Rose stared at her blue silk slippers, staff in hand, its handle planted into the mud. The slippers were more dark green and brown now, the material slightly worn down by sinking into the rough ground around her. She sighed. They were expensive shoes – the designer had called them slippers because of how comfortable they were and how snugly they fit on the feet with their leather soles and their silk uppers. That’s why she’d been wearing them when she went to Elliott’s office. They were ideal for the paved streets of London, especially during summer. They were certainly not made to walk in damp mud and grass. A thought passed through her mind about getting new clothes and shoes if this was going to be her immediate future, but to do that she needed money that she didn’t have. Somehow, she’d need to convince Elliott to help her out and he didn’t seem to be the sort who cared much what one wore.
She sighed with a rueful smile as she looked up at the people ahead of her, shuffling on the spot, talking quietly among themselves as they waited. At least she had managed to organise the thousands of them into straight rows, fifty across like Elliott had asked. The five hundred refugees occupied a square of space, flanked by groups of ten soldiers on either side and by rows of soldiers behind them. Even further back, among the soldiers were dozens of horses, donkeys and carts, the tents, chairs and whatever other goods they needed loaded onto the backs, ready to move. She hadn’t done it alone. Korin stood by her side, leather pack strapped to his back, and on the opposite side of the rows of people, the two generals stood with their four officers and other officers who had come from the other army camps. There were almost three thousand of them in all.
She glanced to her right, to the edge of the clearing, at the silhouettes of the trees that led into the forest. Isabel and Lyla still weren’t back. She wondered how long it had been and looked down to Korin, whose head reached halfway up her midriff.
“Korin. How do you tell time here?”
The dwarf peered up at her through those spectacles before rummaging through the heavy coat he wore over his overalls. He pulled out a small, brass rectangular contraption. He pressed something she couldn’t see and the top of the device flicked open, a small glimmer of light reflecting from the underside of the cover onto the face of the device.
“It’s almost four in the morning,” he replied, as Rose studied the curious watch. The face of it wasn’t like the watches on Earth. There were no hands and digits around a circular face. Instead, there were twelve rectangular markers arranged in three rows of four, and each had a small black indicator that slid along its length. Above each marker, were four tiny points. The bottom two rows of markers had the black indicator on their left side, whilst the row at the top had them all on the right side, except for the fourth marker, where the indicator was almost there but not quite. That must be the fourth hour. It was also illuminated as if to draw attention to it.
“What do you call that?”
“A timepiece,” Korin replied. “This one’s rather basic. For the first twelve hours, the markers move to the right, from the top left. For the second twelve, they move to the left, again from the top left.”
“Fascinating,” Rose replied. “On Earth, we use something similar but with numbers around a circular face or digital numbers.”
“Digital?”
Before she could answer, a faint line of light appeared a few metres to her left and stretched beyond the width of the rows of people waiting. Murmurs began as people started noticing and nudging their neighbours. Then the light expanded upwards, a white screen stretching fifteen feet into the air. She couldn’t help but be impressed. She’d never seen such a thing on Earth. There were portals and gateways between locations, but they could only ever transport small groups at best. Whether it was an issue of mana or the intricate nature of the sigils, nobody knew how to create one of this size. Judging by the gasps of the people around the clearing, they hadn’t seen anything like this either. She briefly glanced at them, but no-one moved forward, though parents started gathering their children in their arms, as others helped the elderly and infirm to their feet. The soldiers remained unmoved, eyes straight ahead. Even though they’d been through so much themselves, and there was finally light at the end of the tunnel for them, they remained disciplined.
A moment later, the white screen shimmered into the image of a large courtyard in the shadows of a castle. Thirty or so metres away, opposite this gateway, was another one of a similar size. Okay, now the man was just showing off. It wasn’t enough to make one gateway the likes of which she’d never seen. He was maintaining two of them. She frowned ever so slightly. On the other side of the opposite gateway, dozens of soldiers held torches that shone light over lush green grass being overlooked by a huge wall stretching to the skies.
