Two weeks later and I was living in a shitty house at the base of Brand’s Tower. I’d been assigned to a ship, the Dead Horse under Captain Roderick Ice, called Cold Man, but it was still a week from making berth on Nibonay. They’d been raiding the Emerald Coast for six months, stealing gems and spice from Dark Brethren merchant ships. It was the right of the Sea Wolves to live as pirates, taking wealth and resources from those not strong enough to protect them. Every First Fang since Duncan Red Claw had declared it, and the great hold of the Sea Wolves lived by it. As would I when I left dry land and took my first voyage. I was fucking terrified.
From my window, on the second floor of the building, amidst old Eastron and drunkards, I could see half the hold and more Pure Ones than I’d ever seen. Those of the Nissalite were, on the whole, friendly and eager to please. Most had adopted Eastron fashions and turns of phrase, wearing leather and evoking the Bright Lands when they cursed. Only their light-brown skin and angular eyes gave away their heritage. I’d even heard that the city of Nissa was built in sincere imitation of the Severed Hand. They appeared to be more sensible than other Pure Ones, realizing that only good things came from allying with the Invaders and only bad things came from fighting us.
As I thought of the Impurity Wars, when the Always King brought the Pure Ones to heel, I glanced towards Duellist’s Yard. There were no Pure Ones there, just duellists, warriors and fighters. Every day men and women sparred, sometimes friendly, sometimes not, but only ever to first blood. Until the Day of Challenge, when people died. Each week, on Saturday, challenges were heard and answered. Bodies were cleaved and people died over imagined slights and dubious matters of honour. Rys Coldfire, the Wolf’s Bastard, oversaw the challenges, making sure every duel was fought with honour. After two weeks of waiting, a week before the Dead Horse arrived, I heard my own name bellowed on the Day of Challenge.
“Duncan Greenfire,” boomed Maron Grief, from beneath my window. “I name you weakling. Answer me!”
I was away from the window, drawing a picture of the Wolf House in charcoal. It was coming along nicely, but hearing my name caused a pained twitch to ruin the top half of my paper. “Bastard!” I muttered.
“Sharp Tongue, do you hear me?”
I’d seen him glare at me. Since my rite of passage, he found himself wandering past my window with alarming regularity. I met each glare with one of my own, feeling more and more anxious each time we locked eyes.
I craned my neck out of the window. Below, the duellist was dressed in his leather and steel waistcoat, holding a heavy falchion and gritting his teeth. Alongside him, a small gang of hangers-on were showing confident smirks.
“Answer me!” demanded Maron.
“The little boy’s scared,” joked another young duellist.
“Nah, he’s shit in his breaches,” offered a third.
They all laughed at me. “Need time to wipe your arse?” asked Maron.
“His mum does that for him.” I couldn’t even identify the speaker, just that the voice came from a gang of laughing young men. It didn’t really matter who’d said it. They were functioning with a kind of hive mentality. There was the blond grinning one, the rat-faced one with a sadistic smirk, the fat one, holding his chest and laughing loudly. Their faces and laughter melded together into a collage of torment, from which I had no escape.
A tear formed in my left eye, made worse by involuntary twitching. This wasn’t the Pup Yards of Moon Rock, where I had safe places to run and hide. This was the Severed Hand, and I agreed with Maron’s friend. I was a little boy, and I was scared. Twist certainly thought so, and enveloped my left side with sudden pain, causing me to buckle and fall away from the window. A renewed onslaught of laughter struck me from below, even as I grabbed the thorn clinch, with tears and sweat streaming down my face. They hated me, and in that moment, I hated myself. I was an embarrassment, with no idea how to be a Sea Wolf.
“Fuck me, did he die already?” cackled the rat-faced one.
“I’ll get you down here if I have to drag you,” snapped Maron, his voice cracking with barely-contained laughter.
Suddenly, the laughter stopped. It was there one instant and gone the next. I heard boots, moving across stone, as if the mob was parting for someone to approach – someone who didn’t appreciate laughter.
“Duncan Greenfire,” said a gravelly voice, with no hint of humour.
I was beneath the windowsill and couldn’t see who spoke, though the man was certainly older than Maron and his cohorts. I extended my leg through gritted teeth, using the wall to lever myself upright. Through the open window I saw Rys Coldfire, called the Wolf’s Bastard. The senior duellist was approaching fifty, but still the most feared swordsman at the Severed Hand. I didn’t admire him, like I did Lord Vikon, I was just terrified of him.
