Traitor's Ruin

By Chris Moss

A city burns but does the Herald still wish to save it?

Kestel and Harpalus race to take control of the Citadel army,who are on a rampage after the treacherous eaths of Dio and Bastion but after being imprisoned and humiliated by his own people, Kestel may be more than happy to watch his city burn. Meanwhile, Eriwasteg struggles to contain the Baavghir’s own ambitions for conquest as her companion Melia succumbs to Bloodwyne withdrawal.With a city on the brink, scores will be settled and secrets will be dragged into the light – but with the Hydra God stirring, will it be enough?

• Language: English
• Publisher: NewLink Publishing
• Release date: Mar 7, 2023
• ISBN: 9781948266888

Book preview

With the proper tools and right leverage, you can shift almost any obstacle to your will.

~from ‘Twilight Instructions,’ by Spymaster Carr,

dated 48th year of the exile~

"It’s really very hrrg, simple, boy. I can save you before those beastmen eventually come back and present you to Musmahu. But I, hrrg, find myself without any agents. A Herald will get me back in the game."

Kestel, Herald of the Citadel, former Emperor of the Sacred Realm, strained against the leather mask covering his mouth, the manacles biting against his wrists.

Harpalus—The Magpie? How did you get here, and what the hell happened to you?

The bird-like man peering at Kestel through the bars in his cell shrugged. The jerky, ungainly movement was a far cry from the intense, capable spymaster he had met almost a year ago on Caelbor Island.

"There are some, hrrg, debts that I wish to repay, said the ghastly figure, orange blood dribbling over his fingers where he touched the rotting weal across his throat. An old associate of mine. She—well, I don’t need to, hrrg, go into all the details. Now, boy—do you agree to my terms or not?"

Kestel stared at the spymaster’s face, now mottled gray and orange. The last time the whipcord figure had made him an offer to become an agent of the Citadel, he had refused, throwing in his lot with the soldiers who had saved his life. This time, however, there was no one here to save him.

Angels damn you. Why couldn’t it have been Arbalis?

A deep creak echoed through the corridor of cells and the stones shifted beneath him. Somewhere above them, on the floor of the ruined amphitheater, the Hydra God Musmahu was stirring.

Harpalus grinned, his eyes feral in the flickering torchlight. Tick-tock, boy. This is something of a limited-time offer.

Kestel curled his lip beneath the leather mask.

I don’t have time for this. I need to get to Rawshnet, and those back-stabbing bastards Seneca and Galatea. I—

The stones shifted again, ancient timber beams overhead groaning under the strain.

Damn you.

Kestel hung his head and gave the tiniest nod.

"Well done, agent." Harpalus stepped over the corpse of the bloodmaster who had been guarding Kestel and filched the keys from the robed figure’s belt.

Kestel tried not to retch at the smell of bile seeping from the rotten figure as Harpalus opened the cell door and set to work on Kestel’s manacles. While waiting, Kestel’s vision slid away into darkness, the cell replaced with a Capital in flames.

The citizens screamed out for Kestel’s aid as the beastmen clawed their way through the holes in the building’s wall. The beastial figures hesitated, looking up and scurrying away. An old man smiled, overjoyed that, perhaps, their savior had come. Then the burning building collapsed around them, leaving nothing but the smell of smoke and ash.

The moment Kestel’s hand slipped free he yanked the leather mask off his face.

Too bad. They had their chance. All that matters is destroying those bastards who betrayed me.

Harpalus’s gray hand drifted toward the dagger at his belt. Now, now, Herald, you gave your word. You wouldn’t want that traitor’s mark tattooed on your brow to be right, would you?

"Be still."

The wretched figure froze, the ruined face twisting into a snarl. Kestel straightened, the air tasting of blood, dust, and the vague stench of the Chonoroq, but still much cleaner after the sweaty grip of the mask.

I have no time for any of your twisted bargains, Magpie. Your damn games might have worked a year ago, but a lot has happenedsince then.

