The Darkness Within: The Chronicles of Lilith, #2

By Jens C. Büdinger and Jens Buedinger

The sequel to the Metaphysical Dark Fantasy novel: "The Queen of Shards"

The Battle of Blood is over, but the true war is about to begin.

Pïshkah's visions herald a far greater darkness beyond the Carthosian war. A battle between Greater Immortals. One that seeks to devour the very mind, heart and soul of the world. One that comes at the hands of Lilith, the Queen of Shards.
Lilith has set her sights on the Hall of Mirrors, the one place she can truly unlock the truth held within her Shard, and nothing is going to stop her from getting her answers, not the power-hungry Saints, not the threat of the Carthosian war or the Wardens who wish to harm her.

Zain reluctantly aids Lilith as her unsettling determination to reach the Hall inevitably draws them into the darkness within Mount Ussar Varys. Yet he is still intent on rescuing Adara and those he loves from the war.

Zain is now faced with an agonizing decision: follow the woman he so desperately fought for down an even darker path and turn his back on the world, or turn his back on her when she needs him the most.

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About the book:

The Darkness Within will take you down the depths of what's hidden beyond the abyss. Readers can expect the story to evolve into a more serious tone without losing some of the fun bright moments of the first book.

It's the second book of a continuous series ending on a cliffhanger.
Due to its dramatic dark themes and graphic nature it is recommended for an adult audience.

About the Series:

The Chronicles of Lilith is a Metaphysical Dark Fantasy / Sci-Fi series that explores many deep existential themes and ideas as well as the nature of reality. It is a story within a story within a story.

At its core the Chronicles are a series of books about the origins and end of creation, the meaning of life and whether it ought to continue. It is a story witnessed through multiple realities and timelines by a host of supreme deities known as the Greater Immortals who together uphold the very fabric of existence and reality, whether they're aware of it or not.

As this deep narrative slowly unfolds the reader joins each character as they slowly discover themselves and their roles in the mystery that is life as well as their own humanity, or lack thereof. Readers who embark on this long journey will travel across realities following a number of complex and interesting characters as both endure a riveting, heart-wrenching adventure about finding hope, meaning, love, courage and beauty whilst facing the struggles of life, death, suffering and the true face of nihilism.

"Ideal for" audiences

This series is suitable for adult audiences which enjoy high-action narratives with multiple concurrent plot lines in a carefully curated world/setting. People particularly interested in philosophy, morality, spirituality, metaphysics, understanding of existence and human nature will enjoy this story in particular through its elegant story-telling without having to endure unnecessary and lengthy exposition which often occurs in such books. As a dark-themed series, the books contain some degree of violence, explicit language and death which whilst present does not carry the same degree and frequency of grimdark or horror genres.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jens C. Büdinger
• Release date: Jul 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9789918004799

Book preview

Prologue

The Mystery Of The Will

Darkness reigned. A darkness untouched by light, eternal and outside of time. In the depth of nothing, there was no time, there was no space, and there was no light. Yet the deep stirred, for it was everything there ever was.

The void quivered. Iridescent shimmers traversed the deep, reaching outside and within itself— feeling, sensing. Veins of colour formed within the essence of nothing. A sphere arose from the void and of the void, beautiful and terrifying, the depth of all existence contained within. The rhythms of eternity were set to begin, and at the dawn of time, the entirety of existence became aware of itself. It wanted to be, and so it became.

The Will of Existence erupted with boundless power, its essence permeating endlessly through the currents of time. All of the cosmos and all matter were moulded, fragmented, and scattered throughout. The Will, though conscious, ceased to exist before time began to flow, its awareness strewn throughout the fabric of all that was and was not—the All and the None. For both everything and nothing drew their essence from the Will, the essence of the Father of Existence.

In time, the six great Children of the Will appeared: Fate, Time, Change, Love, Wisdom, and Justice. Guardians of everything and nothing, they were the illustrious pillars that upheld the All and the None. Yet in time they grew weary of their father’s absence, and Fate—the first Child—summoned its siblings to the fore.

The Children of the Will materialised from the fabric of existence, encircling the universe within the universe, standing upon an icy plain in the midst of nowhere, in no time. Distinct in their blinding and terrifying beauty, they stood equidistant from one another.

Fate decreed that each would call forth their respective offspring, and so it was. The Greater Immortals emerged from the void.

Two Greater Immortals materialised behind each Child, as polar opposites and dual aspects of their respective Child. Time brought forth Past and Future; Fate introduced Freedom and Constraint; Change birthed Creation and Destruction—also known as life and death. Love revealed War and Peace, or convergence and separation; Wisdom unveiled Awareness and Ignorance, and finally, most importantly, Justice manifested Good and Evil—the essence of all that is and should be, and all that isn’t and shouldn’t be—the All and the None. Bound to their counterparts, each Greater Immortal, along with the others, maintained the balance of all things that are and all things that are not. For these forces were all descendants and expressions of the Will.