“Come down, boy,” he said. “There will be no more taunts.”
I turned away from the window, hiding from the dozens of eyes below. My face was wet from tears, and my fingertips felt clammy. What did I have to do to be a Sea Wolf? Was being tied to a post in the Bay of Grief not enough?
I stayed away from the window, looking at a hardened leather waistcoat and matching greaves. I’d been given them by Mefford, but had not yet worn them, fearing I would look foolish. I had lightweight armour, but no blade. I could use one. That is to say I had a very basic training, but had rarely practised.
My fear slowly turned to anger. I took a deep breath, wiped the tears away, and laced up my armour. Two floors of rickety wood and I emerged onto the street. A space had been cleared below the stained steps of my building, and a loaded silence greeted me.
“This is Duellist’s Yard, not a fucking tavern,” said the Wolf’s Bastard, being the only man to speak. “Duncan’s name has been called on the Day of Challenge. He will have a chance to answer.”
Two dozen men and women looked at me. Other duels had paused, so that each and every Eastron could hear my answer. Ritual dictated that I either answer and fight, or turn away and be branded a coward. And never be acknowledged as a Sea Wolf. The silent stares were just as bad as the jeering.
Maron Grief had backed away, swinging his falchion in an open section of the Yard. His eyes were fixed on me and his arms began to glow with wyrd. Each swing of his blade was followed by a blue distortion in the air as he summoned his full strength. I gulped, seeing no way I could beat him. Then the tears and the twitching came again. Some of the onlookers sniggered, others sneered and shook their heads. But, worst of all, I saw pity. I felt like a sickly or deformed animal, being put down for his own good.
“I will answer,” I murmured.
“Speak up, lad,” replied the Wolf’s Bastard.
“I will answer,” I said, louder, but still choked out through tears.
I was waved forwards, through an emerging gap in the crowd, to stand opposite Maron. My hands were shaking, and the left side of my body was numb. It felt as if Twist was cackling with sadistic laughter, enjoying every morsel of my discomfort. Perhaps the spirit saw death as the ultimate expression of my pain. Or maybe it wanted me dead before I turned eighteen, and would be rid of it.
“Give him a blade,” said Maron.
A young boy ran forwards, cradling two swords. One was a heavy falchion, single-edged and more like a sharp club than a sword. The other was a cutlass, lighter, with a slender blade and a basket-hilt. I just looked at them. What was I supposed to do? Defeat a trained duellist, twice my size and ten times my skill? No, I was supposed to die. I was weak and had no place amongst the Sea Wolves.
As I looked at the two swords, my tears began to dry. No blade would help me kill Maron Grief. My wyrd was the only weapon I had, and I so wanted to silence the spiteful laughter, replaying in my head. I turned from the swords, gritting my teeth and glaring up at the bulky duellist.
“Don’t think I won’t kill you if you’re unarmed,” said Maron, lunging forwards. “You answered me, you little freak.” His falchion swayed across his face as he advanced, before he tensed his shoulder and pushed his wyrd into a mighty blow, more than enough to crush my skull, rend my chest, or sever any limb the duellist desired.
Before the blow landed, I lashed out. My wyrd surged upwards, focusing on my hands, and flowing towards the duellist’s head. It was dark blue, crackling like lightning and making every inch of my body tingle. I saw the glass around Maron’s head and I grasped it, making him scream in sudden pain, and taking the momentum from his advance. His features and his screams became lost within a vortex of wyrd, as I pushed his head through the glass. His body began to vibrate, dropping his falchion and splaying his arms wide. I didn’t allow the rest of him to follow, keeping his body in the realm of form, whilst forcing his head to the void. Blood erupted from his neck and shoulders, and I saw his decapitated head through the glass, falling to the floor and gliding away on a wave of void-stuff. In the real world, all the onlookers saw was his twitching, headless body fall to the floor of Duellist’s Yard.
“He’s dead!” I cried, letting my wyrd flow back into the recesses of my body. “He called my name on the Day of Challenge … we fought … and I killed him! I’m a Sea Wolf!” The words became a shriek, and the tears became a waterfall. I’d beaten Maron Grief in a one-on-one duel. I’d not meant to tear his head from his body, but his falchion would have killed me if I’d not acted. If my wyrd had not acted. I’d been called a freak a million times, but this last time was different. Something about Maron’s sneer had taken me back to a dark hovel in Moon Rock, and the grim face of my father as he watched his youngest son be tortured. Twist had played a part in Maron’s death, but it was my responsibility and I gulped, realizing what I’d done.