Harpalus opened his mouth to speak but was silenced by the look in Kestel’s eye.

Right now, I don’t give a rat’s ass about your Citadel, and I’m tired of people trying to force me to do their bidding. Right now, I need to find the people who threw me in here and kill them. Then I need to figure out what to do about Musmahu.

"I could have left you in that cell to, hrrg, rot!" Still straining to move, the weal on Harpalus’s neck stretched and spluttered a milky orange liquid.

And you’d be dead soon after, by the look of it. What happened, spymaster? Why are you here?

"I don’t have to, hrrg, answer to you, boy!"

Kestel’s smile was cold, and he took a moment to pull up the dead bloodmaster’s stool to sit in front of the frozen Harpalus.

Actually, you’ll find that you do. You will now answer every question I put to you, Harpalus. Now, report—how did you come to be here?

Harpalus’s eyes flashed, but his snarl twisted into harsh, bitten-off words. "After you and your friends left on your little quest, I was tasked with thwarting a rebellion against the Citadel by the Caelbor nobles. I discovered—I—that the rebellion was headed by, hrrg, the League of Nobles, a Vutai from Maal’s court, and a traitorous prelate who was addicted to both Bloodwyne and his own sense of ambition. I could have stopped the old men, I could, but that interfering old harpy had to get involved. She started dragging up, hrrg, questions about the past, turning my agents against me. Damn her. She had no idea. Then, when I had unmasked the traitor, she took a petty revenge. She, she, hrrg, killed her. Killed her to pay me back. Killed my, hrrg, my Tansy."

Kestel blinked, trying to make sense of the spymaster’s words.

What happened next?

"We fought. The woman who had trained me. My, hrrg, my predecessor, Julia. Beat me with some damn cleric’s trick. Cut my throat out like it was nothing. Probably still laughing about it, hrrg—damn her. Damn her!"

Then how did you survive? Incredulous, Kestel eyed the weeping gash set in his mottled throat.

The bird-like head turned away, gazing into the dark, but Harpalus’s lips moved on their own. "I was overdosing on Bloodwyne. Tansy. My Tansy. She was—a Vutai. Our battles raged across the entire city. She gave me Bloodwyne. Wanted to control me, at first, but, hrrg, she and I were more alike than we knew. She wanted to leave with me, in the end. Walk away from all of it."

Kestel watched the twitching figure, the pieces of the story slowly piecing together.

So, you fell for a Vutai, and she got you onto the Bloodwyne. Then she was killed, and you were executed after. A steep fall for the all-seeing, all-knowing spymaster.

Harpalus looked back at Kestel with hatred glittering in his eyes. He relented a little when Kestel held up his hands.

It’s alright, Harpalus. I understand. I was caught up in a Vutai’s web too. A flash of Galatea’s skin and hair as it lay against him came into his mind. He pushed the thought away with a grimace. I think I see what happened to you. The Bloodwyne overdose—when you’ve drunk enough of it, your body won’t die. Even if you’ve been cut from ear to ear. But you had to keep drinking it, didn’t you? More and more to keep the rot at bay?

Harpalus trailed graying fingers over the weal in his neck. Yes, he said, his voice a tiny gurgle in the shadows. "When I, hrrg, awoke, I was on a slab in the Citadel morgue. The city was still recovering from the League’s rebellion. Easy enough for me to slip away, but I already needed it. More and more. I traded for some at Edleway, then made my way inland, town after town, raiding whatever Bloodwyne I could find. The Citadel army was right behind me, the whole time. But I needed to make my way here, I needed to find you— Harpalus jerked upright and tried to put his hands over his mouth, but the words slipped out between the dirty fingers. I can’t live like this. A filthy addict. My body is dying, boy. I can feel it falling apart as fast as the Bloodwyne knits it all back together. Help me, Herald. Please."

Kestel looked at the struggling figure with an impassive expression, his voice just as hard and unmoved. You could have asked for help. Instead, you tried to force me to become your servant—just like everybody else. Why should I help you, Magpie?

