CHAPTER FIVE

Whistler

The activity in the area told Whistler what he needed to know. The camp was about to become a settlement. The land had changed overnight and the mountain that had risen was gone, replaced by rich, dark soil. He was not a farmer, had no interest in becoming one, but if he were interested, he guessed this would be exactly the right sort of place to establish a farm.

The air around him smelled of promise. Even with his minimal knowledge of what made a place good for farming, he would have been able to sense the changes in the ground. The fact that everyone around him was speaking about the soil and the promise of good crops merely cemented what he already believed. The land had been made over, by the gods, perhaps, or by sorcery. He did not know and did not care.

The people around him understood that the world was being changed. He only understood that the creatures who had saved him were annoyed by the transformation. He could hear that much through the voices in his head.

“Why am I still here?” He spoke aloud and ignored the sounds of activity around him as easily as he ignored the people who stared at his ruined face.

The smile that stretched his features was uncomfortable, and his eyes twitched in the glare of the day. Whistler stared back at a man who was staring at him until the man grew uncomfortable. He was contemplating whether or not he should kill the bastard when the voices responded. “You will leave here soon, Whistler. The man you watch for will be leaving here soon.”

The man he watched for. Darsken Murdro. The Inquisitor. That thought elicited another chuckle from him. The very thought that he would ever willingly pursue an Inquisitor was like the start of a good jest in his eyes. He wasn’t sure how the jest was supposed to end as yet, but he’d find out in time.

For now, he watched the construction going on around him. Tents were being replaced by more permanent structures. Soldiers were moving into the area, and he knew why. Farming was a business and the Empress of Fellein wanted to make certain the businesses were properly handled.

Darsken Murdro stepped out of a tent and held the opening for a woman who was striking enough to catch Whistler’s eye. He moved back into the shadows without even thinking. He wasn’t wanted by the Inquisitor, but the ruin of his face meant that he stood out now and he would be remembered if he were spotted. If he needed to follow the man, he did not want to be recognized easily.

Better to move in the shadows, to let others stand between him and his prey.

Better not to be seen, or at least not recognized.

He had never been the sort to hide his face away, but Whistler was wise enough to know that had to change. As the Inquisitor and his female companion moved on, Whistler raised the hood of his new cloak and followed.

All around him activity continued. A town was being born before his eyes. He did not care. It was not a place where he would be living, and so it mattered very little to him. Whistler was a man who believed in the immediate. The future, whatever it might bring, was a problem for later.

He could not hear the words of Darsken Murdro, or the woman who walked beside him. They were too far away. Whatever the Inquisitor, said, however, was enough to elicit a laugh from the woman beside him.

The winds howled along the Wellish Steppes and rustled the canvas of several tents. A man nearby let out a gasp as the cold caught him and blew his cloak open. Whistler nodded amiably as the man looked his way then scowled as the stranger reacted to a better look at his face.

He’d have killed the bastard, but the Inquisitor was too close by, and like all of his type actually paid careful attention to his surroundings. Better not to risk catching the attention of an Inquisitor under any circumstances even if all he wanted to do was express his rage and anger.

Around him a hundred people moved in different directions as the sun descended in the west. A town was being born. An Inquisitor was still walking with a beautiful woman, and all Whistler could do was watch it all, dampening down his powerful desire to hurt all of them. He wanted to make them suffer for his misfortune. He wanted to carve away the faces of anyone who looked at him and cringed – and he knew that was most of the people.

Soon enough. That thought brought another smile to his face. They would pay soon enough.

Distracted by the thought, he almost failed to notice as a man who was fast with his fingers tried to cut the ties to his purse. Whistler barely felt the touch, but he did feel it and that was enough.

For that moment he forgot about Darsken Murdro of the Inquisition and focused instead on the petty thief whose wrist he had taken in a grip so tight the man must believe it was caught within the fires of one of the Seven Forges.

Whistler did not give the man a chance to scream before he killed him. Much as he loved the sound of a good scream, it was true, there were too many people moving in the dusk. His pleasure would have to be taken swiftly. But taken it would be.

The new smile on Whistler’s face did not improve his grotesque features.

Darsken Murdro

Tataya laughed once more and rested her long, delicate fingers on his arm. Darsken smiled and let himself chuckle. The Sisters were witty and charming, and he did his best to keep up with them when it came to banter. It was not an easy thing for him. He spent most of his time on any given day seeking truths and, as often as not, killers. Humor and charm were not a part of his regular world.

But the Sisters gave him reason to try, just the same. They reminded him that there were people in the world who did not have to be questioned, who could be trusted to a degree he sometimes forgot existed. The biggest problem with being an Inquisitor was simply that he spent most of his time doubting everyone around him.

“I am looking forward to getting back to Canhoon.” Darsken’s eyes shifted around the area and he studied the faces moving past him. Some were eager with the promise of new things. It hadn’t taken long before the word of the changes in the area became common knowledge and with the news came that most elusive of all things, hope. Winter was well and truly upon the land and the snows were starting to fall, but eventually the cold would fade away and lead to the promise of ripe, fertile lands. With most of the area open and inviting, entire families were arriving, eager to claim the properties that Empress Nachia was already promising to new claimants.

“Do you think Jeron will return to the city?” Tataya asked, matching Darsken’s newly serious mood.

“I think Jeron will do what he can to disrupt everything Fellein wants left in peace,” Darsken said. “I think he will do whatever he can to make certain these Overlords get their way. But I have to return to Canhoon to see what, if anything, the Inquisition plans to do about him.”

“Do you think you can find him?”

“I don’t even know if I will be asked to pursue him, Tataya,” Darsken pointed out. “We Inquisitors do as we are told when it comes to hunting down murderers, but this is an unusual circumstance, and one very likely left to your people and not mine.”

Tataya’s smooth brow grew troubled. “Because he is a wizard?”

