was no one else.

He drew another slow breath and nodded, thumping his saddle onto a rack by the stall door. Understood. Thank you. I’ll remember you. We rode hard, and rode long. They all need looking after.

I can do it....Sir? Is this all war tack?

Yeah. No sense in denying it as he stepped out of the stall and cracked his neck, letting the kid look at his armor, still mostly caked in dried wyrm blood. Is there any other castle staff left?

A few.

Are my parents alive?

He was probably five meters away and he still heard the child swallow. Your mother is.

...All right. And it wasn’t, but he looked around at the rest of the eight, who had their horses mostly or entirely out of tack. I trust our new stablemaster to at the very least give them feed and fresh water. Let’s go look after ourselves. He ended up with his helm under his arm so his face was clearly visible, leading the way and throwing doors open. Everything seemed... vaguely out of sorts. Ignored. Not abandoned but trending in that direction. He headed straight for the wings that held private quarters, deciding that at the very least, he knew how to run the bath house and he had more than enough clothes in his wardrobe to loan everyone here a set, even if it’d be a poor fit for most of them. Still, he called out with every open door, and was weirdly relieved when someone called back, and it was someone he recognized.

Oh, oh in the names of the ten. Titus. Wearing a pale blue cloth over her nose and mouth did nothing to hide her identity, because Titus had known her all his life, and he offered her a weary smile as she hurried down the hall to them. Titus. We were so certain you were lost.

A popular rumor apparently. His voice was as sour as he felt. Matron. I just came from a war on the other side of the world, only to find a plague. I am going to have a lot of questions but for now... we need to be clean, fed, and they all need beds.

She drew up short, looking at him, then nodded. I suppose that there is nothing you can do, immediately. Miracle enough that you’re alive.

He shrugged wide, his armor clanking. Divine intervention, actually.

Titus!

She looked so scandalized he laughed out loud, though it was mostly hysteria. I can run the bath house. Yes, yes, I know, it’s not my duty but that hardly matters now. Can you, by any chance, find some clothes for my friends? Pull from my own wardrobe if you need to. When she nodded, he looked at everyone. Hot baths?

Oh, oh yes, please, his fellow Arsen follower said, and the others nodded quickly.

Let’s go then.

He had to dump three buckets of hot water on himself before he felt like the bath wouldn’t immediately turn brown-black with filth and blood. And after that, actually sitting in the bath, he had to struggle not to fall asleep. Modesty had been abandoned at the door of the bath house along with everyone’s armor and weapons, everyone helping each other strip and leaving piles of gear along the wall. All of it would need to be meticulously cleaned and tended, of course. None of them had the energy to, right now.

But there was magic-heated spring water from the mountains and neat piles of soft white scented soap, and both of these things went a long, long way to letting the entire group feel something resembling civilized again, and it let them all take stock of each other.

Titus’ wood-brown skin was somewhere in the middle of the gradient, between the peachy-pallor of the Wij (who mainly seemed concerned about baring their faces, their bodies secondary thoughts) and the warm-dusk of the Inclides. The Temerij were olive, ocean-tanned, sitting more in the middle with him with his fellow Arsen-touched between them and him. A rainbow of skin, all of them clearly pulled for the war from strongholds of their gods’ believers.

Except Titus himself, of course.

They didn’t say much, all too exhausted to really bother, and none startled at all when Matron bustled in. Clothes were laid out on the side tables of the baths as well as towels, and then mugs of hot cider. To her credit she said nothing about the privacy screens not being used, nothing about the four bold curved striped scars on Titus’ chest that made the four-pointed star of Arsen. Just made sure they had what they needed, and did give what she could see of Titus a considering look.

I’m not sure any of your wardrobe is going to fit you. Maybe the breeches. I’ll have another look.

And off she bustled, leaving him sagged in the hot water blinking at the ceiling before realizing that she was entirely right.

Who is she exactly? It was short-haired Inclides that asked him that.

She’s the castle Matron. She mostly raised me. Her name’s Claire. I’ve never used it. He sat up slowly, groaning and combing his hands through his hair before shoving it back. I need to cut this off.

You have pierced ears. It was a Wij that said that, staring at him. Elf pierced ears.

How didn’t I notice that? Inclides was also staring.

Hair. He gave them both a look, flicking one of the piercings with a finger. Piercing was a light word really, they were polished wooden spikes lacing through his earlobes, both as long as his pinky finger and almost as thick. What can I say, I got so weary of growing up being called ‘elf brown’ that I decided to take it as a challenge.

The other Arsen laughed out loud. You do seem exactly that type.

In my defense, no one here would really train me with a sword. I rode out months before the war to meet an elf coven that followed Arsen. They trained me. These were a parting gift of sorts, though it took almost my entire training time to be able to wear them. He pulled the tub drain and grabbed the towel, wrapping it around himself before standing, stretching to crack his back. Once we’re all dressed we’re exchanging names. This is stupid.