“Clear the yard,” demanded Rys Coldfire. “All challenges will be answered this evening. Duncan Greenfire, stay where you are.”
I fell to the stone and cried, with everyone staring at me. There was no more pity, just surprise. A woman in tight chainmail glared at me, a young man with two cutlasses swore, and everyone whispered.
“Clear the yard,” repeated the Wolf’s Bastard. With narrow eyes and suspicious chatter, everyone melted to the outer ring of the yard, then dispersed.
Rys shook his head. “Come with me.” He dragged me upright, put an arm around my shoulders and led me away from Maron’s body, out of the yard and towards the Wolf House. He was a foot taller than me and I struggled to keep up with him, though his arm didn’t move from my shoulders. If I’d fallen or stumbled, I imagined he’d just carry me, without missing a step.
We entered the Wolf House, having to slow as we joined the flocked citizens of the hold, heading to the auction houses. Rys led me away from the stairs and towards the isolated duellist chambers. When challenges were answered in the building, they were conducted in private. No onlookers were allowed on the bottom level. Rys flung me into an empty chamber and moved to a weapon rack on the opposite wall.
“Duncan Greenfire, I name you dangerous pup. Answer me!”
Everything was happening so quickly, and I struggled to spew forth a reply. “What?” I spluttered, looking at the blood on my hands.
“Answer me!” he repeated, putting aside his heavy falchion and retrieving a light cutlass.
I stared at him. The Wolf’s Bastard was famous, even in Moon Rock. He’d killed hundreds of warriors. Sea Wolves, spirits, Dark Brethren, Pure Ones. His cloak was redder than any Sea Wolf. He had mottled skin and a streaked face. His hair, beard and bushy eyebrows were all muddy grey.
“Your wyrd is too strong to be taken lightly,” he stated. “You were warned about this.”
He lunged at me, his blade aimed at my chest. I desperately pushed my wyrd at him, moving back in a panic, but the power I’d conjured in Duellists’ Yard was nowhere to be found. The lunge was a feint and I nearly over-balanced as my wyrd met no resistance. Before I could refocus, Rys punched me in the side of the head and I saw stars.
*
“Wake up, Master Greenfire.” The voice was old, cracked and indistinct. My head throbbed, my eyes wouldn’t open and my leg was numb.
The old man laughed. It was a throaty, knowing chuckle. It was Tomas Red Fang, senior spirit-master of the hold. I felt his wrinkled hand on my forehead. “You’ll be okay. He didn’t hurt you too badly. As with so many men who have seen death, Rys Coldfire thinks that a damn good hiding is the best lesson. Though he brought you straight to me, so as to not embarrass you publicly. Ripping someone’s head off is enough of a spectacle for one day.”
It all came back in a vivid flash. Maron was a bully and would have killed me, but I’d lost control and done something terrible. I squinted through sore eyes and saw a small, stone room, warmed by a low hearth. We were on the higher levels of the Wolf House, somewhere in the Bloody Halls. “I’m sorry,” I whispered.
“You killed the only person you owed an apology,” said the spirit-master. “Your first?”
I nodded, scratching at the dried blood on my hands. “It was an accident.”
“No,” he stated. “Untrained wyrd can have a mind of its own, but to call it an accident is to remove your responsibility. You’ll be here for a few hours at least. I advise using it to meditate on your current situation. And, er, try not to violently assault anybody with your wyrd.” He walked to the closed, wooden door.
“I can walk,” I replied. “Why can’t I leave?”
He clasped his hands inside his voluminous green robes and turned back to me, his face becoming a crinkled walnut of pinched disapproval. “Unfortunately, Master Greenfire, you have the rather bad luck to have been beaten up on a day when we have visitors to the Wolf House. Rather important visitors, and I don’t want a dangerous young man flailing his way through the Bloody Halls. If it weren’t for the Old Bitch of the Sea, you might find yourself locked in here permanently. Please remain until I return. A few hours. No more.”
“What visitors?”
He clearly didn’t like my manner. “Do you have some authority I should be aware of? No? In which case, please just do as I say.” The old man left the room and closed the door behind him.
I lay back down and the tears returned. I wanted to feel guilt for what I’d done, but Twist chided me. Confusion and fear assaulted my mind, with no single thought staying still enough for me to grasp it. I’d torn his head off, and I didn’t know how. Was I really so dangerous?