“Just so. Neither I nor any of the other Inquisitors is ready to take on a sorcerer. We do not have the powers to defend ourselves, to say nothing of attacking an adept wizard.”

“I don’t know of many who are capable of handling someone of his skill levels.” Her eyes drifted around the area, studying faces just as he had been doing. “Jeron is powerful, more powerful than he should be if he is raising mountains.”

“Perhaps it was these Overlords who created the mountain.” Darsken frowned. “I do not understand who changed the mountain however, and decided to benefit the empire in the process.”

Tataya smiled. “Someone with a love of plants? The soil is very fertile. Plants are already taking root, and the cold is enough to stop almost anything, but the scrub grass and weeds of the area are hearty stock and quickly thriving in this rich earth.”

“And all of these people want to farm the land?”

“All of the people coming here are looking for a better life,” Tataya corrected. “They are hoping for a chance to improve their circumstances.”

“We would all like to improve ourselves, I think.”

“Well, yes, I suppose that is true. But the chance to own land is a rare thing, and the Empress is offering the land for free.”

“The Empress is offering a chance to earn the land through hard labor,” Darsken corrected in his turn. “The farmers must pay higher taxes, yes?”

“I studied sorcery, not math, but yes. The land is paid overtime from higher taxes and people are pleased with the notion.”

Darsken nodded again and paid attention to three figures moving behind them. All were half-buried in shadows, and heading in the same direction as he and Tataya. It was his nature to be suspicious, and perhaps all of them were merely moving along the same stretch of open path, but it seemed odd that they moved at the same relative speed.

“I think we are being followed.”

“I think the same thing, Darsken. Do you have anything else you need to retrieve before you leave this area?”

“I carry all that I need on my person.”

“Then we shall leave anyone following us behind.” She had a teasing smile on her face. Her hand pressed on his arm and urged him to the left and, being an agreeable sort, he moved to the left. They slipped behind a wooden structure that was halfway finished and a second later the world around him twisted and warped.

And two heartbeats later, they were walking in the Imperial Gardens at the edge of the palace in Canhoon.

If anyone had been following them, they currently followed little but shadows.

Tataya let out a small laugh and Darsken, who was used to traveling quickly along the pathways offered by the Shimmer, let out a gasp and then laughed along with her. His stomach felt as if he were falling from a great height, but the rest of his senses understood that they had stepped away from the world for a moment, and then had reentered that world in a different spot. How long since he had genuinely been surprised by anyone? He could not say, but the wonder of the moment filled him with child-like awe.

“That was spectacular!”

“I’m glad you approve.” Her eyes were momentarily unfocused, and he wondered how much that leap through space had cost her. Sorcery had a price, as she had told him more than once, and to travel so many leagues in an instant had to carry a large price indeed.

“Are you well, Tataya?”

“I’m as good as can be expected.” Her smile was as bright as ever. “But now I should head back to Desh with the latest news.”

“And I should report to the Inquisition.”

“Be safe, my friend. These are dark times.” Her expression changed as completely as their surroundings had changed. Her concern was real and obvious.

“On this we agree.” He nodded. “And I must insist on seeing you safely to your home. It is on my way.”

“I can hardly turn down the offer of good company on a cold, dark night.” Her tone lightened as she spoke, and Darsken smiled. The walk was brief, and the company was pleasant. It would be the last light moment the Inquisitor knew for a while.

Desh Krohan

The Sooth were not responsive, and even when they finally answered his questions, the words were vague and, he suspected, actually lies.

The world was not cooperating, and that annoyed him a great deal. He held ten small stones in his hands, spell stones that he had put a great deal of time and energy into. They were all that stood between him and exhaustion as he sought the answers to questions again and again.

“Are you well?” Goriah asked as he left his summoning room.

“Not in the least. The Sooth are being stubborn.”

“What was it you always said to me? ‘The Sooth are only stubborn if you ask the wrong questions’?”

“Obviously I was mistaken.”

“How refreshing. Desh Krohan admits he can make mistakes.” Even as she said the words, she handed him a heavy ceramic bowl of clear broth. He took it gratefully and sat down at the table where he and the Sisters often ate.

“I’m hardly without flaw, Goriah. I just like to keep the worst of my bad habits to myself.” He blew on the broth and then picked up a spoon. The steam rising from the bowl was aromatic and made his stomach grumble. He had forgotten to eat again, a common problem when he was looking for knowledge – and he was always looking for knowledge. “Have we heard any news on the Overlords?”

“Nothing good. There have been attacks on several towns in Morwhen. There have also been very few survivors.”

“Why Morwhen? What is going on in that country that makes it a target of the Overlords?”

“Near as we can tell, that seems to be where most of their warriors were living. These stories of the Tolfah. The creatures that haunted the Dark Passage.” Goriah frowned. “Desh, you already know this.”

He waved her words aside and took another spoonful of the broth, grateful for the taste and the nutrients alike. “I am entitled to be absentminded after all of these years, Goriah.”

“I worry about you, Desh. You’ve been very distracted lately.”

“I’m trying to keep an empire from falling apart.” He took more broth and then sighed. “It takes a great deal of my concentration.”

“The empire will survive, my friend.”

“Not without a great deal of work on my part, and on yours.”

“Tataya has come back with news. It seems very likely that Jeron is behind whatever is happening.”

Desh closed his eyes and considered that fact for a moment. He had known Jeron for centuries, had considered the man a good friend at one point, and even now he wanted to think of the man as an ally – but that was looking less likely all the time.

“I think we’d have been better off if he’d died in that damned fire.” His brows pulled down and his face settled into a scowl that was becoming far too common. “If Jeron is using necromancy, we have a serious problem on our hands.”

“How so?”

“Jeron has always longed for the easy answer. Necromancy is easy. It grants power with remarkably little effort.”

“How can he know necromancy? It’s been forbidden for centuries.”