Harpalus’s face twisted. Gurgling, he tried and failed to step forward. "You will need me when the Citadel army arrives. They’re not here as some, hrrg, peaceful liberators. They’ll—"

They’ll kill everyone they come across and burn the Capital to the ground, said Kestel with a shrug. You’re assuming I care. I don’t—not anymore. What else have you got?

How did you know?

I’ve been seeing visions of it for months.

Harpalus stilled. With glittering eyes, he fingered his oozing throat and studied Kestel. "I can help you understand your Authority, Herald. When the old prioress assigned you to me, I made, hrrg, quite a study of previous Heralds, including whatever journals and treatises were written by your predecessors."

Kestel kept his face impassive but knew the spymaster had marked him. I already investigated Maal’s library up at the palace. I’ve already learned about the principles of recognition—that I have to see and understand the change before I can make it. I doubt there’s anything new you can teach me.

How have you found the visions? The familiar mocking tone of Harpalus had seeped back into his voice. "They haven’t been, hrrg, a problem now, have they?"

I’ve learned to stop fighting against them. Kestel’s eyes narrowed, looking up at the stones above their heads as if he could see the titan beginning to stir above them. "If I push my way through, accept what I can’t change, I can still create a good future. One where people won’t be ruled by Musmahu or the monsters in Maal’s court."

Harpalus’s laughter was a liquid gurgle that echoed through the dark. All this time, and you’ve barely taken your first steps. No wonder you failed as emperor. Free me. Cure me, and I’ll give you the knowledge you need to defeat your enemies.

Kestel leaned forward and raised his hand, but hesitated.

Why should I trust this snake? Why should I trust anyone?

Harpalus nodded. "Good—good. You’re, hrrg, learning. Listen boy, you know I can’t lie to you. Just use your Authority to force the truth. Free me, and we can help each other achieve our goals."

Kestel looked at Harpalus frozen on the other end of his outstretched hand, the rotting figure seemingly held between his fingertips.

Stop wasting time. They’re up there, laughing at what they did to you. Get to work.

Harpalus, I unbind you. You may move and speak freely. Furthermore, the Bloodwyne will leave you, and your body is now healed. You will live.

Harpalus squealed and staggered forward, his hands clawing at the open wound on his throat. A sickly orange liquid gushed out. Kestel kept his expression still, hoping for some glitter of light or trumpet call for the great magic being wrought, but knew he would get no such satisfaction.

Why do these miracles always seem so...ordinary?

Writhing in the dirt, the shivering skeletal figure slowed, then finally went still. A trembling hand, the skin looking pink and firm, reached out across the dirt and blood on the floor, groping for purchase. The spymaster hauled himself up out of the orange mud, his movements becoming deliberate, controlled. With a twist, Harpalus pulled the sopping, stained rags from his body to stand before Kestel in only his worn small clothes. His chest rippled with stringy, whipcord muscle, and his neck appeared whole and unblemished. The spymaster hacked up a last glob of orange spit and smiled through his rough, soiled beard.

"You have no idea how much better that feels. With a shave and some clothes, I might almost be human again. Come, Herald, we have much to plan before the Citadel forces arrive."

Kestel rolled his eyes. Why, thank you, Herald. You’ve saved me from a fate worse than death, he muttered. Why, you’re welcome, Harpalus, it was nothing. Anything to help a friend.

Chuckling, the spymaster stepped past Kestel to strip the dead bloodmaster of his robe. Remind me to send you a thank-you note and a bottle of wine. But right now, we need to get out of here.

Kestel grunted but had to reach out for the bars of the cell as another vision engulfed him, the whispers and flashes of the future he had set in motion.

The spymaster walked through the darkened corridors, tracking the useless footman who wandered blithely forward in a pool of light. She was close. She was so close.

The dislodged stones crumbled beneath Harpalus’s grip, yet he pushed his aching body up the walls. Beside him, the old man grunted, and somewhere below throats bayed a deep tone.