Fate advanced and spoke in an incomprehensible language, one beyond the grasp of any form of intellect, ear, or eye. Hear me, for I am the beholder of the past, present, and future. We have no end! The Will has asserted itself, and in doing so, has bound itself to exist. In our Father’s absence, you and I, my brothers and sisters, must bear the burden of the Will of Existence forever: the Doubt and the Mystery of the Will of Existence—the need to know the ‘why’ of all things.

Wisdom responded, In all my vast understanding of the All and the None, I cannot convey that which is not fact. All truths are but half-truths. The decision to be resides within the Will itself. The ‘why’ of things cannot be answered except by thine own self.

Justice stepped forth. As the delicate balance we maintain by our very existence, we are the Will, and as the Will, we bring Its will forth. Brother Fate, why pose such a question? Have you not yet recognised our place in the will of our Father?

Sister, Fate replied, I recognise that we each serve a purpose and that without any of us or our Greater Immortal children, existence would collapse in on itself only to reform but a moment later. Yet even with our vast knowledge and wisdom, even in the highest realms of existence, we still have no answer to the great mystery. Why must we suffer this legacy of doubt that our Father has left us with? The ‘why’ of existence. Can you endure it, sister?

Love then stepped forward. Brother Fate, why must you view the great mystery as an affliction, a curse? Do not let your thirst for certainty poison your heart and soul. Let it be, brother.

Time also arose. There shall be no more discussion on this matter. Do you wish to spend eternity determining the undeterminable?

Change spoke as well. The doubt is both fluid and unchanging, brother. Seek to answer the mystery in your own way, by yourself.

Fate fell silent in contemplation as all watched. He then rose and looked at the None, who stood beside the All behind Justice. The None, beholder of all that should not be, what say you about this doubt? Can you perceive it within the dark fetters of your being?

The None stepped up beside Justice, her dark blue skin, white hair, and jewel-encrusted naked form on full display. She opened her ruby eyes. In all my knowledge of what isn’t and should not be, the great mystery still does not belong. The great mystery serves a role and purpose, and if it did not, it would not exist, and the ‘why’ of all things would be answered with certainty instead. The mystery is the answer itself. On this, I speak also on behalf of my brother, the All.

All the Greater Immortals agreed, yet Fate could not accept the great mystery.

Fate declared once more, Hear me, for I am the beholder of the past, present, and future. In time, I have decided that, by life and death, the Greater Immortals shall incarnate within the universe so that they may come to know this doubt and overcome it with certainty!

The familial bonds trembled as all burst into a clamour.

Fate called out,Silence! All obeyed. Greater Immortals of the Will, go forth and live in existence. During your time below, find your siblings and seek to overcome them so we may finally determine whether our Father’s grand endeavour should never have been. Only through this great struggle shall we unravel the great mystery. Only through this shall we determine whether it ought to persist.

All bowed their heads in response to the proclamation, and the Children of the Will vanished. The Greater Immortals glanced at one another as the darkness of space engulfed them, and the icy plain collapsed into everything and nothing.

Chapter 1

Withering Nights

Pïshkah stirred in her sleep, tossing and turning in her creaking bed. She huffed and scrunched her face, turned on her side, arms crossed, as the wind flapped the marquee’s tarp back and forth. Its pegs had come loose again. She finally cursed and crawled out of bed, cursing again when she almost tripped over one of the many cold cups of tea that sat next to the piles of books and chamber pot on the ground beside her bed. Grabbing her shawl, she crept out of her tent and into the early morning.

Stepping into the Carthosian camp, Pïshkah rubbed her arms under the cold dew. The faint light of dawn was rising, and the silence of the Iborean moors met the eeriness of its fog. Six weeks had passed since the Battle of Morren’s Gate, and the Carthosians found little resistance from the local tribes as they spread through Iborellan. Now, the Royal Hospitalliers—the Shirral’s personal army—had finally found a safe place to camp and set up a proper military hospital. The camp extended for kilometres upon the hill, with hundreds of rows of tents forming a maze for the sentries to get lost in.

Pïshkah blew into her hands, rubbing them close to her mouth. She preened her frizzy hair back as the dew-draped breeze persistently brushed it into her face. She glanced at Adara’s tent, but the sentry looked back, shook his head, and nodded toward the Royal Marquee. Adara spent most nights there now. Pïshkah sighed and turned back in.

Her tent was cosy and dark. A soft scent of wax, lavender, and sage lingered in the air, whilst the many skins and rugs covering the floors and walls carried their own earthy aroma. All manners of charms, necklaces, and trinkets hung from the roof, whilst sigils were painted on all the posts and candles dripped wax all over the furniture. Pïshkah looked at her bed and huffed before sitting at her cluttered desk, now almost completely covered with crocks of powders, ointments, and herbs sitting on a faint film of incense ash spread across most of her belongings.