As the thoughts slowed, I began breathing deeply, allowing time to pass. Tomas Red Fang had placed an oil burner next to the bed and a soothing wisp of smoke caressed my nostrils, dampening even the pain in my leg. I fell into a numb, half-asleep repose, taking the time to appreciate that I was still alive. More than that, I’d proved something to everyone who’d seen the duel. I’d proved that I wasn’t weak or a coward. I dozed for several hours, letting my revulsion fade, until Twist allowed me a tentative smile. I couldn’t swing a sword, but the most powerful duellists might now think twice before calling my name on the Day of Challenge.
I jumped in surprise, as a shadow glided across the room. I was barely awake, and my eyes had wandered to the far wall. I may have been seeing things, but the shadow appeared and disappeared from one stone wall to the other, flickering, as if it walked through a strong wind. The thorn clinch pulsed at the apparition, forcing me to sit up. It felt as if Twist was screaming something at me, but all I could do was grit my teeth and clamp hands to my thigh.
“Okay, okay,” I muttered, pulling myself to my feet, and taking a last deep breath of the oil burner.
I moved to the wall, and touched the spot where the shadow had disappeared. I thought that someone was moving on the other side of the glass, but didn’t know how I could see him. Beyond that, I could sense focused malice. My wyrd was warning me of something, and it made Twist hurt me.
I didn’t really think before opening the door and entering the corridor. I was sore all over, with bits and pieces of me chafing and throbbing in dull pain. Every little movement made my limbs feel heavy and my head swim, like I’d broken the glass and was moving through the thick air of the void.
My room was one of many, either side of a curved walkway, carpeted in deep red, with brass frames on each door. Firelight cast a sparkle across dozens of stone-etched faces. The walls were decorated, from floor to arched ceiling, with screaming mouths and staring eyes, each face cut in intricate designs into the grey stone. I’d never seen it, but the Bloody Halls supposedly contained one face for each Pure One killed by Sea Wolves during the Impurity Wars, when we first invaded Nibonay. Many thousands of stone faces looked inwards at the people who invaded their lands and killed their kind. It was strange to decorate the halls in such a fashion, as if Duncan Red Claw wanted his people to remember what he’d done.
Amongst the screaming faces were horrific images of Sunken Men. No artist knew what they looked like, so the faces were just deformed Eastron, half-drowning, with seaweed tied into their hair. All that was commonly known about them was that they’d defeated an armada of Sea Wolves in the Battle of the Depths, but their imagined faces provided a grotesque centre-point to the decoration of the Bloody Halls.
I followed an insistent pull, down the corridors of the Bloody Halls, along an invisible path left by the flickering shadow. I was well above the auction houses, perhaps only a few twists and turns from Lord Ulric’s hall. I felt no excitement as I moved along the corridor, just a sense that something was imminent.
The hall ended at a T-junction. To the left, an archway led to a wide balcony, with the bruised afternoon light casting a circle on the red carpet. On the right was a wider corridor under a vaulted ceiling. It was also the direction from which I heard voices. I hugged the wall and moved towards the sounds. As the corridor opened out and the doors disappeared, I recognized the evenly spaced pillars of black and red that encircled the hall of the First Fang.
Then I saw the shadow again, darting across my peripheral vision. It was just a black shape, moving from a distant corridor as a wisp of smoke. The voices from the hall were now louder, and I spluttered, trying to keep my alarm under control. I moved along the wall, under a high ceiling and intricate wooden vaulting, until I turned to see the edge of the great hall. The pillars blocked most of my view, but I could see the edges of Lord Ulric’s table and several Sea Wolves sitting around it. The shadow was gone, and my wyrd gave me no direction to look. I waited, silently spying on the huge hall.
The First Fang himself was on a raised chair – defiantly not called a throne, despite its appearance. He was joined by his spirit-master, who’d told me to stay out of the way, and the twin duellists, Arthur and Adeline Brand. His son, Vikon, paced in front of the elders. Others stood either side of the table, but their faces were blocked from me. The assembled Sea Wolves were chatting, but an edge of anticipation cut through their speech, as if they talked to distract themselves from something.
“Maron will be missed,” said Adeline Brand.
“But Duncan’s still alive,” replied Tomas Red Fang. “So our totem is happy.”
She glared at him. “I’d take Maron Grief over ten Duncan Greenfires. Our totem’s happiness doesn’t move me as it does you.”
It occurred to me that eavesdropping is an easy way to hear something you don’t like. But I carried on listening, trying to scan the hall for signs of the malevolent shadow.
