“Get under cover!” Adarin roared.

  Duchess Viola, Francesco, and Liora were still floundering in the water beside the second boat—loaded with two hundred and fifty kilos of gunpowder.

  Rocks clattered from the murder holes above. The defenders had begun their bombardment.

  Adarin looked between his vulnerable comrades, the gunpowder, and the battle. The crabs were faltering, piled against their own dead.

  He began changing his skin, forcing it to adhere against stone. Slithering up, he reared like a cobra against the wall. From his protocol database, he blasted the most horrific chants, hisses, and demonic noises he could muster.

  The defenders’ attention snapped to him.

  Rocks pelted against his body. Liquid splashed—not water. He ignored it, focusing. Below, Liora had gotten up and was already healing. Francesco’s illusions shimmered, cloaking the survivors as they dragged toward the recess.

  Adarin saw the back of the second boat still exposed. He cursed and bellowed orders through the dreadful sounds.

  “Francesco! Everyone, get the fucking boat under cover!”

  A torch dropped. Too late, Adarin realized the liquid was oil.

  Flames seared his vision and he went blind, screaming as his world vanished into fire.

  “Francesco! They’re dropping fire! Get the second boat under cover now!”

  Adarin felt himself peeling off the wall, struck by more oil, flames intensifying. He screamed in rage and frustration. This isn’t how it was supposed to go.

  The illusion screen flickered. Through the haze, Adarin glimpsed musketeers and mages hauling at the boat with hands and spells. But one of the torch-bearers saw it too. He stepped onto the wall and raised his arm—

  Then something black blurred. The man slumped forward, torch tumbling—landing less than half a meter from the powder barrel.

  Suddenly the pelting stopped.

  Adarin’s vision collapsed. He felt only heat fading as he fell into the river. Cool water washed over him. He moaned in relief as the fire was quenched. Nearly a quarter of his body was gone, burned away. He swallowed hard as his accelerometers told him the river carried him downstream. He began rejecting the charred flesh, reforming his body, but it would take minutes.

  He reached out. ‘Liora. Francesco. What the hell just happened?’

  Francesco’s voice came slow, mellow. ‘They… they just stopped throwing stuff.’

  Liora gasped over the link. ‘There. Something—someone—’ She broke off. Adarin could almost hear her frown.

  ‘What?’ Francesco asked, as he remained in the noospheric channel. ‘I don’t see anything.’

  Adarin frowned too. Something nagged at his memory—the torch-bearer falling. But he shook it off. Not the time.

  ‘Okay,’ he exhaled. ‘I’ve been burned. I need to reconstitute. Unload the gunpowder, prepare it, and blow the bastion.’

  He tried a connection. It slid into place. ‘Commodore Ashfield. Good to hear from you.’

  For the first time, emotion entered the man’s voice. ‘Sir Adarin. Commander—what’s your status?’

  ‘We just managed to lay the mine. We’ll blow it within a few minutes. Where are you?’

  ‘Several minutes shy of the chain.’

  Just as it was mentioned, Adarin felt the chain scrape against his body as the current pulled him past. ‘I’ll be on your ship in two minutes.’

  He shut down his senses, focusing on reconstitution. His world became the black combat sphere of his mindspace, pristine and detached.

  Through the noospheric link he followed the chatter—Francesco carving runes into the powder barrels, Liora asking questions, musketeers clambering into boats.

  Then he felt the carracks nearby. Naval hooks dragged him onto the deck of the Magnolia. He lay like a log, exhausted, magic spent. His mind was numb, sluggish.

  Through one of his spiders, he watched the detonation. A flash at the bastion’s foot, debris blown back, a third of the tower sliding into the river. Where once stood a wall, now only a shallow ravine of rubble remained. The bastion side of the chain slid into the black waters and the logs and barrels keeping it aloft made it drift to the other side of the river opening the waterway. Good. Good. Now we only need to take care of the fortress on the other side of the river.

  He reached out weakly, barely feeling his body lying on the swaying deck. ‘Ashfield… you have command. Don’t—’ He exhaled a long breath. ‘Don’t let anyone do anything stupid. Please. I need to—’

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Darkness claimed him.

  Adarin woke with a scream. His entire body shuddered as if a current was running through him. He could feel his Alteration Core beating like a second heart in his chest. He curled his neck and body up tight, the instinct to take the fetal position mixing with the routines he had programmed into this body. What is happening?

  He took a few ragged breaths and forced himself to take in his surroundings. Liora was leaning over him, engulfed in a cloud of green energy. He was the center of the maelstrom she had just emitted. She… she’s healing me? But why? I was only exhausted.

  Adarin’s eyes wandered over the ship, studying the audience gathered around. He was clearly on the deck of the Magnolia, their flagship. It lay alongside the other carracks in the deserted and dilapidated port of Timberlanding. On the rear castle stood the councilors, Commodore Ashfield, and a small, ancient man who reminded him of a rat.

