--Karfanng’s Wall, Gobrin Desert, Westerweald Border--

  --Greycloak Camp—

  Magister Raxel sat in his commander’s tent, puzzling over the report he’d just been handed by one of his scouts.

  Ever since he’d been evicted from Lucent at Viscount Mobius’ decree, death had followed him. And now, its specter had come to haunt him again.

  “You’re certain?”

  The scout – a young, haggard Grey who had only taken his blood a fortnight ago, nodded slowly as he confirmed the worst outcome of all:

  “Camoran has fallen,” he said, trying to keep himself from shaking. “High Cardinal Remiel has been assassinated, along with Commander Garviel. Caer Weiburn has been sacked. The Council of Cardinals is no more.”

  Raxel listened to this report, his eyes staring down at the words written on the thin piece of parchment before him like etchings on a dull gravestone. The words were there. He could see them. And now, he’d heard them.

  But believing them – that was another matter entirely.

  He knew the boy was waiting for his command, standing there, hands clasped behind his back like he was still trying to cling to some semblance of duty in among all this shit.

  “Ok,” Raxel said, running one hand through his grey, thinning hair. “Get yourself equipped, son. Join your brothers on the frontline. Tomorrow, we make our assault.”

  The boy shifted slightly. Raxel could see the doubt eating away at his mind.

  But he nodded, and, once he’d left the tent, Raxel allowed himself a moment to sink into his chair.

  Outside nothing but shifting desert sands and winds that bit at the skin and spirits of his warriors. Against the night sky of Argwyll, there was little that could be seen in this place but stars in the dusk. It was a wonder they were still shining at all with the mess the world had been thrown into now.

  In here was Raxel’s own little world. If what he’d just heard was true, it meant that he was the senior-ranked Greycloak in all of Argwyll.

  And that thought gave him no joy.

  The Lightborn, the High Cardinal, both High Commanders of the order in Westerweald and Eastmarch – every human the Archon had consumed as though they were nothing but tiny roadblocks in his way. And, if the rumors were true, he wanted to do the same to Kaedmon.

  If Raxel was being honest, he wasn’t even sure what the point in fighting would be, anymore. The Archon had won. The Hybrids would rule this world and enact vengeance on all mankind for the sins of slavery and domination. The ‘unity’ the Archon preached of in his Dream Mandate was nothing but an illusion meant to coax the last surviving members of resistance into compliance.

  And now – here they were. And here he was, supposed to lead them.

  He picked up his staff and walked outside to the burning heat of the desert, looking at each of his soldiers as he passed them by. He wanted to see the looks on their faces. Each one of them had their own story, after all. They were here because they knew their world was worth protecting. And they were here because they’d all walked the righteous Path set out for them by their God.

  But he could see that there were some of them who balked at invading the new Hybrid-land of the West. There was a rabbit-girl she-witch who could control the minds of animals and monsters, they said, and a human druid who could summon up the trees themselves to tear apart anyone who dared invade their land. Badger-men had constructed tunnels that could open up and swallow foreign humans, and the towns themselves were rigged with explosives ready to detonate if it looked like they were going to lose an engagement.

  Everyone one of the last remaining Greycloaks knew that this was it. This would be their last stand.

  Of the Greys, there were forty of them left. In the camp, milling about the siege equipment and makeshift forges, Raxel also nodded to the members of the Eastmarch army that had volunteered to make this final assault alongside their Greycloak forces. Their number had barely scratched three digits.

  And Raxel knew as he looked at them that they didn’t want to die. Not in this far-off land away from their families. Not for the promise of killing some Hybrids only to lose the war.

  But they didn’t know what this assault was really about. And it was time to tell them.

  Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

  Raxel summoned his meager force together as a cold wind blew across the desert oasis. In the distance, the ruins of Karfanng’s Wall stood – black onyx set into the sand dunes themselves – which the First Archon had used to divide East and West – human and Hybrid – before Krea had decimated it entirely.

  Raxel spun a spell of levitation to take him right up to the apex of this wall. And assisted by a thaumaturgical charm that amplified his voice, addressed the army directly.

  He didn’t really know what he’d say. He clutched his silver staff, and brought the small icon of Krea at its tip to his forehead, watching down below as a few of the Greycloak vanguard did the same – warriors who had seen what he’d seen. Who’d lived through the horrors of Lucent’s sacking and whose hearts burned with the desire for retribution.

  He would make it his final duty in this life to give it to them.

  “Men, I will not lie to you,” he began, his voice carrying across the wind-blasted dunes. “We stand upon a fading earth. Our world is dying a slow, protracted death. And He who was once to be our protector has gone, slain by the Archon and his hordes of unnatural beasts.