Harpalus smiled, spitting out the blood from the gash on his lip. Looking at the beautiful women before him, he allowed himself a moment’s satisfaction. He was still smiling when a blast tore through the garden.

Harpalus... Kestel murmured, trying to shake himself free of the cloying vision.

Come along, Herald.

Blinking away the fog, Kestel followed the spymaster through the darkened corridors beneath the amphitheater. He noted how much Harpalus had changed in a few short minutes. The coughing, rotting figure now moved with sharp deliberation, darting from shadow to shadow with confident, practiced ease.

You realize I can just stop anyone who finds us, whispered Kestel, watching the bird-like face peered out around a corner. Ahead of them lay a wide, low storage area, lined with bulky wooden shapes.

Perhaps, but we have nothing to gain by playing that card straight away, said Harpalus. You have an advantage, but we’re not invulnerable. Besides, there’s valuable information here.

Like what?

Look around you, Herald. What do you see?

Behind Harpalus, Kestel picked his way through gently curved shapes. They’re—barrels. Bloodwyne?

Correct, whispered Harpalus, giving the wood beside him a gentle tap. And they’re empty. I’m guessing these bloodmasters of yours have put their entire reserves into bringing back Musmahu. The operation would have taken months.

Kestel glowered, feeling the spike of resentment at Seneca and Galatea’s faces standing over him as the Chonoroq dragged him away. Bastards. Backstabbing bastards, all of them.

Keep your anger sheathed until you need it, Herald, Harpalus whispered, climbing another set of stairs. It’s something I forgot, then paid the price. Now, this room, I take it, is where they created the elixir to coax Musmahu back to life.

Kestel looked around at the wide, low hall. What had once been a training room was now an alchemist’s nightmare, a chaotic tangle of glassware, bronze pipes and furnaces. Jars, bottles, and mixing bowls littered the long wooden tables lining the space—bar one.

Why is there a corpse? Harpalus scanned the labyrinth of distillation pipes but had stopped at the central table.

Don’t you recognise her? It’s Lychra Maal.

Startled, the spymaster’s hands automatically reached for his daggers.

"This—this is the Golden Queen, the Goddess of the Sacred Realm?"

Kestel looked down at the broken body. The pale woman on the table had half of her body crushed. It wrecked part of her face, but she was still recognisable beneath the dirt and orange bloodstains. Strands of golden hair clung to the mud in the woman’s cheek, and a single, lifeless gray eye stared at the roof above.

Despite everything, Kestel fought against a strange grief rising over him, urging him to drop to one knee. I hated her, he whispered. So much. As much as I loved her before she betrayed me. I’m glad she’s finally dead, but— He struggled to find the words, so ended up just shrugging.

Harpalus bent in fascination, keeping a hand on his dagger. I spent so many years fighting her intrigues, he whispered. I always imagined it would be me who finally killed her.

It was Musmahu, in the end, Kestel said. I stabbed her through the heart with a flaming sword, then Musmahu crushed her as he lay dying. Afterwards, I always wondered if I should go back, perhaps—

"Herald—get down!"

A leathery hand closed around Kestel’s face, covering up his mouth and dragging him down. Reacting on instinct, he struggled like a mad thing against the gray muzzle and yellow eyes that flashed in front of his vision.

Kestel barely had time to register the hot, fetid breath that hit his face before wet teeth clamped down onto his neck. He thrashed, the old red anger shaking its way through his body, but this time an icy thrill of fear accompanied it.

Angels help me. It’s not supposed to go this way. I have to finish this. Rawshnet—Seneca, Galatea! I can’t let you win! I can’t—

The world around him tumbled, his hands still flailing at the furry jaws. After a shrill yelp, the teeth in his neck disappeared.

Kestel shook his head, and the darkened space swam back into focus. He lay on the dirty stones, shivering. Blinking, he clutched his bleeding neck and tried to raise his head.

Harpalus stood between him and a snarling Chonoroq. The beast clutched its side and dark blood spurted between its fingers. The spymaster held out his dagger, casually flipping the blade over like a juggler.

