All eight members of the royal family were raised from their sleep. Three were women, a few years younger than their king. There was a young man and woman about the same age as Eyota; a boy not yet fully grown, and an even younger girl. All had the same dark skin and blue eyes of Eyota and Amotken. Emperor Sahale had his daughter’s muscular frame and firm jawline. A salt and pepper beard, grown scraggly from his years of sleep, sat beneath full lips.

  There was a lot of talk in that underground lair, as the story Amotken had told was repeated from one to the other, rehashing the same facts. Stricken learned nothing new. He was ignored, an almost invisible servant of the sorcerer.

  He sidled towards an exit to the room. The scuttling creature ran, but too late. Stricken grabbed it, sinking his teeth into its soft underbelly as it still fought him. The taste was rancid, and he struggled to swallow the raw flesh.

  But I am so hungry.

  They left the forest, retracing their steps to the Moors of Misery. Here, at least, there was the beginnings of an army with which the Sargassians might rebuild. Stricken thought he might be sent back to the moors, to scare the humans from Amotken’s dungeon. But he received no orders, instead tagging along with the group, like a dog.

  They made the difficult descent into the cavern. Some of the women looked about with consternation. This was not the Crimson Palace—not the life they once had.

  But Eyota and her father both had expressions set with grim determination, and no one dared to make a comment.

  They arrived in Amotken’s lair. They were surrounded by rooms full of humans, about two score in each. They huddled around their fires, barely moving, as if collectively mesmerised by something in the flames.

  ‘Where are they from?’ Eyota asked.

  ‘They are mostly our people,’ Amotken told her. ‘I collected them over the years and brought them here. Waiting for this very moment. A few are newcomers, who arrived in our old lands to the east. Kuthenians, they call themselves. They are numerous. It would not be difficult to take more.’

  ‘Where are the rest of our people?’ asked Sahale.

  ‘Most fled east, where it is safer. But they are not our people any longer. They live in small tribes, with no towns or cities. The Sargassian Empire has become a legend, if they have even heard of it.’

  ‘It is time for that to end,’ said Eyota. She turned to her father. ‘Give me this army Amotken has built, and let me remind Gal’azu of what Sargassians can do.’

  A few cast doubtful looks, but none dared share their opinion. Instead, all eyes turned to their king. ‘Very well, daughter. Thou will take a force out from here. Thou will see what has become of mine empire, and thou will report back to me.’ He turned to Amotken. ‘The rest will return to the Deepwood and restore my residence there. Thou hast done well all these years, Amotken. But I cannot stay in this hole a moment longer. I am the Emperor of Sargassia. And I have returned.’

  ‘There are quicker ways to cross the river,’ Stricken told Eyota.

  She looked annoyed. ‘That is why thou are here, wight,’ she told him. ‘To tell me what has changed since I died.’

  ‘Oh.’ Amotken hadn’t told him that.

  ‘Well? What are mine options?’

  ‘The nearest crossing is Urlay, a fishing village. It has a small wooden bridge. Dorwich is a bit farther, with a proper stone bridge. But it is a city.’

  ‘Then lead us to Urlay,’ the princess said impatiently. ‘We are not about to besiege a city.’

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  Stricken led the way, Eyota only a few paces behind. She was clad in the same basic armour as Amotken’s silent soldiers. There were over half a thousand of them, following behind. Stricken didn’t fully understand their objective. If it was to scout out enemy territory, the size of their force was too large. If it was to conquer, too small. But it seemed that the advice he was supposed to offer was limited to the geographical.

  ‘Why is it that you lead this army, and not the king, or another man?’ he dared to ask.

  ‘I am the best. Tyee would like to lead, but I am better than him.’

  ‘Tyee is your brother?’

  ‘Half-brother. My father has two wives. Tyee’s mother is a bitch.’

  They came upon Urlay at midday. Stricken had thought they were there simply to use the bridge, but Eyota’s plans were more ambitious. She separated the silent warriors into two divisions, and had them attack the village from opposite ends.