The man in question – Elliott - was standing just inside the middle of the gateway, with no signs of the effort it had taken to create the portals. Not even a bead of sweat. He wasn’t still channelling – she would have felt it, so he must have created a closed sigil, pouring enough mana into it to maintain it. A small touch of mana would dismiss the spells whenever he wanted to.
Beside Elliott stood Taalan and another man she didn’t recognise. An older, very paunchy man with white hair framing a round face. The generals and the officers on the opposite side to her tasked some soldiers with keeping order until they were ready to move, before walking through the gateway towards Taalan. Elliott moved in the opposite direction, walking towards her and Korin.
“Well done,” Elliott said cheerfully as he approached. He glanced at her slippers. “Those have seen better days. You shouldn’t be walking on this ground with shoes like that.” He smiled at her.
She pressed her lips together and narrowed her eyes. He looked beyond her shoulder.
“All done?” he asked. She turned her head to see what he was looking at and found Isabel and Lyla standing behind her, within arm’s reach. She gasped, turned her body and stumbled backwards, almost falling to the floor. How the hell did they just turn up behind her and she never even knew it?
“Done,” Isabel said.
A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
“Good,” Elliott replied. “Let’s go. I’ll fill you in once we’re inside. Think everyone could do with a hot bath and a meal first.”
Lord Commander Darius hated being woken up in the middle of the night. He hated needing to change and go out even more, but Harshaw had said this was important and he needed to see Darius right this minute. Harshaw had better be right or he might find himself in the backend of nowhere. Even the importance of his House wouldn’t stop Darius from sending him away. The man was far too ambitious and pompous for Darius’s liking.
He stepped out of his carriage and onto the street, not too far from the centre of the town. A soldier was already waiting, saluting and bowing before leading Darius down a narrow cobblestone path, to a house near the middle. Two soldiers flanked the door of the quaint townhouse, halberds in one hand as they pressed a fist to their hearts in salute to their Lord Commander.
Darius followed the soldier into the house, where another soldier stood at the bottom of the stairs, beside which a hallway led further into the house. A servant girl was being questioned by two of the secret police. Standing along the wall of the corridor were four scouts, opposite a set of open double oak doors. They saluted as Darius walked past them and into the living room.
Flames crackled in the hearth and the lanterns hanging from the ceiling. Before him was a single-cushioned chair, beside a table and ahead of him, above the hearth, he noticed the painting on the wall. An image of a King, golden crown on his head, peasants in the background as he handed a roll of paper to another peasant kneeling before him. It wasn’t the image that caught his attention. It was the writing across it – in blood.
Lord Micah did not murder me. This is definitely a suicide. Don’t investigate further.
“A stupid message, no?”
Darius glanced to his right to see Lord Captain Harshaw standing before him, red officer’s cloak tied around his neck over his plate mail, two stars pinned to one shoulder of the cloak.
“I’m not sure this warrants waking me up.”
Harshaw moved out of the way, so Darius could see the dead man sat on the chair on the opposite side of the table.
The man had no face. Or he had had one but it had been caved in with the mallet that the man held in both hands as if he’d been smacking himself in the face with it. It was a good thing it had been several hours since Darius ate.
“Who is he?”
“Radama of House Volardin,” Harshaw replied. “A peasant noble, really, but he had managed to worm his way into Micah’s good graces.”
Darius glanced back to the writing on the painting.
“You think this was Micah? Some sort of payback for something Radama did?”
“Micah’s not stupid enough to write such an obvious message. Whoever wrote it didn’t care if we knew it was neither Micah nor a suicide. But in any case, we haven’t been able to locate Micah. He went missing, along with over a hundred soldiers and a small squad of Wardens with him.”
Darius’s eyes snapped to Harshaw’s. “What do you mean?”
“The servant girl said it was Micah who came here,” Harshaw continued, “but this isn’t him. He wouldn’t need to do this himself, and you and I know, outside of the two of us, he could have had anyone in this town executed and no-one would bat an eyelid. I think whoever did this has taken Micah too.”
“Rhianian’s?” Darius asked.
“Worse, it seems,” Harshaw gestured at the scouts outside the room. “Tell him.”