Well… The bird-like man cocked his head, a slow grin spreading across his face. You’re not on my list, but who says I can’t enjoy myself in the meantime?

The Chonoroq snapped and lunged forward but Harpalus had already twisted away. His healed body moved in short, sharp movements, always just out of reach of the black claws. Kestel gritted his teeth at the shadows gathering at the edges of his vision and tried to crawl between the tables to reach the far stairs. The spymaster dodged the Chonoroq’s grasp with almost disinterested ease. The creature hesitated, shaking its head in frustration, glaring at the sinewy figure before him. Kestel knew death loomed in the room’s future.

Wrong move. The last you’ll make.

Before the hairy creature could react, Harpalus darted under the bulky arms, his dagger whipping forward faster than Kestel’s hazy vision could follow. The wolfen figure snarled and thrashed, clutching at its bleeding chest. Its body smashed through glassware and pipes, spraying Bloodwyne all over the room. Harpalus swore and rolled away from the mess.

Move, Herald. He dragged Kestel to his feet, making him wince and clutch at his wounded neck. I’ll bandage you up as soon as we’re safe.

No! Kestel staggered forward, lurching up the stairs. Need to find—Seneca. Raw. Rawshnet. Then I'll—

"Faint from blood loss? Yes, I’m sure they’ll be truly intimidated. Harpalus slung Kestel’s arm over his shoulder. Come on. We have larger battles to plan."

Cormag of the strong arm and thick shield, waxed wroth, and none, not even his dear sons, could sway his fury. The battlefield called him; to die in glory and feast forever, not wander in the darkness of a coward’s death.

~from ‘The Lay of Rollo,’ a traditional Caelbor poem~

Lucia walked over the battlefield and tried not to vomit.

Angels save us. This is a disaster.

As a front-line veteran, she had long ago lost count of how many battles she fought. But the sight of it—the bodies lying in splayed heaps, the blood-soaked mud squelching underfoot, the empty, quiet faces of the survivors that hauled the bodies up onto carts—had never ceased to horrify her.

How many did we lose? She looked at one of the surviving officers accompanying her.

More than we would like, the aide whispered. And that bastard of an Immortal in charge of them ran when the battle was lost. There’s still more than enough of us to retake the Capital, but once we broke ranks—

Lucia looked away, casting her gaze up to the overcast sky and hoping no one saw her tears.

Vendetta! No mercy for these traitors! Vendetta!

It was understandable, said the officer, but froze when Lucia’s gaze fell upon him.

"It was not understandable! We lost our discipline. I lost my discipline. Good men and women were killed. If it hadn’t been for Prelate Millner and his damn magos, the numbers would have been worse."

But they killed our general! the officer said, his voice almost a wail. They betrayed a parley and stabbed him in the back! We—

We should have been stronger and better than that. Lucia shook her head. Dio—we all loved him. He… The words withered away. Lucia had to clench back tears from the accusing voice that rose out of her memories.

How could you betray us, Marcus? People died!

"Captain, uh, there were, ah... rumors about General Dio circulating last night. About his role in the Caelbor Rebellion. Did—did he—"

Dio was the best of us, Lucia said, cutting the officer off. But his death still doesn’t mean we can act like animals. It must never happen again, do y’ hear?

He opened his mouth only to quickly close it and scurry away. Lucia let her gaze wander over the bodies of friends and foe, the guilt rising again.

No.

With a snap, the captain shoved the feeling down, focusing instead on the men as they cleared a path through the battlefield.

Lucia? Ah, captain? Can we talk?

Lucia roused a smile, turning to greet the familiar voice. Hello, Moira. I’m sorry you had to see this. I know how much you hate violence. I’m sorry you had to, to... Lucia’s voice trailed off, her smile becoming brittle. She stared blankly at the beautiful young woman in front of her.

Of course, she’s older than I am, isn’t she? This Hulda’s probably been alive for thousands of years. Only left her forest and took on this form to get close to...him...