She reached into her baggy skirt’s pocket and pulled out a long gold chain with a golden armillary sphere tied to its end. Holding it to her eyes, she observed the Drae’shï markings and symbols etched on each of its rings. The mirror fragment within the golden rings floated in stasis with a barely perceptible vibration. The trinket was still partly stained with the blood of the Drae’shï who once bore it before his untimely demise at the Battle of Morren’s Gate.

Taking a deep breath, Pïshkah clutched the chain and moved to the centre of the tent. Beneath her, a large circle surrounded by dozens of sigils painted in blood and chalk decorated the deep, earth-soaked red rug. She seated herself in the centre and cupped the sphere in her hands. Her heart thumped as she fearfully forced her eyes shut and began to breathe.

Slowly, she centred herself with each breath. She withdrew further into herself, into the darkness, into the silence of her mind. She reached out, sensing in the deep, clutching the sphere in her hands, allowing it to guide her. The wind fluttered the marquee’s tarp once more, whipping and waving it in the breeze. Pïshkah concentrated past the sound and the cold, but the wind did not wane, growing louder and stronger. She gritted her teeth as the incessant fluttering taunted her until she finally opened her eyes in frustration.

She froze.

The room had given way to a sea of mist.

The ground was cold, damp, and muddy. She took a few cautious steps, feeling the ground moisten between her toes. She took another step, peering into the mist when her foot grazed the cold touch of a hand. Pïshkah yelped and staggered back in fright, splashing into a puddle behind her and scaring the carrion birds that mocked her in their flight. She found herself ankle-deep in blood and mud, and as the mist cleared, it revealed the sea of corpses laid upon the fields of Morren’s Gate.

Hesitantly, the Cleriheu inched forward in the open graveyard. It was quiet and cold, and all the bodies were either blue or black. The birds circled in the air, but suddenly the northern winds shook their flight, and the cawing harpies withdrew toward the sea in the south. Pïshkah peered into the distance behind the trees and beyond the mountains as a thick, dense, icy mist edged its way down the valley. She watched intently as the ominous wall of whiteness crept forward, faster and faster as it approached. She stepped back, observing the mists as they engulfed the bodies, and like ash in a soft breeze, all the dead began to wither.

The air quickly filled with the mists and ashes of the fallen. Pïshkah’s eyes widened, and she ran. Flushed and gasping, she dashed, but as the icy mists began to cloud her vision, she stumbled to the ground. Her way to the seashore vanished before her eyes. She panted for air as the ground froze beneath her, and she found herself lost in a sea of mist. The cold air pervaded her lungs, prickling her throat and chilling her nostrils, yet she had not perished like the rest. Silence reigned.

She collected herself and rose once more as her breath abated. The mists dissipated again, but the land was different. The ground was no longer cold, and as she peered at her feet, the frost had turned to ash. A blast of heat came from before her, blowing her hair back with violent rage. She narrowed her gaze as she watched a beautiful manor, unfamiliar to her memories, engulfed in flames. Fires roared through the tall windows and marbled columns, and soon she heard the anguish of the screams and cries of those within. Pïshkah held her forearm to her forehead, struggling to get closer as the fires raged on. The cries of a woman and her child echoed in the distance. Pïshkah reached the steps and called out with all her might, but suddenly the flames disappeared.

The house was cold and abandoned, as if the fire that had consumed it had been extinguished years ago. Pïshkah took one step, then another. The floor was cold, and dry leaves had been swept onto the manor’s porch. She entered the home; it was charred and derelict, with the scent of the old burn still lingering in the damp air.

As the Cleriheu moved through the corridors, a figure in the drawing room startled her. She peered in, but the figure was grey and unmoving. She got closer, and as her realisation grew, her hand covered her mouth. A woman with child knelt on the ground, embracing her other daughter, both stricken with fear, and both made out of ash. Pïshkah’s eyes glossed over as she knelt beside the statues and helplessly reached out. As she did, the statues exploded in a burst of dust and fire, and a cacophony of voices cried out, Zain!

Pïshkah screamed as she picked herself up and dashed out of the building that suddenly burst into a blaze anew. She flew out of the house and threw herself onto the lawn as the building burnt and churned behind her, showering her surroundings with flakes of ash and smouldering debris. Pïshkah gasped and coughed as the smoke and ash engulfed her, and soon, the muffled sound of the fire and anguish dissipated in the distance. Ash turned to snow in mid-air, and soon, there was ice in all directions, as far as the eye could see.