“The Old Bitch of the Sea speaks only when you listen,” said Tomas. “Do you not believe in anything, Mistress Brand?”
She shook her head. “I do not. No gods, spirits or men, hold dominion over me.”
“And your First Fang?” interrupted Vikon Blood. “Surely my father holds some dominion over you?”
“I respect him,” replied Adeline, “but my wyrd is my own, not his. If he insulted me he’d need to answer for it.”
“Shush now,” said Ulric, ignoring the duellist’s threat. “Our guests are arriving.”
I had crept to within ten feet of the high table, crouched in a doorway. No-one was looking in my direction, as the air in the great hall began to twist into a distorted vortex of flowing blue. Figures appeared in a line, approaching through the void. Not the black shape from the corridor, these Eastron arrived from far away, using a void pathway to travel a huge distance in hours rather than weeks. Five figures slowly appeared through the glass, stepping from the void onto the blood-red carpet. I saw Winterlords and a Pure One.
Gold and silver armour, ornate broadswords and flowing cloaks. Two of them wore high-plumed helmets, smelted into the likeness of a bird of prey, with wings sweeping forwards. The smallest, a woman of at least fifty, was clad in tarnished silver chainmail, gathered at the waist and crested with the grasping talons of Dawn Claw, the house of the Always King.
“My lord Ulric, the Severed Hand greets us as warmly as ever,” intoned one of the helmeted men, spreading his arms and bowing. “Your fires burn high and bright. Much warmer than First Port. We suffer more during the winter months.”
The speaker removed his helmet. He was a huge, clean-cut man with olive skin and thin lips. His armour was bulky, making him appear even larger, and was much heavier than anything a Sea Wolf would wear.
“How flows your wyrd, Prince Oliver?” replied Lord Ulric, in a formal greeting. “I expected your father. He is well?”
“He is,” said the Winterlord. “But he does not know I am here. The Always King is no longer healthy enough to travel. As his son I work to secure his legacy. Hence I am here, seeking assurances from an old friend of my family.”
The others with him, including the Pure One – a darker-skinned man with thin, canvas clothing – moved forwards and flanked Oliver Dawn Claw. I’d never seen Winterlords and they were larger than I expected. None of them reached the height of Lord Ulric, but each was muscular and fair-haired, with an air of nobility.
“We’ll get to that,” replied Ulric, raising an eyebrow at the prince. “For now …” he gestured to seats, arranged before the high table. “Sit down.”
The visitors waited for Oliver Dawn Claw and then sat in order of seniority. The woman was second, followed by the other man in a crested helmet. The remaining Winterlord, a man close to my own age but hugely built, sat before the Pure One, who bowed to the elders and sat last.
“The Always King is dying,” said the prince, locking eyes with Lord Ulric. “His death will lead to a civil war. The Silver Parliament is not what it was. The Dark Brethren have control. The three Cyclone brothers. Santago sits at the Open Hand, Marius at the Dark Harbour, and Trego at the Silver Parliament. It is only my father who keeps them in line.”
I’d always been told that the Sea Wolves were apart from the bureaucracy, letting the Winterlords and the Dark Brethren have their Parliament and play at their petty games of move and counter-move. My father called it a bizarre dance, far beneath our concern.
“You want what?” asked Ulric. “A declaration of support? I don’t know you, boy. It was your father, Christophe, the Shining Sword, I called friend, not you. The Sea Wolves don’t follow easily. You and the Dark Brethren can keep your Parliament. We live and die by our own code.”
“This concerns all Eastron, Lord Ulric,” said the woman, in a husky purr. “Perhaps you should recognize the authority of the Always King and offer us all possible hospitality and assistance.”
“May I present my aunt, Lady Natasha Dawn Claw,” said Prince Oliver.
Ulric and the other Sea Wolves exchanged glances. I could tell that the Brand twins were not impressed by the visitors, nor were the assembled duellists. Vikon Blood was smiling, nodding at his father in amusement. I thought that the stiff formality of the Winterlords was causing much humour amongst the Sea Wolves.
“If I may interject,” said Tomas Red Fang, his wrinkled face pinching into an expression of annoyance. “I do not see what you intend to gain from speaking to us, Prince Oliver. We will, as I’m sure you appreciate, go as our wyrd flows.”
“And a Parliament controlled by the Brethren?” snapped Natasha Dawn Claw. “How will your wyrd flow then? How many years of plunder … how many years of theft and piracy, Lord Ulric? They have much to pay you back for.” Her voice was no longer husky. It cracked into a virtual shriek, showing emotion and anger.