“Jeron was one of the first necromancers.” He put down the spoon and finished off the bowl of broth before continuing. “Believe me, he was very resistant to the notion of outlawing the art. He had ways of dealing with the dead that were outrageous long before I arranged to banish the school from the records, and I suspect I would have found several volumes of research on the best ways to feed on the dead if I’d ever gone to that tower of his.”

“Is that why you didn’t go?”

“No. I wasn’t invited. We’d been very close before I outlawed necromancy. I don’t think he ever quite forgave me.”

“He never seemed that bitter about it.”

“Jeron was always good at masking his darker emotions.” Desh leaned back in his seat and Goriah snatched up his bowl, pouring more of the broth and setting it down in front of him. “Thank you.” His eyes looked into the bowl, at his distorted reflection. “Jeron is a very serious threat. He’s a threat I need to take care of personally, frankly. He’s too powerful to be left to soldiers, and he’s too good at what he does to be left alone. If he is behind the work of the Overlords then we have a very serious problem on our hands, and one that scares me.”

“You’re scared of Jeron?”

“No. I’m scared of what he’ll do if he’s left alone. If he no longer follows the rules established by the council, he could cause a great deal of damage in a very short amount of time. If he is doing the work of the Overlords, then they might well be encouraging his worst habits.”

“I have found very little information on these Overlords.”

“That’s because we didn’t know all that much about them. They arrived in Fellein in the early days, they established themselves peacefully in the Wellish Steppes, and then, when we very nearly forgot about them, they attacked. Their armies were not human. They corrupted everything they ran across, Goriah. The people who served them were bent out of shape, broken and twisted until they no longer looked human, and the armies they raised slaughtered everyone they encountered. They did not leave survivors. Mercy was not a concept they even considered.”

Goriah stared at him in silence for several seconds and then asked, “When did you start remembering all of this, Desh?”

“I have read over my old notes. They were enough to remind me that the Overlords were a very real threat. To this day I’m not certain why they retreated.”

“The Sa’ba Taalor tell stories of them. I’ve asked Swech and some of her people about them.”

“Well, then maybe they can handle the situation for us.”

“According to what we know, they have already had a few encounters with these War-Born.”

“And?”

“So far there are no clear winners.”

“You heard about Merros and the mercenaries?”

“Oh yes. I heard about the number of mercenaries who died horribly, too.” Goriah shook her head. “Only a fool would charge down into a combat with the Sa’ba Taalor.”

“To be fair, they were expecting Fellein soldiers.”

“Well, there is that.”

Desh grinned. “I imagine that’s rather like expecting a few alley cats and encountering a pack of wolves.”

“Have you ever crossed a feral alley cat? Not a wise move.”

“And yet less likely to be fatal than the wolves, my dear.”

“True, but days could be spent tending those wounds.” She pushed his bowl closer. “Eat before it gets cold.”

“I think I’ll need something with more substance.”

“You’ll have it, but drink the broth first.” He nodded and took a spoonful of the stuff, grateful for the Sisters who reminded him to eat and tended to his needs.

“I don’t know how this will end, Goriah, and that bothers me.”

“You never know how things will turn out, Desh, despite your beliefs.”

“I can usually make a fairly accurate guess, but not in this case. The Overlords have been gone too long, the Sa’ba Taalor who follow them are an unknown variable, the Sa’ba Taalor who are aligning themselves with us are too unpredictable, and the Fellein armies, while vast, have to spread out over too large an area for us to quickly assemble any large-scale fighting forces. Until we know more about what the Overlords have planned, we are effectively moving around a campsite without any supplies.”

“We need to find Jeron.”

“No, my dear, I need to eliminate him.” He sighed. “He cannot be allowed to break the rules of sorcerous engagement so causally.”

“He doesn’t seem to care about the rules at all,” Goriah sighed too and brought a tray of meats and cheeses into the room from where she had likely prepared them while he was trying to find answers to his many questions. Desh’s stomach made rude noises as he stared at the platter, and he once again lifted the bowl of broth to his lips and drank down the nearly scalding liquid. There was a selection of sliced breads on the platter and Desh took full advantage.

“Jeron is a dangerous enemy to have, Goriah. If there is any news about where he is, I need to know immediately. I cannot risk him being out there any longer than necessary.”

“The moment I hear anything, I’ll let you know.”

For a time that would have to be enough. He needed to find Jeron. He needed to eliminate a threat that very few people could comprehend because they had never known a true fight between sorcerers.

But, for the moment, Desh needed to eat and that was what he focused on.

Jeron

The cold barely fazed Jeron, but beside him Roledru was shivering.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s winter. I need a thicker cloak.” The man’s teeth were chattering.

Jeron reached out and touched the cloak around his assistant’s shoulders and immediately the man’s face changed to a smile of gratitude. There was a faint distortion where the air around the man grew warmer. It was a simple enchantment that he would have never considered before the Overlords granted him power. The math was quite simple: the Overlords made it easier for him to use sorcery. There was still a cost, but a simple enchantment that would have exhausted him before, like the one he had just used, seemed nearly effortless in comparison.

“That’s amazing. Thank you, Jeron.”

“For all you do for me, my friend, it is my pleasure.” And it was, but still he considered the ease of the spell and was pleased. Desh Krohan’s limitations on sorcery had nearly crippled him for years and he hadn’t even realised until now.

The Overlords took a great deal of power. Every death their War-Born caused was siphoning the life force of the victims, drawing it into their bodies and from them, through their Godless generals, through Jeron himself and finally to the masters of this new changing world, the Overlords.

It was not an easy process, and it was hardly the most efficient. The paths the energies took likely left a lot of those precious energies dispersed into the universe, but there was power to be had and Jeron was getting a good enough portion of it along the way. In the process he was growing more powerful than he had ever been, than he could imagine any sorcerer being.

All of which was a nice way of realizing that destroying Desh Krohan would be easy when the time came, and he knew the time would soon be upon him. Jeron was many things now, but he was never, and would never be, a fool.