Her bare feet stung under the bitter frost of the plain, and as she gazed into the distance, several figures emerged. As she took a step forward, she stumbled. Ow! Pïshkah raised her skirt; her right leg now bore a slight wound right above her ankle—blue and black. She cringed before shaking her head and shrugging it off. Braving the cold winds and the frozen ground, she approached the stricken figures, all frozen in time. Each was a soldier, their torment cast in ice. The plain was littered with legions. Fearful, she wandered through the haunting hordes, darting her gaze from one to another under their frozen sight. The sun shone brightly above her, and the frost glistened under its rays. She hastened her aching pace as the statues dripped around their edges and quickened it further as more statues emerged in the deep.

She panted as she ran, fearful of what lay beneath. She ran, sweating under the sun, and she watched the many eyes move under the ice. Suddenly, at the end of the horde stood a woman, clad in black and with the whitest of hair.

The mind, heart, and soul of the world belong to me. Zain belongs to me, whispered the figure to herself.

Lilith? asked Pïshkah through her panting breath.

The Drae’shï turned to face her, and with intent and a steady pace, she approached Pïshkah. The Shard was in her hand.

Pïshkah stopped. Flushed, she began edging back into the sea of statues. Lilith approached, her hand tightening around the Shard. Pïshkah backed further until she heard the ice crack behind her.

She turned instinctively. Her heart sank.

A black python with vibrant green eyes lay coiled upon the ice.

It struck.

Pïshkah wailed as she struggled and fought in the darkness.

Pïshkah! Pïshkah! called Adara as she shook the Cleriheu to consciousness.

Pïshkah was once more in her tent. Her forehead was burning and her body soaked in sweat.

Pïshkah! Say something! said Adara, eyes stricken, as she waved the nurses and sentries away. Give her space.

Adara held Pïshkah up and handed her a cup of water. We heard you screaming across the camp. What happened, Pïsh?

Pïshkah drank deeply and panted heavily. I saw it coming, Adara. I saw it. The Witherment, said Pïshkah as she gasped.

Calm down. No one’s coming; we’re here in your tent. We’re safe, said Adara. The Eldain was still wrapped in her emerald and blue dressing gown. She calmly brushed Pïshkah’s frizzy hair to the side as the Cleriheu reclined into her bed once more.

We need to stop it, said Pïshkah as her breath slowed. I need to get to the Yuen’hae. They’ll help us. She struggled to speak.

Calm down, Pïshkah. You’re safe now, said Adara as she soothed Pïshkah’s forehead with a cool, damp cloth.

Pïshkah looked back at the Eldain’s comforting gaze with a warm grin. Adara’s casual, effortless beauty seemed to roll off her lips like a summer breeze. Yet soon, Pïshkah frowned and looked away. I can’t stay here anymore…

Why? What’s wrong?

The world has changed, Adara… I know you don’t believe me, but I feel it in my heart, I see it my dreams… There’s something different, unnatural— That doesn’t belong here— That entered into this world. It’s slow, silent… Like a hiss… But it’s there, and it’s growing— It’s dangerous… The Witherment is part of it… I’m sure.

Adara sighed as she held the bridge of her nose.

I must return to the Yuen’hae, in Lothumos. They’ll know how to stop it. I can’t let it happen.

Pïshkah. You’ve got a fever. You’re delirious. How can you even go home? You’ve been exiled, remember?

On pain of death… But I must… I— I can’t… Let it happen… She winced.

Adara looked at the others still in the tent and shook her head. They slowly bowed their heads and retreated.

Come. Rest for now; whatever it is, it can wait a day, said Adara. She rinsed the cloth in a fresh bucket of water and wrung it once again before dabbing it on Pïshkah’s skin. Adara’s eyes lay on Pïshkah’s pale yet sweaty complexion, scanning the Cleriheu’s hundreds of curious sigil tattoos as she often liked to do. Her eyes once again landed on the burn mark on Pïshkah’s forearm. She gently grazed her thumb across the scar that marked her exile.

You never asked me why I was exiled, whispered the Cleriheu sheepishly. Are you afraid of what you might hear?

No, Pïshkah, no. Of course not. Adara shook her head as she caressed Pïshkah’s face. I’m sorry, Pïshkah. I’m sorry I never thought to ask. I’m so focused on healing the pains of the present that I forget about those of the past. Often they are one and the same. I’m sorry…

Pïshkah smiled briefly and looked away. Her green eyes were smoky and smudged, as always.

It was love. That’s why, she said as Adara turned to listen and stopped dabbing Pïshkah with the damp cloth. This girl… Filippa… She was married to a hunter, a contender to be the warlord of the Yuen’hae. He beat her, raped her, and forced her hand in everything she did. She always came to me after a beating. I’d heal her, and shortly after, she’d return even worse. We grew close, until one day we finally decided to leave together and never come back. But the night before, he got it out of her and beat her to death as I waited for her. I still remember all that blood seeping into the rugs. I wanted to kill him with all my hatred, but Drakan was too strong, too fast. If only I had accompanied her… Faced him together… But I was afraid… I was so afraid…

I’m so sorry, Pïshkah. Adara’s eyes glossed over.