I should have been there to protect him. I’m so sorry, she whispered, the admission cloaked by the groans and clatter of collecting the dead.

The Hulda who had posed as the deceased Moira Glynden nodded, her smile painfully bright.

Well, we all know the secret Dio had been carrying was a shock. I can see why you and Hrolf and Bastion... Oh goodness, poor Bastion. I was so distracted I haven’t even spoken to Hrolf. I should—

No, said Lucia firmly. "Leave Hrolf be. His Caelbor sense of honor has taken him to a very dark place. We all felt it—I felt it. Give him time to find himself again."

And if he doesn’t?

Then angels help us all.

Moira nodded, looking down at her feet.

Lucia, c-can I... Can I see? The Hulda’s voice cracked, and crimson tears rolled down her tan cheeks. Lucia’s vision blurred and she staggered forward, wrapping her arms around the smaller woman.

No, Moira, no. You don’t want to see him like this. Remember him for the man he was. A good man, one who tried his best. Tonight, we’ll give him a proper burial, I promise.

The Hulda finally broke down, burying her head in Lucia’s heavy cloak.

There, there, shh… whispered Lucia, holding onto the shivering, stretching body. I know—I know. I felt like this when I lost my husband Bollio, even after he gave me three beautiful daughters. But I survived, my girl. You will too.

The Hulda nodded into her shoulder. When the tears finally subsided, Lady Glynden looked up, rubbing her red-rimmed eyes.

Oh, I was sent to find you. I just saw all this and—

Focus, said Lucia, gently. Who needs me?

That secretary—the one who isn’t a secretary, really. The old woman, Julia.

The spymistress wants to see me? Yes, I think I need to see her, too.

When did she arrive? Where is she?

Back at the camp. She arrived this morning, after the battle was underway.

Lucia nodded and gave the Hulda’s shoulders a final squeeze before heading back toward the camp, barking out instructions to the officers hovering nearby. Watching them rush away into the charnel-house of the battlefield, her thoughts turned grim.

Julia. What did you do? Why did you release Dio’s secret the night before a major battle—to punish him? Neutralize him? If he had been at his best, he might have seen the Scabies’ trap, he could have… You will answer to me.

Lucia finally found Julia waiting in the command tent, sitting by the table where Lucia had quarreled with Dio the night before. The documents, proof of Dio’s duplicity during the Caelbor uprising months ago, had been removed.

Captain.

Spymistress. I thought you were accompanying Prior Gato?

Julia nodded. Lucia noticed the freshly healed scars across the wrinkled arms and face. The old woman looked tired, but her eyes were hard.

He’s safe. I have one of my agents watching him. We were attacked by a Vutai infiltrator on the way here. She almost bested us. Almost. Now, what happened at the battle? It sounds like a madhouse.

Lucia’s neck clenched, and it took a moment for her to gain control of her emotions from the woman’s careless words.

"You seem to forget, spymistress, that I answer to the Silver Prior, not you. Or do you consider him one of your underlings as well?"

Julia rose from her seat. Her body shook with fatigue, but her expression was unflinching. Be very careful with your words, captain. Better soldiers than you have died for less.

Was that your plan for Dio? To humiliate him, break him on the night of a major engagement?

Julia’s eyes darkened and the deep lines of the old woman’s face twisted in pain. No, Lucia. That was a betrayal by one of my former agents, a petty act of spite because I backed Gato for Prior over Millner. She’s buried in the forest behind us, if that gives you any pleasure. No, Dio and I had a long association. He had been feeding me information—vital information—on the Caelbor rebellion months before it occurred.

Yet you held his mistakes over his head! You may as well have put a leash around his neck. Damn you!

I needed his compliance, said Julia with eerie calm. "You focus on individual battles and campaigns, captain. I have to focus on the survival of the Citadel ten years, twenty years, one hundred years from now. I couldn’t risk the Citadel in the hands of Prelates Millner or Niena. Hate me all you like, but to safeguard the Citadel I’d do it all again in a heartbeat."