“Sooner or later Desh Krohan will learn that I’m behind everything happening here. When that happens, he will come after me, Roledru.”

The man stared at him with wide eyes. To Roledru, to most people, Desh Krohan was a nearly legendary figure. Either he was so far removed from their lives that he was little more than a name, or he was the source of nightmares. Roledru had seen the man, had been witness to the destruction of the army of the dead that Desh Krohan accomplished in one masterful stroke.

Jeron frowned at that memory. How long had the First Advisor been preparing himself for casting a spell that powerful? The energies used to destroy that army must have been massive. There had been the odd time when Jeron had possibly had enough stored energies to destroy an army, but seldom. That sort of energy required months or even years’ worth of spell stones collected and gathered into one place.

“He’s a dangerous enemy.”

“I can’t even imagine.” Roledru shivered. “When he destroyed the army, I saw the lightning come down from the skies and burn everything. I thought I’d be blind for the rest of my life.”

“So you’ve said.” He nodded. “It must have been an amazing spectacle.”

Roledru ignored the comment. “The sound,” he continued. “I thought the world would end.”

“When the time comes, I’ll have to strike fast and hard.”

“Do you really feel like you can best him, Jeron?”

“I assure you, I’m at least as powerful as Desh Krohan. He is a potent opponent, but I have been changed by the Overlords, made stronger than I have ever been before.” He would not have to save the energies that Desh would have to save. He was powered by godlike beings. He no longer had to play by the old fool’s rules, not ever again.

“Will you wait for him to find you? Or will you look for him?”

“I think it might be best to find him, my friend. Better by far to choose the time and place.” He considered the Sisters and nodded. He could take Desh Krohan by himself, but the notion of fighting the four of them together did not sit at all well. Besides, it would be possible to recruit them to his side if he was careful. Better to have the Sisters with him than against him.

The winds roared around them and he blocked them with a simple enchantment, pushed them away.

Not far away he could see the tents of the Godless. Winter was truly upon them and he was grateful for the Sa’ba Taalor that had aligned themselves to his cause. They did not cry over the cold weather. They did not complain about sending the War-Born back into the sleeping stage, where they were even now becoming different creatures, better prepared for the winter weather.

He looked into the darkness, studied the shapes of the War-Born in their cocoons, and smiled to himself.

Soon enough the creatures would emerge once more, altered by his will and the power of the Overlords. They had been a threat before, but now they would be so much greater at stalking their prey.

Roledru spoke, but Jeron didn’t hear the words. He asked the man to repeat himself.

“I said I think the Dark Passage will be buried in snow if we’re not careful.”

“Let the snows come. I’ll drive them away.”

“Shouldn’t you be saving your sorcery for Desh Krohan?”

“No.” He smiled again and shook his head. “You worry too much. The Overlords have been preparing for this for hundreds of years. Nothing is being left to chance, my friend. We will win over the First Advisor with ease, and the War-Born will destroy Morwhen.”

“Why here? Why Morwhen?”

“Because these are the best that Fellein has to offer when it comes to soldiers. When they fall, Fellein will fall as well.” A lie, but not one that Roledru could know. In fact, he’d chosen Morwhen because that was where he’d been born, oh so very long ago. He wanted to remove the memories of his youth, and the people he had known back then. They were all long in the dust, but he hated them still.

“What about the Sa’ba Taalor?”

“They will be elsewhere. I’ve arranged a proper distraction for them.” Jeron smiled at that thought. There were more of the War-Born than Roledru understood, and they were clay to be sculpted, formed and shaped and made all the more dangerous.

“When will you attack, Jeron?”

Jeron looked up into the skies where snow fell lazily toward the ground, and smiled as the cold air caressed his face. “Within the hour. All is finally ready.”

Asher

Surviving the Dark Passage had been a blessing, Asher supposed, but considering how much of his crop he’d lost, it hardly seemed that way. A year’s worth of farming and he’d be truly blessed if he could break even after the Tolfah had attacked.

The one thing that worked in his favor was simply that there weren’t that many farmers growing Pabba fruit. The cost would be much higher now for anyone who wanted some of the already rare treat.

Daken Hardesty was once again leading the mercenaries who would travel with him. They were still considering the best path to Lake Gerheim and Goltha. The river route or the ocean – each still had their advantages and their pitfalls. The Sa’ba Taalor were everywhere in the area, and though they were in abundance, none of them had caused any actual troubles as yet. If anything, their presence was actually beneficial. They had battled some sort of monstrous things on the Dark Passage, from what he was hearing. Something worse than the Tolfah. That was a thought that offered little comfort.

“What do you say, Asher? Which way do we turn the caravan?” Daken was as patient as he could be, but the day was not growing longer, and they wanted to be a fair distance away from the area before the Tolfah roused from their slumbers. There were fewer reports of the beast-men of late but that didn’t mean the area was clean of them. It simply meant they’d fed on his Pabba fruit enough to sate their limitless appetites, he supposed.

“The ocean paths are blocked by the gray skins.” Asher sighed. “But there are worse things on the Dark Passage. So we go for the ocean and take the extra time.”

Daken nodded. “That’s wise. The Sa’ba Taalor can be reasoned with.”

Asher snorted, but nodded as well. “Aye. One supposes.”

Daken called out to his men, and they formed a rough line on either side of the wagons. The mercenaries were more seasoned this time around. Not a one of them young enough to avoid shaving. This was a serious business, and it was the difference between whether or not Asher survived the winter with any fortune worth noticing. They’d be paid handsomely but, chances were, each one of them would earn that pay.

With a nod, Daken moved forward and the mercenaries followed. The wagon drivers did their part and the whole train of them headed out, traveling east toward the ocean harbors in Danaher and the ships that would take them the long way around to the capital city.