  We gather here today not under any illusions. You know me – my name is Raxel. I am a senior magister in the Greycloak Order of Westerweald, by the Path Lord Kaedmon granted me in this life. But tonight, I will stand shoulder to shoulder with you – all of you – regardless of your Path – for one single purpose: vengeance.”

  He let the men absorb that. He could see some shaken at the thought. He could see others nodding. But he was under no illusions that he was some brilliant orator. He couldn’t convince them that what they were doing here was right.

  But he would tell them that it was just. And maybe that would be enough.

  “Vengeance,” he said again. “Vengeance against the creatures who brought our Lightborn low – who plunder our land and hold our people against their will, waving a banner of peace whilst they fan the flames of war, burning our homes, raping our women, and corrupting our youth. The Hybrids of Sanctum.”

  Murmurs of terror ran up the crowd. They knew who he was talking about, and just to make sure, he summoned several translucent images of their targets into the air before him.

  “This creature,” he said, pointing to the image of a bulky badger-man. “He is responsible for organizing a Hybrid army that fought against Kaedmon’s angel, whipping up the Hybrids into a state of frenzy. And this beast,” here he pointed to the image of a filthy rat-man. “He is responsible for the creation of a gaseous toxin that poisoned our brave warriors as they delivered justice to the Hybrids of Westerweald. This one,” he added, indicating the image of the Fifth-Pillar Druid. “A traitor to his kind, who corrupted human flesh and twisted them into monsters. He deserves more scorn than the rest, make no mistake.”

  Finally, Raxel’s staff pointed at the last image – that of the rabbitling who had a particular place of scorn in the people’s hearts.

  “And this vile instrument of death,” he declared. “The she-witch protégée of the Archon’s guardian. This beast has been born with the heretical ability to control the minds of monsters, driving them to the surface and having them mate with human women. If she is not eliminated, the same fate shall befall our own in Eastmarch. She is our priority target – and if what our scouts report is true, they shall be hiding her at the peak of Lucent castle.”

  His words sunk in slowly, each of the warriors beneath him taking in the sights and realizing what this mustering really was: it was not the start of a new war. It was an assassination.

  It was payback for the death of the Lightborn, and so much more. Raxel might not have been a politician. He did not have a flair for the dramatic like his predecessors. He didn’t have much time for those who babbled on and on while the common people died under their orders. But he did understand fury. And that was what he would use.

  “I say again: I will not lie to you,” he stated. “We go to our graves, men and woman of Eastmarch. We go to the end of our Paths tonight, with the goal of taking these infidels with us. In doing so, we break the Archon’s commanders, and we break his nation before it begins.”

  He watched the men look at each other, seeing hesitation gave way to doubt. He wanted to show them exactly what he’d seen when that monster devoured Lucent. He wanted them to feel the power behind its frame, to feel the searing heat of its fiery breath for themselves…

  But instead, he’d appeal to the only thing he could: their shared history.

  “Look you here, men and women of the East!” he called. “Here I stand upon the ruin of the First Archon’s wall. Here is the proof of man’s dominion over beast. Have not our Lightborn’s slain four Archons? Have not we weathered the storm of four centuries? Have not we stood tall as the Age of Agonies came upon us? Do your feet now waver on the last steps of your Path?”

  A few fists began to punch the air now. Every second, more men were beginning to see the sparks of anger in the eyes of their fellows.

  “Kaedmon may have given us different roads to tread,” Raxel called to them all. “But tonight, we shall be brothers. Farmers, Bards, Blacksmiths, Greycloaks, Barbarians and Bakers – tonight, we spill blood as one. One people with a united front. One common enemy to break. This night shall be a night that history will remember, brothers and sisters. I ask you now: shall you be counted among those who stood up when the world went to shit?”

  “Aye!” came the call of the crowd, with more and more shouts of bloodlust being added every minute. Still, Raxel could see that there were those who had started moving away down the ranks – trying to desert rather than follow him and the rest into the fray. He nodded to his men to let them go. He wasn’t interested in the faint-hearted tonight.

  He let the other Greycloaks agitate the crowd, heaping glories upon glories on the people, anointing them with Krean blood which they promised would offer divine protection. Raxel watched it all unfold like the final part of some cosmic drama, and then he brought his staff to his head and whispered his own prayer to his God.

  “Kaedmon,” he said. “Grant me the strength to see my Path through. Grant me power to overcome my fear, and let my feet not waver as the end comes for us all. We shall stand for your world, my Lord. And when we fall, we shall take your enemies with us.”

  He wouldn’t say he was ready. He wouldn’t say any of them were.

  But he fixed them with a manic smile as he raised his weapons high.

  “Those Hybrids believe humanity shall bow to their whims!” he sang to the army as he drew his moontouched blade. “Let’s remind them who we are.”