The scout pressed a fist to his heart and bowed.
“Lord Commander. We were sent by Talghar, Delta squad leader. We were told to inform you that the Rhianians have an exceptionally powerful ally. A strange man, wearing strange clothes and carrying dozens of weapons on his back. He was seen in the main Rhianian camp, along with someone claiming to be their king. The stranger removed the Rhianians from the slums before leaving, coming back to the town. The Delta squad moved up their attack and are attacking the Rhianian camps right now, while he is gone.”
What in the Thirteen Hells was going on here? It was a good thing he didn’t say that out loud. Teachings from the old gods, but old habits died hard. It was blasphemous in Bizayn to mention any of those old teachings, but the situation was severe enough that he couldn’t do anything but revert to old ways. He composed his thoughts before answering but before he could say anything, there was a commotion at the door.
One of the soldiers guarding the doors came running up to the open entrance to the living room.
“My Lords,” he said, pressing a fist to his chest and bowing. “One of the city guards is here, insisting that Lord Captain Harshaw follow him to the east. He says the Rhianians have left us a message.”
“Another one?” Harshaw said to nobody in particular. He looked at Darius, who nodded to him and the both of them marched out of the townhouse together, where a pair of city guards bowed to them.
“You can ride with my driver. Lead the way,” Darius ordered, as his men opened the carriage door for him and Harshaw. The two guards bowed, before climbing onto the front seat with the driver.
“What do you think is going on here?” Darius asked, as the carriage bumped over the cobblestone streets as fast as his driver dared. “How could we have missed a powerful stranger with the Rhianians?”
“I have no idea,” Harshaw replied. “Maybe reinforcements? From Aldren or one of the other kingdoms to the south? Perhaps the other kingdoms have only pretended to ally with us.”
“Maybe,” Darius didn’t commit. All the human kingdoms knew they couldn’t match Bizayn’s power. It might be called an alliance but they knew as much as the Emperor did that they were all but vassals in name. Only Rhian and Aldren had refused to join their alliance, and the Empire had shown the futility of their actions. Rhian was almost gone, and Aldren would follow soon after. But even in the face of such force, could some of the others have secretly plotted against them? Were they secretly helping the resistance?
The journey was mere minutes. The town wasn’t too big. Most towns weren’t. Darius and Harshaw stepped down from the carriage onto the soft grass and mud below but immediately their attention was drawn to the circle of torches to their right, surrounded by thirty or so of the city guard. An older man approached them, the captain of the guard. He bowed to them.
“We saw the torches about thirty minutes ago, and when we came to investigate, we found this. We sent men to find you, my Lords, as soon as possible. They must still be looking for Lord Micah.”
The captain stepped away as Darius and Harshaw glanced at each other with tight lips. They turned their attention to the scene before them.
Darius recognised the heads on the pointed end of swords that had been planted hilt first into the ground. Harshaw would have too. Five of the six Delta squad members, Lyla being the only missing one. Beneath the swords, their limbs and torsos as well as those from other Shadows had been arranged into a message.
Bizaynians.
Leave Now.
Or Die.
Had Lyla betrayed them? But she wouldn’t have had the strength to defeat the others alone. Whoever this stranger was, he had defeated five Starforged Shadows. Some of the strongest soldiers the Empire had. He was a threat that needed dealing with, but the message was ominous. In a matter of hours, he had killed Radama, Micah, Micah’s soldiers, the Warden squad, the Shadow squad, all while rescuing the Rhianians. Darius wondered if that was even possible for one man, but he had more pressing needs.
“Do you have Wardens with you, Harshaw?”
The other noble nodded. “Eight squads, all Adamantite. It may be enough if he openly attacks.”
“But it might not be either. He’s killed five Starforged and another one is missing.” Darius had a quick glance at the town. “Evacuate the civilians. Send them to Frieven,” he ordered Harshaw. Frieven was the closest city, eighty miles to the west. Rhian hadn’t bothered making larger settlements in the shadows of the Northern Teeth mountain range.
“And get me a damn mage right now,” Darius commanded. “I need to see the Emperor.”