The snows were growing worse, and Asher pulled his cloak in closer, trying to preserve as much body heat as he could. Heavy blankets covered the horses, keeping them safe from the worst of the elements. He had never travelled this late in the season before and hoped to avoid doing it again.

Daken rode on, unimpressed by the weather. He was a soldier and had been stuck in far worse situations, Asher supposed.

That was far enough away to avoid the nightmares that came to Morwhen while they were gone.

Sometimes the gods are kind.

Mallifex Krous

In Darrow, the capital of Morwhen, Mallifex Krous looked upon his father’s likeness and scowled. Theorio Krous had been a hard man and, even years after his death, Mal found he could not mourn him with any sincerity.

He sat on the throne and considered what to write to his distant cousin, the Empress of Fellein. Much as he hated to ask for help, it looked like Morwhen would need to beg a favor. The only good news on that front was that his father had answered the call to war during the battles with the Sa’ba Taalor, and now he could expect a proper response to his requests.

He was a king. He ruled the country as fairly as he could, while asking as much as he could of the citizens who lived there. The armies were vast, the soldiers well-trained and ready for any event that might come their way. In all of Fellein there were none better prepared for war.

Dester, his best friend, and the man he trusted most in the world, stood nearby, reading over his shoulder. “Maybe try not to sound so much like your father.”

“Alright. Who should I sound like?”

“Try sounding like you, Mal. You’re actually very eloquent when you want to be, and your cousin likes you.”

“My cousin barely knows me.”

“She knows you better than you think. It’s part of her duty as Empress to know what you are doing and what you are capable of.”

“The last time I saw her was when we were celebrating Pathra’s birthday.” He sighed. “I think I was ten or so.”

“Well, you must have made a good impression. She’s spoken of you several times and always favorably.”

“How would you know that?”

“I have spies everywhere.” Mal wished the man was joking but knew better.

“Why do we need spies?”

“For moments like now. To make sure we know who we can count on when the time comes to borrow favor.”

“And there’s the problem. Why must we borrow anything?”

“Soldiers insist on being paid and you do insist on having the largest army in the empire.”

“It’s tradition.”

“I’m not saying it’s a bad thing, Mal, but it works better if there’s a war going on.”

“Wars cost even more money.”

“Not if you win them.” Dester sighed and poured them both a glass of sweet ale. He drank too much. They both did. It was a fault Mal needed to remedy and he damned well knew it.

“Highness. My king, we are attacked!” Drosmod was the bearer of bad news, as was often the case. The man had served his father and grandfather before him, and while he looked his years, he was still able bodied and sharp of mind.

“What are you on about?”

“We are attacked.” The old man looked genuinely worried, which didn’t happen very often.

“Where?”

“Here. My lord, in the city.”

“By whom?” Dester fairly growled the words.

“We don’t know. Whoever they are, they come out of the storms and disappear as quickly back into them.” The man stomped closer, entering the chambers proper instead of talking from the doorway. Mal was reminded of exactly how tall the man was, and how short the man made him feel. “They are taking the people they’ve slaughtered. They are stealing bodies, rather than let them die in peace.”

“Savages.”

“Or worse.” The old man shook his head. “What sort of man takes the bodies of the dead?”

“I’d rather not find out. Call on the City Guard to back up the army. Sound the alarms and seal the city down. I want the gates closed against further forces.”

Drosmod nodded. The likelihood was that everything he’d just commanded had already been done, but the man was wise enough not to mention that fact. A king likes to feel useful, even to the man who had handled most of his training.

Out in the streets of Darrow, alarm bells began to ring. The soldiers would be called into battle formation, the great gates to the barrier walls of the city would be sealed, and the people would prepare for whatever came their way. Morwhen was a land where warfare was a way of life, and that would likely never change.

“If it’s time for battle, let’s be about it.” Mal shook his head and called to his valets. He had armor to wear, and it was far too much to put in place without assistance.

Soon enough he was mounting his horse and preparing for battle. He did not revel in war as his father had, but he was ready for it. At least he thought he was. This would be the first real battle he had ever been in and all the training in the world hardly made a difference when the enemy was upon a fighter.

By the time he left the stables with his entourage, battles were already happening in what seemed every possible direction. Reports came in from the riverside, where a full battalion of cavalry had ridden out and not returned. Several horses had found their way back to the stables, but they did so without riders.

To the west of town a massacre had taken place near the orchards. Several farmers were taken from their land, and while there was blood aplenty, there were no bodies to find. Not a one; only destruction in the form of ruined doors and overturned furniture.

In the barren slums in the south the locals were fighting against whatever it was that attacked them, but it was a disorganized mess, and the soldiers who came into the area to add protection arrived too late. That did not stop more battles from commencing however, as whatever it was that attacked the people in their modest homes and apartments once again took the bodies of every single person they defeated and either had no losses or took their own fallen as well.

Mal rode north, to the battlefields that had long stood as the marker of Morwhen’s royal families. The finest soldiers in the land had trained there, and the area was open and held few secrets. Best to be able to see the enemy when they arrived, best to fight them where the advantage of surprise simply did not exist.

Snow fell heavily over the area, deep enough already to reach the knees of the horses. Deep enough to limit the benefits of riding as opposed to walking. A stuck horse was at least as bad as standing in the drifts, but it was not quite deep enough to make him want to dismount. Here the horses still offered speed and mobility over the foot soldiers who followed behind. He could see the men wading through the snow and was grateful for his ride.

If he were truly lucky, the enemy would be on foot.

Dester rode beside him, directly behind the flagbearer leading the way. He stopped, stood straight in the saddle, his dark eyes studying the area around them. “I see no one.”

Drosmod spoke up. “From what I’ve heard, no one sees an enemy until it is too late.”

Mal said, “You are hardly adding to my comfort.”

“Live through this, my king, and I will have done my duty.”