We’re the ones who told you that before we even got here. The other Inclides looked very, very amused, laughing when he offered a rude gesture then stalked out, carrying his cider and dripping water as he went.

Matron’s statement was, apparently, prophetic. None of Titus’ wardrobe fit. It should have occurred to him, really. He’d left Cecame a light-built young man with decent arms from archery. He’d returned to Cecame a war machine.

He did find breeches that fit, at least, though they fit very much differently than they previously had. Half-dressed and the towel discarded he finally leaned on a vanity and stared into a mirror, in his bedroom for the first time in many months and absorbing the change. The elves weren’t huge on mirrors so he’d only seen himself in small ones or in water reflections.

He’d been thought of as pretty, once. Oh, ‘elf-brown pretty’ but still. And maybe he still was, but he was also a heavily scarred soldier. Hell, his nose was crooked, but he’d broken it at least twice. He was also a long time past a proper shave but he didn’t trust his hands so it’d have to wait until he slept. And, of course, there was the fact that his left eye was no longer bark-brown, but nights-first-kiss blue.

Crinkles came in around his eyes as he stared at his reflection, and he was humming as he tied his hair back with a ribbon and threw clothes over his shoulders until he found a tunic that was loose enough he could still shrug into it, lacing up boots that still fit before draining the cider and walking back out into the hall.

Well. It wasn’t Matron in the hall, but one of his father’s advisors, staring at him thunderstruck. Titus?

Who else? he wanted to know.

That earned him a vaguely disgusted look. I’m not convinced but the concept of a shapeshifter or a charlatan deciding to show up impersonating Titus Albrecht while looking absolutely nothing like him is simply such a stretch that I shan’t contemplate it.

Ah, yes, now he remembered how much he hated this man. What do you want, because I won’t be awake much longer and I’m only still awake so I can eat. As it was he brushed past and started heading toward the kitchens.

That was clearly not what his father’s advisor wanted to hear. You’re going to sleep?!

Yes, I am aware that the city is likely half dead from plague, and I have no idea what the condition is of rest of the country, and that apparently my father has died. Presumably of it. Is that correct? The words were lead on his tongue, heavy sweet and poison, but he had to acknowledge the reality of it all.

It is, it is! We were all panicking, with you missing…

Presumed dead, apparently.

Yes, yes, we all thought you dead. Or drunk listening to elf drum music somewhere. The advisor stroked over his beard, making the beads laced in it click softly. Besides the point. You left the kingdom with no heir and the king has passed! The queen has been governing but… He cut himself off with a huff when Titus looked at him. You’re king now, you absolute imbecile.

Ohhhh wow you’re dumb. This was happily provided by one of the Wij, in borrowed clothes but Matron had found a hooded cloak for them so they were standing centered in the hall between them and the kitchen doors, hands tucked into opposite sleeves in front.

And who is this? The advisor gesticulated.

Wij mage. I arrived in a perfect eight of the Four Below, Titus deadpanned, watching the older man’s face. "I’m so obviously marked for Arsen, really, are you blind. Be glad I’m exhausted. It’s preventing me from being violent. You’re simply not worth the effort at the moment. Now, I am going to eat something. And I am going to sleep. And when I wake up, I expect a thoughtfully and efficiently worded report waiting for me summing up what’s happened since I’ve been gone with a complete run-down of the plague and any and all actions taken for containment as well as seeking a cure. Am I understood?"

You’re understood.

Hate me all you want. I look forward to finding out how utterly you’ve failed my mother so I can remove you from your vaulted and richly paid position. And he left it at that, moving to join the Wij and nodding once as they entered the kitchen to find the others at a table there instead of in a dining room, gathered around hastily assembled plates of bread, butter, and cold slices of roast meat.

There simply wasn’t enough time to cook something proper. Matron was fussing, refilling the cider mugs.

It’s food. It’s enough, storm-haired Inclides told her.

You look excellent in my clothes. Everyone here does. Feel free to take what you want as I’ll be buying an entire new wardrobe. He sat heavily. So. I’m King.

His new friends all stared at him for a moment, most with food halfway to their mouths or already there.

As you can imagine this is not entirely what I was expecting when I was ordered home. But, if we live through this, the Four Below will undoubtedly want to take advantage. Which means we need to fix this situation as soon as possible.

This situation meaning the plague, Wij Two said after a beat.

Yes. Exactly that situation.

Do you have an idea about how to go about that? One of the Temerij wanted to know. Because I’ve never heard of a plague being… solved exactly. Stopped, certainly. Allowed to burn out.

Look at the situation. A peaceful kingdom, isolated away from the war coming down, with no apparent heir present anymore. If I were a bastard… and make no mistake, I am absolutely, utterly a bastard in personality if nothing else… I’d see that as the perfect time to strike, if not to weaken, then to smother in the crib. He reached out, helping himself to the platters. The timing is too perfect. I don’t think this was an accident. Especially in an area that hasn’t seen plague in over a century.