  Warning shouts of ‘the wight!’ came when the first villagers they came across saw Stricken. But he was the least of their worries. The Sargassians were not shy of killing anyone who offered resistance. For Stricken’s part, he showed willing, stabbing out with the short sword his master had given him. But it wasn’t the same as wielding a cleaver.

  Once they had captured the village and searched all the properties, they had two groups—one living, the other dead.

  ‘What are we doing with them all?’ Stricken asked.

  ‘They will all go to Amotken. I don’t think it matters whether they are alive or dead. He will add them to our army.’

  ‘My master can transform all of these?’ Stricken asked, gesturing at the corpses her soldiers had made.

  Eyota’s impatient tone returned. ‘I don’t know what Amotken can or cannot do. It is for him to decide.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Thou may not eat any of them. Increasing our army is more important than satiating your base needs.’

  ‘Do you feel the same hunger as I do?’ Stricken asked her.

  But the princess ignored him.

  A hundred soldiers departed north from Urlay with the prisoners and the bodies. Eyota pressed the rest of her force further south, clearly not yet satisfied with their expedition.

  They arrived on the north side of a vale. Below, where one might have expected to see a settlement and agriculture, it was empty.

  ‘Why have the settlers not taken this place?’ demanded Eyota.

  Stricken shrugged. ‘Most have not travelled this far. They live within a day’s walk of Avolo, or along the river.’

  Suddenly, the princess hissed, and dragged Stricken to the ground. She pointed across to the opposite side of the vale. ‘Greenskins!’

  Stricken peered over. Goblins, small and thin, had arrived on the south side of the vale. More of them appeared, talking and gesturing down at the valley floor, and across to where he and Eyota studied them. They waited. The goblins began to descend into the vale. More appeared: hundreds of figures swarming down.

  ‘What are they doing here?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Stricken admitted. ‘There are orcs and goblins out west. Maybe they have attacked the humans.’

  Eyota cursed. ‘Why are they coming this way then?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  She seemed to think a while longer. The line of goblins didn’t end, well over a thousand now making their way into the vale. ‘We will attack them,’ Eyota decided.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Stricken asked. They were only goblins, but still. They were goblins who outnumbered them.

  ‘What dost thou or I care?’ Eyota asked him. ‘We are dead.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right.’

  The Silent Warriors poured into the vale. Stricken was no soldier, but there seemed little finesse to Eyota’s tactics. On the other hand, the goblins, strung out in a long line as they descended into the vale, were in a very vulnerable position themselves.

  Some of the goblins fired arrows. But most of their archers were too far away to be a threat.

  With a war cry, Eyota swung her sword at the lead goblins. They held out their spears to block her, but invariably her blows landed, and often she killed with one strike, even with the plain sword Amotken had given her.

  Stricken joined her. He scored hits with two of his four actions, and they left his target only moderately injured, on 10 hit points. He was no Eyota; and without a cleaver, he wasn’t even a Stricken.

  The goblins retaliated, spear blades jabbing into his chest and limbs—crunching, bruising blows that he felt in his bones—some punching through armour and cutting into muscle. Eyota took at least as many. They turned to one another and shared the same grin. Because neither was hurt.

  Seeing this, the goblins’ morale sank. The same panicked faces stared out from the horde. For some reason, and despite their numbers, it seemed the enemy already lacked spirit.

  When the Silent Warriors joined the fight, the greenskins broke. They fled in all directions, desperate to make their escape. Not a single one seemed to rally the others. It made Stricken wonder where their leader was—for every army has a leader, or so he thought.

  He went to chase them, but Eyota put the flat of her sword to his chest. ‘Don’t get thy body any more beaten up than it needs to be,’ she told him.

  Her warriors lost all cohesion, chasing individual goblins as they scrambled up the slopes of the vale. Green bodies soon littered the place.

  ‘More soldiers for the army?’ Stricken asked her.

  She stared at him, disgusted by the idea. ‘There will never be greenskins in the Sargassian army! They must be destroyed. Every last one.’ She tilted her head, eyes flicking from Stricken to her dead enemies. ‘You may feed, Stricken.’

  Stricken didn’t waste time, or words. He dropped his sword, and scrambled towards the nearest corpse.