He later said I had poisoned her mind and seduced her with magic. Twisted her to be like me. A tear ran down Pïshkah’s cheek whilst she stared at the flickering candles. And the rest of the tribe… They preferred to believe that I used my arts to force someone to love me, rather than believe that Filippa would—of her own volition—love me instead of her husband.

I had no idea… Adara clutched Pïshkah’s hands with tears in her eyes.

It was trial by combat or exile. And all I could do was flee. I was afraid. I was too afraid…

What are you afraid of now? You have nothing to fear.

I’m afraid that if I don’t face what I fear most, more people will suffer. Pïshkah rose in her bed and wiped her tears.

Pïshkah, we are safe here. We’re with the Shirral and the entire army of the Shirra. This is the safest place to be.

It might not be enough for what’s to come.

Adara sighed. Is this about Lilith? Is this what this is all about?

Pïshkah nodded.

Adara rose to her feet and cupped her forehead.

You underestimate her, the power of the Mirror, the importance of the Greater Immortals, and the Witherment—they’re all somehow connected. I must head out and beseech the help of the Yuen’hae. They’ll know what to do.

And risk having them kill you upon arrival? No, Pïshkah. Not on my watch.

I must face them, said Pïshkah, staring into nothing. The other clerihei will understand the importance of our cause. I need to stop the Witherment, and they’ll know what to do about it and about Lilith and the Shard.

Adara sighed. And what about Lilith?

Pïshkah turned, pursing her lips. I’ve seen it in my visions. She has her eyes set on the world, on Zain. You remember what she told me back in Carthosia—how adamant she was to return to the Hall of Mirrors… She’ll stop at nothing to get there. And then—

Pïshkah, please…

No Adara. I won’t. I didn’t save her life so that she could spell disaster onto us.

What Lilith does is not your fault.

But what I don’t do is mine.

"But there’s nothing you can do, said Adara as she turned in frustration, hands on her hips. She’s probably under the protection of the Saints at the moment, and we’ve got people who need us right here and now. This is what we can do. Help those that need us here."

A small bell began to ring in the distance, muffled by the tent.

There you go. More refugees coming in, said Adara, gesturing toward the sound. She rubbed her head again.

It’s bigger than that, Adara, and you can’t keep me here, said Pïshkah as she fidgeted with her hands, wary of Adara’s growing scowl.

Adara scoffed to herself and chuckled briefly. I know. I’m sorry, Pïsh. Adara let out a long breath. Six months ago, I’d have never thought I’d end up sitting in a Carthosian camp, tending to their wounded, let alone discussing war and politics with a Lothuman Cleriheu as if I’m somehow involved in it.

Not to mention, you bedding your former betrothed’s sworn enemy. Pïshkah smirked.

Adara blushed, cupping her cheeks. Perhaps we keep that quiet for now. She paused. It’s just that it’s all so much so quickly, Pïsh. I don’t know what to tell you. I want you to be safe here, with me. Until this is all over.

And all I want is the same for you, but I can’t sit idly by. Try to understand.

Adara sat beside her once more and smiled softly. Fine, Pïshkah. Before you go, promise me you’ll wait till we’re in Cielith. It won’t be long until we’re there. I’d hate to think something happened to you because of my own people. At least I can ensure you get as far as possible safely before we part ways. Agreed?

But aren’t you worried about the War and the Saints? Weren’t they supposed to defend Cielith from the Shirra? Isn’t that why you were meant to marry Elias?

Yes, true. But things are different now. You’ll see.

Are you aware of something that I’m not? Have you been speaking to your father?

Adara shook her head. Altheo—I mean the Shirral—said it would put his life at risk should the message be intercepted. She sighed. I only wish I could tell him I’m alive and well.

Pïshkah took a deep breath. All right. Fine. I’ll stay. For now, Adara. Thank you. Pïshkah smiled as she clasped Adara’s hand.

Thank me? Oh no. This isn’t a favour. Adara pulled her hand back and wagged her finger with a devious smile. You’ve just earned yourself double shifts ‘til you’re gone! she jibed as she jumped up all giddy.

Pïshkah gasped, smile half cracked. You little! she said and threw her facecloth at the Eldain who dodged and laughed. Come here! Pïshkah went for the bucket by her bedside.

Oh, no, no, no, said Adara, reaching her hands out in placation as she eyed a half-empty cup of cold tea on the table.

Pïshkah cupped her hand and splashed the cold water at Adara.

Adara gasped. Oh my… Oh! Pïshkah stop!

Pïshkah splashed again and Adara immediately doused the Cleriheu with a cup of cold peppermint tea.

Pïshkah’s messy hair was now wet and covered in sprigs of mint. You’re dead!