It could have traveled here by slide gate, the other Temerij pointed out. There are countries in long-lasting battles with plagues. All it would take is one infected person sliding here. The protections built into the gates are far from perfect.

It could also have come here by river barge, the short-haired Inclides suggested.

Both possible. But I don’t think so. Either way, plagues can be fought and I’m not sure that the right moves were made here. Even if it’s natural we’ll need a plan to beat it and as far as I’m concerned you’re all now my most trusted advisors. You live here, you have my ear, you’ll be helping me carry out any planning I do moving forward. You are my eyes, ears and hands. Is that a problem with any of you? He looked around the table, and nodded when they all shook their heads. We’re going to have a lot of hurdles to cross, moving forward. Not the least of which are my father’s advisors and my mother, who I will be speaking to as soon as I can.

I told her you’ve come home. Matron was cheery. She needed the good news.

Is she ill?

Yes, unfortunately, but fighting well. She may pull through. Some have survived this plague. She told me that I am to have you rest before coming to see her.

Of course she did.

You haven’t introduced me to your new friends.

I don’t know any of their names. He shrugged.

Matron stared at him, absolutely, entirely appalled. Titus!

I don’t. Did news of the war make it here? Because we’re all survivors of that battlefield. We ran. It’s really just that simple. And that was still only a handful of hours ago, he replied bluntly. We ran from total destruction to the nearest slide gate and came here. I was rather more focused on survival than niceties.

It’s not niceties, it’s basic manners!

I have said I need their names because I am really weary of mentally referring to everyone by their patron god, he grumbled around his food.

I like him. He’s funny. This came from Wij One, prompting tired laughter from the others. Titus’ expression was apparently sour at being called funny because it only brought more weary laughter from the table.

Well, let’s start simply. Are you all strangers to each other? Matron set another mug of cider in front of Titus, who took it gladly.

No, not all of us. We’re brothers, said one of the Temerij. They had both found blue clothes among what Matron had found in Titus’ wardrobe. Out of chainmail and back in loose fabric they looked much more comfortable, and now that Titus was looking they definitely shared features, though one was just a wee bit bonier, higher cheekbones. The one talking had long hair up in a bun; the other had long hair but sides growing out from being shaved.

Lucky then that you both survived. One of the Inclides’ eyebrows went up.

Very. I’m Sedel. This is Sym. Our surname is Belsiro. We were spear fishing off catamarans before the call went out for fighters. We were some of the most skilled in our village at polearms and javelins, and we were the ones that heard the call. He rubbed his face. It’s... we’re not really meant for land and Temerij was like carrying the ocean with us and...

She’ll be back, is all Titus can say about it.

I hope so.

Avan Tillmire. This came from the other Arsen-touched once he’d swallowed. I was a town guardsman. I’m not the only one who heard the call. I might be the only one that lived though.

I don’t think that bears consideration. It was Matron that said that, bustling to clean up the kitchen. We’ll be considering enough death moving forward.

Crackle of leaves in the fall. This came from Wij Two.

What? Avan wanted to know.

Wij take names when they cross through their initiation, storm-haired Inclides told him. That’s their name.

Frosted sunrise. Wij One nodded.

You realize of course that now you are Leaf, and Sunny, Titus said, gesturing vaguely with his mug before taking a drink. As I cannot be bothered to shout those across a courtyard.

Generally we consider our full names to be formal. Leaf seemed resigned. We met on the battlefield but that’s it. Acquaintances of war I suppose. Our magic works better if we can coordinate with each other.

That leaves us, I suppose. I’m Sorilia, storm-haired Inclides said.

Ochei. Short-haired Inclides nodded once.

Good! Now we’re not strangers to each other, Matron said briskly. I apologize on Titus’ behalf that proper introductions took this long.

I stand by surviving being a higher priority, he grumbled, feeling heavier and heavier with exhaustion as he ate.

Now all of you should finish and sleep! I’ll see if we have any criers left to pass on the news of your return, Titus, and I’ll make sure the remaining advisors know.

You’re his Matron, not ours, Avan said with a frown.

Titus snorted as Matron said, And that’s where you’re wrong, dear.

It was early dawn again when Titus woke up, blinking a few times and all but falling out of bed before moving to a window to open it. The city still was hazed with smoke, but he left it open anyway, moving to wash up and prepare for what he was certain would be a long, long day.

His armor and his sword were piled neatly just inside the door, still in desperate need of being cleaned, and there were also some clean clothes folded up next to his filled washbasin. Shaking them out, he could see the marks of hasty tailoring, running his fingers over fresh stitch lines and realizing with a start he was holding clothing that had belonged to his father, quickly taken down to a state that might suit his new frame. Matron, or one of the other few remaining servants, had clearly brought some stitch magic to bear but once he changed, he couldn’t argue the results too much. He didn’t want his father’s advisors to look at him and see his father, but in the moment it