The sounds that came from the north were as chilling as the weather itself. Hissing noises slid from several different areas in the vast field where soldiers stood, ready for conflict. It was a sound like a hundred whispers, or a strong breeze blowing through autumn leaves.

The sound grew until it was nearly all that could be heard. The roar of the wind was nearly deafening – and unsettling as there was nary a breeze to be felt.

Mal sat straighter in his saddle and urged his horse to remain calm when it danced skittishly.

He raised his voice to be heard over the cacophony. “What in the name of the gods?” Halfway through his question the noise abruptly ceased, and he was yelling over silence.

Dester shook his head and stared out into the fields. The sun was close to setting now and Mal felt a deep dread settle into the center of his chest.

“I think I see something.” Dester squinted. “I can’t be certain.”

“Where?”

“To the left, maybe twenty yards out.” He pointed as he spoke and Mal followed the tip of his finger. He saw nothing but snow.

“There’s nothing out there, Dester, not that I can see.” But even as he spoke, something moved to the right of him, ahead of them in the field. He did not see what moved but there was a wake in the snow, a sense of motion.

“Wait…” Drosmod stared into the distance. “No, there is definitely something.”

The creatures came charging across the snow, running on the top of the heavy drifts, sending small sprays with every step. Whatever they were, they were the same color as the snow.

They were also very, very fast. By the time Mal could see that there were dozens of the things, it was too late to do more than call out a warning. The first of them to reach him swatted Mal hard enough to knock him from his saddle and send him sailing.

The impact was soft, he landed in snow.

The creature that immediately attacked him was ferocious and sported thick claws at the ends of very wide feet. It was lean and hard, covered in white fur and very nearly seemed made of teeth. Mal pulled his dagger from the sheath at his waist and crawled backward in the deep snow, trying to stab at his enemy. To block the teeth that lunged and snapped and–

The teeth clamped down on his left hand and tore three fingers away. For one heartbeat Mal stared in disbelief, and then the pain ripped through him, a wall of agony that smashed into him and stole away all thought, replaced it with a blind wave of panic.

He stabbed at the thing’s head again and again, and the teeth lunged forward in a face that would haunt his memories for as long as he lived. Which he suspected might not be that long.

Not a dozen feet away from him, Dester fell back into the snow, his fists beating at the thing trying to chew through his defenses and rip away his face.

And then Drosmod was striking at the beast trying to kill his ruler. Mal had no idea how the old man got off his horse and moved to defend him so quickly. One second he was lost in a world of pain, wailing out his agony as blood spilled freely from his fingers, the next the head of the thing attacking him hung sideways from a deep wound to the neck. Drosmod’s axe dripped blood as he shifted his body to attack another nightmare that came for his king.

Mal felt the hot breath of the next creature as it landed on his legs and scurried forward, eager to tear his throat out. And then the world went truly mad. A hand clutched at his head, fingers dug at his hair and the monstrous face before him vanished in an instant.

Nachia Krous

The great hall was filled with dignitaries and royalty from half the empire. Again. Figures she knew all too well moved about in small islands of conversation, discussing the mundane and the recent events that kept the busiest tongues in the empire wagging on about every possible danger that could be faced. Lanaie, the queen of Roathes, held on to Brolley’s arm and the two of them smiled as if the entire affair was designed just to help them look like a perfect couple. Several of the most powerful men in the military moved about in their dress uniforms and made certain that they carried themselves like officers, fully aware that Merros Dulver was watching all of them.

Oh, how she hated these social events. There was a time when she had fairly well lived for the moments of social gathering, but those days ended shortly after she ascended to the throne. All of the fun had been drawn from gathering with her friends when they were replaced by dignitaries or, as had happened lately, by suitors.

Desh Krohan insisted that she needed to have an heir and to that end he continued sending her as many possible suitors as he could find in all of Fellein. Nachia tolerated the influx, but she did not enjoy them.

Most of them were as exciting as watching wine ferment.

Still, some of them were at least handsome, and others were unintentionally amusing.

Currently the crop of would-be husbands around her were doing their best to keep her attention and they were, universally, failing. She had an empire to run. To that end she was discussing matters of import with Merros Dulver and completely ignoring the attempts of Kerris Hopgood to regale her with tales of his adventures during the war with the Sa’ba Taalor. The man was doing his best to talk of his battles with the people of the forges while actively trying to ignore Swech and her entourage only a dozen feet away.

For her part Swech seemed to completely ignore all the suitors, including the ones who looked at her and the people with her as if they were exotic animals on display. In all her years, Nachia had never met a woman who made that feat look as easy.

“There’s not much to tell, Majesty.” Merros stood next to the throne and conversed with her in soft tones. “We have no idea where this sorcerer, Jeron, might be, and all of the efforts by Desh Krohan and his wizards have failed to turn up a sign of him.”

“If he’s declared war on the empire, he’ll show up eventually. Pathra always said troublemakers never stay away for long. It’s against their nature.”

“Your cousin was a wise emperor.”

“He was a man who preferred to avoid troubles.”

“Like I said, wise.” Merros smiled as he spoke, and his face seemed younger.

There was no sudden fanfare. There was simply, suddenly, the presence of the man who stood before the throne and Nachia alike. He was tall in his drab brown, hooded cloak and he immediately made her think of Desh Krohan, simply because virtually all of him was hidden away in the dark robes he wore.

On the ground at his feet was the king of Morwhen, her cousin, Mallifex Krous. She recognized his face despite their years apart. He was unconscious and bleeding on the marble floor.

“What is this?” It was all she could think to say.

Merros moved forward, hand at the hilt of his sword, and stepped between her and the man looming over her cousin.

Swech looked her way and moved, sliding away from easy detection by the stranger even as the other Sa’ba Taalor spread out around the throne. Desh Krohan was nowhere to be seen, which was not a comforting thought as a sorcerer obviously stood before her.