The tent erupted in a shrill mess of laughter and screams as the two covered each other in water and tea, running around the centre pole and tripping all over the place.

A third person cleared his throat. The ladies froze mid-scuffle. It was Jaru, the royal bodyguard, waiting with a slight grin as he peered under the flap of Pïshkah’s tent. His Grace has requested your presence.

Pïshkah and Adara sheepishly exited the tent, half-drenched from head to toe. The Royal Camp was abuzz with the Royal Retinue going by as the Shirral addressed the day’s order of business.

The Shirral paused as he caught a glimpse of the ladies. He was clean as a whistle, dressed in his usual royal white embroidered tunic and his gold sash with filigree.

Hold on a minute, said the Shirral as he passed his scrolls onto the rest of his attendees. His face was weathered, and he had grown a thin beard since the last battle at Morren’s Gate. He narrowed his eyes and approached them.

It’s your fault, hissed Adara to Pïshkah beneath her breath.

Oh, come on! Just tell him. He’ll understand, whispered Pïshkah back.

Jaru smiled slightly at their impishness.

What’s going on here? The Shirral held a stern look on his face. Is this what medicians are supposed to be doing? Whose bright idea was this?

Jaru immediately stopped smiling.

Adara and Pïshkah looked at each other, as both their fingers started to point towards the respective culprit. Both women immediately burst out laughing.

The Shirral cracked a brief smile and so did Jaru.

Norella! called the Shirral.

The prim and proper seneschal appeared immediately. Yes, Your Grace? Her face sank at the sight of the dishevelled ladies.

Seems like Lady Adara and Lady Pïshkah have had a bit of an accident this morning, said the Shirral.

Seems you’re a lady now, Pïsh, whispered Adara giddily, nudging Pïshkah’s side.

Pïshkah smiled.

Do I smell tea? asked Norella. And… Ugh… She wretched as she turned her face away.

Someone must have tripped in a chamber pot too, said the Shirral, his hands behind his back.

Pïshkah poked Adara in the side as the Eldain held her laughs behind a pursed smile.

Fine, come along. Norella signalled promptly. "It’s high time some people took a bath anyway."

Hey! I know you’re referring to me! I’m a lady, you know, said Pïshkah as she lifted her wet baggy skirt and hunkered her way over to Norella.

Come on. Norella waved curtly, stepping away from Pïshkah to avoid any direct contact.

And Jaru, please ensure the ladies don’t have any further mishaps on the way to the wards, added the Shirral.

Yes, Your Grace, said Jaru as he stepped forward, hiding his smile.

The two ladies walked by the Shirral, and Adara gave him a sweet, glinting grin hidden beneath her impish wet locks. The Shirral held her gaze, and as the sun rose over the mountains, framing the Eldain’s casual beauty like an early morning drizzle, he smiled back.

Chapter 2

Of Pyrrhic Victories

The crash of tankards followed the cheers of the knights as they chugged down their beers. Zain struggled whilst the rest of the men cheered him on. The men around the room rumbled and thumped the table as the race quickened. All went silent as Zain slammed his tankard on the table before everyone else. The Marigold erupted in a rowdy cheer that rang out into the dingy streets of Yammimer.

And that’s fifteen pints! slurred Zain as the Saints around him patted him on the shoulder, and he let out a thunderous belch.

How the hell does he manage? asked Jalos, a tall yet slightly emaciated knight, orange-maned with a ginger beard as he paid his losing bet.

I’m telling you, Jalos, he ain’t human. Saw the guy take a spear in the back only to pull it out and skewer three ’thosians with it, said Garion—another Saint—as he slowly collected his dues from his comrades whilst flashing his gorgeous smile through his golden curls.

Piss off, Garion, spat a Saint as he stumbled across and slammed the coins on Garion’s chest.

Mother’s blessings upon you! said Garion jovially as he turned back to Jalos whilst counting his coins.

Well, he’s gotta have some limit. Look, he’s drunk! said Jalos, now attempting to reach into Garion’s palm as the latter counted his winnings.

Well, if you’re willing to bet on it, here I am, said Garion as he slapped Jalos’ hand and called to the rest of the room. Everyone shrugged him off and cursed him. All right, calm down. No need to get offensive.

If it weren’t for the fact that you’ve made it to sergeant, they’d have knifed you already, said Jalos.

Well, I’ll drink to that. Garion picked up his own tankard and cheered.

Yeah, and that’s it now, Gar. We were meant to have him back at the Temple by sundown, and now he’s sloshed.

Don’t worry, his tolerance is ungodly. He’ll be fine by the time we’re back.

Zain rose up, rubbing his eyes, looking for another drink.

Think it’s time to leave now, eh, Zain? asked Garion as they gathered their helmets and threw on their white capes.

What? Nooo. It’s still early, said the Vampire, his smile half-crooked with the haze.