“Impressive,” said Adeline Brand, drily. “The passion with which you speak. I respect it. But your pretty face can be eaten by Sunken Men before I pledge to a man I’ve just met.”
The youngest Winterlord stood, his hand going to the hilt of his broadsword. He was clean-shaven, with a floppy fringe of blond hair and light blue eyes. His expression was one of indignation, as if he’d taken Adeline’s words personally. “Insult my prince again,” he prompted, raising his chin.
Ulric and Vikon smiled, though Tomas shook his head. Before anyone could voice a word of calm, Adeline had risen from her seat and drawn her slim cutlass. “You want to test me, boy? It’s the Day of Challenge and we’ve already had one death.”
“Sit down, David,” said Prince Oliver. “We are not here to answer challenges, we are here in friendship.”
As his words finished, I saw a slight distortion in the air to my left. I was engrossed in the discourse and barely registered the movement, until a crackle reached my ears and I saw the shadow break the glass. The black shape moved in and out of darkness, lunging across the great hall as it left the void. It was a man, cloaked in black, wielding a thin-bladed knife of dull, grey metal. I gasped and stood, ignoring stealth as the figure became clear. The elders of the Severed Hand were arguing, Prince Oliver was attempting to calm the situation, and the other Winterlords were seemingly oblivious to the dark shape. Only the Pure One, his slanted eyes narrow and aware, appeared to register the figure. He stood, but was distracted by my sudden emergence.
The blade was directed at Prince Oliver and appeared silently before he could react. The others saw me, but not the assassin, rising from their seats and shouting that I shouldn’t be there. I ignored them and dove across the red carpet, past the prince, to tackle the figure.
“Assassin!” shouted Natasha Dawn Claw.
“Duncan!” shouted Arthur Brand.
I pushed the man to the ground and directed my wyrd at his knife. It skittered away from the prince, striking the stone wall, but he was bigger than me and grabbed at my throat. We locked eyes, his face appearing from under his black cowl. He was young, perhaps twenty years, but had a harshness in his sapphire eyes. He struggled, with surprise the only thing that stopped him from gaining the upper hand. Then golden armour appeared above me and the feel of gauntleted hands intruded upon the fight. The assassin was pulled away, to be held in a rough choke-hold by the young Winterlord. I was dragged upwards by steel-clad arms, and saw people engulf the scene with shouted words and swaying steel.
“By the Bright Lands!” exclaimed Vikon Blood.
“This is an outrage,” roared Natasha Dawn Claw.
“Shall I kill him, my prince?” asked the young Winterlord, holding the assassin in a rough, steely bear-hug.
“He’s Dark Brethren,” stated Vikon, rushing to shove aside the older duellist who held me. “Leave him, he’s a Sea Wolf.”
“Master Greenfire, what in the deepest void are you doing?” snapped Tomas Red Fang.
Vikon straightened my cloak and I breathed in and out a few times, clearing my head. Everyone stood, everyone held weapons. Broad-bladed longswords amongst the Winterlords and smaller cutlasses and falchions held by the Sea Wolves. Only the visiting Pure One and Tomas Red Fang were unarmed. The elderly spirit-master approached slowly with Lord Ulric, inspecting the captive Dark Brethren. He was darker-skinned than a Sea Wolf and his hair was jet-black.
“Sorry I left the room,” I said, affecting my best impression of a scolded puppy. “I saw him sneaking around the halls and thought he was up to no good.”
Everyone looked at me. Oliver Dawn Claw approached, his broadsword, with its ornate pommel of an eagle, held at the ready. He was enormous. Twice as wide as me, with blond hair parted across frowning green eyes. I suddenly wanted to disappear into a cloak of embarrassment. “You saved my life, Sea Wolf. What is your name?”
“Duncan,” I replied in a whisper. “Greenfire.”
The cruelty of the Invaders is dependent upon their heritage.
All are powerful, but not all should inspire the same fear.
We saw the Sea Wolves’ violence and greed, but we also saw their heart.
We saw the Winterlords’ arrogance and short fuse, but we also saw their nobility.
We saw the Kneeling Wolves’ submission and cowardice, but we also saw their wisdom.
We saw the Dark Brethren’s cunning and treachery, but we also saw their kindness.
Each Invader can be your friend as easily as your enemy.
From “They are called Eastron”
by Snake Charmer, spirit child of the Rykalite