  “You were out,” Liora whispered, but it sounded as loud as a gunshot in the sudden silence. “We tried to wake you, but nothing worked. The councilors—”

  Adarin kept the groan private and answered her aloud.

  “Well… and you just dumped Alteration-aspected magical energy into me until something happened?”

  She smirked, then frowned. Adarin noticed it too: sprouts of wood emerged from his body, twigs growing, blooming, and withering. Within moments, what had been a hard bark outer shell had become a churning undergrowth.

  He tried to get the process under control, but as soon as his attention turned to the Alteration Core, a painful shock hit him. The Core glowed bright as a magnesium flare, energy cycling uncontrollably through his body. Roots manifested and re-merged all over his flesh—luckily without attacking anyone. All my Alteration spells are active.

  He ran several checks. Surprisingly, the overcharge had found an equilibrium, slowly dissipating instead of escalating into exponential growth that would have blown him apart.

  He gave Liora a stern look. She took a step back from the gigantic snake head. Why is the spider form so much less intimidating?

  He looked around again. Time to address the audience. He cut down the impulse to berate Liora—not here, not now. I am the Commander. And she did the right thing, bringing me back.

  Adarin slithered up to the rear castle. The ratlike ancient man shuffled back and glanced to both sides, clearly unnerved.

  “Is this the creature you claim leads you?”

  Francesco was about to answer, but Adarin cut him off. “I am Adarin, Envoy for Special Affairs of the Republic of Bones and Order of the Invisible Hand. And whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?”

  The ancient’s eyes narrowed, black points in his white, bushy beard. “I am Guildmaster Wolfgang Cooper, head of the Timberman’s Guild—and thus, of this city.”

  Adarin studied him. Old. A craftsman. But cunning. Too cunning.

  He was about to ping Liora for a situational update, but Duchess Viola stepped forward. “Sir Adarin, the city is willing to submit to the Order, but requires that special privileges and rights be retained. I believe the city will be a great asset. Its crystal is specialized.”

  Francesco made a cutting gesture. “Their demands are outrageous. We are here to build an empire, not validate the independence of city-states.”

  Adarin felt the churning growths on his body shift. Great. My two pet councilors are in the middle of a pissing match, and I’ve just been dragged out of a coma to mediate it.

  The duchess pressed her lips tightly together, but before she could answer, Adarin turned to Guildmaster Wolfgang Cooper.

  “What does your city offer?”

  The old man’s beard twitched in what was probably a smile.

  “We used to be the regional center—nay, one of the most important centers of the Holy Land—for the processing of wood. You know what an enchanter is, boy? Excuse me, sir. Your Lordship. Excellency—”

  Francesco cut him off with another sharp gesture.

  “Sir Adarin will do,” Adarin replied dryly, nodding thanks to Francesco.

  The guildmaster continued.

  “Enchanters specialize in working wood. We are diminished, but we still have half a dozen magisters in the Guild and three dozen junior mages.”

  Francesco suppressed an eye-roll. Clearly this argument had been rehearsed before.

  Adarin turned to him.

  “Nonetheless—what do enchanters do? How do they differ from the Inception Artificery of Devon?”

  Francesco shook his head.

  “No, enchantment is specialized inscription magic. An inscriptor works with runuc patterns that are largely substrate-independent. An enchanter focuses on one other school of magic and a material substrate, becoming more flexible and less reliant on ambient flows of magic. They weave semi-permanent spells.”

  “And that is why this is highly valuable,” interjected Duchess Viola. “Don’t you see? This city’s artisans hold knowledge hundreds of years old. It could be valuable to the war effort—and as an export good.”

  “Not valuable enough,” hissed Francesco.

  The guildmaster crossed his arms.

  “Since time immemorial we have taken river toll on all wood going downstream, and all wares going upstream. The Church itself in the Holy City recognized the Carpenter’s and Lumberman’s Guilds as the only legitimate source of training inscription mages working with wood.”

  “Those rights are an outrage,” Francesco shot back. “They go against all principles of free market capitalism. Adarin, I can already tell you the Archmagister will have none of these tariffs and monopolies. I know his thoughts on such matters well.”

  Adarin gave a noncommittal hum and looked out over the port.

  “And what of the river chain this time?”

  Commodore Ashfield’s face hardened.

  “As the highest navy officer present, I must insist on its removal.”

  The guildmaster’s voice rose in outrage.

  “Removal of the chain? The damage you did must be repaired at once. How else are we to collect tariffs if ships can bypass our port?”

  Francesco’s face reddened in anger. Ashfield swallowed hard, clearly inclined to agree with Francesco.

  “This city has sat like a parasite on the river, sucking the lifeblood from trade upstream. No, this is unacceptable.”

  Adarin looked over the city. Most of it was decayed and dilapidated, but there were still inhabited districts of good quality—and nearly four dozen mages.

  He considered the issue and smiled. Ah, that’s how I'll get both free trade and the service of the enchanters. And some good fun as well.