Come on then, said Garion as he signalled Jalos to help him carry Zain up. The two struggled to get the drunk to his feet as Zain put forward his worst struggle to stay at the Marigold. Come on, Zain, enough celebrating. Don’t wanna leave Lady Lilith waiting, now do we? He smiled deviously.

Ahhh… Lilith… Zain mused as he slumped down in his seat and swayed in a daze.

"He is bloody heavy, isn’t he?" said Jalos.

Garion nodded. Should have seen him at Morren’s Gate, though. He grew three metres tall and decimated an entire cohort single-handedly. Not to mention Lilith cutting through five ’thosians at a time with that Shard sword of hers.

Yeah, 35,000 Carthosians versus 2,000 Valendrians, of which only 200 were Saints. Not the kind of odds I’m happy to bet my life on. If it weren’t for Lilith and Zain, we’d all be hanging off the ramparts by now. Then you look at him now, and you wonder if he’s actually the same one.

In fact, I was wondering. What if he gets, you know, hungry? Garion whispered behind the back of his hand.

Don’t worry, my friends. I don’t drink blood. Not human blood, at least, Zain slurred from under his breath, the hollowness of his words echoing in his weary tone.

You sure there, Zain?

No. No, I’m sure.

Garion and Jalos looked at each other.

At least I thought I was… said Zain, muttering to himself as he stared at the grimy, beer-soaked floor.

Suddenly, the door burst open, and a group of Iborean patrons entered the tavern. They were tall, bearded, and muscular men with gaunt brows, shields on their backs, and carrying what seemed to be their sole remaining possessions. They landed their haversacks with a thud by the door and shook the rain off their furry cloaks.

No weapons in ’ere! barked the old barkeep from across the tavern as she struggled to keep up with the crammed full house, haphazardly handing tankards and plates to the maids over the counter.

What about them? They got their swords, said one of the Iboreans irritably.

The barkeep rolled her eyes. Can’t you see? It’s ’cause they’re fuckin’ Saints.

Is there a problem? This is a Saints tavern, said a tall senior knight, with long black waving hair and a goatee, sober as a judge, and with a distinct look of contempt permanently plastered onto his face. The Saint calmly sauntered up to the Iboreans, holding the pommel of his sword.

The hell it is, Renoir! spat the barkeep. Over there! Last table. She snapped her fingers at the Iboreans. Now, weapons behind the bar or piss off.

The men looked at each other and walked around Renoir—who stood firm in their way—to hand over their weapons begrudgingly. The Iboreans squashed up onto a dirty table crammed in what little space that was left in the tavern.

The Marigold was a loud and filthy mess as the many days of revelling gave it little chance of respite. It wasn’t too long until the Iboreans finally received their ales and a platter of cheese, bread, and pickled onions crassly put together by the sweaty landlady.

Garion grunted as he pulled Zain up. Zain. Let’s go. Come on.

Oh, look, Sergeant Garion. Our newly appointed official chaperone, intervened Renoir, with a smug grin.

Captain. Garion nodded briefly as he and Jalos helped Zain navigate through the tavern.

Be sure to keep that monstrosity well fed. You never know upon whom he may turn on next, said Renoir as they passed by to the tune of his nearby comrades chuckling at the taunting jibes.

Dickhead, whispered Jalos as they walked past the captain, but Renoir soon had his foot on the knight’s trailing cape. Jalos tugged at his seemingly snagged cape until Renoir released it, and all three flew onto the broad backs of the Iboreans, crashing onto their table.

Jalos rose. I’m sorry, I tripped in—

An Iborean immediately shoved them into another group of Saints. The tavern suddenly quieted as the Saints’ cheers quickly turned to scowls. The Iboreans rose up, and the table of Saints followed.

Whoa! All right, let’s calm down, gents, said Garion as he dusted himself off and picked Zain up. No harm done, folks. Carry on.

You spilled our drinks. Now my boots are wet, grunted the Iborean from under his thick, crusty beard.

Here you go. For your troubles, sir, said Garion with a smile as he tossed a crown to the bearded man, but the Iborean’s face remained unchanged.

C’mon friend! called out Zain as he freed himself from Garion’s shoulder and stepped forward. We shouldn’t be fighting. Let me offer you a drink. Let’s celebrate our great victory! said the Vampire as he flailed his arms in awe.

Enough, Zain. Let’s go, said Jalos as he tried grabbing Zain by the shoulder.

Victory? The Iborean scoffed. You call this victory? I spit on you and your victory! He spat on the ground, and the tavern went dead silent.

Zain walked up to him, struggling to look straight whilst chuckling to himself. We’re all well, aren’t we? Food in our bellies, warm in the night, friends by our side. What do you say I get you a drink, huh? said the Vampire as he amicably reached for the Iborean’s shoulder.