“Your cousin has failed you. Morwhen is now mine.” The voice coming from the hooded shape was deep and soft, but carried easily in the sudden silence. “Your empire crumbles before me, Nachia Krous. Surrender to me and be spared the pain of watching while I destroy all you hold dear.”

Merros moved in quickly and brought his sword’s blade down with a resounding crash on the man’s head. By all rights the man should have died right then, but the well-honed blade bounced as surely as if it had struck a stone wall. Merros withdrew and repositioned himself as quickly as he could. A moment later he was striking a second time, thrusting the tip of his weapon toward the open hood of his enemy.

A quick gesture from the stranger and the general was cast through the air, knocked back as if kicked by a horse. Merros crashed to the ground and slid a dozen feet to a halt.

Four guards moved in to take his place, bringing their spears around as they surrounded the stranger.

Nachia shook her head. She wanted to rush to Merros’ side but could not. She addressed the figure before her. “Are you Jeron?”

The man didn’t even bother to look her way. Instead, he moved slightly, the better to keep all the guards in his view. “I am. I offer you the chance to save yourself the agony of losing an empire to war. Surrender the throne, save your people the pain that Morwhen endures at this moment.”

At the far end of the great hall two of the Sisters swept into the room and froze when they saw the situation. Nachia could not see the man’s smile, but she could damned near feel his smug satisfaction. “Tataya. Goriah. Step closer, please. You should hear this as well. The Overlords have risen, and they would see Fellein bow before them.”

“Jeron, why do you do this?” Tataya stepped forward, her eyes scanning as if they might find the face hidden beneath the shadows of the sorcerer’s cowl. She frowned and shook her head. “No. You’re not Jeron.”

“I am wise enough to send a message without revealing myself yet.” The man finally looked up enough to reveal part of his face. All she saw was a strong chin with a heavy dark beard.

Tataya stepped closer, frowning deeply and concentrating.

The man slid back, apparently wary of the close scrutiny. The guards around him made noises and the one he came closest to lowered the tip of his spear as if daring the stranger to walk directly into the point.

“This will be your only warning, Nachia Krous. Surrender before I am forced to make an example of you.”

Tataya stepped closer still, but it was Goriah who attacked. Whatever it was she did, all that showed was a gesture of her arms and the sudden twisting of the man’s body. His legs buckled and he screamed over the sound of bones breaking. Whatever he might have done, whatever he might have said, was lost in an instant as his form fell to the ground, broken and warped. Blood flowed freely from the robes that only moments earlier had easily stopped a sword strike.

Tataya ran across the polished ground, her dress flowing around her, and Goriah stepped closer to the man she had just killed. An instant later Pella was in the room as if she had been there all along, though Nachia had not seen her until that moment. Two of the guards stood over the broken body of the brown cloaked man and the other two moved with Pella to examine Mallifex.

Pella sighed. “King Mallifex is alive, Majesty.”

Nachia nodded and cast her eyes toward Merros, who was already climbing weakly to his feet. The gods smiled on the man. She had feared her friend was dead.

“Where is Desh Krohan?” she asked the Sisters, for if anyone would know his whereabouts it was them.

“He prepares himself, Majesty.” Tataya spoke loud enough for her to hear and no one else. “The Sooth say he will do battle soon for the empire.”

“Against this Jeron?” She shook her head.

“It’s likely, Majesty. Jeron is powerful.”

“More powerful than his messenger?”

Goriah answered, “Jeron is as powerful as any sorcerer who has ever walked the world.”

Though she had been impressed enough by his sudden appearance, Nachia was not particularly worried by the display she had just seen.

Tataya spoke softly to her again, reading her expression easily enough. “Don’t let yourself be fooled. We came running because that man was moved from Morwhen to here in a matter of seconds. Sorcery of that level is not easily achieved, and he brought your cousin with him. And that was not Jeron, but he’s the one who cast the spell. This was meant solely as a warning, Nachia.”

“I want him found, Tataya. I want this damned sorcerer found and brought to me. I don’t care if he’s dead or in manacles when it happens.”

“That is what Desh prepares for.” She did not sound confident.

Pella stepped closer and spoke softly. “Your cousin will need care if he’s to survive, Majesty. He has lost a lot of blood and he is weak.”

Merros came closer as well, favoring his right leg as he walked. He pointed to the closest of the guards. “Summon the healers.”

All around them people were talking now, in voices that were louder than polite. The Sa’ba Taalor in the room remained far apart from each other and alert and Nachia understood that they were waiting for any other possible threats. They were under orders to obey her and keep her safe. She found that thought oddly comforting as she looked at the dead body on the ground not a dozen feet from her.

The corpse sat up. “Hear me, Empress. This is but a trifle, a pawn in my employ. When next we meet it will be you and yours who suffer. Make peace with your gods if you have any. Your empire will fall to the Overlords and to me.”

One of the guards stepped forward and grabbed at the dead man’s shoulder as if to shake him into submission. A moment later he screamed and staggered back, looking at the hand that had touched the dead man with wide, frightened eyes.

Merros’ jaw clenched and he took a step toward the palace guard, but he moved too late.

The guard – a man named Sercal – let out a loud scream that ascended into a shriek as his hand burst into flames. He stepped back from the corpse, which laughed and fell forward. Sercal shook his arm and managed one more deep breath and scream before the fire ran from his arm over his chest and head, swallowing him greedily. All around the room people backed away as Sercal took three steps back and then fell to his knees, already dead.

Thick black smoke rose into the air and painted the ceiling above the dead guard. The corpse of Jeron’s servant rose on shaky boneless legs and stepped closer to the throne and continued to laugh. “I will show you unimagined pains if you do not surrender to me, Nachia Krous! You will suffer every conceivable agony you have ever dreamt.”

Pella spoke words the Empress could not hear, and the body fell to the ground a second time. Still, it moved, crawling toward Nachia, pulling itself with lifeless hands and the face in that hood craned toward her.