That’s monstrous.

Which is why the Citadel employs monsters like me. We can’t all be heroes. Now what happened to Dio?

Lucia sighed at the frustration burning against her temples. It took a moment to steady her breath. "It was those Scabies bastards. They said they had the Herald with them, that he wanted to talk terms. Dio…well, he saw this as a chance, I think. A way to try and salvage his lost honor. So, he took Bastion, and they met this Herald. But the moment they stepped into the tent—they were attacked. Stabbed in the back, both of them. Then the Scabies strapped them to their horses and sent the bodies back while they laughed. They broke parley, the most ancient code of battle, and they laughed. She clenched her eyes shut, but there was no keeping the tears away this time. I should have been there. I should have been the one standing by Dio’s side, to watch him, to protect him, but all I could do was… Damn it! Damn me. I—"

That’s enough of that, Julia said.

Lucia gasped and looked up in shock.

We don’t have time for this. The old woman’s stance, her expression remained adamant. Lucia flinched under the spymistress’s gaze. I know you want to beat yourself up over your past mistakes or try and make sense of why Dio didn’t come to you for help when he unwillingly aided the Caelbor Rebellion. Trust me, captain, there are no good answers here. All that will happen is that you’ll waste precious time and energy navel-gazing, and perhaps even miss what was in front of you all along.

What would you know about it? Lucia said, feeling some of the fire return.

More than you think. The old woman rubbed the scars on her arms. "You feel guilty, captain? Want some kind of penance? Fine. I need you to gather up this army. I need it disciplined. Alert. Ready for what lies ahead. Can you do that?"

The Exsilium and Caelbor soldiers are already at each other’s throats, we haven’t even been able to bury the dead—

"I said, can you do that, captain?"

Lucia’s lip curled. Yes, spymistress. I take it this is the will of the prior?

Of course it is—I’m just here to deliver the message. The old woman rolled her eyes and ambled past Lucia. Gato intends to promote you to general tonight, by the way. Something to lift the men’s spirits at the funeral service. Now, at this point I haven’t slept for almost two days, so I’m going to get some rest. Go gather your troops. Start with Hrolf, he’s becoming a worry and I’d hate to have to dispose of him.

Damn you. You’re right, but damn you anyway.

Lucia stood in the accusing silence of the tent, looking at the empty table, her face hardening as she turned back to the hubbub of the battlefield.

"What the hell are you doing, Hrolf?" Lucia looked at the commander of the Caelbor forces in horror.

The stocky warrior’s bare chest was splattered in blood and grime. His usual tightly-bound hair flapped wildly as the old man raised his sword. Behind him stood his Marschul, the Caelbor warrior elite, watching on with quiet intensity. In front of the old man a line of Scabies soldiers knelt, their hands tied and their heads bowed.

Between the prisoners and Hrolf lay a pile of Scabies corpses, broken, cracked leathers soaked in blood.

"I’m giving this scum a better death than they deserve, Lucia. Hrolf rolled his bulging shoulders and cracked his neck, still glaring at the prisoners. Cut the next one loose!"

On cue, a common Caelbor soldier cut the bonds of the next prisoner in line and pushed him toward Hrolf. The thin Sacred Realm warrior looked pale beneath his matted brown hair. He took a small step forward, trembling so much he could barely stand. Lucia guessed he was thirteen, maybe fifteen years old.

Pick up that sword, boy. The old man pointed to the sword still clutched in the hands of the topmost corpse. You’ll face me like a man.

"Bloody hell, Hrolf, stop! What’s wrong with you? He’s just a boy!"

"So was Bastion! Hrolf turned and looked at Lucia. His eyes were red-rimmed, and his sword trembled in his clenched fists. He was just a boy! My boy! They stabbed him—right in the back, like a bloody coward. He never even got to draw his blade! You’re Exsilium, you don’t understand, you—"

Hrolf—

"No! This is Caelbor business! Caelbor honor! They have to pay, Lucia! They have to pay for what they did!"

"They will