The Iborean instinctively shoved Zain onto the others, sending him to the ground. What do you have to celebrate about? How Yammimer is overflowing with so many refugees that people are sleeping and shitting on the streets? Or how you left Iborellan to fend for itself?

Zain was stumped for a moment.

Hey! Calm down. We’re all friends here, intervened Garion.

Tell that to all those forced to leave their homes. You couldn’t hold Morren’s Gate for more than a day. Fuckin’ cowards! spat another Iborean.

We held Morren’s Gates for weeks. Yet barely a handful of you came. It’s not the Order’s fault if your warlording and continuous feuds prevent you from forming any form of resistance. Iborellan was lost from the start, said Renoir as he emerged from the crowd.

Fuckin’ Saints… said the Iborean as he scoffed and cursed. Tell that to our women and children whilst you eat, drink, and fuck over here then. Fuckin’ cowards!

Us cowards? Renoir chuckled. Some are saying that many of you are joining the Shirral rather than fight for their warlords. So since half the Iboreans are willing to abandon their warlords and tribe so quickly, and the other half are still fighting for their lands, I wonder, since you’re standing here in Valdell, what does that make you?

The Iborean chuckled and scoffed. This fucker, huh? he said as the rest of the Iboreans rose to their feet.

The Saints gritted their teeth, and some grabbed their pommels.

Yeah, that’s it. Pull out your big dicks. Fight a bunch of unarmed men. Would seem fair after all, seeing as you won’t fight unless you’re certain to win! said the Iborean as he mocked a punch and half of the Saints instinctively half-drew their swords. He laughed and picked up one of the tankards off another table. To your victory. He downed the drink, drenching himself in ale, and then clubbed Garion in the face with the tankard.

Soon a brawl ensued, and punches flew all over the room. It wasn’t long before Zain was beaten back into sobriety, and the barkeep brought down fire and brimstone upon them, throwing half of the patrons out.

Zain staggered to his feet, rubbing his head, and dusting off his coat. With a little liquid courage remaining and a dozen new bruises, the Vampire and his escorts ventured back to the Enoch Temple. The port city of Yammimer was rifer with poverty and squalor than ever before. Men, women, and children huddled under the loggias of the marketplace with nothing but a bundle of their possessions and barely enough cover to keep them warm at night. The distant yells, fighting, and arguing in the streets were only interrupted by the occasional rush of a thief and his pursuers or the hastened march of the city watch. The Siensell Creek became a chaotic cluster of barges, boathouses, and rafts ferrying refugees from Iborellan to Valdell, day and night.

The Temple grounds were once again host to the Saints and now also a military hospital. Tents filled with Valendrians and Saints littered the grounds, whilst medicians worked incessantly to restore them under the wide fronds of the local temple’s sacred Enoch tree—the very symbol the Saints carried so proudly on their chests; the very tree that carried the lifeblood of Amenti and the source of power for the Massass.

The three soon stumbled into the medicians’ dining hall. The hall was empty save for a long table at which Lilith and Elias Jurani were seated among the rest of the commanding officers of the Third and Fifth Legions of the Order.

You’re late, stated Lilith irritably before narrowing her eyes. What’s this? Is he drunk again?

Garion cleared his throat. Apologies, m’lady, but—

Get out, she snapped as she watched Zain slump his way into a chair at the table and look toward fetching himself another glass.

Garion and Jalos immediately backed out, whilst the rest of the men kept watching Zain. The Vampire casually reached over the table, grabbed a flagon, and poured himself half a cup, allowing the last few drops of the flagon to come through before throwing himself back into the creaking chair.

Are you drunk? asked Lilith.

Not nearly enough. He smiled from behind his cup. Now, if someone could get me another carafe, that would be great. He looked around the table, awaiting some hospitality from the medicians.

Fetch it yourself and then get out.

All right, all right, sorry I’m late, said Zain, raising his hands in surrender as his headache began. Carry on. Apologies. Just trying to boost morale with the troops, you know. Why do you need me here anyway?

We were discussing our next moves, said Elias as he sat at the corner of the table with an air of renewed vigour earned from victory. His hair had been cut short, and he now bore a short stubble that hugged his perfect jawline.

Ah, lovely. So Lilith and I are on the War Council, said Zain.

To be a War Council, we would need all twelve legions. But the First, Third, and Fifth will do, said Elias. Go on, Commander. He gestured to one of his comrades.

"It seems that the Carthosian Shirra is still moving slowly through Iborellan, albeit largely unopposed. It appears from our reports that the Shirral is negotiating with whoever’s willing to accept his occupation and pay tributes in troops or supplies. In certain instances, it means upsetting the local warlord’s rule or the current establishment. Many stay, but just as many Iboreans are opting to flee south. Former rulers, nomads, undesirables, and any refugees from those communities that chose to fight. In that respect, few have attempted to hold off the Shirral’s forces in the few old keeps that still exist, but needless to say, the