Nachia Krous was a strong woman. She had to be, but enough was enough. Even with the certain knowledge that she would be safe on her throne, fear seized her. She knew a dead man when she saw one and she had no doubt at all that the thing clawing across the ground for her was dead.

The spear that pinned the thing in place drove through the moving dead man’s head. Nachia heard the bones break with the impact. Swech stepped forward and leaned her weight into the thrust. One of the other Sa’ba Taalor, a man named Fesk, used a second spear to hook the body, and both of them hauled the corpse toward the funeral pyre that had been Sercal moments earlier.

The dead man laughed as he burned, a manic sound that sent shivers through the Empress’s body.

People backed away even further, most with wild eyes and horrified expressions. Merros Dulver stayed by her side, eyeing the burning bodies. Pella stepped closer to the conflagration and a moment later both of the burning bodies vanished from sight, taking the flames and a good amount of the greasy smoke with them.

Nachia looked at Pella and offered a weak smile of thanks. Swech and Fesk looked on, seemingly unaffected by the horrors they had just seen. Then again, their people had once commanded an army of the dead. Perhaps they were more prepared for facing new horrors.

Trigan Garth

The War-Born were interesting creatures, and leading them was a fascinating experience. Trigan Garth opened his eyes and blinked several times as he adjusted to the darkness of the cave.

Jeron had found the place and settled the Godless within its darkness. He had altered the structure, added the odd seats where they settled themselves, and taught them how to lead their servants with their minds alone.

Trigan’s body was relaxed, and his limbs rested casually on a bed of heavy moss that was oddly warm and comfortable. The cave was lost in semidarkness, a room lit only by a few distant torches. It was easy to fall into a sleeping state in the calm of the quiet darkness. Not far away the other Godless continued to rest, lost in their own missions.

For all the world he felt like he’d been sleeping.

When he was in command of the War-Born Trigan simply closed his eyes and felt the world drift. It was a strange dream he’d had, where his mind was fragmented into a hundred bodies, each a separate part of a larger whole. He felt each body, moved within them, and commanded the different forms as easily as he moved his limbs. They were separate entities, but they were connected, and he was the line that connected them.

It was like nothing he had ever experienced before. It was an oddly intoxicating feeling, and he found he liked it. His entire life he had fought, sometimes as part of a group and often as an individual. He was Sa’ba Taalor and that meant he was a warrior before he was anything else. The people of the forges were bred for war, raised to serve gods of war. Combat was as much a part of life as eating or sleeping.

Ah, but controlling the War-Born, that was something else entirely. His mind fragmented when he was in charge of his War-Born. It broke into a hundred different lights, a constellation of senses that were his, not one body that was a part of an army, but rather one army that worked together to form his body.

How was it possible? He did not know, but he reveled in it. He had fought against the Sa’ba Taalor as a dozen of the spider creatures at once and it had been an awakening of his senses unlike anything he had ever known. The Godless worked together, learning to control multiple bodies, multiple limbs, and now they did the work again, but with a hundred forms under their individual command, each connected not only to the War-Born but also to each other in ways Trigan would have never thought possible. There were members of his species that felt a special connection to their mounts, but he had never been given that gift. He wondered if what he felt with the War-Born and the Godless was something similar.

The sensation was powerful, and even now he wanted it back.

Around him the other Godless stirred. They woke from their odd, dreamlike slumber and looked around with eyes that barely saw the cave they inhabited.

The sorcerer was wise. They needed this place with its odd beds of stone and moss and the torches in their sconces.

Not far away Roledru cooked for them. The man stirred a cauldron worth of stew and when he saw them moving, he began filling bowls with the stuff.

Trigan rose to his feet and moved toward the sorcerer’s manservant, suddenly ravenous. He did not know how long he had been gone from his body and moving among the many bodies of his personal army, but he sensed it had been days, not hours.

Roledru smiled briefly and handed him the food without saying a word. Trigan took the stew eagerly and half ate, half drank the contents of the bowl, ignoring the heat in order to consume it quickly. He sat down in the dry of the cave and lost himself in the feast.

By the time he was sated the others were eating and Jeron had entered the cave.

“You are well?” The wizard loomed far above him. The sorcerer was taller than he had been and oddly angular under his robe. He was no longer truly humanoid in shape. He had changed even more, though Trigan would have thought that nearly impossible after the changes that had taken place already.

“I am well.” Trigan’s voice was rough from disuse.

“What do you think now of what the Overlords did to you?”

“I do not understand all that they did, but I must admit, I find the changes rewarding.”

“They have remade you in their image, Trigan Garth.” The hooded face looked toward him, and he sensed more than saw the wizard’s smile. “Your mind has been adapted, altered so that you can look through a hundred sets of eyes, speak with a hundred tongues at once.”

“I have always been a warrior, but I have never been an army.”

“The Overlords have made you what you should always have been, my friend. You are a natural leader and the War-Born are designed as weapons. They are not meant to think. They are meant to serve.”

“To have a hundred bodies at once is invigorating.”

Jeron nodded and laughed. “Soon you will have more. Soon you will rule over a thousand bodies, but you must first crawl before you can walk, and you must walk before you can run.”

“A thousand bodies?”

“The War-Born are many, Trigan. They have been growing in number for centuries and, like their creators, they have slept. The time comes when the sleepers awaken, and the hidden armies of the Overlords will be yours to command.”

“Where do they rest?”

“Beneath the ground in the bodies of the dead. The Overlords have their ways, and their secrets are many. They’re awake now but, even as they move, the Overlords continue to gather their powers.”

Trigan pondered that. He had ruled a dozen forms. He had ruled a hundred bodies and sometime soon he would command an army of a thousand or more. That thought alone was enough to make him smile. Each experience had been better than the last. He was more alive with his army of bodies than he had ever been in his entire existence. He had walked. Soon he would run. He would fly!

Trigan Garth considered the possibilities and could barely contain his enthusiasm.